Rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt, the sigil tattoos on his forearms seeming to soak in the light and turn darker, John sat down at the table in his apartment. Sure, he'd been given a third chance at life; sure he'd had the cancer ripped from his lungs and his lungs were now cleaner then when he was born. Sure he'd never touch another Lucky Strike or any tobacco-filled product ever again (and it was killing him, but he never went back on his word) but it certainly didn't mean he couldn't drink. He poured a finger width of Jim Beam into the glass in front of him.

"Up next, seeing if I can survive cirrhosis of the liver." He toasted no one visible and drank silently, feeling it burn down his throat and warm his belly. He'd not eaten tonight. He'd been slightly nervous (him nervous!) after receiving the message through the drawing. Heaven didn't exactly charge him with missions very often. Sure he was back in good graces, he might even get to go to Heaven when he died. That was a ways off though. Who knew what might happen between now and then.

So. The Ten Commandments. Where was Charlton Heston when you needed him? John thought, flipping through them in his mind. The first three were out. Andrew obviously had one God, would never take His name in vain, and wouldn't make any idols, since he could totally see God on his own. Besides, the guy was crusading to bring people to the Lord, not down a false path. Those were out.

The fourth. The guy always kept Sunday holy, and practically lived at the church anyway. That wouldn't work. Five was out. He had no earthly parents. Getting him to either murder or steal… although you could sort of see Andrew stealing the money out of peoples' hands to fund his ministry… it wouldn't work. He'd know you were trying to get him to kill someone and people were giving their money freely. And an angel, especially a cherub, would love his neighbor and never covet.

"Damn." John sighed. He ran through the commandments again in his mind. Wait. The seventh Commandment. Adultery. Could it be possible? He knew demons came with the proper equipment first hand, but did angels? Sure they wore a human suit, but were they anatomically impaired like Ken dolls? Could an angel even want something as sinful as sexual gratification?

John poured more whiskey into his empty glass. It certainly had been a long time since he'd had sexual gratification, of any decent sort. Sure, there'd been some pity situations while he'd been dying of the cancer, but he knew he was getting laid out of pity and that just ruined a lot of the charm. Then he'd met Angela Dodson. She'd seen him at his worst and at his best. There was a spark there as well; he'd felt it physically and psychically.

But then he'd gotten busy and not returned her calls, skipped lunch dates. He just wasn't good at women he liked. All the years of hardening himself against getting attached, physically and emotionally, they just hindered any chance at breaking the wall down to someone who might actually love him.

The battle against Mammon and Gabriel had ripped away the last few people in his life that were his true friends. Chaz, Father Hennessey, and Beeman. He sucked down more whiskey to burn the welling sadness in his chest. Fucking angel had gone looney toons and his best friends were dead in the wake.

He was running out of people to turn to, out of favors to call in. Finishing the last dregs in the glass, he rose, slid into his trench coat and headed downtown.