#m!gabriel

Aelius should have known better than to trust an invitation from an angel, and an archangel no less. He shouldn’t have accepted it.

But he is weak. The contact from Israfel had filled him with such a surge of excitement that he couldn’t help himself. A masochist, Iro would tell him. He must be to enjoy inflicting more wounds on his broken heart.

The chance to hear something about Gabriel from a source so near to him was too much to resist, and so here he is, sitting and waiting in a bar. He wished the meeting had been at his place, or the Garden, but he could understand why an archangel wouldn’t want to frequent an establishment that was demon-owned.

He refused to visit the uptight atrocity run by the werewolf alpha either, though, and they couldn’t meet in the cop bar. So they’d found a dark water-front bar, with oversized round booths and so few patrons it is a wonder the place remains open. Though, if the occasional sounds he hears when a door opens somewhere are any indication, this place is a front for some sort of illegal gambling hall. Probably fae, if he had to guess. They love gambling and secrets, and you couldn’t throw a shoe without hitting one in this city.

The perspiration from the glass has formed a thick ring of water on the table, making it look like his glass floats on the surface. Israfel is late. He should leave.

The door opens and his head jerks up, giving away his anticipation. It’s not the tall archangel though, just a random human who looks already past his limits. Sighing, he slumps back against the booth.

Only to jerk upright as a familiar figure slides in.

“Hey.”

Aelius tries to get out of the booth, only to run into another figure. There’s the blasted archangel who had invited him here, blocking his escape.

“Please stay,” Israfel pleads, hands held upright in supplication. “I am sorry for the deception, but I feared if I told you of the truth you would not come.”

The angel is damned right he wouldn’t have come if he had been told the truth. Demons and angels didn’t belong together. They were natural enemies, oppositional forces. Dating one was a new level of foolishness, even for him.

It had imploded, like it had to. They were too different. Not that Gabriel seems to care. The man was never good with emotions, and Aelius had grown tired of the guessing game. It was a game he could never win, because even if he guessed right, he was reminded of how ephemeral this relationship had to be. The lifespan of a single mortal, if that. Once the boy was grown, once Gabriel had done his duty, he would go back to Heaven. Back to Heaven and back to killing Aelius’ kind.

“What do you want?” he demands. Israfel had never said to begin with, and because Aelius was a fool, he hadn’t asked.

“To talk,” Israfel explains. He doesn’t move from blocking the booth, so Aelius sighs and scoots further back from the edge.

“Well, I am here. Go ahead and say what you came to say.”

Israfel glances over to Gabriel, who hasn’t taken his eyes off of Aelius. He can feel the man’s gaze burning into the back of his head, and only petty satisfaction stops Aelius from staring right back at him. Let him look. Aelius will not grant him the satisfaction of peering back, of getting lost in those eyes he knows so well, of tracing those lips with his gaze in lieu of his fingers…

He catches himself before he turns further in the seat, staring steadfastly straight ahead, not looking at either archangel.

A small smile flits over his lips. What do you get when a demon walks into a bar with two archangels?

“The meeting was for you and Gabriel to meet,” Israfel explains. “A necessary deception if the two of you were to talk.”

Aelius is a demon. Deceptions are part of his daily routine.

“Job accomplished then,” he murmurs. It shouldn’t sting, but it does. He knows firsthand however that even angels are liars.

“Aelius.” The low rumble of his name sends heat washing through him. He closes his eyes tight, removing the temptation to look at him. His name said like that conjures memories of warm hands on him, holding him like he’s precious. Lips skimming across his neck, moving lower as Gabriel showed him that he knew Aelius intimately.

“What do you want?” he demands, voice barely audible. To cut open the jagged wound, to line it with salt and make sure that nothing would grow in his heart again? If so, Gabriel is doing a fantastic job of it, the dull edges of his words sawing through the remains of his defenses. He’d been the one to let the enemy in, to give him the keys to the gates.

Of course, it would be nearly impossible to remove him.

“You.”

A single word. Gabriel isn’t a verbose man, isn’t ready to pour his heart out to the demon like most humans. The man keeps everything close to his chest.

“Too bad. That’s off the table.” If only his words didn’t shake and tremble like he was some hellmutt coming face-to-face with the terrible light of an avenging archangel.

“Well, the only thing on the table is a drink that looks like you’ve abandoned it to a slow demise by evaporation.”

That startles a laugh out of him, today’s brown eyes opening. Fool. Embracing his own destruction. The pull is too strong, and he turns, meeting Gabriel’s gaze.

“What are you doing?” he whispers. The obstacles between them haven’t changed. Gabriel is still one of the heavy-hitters for an entity that sees demons as little more than cockroaches.

“Getting the love of my existence back,” Gabriel answers.

A sob leaves him, his hand pressed in a fist to his lips. Don’t say that. Do you like pain so much? Are you so determined to make both of us suffer?

But he’s always been weak. He’s always been susceptible to offers too good to pass up. It was how he got where he is now.

“This doesn’t fix everything,” he tells his angel, even as he slides into the man’s lap, grateful now for the size of the booth. Israfel clears his throat but he ignores the sound. “I’m still a demon, and you’re still an archangel, and I—”

He doesn’t finish, lips descending on his and interrupting his words. Aelius grips the side of Gabriel’s head in an unforgiving hold, nails making crescents along his temple, all gentleness discarded. The anger, the fear—he hasn’t let go of it yet.

The blood burns as it hits your skin, hissing and evaporating like steam, leaving behind pockmarks of wrongness.

“Stop it.”

Aelius bats away your hands, but the attempt is feeble, like the bite of a newborn baby human: toothless. There’s no vigor, no energy in his motions. The pallor of his skin is unhealthy for a human and even though he’s a demon, this much blood can’t be good.

“Gabriel, I said stop!”

He shoves your hands away again, and you lift your head to give him a look full of fear. “I can fix this,” you say, but it’s a reflex. You don’t believe it. He’s a demon. None of your training, none of your existence has taught you how to help demons.

His eyes have gone a milky white. Like a corpse, you think, as he brushes a dark curl away from his face. There’s an ethereal edge to his normal beauty, sleek and dangerous, a reminder that no matter what face he wears, he’s a predator, a hunter, a creature that feeds on others to survive.

“Not like this you can’t.” For all the blood drenching him, Aelius’ voice doesn’t waver. There’s no fear, no terror in his words. No hands reaching desperately for you, trying to pull power from you in a desperate bid to survive. “If you try to heal me with your Grace, you’ll finish what they started.”

You recoil, hands jerking away. The thought hadn’t crossed your mind; you know better than to use Grace around your boyfriend. Still, the idea that you might, that you could so easily cause harm where you seek to help, haunts you.

The sense of foreboding grows. His blood wouldn’t sting against your skin if you were using the shell correctly. It would drip down, leaving trails of black ichor, but it would not hurt.

You could have killed him. One moment of inattentiveness, one careless, desperate moment and you would have fallen back on old habits. You would have filled your hands with light and burned him to nothing.

Edging away in horror, you almost fall off the edge of the tub, but he’s fast, grabbing onto your arms and dragging you back violently to him, sending you crashing against his chest.

“No, Aelius, I can’t—I almost—”

“You didn’t.” He speaks with a careful, measured tone, like he doesn’t feel the pain at all. “It’s pointless to torture yourself over something that didn’t and won’t happen. Believe me. It’s the easiest trick in the book.” A weary smile drags half of his full mouth up before it crashes back down in a grimace. Pain draws harsh lines on his face, his brows pinching together, his disconcerting eyes hidden as he leans on you, gasping.

“Aelius,” you whisper, voice breaking. You’re supposed to be a healer. You are an archangel, a powerful being who can make the earth tremble at your feet but you can’t fix your heart as he bleeds in front of you.

Aelius isn’t a human, though. He’s not a mortal any more. He’s a demon.

“How—how do I fix this? Souls? Do I—can I raid a hell or—or do you need fresh ones or—” Each idea sounds more reprehensible to your own ears but you don’t care. You’d known dating a demon was a terrible idea, that it only worked because you were pretending to be something you’re not.

“Calm down.” Hands slide over yours, and warmth chases away the cold threatening to smother you. You stare at his eyes, but they’re not the cool white of before. They’re soft and gentle, inviting you to lose yourself in them.

“How are you using your powers on me?” you ask. “No—why? You need to help yourself, Aelius. I—I can’t.”

“My silly angel,” he whispers, his smile beatific. “I am helping myself. Or did you forget one of the tried and true ways an incubus can feed?” He draws your hands to his chest, placing them over his perfectly smooth skin. You frown. There had been wounds, terrible gashes. Something flickers at the edge of your vision and you narrow your eyes—

“Gabriel.” His voice is smooth, warm, enveloping you in its familiar embrace.

“This is how you help. This is how you heal me.”

His lips are closer than you remember them being, barely an inch from your own. With a smile, you close the distance and kiss him, groaning as he slips his tongue into your mouth. A lap full of demon is a very nice way to cope with… whatever had been bothering you before.

Feeding. He’s feeding on you.

There’s a brief flash of anger, hot and roiling, and instinctively you reach for the power to smite this impudent wretch who would dare—

Aelius pulls away with a wince, licking his lower lip. You’d split it with your teeth, without meaning too.

“Hey, I… I need you to not fight it. To trust me,” he says, blinking at you slowly and reaching up to run a hand through shadow. They coalesce into loose coils of hair but you’re not so sure anymore what’s real and what’s not. Or, rather, what’s on this plane of existence and what lies hidden beneath.

“I do trust you.”

“Good.” He leans back down and you lick apologetically at the swollen lip, but you taste no blood. “Sorry. It’s… easier to feed. Like this.” Now his voice is high, nervous, the pauses indicative of his reluctance to show you his true nature. Aelius plays at being a human, and well, but not tonight.

“Don’t be sorry.” Your words are clear, full of conviction. The haze obscuring your thoughts is easy enough to wade through once you know what to look for, but you don’t fight it. You welcome it with open arms.

“Take what you need, love.” This time it’s your turn to smile. “This has to be my favorite way of healing.”

“Only me,” Aelius adds quickly, settling on your lap. “You only get to heal me like this.”

“Only you,” you agree with a small smile. He can be terribly petty and possessive about the most ridiculous of things.

And then there’s no more talking as his mouth slides over yours again, drinking deep. You’re short of breath when he pulls away to kiss the side of your neck, unnaturally so. As healthy as you are, one kiss shouldn’t leave you panting. You don’t dwell on that thought for long though as his hand slides down, palming you through your clothes.

“Not wasting any time, are you?” you ask with a breathy laugh.

“You’re not going to last long,” Aelius murmurs before he sucks a mark against your collarbone. You don’t remember taking your clothes off but he’s suddenly touching bare skin, stroking you to full attention.

“Hey now, I am perfectly capable of lasting,” you protest.

“I know. But I need a lot of energy. Don’t worry: it’ll still be mind-blowing. You just might not recall the grand finale.”

Your demon leaves more hickeys scattered across your skin as you roll your hips eagerly into his hands, your noises of pleasure getting louder as his strokes become faster.

“Wait, Aelius, what about—”

Your question is interrupted by another fierce, draining kiss. “Your pleasure is mine,” he growls against your lips, giving a particularly harsh tug to your length. You think you reply, but you’re not certain as he demonstrates that some demons have more than earned the reputation for their skills.

And then you come. Your back arches, your hands scrabbling for your lover, trying to cling to him as you find yourself untethered, lost in pleasure, pulled down into a warm haze. You’re not sure if you remember being carried to bed, or if you constructed the memory later upon waking up, wrapped around a whole and healed Aelius.

“Oh please. Prank Master? Because you got one over on me?” Alice scoffs as she steps through her apartment door, flinging her currently bright green hair over her shoulder.

“I do believe the accepted protocol is that when someone defeats the reigning champion, regardless of the arena in which they fight, that the new victor becomes the champion,” you reply, following her into her apartment.

“You know, this is why it’s probably a good thing you don’t talk a whole lot around everyone else. You haven’t quite grasped the local vernacular.”

You shrug. As far as you’re aware, the Babylon matrix your shell is equipped with allows you converse like any human would. Then again, Alice isn’t just any human.

“One day I’m going to figure out what your deal is,” she threatens, ditching her jacket on the back of a chair. She leans over, giving you a generous view of how tight her pants cling to her rear, as she undoes her boots. Straightening up, she kicks them to a corner of the room.

“Stare much harder and you’ll owe me a new pair of pants,” she comments.

“I was not—”

“Oh, you weren’t?” She turns, arms folded across her chest, her lips curved in a smile that spells trouble of the best kind. You swallow, warmth kindling in your stomach. “Well why the hell not? It’s a damn fine ass, and I know you like it.”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Butt is rather the point.” A juvenile joke, but Alice has no compunctions about being crass or juvenile.

“I thought the point was that you now have vengeance to plot.”

“Vengeance? For green hair? I should have seen it coming. I underestimated you. Bribing Stephanie is nearly impossible. It’s a feat that few can accomplish.” She stalks towards you, grabbing your tie and winding it around her fingers. The way she teases the silk, stroking and twisting it, rubbing it between her fingers ever so slowly, has you wetting your lips in anticipation.

“I would love to know how you pulled that off. It might even be worth something.”

Her eyes flick up to yours, grey eyes bright as if she shines with an inner light.

“Something?” you echo hopefully, eyes moving back to the dance of her fingers.

She chuckles, a low throaty sound, and moves away, stripping off her shirt as she goes and tossing it to the floor in the short hallway from her entry and kitchen to her bedroom. “I don’t know. It depends on the quality of your information.”

You trail after her, hesitating before scooping up her shirt and tossing it into the hamper. Alice sits with her legs crossed on the bed. You recognize the sheer black bra and know she’s wearing the matching underwear. Her ‘get-laid’ set, as she calls it.

“The quality of information is dependent upon the skills of the interrogator, is it not?” you ask, hovering before her. She reaches out and hooks a finger in your belt, dragging you to her.

“Oh, but I am a very skilled interrogator,” she says, sliding the belt off and staring up at you from beneath half-lidded eyes. “I can tell already you’re going to give me everything,” she emphasizes her point by dragging her nails over the zipper of your slacks, “that I want.”

You wait, breath bated, but she leans back, snapping the belt lightly in her hands, attention on the plain black leather and completely ignoring you.

After a few moments you plunge your hand into your pocket, pulling out your trump card. “The hair was only part of the play. As you often say, have multiple balls rolling.”

Alice’s eyes dart briefly to the keychain and away, unable to hide her interest. “Pick-pocketing Kain? You do like to be punished. He’s going to make your life miserable when he finds out it was you.”

“I did not pick-pocket him. He left it unattended to make some comments about your… roots.”

Alice raises an eyebrow. “So, I was a part of a larger plan? Getting better.”

She leans forward, slipping the buttons of your shirt out, the belt still loosely clasped in her hands. “But you were going to tell me how you bribed Stephanie.”

“I found a book she had a great interest in.” Not technically a lie, but not the full truth either.

Alice digs her short nails into the skin of your chest, hard enough to make you groan. “Spare no details. Stephanie has a great many books, and access to more than most people could ever read in a hundred lifetimes. What is so special about this one?”

“It was thought lost when the Library of Alexandria burned down,” you admit, cheeks flushing as her hands turn gentler, sliding your shirt off your shoulders. Her hands continuing their path down your arms, all the way to your wrists, tugging them forward, as if she’s going to permit you to touch her as a reward.

“A very rare book. I’d love to hear how you came by it,” she murmurs, kissing the inside of one wrist before binding your hands together with the belt. “Don’t tell me yet; I’m only getting warmed up. It’s not fun if you go giving up all your secrets so easily.”

She tugs your hands down, and you follow the motion of the gesture to your knees, sitting obediently on your heels.

“You know,” she whispers as she stands and leans over you, “if you want me to run you through your paces, you can just ask. I mean, lean and green is a look but you don’t have to try so hard. I don’t need an excuse to make you beg for me.”

Her pants slide down her hips and she steps out of them, striking a pose with a cocky smirk. “You are so easily riled up, you know that? Tie you up, put on some nice underwear, and you start raising a flag like you’re calling out an SOS.”

She lifts a foot and grinds the ball of it on the front of your pants. A debauched moan answers her action, your cheeks heating further as the friction sends sparks shooting up your spine. “I’ve got half a mind to make you come like this,” she admits.

To your mingled relief and dismay, she stops. “No fun in letting you get off so soon.” She settles on your legs, playing with the zipper of your pants. “I am supposed to be punishing you, aren’t I? You want me to take you over my knee and tell you what a bad boy you’ve been?”

Leaning forward, she scrapes her teeth over your earlobe. “I’m going to have my fun, Gabriel. But you need to grow up.”

With that, she stands, moving behind you. “If you stay there while I take care of myself in the shower, I’ll rethink my position,” she offers. “But only if you don’t have too much fun listening in. That would defeat the point of a true punishment.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ You’d been somewhat prepared for the interior of Zaria’s house. Compared to the stainless steel and monotonous white of autopsy, her office was a refuge of color and designs in the form of artworks from around the world. No family photos, which you’d asked about once and she’d ignored. The question had been too personal, too prying at the time.

But you’ve gotten to know her better now. It wasn’t the easiest of ventures, as her brusque manner at work discourages people from lingering around her. Which was the point, you had come to realize. When she was at work, she wanted to focus on work. People were not a welcome distraction. 

Outside of work, though, she relaxed. One of your bonding nights, as Alice called them, you’d finally asked her about teaching you ASL. Despite your efforts to learn on your own, your comprehension was abysmal. You’d get through a few videos, a couple of practice sessions, and then get distracted. A few days later and you’d forgotten most of what you’d learned and confused the rest of them.

Learning from Zaria, though, you feel like it’d stick better. There is nothing remotely boring about her, and the way she signs with elegant, assured gestures always holds your attention. You’d even noticed that when she’s telling a joke, her gestures get smaller, making her audience get closer or miss the punchline. Well, you missed the punchline unless she spoke along with it or someone else explained, but judging from the laughter of your coworkers, her jokes were something.

The first time you’d asked she’d told you, in no uncertain terms, that she wasn’t a teacher and that she had better uses for her time.

By the fourth time, you’d gotten ahold of one of her favorite wines—an expense Sabriel need never find out about—and she’d finally agreed.

So here you are, about to have your first sign language lesson with Zaria.

If you don’t perish under the mountain of muscle and cords that comes running at you first. It looks like a giant mop on four legs led by a black nose, and it’s moving at a clip that has you bracing for impact.

Zaria whistles, and the dog stops. Using a series of clicks she has the dog sitting, a large pink tongue lolling from its muzzle. Underneath all the hair, you make out to dark eyes staring at you.

“Rolo needs to meet strangers. Let him sniff you,” she says, hanging up her coat, slipping off her heels, and depositing her purse on the table.

You hold out your hand and Rolo sniffs it. Before you can pull your hand back, he lunges forward and slathers your arm in dog slobber.

“He likes you.” Zaria’s grabbed two wine glasses from what you guess is a wine cellar judging by the panels in the door—grape vines galore—and beckons for you to follow with the bottle.

You shake your arm out before stepping after her. It’s good that Rolo likes you as you’d like to make this a repeat event, but you do wish your arm didn’t feel so uncomfortably sticky now.

The two of you sit at a massive dining room table. It’s kind of sad, you think. Zaria has a literal mansion, seating for huge groups of people, entertainment areas, and yet you get the impression that apart from the occasional cleaning or yard service this place doesn’t get to see much life. And for someone who works with death day-in and day-out, it seems near tragic. At least she has her oversized mop, who followed you into the room and curled up at his mistress’ feet.

“First,” she holds up a finger as she pours out two glasses, sliding one your way. “Fingerspelling.” No niceties, no chit-chat, straight to the point. Though, hopefully, if you become fluent enough, she’ll start talking more with you. If she doesn’t, then it’s definitely you. 

She forms a fist and from there flashes through what you realize is the rest of the alphabet for English. You recognize a few of them, but by and large it goes over your head.

“If you can fingerspell, competently, then even if you don’t know the sign you can communicate.” There’s a tightness to her lips you don’t like, a self-consciousness you’ve noticed whenever she has to speak to someone.

“I know that this is a,” you say, forming a fist.

“No,” she signs. That one you know. The sharp snap of her middle finger and forefinger against her thumb is one you’ve seen directed at you more than a few times. It’s not your fault you have a curious nature and she doesn’t like it when people poke around her work area. How else are you supposed to understand what all the fascinating tools they have for examining human bodies are? Turn on one little bone-saw by accident and you’re never allowed in autopsy without supervision again.

“That’s s. Thumb over the finger is s. Thumb next to the fingers is a.” Okay, so making a proper fist is the sign for s, not a. You’ll have to remember that. She frowns, tapping a finger against the stem of her glass.

“ASL is not a literal translation of English.” You lean forward in your chair. The Babylon matrix only works on spoken and written languages; signs are up to you to learn on your own. This is different than trying to memorize all twenty-six letters though. This is something relevant.

“Okay, what does that mean?”

Her gaze on you makes you feel warm, though you know, rationally, she’s reading your lips not admiring you.

“English: What is your name. ASL: What your name.” She moves her hand over her face in a circle. “Facial expression is important.”

“So, if I wanted to ask what’s happening here—”

“I’m teaching. You’re learning.”

You grin. “So you can teach.”

Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t rise to the bait. “Let’s try something other than finger-spelling. What.” She holds her hands out, palm up, and moves them in towards each other and then bounces them away.

“What,” you repeat, and mirror her movements. Her smile affirms that you’ve done it right.

“Your,” she says, and holds out her right hand towards you. “Dominant hand does the most movement,” she adds.

You mirror her, almost touching her hand. The speed with which she pulls back her hand to show you the next sign isn’t out of excitement from showing you how to sign, judging from the faint blush on her cheeks. You can’t help a pleased smile of your own. Sometimes with her no-nonsense demeanor you’re sure your goofball personality is an annoyance to her, but it doesn’t seem like that’s such a terrible thing.

“Name.” She brings up both hands, index and middle finger out while the rest are curled. She taps the fingers of her right hand twice against the fingers of her left hand.

“What your name,” you sign, putting them all together without prompting.

Instead of responding aloud, she forms her hand into a fist, index finger out. Z, you realize, as she traces the letter in the air. Then a fist, thumb tucked on the side. A. Her name. She’s spelling her name. At first you think the next one is x, the twisted index and middle fingers looking more like an x than an r to you, but as it’s her name she’s spelling it has to be r. I is one you recall perfectly because of how it resembles the written letter, pinky up in the air while the rest of the hand remains closed. Lastly another a. With the thumb on the side of the fist, you remind yourself.

You raise your hand out towards her, then bring it back to sign name, and then, slowly and with less confidence than she had, you move your fingers through the same steps she did. It’s important to you to get this right. Normally you would turn any mistakes into a joke, but you’ve only started your session and you know Zaria values the ability to get things right the first time.

“Congratulations. You can spell my name,” she states dryly before taking a sip of her wine. The glass doesn’t hide the curve at the corner of her mouth, and you know that she’s pleased with your retention of the signs so far. Or the wine, you suppose, as her eyes close, pure delight etched on her features. Well, if your only competition is a decade old wine, there’s hope for you yet.

“See? This isn’t boring.” You wait until her eyes open, the brilliant violet of her natural eye color locking on you.

“I’m not doing anything different than what you could find on the internet.” Her shoulders draw up and it occurs to you that part of her reluctance may have been less about wanting to teach you and more about worrying that she wouldn’t make a good teacher. It should have crossed your mind earlier. Zaria is a bit of a perfectionist and any failings of yours as a student she would consider any failings to be hers.

Well, no pressure there. On the other hand, maybe you can help her loosen those expectations of her. Heaven knows you’re going to try, but it’s not easy to remember everything in this mortal shell. Something about limited memory and how humans were designed more for forgetting than remembering. Not that you’d ever been a model student, but the classes in Heaven were boring.

They were nothing like learning one-on-one with Zaria. In an attempt to impress her, you start to sign.

“Yes, you…” You pause. The little nod with your hand and the hand towards her were easy, but you don’t know if there’s a sign for are.

Abruptly her lips twitch up. “Your and you are not the same sign,” she says, amused.

Oh.

“You,” she points at you with an index finger. “Your.” Her entire hand moves towards you, flat. Well, mistake one earned you a smile so it’s alright in your book.

“What,” you sign the question, “is want?” You have to speak the latter half of the question, but it’s a start. This time she seems amenable to deviating from whatever lesson plan she had come up with.

Zaria holds both hands flat, palms up, towards you—and then curls her hands and pulls them towards her.

The gesture itself speaks to you, or maybe it’s the way she performs it, as if grasping onto an intangible need and pulling it to her.

“Flip your hands over and flick for don’t want. Or—” she raises her hands to her collarbones and acts like she’s brushing something off her shoulders. It’s a sign you’re glad has never been directed at you. It looks so dismissive, the twist of her lips and the wrinkle of her nose making the meaning clear even without the hand gesture.

You wet your lips. 

You hold up your hands, flat and palms up, then pull them towards your body, curling your fingers as you do. A grin splits your face.

“Don’t.”

“I mean, some of these signs are very—”

She lifts her glass of wine and turns her cheek to you, rendering any conversation one-sided.

“Oh, come on!”

She raises a single finger in a sign you don’t need translated.            

 So, you start flapping your hand at her to get her attention. Her violet eyes dart to the motion and then away. Not so fast, you think, and lean across the table.            

One of the few signs you learned on your own was sorry. It was a phrase you’d had to use more than a few times, though how often you were genuinely sorry for your actions versus upsetting Zaria is debatable. You form an a, thumb tucked to the side, raise it your chest and make a circle with your hand.  

“It doesn’t work with that grin on your face,” Zaria mutters, shifting to face you again.            

You repeat the gesture, sticking your lower lip out and attempting to make your eyes go big and sorrowful.            

She pinches the bridge of her nose. Then her hand moves to her forehead, her middle finger bouncing before she moves it down to point to her chest.            

“Why me?” you hazard a guess.           

In return, she gives you a polite golf clap and a smile that radiates sarcasm.

“I love you too,” you sign. That one had been easy to pick up, Alice’s trademark goodbye parting. It was also the reason you remembered the text message abbreviation. The shape of the letter y combined with the letter l, meaning your middle and ring finger are down while your index and pinkie are up and your thumb out. 

Zaria points to her chest, crosses her arms with fists closed over her chest, and points to her wineglass.

“One day,” you vow.

Zaria purses her lips and shakes her head in mock disappointment. “If you don’t sign it,” she says, her hands accompanying her words in a series of motions that you’re not yet able to comprehend, “I’m going to ignore you.”

“But you’re supposed to be teaching me!”

“One day,” she mouths, left arm parallel to the table and right arm starting perpendicular, a single finger up and moving down to lay down across her left arm.

You can hear the microwave in the other room, and it takes a concerted effort not to get up and stand anxiously in front of it. The violent pops the microwave belches out aren’t helping. One too many melted, overcooked, and on-fire disasters with the small machine had ruined any trust the two of you might have had.

“You can stop looking like you’re waiting for the house to burn down,” Sabriel comments, sitting cross-legged on a stool and monitoring the situation. She had taken off her glasses, leaving them to rest on the counter.

Per her normal dress, she was wearing a knit sweater, this one a forest-green with stripes of mahogany worked into the pattern. A pair of jeans, worn often enough to begin to appear white around the knees, hugs her legs.

“You’re staring,” she says, never taking her eyes off the microwave. Even from your position in the living room, you can see the slight smile.

“Of course I am,” you retort. “My girlfriend let her hair down; I have to enjoy the sight when I can.”

Sabriel scoffs, but she reaches up and wraps one of the wavy strands that falls over her shoulders around a finger, slowly letting it uncoil. “Girlfriend. Sounds so… juvenile. We’re probably the oldest inhabitants of this city.”

“Oh? What should I call you then? My mate? My bonnie lass? My lover? My—”

Sabriel interrupts with a laugh. “Enough! Girlfriend is good enough. Boyfriend.” She tacks on the label at the end, ducking her chin and turning her head away.

“See, I like the sound of that. Sabriel’s boyfriend. I think it’s rather romantic.”

Sabriel jumps off her perch, yanking open the microwave door. “Cheeseball,” she tosses back, hissing as she tugs open the flaps of the popcorn. The smell of butter wafts through the room as Sabriel tosses the bag on the counter and puts in a second, flat package.

As she slams the microwave shut, she sticks the fingers of her other hand into her mouth, sucking on the tips.

Seizing the opportunity, and bored of waiting on the couch, you get up and move behind her. “Here, why don’t you let me kiss them and make it better?” you ask. It was a concept Daniel had introduced to you, in a very different context, but you didn’t see why it couldn’t be used here.

Sabriel shakes her hand, looking at you sideways. “Human saliva isn’t really going to make it better,” she states.

It’s hard not to roll your eyes at that. Grabbing her hand, you draw it to your mouth, kissing the pad of each of her fingers. She goes from being unaffected to scowling in an effort to keep the blush staining her cheeks from being noticed by the time you reach her pinkie.

“Does it still hurt?” you ask cheekily.

“No, but I didn’t really burn them. And I’m a little more resilient than the average human,” she retorts, extracting her hand and turning back to the microwave.

“Are you sure we need two bags? Daniel’s already asleep,” you comment. Tonight was the culmination of a great deal of planning—anything where you got Sabriel to yourself seemed to take more time and effort than any of the battle-plans you’ve ever had to draw up.

“Love, I’m fond of you, but if you eat my share of the popcorn, there will be a war. We have three movies to get through tonight, and we need to stick to the schedule because I am going to make you watch the prequels. Anakin is a little git, but Padme has to be one of the best additions to the franchise. Plus, I admit I’m a bit of a sucker for Liam Neeson, and his role as Qui-Gon will make me cry. Everytime. And we can’t forget Obi-Wan, especially when he has to put up with the bloody knob of an actor that they used for Anakin in two and three. Plus, the origin of Boba Fett—ah, there I go again.”

Sabriel starts to raise a hand to her mouth, but you catch it. “You don’t need to censor yourself or be nervous around me,” you tell her, gently twining your fingers with hers. “And you should give your poor nails a break.”

She elbows you, and you let out a dramatic oof than has her biting her lip to stifle a chuckle. “Don’t be nervous, the archangel says. Nutter.”

“You’ve seen me almost set the house on fire cooking,” you retort. “You can’t honestly try to tell me that my station is still some barrier to overcome. You certainly weren’t bothered by it when we first met.”

Sabriel pulls a face. “I’ve apologized for my behavior for that night,” she states.

“Actually, I don’t think you ever did,” you muse, tilting your head to one side.

Sabriel leans back against you, digging in her bony elbow. “I’m sure I did,” she says, the perfectly polite veneer disguising her physical jab.

“No, no, I’m sure I would remember—” Sabriel turns in your arms, exasperated.

“Just can it,” she states, and kisses you. It’s quick, a fleeting touch of lips before she’s pulling away.

“Hmm, maybe I remember something,” you say thoughtfully, concealing your grin as Sabriel’s eyes narrow. Goading her never fails to remove the stiff formality that sometimes overtakes her, a yoke around her neck that she can’t always shake on her own.

“Oh really? Let me guess, another kiss might be just what you need to recall better,” she tosses out.

You shrug your shoulders. “If that is your recommendation, my lady. I am a firm believer in a kiss making everything better, after all.”

“I shouldn’t reward you for this kind of behavior,” Sabriel says, her lips hovering over yours. “Might lead to repeat performances, and you are insufferable enough as is,” she adds, poking your side.

“You wound me,” you breathe back, waiting for her. The corners of her eyes wrinkle in a genuine smile as she closes the distance between your lips, kissing you softly, gently, a teasing taste before she pulls away.

“Don’t seem to be incapacitated to me,” she states. Then she sniffs, and her eyes go wide.

“Fu—” She cuts herself off and shoves you away. Whirling, she yanks open the microwave. Smoke curls out, accompanied by the acrid scent of burnt popcorn.

“Nothing worse than the smell of burnt popcorn,” she wails, taking in the singed package. Hanging her head in defeat, she lets out a heavy sigh.

“Turn on the fans, open the windows. I’ll get another bag out after I take this outside. You do not want to throw away popcorn in the inside bin. That smell never leaves.”

Rubbing her back, you decide the best course of action is to remain silent and do as she asks. A few minutes later most of the air is cleared, helped along by a lemon-scented breeze that has you arching an eyebrow at the other angel.

“I thought Grace was for emergency use only.”

Sabriel glares at you as she stuffs another bag in the microwave and punches in some random time. “The smell of burnt popcorn counts. Besides, I’m not about to let anything ruin my movie night with my boyfriend,” she states, before viciously opening the already cooked bag and upending it in a bowl.

You wisely decide not to comment. She had already been in a bad enough mood when she arrive, three hours later than was planned. Not to mention she had forgotten her copies of the original Star Wars trilogy.

Luckily, you had made sure to pick up the movies, with Daniel’s assistance. Seeing as they were some of Sabriel’s favorite media to talk about, you had thought it would be a nice surprise. She had almost cried when she saw that you were prepared, tired and wrung out by work. The popcorn had been her way of reasserting control and calming down while you set up the film.

“Go into the living room. I’ll be done shortly, and it’ll be better without a certain someone distracting me,” she states, turning her attention back to the microwave and leaning against the counter.

“Yes, ma’am,” you say, a subtle reminder that she’s slipped into her authoritative role. Not that you always mind, but she doesn’t often intend to.

“Please, luv,” she adds, tossing you a weak smile in thanks.

You settle onto the couch, stretching out your legs. Sabriel likes to curl against you, tangling legs and using you as a pillow. It might not be the most comfortable position, but you don’t complain. Not when she relaxes against you, drawing lazy circles across your chest, her toes flexing against your legs.

Getting Sabriel relaxed is an art form, one that you are starting to get the hang-of, but you still have a long way to go before mastering it. Which is fine by you. You can see yourself happily spending centuries becoming an expert in what your guardian angel likes and dislikes. It’s strange, the idea that without this assignment you might have never met her. Not face-to-face, anyways.

She’s become such a bright spot in your life that imagining it without her is—unpleasant.

The air leaves your body in a forceful exhalation as Sabriel plops down, half on the couch and half on you. You hadn’t even noticed the microwave go off.

“Okay, popcorn, movie, blanket—” she reaches up and tugs the last item off the back of the couch, throwing it over your legs.

“And boyfriend about to be exposed to the wonder that is Star Wars for the first time. Let’s go.

“Why are we starting with Episode Four?” you ask after the opening crawl, trying to digest all the information the scrolling yellow text had imparted.

“Because that’s the first one made. Not that it originally had the episode number when it was first released. That was a later edition. Anyways, it goes four, five, six, then one through three. Probably do Rogue One after we finish episode, then the last trilogy. Solo isn’t bad, but it isn’t great either. It can certainly wait. Plus the—you know what, focus on one movie at a time.”

“It seems like there’s a lot of them. When do you find the time to watch all them? I hardly get to see you as it is.”

“When I’m not being distracted by kissing my annoying boyfriend, I am an excellent multitasker,” she retorts. “Plus, being aware of popular culture is one of the best ways to fit it. I went to one of the original screenings for this, which was years go. Now shush!”

A fanfare plays, and the words a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away... appear on screen.

“Wait a second, this is set in the past? I thought science-fiction was futuristic?”

“Five seconds, and a question. Just go with it! It’s not like it’s absurd, given some of the places you’ve been, I’m sure.”

A yellow block of text begins scrolling across the screen. “Evil Galactic Empire? Not biasing the audience at all.”

Sabriel throws popcorn over her shoulder at your face. You catch it as it falls, and pop it into your mouth. At least the movie begins with action. The imposing figure dressed in black quickly distinguishes himself as the primary villain by choking a man to death.  

“That golden droid is rather insulting, isn’t he?” you murmur, holding a piece of popcorn up to Sabriel’s lips.  

“I don’t know, I think ‘mindless philosopher’ is an excellent retort. Perhaps one I should start applying to you?” she asks. She shifts, trying to find the best spot to rest her head. “Now just watch.”

The little Jawas remind you of some of the goblins you’ve met at the fae court, constantly tinkering and not to be trusted. You watch quietly as the droids are picked up by a moisture farmer, and the plot thickens as the hologram plays.

“So Old Ben Kenobi is—is that the Obi-Wan you were talking about?”

You play with Sabriel’s hair, your attention split between the movie and your girlfriend, who had made a good dent on demolishing the popcorn.

“Yes, but not this version. Not to say that old Obi-Wan isn’t still great, but he’s not Ewan McGregor.”

“Should I be jealous?” you tease, snagging some pieces of popcorn before her questing fingers snare them.

“What?” Sabriel looks confused.

“Well, you keep talking about these guys—”

Sabriel snorts. “Fictional characters,” she interjects.

“Fictional characters played by flesh-and-blood humans,” you continue.

“Fictional character played by powerless humans in a universe where some of them have an ability to tap into the Force, a power which can control the minds of the weak, be used to wreak havoc—the darkside of the Force—or heal, lift rocks, deflect bullets…”

“In other words, it’s Grace.”

Sabriel opens her mouth to dispute the point, and the shuts it. “You might have a point,” she says begrudgingly. “But we can discuss it later. Talk too much and you’re going to miss the best lines.”

“You’ve probably said them all.”

“Shh!”

It takes effort not to burst into laughter when Obi-Wan, or Old Ben, or whatever name he goes by waves his hand and the Stormtrooper ignores the droid. “Are you sure that the creator of this film never met an angel?” you ask, wrapping an arm around Sabriel’s waist.

“Are you asking me if I had anything to do with this?” she asks softly back, turning her head to speak against your jaw.

“Would you tell me if you did?”

“I can’t take credit for anything to do with Star Wars, though I may be able to confirm that Lucas might have had a guard on him for a while. My job means that I oversee; I don’t get to take cases anymore.”

“Except for Daniel,” you murmur.

“Yes, you are an exception. In a lot of ways,” she adds, kissing your cheek before turning her attention back to the movie.

The main crew grows, adding a roguish smuggler and a tall, furry alien that reminds you of a brownie—if brownies stood well over two meters in height. You can’t understand a word of the creature’s language, a rare experience given your Babylon matrix, but the party banter clarifies when needed.

“So, this is where you got flyboy from. Has nothing to do with me being an angel.”

“I didn’t say it didn’t have anything to do with you being an angel. It’s accurate, either way,” Sabriel says sweetly, rattling the kernels in the bowl as she scrounges for any intact pieces of popcorn.

“I suppose Han is considered charming, in his own way.”

“Fishing for a compliment there, flyboy?”

“Depends.”

“Maybe I should switch to calling you a walking carpet.”

“Hey, no need to bring Chewbacca into it.”

“You’re right. That’s not fair to him.” Sabriel gives you a look that would work if she had her glasses on to look over. As it is, it’s adorable, but not the no-nonsense appearance she’s going for. You drop a kiss on her forehead.

“If I’m flyboy, I’m pretty sure that makes you princess.”

Sabriel lifts a shoulder. “Just remember, this princess doesn’t miss.”

You’re a little surprised when they make plans to take down the Death Star. Since it was a trilogy, you had half-assumed that the Death Star would be the ultimate challenge, especially since it had taken out an entire planet.

You suppose there are the rest of the Imperials to overthrow. Plus, if there’s another trilogy following this one, clearly the evil Galactic Empire doesn’t stay down for good.

“He’s not really going to leave, is he?” You can’t help the incredulity in your voice, watching Han plan to leave the rebels to their attack. “He’s supposed to be one of the best pilots there is, and he’s just going to walk away? And I thought he liked Leia.”

“It’s not over yet,” Sabriel says, squeezing your arm.

You don’t know how you got so invested in the movie, but you’re almost on the edge of the couch, watching raptly as Luke shuts off his sensors, trusting in the Force as he goes after the Death Star’s vulnerability.

It’s a relief as the planet-killer explodes, your favorite characters making it out unscathed. Not that you had doubted they would. A silly grin crosses your face as Leia places medals around Han and Luke’s neck.

“I’m going to have to remember that wink,” you say to Sabriel, nibbling on her ear. She smacks your thigh.

“You think you can pull it off? I’m not sure you’ve got quite the roguish charm required,” she teases, sitting up.  

“There’s two more of them to go tonight?”

Sabriel turns to you, eyes gleaming. “Yes.” She hesitates, and sighs.

“If you want to. Given that I was later than planned, it’s understandable if you would rather not.” She says the words, ostensibly giving you an out, but you can see how eager she is to continue.

Neither of you technically require sleep, though since you occupy a shell, and Sabriel runs herself ragged, rest should be taken when the opportunity arises.

“Maybe one more. Have to have some reason to keep you coming back,” you say, capturing her wrist as she gets up to put the next movie in.

Sabriel’s expression softens as she sits back down on your lap. “I’ve got all the reason I need right here,” she states.

You lean forward, kissing her. She tastes of butter and salt, warm and familiar. Too soon she pulls away, chuckling.

“It’s a shame, though. I was really hoping we’d get through Return of the Jedi.” She leans into your ear. “I have my guilty pleasures, and among them include these conventions humans hold. Going in costume is a lot of fun. I’ve done a few of them over the years, but I can’t show you my collection until you’ve seen them all in the movies.”

Your eyebrows shoot up as Sabriel gets up, setting up the next movie. “You run around dressed as Leia? I wouldn’t have thought it was your style.”

“A rebel leader, who you will see, is perfectly capable of taking care of herself? Nothing in common at all.”

“Not sure you count as a rebel leader,” you tease as she walks back, repositioning yourself and moving the popcorn bowl to the coffee table.  

“There’s no evil Galactic Empire, either.” She counters. “But my cosplay would be even better if I had a Han to my Leia.”

“Oh really?”

“We haven’t gotten to the part where she says I love you, so don’t be getting so full of yourself yet.” She wags a finger in your face, her grin belittling the scolding.

“Well, we could practice.” You throw in a waggle of your eyebrows for good measure, enjoying the way Sabriel struggles to keep a neutral expression.

“Only if you’re dressed as Han will I let you slide with responding ‘I know’ to I love you,” Sabriel warns.

“He is a little bit of a cocky bastard, isn’t he? Kill her or like her, I think Han put it before the garbage chute?” You pull her down on top of you. “Besides, I think I’d prefer to respond with I love you too.”

“Aren’t you the romantic,” she huffs, leaning forward to bump foreheads with you. It’s not as intimate in the shell, much of your Grace locked away behind barriers and therefore not escaping your mouth to mingle with Sabriel’s citrus scented Grace, but it’s still a tender moment.

“But I do think there are some strong parallels. For instance, I’m pretty sure you would have happily strangled me when we first met.”  

“Not worth the paperwork,” Sabriel responds, curling herself around you and hitting the play button. “And Leia never tried to strangle Han.”

“Yet. You said there’s two more movies to go. Anything could happen,” you add, securing your arms around her and resting your chin on her shoulder.

“Well, she strangles someone. But you’ll just have to wait and see who. And if you make it through the movies, I might just let you pick one of my Leia outfits out for a private showing.”

“I don’t know, I’m not sure the princess has much on you,” you murmur as another opening crawl works its way across the screen.

“You are sweet. But you be surprised by how fun it can be to throw in a little, um, roleplay.” The dim light from the TV isn’t enough to show her face, but you can feel how tense she’s gotten. Interesting. She does have some fantasies of her own.

“I might be able to make that work. Play the dashing scoundrel rescuing the princess.”

Sabriel shifts position, digging into your stomach in the process. “Watch who saves who, flyboy. And the deal only counts if you stay awake. If I catch you sleeping, the offer is null and void.”