It would be so easy to let it stand. To focus his rage and his regret on this man -- not a man, a demon -- who put him in a box for transport, who threw his daughter's medical reports on his pillow, altering his sleep forever with nightmares. It would be so easy to remain silent, or worse, to speak a few casual, businesslike words.
It would be so very easy.
There's no changing the past...What matters, I suppose, is what you do next."
"She loves you."
"Crowley asked me to speak to you because he didn't trust that he could hold his temper, because of the regard he has for your children. You have nothing to fear on their account."
"Do you love her? You must, I'd think, with all that you've done..."
Gabriel's hand tightens on the glass as he stares into it, unseeing.
"That may be." A very deliberate pause. "There. At that bar."
It's all the hope he'll allow himself, and a great deal of it is based on the fact that Andronicus Crowley must know what he's talking about, as he's lived through it already.
But that's all the hope there is, and he's bitterly aware of it. Every word now is resigned and very nearly dragged from him.
"But they can never come home. The Alliance. And so they'll need you, everywhere else."
There's a great surge in his chest; right behind his breastbone, a sudden swell of -
Hope?
Perhaps.
"Not ever going to stop looking after them."
And possibly whatever's building in his chest is bubbling over into a very slight hysteria, because Crowley quite deliberately puts his glass down on the table, buries his face in his hands, and starts to laugh.
"I'm counting on it." Dryly, he adds, "You've some experience in the role, as I recall."
He feels no inclination to laugh, however. Slowly, with the deliberate movements of the overly intoxicated, Gabriel sets his glass on the table and gets to his feet.
"I think that perhaps I'd better call it an evening."
But then...
"And?"
He's her Dad.
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It would be so easy to let it stand. To focus his rage and his regret on this man -- not a man, a demon -- who put him in a box for transport, who threw his daughter's medical reports on his pillow, altering his sleep forever with nightmares. It would be so easy to remain silent, or worse, to speak a few casual, businesslike words.
It would be so very easy.
There's no changing the past...What matters, I suppose, is what you do next."
"She loves you."
"Crowley asked me to speak to you because he didn't trust that he could hold his temper, because of the regard he has for your children. You have nothing to fear on their account."
"Do you love her? You must, I'd think, with all that you've done..."
Gabriel's hand tightens on the glass as he stares into it, unseeing.
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He lifts his glass in a bitter salute. Just before he drinks it down, he adds,
"And I could so easily hate you for that."
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Talking to the floor.
"'Cos you love her too, and I done right by her, when I could. Which includes bringing you back to them."
He drains his glass, and gives a wry snort.
"'Course, took me five hundred years to do it, but nobody's perfect. And now you're back to pick up after where I filled in."
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The level of whiskey in the bottle is steadily decreasing.
"When you could. Managed a lot better than I did, now didn't you? And now--"
The silence that descends is sudden and very excruciatingly painful.
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It's all the hope he'll allow himself, and a great deal of it is based on the fact that Andronicus Crowley must know what he's talking about, as he's lived through it already.
But that's all the hope there is, and he's bitterly aware of it. Every word now is resigned and very nearly dragged from him.
"But they can never come home. The Alliance. And so they'll need you, everywhere else."
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Hope?
Perhaps.
"Not ever going to stop looking after them."
And possibly whatever's building in his chest is bubbling over into a very slight hysteria, because Crowley quite deliberately puts his glass down on the table, buries his face in his hands, and starts to laugh.
"I'll be their guardian angel."
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He feels no inclination to laugh, however. Slowly, with the deliberate movements of the overly intoxicated, Gabriel sets his glass on the table and gets to his feet.
"I think that perhaps I'd better call it an evening."
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"I - moved your bag into the room at the end. If I'm gone in the morning, my contact details'll be by the hub."
There's a pitcher of water and a glass on Gabriel's bedside table.
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"Thank you."
For what, he doesn't specify. Perhaps there's no need.
"Wăn ān."
With the same slow deliberation of movement, Gabriel turns and goes down the hallway to his room.
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Then he sits back in his armchair, and pours himself another drink.
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