gabriel_tam | (no subject)

(no subject)

It had been a relief to leave the hospital at last. Gabriel had argued bitterly with the doctors about the chair they'd insisted upon, and compromised far enough to allow himself to be wheeled as far as the door. There-- in full view of the media's uncompromising eye, the reporters watched even more carefully in turn by a grimly determined security team -- he'd pushed himself to his feet and walked the few steps to the vehicle, waving once to the cameras before settling into his seat behind the now-tinted, bulletproof windows.

No one but Regan had seen just how much strain it had put on him.

Still, it's good to be home, even if things in New Mayfair aren't exactly the same. Gabriel's study is upstairs, as are his and Regan's room and the guest chambers.

It had taken them all less than a day to realize how much of a problem this would be. As a result, Gabriel Tam has been settled temporarily in the downstairs den, which has been hastily converted into a combination sleeping room and makeshift office, appropriately fitted for a recovering patient.

He hates it. He hates all of this, but there are times when a man simply has to make do with what he's got, and this would seem to be one of them.

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"How long...?"

"How long what?" Crowley asks. "How long before he... improves?"

He leans back against the shoulder of the chair, and shrugs gracelessly.

"I don't know. I don't really remember. It's... hard to tell when you feel like yourself again, when yourself is, you know, fundamentally altered."

Gabriel shakes his head, a little stiffly.

"That's not what I meant." A pause, and a careful breath.

"How long has it been? For you?"

"Since...?" An awkward hand-gesture; Crowley knows what Gabriel is asking.

"It's sort of... time didn't really exist properly back then. Just things happening one after another. Call it six and a half thousand years, and then some."

"And you never wanted to--"

He waves one hand in the air, vaguely indicating the sky above.

"-- to change again? To go back?"

"It's complicated," Crowley says finally, distantly.

"I don't mean to pry."

Which isn't to say that he's not going to; still, Gabriel looks very uncomfortable.

"I just... don't understand."

"It's not like - " his hand sketches out the shape of his thoughts in the air. "It's not like changing careers."

"Think of it more like a chemical transformation, if it helps." A wry snort, and his mouth twists in the semblance of a self-deprecating grin. "The alchemy of the soul, if you want to be poetic about it. Dreams into nightmares, et cetera. Your, mmm, substance, your - the spaces between your molecules, and the way you scratch your nose - is made... not what it was. Violently."

As illustrations go, it fails quite spectacularly. But - how do you explain being made of light? The Presence in your breath? Being taken apart and put back together wrong, filled up with the fractured bits of before and moving to the grind of broken glass?

Silence, for quite some time, broken only by the quiet rasp of Gabriel's breathing and the occasional clink of ice in a glass.

"So you've no-- no choice, then."

What matters now is what you do next.

"No second chance."

"Well."

"By and large, we tend to bring it upon ourselves. Whatever your interpretation of that might be."

"As for - the other. I assume that... if He were to wish it," the capital letter is audible, "it obviously wouldn't be beyond Him. But I've never heard of it happening."

"Besides, any club that wouldn't have us as members, we wouldn't want to be a part of anyway."

"I see." Absently, Gabriel rubs at the side of his face before he becomes aware of what he's doing and forces himself to stop.

"That explains some things."

A beat of silence.

"Xièxie nĭ; for answering."

Crowley shrugs.

"You asked."

For a moment, that hangs in the air between them, and whatever the implications might be, they're on the point of tumbling down from the statement like hanging vines when Crowley says, abruptly:

"But if you're in the mood to repay a favour..."

He leans forward; a soft click, and when his hand returns to his pocket, there's a small wooden tile on the tabletop.

'G'.

Gabriel looks at it without speaking for several moments, then leans forward to pick it up.

He turns it over in his fingers, examining it with care, and says nothing.

"He's in your employ, as your security," Crowley says, leaning back. "Antagonizing Raguel is only likely to make him more of a threat to you. Seems simple enough to me."

"I'm afraid you're wrong about that."

Gabriel sets the tile to the side, beside the other one, the one lettered with an 'R'.

"It's not simple at all."

"If I'm missing anything, do tell," Crowley says, one black eyebrow raised.

"You seem to be under the impression that being in my employ, as you put it, ensures blind obedience."

Gabriel steeples his fingers and raises both eyebrows as he looks back at the demon.

"Of all people, I'd have thought you would know better."

"Hardly," Crowley says with a smirk. "But if your protection is his priority in this 'verse, then this hunt is best stopped. If he insists on pursuing this - " his lip curls, " - pissing contest of a grudge, excuse my French, then your safety is evidently not his first concern."

"Oh?" A pause. "Some might see it otherwise."

Moving carefully, he leans back against the armchair for support.

"In any case-- what you're asking is impossible."

If anyone watching didn't know any better, they might almost say that Crowley looks -

"Then you might have said so outright, Gabriel, instead of using it as a line to satisfy your curiosity."

Crowley stands.

"Regardless. If those who 'might see it otherwise' are certain they know who's got you and your family's best interests at heart, then I'm sure I shan't try to persuade you otherwise."

He briefly considers the Scrabble tile come from his pocket, then leaves it; better to have it far from him. He reaches for his coat.

"I... have... those I - watch out for. If Galadan is working against Raguel, then I am working against Galadan."

Two words, and two only.

"And River?"

Crowley spins, snapping, abruptly furious.

"Always River. Went and sssodding tackled her out of a suicide run during the attack, didn't I, and still waiting for her to talk to me after it."

"I have those I watch out for."

"Don't you think I know that?"

In stark contrast to Crowley's fury, Gabriel Tam just looks weary, almost exhausted.

"I thought you knew-- don't you realize what's going on here?"

"Please enlighten me," Crowley retorts, "because to me it looks an awful lot like you're content to let your walk-in with teeth get his rocks off by running down a friend of mine who can no more be held accountable for his actions than your daughter can control her triggers, under the presumption that it'll guarantee your safety, when in fact it won't, at all."

"This isn't about me!"

Abruptly, Gabriel's on his feet and yelling back, his already roughened voice raw and cracked, one hand clenched tightly at his side against the pain he doesn't even notice.

"This is about Nic Rosse, and the threats he keeps making against my family, and his business with my daughter, none of which you can do anything about, because he's your boss!"