(no subject)
Date: February 1st, 2001, evening
Setting: Tadfield Manor, hospital wing
Status: Private - Crowley and Gabriel (Complete)
Summary: Crowley admits defeat.
The hospital was quiet.
Normally, with so little activity, Gabriel would not have spent his whole shift in the place; would have checked in from time to time, and relied on whatever intuition alerted him to the needs of the hospital. But tonight in particular it wore on him that he had no place else to go, no other reason to stay in the manor than for the few patients that might need his help, and a promise he'd made, months ago, to the Antichrist.
He did his best to keep busy, working his way industriously through a stack of paperwork that had been neglected in light of the past weeks' hecticness. There were a few things, perhaps, on which he would later consult his assistant Dobiel, but for the most part, it was an endless litany of signing his name.
Older than Gabriel, than Jibrail, than any other name the mortals had given him: a graceful sweep across the bottoms of the pages of characters more ancient than Time.
Occasionally, the strain of the unearthly language would cause his fountain pen to dry up, and the angel would have to pause to will it back in to working order, but mostly the act was a bit monotonous, and required little thought.
It was who he was, who he had been since his creation. He who stands before God. Nothing through the centuries, not Lucifer's whisperings nor his most recent trials, had ever changed that.
He heard the sound of footsteps from the hospital's entrance, and, weary as he was, was grateful that he felt none of the sense of urgency that accompanied critically wounded patients. He set down his pen, surreptitiously sending the paperwork back to his desk Upstairs, and stood to see what was needed of him.
The aura which had become familiar as Crowley's struck him more sharply than its usual sense of evil muted by centuries of Earth; the displeasure evident on the demon's face despite the protection of the ever-present dark glasses might account for that.
"Crowley," he said somewhat neutrally in greeting. He hadn't checked up on the demon since first healing him upon his return; and though the angel knew he could have left in no safer care than Adam's, he wasn't sure what that would mean in terms of their tenuous etiquette.
Setting: Tadfield Manor, hospital wing
Status: Private - Crowley and Gabriel (Complete)
Summary: Crowley admits defeat.
The hospital was quiet.
Normally, with so little activity, Gabriel would not have spent his whole shift in the place; would have checked in from time to time, and relied on whatever intuition alerted him to the needs of the hospital. But tonight in particular it wore on him that he had no place else to go, no other reason to stay in the manor than for the few patients that might need his help, and a promise he'd made, months ago, to the Antichrist.
He did his best to keep busy, working his way industriously through a stack of paperwork that had been neglected in light of the past weeks' hecticness. There were a few things, perhaps, on which he would later consult his assistant Dobiel, but for the most part, it was an endless litany of signing his name.
Older than Gabriel, than Jibrail, than any other name the mortals had given him: a graceful sweep across the bottoms of the pages of characters more ancient than Time.
Occasionally, the strain of the unearthly language would cause his fountain pen to dry up, and the angel would have to pause to will it back in to working order, but mostly the act was a bit monotonous, and required little thought.
It was who he was, who he had been since his creation. He who stands before God. Nothing through the centuries, not Lucifer's whisperings nor his most recent trials, had ever changed that.
He heard the sound of footsteps from the hospital's entrance, and, weary as he was, was grateful that he felt none of the sense of urgency that accompanied critically wounded patients. He set down his pen, surreptitiously sending the paperwork back to his desk Upstairs, and stood to see what was needed of him.
The aura which had become familiar as Crowley's struck him more sharply than its usual sense of evil muted by centuries of Earth; the displeasure evident on the demon's face despite the protection of the ever-present dark glasses might account for that.
"Crowley," he said somewhat neutrally in greeting. He hadn't checked up on the demon since first healing him upon his return; and though the angel knew he could have left in no safer care than Adam's, he wasn't sure what that would mean in terms of their tenuous etiquette.