Chapter: William questions Gabriel on the depictions of angels. Except, you know, mostly he just wishes he had the guts to touch his wings. Pre-Gabriel/William
Blessed With Grace
Ever since that day in the desert, the image of Gabriel bathed in a red halo has been at the back of William's mind. It was something to mull over in the long lonely evening hours. Much to his chagrin it had also been something to recall with guilty pleasure late at night, but denial was altogether healthier in this regard.
He had been intrigued, and scrounged around for more angelic depictions of Gabriel than the unflattering graffiti you might find on the walls of Vega, until he hit jackpot in a tome on the iconography of angels. William had little interest in art history, but the book came with plenty of large, glossy pages featuring Gabriel.
The depictions differed through the ages, but he wasn't disappointed as he had already known that the paintings would hold little resemblance to reality.
The paintings did spawn new questions.
And today, months later, the opportunity to assuage his curiosity has fallen into his lap.
He flushes under the annoyed gaze Gabriel sends his way. His wings arch high and taut on his back, as if they too seek to portray their displeasure with William's preoccupation. Needless to say this is extremely counterproductive, since William's fascination partially lays with these wings.
"It's nothing," he says dutifully.
Gabriel's fingers twitch.
"That is," William says hastily, face flushing brighter, "I was wondering…" He cuts himself off abruptly. There are some questions you just Do Not Ask.
For a heart-stopping moment he expects Gabriel to snap his neck right here and now, but all he does is turn his back on William and move to walk away with a grumble of, "I have no time to waste on stuttering cowards."
William flinches. The disdainful reprimand sounds like something his father would say. Something tells him Gabriel chose his words for that very purpose. "Have your wings always been black?" he blurts out before fear can stay his tongue again.
Gabriel pauses, turns. His forehead sports a tiny crease. His wings tuck low behind his back as if he is trying to hide them. "Does it make a difference to you?" Gabriel asks. He sounds honestly curious, nothing threatening nor mocking about his tone of voice.
William flushes a darker shade of red. He feels like a child asking a child's questions. "I saw pictures. Paintings," he corrects himself a heartbeat later. "Your wings are commonly red or white. I know Furiad has red wings, but I have never seen an angel with white ones. Which is funny, since that is how we pictured angels before you arrived." He decides against mentioning chubby toddlers and diapers.
When he starts circling William, Gabriel looks puzzled, but not angry.
That's good enough for him, William decides, and forces his body to relax somewhat.
"You know that most angels have black wings," he says, and William relaxes further when he realizes that Gabriel is willing to humor him, even if his answer is no answer at all. He flexes his wings slightly as if to show that yes, they are still black, exactly like they have been for the last 25 years.
William knows better than to push his luck, no matter how much he aches to reach out and touch. He doesn't think there is anyone who met a higher angel, and hasn't secretly wondered if their wings are as soft as they look. "I assume the white wings stand for purity and innocence," William says, still hoping for a proper answer.
Gabriel's lips quirk with dark glee. "Then you have your answer already, don't you, my son?" As if to add insult to injury he pats William's shoulder in the most patronizing manner possible.
He cringes in his mortification, not daring to protest for Gabriel's amusement is only ever a hair's breadth removed from his fury. At the back of his mind William marvels that things have changed so much they can discuss the color of feathers at all. Gabriel never used to stick around for friendly chats. "What about the halo then?" he asks, half because he has honestly wondered for months, and half because he wants to poke and prod this curious amiability.
There is a tiny niggle of a thought at the back of his mind that he just wants to marvel at Gabriel's beauty bathed in an angelic halo.
It is Gabriel's turn to falter. The steady rhythm of his steps halts for a mere second, William would have never noticed if not every one of his senses were perfectly attuned to Gabriel and Gabriel alone. He stops behind William, too far to touch, but close enough that William could have sworn he feels his body heat. "Is that what you desire?" he breaths, "a white-winged being bathed in heavenly light and Grace, too ethereal to ever be touched?" He makes a noise at the back of his throat. "What crushing disappointment we must have been for your kind."
William's mouth is dry and hot, his tongue too clumsy to form the words bubbling up in him. The irony of the speechless orator is not lost on him. His hands clench at his sides. "No, no," he manages to croak out. "You're…"
He is so much more than any faithful acolyte could have ever hoped for. So much more than human, even when he just sits and talks like any other man he could never be mistaken for anything so plain or mortal. Maybe it was foolish to wonder at all.
Gabriel's breath is hot against the back of his neck. "Impure?"
He inhales shakily. His eyes flutter closed. Before his closed eyes he sees serene archangel Gabriel alight and unattainable. He could never dream of that Gabriel touching him, not like he dreams of harsh calloused hands splattered with blood. "You are," ethereal he means to say, but instead his traitorous lips utter, "perfect."
A soft hum is the only answer he receives; Gabriel has been more guarded lately. It suits him ill. One as resplendent and powerful as Gabriel should never have to hold back on anything.
The silence feels heavy, stifling even, and leaves him distinctly feeling like Gabriel is waiting for something he fails to provide. Beads of sweat run down William's back. Gabriel doesn't cope well with dissatisfaction.
Something catches the angel's attention though William can hear naught but the wind, he takes three steps away from William and listens to something only he can hear. He rustles his wings before he turns back to William. The predator's smile is back on his face, his eyes are sharp and hard as they gaze upon William. He could not be farther out of reach.
"Run back to your little human burrow now, and speak to them of how the great Michael saved them all," he says, and while his voice is jovial, there can be no mistaking the authority behind it. Not that Gabriel ever expects anything less than absolute obedience.
Despite the clear dismissal, William opens his mouth. To question him or renew his oaths of loyalty he will never know, for a single sharp look from Gabriel silences him before he can speak.
"Leave."
He takes off into the sky. Obedient William does not linger to watch the black wings grow ever smaller on the horizon.
It isn't till he is safely ensconced in Vega, in his own room guarded by Michael's soldiers, that he lets himself mourn yet another lost opportunity for some intangible more.