(no subject)
It's late. Regan's at a dinner party with friends; they'd originally planned to attend together, but Gabriel had ended up sending his regrets at the last minute and leaving her to represent the both of them on her own. He'll make it up to her later, somehow.
She'd accepted his claim of a rough day at work and subsequent exhaustion at face value, although he's quite aware that she knows him well enough to know that there's more to it than that. He'll deal with that later, too-- not now.
Not now.
At the moment, the house security has been set to refuse all visitors; likewise, all incoming waves are diverted to message-only, whether sent to the main terminal or over private link. Gabriel himself is established in his armchair in the downstairs den, ignoring his customary newspaper in favor of a recorded newsfeed on screen and the three fingers' worth of whiskey in his glass.
The sound's muted; it doesn't matter. He doesn't need to hear it; Gabriel knows this speech by heart.
He wrote it, after all.
"... the death of Andronicus Ji Crowley, not to mention the manner of his passing, diminishes us all ..."
Only a few months since he'd made it; only a few years since he'd first met the man -- the demon -- who'd gone from an outright enemy to an uncomfortable acquaintance, then later to partner and even friend.
(Are you a man of faith, Gabriel Tam?)
(I think I might be the one who brought you home.)
(I'll be their guardian angel.)
(thou shalt not be a bystander)
(You need to be ready to disown me.)
He'd happened to come across Rhonda Lejeune earlier in the day, as she was apologizing profusely to Mark for her latest in a series of recent mistakes on the job. The change from the laughing and competent secretary he remembered from the campaign trail into an upset admin was appalling; concerned, he'd pressed for a reason. Tearfully, she'd confessed that she'd just not been able to concentrate properly since the tragedy, and had offered her resignation.
He'd refused to accept it, reassuring her that it was all right. That she'd be back to herself soon enough.
(the Shé Xuán hasn't responded ... the ship is gone. Crowley is gone.)
Gabriel attempts to take another swallow of whiskey, only to find the glass empty. (Again.) It thuds against the wood as he sets it down; with care, he manages to keep the crystal neck of the decanter from chattering against the rim of the glass as he refills it. (Again.)
It requires time to get used to loss; he knows that. One adapts, eventually; it just takes a while.
He only wishes he knew how long.
She'd accepted his claim of a rough day at work and subsequent exhaustion at face value, although he's quite aware that she knows him well enough to know that there's more to it than that. He'll deal with that later, too-- not now.
Not now.
At the moment, the house security has been set to refuse all visitors; likewise, all incoming waves are diverted to message-only, whether sent to the main terminal or over private link. Gabriel himself is established in his armchair in the downstairs den, ignoring his customary newspaper in favor of a recorded newsfeed on screen and the three fingers' worth of whiskey in his glass.
The sound's muted; it doesn't matter. He doesn't need to hear it; Gabriel knows this speech by heart.
He wrote it, after all.
"... the death of Andronicus Ji Crowley, not to mention the manner of his passing, diminishes us all ..."
Only a few months since he'd made it; only a few years since he'd first met the man -- the demon -- who'd gone from an outright enemy to an uncomfortable acquaintance, then later to partner and even friend.
(Are you a man of faith, Gabriel Tam?)
(I think I might be the one who brought you home.)
(I'll be their guardian angel.)
(thou shalt not be a bystander)
(You need to be ready to disown me.)
He'd happened to come across Rhonda Lejeune earlier in the day, as she was apologizing profusely to Mark for her latest in a series of recent mistakes on the job. The change from the laughing and competent secretary he remembered from the campaign trail into an upset admin was appalling; concerned, he'd pressed for a reason. Tearfully, she'd confessed that she'd just not been able to concentrate properly since the tragedy, and had offered her resignation.
He'd refused to accept it, reassuring her that it was all right. That she'd be back to herself soon enough.
(the Shé Xuán hasn't responded ... the ship is gone. Crowley is gone.)
Gabriel attempts to take another swallow of whiskey, only to find the glass empty. (Again.) It thuds against the wood as he sets it down; with care, he manages to keep the crystal neck of the decanter from chattering against the rim of the glass as he refills it. (Again.)
It requires time to get used to loss; he knows that. One adapts, eventually; it just takes a while.
He only wishes he knew how long.