Title: Tongues of Men and Angels
Rating: TA for implied?romance.
Summary: Glimpses of grace: the story of one brother and two sisters. Through the grace of God, all things are made new.A series of drabbles. Ish. Gabriel/OC. Ish.
Disclaimer: *obligatory insert*

Interlude: Full of Grace
At that moment heaven was opened,
and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on him.
Matthew 3: 16

He hesitated, crouching on the eaves. Their silence—a seldom occurrence between himself and this strange, scarred elder sister—was comfortable. Usually these late-night, star-shadowed sessions were full of slow, heavy words, each swollen with laughter or sadness—or in his case, sorrow and something vaguely like resentment. Generally, the closest they came to silence was only a pregnant pause in Bethany's speech.

But he had a question, one that had been clinging to the inner walls of his heart ever since Bethany's slow and careful story, delivered between curtains of steam and bathwater, her words whispery over the low rumble of the whirlpool jets. He needed desperately to ask this one question, though he had no idea why.

Do you know what I am? It danced on the edge of his tongue—though it wasn't quite the right question, and of course the answer was yes. Instead, this:

"Do you understand what I am?" –It was out before he even realized he'd said it.

She slanted a sideways look at him, eyeing him as though he'd suddenly gone mad—a distinct possibility, given that he'd been spending day and night in the company of these two strange sisters. And perhaps, too, it was he who was no longer certain of what he was, or his purpose.

Perhaps he was hoping she had the answer.

"Uhm, I had assumed you were an angel," she said slowly, as though speaking to a very stupid child. "An archangel, actually."

His brow furrowed painfully. "Do you understand—what I was sent here to do?"

Her perplexed expression eased, as though she suddenly understood him; she averted her eyes while a strangely lighthearted smile flirted with the corner of her ruined mouth.

"I'm guessing it was to kill us all."

He reared backward, visibly recoiling, in what was perhaps the strongest physical response he'd ever experienced. His heart thudded painfully and unexpectedly in his chest.

She stared at him openly now, concern written over every damaged feature, and for a moment her worry seemed more prominent than her scar. Clearly she had not expected her faint jest to stir such a reaction. "Are you okay?" she asked tentatively, and he shook his head—then nodded, baffling even himself. It had sliced through him—so cleanly, so brightly and scaldingly—to hear this thing stated so baldly, to hear it phrased in terms of us rather than in terms of other.

And yet: it seemed as though her voice had unburdened him of a thing he hadn't even known he was carrying.

"There was a woman," he breathed at last, though his words tasted bloody around the heart in his mouth. "There was a Child—"

Her hand glided through the darkness like a shy dove and rested lightly on his knee. He stared at it as though it were a wild, dangerous creature: easily crushed beneath his own grip, or his mace—but liable to bite.

"I was going to destroy them," he said, still staring at her slender fingers, calloused and slicked with moonlight. His voice was hushed, as though she'd called the confession from his secret heart. "He was going to be—He is the Messiah."

It might have been you, he thought, but didn't say. He did not know why this thing seemed so important. It might have been you, and Joy.

She was silent in the star-pierced night, but she did not pull away.

"What are your wounds?" he asked, almost desperately, remembering their conversation about humans and their pain, clutching at their open wounds as though they could make something from them.

She laughed softly, and the sound seemed to layer itself on his shoulders, lightly and comfortingly. Nevertheless, his wings hunched defensively, and they shivered like metal chimes and tree-leaves in the night. "It doesn't work like that," she teased, and he let out a soft and unexpectedly human huff of exasperation. "It doesn't," she insisted. "I can't just tell you all my secrets because you've finally trusted me with yours." She paused, then added gently, "Besides, the timing is all wrong. Just—let me do this thing for you."

And she sat with him in the stark, starred silence, and her hand stayed on his knee like a small, warm, living thing: like a mouse, or a very trusting bird.

Word Count: 723
Completed: May 1, 2011
Back down to the appropriate word-count-range! Phew.
I wrote this at work (long after this story was supposed to be done) and I think it might be my favorite one so far. Hmm, interesting. In other news, I am getting THE SWEETEST, KINDEST, MOST ENCOURAGING reviews on this fic, perhaps out of all the other fics I've ever written. I wonder why? Are Legion fans just naturally more tenderhearted? Is the note of hope and tenderness I'm trying to impart on this story affecting my readers too? Either way, it's doing me worlds of good, as I am trying for a very gentle and soft story (even in the impending tragedy), and you all are inspiring more of that feeling inside me. Thank you so much, people! :)