#depowered!raphael

The universal experience of having a little brother is that when they find anything that piques their interest, they’re going to run to you and put it in your hands. This is true whether that brother was actually born after you or if he was created in the exact same moment as you were by your Father. This is true whether it is a handful of helium atoms he fished out of a star before Lucifer managed to shoo him away, or a particularly bumpy looking toad he picked up in the garden and is now frightened for its life, or an important discovery on the laptop he found at the thrift store. Raphael is well-accustomed to being the pair of hands that most often received Gabriel’s ‘gifts’. Gabriel waves them over, and Raphael sets down their coloring book and goes. At least, if it’s on the computer, it’s nothing they’ll have to put back where he found it when he loses interest.

“Lesson eight on the good parts of humanity,” Gabriel begins. Raphael does not point out that he’s forgotten lessons three through seven, or that lesson two was a month and a half ago. “The internet.”

“I know about the internet, Gabriel.” He smirks. Raphael thinks about the half-finished bluebird in their book. They shake their head and watch the screen over his shoulder.

“But did you know that they’ve put every piece of music they’ve ever made on there?”

“Every piece,” Raphael repeats with deadpan disbelief.

“Would I lie to you?” Gabriel says. He’s typing in a link. The computer autocompletes it for him. After a minute, the page loads, and after a minute more, it shows a compilation of ‘Recommended Videos’. The vast majority of them announce themselves to be hair braiding tutorials. Absently, Raphael touches one of their own braids. Gabriel’s typing away again, and in a moment, those videos all vanish and are replaced with new ones. He clicks one, and it takes up a larger part of the screen, a spiral of dots in the middle. So far, Raphael is pretty unimpressed.

Abruptly, music blares out of the computer. Raphael jumps back. Gabriel jolts, too, and he scrambles to make it quieter. When it’s bearable, Raphael steps close to him again and listens. It’s the exact same song they heard on the radio yesterday. It sounds different through the computer than it did through the minivan’s speakers, but that’s the only difference. The singer asks for someone to scratch their back and apologizes for any skipping tracks, and Gabriel looks up at Raphael with a very familiar expectant expression on his face. It’s been a long time since they’ve encountered it, and their reaction must be lacking. “I really thought you’d be more impressed by that. Remember when they used to have to crowd around some local bard to hear a tune or two? And now, on demand!”

“I haven’t paid attention to music in a while. How am I supposed to know if it’s any good?” That’s an acceptable enough answer and wipes away the dejected look in Gabriel’s eyes.

“When was the last time you took a vessel? The nineteen eighties?”

“The eighteen eighties. Maybe.” Gabriel looks shocked.

“Raphael,” he says, “I love you, but you have got to get out of the house more often.” He twirls his finger in a loose circle, and then he snaps. “I know a guy. Let’s see if they have some of his work and jog your memory.” Raphael should tell him that they hardly stopped and listened to the music of the times, even back then, but he’s trying so hard to help them connect to this and so they stay quiet. “C-H-A-I- No, there’s a T in there somewhere.” Gabriel wrestles with spelling until the computer gives him what he wants. “Here he is.”

The volume has been lowered to a tolerable level now. Raphael listens. It’s a different kind of song that Gabriel now presents to them. Intense when it begins, and the instrumentation is wholly unlike anything Raphael's heard by chance on the radio. Raphael leans closer, intrigued, and as the song quiets and then races again, they begin to understand. Their heart seems to speed with music, as though any part of them could leave their vessel again and take to the skies. Their chest aches with the reminder of their loss, and the song grows soft again as though in tune with their thoughts before it lifts back up. Raphael wants to follow it.

"It's beautiful," they say. When they look at Gabriel, they realize he's been watching their expression this entire time. Their hand flutters restlessly in time with the spinning chords, a growing desire to do... something with their limbs that they can't put into words. Gabriel takes their hand as he stands.

"Only one thing to do with a waltz," he comments.

And Raphael, as ever, listens to what their little brother wants to share.

"It's simple once you get the hang of it," he says. "There's a rhythm to it. One, two, three, hear it?" Raphael can't pick it out, but Gabriel puts their hand on his shoulder and rests his other hand against their waist. "Step back." When they do, he comes forward. "And to the side, and forwards, and there it is." Gabriel leads them through it, again and again, slow at first and completely out of time with the music. When the song draws to a close, he pauses. Raphael aborts a step forward before they end up tripping them both up. Before Gabriel can even go over to the computer to check, however, it begins to play a new song. "Huh. Convenient. Where were we?" It gets easier with repetition, and as Gabriel brings them in time with the music, Raphael can hear the rhythm he was talking about. One-two-three, in time with their steps, one-two-three, and Gabriel laughs. "You're a natural, Raph."

"When did you learn to do this?" Gabriel is setting the pace, but Raphael is as important to the dance as him. Their movements complete what he starts. It is achingly familiar again.

"I've had a lot of time and a lot of hobbies. Taxidermy, dish-washing, and a dozen different styles of dancing. It's all about finding the right partner." Raphael sweeps left with him. All that Gabriel doesn't say is clear in how surely he grips their hand, in the mixed surprise and gratitude that crosses his face when Raphael moves in tandem with him. They don't have to wonder how long he spent searching. The answer was one gaping wound in the body of Heaven and one empty chair at Sunday dinner. Raphael sat with his absence for so long that they forgot how vibrant Gabriel was. Now, he guides them both around the table all four of them ate breakfast at this morning, and if Raphael had the choice, the music would never stop.

Behind them, they hear the door to the apartment shut loudly. They don't need to turn around to know who it is. They read it easily in Gabriel's expression, the slight tilt of his head and smirk at the corner of his lips.

"Care to join us, Luci?" In a few more steps, Gabriel has turned them enough that they can see their brother. Lucifer looks aggravated, which is why they usually don't let him go to the store (or anywhere he's expected to interact with humans for more than five seconds) alone. His gaze drifts over the two of them, and some of that frustration melts away. He sets down a bag on the counter. Inside, Raphael can see pasta. That's reassuring. If no one supplies him with the materials, then none of them will have to live through Gabriel's more experimental cooking again. (Gabriel claims that casseroles are perfectly acceptable human dishes, but they're borderline inedible to Raphael. Likewise, he regards the fact that they tend to combine food according to complimentary colors to be abhorrent.) The music continues on as Lucifer makes his choice. The computer has an endless supply to play for them. Finally, their brother steps forward. Gabriel might have his head cocked confidently like this was all a master plan coming together, but he squeezes Raphael's hand excitedly when Lucifer looks like he'll come dance. He's fooling no one.

"What do you say? Dance with the devil?" It takes Raphael a moment to realize the question is directed at them. Gabriel tips his head at Lucifer, who is kicking his shoes off to the corner of the kitchen. Raphael was expecting him to go instruct Lucifer the same way he did them, but when offers this option, they find themselves stepping away from one brother towards another. Gabriel holds onto their hand for as long as he can before he has to let them go. He circles them, favoring a hands-on teaching method as he places Lucifer's hand at Raphael's waist where his was before. Raphael closes their eyes and listens to the music instead of Gabriel telling Lucifer the steps. They find the rhythm again.

One-two-three.

One-two-three.

One-two-"Raphael?" They open their eyes. Lucifer is waiting.

A dance with Lucifer is more difficult. He is not, or should not be, a part of them any longer. Where moving in tune with Gabriel still came as naturally as a heartbeat, it becomes arrhythmic when Lucifer takes his place. And yet, the disconnect isn't wholly in them, but in their vessels, imperfect conduits through which they must interact. These muscles were not trained to fight together, and for as light on their feet as it makes them feel, dancing isn't much like flying at all. Perhaps Raphael could match Lucifer in flight through the rings of a solar flare with ease, but a waltz leaves them both clumsy. Raphael moves to the rhythm that Lucifer hasn't picked up yet, and Lucifer steps too wide for them. Gabriel's hands land softly on their back or Lucifer's arm to offer corrections. It is, to be blunt, a mess.

Raphael hasn't had this much fun since-

Well. Since their light and laughter left Heaven.

They can see the strain his missteps put on Lucifer's pride, and for that, they keep their mouth shut. Gabriel does not, teasing him for his flat-footedness, but then Gabriel was always Lucifer's favorite. All he gets in return is a glower and an easily dodged bump. He comes around Raphael's other side and puts his hand over where the two of theirs are joined. "And lift," he says. All three hands go up. Gabriel nudges Raphael forward until they go under the arch they've formed. They didn't lift them high enough, and Raphael can feel Lucifer's wrist brush the top of their head before he corrects it. Around they go until they're back where they started.

"I want to do that again," they say. Obligingly, Lucifer lifts their hands to let Raphael under them again. It's simple, but it's delightful. They settle back into their previous positions, and the dance continues.

Raphael's not sure when Michael gets home. One moment, it's only the three of them, Gabriel now off to the sidelines as they and Lucifer have gotten better at dancing, and the next, they turn and see Michael standing near the entrance, watching them. They miss a step, and Lucifer's foot bumps into theirs. He follows their gaze back over his shoulder.

"I didn't want to interrupt," Michael says when what he means is that he knows he shouldn’t. It might be guilt or it might be pride, but either way, Michael will lament that he can never let himself be a part of them the way he desperately wants. Perhaps, if he was only faced with Gabriel and Lucifer, they would let him pull away and feel sorry for himself while he does it, but Raphael has spent lifetimes wrangling Michael. 

“Come dance, brother.” Michael is hesitant, but he comes. 

To kill Lucifer required Michael to be closer to God than to them. Son to absence, rather than sibling to what remained.

It is very hard for Raphael to see Michael as above them, by age or experience or their Father’s blessing. Lucifer can treat Michael like His surrogate on his worst days, and Gabriel looks at Michael like he should have been wise enough to protect them all. Raphael is the one who stayed long enough to comb broken feathers from Michael’s wings when he stopped doing it himself. They would have followed him until the end and cared for him in the aftermath of Lucifer's death, which would, even if neither of them ever acknowledged it, destroy him as much as falling on the battlefield himself.

Raphael rests their left palm against Michael’s right and guides his other hand to rest against their shoulder. They place their right in the middle of his back. 

“I’m leading,” Raphael says firmly. Michael’s eyes drop to where they’ve positioned his hand but they draw back to Raphael a second later. He opens his mouth to say something, but he decides against it. Raphael closes their eyes, focuses on trying to find the rhythm Gabriel pointed out earlier. It lies hidden beneath the rest of the musical flourishes, but as steady as ever goes the one-two-three. They exhale, and they step back. Michael takes a moment too long to step with them and breaks the rhythm. 

On the next cycle, Raphael tries again, and Michael, expecting it now, goes. They grow more bold, guiding him with the hand at his back. They prompt him to turn slightly with their next steps, and they manage a slow circle. It brings Gabriel and Lucifer back within Raphael’s view. Lucifer’s hand is on Gabriel’s waist, but it’s clear from the way they move that Gabriel isn’t waiting for him to decide the steps. Gabriel catches their eye. He winks, and Raphael can’t hide a smile in return.

With another rotation, they lift their arm for a spin. Michael’s hand doesn’t follow, caught off-guard again, and Raphael realizes Gabriel didn’t show him how to do this. They grip Michael’s hand and lift it for him, using their other hand to make him turn. They have to lift onto their tiptoes to get both their arms over his head.

When he’s stopped twirling, they’re still holding hands. Michael lets his grip falter, but Raphael only holds on tighter in response.

The music ends abruptly. Gabriel goes over at the computer. Raphael’s hand falls from Michael’s back. They’re expecting another waltz, another familiar rhythm. Instead, the computer starts singing again, a woman’s voice, a soulful swing to her words.

“Gabriel?” they ask. It’s a small sensory overload compared to the music they were dancing to. They can’t pick out the one-two-three. How are they supposed to dance to this?

”There’s more to this than following the steps.” Gabriel holds out a hand. “Any takers?” To go to him, Raphael has to reluctantly let go of Michael, who looks like the sudden change in tempo has sent him into shock. Gabriel takes both of Raphael’s hands in his. “Freestyle, Raph!” Raphael has no idea what that means or even where to start. Luckily, Gabriel sees. He tugs them into something similar to a waltz, the same circle, but with steps that aren’t nearly as organized. They spin together, and it can only loosely be described as ‘in time’ with the music. Gabriel looks delighted.

There's a scuffle and a thump from the couch that has them all turning. Fen's woken up from his midday nap and barrels across the checkered floor into the middle of their little gathering. Fen always moves like a dog that has not yet realized it is quite small, and as such, is constantly bumping into chairs and legs like he expects them to be pushed aside. He hits Michael's leg this time, yapping excitedly. He recovers, shakes, and circles Raphael and Gabriel, still barking.

Gabriel lets go of Raphael to pick him up, hoisting the little mutt into the air as he wiggles around and tries to lick at Gabriel's face. Gabriel spins and dips, leading to another round of barking. Some part of Raphael wonders if they shouldn't remind Gabriel about the noise complaints they've already got a collection of, but then Gabriel hugs Fen close and looks completely at peace. Their neighbors will simply have to live with a little barking and dancing.

It's Lucifer who steps forward first to take Gabriel's place. Raphael lets him. He's humming along to the chorus, and they join in, not thinking much of it until Lucifer stops all of a sudden, looking a little shaken. Raphael spares him a reaction, keeps humming, until he gathers himself and carries on like it's nothing. Like he hasn't been deprived of his siblings' voices for centuries. Some things are meant to be remedied, not talked through until the scabs are picked to bleeding.

Michael hesitates again. Of course he does. But not forever. On one twirl, (just as fun as the first time. Raphael is never going to get tired of this. Their vessel disagrees, slightly winded but it hasn't forced them to stop yet.) he steps in, and Raphael goes from Lucifer to him. There's a frustrated noise from Lucifer, quiet but clear, and Raphael takes Michael's hand and guides him until his back is to Lucifer. His focus is on them, and when they put their other hand on his chest and give him a gentle shove, he's not expecting it. He stumbles backwards into their brother.

Gabriel freezes. Fen tries to nip at his ear with a confused whine. Raphael holds their breath.

Michael hums. Lucifer is silent.

Michael's humming falters. He makes to step away. Lucifer catches the tune where he left off, wraps his arms around Michael's waist, and hooks his chin over his shoulder. For only a few moments, they sway. Michael raises a hand to lay over one of Lucifer's. Lucifer lets out a breath, releases Michael, and retreats. Michael stays frozen.

It's enough. Raphael takes pity on Michael and moves back into range to dance again. Behind him, Lucifer passes Gabriel's offered hand, but he doesn't leave. He watches them from a comfortable distance until the music ends, Michael and Raphael tire out, and Fen starts squirming to be put down.

Gabriel’s apartment has, for the past month, been a place of noise and chaos and far too many fights. Tonight, it is silent. A spider skitters its way across the bathroom tiles. The tiny sunflower on the windowsill strains to catch the last dregs of light. The TV remote continues to nestle behind the couch where it won’t be found for another week. A very sleepy dog rolls onto his belly and snorts into the rug. It’s peaceful. Too peaceful.

Voices clamor outside. Muffled but distinctly upset.

“-only a matter of time before one of your demons-”

“This is not my fault!”

“Would both of you dicks shut up? Raph’s hurt-” The dog perks up, tail beginning to wag until he recognizes the fear in his owner’s voice. A key clinks against the outside of the door’s lock before sliding inside with a click and letting the cold air and the four once-and-no-longer-archangels stumble through. “-and all you care about is the blame game,” finishes Gabriel. His hair is messy and the jacket he left with is missing. Compared to his siblings, he’s practically unscathed. His dog bounds over to him, whining. “No, Fen, don’t.” Gabriel ducks to pick up the dog and makes room for the rest of them to enter.

“This would never have happened if-” argues the oldest being in the room, who currently looks like a sleep-deprived teenager with a black eye. Lucifer is settling Raphael on the couch, kicking the door closed behind himself. A pained noise tears itself out of their throat. Michael goes dead silent. “You’re right,” he says, softer, “you’re right, little brother. I’m sorry.” He waits a moment, and he sighs when, predictably, Lucifer does not echo his apology despite putting up half the fight. “Humans have places they go for injuries. Hospitals. We should take them to a hospital.”

“Oh, great idea, genius. On whose insurance?” Gabriel shoots back from the kitchen. Michael frowns.

“What’s insurance?”

“Nick had that,” Lucifer says. He’s helping Raphael take off their shirt so that they can better assess their own wound. “Humans don’t keep each other from dying unless you fork over money. Insurance is so you pay less money. Or more. It’s confusing.”

“We don’t have that?” Michael asks.

“We don’t have that.” Lucifer confirms. Michael grimaces. Raphael slaps Lucifer’s hand away before he accidentally touches their wound.

“It’s a graze,” they say. Michael wants to argue that it’s bleeding a lot more than a glancing blow should. He’s not sure how much Raphael’s lost, and that’s upsetting. Knowing exactly how much the human body should have is useless when he doesn’t know how much is still inside Raphael. They fix him with a sharp look. “You are not taking me to the hospital.” It’s disquieting to be ordered around by Raphael, enough so that he doesn’t even think to keep fighting. Gabriel returns, well-worn first aid kit in hand. It’s seen a lot of use over the past month.

“How many bandages do we need?” He asks. There is something in his voice that is very close to becoming panic.

“We have a suture kit,” Raphael says.

“Since when do we have a suture kit?”

“Since I bought one,” Raphael continues. They’re holding onto Lucifer’s arm hard enough that their nails are digging in. He doesn’t complain. “I don’t trust you to not injure yourselves.”

“And yet,” Lucifer teases, “look who got stabbed.” Raphael digs their nails in harder. Lucifer doesn’t even flinch. Gabriel goes to get the suture kit. Michael feels more than useless, relegated to pushing the curious dog away from the couch and watching Raphael suffer. They shift and hiss in pain, and Lucifer leans forward and murmurs something that has their fingers flexing against his arm again. The smile they give him is thin and pained, but it’s real. Michael looks away. It’s not a bad thing, that Raphael and Lucifer have become... close. It’s what they’re all meant to be doing, trying to be a family again.

He just thought it would be harder for Raphael and Gabriel to start seeing Lucifer as their brother, that’s all. That there would be more of a struggle. That Michael wouldn’t still be floundering and unsure of how to proceed around them, around Raphael who stayed, who he has been alone with since Lucifer fell, while Lucifer found his footing with seeming ease.

“Found it,” Gabriel says. Michael watches him lay out the suture kit on the cushion next to Raphael and look at them expectantly. Raphael nods, turns away from Lucifer.

“Sterilize the needle with an alcohol swab.” There’s a shake to their voice that sings of pain. Michael stops himself from stepping forward to soothe it. He’ll only get in the way. Gabriel does as Raphael says. “And gloves. Put on the gloves. Take the needle out- Not with your hand. With the needle holder. Yes. That.” The needle Gabriel is handling is curved like a half-moon and gleams just as brightly, a trail of thread following in its wake. Raphael nods again.

“Now?”

“There should be forceps.”

“Tweezers looking things?”

“Use that to pull the skin away from the muscle.” Gabriel swallows. Michael sees him lower the forceps towards the wound. Raphael leans back, jaw set, eyes shut. They force out a breath through their nose when Gabriel pokes at the cut.

“Sorry,” he says. He turns the forceps slightly. He gets a hold of the skin for a second, but it slips. Raphael winces. Gabriel tries again, pinches too hard this time. His hands are shaking, Michael realizes, and then he doesn’t think before he’s pulling the last set of gloves from the kit and dropping down beside Gabriel. He takes the needle holder from him first. It’s hovering over Raphael’s wound at the wrong angle and shuddering too much in Gabriel’s grasp to stitch anything. It takes a minute. Gabriel doesn’t want to let go, but once he has, the forceps are released quicker. He sits back, hands on his knees, breath coming hard and fast. His dog wiggles into his lap, worried, and Gabriel hugs him close.

Michael looks up to meet Raphael’s eyes. There’s a confusing mixture of emotions reflected in them, and surprise is not one he expected to be part of it. It’s one he’s ashamed is there. He lowers his head. “Tell me what I need to do.” Raphael’s free hand, the one not trying to leave nail-shaped scars on Lucifer, falls onto Michael’s shoulder. Michael does what Gabriel was instructed to before, pulls the skin from the muscle, angles the needle. At Raphael’s insistence, he pushes it through.

They cry out. Michael stops pushing immediately, afraid he’s done something wrong. They shake their head, squeeze his shoulder, and he continues until the needle comes through. He punctures the skin on the other side, and Raphael’s hand flies to their mouth to muffle their scream. Instinctively, Michael reaches for his grace. He only needs a little, not even to heal the wound but to dull the pain, please. He’s met with unwavering silence. The needle slides through, pulling the thread after it.

Raphael instructs him how to cut the thread and tie the knot properly. Michael’s hands feel too clumsy by far, but it’s adequate. They look awful. Michael wants that to be it, but it isn’t. He needs to do it again. Six more times, Raphael determines. Michael takes a deep breath. He readies the needle holder over their wound again. The gloves keep his hands from being bloodied, but that doesn’t change how his chest aches every time they twitch and bite back another noise.

At the end of the third suture and the beginning of the fourth, when Michael is readying the needle holder again, but still inspecting the knot of the last one in case it wasn’t good enough, Raphael whispers, “Stop.” It’s a horrible rasp of a word. Michael freezes, but they’re already gritting their teeth and shaking their head again. “I didn’t mean to- It just-” Michael understands, and he lowers the needle to their skin again. It pierces through, and Raphael gasps out, “Stop, Michael, please.” He can see them rebuke themselves, bite down on their own lip. Gabriel pushes closer. His dog snuffles, wet nose pressing against Michael’s elbow. Michael can’t move. He can’t do this if Raphael is begging him not to. He can’t.

Lucifer turns Raphael’s head to him. At first, Michael thinks he means to push their face against his shoulder, like hiding what Michael’s doing will make the pain lessen. Lucifer does pull them down against him, but then he orders, as sure in his command as if he’d never left the Host, “Bite, Raphael.”

And Raphael bites. Lucifer finally does flinch. Michael can see the pain hit him, see him breath through it, and settle, rubbing the back of Raphael’s neck as encouragement. He offers himself up, the bullet for the bleeding soldier, and Raphael can’t beg Michael to stop if their teeth are buried in Lucifer’s shoulder. Lucifer shares a look with him. Michael can’t tell exactly how hard they’re biting, Lucifer’s shirt sleeve is between his skin and their teeth, but Lucifer would probably let them do it even if they were breaking skin. Michael knows that because he would do the exact same thing.

Michael keeps puncturing and knotting and hurting his younger sibling to keep them safe. By the time he’s finally closed the wound, they’re sobbing against Lucifer’s shoulder, and there are damp bitemarks scattered all over his sleeve. None of them seem to have gone too deep. Their nails, on the other hand, have drawn blood. Michael sets the needle aside and smooths his hand over Raphael’s thigh.

“What next, Raphael?” They don’t answer.

“Raph, come on, please. We’re almost through.” It’s Gabriel’s voice that rouses them. They lift themselves off of Lucifer.

“Antibacterial,” they manage. Their voice is wrecked. Gabriel finds the tube of ointment they’re referring to and hands it over. Michael tries to be gentle when he applies it, but they still choke out a sound and more tears stain their cheeks.

“Bandages?” Gabriel asks. Raphael nods. Gabriel takes over as Michael pulls the bloody gloves off his hands. He goes to dump them in the trash. He doesn’t realize Lucifer’s followed him until he hears him rustling in one of the cabinets for the stronger pain medicine. The kind Gabriel sometimes says they should lie about having if the cops ever ask and is only mostly joking. Lucifer’s arm is still bleeding, not much but still there, and Michael sighs and circles around him to the sink. He picks up a (presumably) clean dishrag and wets it. Lucifer doesn’t pay any attention to him, too busy sorting pills, until Michael tries to take hold of his arm. Lucifer recoils hard enough that he takes a full step back. Michael raises his hands, placating.

Michael’s not someone who Lucifer is comfortable being touched by without warning. And he’s going to have to live with that. Maybe forever. Lucifer gives Michael his arm. He’s still tense, ready to pull away. Michael cleans the blood off the punctures Raphael left behind. His gaze slides up Lucifer’s bared arm. His skin starts to purple before it disappears under his sleeve.

“Take off your shirt,” Michael says. Lucifer’s eyes narrow. “Please.” For once, Lucifer listens. Maybe they’re all too exhausted to fight tonight. Lucifer’s shirt finds home on the floor. Gabriel’s dog pads over and snags it with his teeth. He shakes the shirt back and forth. Lucifer actually smiles at him, prods the dog with his foot as Michael looks him over. He’s a walking bruise. The worst spots have small cuts, too, ones that have stopped bleeding but should probably still have a band-aid over them. It’s a good thing they’ve stockpiled a lot of those. The spots Raphael bit are as bruised as the rest of him and swollen now under the pain of being gnawed on. Lucifer still let them do it.

“Don’t look at me like that. You’re the one who got punched in the face.” Lucifer says.

“You got thrown into a wall.”

“Ladies, ladies, you’re both pretty.” Gabriel interrupts. His voice sounds a lot steadier than it did before. Still a performance, but one he knows the lines for instead of adlibbing. Lucifer sticks his tongue out at Michael, because he is a child, and Michael absolutely does not do the same back, because he’s the mature one. “These for Raph?” Lucifer nudges one of the tiny piles of pain meds towards Gabriel.

He pushes another towards Michael, and claims the last share himself. Gabriel doesn’t get a pile, but seeing as he got away without being thrown into anything or being stabbed, he probably doesn’t need it. Michael takes his, watches Lucifer swallow his down, and looks back at their younger siblings as Gabriel convinces Raphael to do the same.

Michael is fucking exhausted. He wants nothing more than to curl up on the rug in front of the couch and pass out. Forget the bedroom. It’s too far of a walk.

Instead, he lets out a breath.

“I’ll get you some band-aids,” he tells Lucifer.

Lucifer always takes a while to show up in the mornings. There hasn’t yet been a morning he doesn’t show his face, even if it’s only for a few minutes that end with whatever new fight with Michael he can pick and him stalking off to cool down again. There’s a sort of rhythm here that Gabriel’s tentatively falling into. She wakes up, usually from Fen trying to sit on her head, and goes to eat breakfast. Detours halfway there to the bathroom because she gets bodily signals loud and clear, a rarity in the apartment and really annoying when they clash between hungry-eat something-eat a bagel-eat twenty bagels and hey, it’s me, your bladder, and if you don’t go piss right now, I’m making it everyone’s problem.

And once that’s taken care of, she’ll always find Raphael already awake. Their eyes track her the minute she steps into the room. Sometimes Michael’s also there, which means he didn’t actually sleep that night, and sometimes he’s not, which means Gabriel can glance over and see him passed out on the couch, sleeping like he read how to in a manual. Fen needs feeding before Gabriel does, no matter how much her stomach is growling.

(“Why do you even keep a dog?” Michael asked, in that tone he used when he was trying to hide how judgmental he was being. But not trying that hard.

“I’m a good mom,” Gabriel snapped. Michael just blinked at him and didn’t ask any more questions.)

And then it’s a waiting game as Gabriel makes breakfast, and Raphael doesn’t eat it, and Michael either snoozes on or paces around the kitchen with nothing to do. It doesn’t matter how much he stares at the utensils cabinet, Gabriel is not letting him spend a day reorganizing the kitchen. Everything, or what little there is, is right where Gabriel wants it.

Lucifer’s record for not coming up is about two hours and seventeen minutes. Not that Gabriel is counting.

It’s been three. The sun is well over the horizon. Gabriel might have had too much coffee. Her fingers are all jittery over this week’s bills, and for once, it isn’t because they might not be able to pay them. (Most of Gabriel’s money is... not gone. It’s definitely still floating around out there, locked up tight, but she can’t get at it. She got access to one or two accounts, plus what Lucifer could pull with some vessel identity fraud. Michael couldn’t do much on that front, and Raphael... Whatever they could have contributed was all tangled up in the account their vessel shared with her husband, and it had been unanimously agreed that they not touch that situation.

Someone out there is waiting for Raphael- for the face Raphael wears to come home.

Yeah. Not with a ten-foot pole.)

Gabriel glances over at the key bowl. The minivan key is laying there, easily picked out from the rest because of the metal yellow smiley face attached to it. A little keepsake from the 70s, older than the minivan it now heralded but not the bowl it lived in. If it’s there, Lucifer can’t have gone anywhere. The van is unlocked for him to sleep in, but he doesn’t know how to hotwire a car. He didn’t even know how to load a dishwasher.

Gabriel looks back at Michael and Raphael. Neither of them are making any move to go find out what the hold up is. They don’t even look worried that Lucifer isn’t here.

There’s a very cruel part of Gabriel that goes of course they don’t. They’re used to it.

They wouldn’t notice if you took off either.

It’s a lie and an obvious one. Raphael’s first panic attack happened after Gabriel went to the grocery store without leaving a note. Gabriel presses her fingers into where Raphael had bruised her arm by holding on too tight. The ache is gone. She misses it, not for the pain, but the easy reminder. Maybe it doesn’t occur to Raphael and Michael the way it does Gabriel. That Lucifer can leave. For centuries, they’ve all known exactly where he was, even if he was out of reach. Locked up in his tower, singing to the demons that pass by, until Sam Winchester called out for Lucifer to let down his hair. (Or threw his own up? It was long enough.) Lucifer’s got both feet on the ground now, and boots made for walking, and why the hell does he stick around?

It’s not even his apartment. Which is the only reason Gabriel stays.

She rubs the unbruised spot on her arm. “I’m going to go fetch Lucifer,” she announces.

Gabriel throws on a shirt and pants. She’s 80% sure they’re both hers. She takes the stairs. The elevator might be mandated by law, but apparently its care and keeping isn’t as strongly regulated. On a good day, six floors up and down isn’t a problem (and Gabriel doesn’t think about bad days. If she can’t see them, they can’t see her.) There’s no one around, but she’d slide down the banister the last few flights even if there was. Her butt stings from a bump in the rail. The brief rush is worth it. The parking under the building is dark and damp, all enclosed in rusted bars that the daylight hardly peeks through and stone. Gabriel shivers when she steps out. Her foot goes right into a puddle left from last night’s rainstorm, and she jumps.

“Fuck!” That makes her feel better. Shoes! She forgot about shoes again. She doesn’t want to go all the way back up to get them. She pays more attention to where she’s walking instead, sidestepping puddles and loose rocks and weird stains on the floor, leaving one wet footprint in the wake of her stride. Thankfully, the minivan is parked close to the stairs. She braces herself, grabs the backdoor, and yanks it up, stepping out of the way so that the right corner of the car is between her and Lucifer. “Rise and shine, Luci!” She’s expecting a snarl and at least one arm or leg flailing out at her. Instead, Lucifer grunts and tugs his blanket further around himself.

“Go away,” he says into one of his... four pillows, now. One of those is probably the one Michael said had gone missing.

“It’s a beautiful day, and you’re going to waste it sleeping in?” Above them, the sky grumbles its disagreement and reminds them all that it can always shit out another few gallons on their roofs. Lucifer makes a very similar noise as he tries to curl away from Gabriel. Gabriel yanks on his blanket. It shouldn’t give. It does. Gabriel drops it in surprise, and it flutters to the ground and gets wet. She grimaces. Lucifer lets out a heavy, frustrated breath, but he doesn’t do anything. “Seriously, get up,” Gabriel says. “What’s wrong with you?”

Lucifer rolls over and glares blearily at the ceiling of the minivan. He looks like shit.

“I’m dying,” he says.

Gabriel’s heart stops for a moment. Then, she leans over and puts her palm against his forehead.

“You have a fever,” she tells him. Lucifer nods.

“I’m dying.”

“Shut up.” She needs him to stop saying that. Even if he’s just being dramatic, there’s a uncomfortable twist in her gut. She grabs him to haul him up, and Lucifer makes his first attempt at resistance. He pushes back against Gabriel, weakly, with hands that are far too warm wherever they settle on Gabriel’s skin. He’s exactly as heavy as he looks, but Gabriel can match that with stubbornness. She gets Lucifer on his feet, both of them stepping on the blanket resting in the dirty water, making it worse. “Hang on.” Gabriel makes sure he’s mostly steady and turns to close the backdoor of the minivan, vowing to come back for their stolen pillows later. As the door clicks closed, Lucifer makes an awful sound, and before Gabriel can fully turn around, he doubles over and starts retching.

This blanket isn’t going to be salvageable.

When Lucifer’s finished throwing up, (and Gabriel’s finished running her hand up and down his back, muttering, "Okay, fuck, you’re fine, you’re gonna be fine," without thinking about it) she pulls him back up. He’s leaning even more weight on her. Gabriel helps him across empty parking spaces to where the elevator is and hopes it’s at least functional today. She hits the button — It doesn’t light up, so she has no idea if the elevator is actually coming. — and waits. Lucifer doesn’t throw up again, if he has anything left in him. Did he eat dinner last night? Gabriel can’t remember.

The elevator comes. For one brief moment, Gabriel considers thanking their Father for that small mercy before Lucifer wobbles and nearly falls over and the urge disappears completely. Mercy would be Lucifer not having an immune system to compromise. Mercy would be Gabriel not having to worry about him, not like this. Fuck thanking Him for an elevator, especially one that doesn’t work on days when Gabriel’s bones all feel misaligned and her skin doesn’t fit right.

They stand side by side as the elevator rattles up the six floors towards their apartment. Lucifer can lean back against the wall rather than against Gabriel, tilting his head to the side to press his temple to cool glass. The walls of the elevator are mirrored on both sides, which Gabriel has heard other residents complain about for making them nauseous. She likes it. It makes the enclosed space seem expansive. Lucifer would appreciate it, too, if he wasn’t about to pass out.

“Just a little further,” Gabriel says, and she’s not sure which of them she’s reassuring. Lucifer manages it, barely.

“Welcome-” Raphael’s voice calls, distracted, but sharp with attention when they see Gabriel dragging Lucifer through the door. “What happened?”

“He’s sick. It’s not serious.” Lucifer does everything he can to prove Gabriel wrong by nearly falling over. “Shit!” Gabriel balances him at the last second. Lucifer’s eyes blink open, unfocused. Raphael stands, but they don’t move, only watching as Gabriel walks Lucifer over to the couch and drops him. Lucifer whimpers. It’s a horrible sound that Gabriel feels wrong hearing. She turns her head. Raphael is digging out the first aid kit. “Raphael, he’s being dramatic. He’ll be back on his feet tomorrow. It’s a cold.” Raphael does not believe her, carefully digging out supplies and laying them across the kitchen counter. Gabriel rolls her eyes. She can hear them filling something with water as she turns back to their brother.

Lucifer’s going to be fine. He rolls over and tries to hide his eyes from the lights, burying his face into the couch cushions. Gabriel’s stomach feels twisted up, and she jumps when Fen comes padding over and presses his cold nose to her leg. Lucifer flinches when Fen barks. Gabriel leans down and scoops him up, earning herself half a dozen doggy kisses.

“Move,” Raphael tells her brusquely. Gabriel does without thinking. Thousands of years, and she still knows when Raphael’s tone means life or death.

They’re overreacting, too. Lucifer’s-

Lucifer is easily rolled over onto his back again. He covers his eyes.

“What are-” Gabriel hears Michael’s voice from behind him, and she glances back over her shoulder.

“Hit the switch,” she says. Michael frowns, but he does. The window near the couch keeps the room lit, but Lucifer seems to relax. Raphael rests their hand over his forehead where Gabriel had earlier.

“Open your mouth,” they order Lucifer. Lucifer blinks at them and doesn’t. Undeterred, Raphael opens it for him, pinching his lips apart and pushing the tip of the thermometer in. They wiggle it under his tongue, made more difficult by Lucifer grimacing at the taste of the metallic tip and trying to push it away. Raphael slides their hand down to his jaw and holds his mouth closed, eyes fixed on the thermometer. Gabriel lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding as the number stops on 100.1 degrees.

“I told you, he’s being dramatic. That’s barely a fever.” Michael steps up behind Raphael, his hand folding over their shoulder as he peers down at Lucifer. Raphael pulls the thermometer from his mouth, thumb gently petting along his jaw before they stop touching him.

“I’m dying,” Lucifer mumbles, again. Michael’s alarmed expression is only soothed by Raphael shaking their head.

“He’s not in any danger.” Raphael lifts another component from the kit, something wrapped in a towel. They lay it across Lucifer’s forehead. He exhales in relief. They try to feed him a pill next, but he refuses it, stubbornly turning his head and clutching the cold compress against himself. Raphael gets even more frustrated when he won’t drink anything they offer him either. Fen has leapt up onto the couch, sensing that Lucifer is too weak to shove him off and cuddling against his legs. His tail wags weakly, clearly able to read the tension in the room as Lucifer turns away from the offered cold water a third time.

“Try it later,” Gabriel suggests. Raphael has this handled, as they always have, but she can’t bring herself to leave Lucifer alone.

“He needs fluids now,” Raphael snaps. There was a time once when no one, not even Lucifer, would have fought them when they were trying to heal. They aren’t used to resistant patients. Angels aren’t made that way. Humans, on the other hand, only seem able to make their situations worse.

“Raphael,” Michael says. Gabriel sees him squeeze Raphael’s shoulders. Their face screws up stubbornly before breaking. “It’s alright. He’ll-”

“Michael?” Lucifer interrupts.

He stares up at their oldest brother. Neither Gabriel or Raphael plan it, but the moment Lucifer looks to Michael, they do as well. Gabriel forces herself to look away first. Michael moves to kneel down beside Raphael instead of hovering over them and Lucifer. Lucifer squirms to the edge of the couch to be closer to him. Michael touches his cheek, fingers pulling back momentarily like he’s surprised by the heat before he lets them rest there. Gabriel’s cheek tingles and rubs her thumb against it roughly so that it’ll stop. “Raphael,” Michael whispers, “let me see the bottle.” Raphael hands it over, fists falling into their lap. “Sit up, Lucifer.” Michael’s voice has softened into one Gabriel hasn’t heard him use for Lucifer once in their whole stay in her apartment. Lucifer whines protest, but Michael insists, “up, little brother,” and Lucifer finally drinks when it’s Michael holding the lip of the bottle to his mouth.

Raphael has to leave the room. Gabriel watches them go, sighs, and goes to make lunch. It’s something she’s able to do, and eventually, the sound of her making dough lures Raphael back out to help. They fall into their clumsy still-learning rhythm, both of them ignoring what’s happening by the couch.

Gabriel takes something for the headache that develops as she sits in front of the oven and waits for the timer to ring, the dough rising for the second time on the stovetop above. Raphael washes their hands thoroughly. Michael comes to fill the water bottle back up. “He’s asleep,” Michael says. His voice is so quiet it makes Gabriel want to bang the oven door as loud as she can to wake Lucifer back up. Only that would probably make her own headache worse. She rubs her ankle as it aches. Damn bones. Damn her for getting lazy enough with making this vessel that she couldn’t spend a few extra minutes making sure all of it fit together right. All she did was take a tibia from one guy and a try to line it up with tarsals from a girl a century earlier. It wasn’t supposed to hurt, wouldn’t if she still had her grace. At least everything holds together. Some parts dislocate easier than they should, but she hasn’t had to pop anything back into place for the past few weeks at least.

The timer rings, and she heaves herself to her feet. At least she can still make flatbread. Small luxuries. Raphael pokes at the one they’re handed, breaking off a small piece before the look Gabriel is giving them makes them take a bite. Bigger luxuries come in seeing Raphael’s eyes light up when they find food they can enjoy. Gabriel packs at least quarter of the flatbread into a container and puts it in a cupboard. Definitely not for Lucifer. She’s storing it for someone who isn’t sick. If he happens to get better and eat it, then that’s just a coincidence.

She glances over at her brother. Fen is watching him closely. Good boy.

Lucifer sleeps for most of the day, intermittently woken by Michael to drink more water or by Raphael when they take his temperature. Gabriel takes another pill before the day’s over, her head aching as she watches Michael bring up the pillows from the van she told him about. He props Lucifer up on one, and Lucifer murmurs something in response tiredly. It has the shape of Enochian, but what Lucifer says is incomprehensible through the haze of his own exhaustion, the limitations of human vocal cords, and his loose grasp on his own language. (They don’t speak in Enochian often, mostly to avoid straining their throats, but when they do, sometimes Lucifer gets completely lost, unable to follow what should be basic conversation, and when he speaks back, it never comes out right.)

“Michael is going to sleep on the floor if it’s his choice,” Raphael says. Gabriel hadn’t heard them sidle up next to her. She jolts hard, and it makes her chest and shoulders hurt.

“Then let him?” Gabriel says. She doesn’t see how it’s their problem if Michael wants to suffer. He’s tucking a blanket around Lucifer. Gabriel’s hand curls into a fist, and she waves it out. She can see Raphael watching her from the corner of her eye, and they’re easier to look at than Michael.

“We have a spare bed,” Raphael says.

“You have a spare bed,” Gabriel corrects, though calling the air mattress a bed is a stretch. “I’m not letting you sleep on the floor.” Raphael narrows their eyes, and Gabriel almost says, I’m older, I have to look out for you. She thinks better of it. It’s not really true, anyway. She just likes to imagine it is, sometimes. (And other times, selfishly, she wants Raphael to be older.)

“I’m trying to ask if I can sleep in your bed.” Gabriel’s mouth drops open a little. She shuts it quickly, licks her dry lips, and answers,

“Of course you can,” before she can talk herself out of it. Raphael looks a little surprised themself.

More difficult is convincing Michael to take the air mattress. He protests about taking Raphael’s space, but Lucifer isn’t moving from the couch and Gabriel’s pretty sure none of them would let him go back down to the van even if he could. In the end, they leave him in the other room, snoring off his fever, and the three of them try to make their nightly routines fit around each other when there’s even less space. Gabriel doesn’t do most of hers. Between finally passing out in bed and brushing her teeth, sleep wins by a landslide. She’s out before Raphael even has time to crawl under the covers with her.

Raphael is definitely there when Gabriel wakes up. She knows that because of the metal poking into her mouth. She tries to spit it out to no avail, and instead she whines. Her throat aches around the noise. Raphael’s hand smooths over her forehead, brushing back sweaty hair and then becoming an insistent press as Gabriel tries to sit up. She doubts she would have gotten anywhere even if Raphael didn’t make her stay still. Everything hurts, from head to toe, like someone took a hammer to her muscles and beat them to death. She makes a face around the thermometer again as Raphael draws it out.

Gabriel glimpses the numbers. They look blurry, but she knows they’re higher than Lucifer’s temperature. The worry on Raphael’s face does nothing to reassure her.

And then, worse, Raphael leaves.

Gabriel can’t help the noise she makes, pitiful and high like a wounded animal. She wriggles to get the covers off of her. She’s too hot, everything is too hot, and her clothes and her hair stick to her skin. The sheets under her back are uncomfortably damp. She shakes her head and makes herself nauseously dizzy in the process. The whole world spins over her head, but squeezing her eyes shut again doesn’t help. She wants to go back to sleep. Nothing hurt when she was asleep.

The thought makes her panic and flail, knocking the covers completely off the bed.

“Gabriel,” it’s Michael’s voice, and then Michael’s hand gripping her arm, forcing her back to stillness. She curls into him. He doesn’t react to her pressing her sweaty body against his, keeping his voice calm. “That’s better. Don’t move so much. You’re very sick.” Michael’s hand smooths over her hair.

“I don’t want to go back,” she tells him. He’s Michael. He’s the oldest, the strongest, and if anyone can keep her here and not- “Don’t let me go back. I can’t do it again.” The darkness behind her eyelids is too much like that empty place, and she keeps them forced open, staring up at Michael. The light above his head makes an odd halo. He frowns.

“I don’t-”

“She needs to-” Raphael starts. The moment they’re in Gabriel’s line of sight again, Gabriel squirms towards them. “To drink,” Raphael finishes, once Gabriel has completely invaded her space. Gabriel presses her forehead into the cold plastic of the water bottle Raphael is holding and sighs.

“I can take care of it,” Michael offers. Raphael doesn’t hand over the bottle. Instead, Gabriel allows them to help her.

“You should check on Lucifer,” Raphael says, but there’s something more relaxed about their tone. Gabriel smiles. She can be a good patient.

The next few days are torture. Gabriel can’t sleep, but she’s never really awake either. She’s always drifting in the nauseous in-between, interrupted every once in a while by Raphael prompting her to drink or helping her to the bathroom. They take Gabriel’s temperature religiously, and Gabriel watches as the number creeps further and further up, the furrow in Raphael’s brow growing deeper.

Lucifer and Michael flit in and out of her world, too. Michael takes it upon himself to readjust her pillows and pull the sheets out from under her to wash when they get too gross. Lucifer recovers quicker than she did, and more than a few times, she finds him sitting beside her on the bed, pressing his cool hand against his forehead.

(She hears the three of them discussing whether or not to take her to a hospital, and yells as loud as she can - which isn’t very loud when her throat is so sore - for them to not do that. They can’t afford a hospital bill. Or random doctors seeing whatever horror show is going on inside Gabriel’s vessel. It must work, since she ends that night sweating in her own bed again and not in the ER.)

Finally, her fever breaks. Raphael hauls her out of bed and into a cold shower. Gabriel doesn’t have the energy to stand on her own in the shower for long. Raphael joins her. Gabriel rests her head against the shower's wall and lets Raphael wash out her hair. Gabriel’s muscles are still aching, and her throat isn’t much better, but her body isn’t actively trying to boil her alive anymore. She’ll take it.

“Why the long face?” she asks Raphael, catching her expression out of the corner of her eye before Raphael moves away again.

“What?” Raphael massages Gabriel’s scalp. She sighs, leaning back into them, despite the annoyed noise they make at how much harder it is to wash her hair like that.

“I’m not dying now-”

“You were never dying,” Raphael says.

“-so why aren’t you happy? You don’t have to take care of me anymore.” Raphael’s quiet for a minute.

“But I knew how to,” Raphael answers

Gabriel stares down at the dim reflection of her face in the wet shower tiles.

“Well,” she says, “we could always start poisoning Michael, if you need someone sickly to look after.” She thinks it’s a cough at first, but then Raphael gets louder, and it’s laughter, caught off-guard and unable to be restrained, flavored by exhaustion. Gabriel smiles and snuggles back into them, smearing shampoo all of their shoulder until they get annoyed again.

"Raph, can I just-" Gabriel starts, tentatively reaching for the tv remote that’s sitting on the couch beside her before Raphael’s hand flashes out from between their blankets quick as a snake on a mouse.

"No."

Gabriel sits back, hands up in surrender, and tries to look eager to watch another Bob Ross special with her sick sibling.