A/N: This is something I've wanted to write for a good year now but never could get around to it. I loved the details the show version gave us, especially the gold details on some of the angels. Talk about a well-spring of head canon! I wanted to explore why some of the angels seemed to have those gold marks and some of them didn't. This is the result ^_^
Thanks Aini Nufire for beta reading!
The angels were formed from heavenly gold, celestial metals of the moons and stars, purified seventy-seven times and recast into dazzlingly magnificent forms. Though they are then covered in corporations, sometimes—under rare circumstances—the gold shows through, and their angelic natures are revealed.
o.O.o
Sandalphon was the first one it happened to.
His story was not a happy one, the honor dubious indeed. The war between angels and demons, between Heaven and Hell, was long and bitter. Both sides had sustained heavy losses in the battle that seemed to have no end. One day, off in a distant future, Hell would restructure itself into the same bureaucracy they'd come from—business, nothing more. In the time of the war, though, with the Fall fresh on their minds and bodies, with Lucifer still driving the demons to greater and more terrible evil, it was still very much personal. Captured angels were slaughtered immediately and without mercy, when they were lucky.
The unlucky ones, well... they were dragged further into the Pit, forced onto racks for torment for the demons' entertainment and vengeance.
Sandalphon was unlucky.
In a way, it was his own ambitions that did it. Sandalphon had spent a great deal of time and energy into forging relationships with the archangels. He was a lesser angel, himself, unlikely to receive any kind of higher position or respect unless it was by association. Between his valor and ferocity in battle and the long-standing effort of endearing himself to the archangels, he'd managed to gain their notice and admittance to their exclusive band.
As he had planned, the other angels came to know him as an honorary archangel (minus the actual powers such a title came with, mind).
Unfortunately, the demons came to know him as the same.
An archangel, now, they would be difficult to capture, but a normal angel at the front of the battle, without the might of an archangel but with access to all their secrets and plans? Now there was a target.
The war was nearing its end before Hell managed to get their hands on Sandalphon. Hell's best and cruelest Inquisitors were dispatched immediately, and the tortures and horrors they inflicted upon him were unspeakable. Over and over they demanded to know Heaven's plans, their secrets, everything Sandalphon could possibly tell them and hopefully more. They broke his body, crushed his mind, destroyed his wings, leveled his spirit. They did things to Sandalphon that not even humans at their cruelest would have considered, each eager to be the one to draw the reluctant answers out with his screams to present to their master.
Sandalphon never uttered a single word. Even while they tore him apart, not one secret passed his lips, and their barbarity only grew.
He knew, though, he knew not even he could hold out forever, not in the face of the tortures they devised just for him.
Finally an opportunity came, right when he was at the limit of sanity and perseverance, as one of the worst of the brutes was taunting him with hellfire. A burning brand was thrust in his face, hovering, sizzling, accompanied by the same questions and offers for freedom if he would only betray the archangels.
Whatever else he might be, Sandalphon was loyal to Heaven and Heaven alone. Rather than give them the slightest nugget of information, Sandalphon lurched forward in his chains and bit down on the blazing firebrand. The Inquisitor was shocked into letting go and stepping back, watching dumbfounded as Sandalphon screamed around the metal heated by Hell, as it mangled his lips and tongue and gums until he couldn't have answered their questions, or indeed spoken at all, even if he'd wanted to.
The Inquisitors (rather shakily) left him hanging there to die of his wounds, no longer worth the effort of interrogation. By the time Gabriel's rescue team found him, Sandalphon was on the verge of succumbing to the effects of the brutality he had suffered.
It took ages untold for the angel healers to put him back to rights, and when they did and he was finally able to speak, Sandalphon opened his mouth to reveal the gold strips on his teeth, showing through where the hellish firebrand had burned his corporation irreparably. His angelic nature of loyalty and ferocity was revealed where he had willingly mutilated himself rather than risk betraying the Heaven he loved.
The war was all but over by the time Sandalphon recovered. His rescue had been a catalyst, the condition they'd found him in driving the angels to a vengeance unlike any other. Gabriel would never be the same. The sight of an angel he considered a close confidant and friend, brutalized and tortured in ways his nightmares couldn't have imagined, broken and left for dead, was one that would never leave his heart or mind.
Never again, he brokenly swore to himself through a stoic mask. Never again would he let something like this happen to any angel. They would all have to do better. Be better. Be flawless. Be perfect. Be obedient to the letter to his command, to ensure everything went exactly as it should. Keeping them safe was his duty as the archangel in charge and Gabriel would not tolerate questions or failures or the slightest hint of weakness.
That was how angels got hurt. That was how angels got killed. That was how angels turned from good soldiers to mangled attack dogs with bloodlust in their eyes and darkness in their hearts.
Gabriel saw it in Sandalphon, recognized the danger, but said nothing. Sandalphon may have been physically restored, but part of him was gone. Any other angel might have given in to Hell, but Sandalphon clung to his angelic status by sharpened claws and golden teeth, near mad with a thirst for delivering punishments that should have been unbecoming except that it was useful. Sandalphon never smiled; he bared his teeth. He didn't kill for righteousness; he killed so that he wouldn't be killed first. He didn't mete out floggings because Gabriel instructed him to; he did it because he loved the power he felt to wield the whip instead of having it wielded against him. He punished weakness with frightening fury because how could he have been so weak, so helpless, so powerless?
If Sandalphon were not such an effective weapon to keep the other angels in line, terrifying them all into complete obedience so as not to fall on his bad side, Gabriel might have been more concerned.
But he needed their obedience, their fear. It was the only way to keep them safe.
The war was over—but for Sandalphon, fearsome and loyal and ruthless and dark—it would never end.
o.O.o
Gabriel's gold was rarely seen by anyone anymore. Not since fashions changed and he realized he liked the clothes and smart suits and smarter loafers that came with them. As an archangel, making an Impression was a Big Deal. He couldn't afford to be scruffy or cheap, not with a reputation like his. A well-earned reputation, to boot.
Gabriel counted on that reputation. It was a weapon and a tool, and he wasn't above using any and all tools at his disposal to get his job done.
Even if it meant other angels.
It hadn't always been that way. Sure, he'd always been an archangel and that did come with perks, after all. Respect, awe, power, these were gifts, and gifts were meant to be enjoyed. In the beginning, enjoyment was the name of the game, everything running smoothly and happily, with Gabriel as king of the roost. Well, prince. All respect to the Almighty, of course.
Then there was Lucifer and the Great Fall and nothing was ever the same again.
Gabriel remembered the feeling, the shattering of his heart as it finally dawned on him that this wasn't a game anymore, that half of Heaven was gone. Angels that Gabriel had been sure worshiped the ground he walked on (not literally worshiped, that would be blasphemy) had followed Lucifer. Angels he was supposed to be watching over fell from Heaven in burning comets as he stood by and watched, helpless and speechless and mindless with disbelief that any of it was real. Angels he was supposed to be shepherding. Leading. Good angels who were taken in by Lucifer and then corrupted into demons and lost from Heaven forever. Angels whose fallen souls were on his hands because he hadn't been good enough.
And then there was the War.
Sandalphon had been the first—okay, the only—of the lesser angels that Gabriel had really taken into his confidence. Neither Michael nor Uriel said anything when they got the news that Sandalphon had been taken alive, but the looks they directed at him said it all: this was his fault. He'd brought Sandalphon into the fold, and now the demons were probably going to win thanks to the information Sandalphon could give them. Gabriel had failed again, not only Sandalphon but all of Heaven.
The weight was almost more than he could bear as Gabriel threw himself at the demons' lines, knowing full well there were other angels dying in order for him to break through with his team. They reached Sandalphon in the end and Gabriel would have happily destroyed Lucifer himself when he saw the condition of his right hand man.
Astonishingly, Sandalphon hadn't broken.
Well... he'd broken, alright. He might not have given up any secrets, but he was very much altered from the angel he'd been, dark and cold and unsettlingly eager to cause pain. What was Gabriel supposed to do? It was his fault Sandalphon had been targeted, he couldn't very well kick the angel out now just because he enjoyed smiting a little too much.
Besides... Gabriel wasn't above using any and all tools at his disposal to get a job done.
Now that the war was over, his job was clear: in order for the next war to be an immediate and victimless victory for the angels, Gabriel simply had to maintain Heaven in absolute and unerringly perfect order. Which meant, more often than not, to just do it himself.
God needed messages sent to the humans; Gabriel hurried down the pearl steps of Heaven and across the surface of the Earth to deliver it himself. Then he turned and hurried back to Heaven, panting and sore on aching feet. The next day, there was another message, one to a man named Abraham. It was too important to expect another angel to deliver it appropriately. Gabriel rushed on still tired feet all the way back to Earth, and all the way back again.
He needed to save Isaac. Another trip to Earth.
He needed to save Daniel. Another frenzied rush down a million stairs.
He needed to discuss a certain Important Matter with Zechariah (and the little twit just couldn't listen and do as he was told; Gabriel took away his voice). His feet were getting tougher, at least.
He needed to bring Mary the good news. His legs were used to the race by now, the run becoming easier with each journey.
So many messages, so many important matters that needed to be done Exactly Right in order for things to keep running smoothly. Gabriel delivered them all himself, just to be sure.
He ran to Earth. He ran back to Heaven. He ran the show. He ran himself into the ground. He ran from the guilt and inner torments that refused to leave him alone. He ran until the feet of his corporation wore clear through, leaving him with hardened, golden soles. His angelic nature of devotion to his God-appointed task was revealed in his own two feet that unfailingly completed the job set before him.
Fashions changed, bare feet slipped into sandals, sandals became loafers, and Gabriel's golden feet were out of sight—and from there, out of mind.
The one thing that didn't leave his mind, ever, was the job. Run Heaven. Run it perfectly. Squash any sign of weakness or disobedience or questioning. Better for a good angel to die than to Fall, for Gabriel to lose even one single further angel than those already lost.
Sometimes, regretfully, that required a heavy hand. It was for the sake of Heaven. It was for the angel's own good. Gabriel started bringing Sandalphon with him when he needed to straighten an angel out, counting on the gold-toothed, grimacing not-smile to frighten said angel back in line. And it usually worked, at least ninety-nine times out of a hundred.
Then there was Aziraphale.
o.O.o
The archangel twins weren't actually twins in a human sense, but they were created at the same time and had an uncanny ability to communicate through exchanged looks and facial expressions without the need to talk. It had come in handy more than once, when Michael and Uriel wanted to complain about Gabriel without actually having to say it out loud and deal with him pouting.
Michael could look at Uriel and roll her eyes just once, for example, and Uriel would know it meant "Isn't he being ridiculous?"
Then Uriel in turn could huff a nearly imperceptible sigh and Michael would understand it as "If he doesn't leave off, I'm going to push him into a black hole."
They tended to have similar thoughts and ideas on things, which made it far easier to bite their tongues, because they already knew the other felt the same.
When Michael went missing, it was Uriel who nearly ripped the cosmos apart until she found Michael trapped together with that demon Ligur in a summoning circle for some failed medieval plot. It was Uriel who grudgingly agreed not to kill said demon upon rescuing them, because apparently they had both decided on a mutual ceasefire for the duration of their predicament—which didn't make much sense since now the predicament was technically over, but it was Michael after all. It was Uriel who covered for her when Michael mysteriously decided to meet up with him again "for an information exchange."
Uriel gave her a look and Michael knew it meant "You're going to get caught and how are you going to explain that?"
And Michael pursed her lips in a manner clearly stating "I'm not doing anything wrong."
Which Uriel immediately followed with a pointed, raised eyebrow which absolutely retorted "So why haven't you told Gabriel, then?"
Michael didn't have a look for that, which was fine because they both knew there wasn't a good answer. Uriel didn't care who Michael chose to "exchange information" with, not really. The War was long since over, after all, though of course it was going to get a little sticky when the time came to start it up again. She often wondered why in the Almighty's good name they were supposed to restart the War when they'd all seen what it had done to them the first go-round, but that was above her pay grade. Just because it had to happen didn't mean it was something to be eager about.
Next time, of course, they'd hopefully win quicker and more decisively. With fewer casualties, both Uriel and Michael silently prayed. They didn't need more angels like Sandalphon running around. True, he'd suffered a terrible trauma, a war hero who wasn't to blame for what had been done to him. And after all, he was certainly... effective. But. Neither of them could understand why Gabriel didn't do something about him, but he was the one in charge so they both let it be. It wasn't like they wanted the job of running things. Michael and Uriel were warriors, more inclined to middle management than the big CEO position. They had distinguished themselves in battle time and time again, working together like one immensely powerful angel that just happened to be two largely powerful angels with a near psychic connection.
In fact, they'd even drawn the notice of the Almighty. Their reward, God told them through the Metatron, was whatever they desired. They could have greater powers, they could replace Gabriel as the main boss in Heaven, or mightier weapons than anyone had ever seen, or robes of gold and crowns studded in rubies and diamonds. Anything they asked, they would receive.
Uriel and Michael had thought it over, trading many a long look before nodding in unison because they knew exactly what they wanted.
"To look upon your face," they replied together.
No angel had ever actually gotten to see the Almighty, not even Metatron, who could withstand her voice but little else. Their wish was granted, God appearing before them with the light of every sun and star that had ever been and would ever be. It was blinding, a supernova, radiant in a way that human words would never be able to describe. Uriel and Michael gazed in rapture, even as the sheer power began to peel back flecks of their upturned faces. Michael had to look away after the first glimpse, but Uriel couldn't tear her gaze from her mother, not for a full seven seconds. Tears streamed from both angels' eyes to have been given a gift of such enormity. The corporations, of course, couldn't be healed from something like that, but it was worth every bit. Their angelic nature of adoration for God was revealed in their gold-spotted faces where they had passed over powers and riches and glory in exchange for seven seconds to see their mother.
"Suppose we could have asked for her to have a word with him," Uriel's expression said as she and Michael traded looks far in the future, when Gabriel brought in a principality named Aziraphale for punishment after some mess with saving a few human kids during a big flood. "Seems a little overkill."
Michael's face held no reply, watching with masked distaste as Sandalphon grew wilder and more out of control with every gleeful stroke of the whip.
When she glowered at Gabriel, clearly stating "That's enough, call Sandalphon off now before he actually kills the principality", Gabriel only gave her a puzzled look in return because of course he wasn't privy to the meaning behind all her looks. She tried again, clearing her throat and tilting her head pointedly towards Sandalphon, who was nearly cackling as he struck the sobbing, begging principality over and over.
"I think he's learned his lesson," she murmured.
By the time Gabriel had Sandalphon stop, Uriel was starting to feel a little ill. So, it seemed, were the other angels who'd been gathered to witness the punishment, and she knew the tactic had been effective at ensuring no one else would be stepping a toe out of line. Aziraphale was left hanging in his bonds as the crowd dispersed, and it was Uriel who eventually went back to cut him down and send him on his way.
Beyond that, neither of them pushed Gabriel too hard. They weren't disloyal to him, but neither did they have an undying allegiance to either him or Heaven. Gabriel was just an archangel; Heaven was just a place. The twin archangel knights obeyed only their Almighty Queen, wherever her orders led.
o.O.o
Crowley was the only one who had ever seen Aziraphale's angelic gold.
He probably never would have, if not for that Hellhound. Not Dog, who really wasn't a bad sort, but the other one that Hell had sicced on them just for fun and had ended up clawing the living daylights out of Aziraphale's side before Crowley could stick a demonic knife between its ribs. It wasn't until he'd gotten Aziraphale back to the bookshop and out of his coat and shirt that he spotted the marks. Even then, he was mostly distracted with the bloody, current gashes, much more so than the golden scars that criss-crossed Aziraphale's back.
Once the fresh injuries had been cleaned, stitched, and bandaged, Crowley couldn't help but trace careful, delicate fingers over the lash-marks marring his friend's skin.
Crowley was no fool. He'd seen all of Aziraphale's nervous tics over the years, and they were numerous. He was prone to babbling when put on the spot, fretting and fussing when there was a particularly sticky problem, but then there were the other times. The times he got quiet and started rubbing his wrists with a clouded expression, and he only did that when he was truly afraid of being caught doing something bad.
Crowley had also seen the way Aziraphale reacted to Gabriel and Sandalphon. Crowley had tried to intimidate Aziraphale before, to absolutely no avail, had seen him go up against demons and apocalypses with only a glower—and yet, when it was those two, Aziraphale was quite clearly scared. Aziraphale, who wasn't scared of anything besides a customer with deep pockets and a desire for old books.
He'd seen Aziraphale huff and grumble about humans when they shot each other, stabbed each other, poisoned each other, but the angel had gone truly ballistic when they'd stopped a centurion from whipping a slave girl as she cried for mercy.
Crowley could connect the dots when they were simple ones. Yet somehow the scars still caught him off guard.
"They're gold," Crowley couldn't help but say in surprise. Aziraphale went very, very quiet after that.
It wasn't until some time later (after copious quantities of his best red wine) that he admitted he'd been punished for rescuing some of the children doomed to be killed by the Flood because they hadn't had a place on Noah's ark.
Once he'd started, with a bit of nudging from Crowley, he hadn't been able to stop. The entire story had come out; how he'd gone to Gabriel after Crowley had spoken with him that day, pleading on behalf of at least the children, who were surely innocent in it all. How Gabriel had refused and told him under no circumstances was he to interfere if he knew what was good for him. How Aziraphale had defied orders, helping Crowley get as many of the kids to safety as possible.
And the consequences that had come after. The assembly called in Heaven. The heavy post set into the floor. The way no one would meet Aziraphale's eyes as he curiously made his way forward when called—no one but Sandalphon, who was uncoiling a whip that thrummed of heavenly wrath. How he'd been too shaken to fight, obediently sinking to his knees facing the post as his wrists were bound to it.
The whipping itself, he gave few details about. Only that it was beyond excruciating and seemed to go on forever, that Sandalphon had clearly loved every second of it, that Aziraphale had begged Gabriel to stop to no avail. When it was over and he was very nearly dead, slumped unmoving in his restraints, Gabriel had reminded him that he'd been given direct orders not to interfere and that if he did so again, Gabriel wouldn't even try to hold Sandalphon back.
Aziraphale told Crowley between long draughts of wine how they had left him there, tied to the post with his back a mass of blood, as the shaken angels filed past him on their way back out. No one tried to help clean him up, no one dared offer a shred of aid. Finally it was one of the archangels who had cut him loose and left him back on Earth to care for his wounds alone in the sodden mud as best as he could. They'd never healed, not fully, not against a celestial weapon and without proper care. Aziraphale hadn't even known the whip had gone all the way through to reveal the gold underneath until much later.
He tried to make light of it, hiccuping as he pointed out that at least because of his example, none of the other angels had ever dared do anything to warrant such a violent punishment, so really (he reasoned) it was probably a good thing, in the end.
Crowley, already rather inebriated, went home and got doubly trashed, screaming his rage and helplessness to the indifferent skies before crumpling to clutch his throne.
He remembered the Flood. Aziraphale had clearly been unhappy but he'd been prepared to obey orders, had in fact only agreed to help rescue the children because Crowley talked him into it.
It was his fault Aziraphale had suffered so. It was his fault Aziraphale couldn't bear to have Sandalphon at his back. It was his fault the mere sound of a whip left Aziraphale frozen and pale. Crowley eventually collapsed in a drunk heap demanding of God how he was ever supposed to be able to make things right or live with that guilt. He dreamed of suns and stars and a whispered voice asking if he was really so sure Aziraphale wouldn't have done it anyway, or if it wasn't in fact Aziraphale's very nature to have done exactly what he did with or without Crowley's influence.
They never spoke of it again, but Crowley knew without ever asking that Aziraphale wouldn't, couldn't regret doing the right thing, no matter the cost. His angelic nature of mercy and whole-hearted goodness was revealed in the stripes across his back, where he bled as punishment for kindnesses done without authorization.
Knowing he would suffer the consequences.
And done anyway.