To Touch the Face - Fifth Installment
He smiled and I had an almost irresistible urge to reach out and touch those soft, voluptuous lips, but instead I just held his gaze for a moment. There was a small, awkward silence, then he nodded and turned, trotting down the steps to his car. As he opened the door and looked up one last time, I could have sworn I saw the ethereal shadow of great, black wings flare from his shoulders, then fold compactly behind him as he slipped behind the wheel of his long, dark car and drove away.
But it was probably just my imagination.
Another week flitted by, but this one went quickly. Too quickly. Duncan picked me up a couple of times in the late morning - a kindness since I usually worked until almost 2am - and he’d show me the sights of Seacouver. There was a museum, a sculpture garden, walk along the waterfront followed by a late, a leisurely lunch. I was witty and winning, coy and erudite, cynical and childlike.
And Duncan? He was charming and funny and winsome and wonderfully complicated - one minute deeply introspective and philosophical and the next grinning like an idiot because I made a production out of licking away all traces of ice cream running down my arm from my melting cone, ice cream being one of God’s more inspired creations. At some point I realized I was talking a lot more than I usually did, but Duncan seemed to actively listen, to be truly interested in everything I had to say. And how long had it been since anyone had bothered to really listen to the petty day-to-day frustrations and ruminations of the Archangel Gabriel? I had been petitioned, cursed, prayed to, cursed again, bargained with, but listened to? Just. Didn’t. Happen.
Beauty was also a concept that I had appreciated intellectually, but not one that had ‘moved’ me in the way human artists had slavered over since time immemorial. There could be beauty in the cold vastness of space as well as the striving of a child to take its first step. The beauty of a dung beetle was no less compelling than the beauty of the curve of a soft lip, or the depths of soulful eyes.
But suddenly, beauty sparked feelings and fantasies that were utterly new and interesting and exciting. The soft curve of an abstract sculpture, the intimate loveliness of an iconic Madonna painted hundreds of years before. And Duncan was beautiful, classically, emotionally, intellectually. The play of expressions across his face was fascinating, the strength of a perfectly proportioned physique, the turn of phrase of a particularly poignant observation… he took my breath away again and again.
Oh, this treacherous, out of control human body! What was I to do with it? How did they cope with these… these urges? It was ridiculous! And to think the Boss had not intervened when these silly humans, in their misguided attempt to take charge of their chaotic world, had declared many of these normal, almost irresistible urges a Sin. Well, okay, abuse of the privilege was considered a bad idea, and therefore the practice was justifiably frowned upon. But Sin?
But the worst - or the best - is the touching. Mortals are afraid of us and God’s minions have no reason to touch each other. Not only are there not that many of us at the Archangel level (the advantage of being wherever we want to be, whenever we want to be there), we’re not supposed to need comfort; we’re supposed to give it. Spiritually, of course, but the occasional touch conveying the life-altering Power of God is allowed only when special circumstances dictate. But Duncan manages to ‘casually’ put his hand on my back or arm for almost any reason, or for no reason at all. He’ll tug at my sleeve, or lean close to say something pithy, brushing my shoulder, his subtle scent filling my senses and then my heart makes this ridiculous pitter-pat in my chest for absolutely no reason at all.
To add to my annoyance, whenever Duncan hangs out at the bar while I’m on duty, Joe keeps smirking at us, watching like a hoot owl from the barn rafters, those bushy eyebrows of his raised in a perpetual speculative, and no doubt naughty, query. I try to smile enigmatically back, as though I’m in on whatever joke that is evidently occupying his usually lurid, voyeuristic thought process. Bastard.
As a result, I find myself in a perpetual state of flux, from excited to perplexed to irritated to confused - mostly confused. I’m Not Used To This!! I find myself frequently casting my eyes upward, wanting to curse the Boss for putting me in this absurd position, but figuring that’s no way to get back into Divine Good Graces. I assume these trials, like Job’s, are supposed to teach me something, but what, exactly? Humility? Constantine took care of that. Self-control? What am I supposed to be controlling? Lust? But sex isn’t inherently wrong, and it’s not like I’m not a consenting adult, for God’s sake.
I haven’t figured out yet what I’m supposed to be learning here, which is probably the most troubling aspect of this whole experience as a human. I have no doubt it will be one of those ‘know it when you see it’ things, and I sure as heck haven’t seen it yet.
“You seem a little preoccupied tonight,” Duncan murmured to me from his perch on a barstool.
“Me?” I smiled back. “What makes you think that?”
“I don’t know, maybe it’s that little furrow in your brow, or the way you keep muttering to yourself.”
I deliberately smoothed my brow, leaned over close and cocked my head, feeling a loose curl from my unruly golden mop fall forward like a question mark over one arched brow. “It’s called ‘thinking’ young man. Deep thoughts. Profound thoughts.” I tapped him on the forehead, making him blink. “You ought to try it sometime.”
“Oh, I think deep thoughts all the time,” he assured me with a mischievous grin. “But I was also thinking that us having dinner at my place tomorrow night might be fun.”
“That’s a deep thought?”
“I didn’t say it was a deep thought. But I could say it deeply, if you like.” Duncan paused, cleared his throat and murmured in a sinister-sounding bass rumble. “Would you have dinner with me tomorrow night?” Then he added in a more normal tone, “I’m an excellent cook.”
“Hmm. You sound like James Earl Jones with a bad chest cold,” I teased. “But dinner might be nice. I must confess that my current diet of bar food is getting a little old. And I’m a terrible cook, myself.” At least I think I am. I’ve never cooked, so how would I know? And then he actually batted those big brown eyes at me! Who could resist?
Later, after the crowd left and it was just Joe and me doing cleanup, Joe kept glancing at me with that speculative look until I couldn’t stand it anymore. “What?!” I finally snapped.
“You going to Mac’s place tomorrow night, I hear.”
“Is that supposed to be a testament to your auditory prowess?”
“No, just an observation.” There was a long, silent pause while Dawson meticulously polished some bar glasses and put them away on the shelf as I busied myself putting chairs up on tables. “You know, Gabe, MacLeod doesn’t normally go for… your type,” Dawson finally said.
“My type? What, he doesn’t like blondes? Or maybe he prefers them short and stocky?”
Joe frowned and put a glass down with a little more force than necessary. “You know exactly what I mean. All I’m sayin’ is both of you sure better know what the hell you’re doing, or this is likely to get messy really fast.”
I Iooked up, catching Joe’s eye. His face was a little flushed with his discomfort over the topic, but I had no intention of making this easy for him. “I’ve heard sex is supposed to be messy, or you’re not doing it right,” I retorted smoothly, taking somewhat perverse pride in the tidal wave of a blush that suffused Dawson’s bearded cheeks. “I don’t think Duncan is a blushing virgin, Joe.”
“And you?” Joe asked pointedly.
Well, what the heck was I supposed to say to that? Would he believe I was a virgin, in every respect? At least every physical respect. Well, yeah, there was that moment with Mary a couple millennia back. But… Nah. “Joe,” I equivocated sternly. “Do I look like someone who doesn’t know what I want?”
There was an uncomfortable pause as the man’s steely gray eyes bore into mine, but I haven’t been intimidated in an eon or two, and no matter the discerning intelligence under those bushy eyebrows, it wasn’t about to happen now.
“You look like someone who thinks he knows everything,” Joe said softly, “and that’s a sure sign of someone with a blind spot the size of the Grand Canyon.”
Point to Joe Dawson.
“And MacLeod may seem like a world-class sophisticate,” Joe continued, “but the guy wears his damned heart on his sleeve.” He leaned a little closer. “And his heart has been pretty stomped on recently, so I suggest somebody start thinkin’ with his brain instead of his Johnson! Mac doesn’t look like a good candidate for that, so I was hoping you’d listen to a little sense.”
“I didn’t know you were his mother, Joe. Do you sew on his buttons, too?”
Joe shook his head and slammed his bar towel to the back of the sink with a hard, frustrated throw. “No, dammit! I’m not his mother. I’m his friend, and… shit, I dunno. This whole thing between you two just feels… wrong. I got a bad feeling about it.”
Well, well, well. Joe Dawson, spiritual advisor extraordinaire. Who’da thunk? Was the Big Kahuna trying to tell me something, using Joe as a messenger? But Micha…. Duncan had walked out on his responsibilities, developed this absurd conscience and was living this life as a punishment without even knowing what his transgression had been. If I brought him enlightenment, brought him back into the fold (so to speak), how could that not help put me in God’s Good Graces once again? I’d have my wings back in no time.
“Maybe that bad feeling is just that pastrami sandwich you had at lunch,” I ended up retorting, much to Joe’s disgust. I grabbed my jacket. “Gotta go, Joe. The last bus hits the corner in five minutes!” I turned at the door with a grin that I was sure would annoy the heck out of him. “Oh, and remember. I won’t be in tomorrow night. I’ve got a date!"
But it was probably just my imagination.
Another week flitted by, but this one went quickly. Too quickly. Duncan picked me up a couple of times in the late morning - a kindness since I usually worked until almost 2am - and he’d show me the sights of Seacouver. There was a museum, a sculpture garden, walk along the waterfront followed by a late, a leisurely lunch. I was witty and winning, coy and erudite, cynical and childlike.
And Duncan? He was charming and funny and winsome and wonderfully complicated - one minute deeply introspective and philosophical and the next grinning like an idiot because I made a production out of licking away all traces of ice cream running down my arm from my melting cone, ice cream being one of God’s more inspired creations. At some point I realized I was talking a lot more than I usually did, but Duncan seemed to actively listen, to be truly interested in everything I had to say. And how long had it been since anyone had bothered to really listen to the petty day-to-day frustrations and ruminations of the Archangel Gabriel? I had been petitioned, cursed, prayed to, cursed again, bargained with, but listened to? Just. Didn’t. Happen.
Beauty was also a concept that I had appreciated intellectually, but not one that had ‘moved’ me in the way human artists had slavered over since time immemorial. There could be beauty in the cold vastness of space as well as the striving of a child to take its first step. The beauty of a dung beetle was no less compelling than the beauty of the curve of a soft lip, or the depths of soulful eyes.
But suddenly, beauty sparked feelings and fantasies that were utterly new and interesting and exciting. The soft curve of an abstract sculpture, the intimate loveliness of an iconic Madonna painted hundreds of years before. And Duncan was beautiful, classically, emotionally, intellectually. The play of expressions across his face was fascinating, the strength of a perfectly proportioned physique, the turn of phrase of a particularly poignant observation… he took my breath away again and again.
Oh, this treacherous, out of control human body! What was I to do with it? How did they cope with these… these urges? It was ridiculous! And to think the Boss had not intervened when these silly humans, in their misguided attempt to take charge of their chaotic world, had declared many of these normal, almost irresistible urges a Sin. Well, okay, abuse of the privilege was considered a bad idea, and therefore the practice was justifiably frowned upon. But Sin?
But the worst - or the best - is the touching. Mortals are afraid of us and God’s minions have no reason to touch each other. Not only are there not that many of us at the Archangel level (the advantage of being wherever we want to be, whenever we want to be there), we’re not supposed to need comfort; we’re supposed to give it. Spiritually, of course, but the occasional touch conveying the life-altering Power of God is allowed only when special circumstances dictate. But Duncan manages to ‘casually’ put his hand on my back or arm for almost any reason, or for no reason at all. He’ll tug at my sleeve, or lean close to say something pithy, brushing my shoulder, his subtle scent filling my senses and then my heart makes this ridiculous pitter-pat in my chest for absolutely no reason at all.
To add to my annoyance, whenever Duncan hangs out at the bar while I’m on duty, Joe keeps smirking at us, watching like a hoot owl from the barn rafters, those bushy eyebrows of his raised in a perpetual speculative, and no doubt naughty, query. I try to smile enigmatically back, as though I’m in on whatever joke that is evidently occupying his usually lurid, voyeuristic thought process. Bastard.
As a result, I find myself in a perpetual state of flux, from excited to perplexed to irritated to confused - mostly confused. I’m Not Used To This!! I find myself frequently casting my eyes upward, wanting to curse the Boss for putting me in this absurd position, but figuring that’s no way to get back into Divine Good Graces. I assume these trials, like Job’s, are supposed to teach me something, but what, exactly? Humility? Constantine took care of that. Self-control? What am I supposed to be controlling? Lust? But sex isn’t inherently wrong, and it’s not like I’m not a consenting adult, for God’s sake.
I haven’t figured out yet what I’m supposed to be learning here, which is probably the most troubling aspect of this whole experience as a human. I have no doubt it will be one of those ‘know it when you see it’ things, and I sure as heck haven’t seen it yet.
“You seem a little preoccupied tonight,” Duncan murmured to me from his perch on a barstool.
“Me?” I smiled back. “What makes you think that?”
“I don’t know, maybe it’s that little furrow in your brow, or the way you keep muttering to yourself.”
I deliberately smoothed my brow, leaned over close and cocked my head, feeling a loose curl from my unruly golden mop fall forward like a question mark over one arched brow. “It’s called ‘thinking’ young man. Deep thoughts. Profound thoughts.” I tapped him on the forehead, making him blink. “You ought to try it sometime.”
“Oh, I think deep thoughts all the time,” he assured me with a mischievous grin. “But I was also thinking that us having dinner at my place tomorrow night might be fun.”
“That’s a deep thought?”
“I didn’t say it was a deep thought. But I could say it deeply, if you like.” Duncan paused, cleared his throat and murmured in a sinister-sounding bass rumble. “Would you have dinner with me tomorrow night?” Then he added in a more normal tone, “I’m an excellent cook.”
“Hmm. You sound like James Earl Jones with a bad chest cold,” I teased. “But dinner might be nice. I must confess that my current diet of bar food is getting a little old. And I’m a terrible cook, myself.” At least I think I am. I’ve never cooked, so how would I know? And then he actually batted those big brown eyes at me! Who could resist?
Later, after the crowd left and it was just Joe and me doing cleanup, Joe kept glancing at me with that speculative look until I couldn’t stand it anymore. “What?!” I finally snapped.
“You going to Mac’s place tomorrow night, I hear.”
“Is that supposed to be a testament to your auditory prowess?”
“No, just an observation.” There was a long, silent pause while Dawson meticulously polished some bar glasses and put them away on the shelf as I busied myself putting chairs up on tables. “You know, Gabe, MacLeod doesn’t normally go for… your type,” Dawson finally said.
“My type? What, he doesn’t like blondes? Or maybe he prefers them short and stocky?”
Joe frowned and put a glass down with a little more force than necessary. “You know exactly what I mean. All I’m sayin’ is both of you sure better know what the hell you’re doing, or this is likely to get messy really fast.”
I Iooked up, catching Joe’s eye. His face was a little flushed with his discomfort over the topic, but I had no intention of making this easy for him. “I’ve heard sex is supposed to be messy, or you’re not doing it right,” I retorted smoothly, taking somewhat perverse pride in the tidal wave of a blush that suffused Dawson’s bearded cheeks. “I don’t think Duncan is a blushing virgin, Joe.”
“And you?” Joe asked pointedly.
Well, what the heck was I supposed to say to that? Would he believe I was a virgin, in every respect? At least every physical respect. Well, yeah, there was that moment with Mary a couple millennia back. But… Nah. “Joe,” I equivocated sternly. “Do I look like someone who doesn’t know what I want?”
There was an uncomfortable pause as the man’s steely gray eyes bore into mine, but I haven’t been intimidated in an eon or two, and no matter the discerning intelligence under those bushy eyebrows, it wasn’t about to happen now.
“You look like someone who thinks he knows everything,” Joe said softly, “and that’s a sure sign of someone with a blind spot the size of the Grand Canyon.”
Point to Joe Dawson.
“And MacLeod may seem like a world-class sophisticate,” Joe continued, “but the guy wears his damned heart on his sleeve.” He leaned a little closer. “And his heart has been pretty stomped on recently, so I suggest somebody start thinkin’ with his brain instead of his Johnson! Mac doesn’t look like a good candidate for that, so I was hoping you’d listen to a little sense.”
“I didn’t know you were his mother, Joe. Do you sew on his buttons, too?”
Joe shook his head and slammed his bar towel to the back of the sink with a hard, frustrated throw. “No, dammit! I’m not his mother. I’m his friend, and… shit, I dunno. This whole thing between you two just feels… wrong. I got a bad feeling about it.”
Well, well, well. Joe Dawson, spiritual advisor extraordinaire. Who’da thunk? Was the Big Kahuna trying to tell me something, using Joe as a messenger? But Micha…. Duncan had walked out on his responsibilities, developed this absurd conscience and was living this life as a punishment without even knowing what his transgression had been. If I brought him enlightenment, brought him back into the fold (so to speak), how could that not help put me in God’s Good Graces once again? I’d have my wings back in no time.
“Maybe that bad feeling is just that pastrami sandwich you had at lunch,” I ended up retorting, much to Joe’s disgust. I grabbed my jacket. “Gotta go, Joe. The last bus hits the corner in five minutes!” I turned at the door with a grin that I was sure would annoy the heck out of him. “Oh, and remember. I won’t be in tomorrow night. I’ve got a date!"