It was all a big joke in his expense, wasn't it? Castiel, the angel of the Lord, in Las Vegas, the city of sin. While it could be said that this was the handiwork of a demon, there was an equal chance that the folks upstairs were simply demonstrating their sense of humor. Bets were probably being made that very instant in earnest. Apprehension was written all over his face, foiling what could have been an impressive entrance into The Venetian. Nope - instead, while his stride argued confidence, the pained expression he wore which read "I cannot believe I am doing this!" belied that.

Not one hour later, he parted crowds with his sour exit, bearing a newly reddened cheek, smelling of fleetingly airborne martinis and the new and undesirable knowledge that his vessel's nether regions were oh-so, very fragile. Why was it that Dean couldn't punch him and achieve its desired effect but a woman could kick him between the legs and introduce a pain he'd never known?

So here he was: leaning against a parked cab, using his fingers to comb out the caviar in his hair, and lacking the dignity he had renounced the moment he arrived.

"What did you do?" sang out a displeased voice.

Mid-combing, he froze. He peered into the cab, and there was Gabriel, sitting in the driver's seat, pretending to read a newspaper. It was then neatly folded up and forgotten as he flashed him a smile.

"Are you following me?" Castiel asked, appalled.

Gabriel made a dubious face. "Nnnnyes and no. I told you, my biz is here and New York. Thought I might check up on you, see how you're doing." His consideration was contradicted by an evil grin. Oh God, was he witness to that horror? Castiel stilled himself, making every effort not to let his paranoia betray him.

"I'm fine."

There was a sly flicker in his eyes in response. That was not encouraging. "Given the undignified stance... III'd say no."

Castiel gave himself a self-conscious glance. He had been bending his knees awkwardly, as though he desperately needed to use the bathroom. Trust Gabriel to put two and two together.

"Painful, ain't it?" Castiel's withering stare failed to faze his amusement. "Oh well," he reached over and opened the door for him, "don't let that discourage you - assuming you'll score eventually, you'll experience the exact opposite during intercourse!"

Castiel had just settled into the passenger seat when he said this, taking him by surprise. "Bluntness wasn't necessary," he said flatly.

"But, that is the term you used in there, right?" Oh. Oh God. The knowing wag of his eyebrows was like salt in the wounds. At Castiel's pained look, he smugly added, "I have very acute hearing!"

"Are you here to taunt me," Castiel asked, impatience rising, "or are you here to serve as some guidance?"

"Hoho, don't you worry, thou shalt be taunted further," he simpered diabolically, "but first things first - I'm here to point you in the right direction. Why are you in Vegas?"

Bewildered, he frowned. It was as though he had been asked why he was sitting in the passenger seat when he had been the one to let him in! "You suggested I go to a different environment...?"

"Uh, yeah, and how is this different? Flashing lights? Nightlife? Hot girls? Why look even, there's Little Red right there," he said, pointing forward.

"That's a prostitute."

"Look, just avoid the US of A altogether. American girls within your vessel's demographic are like MTV: hot but mindless - so you can just forget it." Gabriel granted him no time to argue otherwise. "Hey! I'll even get you started!" A purposeful glint ignited in his eyes as he raised both hands in preparation. "Suit up, trench down, that is how you get around!"

And with the snaps of his fingers, both angels vanished.

Baa, baa!

There were sheep. This was either New Zealand or Wales.

"Oi! Darren! Wot's all this about you knockin' about with my missus?"

He was in Wales. Most likely Cardiff. He glanced down at himself. Sans trench coat too, apparently. Its absence made him realize that it had always served as a metaphorical piece of armor. Now he felt naked and vulnerable.

How unfortunate that consciousness to his social faux pas arrived at a delayed rate. At last, he knew ... the key was subtlety! Should he ever want to engage in such sexual congress with say, Audrey - an indecent gleam unknowingly appeared in his eyes - advances would be made through a verbal filter, not as he had done so candidly in Vegas. Needless to say, this was allllll hypothetical (he even failed to notice the way he frowned at this additional thought). Of course, naturally, as one would expect, certainly, obviously, clearly, hypothetical, hypothetical...

This internal dialog could be read plainly on his face, but the woman he was currently conversing with was too in love with the sound of her own voice to notice. Her name was Gwen and, as intended, she had nothing in common with Audrey. Except perhaps her quirky fashion sense. He would argue differently, but it was what initially drew him to her. Though, it was difficult to be fond of her when her idea of a reasonable date was to get "shit-faced" (her sterling vocabulary, not his) at her local pub.

Gwen spoke very fast, frighteningly fast, seldom allowing breaks for effect or even for response. Her mouth functioned like a speeding train, and he could only watch in awe. It preyed him that she may not acquire enough oxygen, so rather than listening to her, he was acutely awaiting signs of asphyxiation.

"Sothisslagtodaygavemetheevils, youknowwhotImean? Y'knowhowsomeonegivesyoualook, theypretendthey'renotbuttheyare, andyou'relikeyougotaproblemlove? Andthey'relike, nonotatall - whatmakesyouthinkthat? Imeanlikecomeonlike, she'sagirlwhoshaggedtheirboss, yeah? AndshethinksthatI –"

His thoughts wandered to Audrey, and how she would accomplish her quirky ensemble so much more. Red band leader jacket, black and white striped blouse, a black tutu made out something shiny, thigh high boots that were equally as shiny, fishnet stockings... There was a very vintage elegance about her, no matter what she wore or how she acted, and Gwen just looked to be trying a little too hard. And she was noticeably heavier than Audrey, given that she sort of bulged out of her fishnets, making her legs look quite unappealing. She really ought to cover them up.

Audrey, on the other hand, shouldn't need to ... no, she had very, very nice legs –

"Oi!" Her fingers snapped before his eyes. "Mahfaceisuphere!"

He had the grace to look rueful. "My apologies."

"Alrightlovelet'sjustgetdowntobusinessyeah?" She paused, she actually paused to allow him to respond.

Puzzled, he cocked his head. "What business?"

Her lips stretched to a hideous grin.

"Awww, babe. You are too cute," she said at a coherent pace, before inelegantly bounding onto the table (knocking over her drinks - yes, that's plural - in the process) and roughly yanking him forward so they would meet for a messy kiss with far too much tongue than necessary. His arms were suspended in the air, unsure of what to do with them, so he just sat there and reluctantly obliged, as one would do for an unpleasant dental procedure.

The kiss(es) with Audrey were pleasant. This was just wrong. This was no different to how a dog would greet their beloved keeper!

Ring! Ring!

He broke the kiss (and heedlessly pushed her off him and onto the floor) with a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank you Father," he choked out, standing to leave and frantically patting himself down for his phone.

From the floor, a tipsy Gwen squinted up at him as though he were a neon light that was harsh to look at. "Wot?"

"Forgive me - I must take this call," he said, slowly backing out of the bar, and jolted to a sprint once he was out the door.

The bartender, who had had his eyes fixed on their table the entire time, tittered quietly to himself as he polished a beer mug dry.

"This bowl of porridge is too hot."

Her name was Naomi. He had a good feeling about her.

She was the type of honest girl he and the brothers would encounter during cases. The type who would cooperate generously and then, after the brothers disposed of the threat, present them with a heartfelt "Thank you" - and perhaps a goodbye kiss to whichever brother she had attracted - before they drove off into the sunset once again. These type of girls had never pulled his regard beyond his main obligation to them. It was always strictly professional. Now, he had the chance to pay attention to one of these type without responsibilities hanging over his head.

Nothing about Naomi repelled him, but nothing had yet to fascinate him either. Audrey was a bit of a freak, without the benefit of the supernatural, and he found that interesting. Naomi was so... ordinary. He was fond of her eyes though. They were a brilliant blue, just like a certain other young woman's.

One notable factor about her was that she was one hundred per cent Christian, and it was at a church fete that they socialized.

"Isn't it lovely that they built a great big park right next to our beloved hoase of God?"

Castiel, who had been walking with her, stopped for a beat. Hoase of God? Oh right, he forgot - he was in Canada. Not quite the US of A. His walk resumed, quickly catching up with her. He cleared his throat and seamlessly slipped into his own Canadian accent.

"It is. Unfortunately, it looks like it's goan to rain fer a while."

"Toadally," she agreed, smiling grimly. "Do you think if we were to pray, God would make sherr it wouldn't rain anymoar?"

He frowned at her. "I doat it."

She smiled wryly. "Dohn't be such a Doatin' Thomas!" Then, what he thought was her keeling over was actually a fluid move down to a kneeling position. With closed eyes, she beckoned him to follow (which he didn't), and then held her hands in a prayer. "Dear heavenly father; although there is beaudy in all weather, rain oar dry –"

"What're you doin'?" he asked incredulously, casting a gaze around. The lack of an audience told him that this apparently wasn't out of the norm. "God doesn't manage the weather."

She opened one eye and frowned up at him with it. "Excuse me Father, fer just a few minutes as I address this skeptic." Him? A skeptic? He ought to laugh in her face! Instead, his mouth fell open in indignation while she rose to her feet, addressing him with great confidence, "Isaiah 45:7, "I form the light and create darkness, I bring prosperidy and create disaster, I the Lord do all these things"."

"Yes, he does command it, but manage it, he does not. He does not cader to yerr needs. God is imperfect. He may be absolute, but not perfect."

"Yes he is!" she shot back heatedly. "God is perfect! God is one and all! A nonpareil! It's what He's all aboat!"

"Entiredy does not equate perfection."

"It does in God's instance!"

The metaphorical second head she sprouted bore her true colors. He eyed it bewilderedly. "No, it doesn't."

"Does to!"

"Does not."

"Does to!"

"Does not."

"Does –" He held up a hand, silencing her for a thought. This wasn't working either! She was too religious! Too faithful! And was just as stubborn as any Athiest and would not accept anything less than the dogma they were acquainted with. Not to mention all too reliant on her Bible, where the truth had been lost in translation. At least Audrey kept an open mind, although, he felt, involuntarily so.

He turned to speak, to inform her that he needed to leave, but she had once again knelt down and immersed herself in superfluous prayer. This gave him the opportunity to furtively depart the scene.

The man who had handled the offertory bag during the service turned around from chatting with a group of people, and smirked in the direction of where Castiel was heading.

"And this bowl of porridge is too cold."

As he refined his conduct towards women, his ability to discern their faults quickened. Some, however, left nothing to the imagination. Take this instance for example:

"Guten Abend meine Dame," he had greeted a German young lady in the gentlemanly manner he was beginning to master, and as boldly as she was beautiful, she had ardently responded with:

"Ich möchte, daß du Bitte fick mich hart von hinten, jetzt und hier, verführerischer Mann!"

In the distance, an elderly woman fainted. Blood filled his cheeks and he blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice. He ought to feel scandalized, but he had been swept by a surprising sense of admiration.

"That was very bold of you to say," he murmured, his voice hushed with incredulity.

"Thank you!" she exclaimed, startling him; he didn't know she could speak English. "So... yes?"

"Ye – no! No, nein. I apologize, madam, but I have no interest in doing... that, to you."

"Oh," she sighed, trudging away despondently.

The failures didn't end there. Rose was too clingy, Mai was too quiet, April was too unintelligent ("I love Obama's tan!"), Jade was too butch, Stefani was too loud, Sharon was too lesbian (his mistake), Wendy was too delusional and emotional, Maria was too scientific and serious, and the Winchester brothers were too ... them. Yes, after being discouraged for so long by women, he tried men. This brief, experimental gambit ultimately deemed unsuccessful, though he should have expected that the two heterosexual Winchester brothers would not appreciate him coming on to them.

"What?" Dean had asked - barked, to be precise, peering at the angel through the rear view mirror with growing discomfort. Castiel had been staring at him for quite some time, and though his main intention was to leer (or rather, find something about Dean to leer at), he had been more regarding him as though he were a strange and rare plant.

"You have very green eyes. They are nice."

Disturbed, Dean had side-eyed Sam for help. Sam, however, had sought to appear oblivious by idly flicking through their father's journal, though the smirk tugging the corner of his lips betrayed him.

Disgruntled that he was left to fend for himself, he glowered at the road ahead. But the prickly sensation of the angel's stare had him stealing a glance back up at the mirror, and when he saw that this stare didn't seem to be going anywhere, he exploded.

"You're gonna have a black one if you don't quit staring!"

This seemed to roll right off the angel, who then directed his gaze at his brother.

"And Sam –" Sam had stiffened immediately, unprepared for Castiel's sudden attention, "you are very tall."

Pause.

"Uh. That's more of an observation, but thanks, Cas, er, thanks."

A long, distressing silence had ensued; both brothers engaged in a silent discussion through oblique glances ("Is he gonna say something else?", "I have no idea, but I am seriously freaked out."), while Castiel slumped back in his seat, crossing the boys off from his mental check list. In retrospect, he was glad this experiment failed. An intimate relationship with either one of these humans? It was then that the angel became the third party in their suffocating ring of discomfort.

Much to the brothers' not-so-discreet relief, he informed them that he needed to leave, and it wasn't until he vanished that they shared a breath of relief.

"Crank the volume up and let us never speak of that again?"

"Read my mind, Sammy."

"Spare me, brother, I beg of you," groaned Castiel, sinking back on bench in exhaustion. Exhausted from all the different words from all the different languages from all the different time zones of all the different girls! Not to mention having to first choose a girl wore him out in advance. Gabriel materialized next to him in an instant, garbed in archetypal French attire. He even had a fake mustache.

"Nonsense, Monsieur!" he cried, boasting a French accent. With an emphatic gesture, he introduced the nearby Eiffel Tower into their conversation. "You are in Paree, ze city of love! You cannot fail!"

They were allowed no time to exchange glances in their usual manner, as they were silenced by the passing presence of a pretty lady. A breath became arrested in his throat; her hair was as brilliantly red as Audrey's. It felt wrong to be drawn to her for those reasons, but the figurative side of him already had its hand out, groping the air in need like a clingy child desiring their beloved teddy bear.

She was barely beyond earshot when Gabriel leaned over and furtively whispered from the corner of his mouth: "Fire in ze hole!"

Before Castiel could question that, Gabriel was on his feet and scurrying after her (in a bizarre way that involved skipping on his toes - à la Pepé Le Pew, perhaps?), dragging a reluctant angel with him.

"Bonjour, ma chérie dame!" he hailed grandly when he emerged at her side, hooking her attention and achieving a polite smile from her. Curiosity crossed her face when her eyes met with Castiel, who was standing dutifully behind Gabriel, not wanting to look too desperate but still wanting to be seen. Just when it appeared as though he would say something incredibly romantic and poetic, he dropped the accent and asked, "Haaaave you met Castiel?" before shoving him into her and fleeing in the same bizarre fashion.

Her name was Monique. To society's standards, she was perfect. Perfect hair, perfect skin, perfect nails, perfect weight, perfect height - had her hair been blond and her eyes blue (and assuming she wasn't Jewish), she would have been Hitler's first preference to represent his prized master race. He regarded it all with reservation. Such perfection seemed so... abnormal. Even Audrey had her foibles; her Monstrous Pride That Ate Everything That Threatened It triumphing as the major one. And Monique was remarkably upbeat - not in an eccentric way like Audrey, but like a Disney princess. It wouldn't surprise him if she were to casually belt out a song about how wonderful she thought croissants were.

She had one imperfection, and because it was personal, it actually annoyed him greatly: she couldn't correctly pronounce his name. She would say it in that it would rhyme with "Bastille", and he would rather not associate himself with a former Parisian fortress-prison. His attempts at helping her with this dilemma were ineffective.

"Ca - sti - el."

"Ca - steel."

"Il y a trois syllabes. Ca - sti - el."

"Ca - stee - yul."

His ambitious gaze flattened. "Ce n'est pas grave."

"... Ca - stee - yul!"

He ran a weary hand down his face, but swiftly reverted back to his composed demeanor when she spun around to him.

"Would you like to see," her English filtered through a thick accent as she leaned in, as though to share a secret, "ze birds?"

His face twisted comically as the words "Yes" and "No" battled internally for release. Much to his dismay, a rather strangled utterance of "Yes" won.

To an onlooker, they resembled mimes, somehow communicating over the schmaltzy music played by the trio of accordionists who followed them around the city, turning it all into a huge self-parody. Said onlooker was then mugged, and the music even romanticized it.

An hour of bird-watching, cheese-admiring and watching-her-weep-over-the-immense-beauty-of-the-art-in-the-Louvre later, his resolve broke. He had made his decision. Manhattan was graced with the angel's reappearance minutes later, trench coat and all, power-walking towards a certain young woman. He had never been more grateful to see someone waving at their own reflection in the Times Square Toys 'R Us window. This was someone with a charismatic nature he had become addicted to. Conversing with her was intellectually stimulating. Looking at her was... another kind of stimulating.

Mid-wave, he grabbed her shoulder, spun her around to face him, and while a million different actions suggested themselves his mind, he chose to simply stare at her gratefully.

"Castiel? Um, hi?"

"Hello."

"Uh, are you alright? You're not blinking."

"I'm just very happy to see you."

"I didn't ask whether you had a gun in your pocket."

His grateful stare contorted bemusedly, but quickly softened, appreciating and finding her cheekiness comforting. Gabriel was wrong - this wasn't circumstantial; he really did feel something for her. It was then that he realized, with untimely alarm, that this was the first time they had spoken since the incident in the backroom. He made a very conscious move of releasing her shoulder.

"Why were you waving at your reflection?" he asked in a hasty attempt to be conversational.

She jolted, remembering. "Oh! There's a little girl in the window –" She turned and pointed; indeed there was a girl in the display window, regarding them both with wide-eyed curiosity. "– see?" She elbowed him lightly. "Wave at her!"

Yielding, he gave the little girl a small wave. The girl giggled, and shyly crawled out of view. He felt Audrey's elbow nudge him again.

"Ooh, she likes you!" she teased. "Let's go meet her!"

Before he could protest, she yanked him through the store's revolving doors, and all he could do was stare longingly at anywhere but the door - he'd had just about enough of meeting new girls today!

This was forgotten the moment his eyes laid upon the heart of the store. It was so vivid and noisy and buzzing with young energy and there was a Ferris wheel inside the store! If the Winchesters and their world didn't seem so faraway before, it did now. Being with them now would have meant watching them argue over whose socks were whose while the motel's radiator clicked in the corner.

"Hi sweetie, what's your name?"

He turned to the sound of Audrey's voice; it seemed that she had located the little girl and was kneeling down to address her.

"Ophelia!" came her proud reply.

Her regard traveled back to him, whispering loudly. "Like from Hamlet!" Then, her gaze darted to and from either one of them, an idea forming, and before he could even convey suspicion, she hopped up and pulled him forward. "Ophelia, this is my friend, Castiel." He stilled when her hand drifted up to caress his face, while she held eye contact with the girl. "Isn't he handsome?"

"He must be a prince!" she gasped. Audrey, as though she had never met the man standing right next to her, gasped with her. Soon enough, her wonder spread like a plague.

"Where's a prince?"

"Him! Him! He's a prince! He's a prince!"

After an eruption of hyperactive squeals about a prince, and a random utterance of "Purple Rain" in the background, he found himself with an audience of little girls, no older than six, standing expectantly before him. Seeing them form a Great Wall of Children between he and Audrey suggested their questionable future.

"Are you REALLY a prince?" huffed an outrageously skeptical little girl. Most likely the oldest, who thus thought herself to be entitled to being right all the time.

"Uh," his eyes darted up to Audrey for help and she merely beckoned him to play along, "... er, yes?"

"Where's your princess?"

"ME! ME ME ME!" screamed Ophelia, tugging his hand like rag doll. She was freakishly strong. "I am! He waved to me!"

"Wow," he heard Audrey murmur, "if that's a form of courtship, I must be a massive sllll–" she caught a sharp look from one of the parents, "– s-symbol of polygamy."

A woman trickily negotiated her way through the congregation of little girls, stopping to crouch down to Ophelia.

"Ophie, honey, we have to go now," she said with a fixed yet loving gaze. It was her mother.

"But my prince!" she cried, pulling at his hand in an insistent frenzy. He would really like to reclaim control over his hand now.

"We're having dinner at Chuck E. Cheese!"

"CHUCK E. CHEESE!" she screamed, tearing her hand away from his and sprinting out the door so fast he felt the wind rush through his hair.

"Tsk. She's just as Shakespeare wrote her," Audrey sighed fondly.

An unsmiling businessman, who gave the impression of regarding everything with skepticism, appeared next to the mother, who was smiling tenderly as though the sight of her screaming child warmed her heart. This man gauged Castiel suspiciously.

"You always surround yourself with little girls?" he asked, not bothering to mask the hostility in his tone. Thankfully, Audrey rushed in to save the day before he said something stupid.

"Oh no no, it's okay!" she exclaimed, curling her arm around Castiel's. Oh, how he's missed this. "He's with me!"

The woman delivered her husband a scolding smack on the arm. "I told you!" she clamored. She directed a roll of her eyes to the pair of them, as though he wasn't standing right there. "I mean, it's so obvious by the way he looks at you. Sorry. Anyway, you folks have a nice night!"

The couple exited, abandoning them in an awkward situation. They both wore matching blushes as they stood frozen. Time seemed to resume normal flow the moment they began to stir from their frozen states, steering them into a place where evidence of that awkward moment laid just at their feet. Mouths opened in unintended unison to speak, spawning another uncomfortable spell, but then something else genuinely prodded her attention.

"Have you been drinking?" she asked, pulling away, sniffing. "I detect maple syrup too, the glorious smell of the Canada." Her eyes narrowed. "Come to think of it, your accent has been off all night."

He gave her a clueless glance. "I'm soary, I don't knoh what yer talking aboat." His eyes flew open, realizing. She grinned. "I was... visiting a friend who lives in Canada," he explained.

"Ooh I love Canadians!" she gushed, as though they were a fascinating species.

"Yes," he said absently. His mind had wandered back to his conversation with Dean. Perhaps this was a chance to... provoke her? "Yes," he repeated emphatically, "and she is a very nice girl. She's nice - she's, she's better than nice." Her teasing look had him stumbling over the words.

Her look then softened into something either genuinely contented or quietly restraining resentment. "I'm happy for you."

The wonted reaction would be to smile appreciatively, but instead he held her captive with his persistent gaze, awaiting her to break and exhibit jealousy, but she merely smiled innocently.

A sales assistant dressed as an elf interrupted their staring contest.

"Mr. Claus hath beseeched that this be delivered to the Pretty White Girl With Red Hair yonder," he informed in a monotone, with a yawn to match, as he presented her with a card.

"What?" she turned the card over, only to quickly flip it back when Castiel had leaned in for a peek.

"Black Santa thinks you're cute," the mock elf deadpanned, pointing listlessly in the direction of the store's version of Santa Claus, portrayed by an African American.

While it looked as though she regarded it all as a cute joke, she then stole a cunning glance at Castiel from the corners of her eyes - a move he did not fail to notice - and made an impulsive decision.

"Tell him I'll be right over!" she notified the elf, flashing him her pageant smile. Before he could help himself, Castiel let out a small scoff. "What?"

"You're trying to make me jealous," he smirked.

"Am not!"

"You're a terrible liar."

"Oh, and you expect me to believe your Canadian girl friend story?"

She flustered him into honesty. "What's not to believe?" he asked, frowning. "Her name is Naomi Matthews, she lives in Edmonton, Alberta; she is a Baptist Christian –"

"And she's always up fer a mean old game of ice-hockey, eh?" She smiled apologetically at the dull expression he pulled. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't stereotype." Across the room, Black Santa winked at her. In response, she raised her hand and made a very ghetto gesture. "Holla!"

"What is your decision?" he asked, the silkiness in his tone attracting her attention. "Are you consorting with Father Christmas tonight," he moved towards her, "or with me?"

His emerging coquetry invited her to play, and she began to smile in approval. "Well... he offers presents, reindeer and candy canes. What can you offer?"

He dipped his head, as though to acknowledge this as a valid point, and then presented her a dark gaze. Interest filled her eyes, curious about the significance of such a gaze, when he unexpectedly reached forward and brushed a single finger along her cheek, leaving behind nothing but a tingling trail. He held his finger up at her. An eyelash.

She snorted good-naturedly, "You're offering me a wish?"

"You don't want it?" he asked with feigned uncertainty, drawing his finger away.

"No, give it!" she shouted dumbly, seizing his hand forward and holding him there. There was five seconds of watching a range of expressions dance across her face as she decided upon her wish, before finally, she locked eyes with him and blew the eyelash away. It was... strangely erotic. Both seemed to realize exactly this, and while Castiel tried to pull away, she held him there with a bawdy grin. With some effort, he managed to reclaim his hand eventually, which left her pouting sullenly.

"Hm. Didn't come true," she huffed, pointedly ignoring the way his eyes grew wide with curiosity. "I think –" she began to back away, feigning innocence, "I'll go sit on Santa's lap and ask for it then."

He was beginning to like the teasing game, but because he had no ammunition for that, all he could do was purse his lips to one side and suppress the smile that threatened. With a lingering gaze that said that their game wasn't over, he turned and left.

A cab driver glanced at the angel through the rear view mirror, leaving the store looking thoroughly indulged. He pulled it down to himself, smirked slyly, and his face morphed into that of Gabriel's.

"And this bowl of porridge is just right."

Nearly 6000 words - this has gotta be my longest chapter. I realize why I'm so resentful of the longer chapters: they take fucking ages to edit.

I was going to post this last Wednesday but then decided to do a complete rewrite (plus a bitch of an edit). And for what it's worth, I love the Canadian accent! I'll stop making cultural jabs now.

Read and review, eh?