Night dawns slowly over Golgotha, lingering as the spring drags out the day, and trudging around the hill, Gabriel only gives the vaguest of glances to the three crucifixes atop it. At his side, the sword weighs him down as though he's drowning, and beneath his vessel's soles, the sand provides a warm comfort — sliding around, slipping up his steps, and making him feel anything through this haze, with just enough heat to cause him pain. He's been halfway around the world and back in barely any time at all, flown long and far, until his wings burned from the strain, and still the clanging rush of his brothers' swords echoes through his mind. Pausing, he looks down at his feet, at how easily the toes worm through the dirt — he breathes in deep and even so far off the high streets of Jerusalem, his senses pick up on the scents of fire and incense and Passover wine. They burn on the way down his nostrils, and feel like Lucifer's fire when they reach the pit of Gabriel's chest.
Turning his eyes up toward the sunset, Gabriel stands in the shadows of three large crosses; he can feel the chilly presence of the reaper who led the souls off to their final resting places, and the angel breathes a sigh of relief that the centurions and the crowds have all wandered home by now. Much has been lost today, by men and by angels. As he trudges up toward the Gabriel doesn't need help realizing that, even when he's seen what he has — not far above the ground, Michael and Lucifer locked in combat, and the rest of the Heavenly Host stared up at them, shouting as if in tongues of fire for their chosen leader — even when the Enochian syllables he'd heard had carried poison with them — at Gabriel's side, Raphael seemed aflame with righteous indignation, eyes flickering with hatred as he glared at Lucifer, adoration as he looked to Michael… — and even when his brothers had all but flayed him alive as they nearly killed each other…
Lucifer fell in a cascade of blood, to be imprisoned until the end; to rejoicing cheers, Michael left the battlefield in a huffing mess; and when Raphael clamped his hand on Gabriel's shoulder, his words reduced the youngest archangel to withering: "Celebrate more vigorously, won't you? Our Father's Will has been served today…" — Gabriel sighs and lays a hand on the middle cross; the wood chafes against his palm, and he's wary of splinters, even knowing they'll do nothing to him. He slumps into it, lets his forehead hit the side. From only touching the wood, Gabriel can glimpse pieces of his Father's Plan (or, the future he's been told is his Father's Plan): he sees murders and confusion, purposeful misleading, bloodshed and carnage, and lies upon lies upon lies — to the point that no one can see the truth anymore. At that thought, Gabriel winces.
"I'm sorry, little brother," he mutters, in Enochian, to the ghosts of holy Essence that he can feel here. Perhaps the kid will hear him, perhaps not; Gabriel doesn't have it in him to care right now, and as his brow furrows and as a deep frown twists his lips, he just hopes his doubts are misplaced. "…I should've been here for you. …Maybe we let you hope for too much."
Padding down the other side of the hill, he doesn't notice the other presence here until she calls to his back: "Gabriel!" He turns, and faces the Mother with a grim countenance. "You look different without your wings out," she tells him, and he has to bite his tongue to keep from retorting, You look different without your virginity. Lowering her headscarf, she approaches him; even under the encroaching darkness, the glimmer of moonlight, her silver hair takes him by surprise — but, hey, what does he know? The time that's passed between their meetings feels like hardly anything to him. He pales as she runs her fingers down his cheek; tears glisten over her eyes, and drying trails of them shine on her cheeks.
"Where was God today, Gabriel?" she whispers, her voice cracking with a suppressed sob. "That was His son — He could have saved… Why didn't He help us?"
All of Michael's justifications and Raphael's excuses cycle through his mind — "This is our Father's Plan"; "Have faith that everything will work out as it's meant to do"; "He works in mysterious ways, Gabriel," — but all he can give Mary is a shake of his head. "I don't know."
He offers to escort her home — it's the least he can do when her son's died — but instead, they go off on their separate ways.
As the sky verges into blues and purples, Gabriel's walk brings him to a cypress tree, alone in an empty field, aside from the body hanging from one of the branches. Just a cursory examination of the corpse shows it to be Judas Iscariot, one of the kid's twelve friends, or whatever he called them — Gabriel sighs, and says an incantation for protection over the body. Even as he lays his hand on the dead man's side, even as the Enochian syllables fall from his lips, he knows that they're pointless, that the man he's blessing betrayed his little brother to the people who had him killed, and that they both went through with this insane notion — that Yeshua let himself get tortured and murdered, that Judas killed himself — in the pursuit of some promised salvation that didn't come and for a message that, already, is the victim of gross misunderstanding. Because their Father couldn't be bothered to just show up and put things the way that they're meant to be.
Gabriel doesn't hear the rushing sound of feathers, and although he feels them behind him, he ignores his brothers until Michael tells him: "We cannot spare time for doubt, Gabriel. Come on back Home — we have work to do." Gabriel's hold presses harder into Judas's limp arm, and he shakes his head. "Our Father's will saw its proper execution today, brother," Michael snaps; his voice (or his vessel's) is deep and it does not tremble, as Gabriel's limbs do, but instead stands tall, and strong, and resolute. There's no more room for questions, its tone says; We did what we had to do. "Lucifer rebelled. He ignored clear directives from our Father, not to mention everything else he's done… The transformation of Lilith and the temptation of Eve alone, teaching Cain to murder Abel …The Flood happened because of his influence on mankind, brother, he tried to tempt Yeshua—"
"He might as well have stopped being our brother," Raphael adds, "if he ever was. …He belongs in the Pit — and were there worse, he would deserve nothing less than—"
"Raphael, please," Michael interrupts, and just from the change of tone, Gabriel can picture him holding up a hand to silence Raphael. He almost prefers the other inflections; they were at least forthcoming in their patronizing, rather than hiding behind the shield of I'm just doing this because I care. "…Gabriel, come on. You can't tell me that you sided with Lucifer over me, over our Father — you know what I'll have to do if that's the case." Gabriel nods, and supposes that he does. A warm, firm hand takes him by surprise, caressing his shoulder like a smack to the face. "Everything that Lucifer's done," Michael murmurs, "practically since he learned to spread his wings, has been wrong, Gabriel; he doesn't care about you, or me, Raphael, our Father, the other Host — even the ones who took his side, like Azazel and Beelzebub, the Nephilim… even the demons, his own creations. The Morningstar only cares about himself."
Swallowing so thickly that, for a moment, he briefly fears choking, Gabriel shakes his head; his eyes grow hot, and wet, but he doesn't cry — he won't let himself, not yet. Not where his brothers can see him do it. "You two massacred him," he hisses. "Mutilated him — and for what—"
"Don't be like that," says Michael, and his hold on Gabriel's shoulder tightens. "Lucifer deserved everything we gave to him."
"Just consider his motivations," Raphael agrees, his hand making a home for itself on Gabriel's other side, mirroring Michael's position. "Not only did he turn and fight us, but he corrupted something pure and good, brother, and out of what? Jealousy… envy… All of this suffering has befallen us, wreaked havoc on humanity since their brief tenure in the Garden — to say nothing of Job, and the current state of widespread iniquity that Yeshua was supposed to fix? …Every last thing happened because he couldn't handle our Father's preference for mankind."
"You were fond of him, little one." Michael grabs Gabriel's jaw and whips him around; for the first time since the battle, Gabriel stares into the cold fire of Michael's blue eyes. He can't bruise — at least, not for long; the perks of having angelic Grace, Gabriel supposes — but Michael's hand still holds him tightly enough that Gabriel thinks he might. "Lucifer was our brother. We all loved him. …But the time for that is behind us. He made his choice on where he stands, and that is against us. Come Home, now."
Gabriel nods, and mutters something about how he'll be back up there soon; Michael and Raphael leave him behind without a question. As his brothers depart for Heaven and as he finally lets the tears run free, Gabriel looks the body beside him up and down, and he can't help thinking that, maybe, Judas had the right idea.
Stars finally come out only when Gabriel's abandoned Jersualem's surroundings altogether; sitting by himself on the Har Megiddo — aside from the bottle of wine that he keeps draining, then refilling — he stares up at the celestial lights, picks out the one that his brother ruled before his fall. Wobbling, he curses it, hissing, "…Why did you do it, Lucifer? What's so special about Hell that you gave me up for it?" And he doesn't vocalize it, but he still wonders why his brother had to leave him here alone. He can't turn to Michael or to Raphael; they don't understand, and no one else will… talking to their Father is just out of the question.
He snaps up another bottle of wine and sets about draining it, but finds himself interrupted by a timid voice saying his name. Whipping around brings him face-to-face with one of his younger brothers — the Thursday one, whose name escapes Gabriel, at the moment, and who, even with a distinctly Hebrew vessel (one who is no doubt complaining about being dragged from his home during Shabbas, let alone over Pesach), has eyes that insist upon their blueness. Gabriel chuckles and as a show of courtesy, proffers the bottle; his little brother shakes his head, and with a shrug, the archangel takes to chugging. He's missed too much valuable drinking time in being called on the carpet by some uppity insubordinate.
After a moment's silence: "…Gabriel, please. …Raphael sent me. He's starting to say… that you might not come back."
"Tell him to go fuck a goat," Gabriel huffs — and adds on, at the look of bemused horror on Thursday's face: "What? The Greeks pulled stunts like that left, right, and center. …Oh, what? Would it make you feel better if I called it something nicer? …Knowing? Gathering the myrrh and spices? Drinking the wine and eating the honeycomb? Sipping the pomegranate nectar? Christ." The little one flinches at this offense, and not without reason; Gabriel's no stranger to the rule against using their Father's — and their Brother's, he supposes, considering the heavy burden on the kid's shoulders — Name in vain — and still he spits Yeshua's title with a viper's ferocity. He steals the verses from a text that he inspired and throws them in his fellow angel's face.
"I'm just following my orders," Thursday whispers — and his name comes rushing back to Gabriel in a flash of inspiration.
Without emotion, he intones: "Get lost, Castiel."
His fingers latch onto his sword's hilt as soon as he's sure that his brother's gone; to himself, Gabriel mutters, "Oh, I'll go home alright." No one magically appears to validate this. Gabriel turns the blade on himself, but hesitates as soon as he traces the cool tip down his chest. He lingers, holding it above his Grace, his vessel's heart, and telling himself that he's going to do it, just this second… no, this one… the moment should be perfect; it's not every day an archangel goes and dies…
But, in the end, he doesn't do it — at least, he doesn't do it how he planned. The incisions penetrate his wrists and veins — precisely aimed and deep, enough that he should bleed out without expending any further effort, sending his Grace elsewhere. Out into the ether, maybe, or something just as stupid — either way, he doesn't feel any pain. With a sigh, Gabriel leans onto the grass and closes his eyes. He waits.
The first thing he notices, when he comes to, is that he's coming to at all; and the ceiling he's under sends him its mocking regards, the reminder that he has to face another day (probably eons) in this worthless world — something's wrapped around his wrists, which ache, but aren't in pain — and then he hears a gentle, lilting voice: "Do you have any idea how hard it is to put an archangel back together?"
It's different than the voice she had in their last encounter — a wobbly smile crosses his face at the thought of this; they haven't seen each other since Elijah stood on Mount Carmel — and this time, she's hiding in a certain Mary of Magdala, but still, Gabriel knows Lucifer's handiwork when she gives him a tender kiss, and when he feels her ice-cold hand on his shoulder, keeping him from sitting up. "I thought Yeshua cast you out of that one," he quips, rolling his eyes at the roof, because there's precious little else to do.
"He did." Slinking like a serpent, she slides onto his hips and leans down, so that he can finally see her face. She smirks. "But I like her… and, besides, he didn't give her a protective sigil."
"No one ever said the kid had foresight."
She chuckles; it's more a grim sound than a pleasant one — they hesitate, just a moment, locking eyes as she traces her freezing palm down his neck and shoulder — and they fall into a kiss before either stops to consider it. He fingers her dark hair until he's trapped in it, and likewise, he tangles up his tongue with hers — there should, he thinks, be anger in this encounter of their mouths; someone should bite so as to draw blood, or should leave the other bruised and begging…
But every motion of their lips is slow, not tender because neither of them are, but the force lacks that irritating self-insistence; they kiss hot and hard from desperation, not from rage, and Gabriel wriggles his hand free, slides it to the back of her neck. As she shifts, grinding into his hips, a clump of her hair falls over his nose and he can smell the traces of himself that Lucifer left in her — that sticky smell that goes down sweet and burns just when you think it's safe — Gabriel's ready, hard, in half-a-blink.
As he sits, as he regroups to hold her in his lap, he doesn't care whether or not she notices the reaction of his cock to her; she puts pressure on him again and her long legs tighten around his hips. He holds her close. Gently stroking down her sides, he strips her, then she strips him, he splays one hand just low enough on her back to brush the tips of his fingers against the curve of her ass. Something inside him twists when she tweaks his nipple — not the pain that he expects, but a sharp rush, one that only reminds him of the empty space where he used to have his brother.
Finally, he gnaws into her lower lip, and when she tries to pull away, he clamps down tighter, holds her closer — her breasts rub his chest, and their two bodies lean together, even as she writhes as though she wants to get away — he keeps her there against him until he gets the thick, coppery taste spilling into his mouth. In the next kiss, it passes from his mouth to hers, then back and forth, and at long last, she gives him a moan. It staggers from between her lips, tries to dance, to be appealing… then give up and goes out on a higher pitch than he'd expect from her. He separates their mouths, so they can breathe. One of her hands goes behind his neck, pulls them together again. She whispers, "You kiss me better than he ever could."
Lilith does not name this "he," and Gabriel knows who it is. As she wraps her hand around his girth and makes those little noises that hit his ears like sweetbreads hit his stomach; as she rises, then lowers herself onto him; as she gasps (he suffers no anxiety over his endowment, but making his dick thicker mid-coitus is a favorite pastime), as she clenches her muscles tight enough around him to elicit a groan, as she scratches his back (half-hearted, almost tenderly) — Gabriel knows she'd rather he were someone else. The sentiment's returned and still he cleaves to her, still he grunts, "Lilith — oh, yes, Lilith…" As they work each other up, they fight to keep his name off their lips, even though it pulses through them with each rapid heartbeat — Lucifer, Lucifer, Lucifer… — and when they come together, Gabriel knows she's thinking of his brother, and it's alright, because he is too.
In their afterglow, they barely speak to one another, intertwining their limbs and pressing chest into chest instead. Then, in a quivering, nigh on timid voice, she asks him if he's going back to Heaven now. He cups her jaw, and shakes his head. "My brothers can go and fuck themselves," he replies. "I don't care anymore." Whether or not he means it escapes him, but as he steals another of her kisses, he tells himself that he does.