Had Gabriel yelled or fought or cried or done something, anything, Crowley could have kept going; supernatural energy reserves, a bottomless well of deep-seated anger, and all-too-human adrenalin would have made it possible even after their long travels. But the angel just stood there looking all defeated though he'd won, and it tore at something deeper than Crowley's physical aches; something painful that couldn't be miracled away.
Yes, Gabriel was the Enemy. They'd been on opposite sides from time immemorial without the flexibility that the Arrangement provided. He'd been a cold, officious prick for as long as Crowley could recall, smug and demanding and compassionate... Wait, what? Not to John, certainly, and that made the demon flush furious, but to Aziraphale in what seemed like a lifetime ago, and to himself more than once, though there'd been no reason why he should.
The Messenger stood there under the sickly yellow light, a paragon of angels looking like nothing so much as a lost little boy, and the Serpent of Eden felt something twisting in his gut. Some slight measure of guilt or empathy, if that was possible, lonely in unlikely territory. Gabriel had recently lost his lover and the rocks upon which he'd built his world kept being overturned one by one. It was familiar, perhaps. Yet he'd never so much as thought to question the ineffable. He kept to his path. It was a faith Crowley had never, obviously, been able to sustain and it wearied him beyond endurance. He closed his eyes.
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2007-09-16 03:57 am (UTC)Yes, Gabriel was the Enemy. They'd been on opposite sides from time immemorial without the flexibility that the Arrangement provided. He'd been a cold, officious prick for as long as Crowley could recall, smug and demanding and compassionate... Wait, what? Not to John, certainly, and that made the demon flush furious, but to Aziraphale in what seemed like a lifetime ago, and to himself more than once, though there'd been no reason why he should.
The Messenger stood there under the sickly yellow light, a paragon of angels looking like nothing so much as a lost little boy, and the Serpent of Eden felt something twisting in his gut. Some slight measure of guilt or empathy, if that was possible, lonely in unlikely territory. Gabriel had recently lost his lover and the rocks upon which he'd built his world kept being overturned one by one. It was familiar, perhaps. Yet he'd never so much as thought to question the ineffable. He kept to his path. It was a faith Crowley had never, obviously, been able to sustain and it wearied him beyond endurance. He closed his eyes.
"Go then, angel."