(Untitled)
Date: February 1st, 2001, evening
Setting: Tadfield Manor, hospital wing
Status: Private - Crowley and Gabriel (Complete)
Summary: Crowley admits defeat.
( Catching up on paperwork... )
Setting: Tadfield Manor, hospital wing
Status: Private - Crowley and Gabriel (Complete)
Summary: Crowley admits defeat.
( Catching up on paperwork... )
As he traced the paths of the delicate bones in his mind, he found fractures in several places, some so concentrated it looked as though they'd crushed his wings... but he didn't need the details, he thought firmly, just needed to know how to fit the pieces back together.
Wordlessly, Gabriel reached out his hands to cautiously support the broken wing, starting his work quickly before Crowley could protest. He began at the base, radiating outward; working as quickly as he could to reduce the pain without missing anything. He could not restore the strength - nor even, he was afraid, the feathers - but he sealed together bone and marrow until there was no sign left that the pieces had been cleft. By the time he'd finished, the right wing arched up in proper form, mirroring the left.
"All right?" Gabriel asked after the concentrated silence, looking over his work critically. His own joints felt stiff after the expenditure of energy. "Did I miss anything?"
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What Crowley wanted, more than anything else at the moment, was to have some kind of resolution. To have one problem solved no matter how small. To feel like he had any control over his own life. He focused on his wings. If he could tolerate this, keep his mouth shut long enough to not alienate Gabriel entirely, he could have that. So the demon sat stoically, trying not to grimace as he felt the bones beneath his skin draw together and knit, trying to ignore the feel of the angel's hands on a very sensitive area.
When Gabriel finished, Crowley came out of his self-induced daze and flexed his wings slowly once or twice. They'd be stiff and achingly sore for a few days as the bruising healed, but they were gloriously free of the sharp, stabbing pains he'd been fighting all week, having only managed to mend one or two of the multiple fractures himself.
"No. That's... I think you got it."
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"I'm not sure about the feathers," he admitted after a moment; and indeed, while he had seen angels lose patches of feathers in fights and other such circumstances, he had never been witness to such extensive damage. There were very few of the sleek black feathers left, and most of Crowley's wings were covered in nothing more than wan skin, so thin in places that one could see every detail of the maze of capillaries beneath. "I don't think either of us could replace all of them. Not in one sitting, anyway."
It was a delicate issue, and he waited for Crowley's input on how to continue - no matter how insulting the delivery might prove to.
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"Don't waste your energy. They don't grow in properly if they're forced," he grumbled. "I'll just have to wait." With a mournful look at the bedraggled things, Crowley prepared to put them away, ignoring the faint stabs of broken quills into his exposed skin.
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"Why would you do that?" he finally asked. It wasn't a no.
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For in the logic he had always known, he had no real reason to help Crowley - no reason, in fact, to care what became of the demon. There was a vague promise, made to the Antichrist, to help when he was needed. But his duties in the manor were not as binding as those which he had been created to fulfill, and Gabriel had to consider more carefully anymore where his line was drawn: The politics of Hell were not meant to be his concern, after all, nor was their malfeasance of their agents. But Belial had made them his concern, hadn't he? And already Gabriel knew his concept of Enemy and Friend were much more plastic than they once had been.
Perhaps it was because he had already seen fit to help Michael, who had shifted so abruptly from one category to another. Or perhaps it was the concern Crowley had shown for Aziraphale over time, whether or not their relationship could be considered a romantic one.
Or maybe it was nothing more complicated than the fact that Gabriel yet recognized the face he now beheld, carefully obscured by dark glasses, from some other place - from a very different time - where he had once known it by a name he still remembered, even if Crowley did not.
The angel was not ready to admit to any one of these reasons, though likely each held its sway. Instead, though, he settled on one which he suspected that they both understood more readily than they would perhaps admit. He tilted his head, glancing almost curiously at Crowley, and answered simply, "Because you helped Belial escape."
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"All right," he muttered, not meeting Gabriel's eyes. "But make it fast."
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He worked by clumps of feathers in order to strike some balance between overwhelming the demon with angelic influence and wasting his efforts tackling one feather at a time. In his awareness, he followed the shaft of each feather to where their quills were buried in the flesh, gently severing each connection until there was nothing left holding the misshapen feathers in place. As they fell in a fluttering cascade, each feather was dissolved deliberately into nothing, so that when Gabriel was finished, there was no sign of even a single black feather left in the room.
Then it took only a moment to deal with the small scratches from broken quills. Even the loss of what few feathers had been left seemed strange; Gabriel had seen demons who chose bat-like wings deliberately, but had never seen wings plucked bare to achieve the look. Seeking not to stress Crowley further, he kept his expression neutral, despite what pang of sympathy he experienced, and looked them over only as long as it took to discern that he had healed all the cuts and scratches he could see.
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Catching sight of the archangel's carefully blank expression, the demon snarled and snapped his wings back in more forcefully than was probably advisable. He didn't know what thoughts Gabriel was hiding from him but he was certain he wouldn't like them. Crowley rotated his right shoulder a couple of times, feeling that everything was correct and stood.
"Gabriel..." he began stiffly, without any idea of what to say next. Demons don't say thank you.
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Again, he expected no agreement, nor even a response. But there was only one subject he wished to discuss with Crowley, and it seemed unfair somehow to bring up Belial while the Serpent still suffered for his sake. So he filled that void with words that he doubted Crowley would appreciate, but hoped the demon would attend to nonetheless.
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Sliding up his sunglasses and expending a little effort to ensure that his shirt and jacket were presentable, the demon walked past Gabriel to pause in the open doorway. There might be one way to thank the angel...
Not looking back, he spoke flatly. "He was in Wales yesterday. Near the ocean." And without another word, Crowley was gone.
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For a being of such infinite perceptions as an angel, Wales suddenly seemed unspeakably bleak and far away.
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