Disclaimer: whatever. Who actually reads these things anymore? But no, not mine – if they were, well, there would be some changes around here, of that I can assure you! And if anyone wants to play in this 'verse or with these concepts, feel free, but toss me a line first, please.
What the Eye Does Not
Angrboda's a hellcat in bed and fiercely protective of their children, and when she dies (murdered, a dark, ugly part of Gabriel whispers and remembers when he perpetrated the genocide of an entire species) it's as if the core of his grace goes with her.
*O*
Sigyn is different, and he can't help but compare his new wife with his old. She is softer, for one; Angrboda had been harsh lines and the wiry strength that lives on in their children. Sigyn has silver hair; it slides between his fingers like moonlight on running water. She was a brunette, black locks framing angular features and… Sigyn is delicate by comparison, a finely sculpted doll of pale skin and surreal beauty.
He'd be the first to admit that he's not a very good spouse; Sigyn, for her part, never complains. She's the definition of a faithful wife; loyal, obedient, and readily available to warm his bed whenever he's in the mood. Some part of him snarls at just how weak she is, how unlike her… His Angrboda was more of a goddess then this pallid little thing could ever aspire to.
He grudgingly comes to tolerate her over time; at the least, she's a hell of a cook.
He catches her watching him, sometimes, just – staring at him, long, searching glances. He finds her standing quietly in corners, seemingly content to observe whatever he happens to be doing at the moment. She's quietly disapproving of some of his more – creative activities, but she never speaks a word.
And when she comes, carrying a bowl to catch the serpent's venom he stares at her, recognizing the soul burning behind pale skin and delicate hands, and wonders what he has done to earn such loyalty.
*O
He finds her again in Rome; the city is ripe with sin, perfect for a Trickster's touch, and Hermes – or Mercury, whatever he's calling himself these days – has graciously allowed him to share. She's the third daughter of a relatively minor merchant; her father fancies himself something of a scholar, and teaches her how to read and write. She is mortal, and he stares for a moment, stunned beyond words at how soft she is, how small, how fragile…
Her soul burns, though, a column of light and fire more than a match for any divinity and so achingly familiar he nearly weeps in recognition.
He pays the bride-price without a second thought.
*O
Gabriel begins to get suspicious somewhere down the line. He's actually put some serious thought into figuring this – whatever the hell it is – out. He's discovered that the only times his lover is entirely unfamiliar to him is either when she has just died or he knows damn well that his recent bed partner has been around since before his last marriage. He's only ever married one person – regardless of the body she wore at the time.
As an experiment, he walks into a random brothel in France, closes his eyes, spin in a circle, and selects a woman at random.
That also marks the first – and only – time he's ever seen her work as a prostitute. He makes a point of hunting down every damn one of her former clients and showing them exactly why you don't touch what's his.
The brothel itself might also have sustained serious structural damage.
* O
Gabriel's mildly surprised the first time he recognizes her soul in a male body. Whatever, it's not like the archangel actually has a gender, and he's always been open to new experiences.
Gabriel's right.
The sex is awesome.
*O
He carefully avoids thinking about how Svadilfari suddenly seems so familiar.
*O
Egypt, and she's a dancer; India, he's a high-caste warrior. Greece, China, Japan, Africa, America, Brazil –anywhere and everywhere he goes, s/he follows – or is waiting for him in turn.
In a sense, s/he's the perfect mate for an angel. His lover has had so many, many faces, almost as many as his own – s/he is a multitude of one, and it is almost enough for him/her to trace the edges of eternity. Almost enough to understand who and what he is, to know him, and not the flesh he wears.
He gives up trying to figure it out after a while. It's weird, but - he doesn't really want to know. It's more than enough to know that it is, that the soul is waiting for him, that wherever he goes, s/he will be there. It's a small slice of home – his real home, of light and love and unwavering devotion, not the shallow mockery of that came about after the Fall.
*O
The first time he actually looks at Sam Winchester's soul Gabriel laughs and laughs and laughs.