Exiles From Delight

Disclaimer: I own nothing, except what is mine.

We, unaccustomed to courage

exiles from delight

live coiled in shells of loneliness

until love leaves its high holy temple

and comes into our sight to liberate us into life

~Maya Angelou, Touched By An Angel

Chapter 3

"I think I've got everything I'll need," Dev announced as she plowed into the kitchen. "And if I don't then we're gonna have to make do since this is everything I've got."

Gabriel took in the heap of medical supplies piled in her arms and arched a brow. "A meager offering, indeed," he remarked, dry as dust.

Dev stopped in mid-stride, her wide smile drooping and the brightness in her eyes dimming at the perceived rebuke before anger took over and turned her entire expression flinty. "Well forgive me, but it's not every day I need to perform major surgery in my kitchen. I'll try to be better equipped next time you decide to get yourself cut in half."

Gabriel's expression—oddly light for him—turned absolutely lethal. "That is not at all what I meant, you ins…," he snapped his mouth shut, teeth gritting hard against the angry words that so obviously wanted to claw their way past his lips. "Tell me, Navi—are you as tenaciously immune to all attempts at humor or just mine?"

"Sorry, but if I'd known you had a sense of humor, it might have occurred to me that you were trying to be funny." Dev closed the remaining distance between them and dumped her bounty onto the counter top. "Since I didn't, I just assumed it was you being a jackass again."

"Your esteem is, as ever, overwhelming."

Dev kept her head down to hide her smile, fingers working at the wrapper of a box of suture thread. "If it makes you feel better, I promise I'll laugh my ass off next time you unbend enough to crack a joke."

"Yes, well, loath as I am to deprive you of the enjoyment you are so clearly having at my expense," Gabriel grumbled, watching as she unwound a length of thin, black nylon, "I would be grateful if we might save further denigration for a time when I am not bleeding all over your kitchen."

It was a half-hearted reproof at best, lacking any true bite, but Dev still took it fully to heart. Feeling suddenly and heartily guilty for ribbing him when he was in such bad shape—because he was, if possible, even more pale than he had been when she'd first seen him out in the yard—she turned to with renewed vigor.

"You're right. I'm sorry." She finished arranging the supplies, shifting anything currently unnecessary toward the far side of the counter. "We'll get started in just a sec."

Gabriel said nothing and after a moment, Dev looked up to find his slate gray gaze locked on the collection of curved surgical needles she'd set out next to the suture thread. For almost the first time in all the time she'd known him, the expression on his face masked nothing, his reluctance revealed in his furrowed brow and thin-lipped grimace.

"You are proficient with these tools?"

She was capable enough.

But she wasn't going to come right out and tell him that.

"Well, I once made a hand-sewn pillow for Home Ec when I was in high school. This can't be all that different, right?"

Gabriel shot her a withering look. "That is hardly reassuring."

"Good, 'cause I was more just going for funny."

"An all-around failure then."

"Do you want my help or not?"

"Not," he asserted, looking almost smug. "I believe I said as much. Repeatedly."

Touché.

But she'd jump off a cliff before she acknowledged the verbal hit.

"So yeah…stitches." Dev spun away from him and crossed to the sink, a bottle of surgical soap and a clean towel clasped tight in her hand—she doubted infection was going to be an issue for him, but figured it was always wise to err on the side of caution. "Just let me scrub up and we'll be ready to get this show started."

The barely concealed huff from behind her made her smile. Annoying him was a little like the free-climbing she and her friends had dabbled in as teenagers—kinda dumb, but way too much fun not to try again.

"As you will," Gabriel snapped.

Dev would have laughed at the petulance fairly oozing from those words, but as soon as she turned away from the sink, drying her hands on the sack towel with a stylized J embroidered on the trailing edge, the laughter died on her lips.

Gabriel had shifted on the old walnut barstool; turned his back on her and exposed the rounded curve of his spine and the slump of his shoulders. He looked drained and tired and downright miserable. And with an unprecedented and inexplicable swell of plain old human intuition, Dev knewthat there was a heck of a lot more pressing down on those broad shoulders than mere physical pain.

And dear, sweet Christ Almighty, she was only just barely qualified to patch up the tangible wounds—she was in no way equipped to deal with anything that ran deeper. Helping was one thing, but playing shrink to an Archangel navigating the internal minefield of an emotional crisis was something else entirely. The idea alone was borderline bloodcurdling. She had never been worth a damn at the whole shoulder to cry on thing, her awkward discomfort always overshadowing her fumbling attempts at sympathy.

Lucky for her, Gabriel wasn't exactly the talk-it-out type. She was pretty sure he would be horrified by any attempt to sympathize, fumbling or not, so she decided that the best thing to do was to pretend her little mini-epiphany had never happened.

"Right," she squared her shoulders and tossed the towel aside. "First things first—I can't stitch up what I can't see. So let's str...," she pulled up short just behind his left elbow and let out an embarrassing squawk of a laugh. Swallowing down the words she'd been about to say, Dev cleared her throat and tried again. "Let's get that armor off."

It was one of the most awkward sentences she'd ever uttered, but it was a damn sight better than the 'let's strip you down' that had initially tried to trip off her tongue. Thankfully, her brain had caught up with her mouth in just enough time to save her from what would probably have wound up being one of the most mortifying moments of her life.

Gabriel didn't appear to have noticed her momentary discomposure—or that ridiculous laugh, thank God—and had focused instead on doing as she'd asked without a word of argument. Unusual for him and all too indicative of how miserable he really was underneath all the bravado.

As Dev watched him fumble at the clasp of the thick, leather strap that wrapped tight around his right bicep, she frowned. She'd almost forgotten about the hole in his left shoulder, so focused had she been on the much more pressing issue of the gaping stomach wound. She remembered now though, and felt, once again, that odd throb of empathy right in the center of her chest.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she reached out and gently batted his hand down. "Let me."

"You need not…"

"Gabriel." She looked him dead in the eye, calm, collected and uncompromising. "Let me."

He stared at her for another long moment and she stared right back; refused to back down—refused to even blink. Finally, he gave a single, sharp nod and let his left hand fall back to his side.

Dev was careful not to let her satisfaction show as she reached out toward him, feeling his eyes on her and knowing he would make the worst of even the hint of a smile. She slid her fingers beneath his bicep and made quick work of the clasp she found there. She then moved around to his other arm and repeated the process. Without a word, he shifted once more on the stool, presenting her with his back.

"Above my wings," he offered, "another beneath. Mind you do not injure yourself on the pinions, Navi."

The direction was welcome; the warning unnecessary. She was fully aware of how dangerous those gorgeous wings were, though there was something heartening about him feeling the need to caution her. For Gabriel, that had been almost…sweet.

"Careful, Gabriel," his back was to her, so she didn't bother to hold back her grin, "or I might start to think you actually like me."

"I would warn you not to make assumptions, but, all things considered," he reached out, fingering the straight end of the largest of the surgical needles laid out on the counter, "I rather think it is in my best interest to allow you your illusions."

Dev laughed, finally recognizing that dry-as-dust tone for what it was—Gabriel's own peculiar brand of wit. "Did you see that, by the way? You were funny and I laughed. Aren't you proud?"

Gabriel turned his head, catching her eye over his shoulder, his expression bland. "Truly, my cup runneth over, Navi."

"Smart ass," Dev cracked, giving him a light poke in the middle of his back, above the wings in question. "Now shut up and let me work."

Gabriel turned forward once more, but not before Dev caught the hint of a smile on his lips. And damn it, he really needed to stop doing that. She might have joked about him actually liking her, but with the smiling and the almost-but-not-quite-sweetness, she was coming annoyingly close to actually liking him.

So not the time, she chastised herself.

Stepping closer and ignoring every superfluous thought, she quickly found and released the clasp that sat just above his carefully folded wings. Mindful of his warnings, she slid her hand lower, having to navigate her way blindly through the layers feathers to find the clasp hidden away at his lower back. Ever so carefully, she searched until her fingers encountered the supple rasp of a leather strap and chased it toward where it ended in the skin-warm metal of the unseen clasp.

The feathers there, close to his body, were different from the pitch-dark pinions that were as useful in battle as they were in flight. These feathers were lighter, dove gray and pearlescent oyster and impossibly, almost criminally, soft. They grazed her skin, whispered across her knuckles and sent a delicious shiver up her arm, across the back of her neck and all the way down her spine.

But as distracting as the brush of that fine down was on her fingertips, it was nothing compared to the delicate scent that clung to them—to all of him, really. Sharp and loamy and faintly sweet, it was a mouthwatering marriage of fresh cut rosemary and muddled mint that set her senses alight.

He smelled better than anyone covered in blood and fresh from a fight had any right to smell.

Dev strangled a sudden urge to lean closer, to chase that intoxicating scent. After a moment spent wildly wondering what the hell had come over her, she snapped her focus back where it belonged, and when finally she had that hidden clasp undone as well, she moved around to face him, hoping she looked more unruffled than she felt. "Is that all of them?"

There was a pause, and if it had been anyone else, she would have sworn he looked uncomfortable. "Nearly."

Nearly?

"What else?"

"Belt."

A beat.

"Of course," Dev chirped, her voice going shrill as she tried not to sound flustered and failed miserably, "your belt!"

She couldn't think about it. Thinking about it was only going to make it worse. The best course of action was just to go for it.

Let it fly. Pedal to the metal. Balls to the wall.

Fuck my life.

Dev sucked in a breath, took a step forward until she was standing between his knees—tried desperately not to let out another of those bizarre cackles—and dropped her hands to his belt.

And of course it was this clasp that didn't immediately give like the others had, but it was slick with blood and her fingers slipped and slid across the cool metal as she fought to keep her composure. By the time she worked it loose, she knew her cheeks were glowing red and only hoped he assumed it was from exertion.

"Got it," she crowed, far more triumphantly than the situation called for, but oh dear Christ, she'd just gotten all up close and personal with the Left Hand of God and there had to be some sort of blasphemy in that, didn't there?

He certainly didn't seem to think so, if the blankness of his expression was anything to go by. But then again, this was Gabriel. Perfectly, carefully blank was default mode for him. As she'd well seen already though, that nothingness could be deceptive. Most would probably even believe that it meant what it said on the wrapper; believe that he really was as cold on the inside as he was on the outside.

That was a mistake she herself had been guilty of, but after today would never again fall victim too. His reserve, that coldness he wore so well? Just another layer of armor, one he wore as well as he did any other—only beneath the skin rather than upon it.

And who could blame him for it? She'd read the Bible; even, thanks to Michael, the parts that had been lost to the ravages of time and the caprices of man.

Gabriel's, she had learned, were never the easy tasks.

With that thought fresh in her mind, Dev reached forward to fit her fingers beneath the pauldrons that now sat loosely upon his shoulders. Just as she was about to lift, Gabriel reached up and grasped her wrist, swallowing it within the circle of his fingers.

"I will do this. It is too heavy for you."

She frowned at him. "With the condition you're in, it's too heavy for you too."

"It will hurt," he acknowledged, "though I shall manage. I assure you that I have endured far worse, Navi."

He stood, releasing her wrist and in one swift motion lifted the breastplate and pauldrons over his head and deposited them on the floor beside him. After straightening back to his full height, he immediately dropped backwards onto the stool with a stifled grunt of pain.

Dev leapt forward, hands on his shoulders to steady him, any discomfort at their closeness wiped clean in the face of his obvious need. His shoulder was bleeding again and the slice in his midsection had yet to stop. Swearing sharply, she reached behind him and grabbed the pair of scissors she'd brought from the bathroom. "I'm gonna have to cut your shirt off," she warned. "I'm not letting you lift your arms again."

"I offer no complaints," he said quietly, his voice strained, "though I feel compelled to remind you that I have no other garments at hand with which to replace it."

"I'll figure something out," Dev dismissed, sliding the blade of the scissors beneath the sleeveless, shapeless tunic he wore and making quick work of the thick, wool-like fabric. Once she had both sides of it sliced from waist to neck, she set the scissors down and eased the blood-stiffened cloth over his head before tossing it carelessly behind her.

For the first time, she got a good look at the stomach wound. "Jesus Christ, Gabriel!"

"Language, Navi."

"Screw my language. How the hell are you still conscious?" She leaned down, prodding gently at the gash. "That's gonna need a lot of stitches."

He shrugged negligently. "Once more, the wound needs nothing. It will heal on its own in due time. It certainly will not kill me, if that is your concern."

"So stitches won't make a bit of difference?"

He sighed. "They would hasten the healing process," he admitted—reluctantly she could tell. "But..."

"That's all I needed to hear," she cut in. "I joked earlier, but I grew up on a working ranch with a Pops who'd rather saw his own arm off with a dull butter knife than go to a doctor." She reached behind him again and picked up a needle and thread. "Two summers ago, he gashed his leg open on a section of fence he was trying to repair. I tried like crazy to get him to just suck it up and go see Doc Chambers at the very least, but the stubborn old fart wouldn't listen to me for anything. Damn leg ended up needing nearly twenty-five stitches. I fetched the Doc up here anyway the next day and he told me I did just about as good a job as he'd have done. So I should be able to handle this. No problem at all, right?"

Gabriel gave a snort that sounded very much like he was amused despite himself. "Are you attempting to convince me or yourself?"

"In all honesty, Gabriel, at this point I'm just attempting not to throw up all over your boots. Well, not really. I don't actually think I'm going to throw up. It's just a bit overwhelming, you know? This whole messed up deal is seriously overwhelming. I mean, this is a pretty big deal and I really don't wanna screw up, and…"

"Your nervous prattle is oddly comforting, Navi."

The long, curved needle was threaded and gripped tightly in her hand, but she paused long enough to shoot him a glare. "I've been telling you for years now, Gabriel—I've got a name. I know what I am and I really don't need you reminding me of it every time I turn around. So please, call me Dev."

Just that quickly, all trace of humor was wiped clean from his face.

"No."

Dev's lips thinned, annoyed. "Fine. Devlin, then. Hell, I'll even settle for Ms. Jacobs. Anything but Navi!"

"It is not my place to do so."

"Bullshit. Michael has always called me Devlin and I've never heard him say anything about it not being his place."

His expression darkened ominously. "I am not Michael."

She couldn't argue with that. He and Michael were different as night and day. If some rule about using her name existed, she had no trouble believing Michael had broken it—and even less trouble understanding that Gabriel never would. "Just…nevermind," she huffed almost beneath her breath, then stepped away from him and gestured toward the floor. "Lay down so I can get this over with."

Annoyingly, his chin came up. "I will stand."

"Yeah, because that's been working out so well for you this morning..."

"I will stand," he repeated, voice sharp.

"You'll fall over."

He lurched to his feet, knocking the stool over backwards as his wings flared out. One large hand came down heavily upon the counter top, his fingers wrapping around the edge until his knuckles shone white and the laminate beneath them groaned in protest. "Do not question my fortitude, Navi. I will stand."

She'd known he was a mountain of a man—far taller and broader than Michael, who was all lean lines and wiry strength. But as he towered over her and filled her entire field of vision until the kitchen completely disappeared and he was all she could see, she finally realized just how enormous he actually was.

"Christ Almighty, Gabriel..."

"If you must do this, Navi, then do it," he snapped, patience officially spent. "And as before, watch your tongue."

There were about a hundred things she wanted to say to that, but all of them melted away the second her eyes met his. Yet again, the mask had slipped. But this time, it hadn't just stopped at a slip…this time it had abandoned him entirely. Gone was the remote gravity—the cold, disinterested propriety.

In its place was a look that was frustration and sadness and rage all swirled into one crippling maelstrom of feeling. It was an expression that lived and breathed. It drew her in, hypnotized her like nothing about him ever had before.

She knew, as she always knew these things, that all she had to do was reach out, touch his cheek, slide her fingers higher, higher, until the tips of her nails brushed back the fine black hairs at his temples and she would be able to see. See the hows and the whens and the whys of those breathtaking emotions. She would know his heart, know his mind, know his soul.

She would know him.

And, dear God, in that moment, she wanted to…

"Remember yourself," Gabriel's voice broke into her thoughts, harder and sharper than she'd ever heard it—which was saying something. "That is forbidden, as well you know."

She was about to ask him how he knew what she was thinking, but then she came back to herself enough to realize that her fingertips were hovering scant inches from his face. She pulled her hand back toward her chest, fingers curling into a tight fist.

"Sorry," she muttered after a long moment spent swallowing down her embarrassment. "Sometimes…well...that part of me, it sorta has a mind of its own. I'm working on it."

"Work harder, child."

Not a particularly harsh reprimand in word alone, but when paired with Gabriel's relentless severity and uncompromising conviction, it became dagger-sharp and cut straight to the bone. Devlin kept her eyes lowered, as put in her place as she'd ever been.

Because, for once, this wasn't just Gabriel being Gabriel. This was Gabriel being right.

Michael had explained the rules to her the very first time they met. He was the one who had made it abundantly clear that, when it came to using her particular gifts, he and those like him were strictly off limits. She'd accepted it without question, because, as rules went, it made an undeniable kind of sense and she'd never once been tempted to break it.

Until now.

She didn't know whether to blame herself, Gabriel or the situation as a whole. In the end, she supposed it really didn't matter whose fault it was. All that mattered was that Gabriel was right—things being what they were, she needed to have a firm handle on herself. Time was no longer a luxury she could afford.

So she sucked it up and squared her shoulders and forced herself to look Gabriel in the eye. "Ready for this?"

Gabriel nodded, and though his face remained rigid, she could feel him thaw just a bit. "Proceed."

With a fortifying breath, Dev put all other thoughts aside, inserted the needle and got to work.