@aochiro was the first place Friday the Thirteenth ask frenzy winner and requested something with Aelius breaking up with Gabriel after the angel reveal and then getting back together.
Hope you enjoy. (Winner of 750 words, clocks in at 985 words)
“Don’t—” Your voice breaks as Aelius shakes his head.
“You’re an angel.” His eyes are dark today, distant.
“So what? I l—”
“Do not say it!” It’s so rare to hear him raise his voice, even in the din of The Menagerie. His fingers reach up to card through hair, except today he’s worn it shorn close to his head, a pattern of carefully curated black against deep bronze skin. It’s one of the few indications that either he tended to wear his hair long as a human, the gesture a leftover from his origins, or that he’s grown so accustomed to longer hair he forgets himself.
It would be nice if you knew which, especially since you just entrusted him with the knowledge of who you truly are.
“I am a demon, Gabriel.” His voice cracks, and tears well in your eyes.
“I know that. I have always known that. Aelius—”
He seems determined not to let you finish a sentence. “This is over.” The three words are devoid of emotion, but they punch through your chest like a blow.
“Aelius, please, won’t you at least talk to me?”
There’s a flicker in his eyes before they return to stone. “An archangel and a demon cannot be together. If you wanted to live an illusion you should have kept me in the dark.”
Before you can grab his arm he’s gone, moving with an enviable grace. You stumble to your feet and out the door.
.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~
“You shouldn’t be here.” Your eyes close, the voice familiar. It’s one of the few constants with all his changes. Or relatively constant. The tone shifts, but the cadence, the diction—everything else remains uniquely his.
“I needed a drink; this place serves drinks.” The answer is petulant, cherubish even, but you don’t care. “Besides, this is my drink.” He’d made it for you, the sprig of lavender a tribute to your scent. Of course, before he had thought it a perfume. Now he knew better.
“Gabriel,” he sighs, and the glass is pried from your hand. “Come on.” Instead of escorting you to the door, when you crack your eyes open he’s leading you to his office. It’s something, at least, and you hurry after him.
“Why are you so determined to associate with demons?”
The question is blunt, to the point. You can respect that.
“I didn’t mean to. I’m not… trying to.”
He arches one thin, brown eyebrow. “Your actions say otherwise.”
A noise of frustration tears from your lips. “Well what else am I supposed to do? I don’t want to lose you!”
“And I don’t want to hurt you.” His eyes flash an inhuman kaleidoscope of colors. “Can’t you respect that?”
“You are hurting me!” You clutch at your heart. “You ripped it right out.”
He turns his cheek to you. “Better that then… I’m a demon Gabriel. I made my bed long ago. You can’t… you can’t rescue me from it, or redeem me or save me or whatever else you think an archangel can do for an incubus.”
“I don’t plan on doing anything for you. Do you think it was easy realizing I was falling for an incubus?” You step towards him, and he sways away.
“There is no future here, Gabriel. You’ll go back to Heaven and I’ll continue corrupting souls.” He still refuses to meet your gaze.
“You aren’t a monster, Aelius.” Reaching out, you rest one hand against his soft, warm cheek. “You’re the man I love.”
This time, it’s not you who is the only one crying. “You silly creature,” he bites out, turning to look at you. “You silly, silly angel.” He covers your hand with his, head bowed. “Why do you tempt me so?”
A laugh, sharp a cutting, bubbles from your lips. “Me tempt you? Who is the incubus?”
Eyes, light blue, find yours. “Our job is to feed what people desire to them.”
You wet your lips. “And if I desire you?”
This time he doesn’t answer with words. His mouth covers yours, soft, pliant, keeping the kiss chaste despite how you chase after his lips when he pulls away.
Fingertips brush over the nape of your neck and you wonder when he moved his hand there. Your knees feel weak and you find yourself leaning against him. Warm lips brush your forehead as you cling to his fitted shirt.
“You must promise me that you will not put yourself at risk for my sake,” he murmurs against the curve of your ear. You mumble an affirmative, because if it means getting Aelius back then you’ll promise to behave. It’s not like he’s trouble anyways.
A heavy sigh lifts some of your hair. “Why don’t I believe that?” he asks.
“Because you’re jaded. You get to work with the worst of humanity.” You lift your head, peering up at him.
“I should have known you were an angel from the start.” He combs the hair back from your face. “Despite how hard you try, I’m afraid that you don’t make the best human.”
You pull back, mouth open to protest, but the way his eyes crinkle at the corners stop you.
“That’s good.”
“How is that good?” you ask cautiously. If he means that it’s easier to break up with you because you're not human, that is most certainly not good.
“We shouldn’t be possible.” Tension draws your shoulders up around your ears. Not this again. “But… I am too weak. I cannot keep refusing what I want. Demons are, you know, selfish creatures.” That may apply for most, but in your opinion Aelius is anything but.
Before you can ask for clarification, he continues, “And the idea of eternity being able to love you? That I can live with.”
You step away to flick the lock on his office door. The two of you have some amends to make.
With a sigh, you stretch your arms above your head, moving them back to curve your body forward, displaying some of your best assets. “I’m ready to get to the good stuff,” you tell him.
“Stretching is a vital part to combat. Skipping it is the sign of a lazy fighter who has no comprehension of what it takes to be warrior.”
Michael scowls, holding one arm across his chest and then the other, seemingly oblivious. For someone who pays enough attention to find every flaw in whatever you do, he seems woefully incapable of noticing you flirting with him. It’s ridiculous.
“Sure, sure,” you reply dismissively. He’s so focused on being proper and following his procedures that he’s missed the show. You’d even touched your toes with your back to him, giving him an excellent view of your ass. Enough is enough.
You’re not planning on letting him dismiss your actions as anything other than what they are: flirting. Even if you have to beat it into his thick skull, you’re going to make him realize that you’re interested in him.
“Stretching won’t get that stick out of your ass you know,” you state drily, holding your hands out to the side and summoning your gauntlets. No point in wasting any more time.
“Vulgar and childish,” Michael mutters, taking a step back from you.
“Oh come on,” you goad, bouncing on the balls of your feet. “Don’t tell me you’re suddenly afraid of little old me.”
Michael’s scowl deepens, his eyebrows crawling low over his eyes. “Gauntlets are not an appropriate choice of Angel Blade,” he reprimands, materializing his great sword as you clap your hands together.
“‘Appropriate choice,’” you parrot back, inclined to roll your eyes. Unfortunately, it would be a wasted gesture in your angel form. “Angel Blades are a reflection of yourself.” Half of your mouth curves up. “So does that mean that liking me would be an inappropriate choice?”
Michael splutters, face turning blotchy and red.
“All signs point to yes!” With that cry, you launch yourself at Michael. He gets his greatsword up just in time, sparks cascading where the blade slides off the knuckles of your gauntlet. Laughing gleefully, you spin away.
“You have no range with gauntlets,” Michael snaps, starting on a series of crossbody cuts.
“That’s what our Grace is for,” you retort, dodging his blade at the last second, watching the sweat drip down his hands. “You know, if I didn’t know better, I would say you’re afraid of hurting me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re an archangel.” The next blow you deflect wide with one hand, springing at Michael’s unprotected side and landing a palm strike before continuing out of range.
“So, what, because I’m an archangel I can’t get hurt? And here I was, thinking you cared about my wellbeing.” The stinging precursor to sweat has you squinting as you redirect one of his attacks, trying to use more of his own momentum than your own strength.
“You are insufferable,” Michael growls, his jaw clenched.
“You wound me… with words, not your blade.” You yawn, looking bored, at the same time that you surreptitiously wipe sweat off your brow, under the pretext of fixing your hair. “You know, some people think that greatswords are overcompensation.” Slowly you rake your eyes over Michael’s form. “It might explain a few things.”
Previously you would have thought it impossible for an angel to turn so many vivid colors in such quick succession. First white, then red, and finally a lurid purple. Michael lives to exceed your expectations in the worst way, however.
“And some would say if you chatter away in the midst of battle you will get yourself killed!”
“Aww, you do care!” Again you dance away, though this time the narrow misses aren’t deliberate on your part. Michael isn’t holding back anymore. Good, you think viciously. Sparring is pointless if both parties aren’t doing their best.
“Of course I do!” His honesty would come out in the midst of the two of you fighting, as you leap high to avoid an attack at your legs.
“Funny way of showing it,” you tease, cheeks starting to ache with the force of your smile. He is cute when he’s annoyed. “Trying to cut a girl to pieces. I’m really starting to feel like there’s some unresolved tension between us.”
The next strike Michael aims at you is sloppy, full of rage, and he overextends himself, leaving him off-balance and vulnerable.
You spring forwards, getting inside his guard and rendering his blade all but moot. “There are other disadvantages to wielding such a huge blade,” you inform him as you grab his lapels, sliding your right foot forward between his. “For instance, you keep everyone at bay but if someone gets up and inside your guard, you’re screwed.” In a last ditch attempt to stop what he knows is coming next, Michael snaps his wings forward and drops his greatsword, reaching for you. It’s too little, too late. Blocking him with your wings, you then retract them in as you toss him over your hip, slamming his back onto the ground.
“Point me,” you inform him with a smug grin.
Leaning down, you retrieve his sword for him, giving him a waggle of your butt as you do so. Nothing. “And here you are, forgetting the very first rule of fighting: never let go of your Angel Blade. I don’t have that problem.” You flex her hands, admiring the way your gloves look.
On the ground, Michael turns an interesting shade of red. You didn’t know there were quite so many to produce.
“Come on, Mymy,” you tease, leaning on his greatsword and looking down at him. “Don’t be a sore loser. Best two out of three, at least. That was only one round. You just have to not let me get under your skin.” Beneath your hands you feel the thrumming power of the weapon, a feeling you can define only as Michael in your hands. It’s rather pleasant, all things considered. Or at least, it would be if Michael didn’t look like he was plotting your demise in a hundred ways.
“You’re touching my Angel Blade.” The words are gritted out through his teeth.
Raising an eyebrow, you glance down at your temporary crutch. “So I am,” you respond, bemused.
“That’s—Gabriel, you cannot simply go around touching other angels’ Angel Blades!” He seems indignant on the surface, but there’s something under the surface.
“Other angels know better than to leave them laying around.” Rattling him usually made it easier to read him.
“Gabriel!”
“Michael!”
He stares up at you, eyes wide, chest rising and falling. Slowly you tilt your head, brow furrowing. A grin starts to stretch your lips. Oh, that isn’t the red of rage now, is it? Michael is right about Angel Blades being very personal.
“Look, we’re nestmates. It’s not like I’m some stranger.” Idly you stroke down the grip, then out over the cross-guard, lazy, languid motions that don’t go unnoticed. Finally he seems to be taking a hint. All it took was you polishing his blade.
“That’s not the point! An Angel’s blade is a very personal creation! A physical manifestation of our Grace.”
“I know what an Angel Blade is. You don’t seem to get so worked up touching mine,” you comment, letting your lower lip jut out in a pout. “And I thought we were close? Close and personal?”
Michael makes a strangled noise, and you let your fingers trail down over the fuller, rubbing in a manner that is decidedly not innocuous. “Aren’t we close enough for a little Angel Blade touching, Michael?”
He leaps to his feet, snatching the sword from your hands, brushing against your gauntlets as he does so. “See! There you go, getting all handsy with my Angel Blade,” you point out, placing a hand on your forehead and striking a pose.
Michael scowls, clutching the broadsword to his chest like a safety blanket.
“Wow. I’m starting to get jealous of your Angel Blade. You don’t ever hold me tight like that.” As you talk, you start moving back, crouching in your stance, preparing for the next round now that Michael is on his feet. You can’t afford to give him a break to think, not if you want this
“I—what?” Michael blinks, mouth gaping.
“Too late.”
You attack, Michael stupefied by the dawning realization that this isn’t merely a casual sparring session. Still, he manages to turn with the blow, lessening the impact. The force behind it remains enough to send him reeling, barely hanging onto his sword. The snap of his wings as he fights to recover his footing forces you back, prowling as he tries to compose himself.
“For the record, I don’t think it’s overcompensation. I think you’re just a big prick, and that manifests in a very physical form.” Your accompanying smile feels sharp. Perhaps a touch on the harsh side, but he deserves to suffer some.
This time Michael isn’t attacking, waiting for you to be the aggressor. The two of you circle lazily, Michael cautious, you taking your time.
“I bet you were thinking of my hands elsewhere, though, while I was touching your… blade,” you comment offhandedly. It has the desired effect, Michael focused on his rebuttal and not the headbutt that you land on the underside of his chin as you shove his arms up.
He staggers back, getting his blade back down across his body in time to block most of your flurry of blows, but he’s flat-footed, backing away as you follow up with spinning roundhouses and scissor kicks.
“See, my Angel Blade,” you huff with exertion, trying for a sweep of your own that Michael hastily leaps away from, “says I’m a very hands on person. Someone who likes to take her fate into her own hands, someone who doesn’t mind getting down and dirty.”
“Your Angel Blade says you are impatient,” Michael counters. “You rush in, you have no distance from which to contemplate things with a clear head.”
You dive to the side to avoid a sudden reversal, coming up ready. He hadn’t pressed his advantage like he should have. “Given the haphazard way in which you attacked me, I don’t think I’m the one with the fuzzy head. Then again, I work on honing my instincts, in reacting and anticipating, in ready my opponent’s body.”
“On the wrong end of a longer weapon, you’ll never be able to reach your opponent. You are setting yourself up for a defensive game.”
“Only if you never take a chance.”
“An unnecessary risk!” Michael lungs, his blade clipping you above the cuff of your gauntlet. The blow reverberates through your body, making you grit your teeth as you dance away.
“Life is boring if you play by the rules. You get so caught up in what is and isn’t allowed that you forget to look for possibilities right in front of you.” This time you’re the one to close, catching his blade with your hands and putting both of you in a stalemate. If you let go, you’re too close to dodge, but you might be able to reach him first.
“Rules keep us safe, Gabriel. One day you are going to take a chance as you put it, and you’re going to end up destroyed.”
“Maybe that’s all of our fates, sooner or later.” With a grunt you move a step forward, both of you leaning into your respective weapons like an inverted tug-of-war where whoever pushes the hardest wins.
“I refuse to accept that as an inevitability.”
“You refuse to accept a lot of things.” Abruptly you release Michael’s blade and he stumbles forward, letting you duck under his arms and come up chest-to-chest. “Two,” you call, gripping your arms as you lock his arms against your sides, just behind the elbow.
“I could have hurt you!”
“Mmm, but you didn’t,” you point out, body tensing.
“Gabriel, don’t you—”
“Over we go!”
With a twist you bear Michael to the ground, landing on top of him with his arms still locked in yours. “I win,” you say with a grin.
Michael’s lips move but no words come out. His hands flail uselessly behind your back as you watch him, fighting back a laugh.
“Victory is so very sweet,” you say, pressing down on the knee between his legs, half-threat, half-tease. Michael goes still.
“You fight in a very unorthodox manner,” he tells you, eyes flashing in annoyance.
“What can I say? I like to spice it up,” you comment, leaning down so that your lips hover above his.
“What?”
“Oh come on, in all those books you pretend not to read but we all know about, you can’t say you’ve never encountered someone being pinned to a wall by their crush, can you?” There’s laughter in your words, making them bright and airy.
“That’s—this is completely different!”
“Is it?”
Michael takes too long to formulate a response, so you pull back. “That’s a shame,” you inform him. “Here I was thinking that maybe something might happen.”
“What—”
You don’t let him finish, hopping to your feet instead.
“I know I said best two out of three, but really Michael. I’ve seen fledglings who have done better.” Wetting your lips, you wonder if he’s finally starting to get it. He hasn’t moved from the ground yet, staring up at you in awe.
“So how about we skip the foreplay and get to the real event?”
The sudden coughing fit that answers your words causes laughter to rise from you. “Best two out of three. For real. Winner gets to do whatever they want with the loser for a day. Oh wait, no. That might make you lose.”
“Gabriel!”
It’s not an easy thing, flirting with Michael, but it does seem to be getting to him finally. Maybe by the end of the day he’d start hitting on you in return.
KoFi Request: Michael and Family Dinner (Dark F!Gabriel)
This is a sort of follow-up to a previous NSFW KoFi request.
Tone: Awkward, funny, black/edgy humor
Same Gabriel as the previous KoFi
Synopsis: Family dinner where Gabriel and Michael announce that she’s expecting their child.
A good relationship with Daniel and Lucifer
Bonus: She originally tried to shank Daniel
Humor isn’t my forte by any means, but I hope you enjoy it anon! Total word count is 5,223 words and if you would like a pdf or word document copy, let me know via private messages here or on discord!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Michael keeps looking back at you with wide, pleading eyes, tweaking the tie you had talked him into. He keeps complaining that if you wanted him collared and leashed there are more pleasant ways to go about it. You insisted on the tie; as fun as the other option is, it’s really not a topic you wish to broach with your father. Besides, he should know by now that you always get what you want. The color of his wings proves that your control over Michael is greater than even Heaven’s pull had once been.
“This seems like a bad idea,” he protests, not for the first time, and definitely not for the last. In the end, however, he’ll participate. Grumbling and fretting are how Michael shows he cares, even if it does occasionally grate on your nerves. The day he does something without some sort of token protest is the day you start to truly worry.
You reach up and retighten the tie, pointedly doing it with more force than you had previously. “Stop fussing.” The tone of your voice dares him to disobey.
Michael grimaces. “This is a cursed invention of humans,” he complains, flirting with the idea of disobedience without fully engaging with it. “Why would they wish to feel like there is a noose around their neck? Who decided that should be part of formal dress? At least cravats had some elegance to them.”
It’s your turn to pull a face. If you left Michael to his own devices, you don’t doubt that there would be some terrible mishmash of clothing from different eras and regions. And you’d only just disposed of the last Miami vice style outfit he had squirreled away. Falling hadn’t improved his fashion sense, sadly.
Rather than indulge him in his whinging, you simply say, “Relax,” and stroke over the back of his hair, noting that the locks are almost down to his collar. He’d chopped them off on an impulse, but since becoming involved with you was trying to grow it out again. Turns out Michael has a bit of a kink when it comes to having his hair pulled, which suits you perfectly. “It’ll be fine,” you reassure him.
He leans into your touch. “You say that, but I remind you that based on my previous encounters with your father, fine is an exaggeration.” Considering everyone came out of it relatively intact and not too burnt, you think fine is an apt description. You didn’t have to replace any dishes or chairs, which was a fortunate event; no matter how recently you seemed to have acquired belongings, the moment you needed a replacement you could never find the exact item again.
There’s one sure way to distract Michael from his concerns, however, a recent development you have been using and abusing to your advantage. You take one of Michael’s hands and pull it to your stomach. “What do you think, sweetheart? Think your daddy is overreacting? I know I do,” you coo down at the faint bump.
It’s amazing how effective this behavior is at getting Michael to agree with you and stop all forms of whining. Being pregnant is an automatic win to every argument, not that you need it, but it’s amusing to see Michael turn into soft, gooey ball of emotions, unable to help himself. It’s endearing.
“They aren’t capable of that level of thought yet,” Michael grouses, even as he gets to his knees and presses his ear to your stomach. A grin creeps over your face, and you tousle his hair again.
“But they’ll be like daddy, I’m sure, and admit that mommy is always right,” you murmur, fingers trailing down to stroke over his cheek.
Michael grumbles some more, turning to press a kiss to your belly. You’re barely showing, but you want to tell the rest of your family before it gets to the point that it’s obvious it’s not just a few extra of Persephone’s cookies.
Especially because you’d rather no one level a city block upon finding out. The amount of paperwork that humans generate sometimes makes Heaven seem like an efficient machine in comparison, and that isn’t a compliment to either institution.
A timer starts going off, and you clap your hands together. “They’ll be here any minute. Daniel!” There’s a clatter, and your adopted son appears on the spiral staircase, dressed up in black slacks and a gray-green collared shirt that brings out his eyes.
“Yes mom?” You’ve come such a long way to have him call you that, from trying to remove what you thought was just another satanspawn from the earth to calling him your son.
“Help me set the table, please,” you call as you bustle into the kitchen, hiding a fond smile. He’s a good boy, and often times more mature and dependable than Michael. Not that Michael doesn’t try, but if you want something done without twenty questions Daniel is your man. Not to mention, sometimes Michael still gets caught up in ‘that’s not how Heaven does it.’
While he understands that he’s yours, utterly and completely, he fails to understand that this city is under your dominion as well. The only higher power that rules here is you. Perhaps the difference is that Daniel has always used you as his moral compass, so adjusting to your laws is easy enough.
Michael had spent so long picking fights with you over the slightest issue that sometimes he would still balk at the way you handle problems. He’s learning, though, coming around to your way of view. It’s harder to teach a millennia old angel compared to a boy, but then again Daniel has always been an exceptional child.
That thought makes you pause. He is a young man, now, isn’t he? Not the scrawny, terrified boy you’d met that fateful day. Growing up and going out into the world, ready to make his mark. Your eyes flit to your stomach. Don’t humans have a word for this feeling? Empty nesters? Oddly accurate for Fallen, too. Idly you rub your stomach. Maybe you have grown accustomed to having a little one around.
Daniel enters the kitchen a moment later, moving carefully around you. He already knows about your pregnancy as it’s been impossible to keep Michael’s behavior from giving it away, and Daniel is far more perceptive.
However, it’s made it so that between the two of them, you’ve barely been able to lift anything lighter than a book without them fussing over you. At least Daniel listens to you without arguing when you insist on doing things yourself. You’re pregnant, not an invalid, and barely pregnant at that. If you don’t put your foot down now on the special treatment it’s only going to get significantly worse later. You know Michael. Going overboard is his modus operandi.
“You really think a dinner party with this family is going to go well?” Daniel asks as he pulls out plates and silverware, balancing them with a grace he’s only recently grown into.
“This family? You’re a part of this family, need I remind you,” you gently chide as you pull out the casserole and set it on top of the oven. The top is a light golden brown, almost as good as the picture next to the recipe you’d followed.
“Yep. Which is why I can call it a functional disaster,” Daniel retorts, gliding out of your reach as he moves to the dining table, setting out six place settings and flashing you a cheeky grin. “Things get done, sure, but rarely the way you expect them to or without something nearly catastrophic happening. Not to mention we’re like a bad joke setup.”
“Excuse me young man,” you call, hands on your hips, one eyebrow cocked in a pose you’ve coined as ‘disapproving mother.’ Even without saying anything, Daniel and Michael recognize they’ve done something wrong when you strike it, though depending on his mood, Michael has known to persist.
Turns out someone enjoys a little punishment, but now is not the time to be thinking about that. Definitely not with your father and siblings coming over.
Daniel gestures at Michael, who is standing poised like a statue in front of the front door waiting for the doorbell to ring, giving you a raised eyebrow in return. “Tell me I’m wrong. Satan, his daughter, and three angels—”
“Fallen,” Michael corrects, the word still full of a bitterness you haven’t shaken him out of yet.
You glance at your lover. “Just remember you’re stuck with this family,” you respond, avoiding the topic. Michael is a walking disaster all on his own and everyone knows it, even you. Of course, he’s your disaster and he has made great improvements. It’s a wonder what happens when you listen to others instead of stubbornly defending your position even when it’s glaringly obvious you have no ground to stand on. Only a few years, however, doesn’t quite begin to make-up for millennia of bad behavior.
Falling helped take him down a peg or two. He’s been much better behaved without an entire Heavenly Host watching him, ready to criticize any perceived weaknesses. Plus, you’ve learned ways to keep him leashed and obedient.
“For better or for worse,” Daniel chimes, smile soft. “Though, when your granddad’s the Devil, hard to top that.”
“You know he hates that moniker,” you scold.
“Not like he cares for Grandpa either,” Daniel replies impishly. Teenagers.
Shaking your head, you grab a few cork trivets and toss them towards Daniel. He catches them, laying them out on the table while you bring the casserole over. Another timer goes off. “Grab the mushrooms and put them on a serving platter please,” you say, heading towards the wine rack. While it’s difficult to get an angel drunk on human liquor, it won’t hurt to mellow moods, though you can’t partake.
You grab an old vine Zinfandel for Lucifer, and a sweeter Orange Muscat for Israfel. The latter isn’t really suited for the meal you made, but Israfel prefers sweet wines. Ramiel will drink whatever you put in front of him, and you have whiskey for after dinner, assuming you make it that far without anyone pulling an Angel Blade.
The doorbell rings.
Michael springs into action, smoothing his crisp ironed shirt once before jerking the front door open. The pleasant smile on his face evaporates as he stares into the chest in front of him.
“I forget you’re shorter in this form,” Ramiel rumbles, eyebrows raised in the precursor to an amused smirk.
“Sadly, while I can change my size there’s nothing to be done about your ego,” Michael snaps. Ramiel chuckles, musses Michael’s hair, and enters, pushing Michael aside.
“And here’s my favorite nestmate,” he says, spreading his arms for a hug. You set the wine on the table, letting Ramiel wrap his long arms around you. He pulls back, eyes going wide and eyebrows again shooting up. “Now I understand what the dinner is about. Got a bun in the oven, don’t you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Ramiel. Everything is already out of the oven.” Michael sounds petulant, displeased by the brusque dismissal of your fellow Fallen.
“Oh Michael. Don’t ever change,” Ramiel replies, his condescending tone making your lover bristle.
“Anybody breaks anything other than bread in this house and I will kick your sorry feathers,” you threaten, wagging a finger at Ramiel. “And I don’t want to see any wings popping out. Save it for not in my home.”
Your most troublesome nestmate holds up his hands, feigning innocence. “Well, at least with Michael around you’ve already experienced the level of hand-holding and monitoring a kid requires.”
“I am not a child! Point in fact Gabriel is younger than me,” Michael pipes up.
“So that—”
“Ramiel,” you warn, knowing he was going to make another comment at Michael’s expense. “Is it really that amusing to battle wits with an unarmed opponent?”
“Sporting, no,” Ramiel says, pulling out a chair and sitting down, leaning back on two legs, ignoring your sigh. His grin is wide and unrepentant. “Entertaining? Most definitely.”
“Why did you insist on inviting him again?” Michael demands, sitting across from Ramiel and glaring daggers at your prank-prone nestmate.
“Because we can’t choose our family, and he’s part of it,” you say in a voice so sweet sugar has nothing on it. Both Michael and Ramiel appear to stop breathing, turning to look at you with wary eyes. Sometimes, you think, it’s easier to play nice. Makes them paranoid without you having to go through the effort of concocting a punishment or figuring out what to leverage to make them behave. Let their imaginations run wild thinking of what you might have up your sleeve.
“I see I’ve arrived just in time.” You look up to find Israfel has invited himself in, a much quieter entrance than Ramiel’s. He’s dressed with a kind of casual elegance, a long cream cardigan over a white ensemble that on anyone else would look over the top. On his long frame, however, there’s a dignity and grace that makes your attempt to dress Michael up look cheap. You glance over at your lover. At least he hasn’t clawed the tie off his neck yet, and for the most part it’s still straight.
“Israfel,” you greet, letting him sweep you into a hug. He kisses the top of your head, smiling fondly down at you.
“Hello little sister,” he greets. Things had been strained for a while after your Fall, but much of it had been mended when Israfel showed you his own black wings. If you weren’t in Heaven, then he didn’t want to be either. He still doesn’t approve of everything you do, but that’s one of the beauties of being Fallen; you can disagree without there being a wrong and right party, as there’s not much of a governing oversight on Fallen.
And what there is happens to be headed by your father, allowing you to quite literally get away with murder.
“It must be big news you have to share,” Israfel whispers, amusement twinkling in his eyes. Narrowing your eyes, you scowl at him.
“Why do I even bother?” you ask.
He shrugs. “The most oblivious party here is half-responsible for your current state, so I’m not certain. Perhaps you should sit down before your father arrives; I doubt you want him knowing before the food is at least served.”
Rolling your eyes—you aren’t fooled, you know he’s using it as an excuse to get you off your feet—you pull out the chair next to Michael and sit down.
Immediately you catch Ramiel’s troublesome grin, and groan.
“You know, Michael, humans may not be your favorite creature but even they are aware enough to make sure their pregnant mates have, say, their chair pulled out for them.” He swirls the wine he’d helped himself to around his glass, watching it with faux fascination, as if the conversation were of no importance.
Michael’s face goes white, a retort on his lips when Israfel sinks into a seat, hands folded neatly on the table in front of him, head tilted to the side. “Gabriel might not be quite as she once was, but she is no delicate human either,” he comments, reaching out and pouring himself a glass of wine, the color matching his ensemble well.
Daniel glances around, ensuring everything is out where it should be before he takes a seat as well, his eyes darting eagerly to the food.
“Great. We’re all here. Can we eat now?” Michael’s petulance is one of the few qualities that hasn’t markedly improved since falling, and you can practically hear the collective sigh everyone holds back.
“Still never learned to count, I see.” You don’t bother turning around, knowing full well who it is. Lucifer had this building built for you and you’ve long since stopped expecting him to enter through the front door like a normal visitor. He has a flair for the dramatic, and at least it’s not another Hellhound pup.
Speaking of which, you reach out with your foot, encountering other feet but no hound sneaking around for scraps.
Michael pastes a smile on, his hands disappearing under the table. “Lucifer,” he greets. Ramiel gives Lucifer a two fingered salute, once again leaning his chair back. Israfel inclines his head to Lucifer, a gentle smile on his face.
“Oh good. You remember my name. I had feared that your memory might have been going along with your inability to count.”
“Dad, be nice,” you warn before gesturing to the open spot. “You are in his house.”
“A house I paid for, had built, and warded,” Lucifer responds, moving fluidly to his seat, seeming to simply pour himself into the chair without having to pull it out from the table. It’s a little disconcerting to watch but reminds you that he isn’t always so human in appearance.
“If you weren’t Gabriel’s father, she wouldn’t need half of these wards,” Michael points out.
“If I weren’t Gabriel’s father, you wouldn’t be here either,” Lucifer retorts. Israfel and Ramiel takes sips of their respective drinks, one resigned, the other amused. Michael opens his mouth to retort and you clear your throat. This could go on all night and you haven’t even gotten to share your news yet.
“So… can we eat before it gets cold?” Daniel asks, looking at you with large eyes. You give him a nod, and he immediately starts piling food on his plate. A curious phenomenon you had observed with teenagers, or at least the three who frequented your house for a long time, is that they eat far more than the average human, and yet never seem to feel full.
Being pregnant seems to be roughly equivalent to being a teenager, at least in terms of food consumption. You always seemed to be running by the stores, picking up groceries and whatever odd combination of food your unborn child seems to crave. One good thing about having Michael for a partner is that he’s unfamiliar with normal human cuisine and thus sees nothing wrong with combinations such as peanut butter on pickles and cheese with ice-cream.
Daniel has learned to be cautious when he hears the fridge open at odd hours lest his appetite be ruined. Watching him now, it seems like that would be an impossible feat, but you have seen it happen,
The table falls blissfully silent while food is served, everyone respecting the sanctity of a good meal—or the fact that you won’t hesitate to kick any of their asses if they don’t.
“Not that I don’t enjoy getting to sit down to a meal with my daughter,” Lucifer is the first to break the silence, “but I doubt you would get the entirety of the nest together just for family dinner. Something you want to share?”
It’s your turn to play innocent. “What, I can’t just enjoy a family meal? The family that Falls together, stays together don’t you know.” No one laughs at your joke, though Ramiel shakes his head in pity
You glance at Michael. Might as well tell him now, then. In the future you’ll have to schedule more family dinners, if only to prevent your nestmates from being suspicious. Being predictable has never been a compliment as far as your concerned. Predictable is only one step away from complacent, and with the kind of enemies you have, you cannot afford either, especially when you’re about to bring a new life into this world.
Michael shakes his head, jabbing with far more force than required at his food. You tilt your head. Michael flicks his gaze to Lucifer. You roll your eyes. Michael’s fork screeches painfully against the plate.
Lucifer clears his throat, gaze resting on the pair of you.
“I’m going to college!” Daniel’s announcement blessedly drags the attention of the group away from your and Michael’s silent argument.
“It’s not that far,” Ramiel comments. “It’s not like this is your last supper.”
Silence greets his comment.
“Oh come on! Last supper? I mean, sure, there’s only six of us total, but I mean we’ve got the King of Hell himself so it’s like—like some sort of hellish version.”
You reach over and pat his arm. “Ramiel, dear, if you have to explain it… it’s not funny.”
“It was better than yours,” he mutters, retreating behind his wine glass.
“Didn’t you know that human?” Michael asks, eyes narrowing as he looks at you.
“‘That human,’ Michael, was one of the most brilliant minds humanity has ever hosted, I’m sure in no small part to his personal muse,” Lucifer comments, smiling at you. “My daughter is quite the inspiring force.”
“But it’s a rather strange painting don’t you think? First of all, it’s not accurate at all to the region or the time period he’s attempting to paint, and then everyone is gathered on one side of the table—that would be terribly awkward and far overcrowded and—”
Daniel clears his throat. “Anyways, since I’m going off to college, we thought this would be, uh, a nice way to send me off.”
“But you’ll be back,” Michael states, brow furrowed, successfully derailed from his rant but now busy trying to apply his brand of logic to Daniel’s statement. Daniel glances at you for help. Subtlety is not Michael’s strong suit. “It’s not like you’re dying or anything. By my understanding humans can live for a century or so now. And you aren’t human, so you’ll be around for longer than that. I mean, you survived Gabriel.”
The smack to Michael’s arm isn’t gentle.
“And what does that mean?” you inquire, head tilted to one side, a dangerous glimmer in your eyes. Michael’s eyes widen, recognizing danger in the faux sweet smile you flash him.
“Nothing, dearest.” You turn back to your food and manage to get a bite in before Michael opens his mouth and sticks in his left foot, his right foot, and all six of his wings.
“Well, not nothing. I mean, you did try to kill him when you first met.”
You can feel your left eye twitch. “So I did,” you state placidly, taking your napkin and dabbing at your lips.
Israfel reaches for the wine and refills his glass. Ramiel reaches for another helping of food. Lucifer leans back in his chair, though unlike Ramiel he keeps all four feet of the chair solidly on the ground, watching with amusement, while Daniel looks between the two of you as if to play referee.
“And the fact that you can go from nearly obliterating him at first meeting to having him reach the age of legal majority by which human laws state he is now responsible for himself is a feat that should be celebrated. He’s—”
You hold up your index finger. “I’m not the only one who tried to kill him.”
“Well, no, of course not. But you were never very good at the whole loyal to Heaven bit and following orders. I mean, there’s a reason you Fell.”
Israfel drains his glass. Ramiel arches an eyebrow. “There’s a reason all of us here have Fallen,” he points out, for once acting like the voice of reason. “At least Gabriel Fell of her own choice. You were the whipped one who couldn’t stand to live without her. So really, who has the greater reason for Falling? Gabriel because of her beliefs? Or you because of love?”
“Thank you, Ramiel,” you say in a brittle tone. He shrugs, and then continues because he’s never known when to stop.
“Look, I know to knock on your door for a reason now because, well, if you weren’t already Fallen, I don’t know, seeing some of the things you two get up to—”
“THANK YOU, RAMIEL.” Your voice is louder this time. Daniel is staring fixedly at his plate, and Michael is gawping next to you.
“When did he—?” your lover demands, turning to you.
“He’s not the only one,” Daniel mumbles. “If brain bleach were a thing…”
Thoroughly scandalized, Michael turns to Daniel. “I would have noticed if you walked in!”
“I’m pretty sure the time I stopped by you were too busy on your knees,” Israfel adds, one elegant finger flicking out to the side. “Your windows aren’t nearly as one-way as you think they are.”
Michael looks apoplectic, his skin turning an interesting shade of mauve. “Excuse me?” he demands, starting to come out of his seat.
“Oh please, sit down. It’s not like those of us with wings haven’t seen all that and more,” Lucifer replies, sounding bored. “Just because you thought it was kinky to hold hands doesn’t mean that the rest of us live under a rock. Good thing you live on earth; I think Hell would make you combust on the spot.”
“I did—holding hands—I know what sex is!”
“I’m glad you know what sex is. I hope for my daughter’s sake you’re at least passable at it.”
It’s your turn to want to sink into your seat. This is not a conversation that you wanted to have happen. Ever.
“More than passable,” Michael snaps. “In fact, if we—”
“Why is this a conversation for a family dinner?” Daniel asks you with desperate eyes, his voice raised to cut across Michael.
“Because this family is literally from Hell?” Ramiel supplies. He winces abruptly, and glares at Israfel who hasn’t appeared to move at all.
“Not from Hell,” Lucifer corrects, taking a bread roll, completely unperturbed by any of the topic changes. “I might rule it, but we are all from Heaven. Except for Daniel, but he’s the least disastrous one here.”
“Dad!” It’s your turn to be shocked, staring at your father in betrayal.
“You picked him,” Lucifer says mildly, gesturing to Michael with his bread roll. He rips it in half, sets half down, and then rips the half into quarters. “Daniel had no choice in the matter. That, my dearest, makes you a bigger disaster than him.”
“And how did I earn disaster?” Israfel asks, blinking at the King of Hell.
“Guilty by association,” Lucifer comments. “You would think after a few millennia some of your tranquility would have rubbed off on this lot, but they seem impervious to it.”
This time he gestures to you, your lover, and Ramiel.
“Ramiel is like a brick wall; oblivious to almost everything,” you point out dryly.
“If I’m a brick wall, I hate to think what that makes Michael,” Ramiel retorts, lips twitching up. Oh. No.
“Don’t you—”
“I mean but at least he knew he was in love with you. What do you call someone who doesn’t notice that for—”
The rest of Ramiel’s sentence is lost as a bread roll smacks him in the middle of his obnoxious gob. The smirk that he’s wearing as he catches the falling bread roll is almost worse, however.
“At least nothing is on fire?” Daniel supplies with a sheepish grin and a shrug.
“Daniel, if you’re considered normal, it is in spite of all of us,” Israfel informs him drolly.
“Normal is overrated. Besides, next to Josie? I think just about anyone could be considered normal,” Daniel responds.
You preemptively reach over and step on Michael’s toes to prevent something uncouth from pouring out of his mouth.
Michael looks affronted, but it’s better than the alternative.
Lucifer yawns, and shakes the empty wine bottle. “So, are we going to get to the elephant in the room or not?”
Everyone else exchanges glances, you hunting for the source of the leak and finding wide-eyed innocence—Daniel—resigned sibling apathy—Israfel—a mixture of amusement and the knowledge that he’s going to get in trouble no matter what he does—Ramiel—and finally panic verging on stubborn refusal—Michael.
“There’s no pachyderm in the room, don’t be ridiculous.”
“Ever predictable, Michael,” Lucifer comments with a sigh, elegant fingers wrapped around the stem of his goblet. That’s not the dishware you had set on the table to begin with, but you’ve been around Lucifer long enough to cease being surprised by his quirks, such as altering his surrounding to suit his aesthetic. The first few times he had visited you had found various pieces of furniture changed, or one time, an entire painting that hadn’t been there before. You kept the latter—Da Vinci holds a special place in your heart, and you were the inspiration behind it.
“How?” you ask.
Lucifer arches one elegant eyebrow. “How? My dear, I have been around since before any of you were even a thought. I’ve observed worlds come into existence and be snuffed out. I’ve even been pregnant before—the signs are not difficult to discern.”
He lifts his glass, liquid filling it from the bottom up, a deep blood red wine. “Not to mention that you forget that the wards on this building keep auras and the like undetectable from those on the outside. I could feel my grandchild the second I entered the building.”
“My child,” Michael corrects, scowling.
“Ours,” you say, reaching for his hand and squeezing it.
“Hopefully they take after their mother and not their father,” Lucifer says, draining his glass. “And you’ve known I’m Gabriel’s father longer than anyone, Michael. You can’t deny I’m part of the family. In fact, I think humans might even consider me your father-in-law.”
The horror on Michael’s face makes you sigh. Back to zero.
“You’re a Fallen now, Michael. There’s no Host to condemn you for dating the ‘Devil’s’ daughter. Hell, I wager there’s a few Fallen who would envy your position.” Lucifer’s eyes flick to Ramiel.
Ramiel clears his throat and sinks down in his chair.
“Alright, enough. Michael, get over it.” Michael turns to you, and you look at him with narrowed eyes.
“I’m Fallen. You’re Fallen. Everyone here has black wings. Pointing fingers is literally like the pot calling the kettle black.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Cookware doesn’t speak.”
You can feel an impending headache.
“On the plus side, since Michael is pure Fallen, he doesn’t require sleep like you.” Lucifer’s smirk is wicked. “So every midnight crying, every two am feeding… I think that’s his by default.”
You perk up. “That’s a very good point father,” you say, pleased to see that no one has appropriated the cutlery for a preemptive strike.
Israfel quirks his lips. “Would a onesie with the word’s Little Angel be considered ironic then?” he wonders.
A laugh, perhaps a tinge hysterical, bubbles from your lips. It spreads, Ramiel starting to chuckle, then Daniel, Lucifer, Israfel’s light lyrical chuckle, and lastly even your mate.
“This isn’t funny,” Michael tries to say while trying to contain his own laughter.
You shrug. “Matter of perspective, love. I prefer puns to fireballs.”
“Oh don’t be silly,” Lucifer comments. “I want dessert first, and then I might threaten to introduce Michael to a few of the old, extraplanar creatures that go bump in the night. Burnt feathers is a smell that doesn’t come out of your clothes easily.”
Michael’s laughter stops completely. “That was a joke, right?”
Lucifer tilts his head and smiles. “I guess we’ll see.”
Another one for the amazing @lychee-days!
Family Holiday Trip! F!Gabriel (Rielle) and Daniel ready to leave for a holiday to Venice~ ft. Uncle Israfel, who is joining, and Lucifer, who uh...decided to tag along
Total wordcount is 2,271. Hope you enjoy!
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It would have been far easier to simply slip between planes to get to Venice. Instead you’re stuck in this seemingly endless line, bouncing up and down on your toes. Daniel looks a tad pale, mumbling to himself. Heights had never bothered him, but apparently his first time on an airplane is causing anxiety.
It’s your first time too, and Israfel’s, but telling Daniel that hadn’t helped. All he had said in response is that flying when you can fly under your own power is entirely different from flying when you have no ability to fly.
Finally, the line moves, and you watch as Daniel takes stuff out of your bags. Israfel doesn’t have anything apart from his boarding pass and a fake id you had to beg Sabriel for. She had pointed out that he was perfectly capable of meeting you in Venice, but you had continued to plead until she caved. Not that you were nervous, but having Israfel around always made new experiences feel less frightening.
You bounce through the metal frame, following Daniel and collecting your bags. He had insisted on packing after watching you try the first time. In your defense, packing isn’t a skill angels are taught, and there are a great many rules to follow about what you can and cannot bring.
Your smile dims as you reach the gate and realize that you have yet more waiting to do. It would be so easy to slip planes, you think, narrowing your eyes. Sure, you aren’t supposed to while in your mortal shell, but sitting around and waiting is boring.
Someone calls your name, and you look around in confusion. “Rielle Santos, please report to the flight attendant at the gate.” You twist your hands in front of your chest, wondering what you had done now as you slink up to the attendant. She beams a smile and holds out three tickets.
“Ms. Santos, here are your upgraded tickets.” You blink. Upgraded? You hadn’t—
“We get to fly first-class?” Daniel’s wide-eyed enthusiasm as he pops up over the back of the seat to look at you make you decide that it’s not worth questioning this turn of good-fortune. Maybe Sabriel pulled some strings.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Not too much later, despite how much Daniel complained about the flight being long—even after a decade on earth, most human periods of time feel like little more than blinks of the eye—the plane touches down. It’s not nearly as smooth as your own landings, but you imagine how excited Da Vinci would be to hear that you had flown in a machine at all. He would have loved it, you know.
From the airport, you make your way onto a train that takes you directly into Venice. As you get closer you tune out more of Daniel and Israfel’s banter, lost in old memories. Venice couldn’t have possibly changed that much over the centuries. It should be easy to take Daniel to Leonardo’s old workshop, maybe even the villa where you two had attended a party courtesy of Mona Lisa, though that hadn’t been the name she’d used at the time.
The train station is busy, but with Israfel’s lanky frame leading the way, neither you nor Daniel have problems with the crowd, and with Stephanie’s traveling charms, you’re not worried about pick-pockets or the like.
The three of you emerge into the sunshine, a series of stairs down leading to a canal full of water-taxis and boats. It’s similar in some ways to what you remember—crowds of people crossing canals, boats moving their cargo through the city—and different. But now there’s the noise of electric motors, and the air smells fresher than your remember.
“We’ll go to the hotel and then I’m thinking walk around, tomorrow we’ll go out to Murano and Burano and Torcel—”
You stop mid-sentence, distracted by a spectacle you probably should have noticed first. Dead center of the crowd, perched on a ridiculous amount of luggage, is Lucifer, dressed in a frilled burgundy shirt and black slacks, legs crossed at the ankles, arms thrown wide in welcome, silver hair coiffed in a style that would have been more at home a few centuries ago.
“Welcome to Venice!” he proclaims.
People are congregating around him, taking pictures with their phones. It doesn’t help that all his luggage looks like it came from the same time-period as his hairstyle, heavy wooden trunks covered in delicate carving and paintings, leather straps helping hold them closed. It looks like he’s moving here with the mountain of baggage he’s enthroned on.
“You didn’t say Lucifer was coming along,” Israfel states mildly, arching an eyebrow at you.
“I didn’t know he was,” you reply. Lucifer hops to his feet, claps his hands, and a few burly porters step forward and collect his luggage. One of them approaches you and relieves Daniel and you of your luggage as well, all while you stare at your father.
“Close your mouth dear. Venice hasn’t changed that much and you’ll catch flies standing about gaping like that,” he tells you, drawing you in and kissing each of your cheeks. He repeats the process with Daniel and then Israfel.
“You could have told me!” you exclaim, coming to your senses and throwing your arms around him in a hug.
“It wouldn’t have been much of a surprise if I did,” he points out, sweeping around in a gesture that says he is accustomed to having capes that flair dramatically behind him while doing so. You can practically picture it now.
“Come on, I thought we’d start with a gondola ride.”
“What about our luggage?”
“It’s being taken care of.” Good enough for you. You step into the wooden gondola after Lucifer, turning and offering your hand to Daniel. Daniel stares down at it.
“You’ve been on boats before,” you coax.
“I know. I don’t want to tip it though,” he says, cautiously extending a foot. When he makes contact with the bottom of the boat he grabs your hand and uses it to hop into the boat, causing it to rock slightly.
“See? Not bad at all,” you tell him with a fond smile, mussing his dark curls. You turn to offer help to Israfel, but he’s already in the gondola and folding his long frame onto a wooden bench seat.
“You cheat, Uncle Israfel,” Daniel grumbles, his legs shaking as he attempts to follow suit. It’s more of a controlled collapse, but he makes it onto the seat and not over the side of the boat which you count as a victory. You’d ended up in a canal once; it isn’t an experience you want to repeat even if the water seems cleaner now.
“Hardly. I’ve had lots of practice. Now your grandfather? He cheats,” Israfel points out. You join them sitting down, not looking at your father.
“I use my God-given gifts,” Lucifer proclaims. “I fail to see how that qualifies as cheating.”
Daniel rolls his eyes. “So what are we doing, Grandpa?” he asks, his head turning to and fro, trying to take in everything there is to see, from the flowerpots handing in the windows over the canals to the shops and relics of days past. If he wasn’t as worried about the boat rocking, you’re certain he’d be rushing from side-to-side to get a better look at your surroundings.
“It’s not… cheating,” you say diplomatically. “But you do show-off a lot. Like the first-class tickets and whatever else you have planned.”
“I am an old man. It gives me great happiness to take my daughter and grandchild on vacation and spoil them rotten. And, of course, Israfel. Though I admit I’m surprised there’s no Michael.”
“You know how he is about human stuff,” you say with a small shrug, trying not to look guilty. You had offered, but were relieved when he declined. He’s been better since you started letting him sleep over, but better isn’t good, and this trip is about family, preferably without family squabbles.
“I do,” Lucifer agrees. “And to start with tonight, we can walk around Piazzo San Marco and admire the Basilica’s statues from outside. We can go in tomorrow if you like, or take a private water taxi out to the islands. Those are a must see. Burano is known for lace, and while I don’t use it much in my wardrobe any more, the process of making lace is incredible, as are the different designs. Not to mention the houses there are beautiful, painted a wide variety of vivid colors. It’s quite famous. Now, Murano is home to glass blowing, and the different studios have their own unique sands that they’ve been using for centuries. Now Torcello, that’s…”
You continue to listen with one ear as try to locate where you are. The Rialto bridge makes one landmark, crowded with tourists and vendors hawking their wares. “It’s a pity there’s not a carnival happening. I used to love attending those,” Lucifer continues in the background.
Daniel taps your knee. “What are you thinking about?” he asks softly.
“That it’s been a long time since I’ve walked these streets. Leonardo used to like to get up early, get to the market as people were setting up. He loved to sketch the different people. One time he even bought a bird in a cage to study. He was always doing that; studying. He always had hundreds of questions racing through his mind, and he would hop from one thing to another, trying to answer them all.”
“Are we going to visit where he lived?” he asks, leaning forward in his eagerness.
“If it’s still standing, and not submerged. I—oh, well, this brings back memories.” The gondola pulls into a gated entrance, a palatial estate that you had been to a few times back in the days. There had been guards, then, and banners of the noble family living there, not insignias of the hotel. Lucifer hops dramatically out of the boat, Israfel somehow already on the dock.
Daniel and you exchange a glance. “I fully believe in your capability to get up there without falling in the water,” you tell him with a solemn nod.
“And I believe that I can do better than you, mom,” he says and with a jaunty salute, scrambles up to the dock, sending the gondola rocking before the gondolier steadies it. You follow with more trepidation, but you don’t have any mishaps.
“Check-in and meet back here in twenty minutes?” Lucifer suggests, sweeping through the doors, anticipating their movement. He is a king, making his dramatic entry into his palace.
“Well, this is going to be entertaining,” Israfel comments at your shoulder. You wish he would make noise when he moves. Humans are fragile beings and you’re certain that every time he startles you it shortens the lifespan of your shell.
“It won’t be that bad.”
“True. It’s not like we’re taking the king of Hell into the Vatican or something,” he says, flashing a smile as you wait your turn at the counter.
“Would that be bad for me?”
Daniel’s voice is soft at your side.
Both you and Israfel startle, having thought he was still off peeking at the rich dressings of the lobby from the marble floors to the gold gilded ceiling, with murals and tapestries and statues aplenty between. Ostentatious seemed an inadequate description for the kind of casual display of art and wealth visible here.
“No, honey, oh no,” you rush to assure him. “You’re not evil, Daniel. And consecrated ground really only affects demons and not very well at the higher power levels to be honest. Not unless god or an angel has reinforced the blessings, and while yes, the Vatican is one of the strongest holy sites, it’s not going to affect you.”
“It’s a bit gauche anyways,” Israfel demurs. “And a tragedy to see the statues. I remember when they had color and now they’re bleached white like bones.”
“That’s a bit dark,” Daniel comments, side-eyeing Israfel.
“Such is life,” Israfel responds with a shrug. He stops at his room. “I’d get running shoes on. We are going out with Lucifer.”
“Good point,” you murmur, opening the door to Daniel and yours room. Your father can put small children to shame with his chaotic energy.
Daniel gasps when he sees the large canopy bed, racing ahead and throwing himself onto it with a giggle of pure joy.
“Your bed is in the other room!” You tell him. He gets to his feet, bouncing on them. “Come on, mom. You know you want to jump too!”
Your resolve lasts a second before you join Daniel, the two of you bouncing around the bed until you collapse, breathless.
Daniel grimaces, and pulls out a scroll from behind him. He tosses it at you. “I guess they’re really into the whole over the top fancy schmancy stuff,” he says.
You cant your head. There’s something about the wax seal that seems familiar to you, but it’s not until you open it and find a familiar scrawl that you feel all the hairs on your body stand up.
Welcome back, Gabriel.
Sincerely,
A friend.
“Wow!” Daniel takes it from you. “This is legit calligraphy! And it’s—backwards? Wasn’t that da Vinci’s thing?”
“Yes, it was. Backwards and forwards, both hands; he was special. This, however, would be Lisa’s. And yes, I mean the model for Mona Lisa. She says welcome back to Venice.”
“She wasn’t, er, isn’t human?”
“Not in the least.”
You know the look in his eyes, and you laugh. “Let’s go meet your grandfather, and I’ll tell you all about it. Some of the old haunts are probably still kicking around, though we’ll skip any of the water folk.”
Eyes sparkling, Daniel trails after you to the lobby while you start talking about your time as a muse. Israfel chimes in, and when you meet up with Lucifer, he’s quick to add his own tangential anecdotes.
“Oh easy for you to say!” Tadea snaps, chewing on her lower lip as she continues to pace. “Everything comes so easy to you! Pack alpha, valedictorian, full ride—”
“Not everything,” Leo says softly, closing his laptop and standing up, catching her by the shoulders. She narrows her eyes at him. It’s no secret that Gabriel had captured both of their attentions, and there was only one victor in the war for her heart. For once, Leo hadn’t had everything handed to him on a silver platter.
“Boy, I can still kick your ass, alpha or no.”
Leo’s smile is gentle. “I know, Tee.” He squeezes her arms and then drops his hands. There’s no jealousy, though, just a quiet acceptance and support. In some ways it’s harder, having him be so supportive. She’s not sure she would be in his position. “It’s okay to be nervous, though.”
“What’s there to be nervous about? It’s just a date,” Tadea says, crossing her arms and shrugging her shoulders up about her ears.
“You’ve checked your appearance in the bathroom at the end of each loop you’ve been pacing through the apartment.”
“I have not!”
Leo inclines his head. “So you weren’t checking that the one strand in front that never likes to stay there—” He breaks off into laughter as Tadea frantically touches the pads of her fingers to her forehead, trying to make sure that her mohawk, combed down for once in an attempt to look more formal, is still in place.
“You’re a brat,” Tadea hisses, torn between scowling some more and wanting to cry. Not that she particularly wants the latter, but she’s never felt so nervous in her life. Facing life and death situations? Fine. Going up against creatures more powerful than her? Easy-peasy.
Taking an archangel of the lord out on a date?
Someone help her.
“Cálmate. Eres linda y fuerte. Estás lista.”
Tadea shakes her head. “No. No, no, no.” She isn’t ready. Sure, she might look pretty, might look the part, but she’d rather go fight a swarm of ghouls with one hand tied behind her back than do this right now. The consequences of screwing up seem less dire with the alternate scenario.
Then there’s a hand at the scruff of her neck and as much as she wants to fight against it, bare her teeth and snarl, she reminds herself that it’s okay to be vulnerable. It’s okay to trust her alpha.
“But if you don’t go now, you’re going to be late,” Leo comments, his eyes warm.
Tadea’s go wide. “Why didn’t you say anything!” She bolts for the door to the apartment and slams it as she books it down the stairs.
Thirty seconds later she’s sprinting back up the stairs and nearly breaking the door down as she barges back in. “Purse!” The strange expression on her alpha’s face lets her know he’s trying hard not to laugh at her behavior. Fortunately, before he loses it, Leo picks up the black clutch and tosses it to her.
Fumbling out her keys, she raises them triumphantly over her head. “I’m off!” There’s a glow to her, and she even manages a wink this time. “Don’t wait up.”
“Have fun!” is the last thing she hears as once more she clatters down the dark, narrow stairs before bursting out into the fading daylight. The clutch is tossed unceremoniously into the back as she slides across the old leather bench seat, the engine roaring to life a second later.
A glance at the clock has her cursing under breath. She can’t be late. She’s been dreaming of this day for longer than she’d like to admit. Of course, she hadn’t known initially what Gabriel was, but it hadn’t mattered. The woman had come into her life and stolen her heart in an embarrassingly short amount of time.
Some might say it was a childish crush, but Tadea had waited, bided her time. It hadn’t faded, and for fair reason. After the brilliance of Gabriel, other women seemed a dull in comparison. Smitten didn’t begin to cover it.
And then Gabriel had chosen her. The rough-around the edges, barely-passed-highschool mechanic over the brilliant alpha. This was the one thing Tadea had wanted for years, the one thing she truly would fight for. And her effort had paid off in a nearly unbelievable turn of events.
Her hands feel slick on the wheel, and it takes a concerted effort not to wipe them on her slacks. The price-tags had only come off this afternoon and she’d rather not get her outfit wrinkled before dinner starts. The material feels silky on her skin, and she hopes Gabriel likes it. For a moment she had contemplated getting a dress or skirt, but ultimately decided that her physique would look better in black slacks and the sleek sleeveless turtleneck top she’d gotten to go with it, leaving her arms bare.
Gabriel could kick her ass in a fight with a bend of her pinky finger, but Tadea figured she had to appreciate the hard-earned tone the werepanther had. It was one of her better assets, and it showed off her tattoos. She’d spent too much to get them to not show them off when she could.
Taking a corner harder than necessary and drawing a few scathing stares, she pulls her car into the parking lot of one of the classier restaurants on the bay.
Then she sits there and stares mindlessly off into the distance. Maybe this was a mistake. She’s going to stick out like a sore thumb here with her tattoos and hairstyle, not to mention she’s likely a good decade younger than everyone apart from the waitstaff.
Hell, she looks nearly a decade younger than her date. She frowns. Date? Girlfriend? Gabriel had said yes to the date so did that mean they are girlfriends now? Her heart thumps erratically in her chest at the thought. She’s never had a girlfriend before. Plenty of hookups, sure, but not someone she would take out on a date.
Not someone she would buy new clothes for and fuss over her appearance for hours hoping to live up to expectations.
Tadea groans. “I’m so fucking gay it’s a wonder I can function right now,” she grumbles, shaking her head, trying to rid herself of the nervous thoughts flitting around her head like so many gnats.
And then promptly scooting across the seat so she can see herself in the rearview mirror, afraid that she’d messed up her hair after finally getting all the strands to lay just so.
She jumps at the knock to her window. A familiar face peers in, lips stretched in an amused grin. Much to her horror, Tadea can feel the blush spreading through her cheeks.
“Coming out?” Gabriel mouths.
Nodding, Tadea buys herself some time by turning around and rummaging for her clutch. It’s fallen under the front seat, which necessitates her climbing half-way into the back to grab it. As she returns to the front seat she catches a glimpse of herself and groans. She’d been afraid of using too much product and causing her hair to look stiff so she’d tried to use as little as possible. The result is that now her hair is falling haphazardly over her head. This is why she doesn’t like purses. Much easier to jam a wallet into a pocket of her utility pants. Now she’s undone all of the hard work she’d put into looking presentable.
Dismay crosses her features. Gabriel’s right outside but if she hurries—
The door opens. “The date is happening out here, right?” she asks, her voice low and musical to Tadea’s ears, ears which now feel like they’re on fire.
“Yea, just a moment,” she mumbles, trying her best to hastily sweep the strands back into something resembling neat. A hand taps her shoulder, and she turns reluctantly to face Gabriel. The woman is leaning down, nearly in half, to see into her classic car.
“Come on gorgeous,” she murmurs in that smooth voice of hers. “You’d think being as old as I am I’d have learned patience, but I don’t want to wait another minute for this.” Her hand is palm up, inviting Tadea to take it.
Blushing furiously, annoyed at herself for still primping in the car while Gabriel is waiting, Tadea places her hand in Gabriel’s. It’s warm, calloused like hers which is oddly comforting. It’s a reminder that while Gabriel might seem worlds away from her at times, they have a lot in common.
She’s pulled out of the car and given her first good look at her date. Now she feels underdressed, and these are the most expensive clothes she ownss. Gabriel is stunning, the colors perfect for her complexion, the flow of the fabric accentuating her form.
“Hold still,” Gabriel instructs. Tadea is glad she said it though because she cannot move and finds it unlikely that she will be able to in the near future, still recovering from taking in her date.
Her. Date.
She swallows, her palms starting to feel sweaty again, her heart picking up speed. Adrenaline she’s familiar with, but she’s used to channeling it into fighting. Uncertainty makes her tongue heavy and she’s stuck staring silently and up close at Gabriel’s face as the taller woman bends over her, fussing with her hair. Her fingers are gentle against her scalp, comforting and intimate at the same time.
All too soon she’s pulling away, lips curled with satisfaction. “There you are. Though, for the record, I think how you style it normally is just fine too,” she comments, sweeping around and striding towards the sidewalk up to the restaurant.
Tadea scrambles after her, feeling completely uncoordinated, legs leaden and head spinning. Pull it together pendejo, she thinks to herself, catching up and offering her arm to Gabriel. One eyebrow raises.
“That’s still a custom after all these years?”
Tadea’s tongue darts out, wetting her lips before she speaks. “If you like I can kiss your hand, make you feel more at home,” she offers.
A soft laugh greets her proposal. “Maybe later,” Gabriel says, shaking her head. “Humans are such strange creatures…”
Tadea wrinkles her nose as they approach the double doors. “I’m not a human,” she reminds Gabriel gently. The archangel waves her hand in a dismissive motion.
They draw attention as they walk together. She can’t fault the onlookers; even in her work clothes in the middle of the night, sleep deprived, bags under her eyes and everything wrinkled and half-tucked, Gabriel was beautiful.
Today, dressed up, she shines like a supernova. In comparison, Tadea might as well be a remora, Gabriel the beautiful and deadly shark that she’s clinging too, attempting to prove herself not a parasite.
“Is my company so boring I cannot hold your attention for even a few minutes?”
The question makes Tadea blink, then shake her head. “Sorry, no, that’s not it at all. I can’t think about anything but you at the moment.”
Gabriel makes a noncommittal noise and reaches for the handle. Tadea tries to beat her to it, but the disadvantage of having a taller date manifests itself in the fact that she can’t reach the handle before her date. “I might suggest ceasing thinking about me and instead talking to me,” she says as she holds the door open for Tadea.
“You could have let me get it,” Tadea tells Gabriel, eyeing her sideways as they step into the cool interior of the restaurant. “You already opened my car door for me.”
“So I did,” Gabriel agrees, the door closing softly behind them. “It is no trouble, Tadea. Relax. Human courting rituals may change over the centuries but a simple door opening is not the end of the world.”
“I’m—not human,” she repeats.
“I’m aware,” Gabriel says dryly. “But many of your behaviors, customs, and rituals are. Or at least, have the appearance of being.” She falls silent as they walk up to the hostess.
“Guerrero, party of two,” Tadea says. The hostess glances at her, and Tadea catches a glimpse of nictitating membrane sliding across what would otherwise appear to be a perfectly normal human eye.
She’s beginning to think there’s very few humans in New Jericho.
They follow her out to the balcony over the water, to a quiet corner table where they’re left alone with two menus.
“As I was saying—humans borrow and steal, blend and appropriate as they like. They are an extremely adaptable species, very compatible with a wide variety of creatures from across the planes. Many of what they consider to be their habits are simply things they have gleaned from other, older races.”
Tadea isn’t sure what to say in response to that, so she switches topics.
“The ambience here is nice.” There are floating lanterns below, bobbing gently in the harbor, and a candle in a hurricane glass on the table, surrounded by a wreath of fresh flowers. Primroses, if she’s not mistaken.
“It’s strange.” Gabriel looks out over the water, drumming her fingers against the bottom of her chin. “Candles were necessary for so long as a light source. I’m not sure it was considered particularly romantic; it just was. Now that humans have advanced past that level of technology they regard it with a certain fondness. A soft spot for archaic things.”
“Maybe, but I think something like a gondola ride or—or a horse drawn carriage is romantic,” Tadea says with a small shrug. “Being archaic or old,” she adds, her smile curling up with mischief, “isn’t such a bad thing.”
Gabriel looks at her, her expression flat. For a moment Tadea fears she’s offered insult, ruining the date before their waters have arrived. That would have to be some kind of record.
“No, I suppose not,” Gabriel finally responds, one side of her mouth tugging up. She takes the glasses of water from their waiter as he arrives, thanking him in a tongue that isn’t of human origin.
“Fae,” she explains for Tadea. “At least part. Likely some sort of selkie hybrid, possibly naiad. Or would that be oceanid? They’re really all of a similar species but I suppose they do have their preference in type of water.”
Tadea opens the menu. “I don’t really know a lot about other supernaturals. Not like we had a ‘how to be a werepanther’ class or anything that also covered the other types of creatures we might encounter.” She looks over the top of the menu at Gabriel.
“Finding out that angels are real was a nice treat, though.”
Gabriel blinks slowly, before a smile curves her lips. “I have quite enjoyed my interactions with werepanthers as well,” she says languidly, the words soft and intimate. One of her fingers runs around the rim of the water glass, creating a low ringing sound.
“I thought only crystal did that,” Tadea blurts out, curious and happy to latch onto a subject that won’t lead to her blushing.
Gabriel quirks her lips. “I’m not entirely playing fair,” she admits. “Nervous habit.”
“You’re nervous?” Tadea asks, her voice rising in disbelief.
“Are you so surprised?” Gabriel asks in return, leaning back in her chair, showing off her long frame.
“Well, yea,” Tadea admits, rubbing the back of her neck. “You are kind of a few millennia old archangel of God. I would think this is all run of the mill for you.”
Gabriel’s brow furrows. “I’m sorry,” she says after a beat, “but my Babylon matrix isn’t translating that. Could you explain?”
Tadea mentally slaps herself. Good going. Confuse your date; I’m sure that’s a brilliant strategy.
“It’s an idiom meaning that this is ordinary or routine for you.”
“Ah.” Gabriel turns her head to look out over the water. “No, no I wouldn’t say that.”
“You’ve… never gone on a date before?” Tadea can’t conceal the shock in her voice.
Gabriel looks back out of the corner of her eye, eyebrow arched. “Not like this.”
“But—but—!”
“But what?” Gabriel asks, turning around fully. “You’ve said it yourself: I’m an archangel. Dating doesn’t come with the territory. It’s not forbidden, but angels don’t often take a mate. I think I know more angels who have Fallen for creating Nephilim than I know who have another angel for a mate. And dating outside of angels is—discouraged.” The way she says the last word is like it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.
Tadea frowns, her eyebrows drawing low. “That seems kind of depressing.”
Gabriel gives a shrug, her expression resuming its normal inscrutable mask. “You haven’t dated before either, or at least that’s what I’ve surmised from your behavior.”
“Well, no, but I’ve been a bit busy trying not to die for most of my life and then crushing on a certain archangel since then.” The server comes back, and Tadea has to request a few more minutes, feeling bad that she hasn’t glanced over the menu at all yet.
“I could tell a very similar tale myself,” Gabriel muses, flipping open the menu.
“You’re making this up to make me feel good,” Tadea accuses. “I’m not anything remarkable. There’s no way I’m the first person you’ve ever had a desire to take out on a date.”
Gabriel snaps her menu shut and lays it down. There’s a crispness to her words, cutting Tadea to the quick. “No, you’re not remarkable.”
Tadea bites down on her lower lip. Her eyes rove over the printed words rather than look at Gabriel, but she sees nothing.
“You’re not an alpha, though we both know you could have been. You’re not particularly gifted in any area with the exception of fighting and perhaps mechanics, though the former seems an unhealthy obsession at times and the latter seems less innovative and more routine.”
Tadea clenches her jaw. After a few beats she sets her menu down as well, meeting Gabriel’s gaze for the first time without a trace of nervousness.
“Then why are we here?” she demands, voice low. Whatever happens, she refuses to make a scene. She refuses to give any of the people who look at her and think they know her type a reason to believe themselves superior, and that includes her would-be date.
“I cannot answer that for you,” Gabriel states.
“I think you just did,” Tadea says, starting to get to her feet. Faster than her enhanced reflexes can track, Gabriel seizes her wrist.
“Sit down.”
It’s not a question, and Tadea finds her butt back in her seat, heat crawling up her neck. Taking orders wasn’t something she had ever enjoyed with her previous partners, preferring instead to fight for dominance—quite literally, most of the time. With Gabriel, though, it feels—well, like lightning shooting through her veins, nerves from her toes to her head sending signals to her brain and making her entire body flush. Desire, irritation, and a touch of awe mingle.
Gabriel is an aphrodisiac all on her own. Eyes glittering in the dark, the soft glow of the candlelight making her wonder just how Gabriel must look when not bound to a mortal form. She’s already taller than most people and turns heads everywhere she goes. Was her light bright, scorching? Or was it soft and gentle? Something inbetween? How much of her was avenging angel and how much was this… tired and world-weary being?
It’s not a bad date, not really. Not that Tadea has been on a lot of dates to compare against, but the company is good, and the food she sees being served up looks and smells delicious. The conversation hasn’t been terrible either.
Except for the whole part where Gabriel had practically admitted to being here out of some stray sense of curiosity.
“Stop.” Her voice is clear but softer now, charging through the cacophony of Tadea’s thoughts. “I’m… I have watched the world for a long time, Tadea. I have seen a great many things. I have met some of humankind’s most brilliant specimens, seen what they call miracles up close and personal.”
Tadea focuses on the way her water glass sweats, cool drops rolling down the sides, picking up speed as they join other droplets. It’s easier to focus on than to see the light turn away from her, than to see Gabriel decide that this was a mistake.
“Tadea, please look at me. Please.”
Irked, Tadea gives in, raising her dark eyes to meet Gabriel’s. They’re wide open, and she’s leaning across the table towards the werepanther, the long-fingered hand on her wrist flipping Tadea’s hand over and stroking the calloused palm. It takes all her control not to shiver at the touch. Gabriel isn’t playing fair and Tadea doesn’t understand what game they’re playing anymore.
“There are books with names, important figures in the movement of the world. Yours isn’t in it.” Surprise, surprise. Tadea is a nobody. She’d always known that. It wasn’t her father who had ruled the pack. It wasn’t her mother who organized the resistance to the encroaching alpha. Her father had been killed without doing anything but being an ordinary member of the pack and her mother had been dead or as good as for longer.
“You’re doing it again.”
The note of wry amusement in Gabriel’s dry observation has her wrinkling her nose, withdrawing her hand and folding her arms across her chest. “So?”
“Would you at least wait until I finish talking before getting cross with me? This is a new occurrence for me.” Gabriel’s lips twitch up, relaxed despite the tension Tadea felt mounting in her body. Fight or flight seems like a valid response here. Sensing her reluctance, Gabriel presses her further. “You can teach an old cat new tricks but it might take nine lives.”
Tadea blinks, and suddenly giggles. Horrified, she claps a hand over her mouth, not having anticipated the sound to be so loud or so high-pitched.
Gabriel beams, before abruptly frowning. “I didn’t say that right, did I?” she asks, shoulders slumping, dejection heavy in her voice.
Taking pity on her date—she is quite old and if this really is her first time dating, then it is perhaps unfair to expect her to be better—Tadea holds up three fingers. “Curiosity killed the cat.” She lowers a finger. “Cats have nine lives.” Another finger goes down. “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”
“Well that’s just nonsense. Curiosity only kill the unprepared, cats do not have nine lives—at least not ordinary house cats. Perhaps some varieties of creatures that look like cats but no actual earth-origin cat. Unless you found a necromancer I suppose and brought it back but I think that counts as an unlife not a—”
Another snort escapes Tadea, though this time she doesn’t hide her laughter behind her hand.
Gabriel’s lower lip juts out and she slowly flutters long lashes at Tadea.
“That’s not going to work on me.”
“You can teach an old dog new tricks,” Gabriel wheedles.
Tadea shakes her head. “Nope. But—” she holds up a single finger. “I might be willing to try and teach an angel new tricks.”
Gabriel’s eyes light up. “So you’ll wait?”
“If you get to your point,” Tadea comments. “Our poor waiter is going to come back and we’re still not going to have an answer for him.”
“Well I certainly know what I would love to eat,” Gabriel murmurs, and there’s nothing innocent about the way she says it. Dating might be new, but clearly seduction was not.
“Gabriel,” Tadea hisses. Holding up her hands, she leans back.
“As I was saying: you are ordinary.” Her eyes soften, her head canting as she looks at Tadea, unblinking. Tadea wonders if she has any idea the kind of instincts that triggers. Gabriel’s not another werepanther so it’s unlikely. It’s a silly child’s game for the most part, but the urge to stare back and see who blinks first is nearly overwhelming.
She resists, though, forcing herself to blink.
“Humans seem to regard ordinary as a terminal condition. And I’m sorry my dear, I don’t mean to offer insult, but many of the weres and other supernatural creatures that dwell on this plane have adopted human behaviors by and large to assist in blending in so for the purposes of brevity I shall simply use humans as a generalization.”
Tadea nods, hoping Gabriel will get to her point sooner rather than later.
“You have to understand… most mortal creatures aren’t worth the notice of immortals. Not as individuals. And it’s not that you’re not interesting or that we don’t care, but when you know something will die and be like a brief flare of light in your life… well in the absent of that light the darkness seems that much more intense for having seen it otherwise, if that makes sense?”
Tadea realizes something as she watches Gabriel. Her date’s posture isn’t tense, it’s perfectly poised. She doesn’t twitch or fiddle, no toe-tapping or finger-drumming. There’s no outwards signs of nervousness, except that she’s a touch to perfect with her posture, with the way her fingers wrap around her water glass or the way her long legs are crossed neatly at the ankles beneath the table.
The archangel is nervous.
For the first time tonight, Tadea breathes out slowly, a weight lifting from her shoulders. All this babbling, these round-about words bordering on insulting, all of it is the archangel’s way of being embarrassed. Flustered, even, if the touch of a blush on her cheeks is natural and not due to the assistance of make-up.
“This assignment wasn’t part of my plan. And then I expected to be here for some two decades or so to raise the boy to adulthood. I figured it would be over and done with quickly and I could go back to watching, as we angels do so well.”
Her tongue darts out, wetting her lips. “I never expected to be here.”
Tadea, having found her footing, cannot resist teasing the angel across the table from her. “At a restaurant on the bay run by fae? I mean we can always run to the fish and chips stand down closer to the shipping docks.”
A peal of bright laughter tears from Gabriel’s lips, her eyes crinkling at the corner. “There she is!” she exclaims, teeth flashing in a stunning smile. “There’s the woman I was hoping would show up for our date.”
Tadea shrugs one shoulder, leaning back, at ease. “No pressure dating a literal archangel of God or anything, you know? I had to buy new clothes to be sure that I wouldn’t have grease on anything. It gets everywhere.”
Gabriel arches an eyebrow. “I’m eager to see the extent of the truth of that statement,” she murmurs.
Tadea narrows her eyes playfully. “Finish your explanation. I’m still not impressed.”
“You’re still here.”
“You’re hot,” Tadea counters. “And this—seared Chilean sea bass with rosemary potatoes and herb sauce sound delicious. If I’m going to get all dressed up the least I can do is get a good dinner out of it.”
More soft laughter greets her words.
“Fine. As I was saying, I didn’t expect this. I didn’t expect to meet this young woman who is resilient and fierce and loyal, with a heart she tries to hide behind thorns but is more beautiful than any rose.”
“Now you’re just piling on flattery,” Tadea says, too quickly to sound casual.
“It’s not flattery if it’s true.” Gabriel is staring at her again, and this time Tadea doesn’t blink, getting lost in her eyes. Maybe it’s her own personal bias, but there are depths to Gabriel’s eyes that other creatures seem to lack. They’ve seen so much, and normally there’s a flat affect to them, a general disinterest born of seeing too much of the awful side of life.
It was a look Tadea had seen in many of the survivors of the previous alpha’s takeover.
Now though, there’s a spark. A twinkle of delight that Gabriel seems unsure of how to handle. “And it is true. You aren’t remarkable because some celestial force has your name in a book or someone wrote a prophecy. Yes, being a werepanther sets you apart. Your skill as a fighter and as a mechanic sets you apart. Even your beauty sets you apart. But it’s—it’s not given to you. You are unique, in ways that I have to pay attention to notice.”
The waiter comes up, and this time they both hastily give an order, neither one interested in delaying the meal further but eager to return to their conversation. The fae gives an appraising glance at the pair of them.
“A bottle of champagne for the sweethearts, on the House,” he declares before gliding away.
Tadea inclines her head. “He knows you aren’t a null, doesn’t he?”
It’s Gabriel’s turn to shrug nonchalantly. “Let’s just say that the dialect I spoke is both old and most often used by powerful fae.”
“Sneaky,” she comments, taking the napkin and moving it to her lap, smoothing it out over her legs. Gabriel copies her motions.
“Age often leads to wisdom which sometimes leads to a certain canniness that could be described as sneakiness,” she demurs. “Now—let me finish. You are… amazing, Tadea Guerrero.”
She rolls her r’s now, something she hadn’t done the first time she had tried to say her last name. It’s obvious she’s been practicing, and not with Tadea. Perhaps it seems small and insignificant, but for Tadea, it makes her heart warm.
“You couldn’t have just said that from the beginning?” she asks, her voice coming out in a hoarse rasp, emotions clogging her throat.
“I was trying. I am… before you I thought I knew the world. I thought I knew all about it and the banal, insipid creatures that went about their lives. I thought that this would be a torture, that I would be bored out of my mind.”
Once more Gabriel reaches out across the table, grabbing Tadea’s hand.
“You caught me off-guard, and your devotion, your belief… Tadea, I don’t know that I deserve any of it, but for the first time in a long time, I have something to work towards that is for me. Well… for us.”
Heart pounding, Tadea squeezes Gabriel’s hand. “I like that.”
An eyebrow climbs. “That?”
“The idea of us.” Her smile is broad as she leans forward. “You already know full well that I like you.”
Gabriel grins. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that? I think the Babylon Matrix—”
“¡Por el amor de Dios!” Tadea exclaims, rolling her eyes. “That works one time, chica,” she tells her archangel, wagging a finger. “Una vez.”
Not the least bit perturbed, Gabriel shrugs. “Worth a try. Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of other things I’ve been dying to try out.”
Tadea shakes her head, her grin stretching wider. She hadn’t been sure what to expect from a date with an archangel, but so far she wouldn’t change a thing. Raising her glass, and gesturing for Gabriel to do the same, she clinks the water together. “To figuring this out, together,” she murmurs.
Is Tadea okay with being romanced by a trans female Gabriel? I read somewhere that she has trouble with dmab anatomy. Is her romance with a trans female Gabriel different from a cis female Gabriel?
She is romanceable by any f!Gab or any nb!Gab who is female-aligned. Her romance will be different with a trans female Gabriel versus a cis female Gabriel, as she is not comfortable with dmab anatomy. However, the only scenes that will really be different are the completely optional intimate scenes.
Is Daniel a little protective of Gabriel as a young child if they are close? Particularly if Gabriel is a female; seeing as the poor kid lost one mother in his life, I can't imagine him letting a female Gabriel he is close to out of his sight too long due to the trauma of the event.
I wouldn’t use the term protective,exactly. Daniel has this ideal vision of archangels and believes Gabriel untouchable, so he isn’t worried about Gabriel being in danger. However, Daniel is afraid of them leaving him (because he is a Satanspawn, because Gabriel has more important jobs, etc) so he may have a few issues with Gabriel being gone too long or not showing up when they say they will.
After the first scene occurs in the normal flow of the story, Daniel does become very protective, though he’s eighteen at that point.
If you’re able to, I’d really enjoy seeing Lucifer and f!Gabriel meeting. Shes aware hes her father and has agreed to an outing together. She gets Daniel to band camp, scouts or such for a week and then Lucifer gets to show her something only angels would appreciate?
You stare at the slim figure standing next to Lucifer.
“I’m not so sure about this,” you say, narrowing your eyes.
Yep. Definitely a demon. Archdemon power level, but you don’t think it is an archdemon. You know most of them, and this one lacks the distinctive air of arrogance they all carry around like a mantle.
“It will be perfectly fine,” Lucifer assures you, clapping a hand on the figure’s shoulder. Contrary to expectations, they don't stagger at the force behind the former archangel’s well-meaning gesture.
“You want a demon to possess my body.”
The flatness of your voice says it all, really.
Lucifer lowers his eyes, his long lashes pale against his cheeks. He isn’t bothering to mirror your shell’s appearance today, appearing ashy-skinned with shoulder-length silver hair.
Oh, and the two large, ebony horns that curve back over his head. Can’t forget those.
“While the shell is built to maintain basic biological functions on its own—meaning breathing—leaving it empty is an invitation for any creature passing by to come in and try it on,” Lucifer coaxes.
“So instead you want me to willingly hand I over to a demon,” you reiterate.
Lucifer sighs.
“Gabriel, don’t be like this.”
It’s hard not to bristle with that tone. The whole dynamic between you and Lucifer is new—at least to you it is. But he definitely has the disapproving-father voice down. It’s a tone you’ve had to use only a handful of times with Daniel, but you’re still familiar with it.
It’s the ‘you’re being unreasonable and behaving like a child’ tone.
“It is perfectly reasonable not to want a demon inhabiting my shell,” you retort, trying to keep your voice level. This was the biggest issue about Lucifer’s proposition.
Daniel was at camp for a week, but he wanted to show you something that you could only appreciate in angel form. In other words, you couldn’t take your shell. And seeing as this was about pleasure and not business, you don’t see Sabriel scrambling to get someone to cover for you.
You’ve already filed for the vacation time at work though. Well, you didn’t actually file for it. Lucifer had, on your behalf. He wanted it to be a surprise, or so he had said.
“All I will be doing is attending to basic biological needs. Food, water, cleanliness, and rest. I won’t be leaving the house, and I certainly won’t be using…this… for any extra-curricular activities.”
You turn your attention to the demon as it flashes you a mouthful of needle-like teeth. “That is not as reassuring as you think it is, demon.”
“Children.”
Both of you turn to Lucifer. “Children? Is this another half-sibling of mine?” you demand.
“No, but—”
“I may not be as old as this rock, but I am no child,” the demon hisses, a forked tongue flicking out and sampling the air.
“You both could have fooled me!” Lucifer shouts over the pair of you, folding his arms across his chest. “You,” he directs his dark gaze at you first, “may not trust them, but I do. At least to do their job. They know the consequences should anything happen.”
He pivots, staring down the demon who appears unaffected by his ire. “You, quit provoking my daughter. Angels have enough reason to distrust demons. I do not need you making it any worse.”
The demon turns to you, eyes flickering into slit-pupils, just so they can roll them at Lucifer. “Sorry. At least I’m not related to him.”
Part of you is surprised that Lucifer would trust a demon with the information about your bond; from what Ramiel tells you, he keeps it a closely guarded secret.
After all, you only just found out. Well, not just, but for a creature who’s lived as long as you have in ignorance of your true parentage, it’s still a startling new revelation.
“I used to live in blissful ignorance,” you respond, concealing a smile and sounding wistful.
Lucifer narrows his eyes, staring first at you, and then at the demon. “This is not the first alternative you should jump to,” he says crossly.
“Ah, but that’s the joy of being a father,” the demon purrs, clapping him on the shoulder. “Your offspring have minds of their own.”
Lucifer grumbles something under his breath, tugging on the cuffs of his fitted suit jacket. “I am aware. She has a wonderful mind of her own, though I wish she would listen to me more.”
“I am right here, Lu—father.” It’s still strange to call him that. You’ve never had a father before. Angels don’t have parents. That’s just part of your life. You are created to serve heaven.
But it isn’t true for you. You not only have a father, you have a father who wants to bond with you. It’s a strange concept, but you’re willing to give it a try.
“Okay,” you say. Lucifer glances up, a brilliant smile lighting up his face.
“Excellent!”
You give the demon one last sharp look. “You break the shell, I won’t be the one you’ll have to deal wtih. Sabriel, the area’s Guardian Angel Overseer, will gut you.”
The demon winks. “Careful what you promise.”
Deciding not to venture down that road, you take a breath, and close your eyes. Manuel?
It takes a minute before your handy little guide pops into your mind. How can I be of service?
How do I leave this body?
Manuel starts to recite a litany of warnings about why that is a bad idea, but you cut him short. Just tell me how.
Reluctantly, he does so. It seems straightforward enough, but when you try to pull yourself together and shed the shell like a set of clothes, nothing happens. You open your eyes just to make sure. Nope. Still in the shell.
Lucifer and the demon stare at you expectantly.
Gritting your teeth, you close your eyes again. Focus. Draw your energy together, and just—leave the shell behind.
Once more open your eyes, spotting Lucifer and the demon right where they were. Now you’re starting to get aggravated that it isn’t working. But then the demon walks past you, and you turn to see yourself standing there.
No, not you. Your shell. Just an empty skin. Well, not empty, as the eyes flash open. “All’s good, jefe,” they say, grinning and giving Lucifer a thumbs up.
Lucifer sighs. “Okay, now that that is out of the way, perhaps we can finally leave.”
It’s been a while since you’ve stepped outside of the shell. You forgot how muted your senses were in the mortal skin you wore.
For a moment, you close your eyes and bask in the feeling of the world around you, connecting with it on a level impossible for humans.
A warm chuckle breaks the moment, your eyes flashing open to meet Lucifer’s.
“I thought stretching your wings would be good for you,” he says with affection. One of his elegant hands rises, approaching your face.
Then it stalls, Lucifer’s expression freezing up. The hand falls back to his side. “We should be going,” he states, turning his face away from you as he heads for the door.
You bite down on your bottom lip. It’s not been an easy journey for the pair of you. Lucifer missed most of your life, even when he was an archangel. And you know more rumors and hearsay than you do facts about the former angel.
One of the last things you ever expected to hear was that he was your father.
It’s raining as you step out onto the balcony, the drops hitting the concrete beyond the overhang in a soft staccato. Lucifer strides towards the large open area, the rain never quite touching him.
Show-off.
Rather than waste your energy on such a trivial affair, you enjoy the sensation of the water hitting your skin, reveling in being back in your natural state. “Where are we going?” you ask your father, not for the first time.
Lucifer’s back shudders and a great set of set of six black wings pop into existence. “You’ll see,” he comments, stepping up onto the railing and poising there.
A flash of cloud-to-cloud lightning silhouettes his figure, the harsh light painting dark shadows into his features. Like this he really does look like some dark, demonic creature, his black horns curled back over his silver hair, the long locks unnaturally tame in the face of the storm.
“Trust me.” He turns on the small railing, extending his hand to you. You pause to pull your own wings out, before letting him help you up onto the railing.
The raindrops start to fall harmlessly around you, avoiding the space you occupy. “Just follow me,” Lucifer says with a wide grin.
He reaches up and brushes a strand of damp hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear. There’s a gentleness in his eyes you still aren’t accustomed to associating with the King of Hell. But one of the few certainties you are coming to appreciate is that Lucifer loves you unconditionally.
It was a little overwhelming at times, considering you know more about him as the first Fallen than you do as a person, but you’re learning. You’ve learned he has a penchant for tailored suits, expensive alcohol, and observing the world around him. You’ve learned that he might not generally take to his satanspawn, but that he tries his best to be a good grandfather, with interesting results.
Like the hellhound that tends to take up most of your bed when you try to go to bed at night. Technically it was Daniel’s dog, but it liked to sleep in your room at night.
Lucifer steps back on the railing and tucks his arms across his chest. “Just like follow the leader, when you were a cherub!” he calls, and then falls backward.
You’ve spent too much time around the humans, your heart leaping into your throat before you can remind yourself that this is normal behavior for angels. Well, any winged creature. It was always easier to start from a high point, rather than exerting a ton of energy to get yourself off the ground.
Taking a breath, the rain once more sluicing across your face, you dive after Lucifer, wings folded tight as you hurdle towards the ground far below.
Lucifer spreads his arms, wings still tucked in. You can feel his power coalescing, ripping a hole in the material plane and creating a temporary portal. He disappears inside the dark tear, slipping out of view.
It takes effort to keep yourself in free-fall towards the unknown portal. Your instincts scream for you to stop your rapid descent and avoid this strange and unknown gateway. Lucifer is the Fallen, the boogeyman for most angels, for Heaven’s sake.
But he’s also your father, and for better or for worse, you know he would never do anything to potentially harm you. Spy on you, be overprotective, critique your life choices—absolutely. He had no qualms about doing any of the aforementioned activities. Yet he meant well, even when he encroached on your personal space and your choices.
So you continue to let yourself Fall, shuddering slightly as you transition between planes.
Abruptly you find yourself floating in a dark, empty void. Your first thought is that you somehow ended up in a different plane, or that Lucifer’s impromptu portal had failed.
A hand touches your shoulder, and a faint light emanates from behind Lucifer’s head in a rough circle.
A halo. Lucifer has a halo of light.
The image brings a giggle to your lips, but you quash it down, realizing that it’s a product of stress and anxiety more than genuine mirth. You dislike plunging headfirst into the unknown, even following someone you mostly trust.
“We can’t get there directly,” he says, his voice sounding muffled in whatever in-between place the two of you are in.
“You still haven’t told me where ‘there’ is,” you remind him, startled by how loud your voice sounds.
“Shhh,” Lucifer cautions. “We don’t want to want to draw undue attention to ourselves here,” he says.
You breathe through your nose, wishing you had demanded more answers. Trust me, the Devil has said.
And you had, like a little, foolish mortal.
You follow Lucifer through the void, cringing at the echoes of your breathing, just waiting for some large beast to come tearing through the darkness. Planes like this, planes that seem empty, are the perfect hunting grounds for some of the more powerful creatures forgotten by time.
There was a reason Heaven had well established portals to any of the more distant planes.
“Here,” Lucifer whispers, coming to a halt in a patch of blackness that looks like every other patch of blackness.
You fight off the unease you feel creeping over you, your feathers starting to stand on end in conjunction with each of your hairs.
“Are you sure?” The question comes out in a harsh hiss as you glance around.
The feeling is getting stronger, and you’re starting to think it’s not just your imagination. You’ve not survived this long by ignoring your instincts, and right now, they’re screaming to flee.
“Yes,” Lucifer responds, sounding confident.
“I think.” You refrain from throwing your arms up at the comment he tacked on, instead turning your back to him.
“You should hurry then,” you tell him, starting to gather your Grace. There’s something out there, you’re sure of it. But if it hasn’t spotted the pair of you yet, you don’t want to attract its attention by manifesting your Angel Blade.
Lucifer sighs. “Patience,” he chides, grunting as he does something behind your back. You dare not spare a glance, your eyes too busy gazing into the abyss and waiting for the abyss to stare back.
There. There’s something not quite right up ahead to your left. You can’t put a feather on why, but there’s just a sense of wrong and danger. “Patience is all well and good when there is time for it,” you retort, not bothering to keep your voice down.
A giant eye blinks open. Then another, and another. The cycle repeats rapidly in the span of a few seconds until there are more eyes than you care to count fixated on you.
Pro: lots of soft targets to hit.
Con: you don’t know what has that many eyes, and you don’t want to find out.
“Lucifer! We’ve got company!”
You start to reach for the small pocket of your Grace that is your Angel Blade when you’re dragged backwards, squawking and thrashing, momentarily worried that the creature had someone gotten ahold of you—or worse, had a friend.
Instead you find yourself sprawled out on your back, staring up into an overgrown canopy heavy with a riot of colorful moss and vines.
“You worry too much,” Lucifer comments, leaning over you with a smug grin.
You narrow your eyes, debating on smacking him with a wing. “I happen to prefer not getting eaten,” you inform him, sitting up and brushing stray twigs and leaves out of your hair.
Curious, you stare at the worn and crumbling gate you were just pulled through. Leaning forward, you peel off some of the vermilion lichen, using your nail to scrub away at some of the more stubborn pieces.
Slowly you trace over the smooth edges of the carved letters. Some of them are too worn to make out all the way, but if you didn’t know better, you’d say that they were Enochian.
Getting onto your knees you start brushing away more of the foliage obscuring the stone, occasionally dislodging a piece of the wall with it. Once you’ve gotten a decent piece of the wall clear, you rock back onto your heels and take it in.
There’s an Erelim, a four-faced Erelim similar in appearance to your old Commander Athiel. And that’s—
“Father, where are we?”
A hand squeezes your shoulder. “Not the garden of Eden, if you’re worried about that.” His voice sounds wistful, tinged with melancholy. “This place is no longer a piece of Heaven. It was cut off during… when I rebelled. Much of it was destroyed, but there’s still a chunk that remains.”
You tilt your head back to look at Lucifer. His gaze is distant, his mouth pulled down in a mixture of old pain and sorrow.
“Why did you bring me here? And you still haven’t told me exactly where here is,” you prompt him, trying to shake the cloak of grim resolution from his shoulders.
Lucifer blinks, lips lifting though the smile still reeks of regret. “Once it was home of an Eternal Flame. Not… not like that of Olympus. It wasn’t… fire, but…” he trails off, brows pinched, lips pressed tight.
Unsure of what to do, you raise a hand to cover his resting on your shoulder and squeeze it.
He gives you a watery nod, taking a moment to compose himself. “We called it the Garden of the Eternal Flame, but it was a beacon of light. All that grew here was nurtured in its light.
You look around, noticing that there’s light some fifty meters ahead. “What is keeping all of this alive, if not the flame?”
Lucifer squeezes his eyes shut. You look away, his sorrow making you uncomfortable. You’d never even heard of this place, but apparently it held some great meaning to him.
“Come. I did not bring you here to show you a piece of old wall.” Lucifer’s voice is hoarse and choked, but you don’t comment on it. How can you? You barely know him. Half of your time spent with him is discerning facts and truth from fiction and propaganda.
Slowly you trail after him, staring at the ground. This used to be a path of some sorts, glimpses of a luminous stone visible where Lucifer’s feet scuff away the moss and weeds. However this place has survived, it hasn’t been maintained.
Stray roots and vines reach for your ankles, seeking to trip you up, while you simultaneously dodge branches.
Ahead of you Lucifer makes it out of the canopy and you emerge after him with a breath of relief. Lucifer glances over at you, and his eyes go wide. His mouth twitches and he looks away, raising a hand to his throat and clearing it.
You glance down at yourself. “Oh for the—” Impatiently you use a surge of Grace to dispel the worst of the debris from your robes, skin, and hair. How Lucifer had managed to lead the way and remain impeccable you aren’t sure, but you chalk it up to a trick he’s learned from his stint as Satan.
Lucifer looks back over, one brow arched, a genuine grin brightening his features. “It seems you have a few areas you need to still improve on,” he comments.
You scowl at him. “Generally speaking, angels aren’t encouraged to learn wasteful talents like making sure we keep leaves out of our hair.”
Lucifer shakes his head, continuing to walk down the path, this time in a more leisurely fashion. “Never underestimate the importance of appearing composed at a moment’s notice. And there’s something to be said for the affect it can have.” He waits for you to catch up and walk at his side before continuing.
“Take directing the rain around you. Seems trivial. An umbrella accomplishes the same objective, and conserves power.” He lifts a single forefinger, wagging it from side-to-side. “The power drain is almost negligent, if you restrict how long you are out. And the effect it has cannot be replicated. A simple mortal, seeing a person walking in the rain but untouched by the water—you cannot replicate that primal sense that you are in the presence of something more powerful and ancient then you believed walked the earth.”
He sticks his hands into his pant pockets. You’re not sure when he did it, but he had opened his suit jacket, revealing more of the tailored silk shirt below. “And meeting with another supernatural, there’s a certain level of smug satisfaction. Yes, you could have saved yourself the effort, but you don’t have to because you’re just that powerful. Or at least, that’s the impression you give.”
Lucifer glances over to you, trying to see if you’re taking it all in.
“You are a show-off,” you inform him, stepping behind him to avoid a hedge that has decide to start creeping across the path in an attempt to rejoin its neighbor on the other side.
Lucifer shrugs. “Pride is not something I claim to lack.” His expression turns serious. “With a daughter like yourself, how could I not be full of it?”
You look away, still uncertain of how to react to declarations like that. Lucifer wasn’t a bad man, exactly, but he was still the first Fallen. He had killed angels, rebelled against God, and ran Hell. Reconciling all that with the man who just wanted to be a father was difficult.
Lucifer coughs softly dragging your attention back to him. “We’re almost there,” he says, coming to a stop short of an intricate stone trellis that forms an enclosed path further into the garden.
He doesn’t move after speaking, once more looking somewhere beyond what is in front of him. Probably thinking back to the garden in its glory days, you think.
“Lucifer?” Nothing. “Father?”
Lucifer’s head jerks, and he flicks his gaze to you and back to the trellis. “Sorry. It’s been some time since I’ve been back here. Too long, but… I couldn’t bring myself to come here alone.”
The shadows lend his face an air of tragedy as he makes his way ahead of you, his steps slow and heavy, shoulders hunched tight.
Whatever memories this place have must still haunt him. Or perhaps returning to this place has brought them to the present more than they should be. It’s a hazard of being a multi-dimensional being that doesn’t experience time naturally in a linear fashion. Unlike humans, you don’t forget events, and sometimes it feels like they’re still happening.
You follow Lucifer, trying to figure out why this place held such meaning for him. Obviously, it had been a casualty of the War, but it had survived somehow. Odd that Heaven hadn’t reclaimed it, and Lucifer’s own admission made it obvious that he wasn’t the one keeping this place going.
The trellis curves around, to the point that you lose sight of Lucifer. He might be dragging your feet, but you’re moving at an even slower pace, trying to gather from the nebulous ruins what happened to this place.
A loud crack has you running ahead, heart pounding. You haven’t sensed any danger here, but it is a pocket dimension that could be inhabited by anything, and—
You come to a halt at the top of a crumbling staircase, staring down at Lucifer who is sitting up in a heap atop what looks like part of the stairs.
“Mind the gap,” he mutters, brushing the dust of his suit and standing up straight.
You sigh, shake your head, and hop off the side, using your wings to let you land softly beside him.
“You know, I’ve heard an advantage of wings is that you do less falling from heights than the average non-winged creature,” you state, extending a hand to him. He takes it and you pull him to his feet.
“Don’t be sassing your old man now,” Lucifer warns, recovering quickly from his fall.
“I didn’t make a single comment about ‘help, I’ve fallen and can’t get up,’ or ‘living up to being a Fallen.’” You try to conceal your smile, but you can feel your lips fighting to form a curve.
“Brat,” Lucifer says with a snort.
You exchange a glance, and both of you break into grins. It might be silly, but you feel like there’s a resemblance in the way he smiles. Angels don’t have genetics to pass on, but you can’t shake the sensation that there’s a piece of you in that smile.
Or, rather, a piece of Lucifer in your smile, since he came first.
The smile on Lucifer’s face fades, and he turns towards the bottom of the stairs.
Looking in that direction, you’re awed by a brilliant display of colors that cast off a pure white light. Entranced, you step towards it.
There’s power here, and life. How something hasn’t come along and simply devoured it you don’t know. Slowly you reach out a hand—
Only to have it snatched away.
“I wouldn’t touch her,” Lucifer cautions. You blink.
“Her?”
Lucifer’s mouth parts, but no words come out.
You’ve never seen him completely speechless before. Troubled, yes. Occasionally bumbling, but never completely silent.
Licking his lips, Lucifer tugs on a thin leather cord around his neck. He passed you the make-shift necklace, holding a single feather.
“Her name was Cyriel.”
You take the feather and cradle it in your palms. The faint, residual energy in it resonates with the strange fire-like light in front of you.
“Why hasn’t she reformed?”
Lucifer shakes his head. “It’s not—not really her. Just a few scraps that I could save. I didn’t—I didn’t want her to be forgotten. So I… brought her here.”
He lifts a shoulder helplessly. “It was so close to the end of the War. I sealed this place away and just left her here.” A broken laugh escapes him. “I wasn’t even sure the flame would still be going. I thought we might be coming to a tomb.”
You look down at the feather at your hand. Taking Lucifer’s hand, you press the feather back into it. “You made this her tomb.”
Lucifer rubs at his forehead with his other hand, letting out a sigh of exasperation. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant—dead.” He gestures to the edge of the little amphitheatre. “There’s still life here.”
He strides away from the flame, moving in jerky, rushed movements to a climbing vine on the wall. Reaching out, he coaxes it into bloom, plucking a translucent flower with a heart of crimson.
“She called them Bleeding Hearts,” he says as he returns to you, offering the flower.
You take it, turning it around in your hands. You’ve never seen the like of it around other parts of Heaven, and you’d thought you’d seen pretty much everything Heaven had to offer.
“Cyriel was the one who introduced them to this garden,” Lucifer adds. “That’s actually how I met her.”
You look up at your father. There’s pain in his eyes, in the corners of his mouth, but also nostalgia. “Why don’t you sit down and tell me about her?” you ask, gesturing to one of the still-intact carved benches.
With a sharp nod, Lucifer stumbles over to one, sitting down hard. You approach the bench leerily, studying Lucifer before sitting beside him.
Of everything you expected when going on this excursion, seeing Lucifer like this never made the list. He was always smooth, in-control, relatively unflappable. He was powerful and knew it.
This was a different side of him you never anticipated seeing.
“Angels don’t create. Not really. It’s just rearrangements, regurgitation of information, sights, sounds, sensations picked up elsewhere. It’s one of the reasons we need humans, apart from the power of their souls and belief. Mimicry. That’s what angels are best at.” Realizing that he’s squeezing the feather too tight, Lucifer drapes the necklace around his throat once more.
“We like conformity. Don’t break the mold. Follow order.”
He stares at the fire. “She lost everything, and she wasn’t okay with continuing on as if nothing had happened. So she was sent here, a corner out of the way. After all, she was still useful, if not… relevant.”
Lucifer glances over to you as you hold the flower up, marveling at the way it refracts the light of the fire. “I think she made these herself. Or modified a plant from somewhere else, but… this was the only place they grew. Grow.”
He clears his throat, tugging at the neck of his shirt. “She was always fond of you. Helped me keep an eye on you when I couldn’t.” One of his hands reaches for your knee but stops.
You give him a small nod, and he places it on your knee, squeezing lightly. “I would have loved to introduce you to her. This is the closest I could manage.”
Extending a wing, you pat Lucifer’s back consolingly. You might not recall having ever seen Cyriel, but it sounds like she had always looked out for you. Well, at least until the War and her death.
Lucifer’s head droops as he stares fixedly between his feet, worn out from the conversation.
It might feel odd to be the daughter comforting the father, but he needs it. It’s not like you two have had a conventional relationship anyways. By all rights, the pair of you should be trying to kill each other, not having a quiet chat on a garden bench.
“She sounds like someone I would have liked,” you start, patting his hand. “And you’ve kept her memory alive. That’s more than most angels can say.”
It might not be the most reassuring statement, but it’s all you can offer at the moment. Angels die, and they either get renewed or recycled, if they aren’t devoured. Cyriel might have been destroyed, but these faint echoes of her still live on, in a fashion. All of the wild growth around you is a testament to that.
“I’m glad you brought me here. And that you shared her story—your story, with her,” you continue, setting the flower down beside you.
The two of you sit on the bench in silence, letting the soothing light of the flame burn away the lingering pain.
After some time, Lucifer picks up his head and takes a deep breath. “Well, from what you told me Daniel is away for an entire week, so we still have some time to kill.” He gets to his feet, this time offering you a hand up. You take it.
“I have an itinerary planned—and no, I’m not going to share it, let me keep some things a surprise—so we need to get a move on.” Turning, he reaches out a hand towards the flame. “Goodbye, my old friend,” he says gently.
Lucifer turns and bends down to retrieve the flower you left, pressing it into your chest. “I don’t know if it will grow on earth, but I want you to have it. Consider it a memento, if nothing else.” Before you can react, he leans forward and presses his forehead to yours.
He moves away a second later, making it one of the most perfunctory hongi you’ve ever had, with you still reeling from the contact. “Come on, my dear. Charon gets notoriously crabby if we arrive too late!”
Shaking your head at the sudden change from depressed Fallen to eager and carefree rogue, you chase after him, finding yourself chuckling softly as Lucifer turns it into a race.
