[RP] Dark was the night, cold was the ground, I could barely make out the sound...

[uberboned]

All's quiet on Chicago streets. There's snow on the ground, ice clinging to places where the salt trucks can't get to, and at this hour most people are in bed like any sane person should be.

Sane is relative in Chicago, of course.

In front of the Empress Theater, a Rift springs to life and 5'7 worth of Biblical Archangel-slash-Trickster God practically rolls out of it, hits the curb, and then scrambles to his feet just as the damn thing closes again. There's a silver stiletto blade in his hands and there's blood on it, which probably had a lot to with the fact that on the other side of that particular Rift, there's a dead archangel.

Raphael never did fucking know when to quit.

"Your timing is fantastic," Gabriel, because he stopped calling himself the Trickster a long time ago, spits at where the Rift should be. He wobbles a bit. He's not hurt terribly bad for an angel, but for something that passes as human, he sort of looks like he got on the bad end of a really vicious fight.

Probably because he totally did.

Comments

[whateverthemess.livejournal.com]

Murphy was out for a walk, on the alert for monsters, on the alert for... Anything, really. It's been a quiet few weeks. She hasn't seen Michael, the Doctor, the Trickster, Des, though she's talked to Des a few times since they met. There's still no sign of Harry.

Murphy closes her eyes and tilts her face skyward at the sun that isn't there. She's going to go crazy if she doesn't hear something soon. Even a trail to follow in the case of Michael's kidnappings would be a blessing.

She's rounding the corner to the front of the Empress when she hears the Trickster's voice. Murphy hisses in a breath and races around the corner and skids to a halt.

Oh shit.

Oh shit.

Who did he kill?

[painhumbles.livejournal.com]

It's technically been, oh... Maybe a month? No, maybe three, since Gabriel's been in Chicago. The fact that it's still winter means either no time has passed at all or it's been longer here. Or maybe the White Witch has descended on Chicago. He doesn't fucking know or care.

That said, it's hard to forget Murphy. He stares at her like he isn't holding a bloodied knife and didn't just kill one of his brothers, quirking an eyebrow.

"...What?" Yeah. That's all he has to say, after three months. HE'S A LITTLE SHELLSHOCKED HIMSELF, MURPHY. That and she's looking at him like he killed her grandmother.

[whateverthemess.livejournal.com]

Her eyes narrow--being on the defensive is almost instinctive in a conversation with him, but now... You only knew him for a week, she reminds herself. He's an angel. The truth is you don't really know him at all.

She still likes him, though, and that's the problem. She learned a long time ago that jumping to conclusions when someone you like and trust seems to be acting against the best interests of those around them is a bad idea. But a bloody stiletto is kind of hard to ignore.

"You got bored of Chicago a little faster than I thought you would," she says. Murphy clears her throat. "Unless, of course, you've been playing pin-the-hilt-on-the-douchebag under the radar."

[painhumbles.livejournal.com]

"Not my choice, Murph," Gabriel says, taking a step forward. He stops, looks down at the knife, inhales, and then promptly flings it into the alley. Yeah, he doesn't really want to look at it anymore.

That done, he resumes walking towards her like that never happened. "Got called back. Apocalypse, yanno? Things got a little heated." As evidenced by all the blood. There's a little trail of it in the snow as he walks. "What? Didja miss me?"

That's the one good thing about being dropped back in Chicago. Easier to pretend what's going on back at the house isn't tearing him apart.

[whateverthemess.livejournal.com]

The bottom drops out of Murphy's stomach, leaving an uncomfortable nausea in its wake. She takes a half-step forward, her eyebrows knitting at the sight of the blood. The rest can wait. For now--

"You're hurt." She puts a hand on his arm, tentative, wanting to ask so many questions and crushing desire. Someone hurt him. "Can--would anything we can do help?"

[painhumbles.livejournal.com]

He instinctively pulls his arm away from her with a light scoff, but it's probably half appearances than it is because he'd rather she didn't touch him. "It'll heal... I think. Probably." He has a body that was naturally indestructible before he parked his angelic ass in it and aside from being wobbly from battle fatigue, he's pretty good.

"I just remembered I wasn't one of the jocks in high school," he says, mockingly sarcastic. "Still. You should see the other guy."

[whateverthemess.livejournal.com]

"It's always maybe and probably with you," she mutters. "Come on."

She doesn't touch him again, instead climbing the steps to the Empress's doors. "It's freezing. Even if it won't do any good, I'm not going to sit around waiting for you to heal on your own."

Murphy stops with her hand on the door, looking back and down at him. "We have cake."

[painhumbles.livejournal.com]

He stands there for a moment, making a big deal of considering it. "Hm. Cake and being looked after by hot soccer moms or retreating to the far corners of Chicago to lick my wounds and sulk. Gee. There's a tough choice."

He is going to take advantage of the fact that Murphy probably won't try to hurt him while he's injured. Oh how he will take advantage of it.

And now he's going to follow her inside with a shrug. "All right. You win."

[whateverthemess.livejournal.com]

Murphy closes her eyes, the tiny quiver a smile on the edge of her lips. "I did not miss you, for the record."

She leads him through the lobby and down a hall lined with dressing rooms to one close to the end. There are a few staring faces, whispers, people lurking behind their doors and looking at the stranger. Murphy touches the shoulder of one of the nearest, who promptly tries to look like she wasn't staring at that guy Hawkes kept seeing her with. "Bandages, please. One of the first aid kits, plus needle and suture thread, just in case."

"Are you okay?"

The worry leaves a tiny warm spot glowing in Murphy's chest. She smiles. "I'm fine. Quickly, please."

She holds her door open. "If you need a chaperone, I can happily find one," she says dryly, turning her attention back to Gabriel.

The room itself is small but comfortable, the furniture all mismatched and battered, the linens equally patchworked. Nothing like home, even though its starting to feel like one in its own right.

[painhumbles.livejournal.com]

"Liar," he says, following behind her like an irritatingly smug, bleeding puppy. "You pined. How long's it been, anyway?"

Dudes who stare get stared at right back with vaguely intimidating, yet still unbearably smug, expressions. Yeah, that's right, punkass. You keep walking.

"What would I need a chaperone for?" He scoffs, walking in and flopping down on the nearest thing suitable for flopping on, which happens to be a chair. "So you know where I am at all times, you lovesick thing?"

If he keeps that up, people are going to start accusing him of protesting too much. At this moment, however, it's just to keep her from thinking too hard about where he's been, who he might have killed, and what Apocalypse he's not doing a bang-up job bringing down.

[whateverthemess.livejournal.com]

"Almost a month." She hangs her coat on a hook near the door.

She turns back around and flicks her wrist, pointing at the ceiling. "Shirt. And not a word about it. I can't bandage your clothes."

Murphy's just mostly ignoring you, Gabriel. Also, she doesn't expect you to not say a word about it, but hey. It was worth a shot.

[painhumbles.livejournal.com]

Aww. And he had a retort for that and everything. He makes an annoyed pfft sound and off goes the shirt. "You realize this is all gonna be a moot point in an hour or two. I'm just humorin' you, 'cause it's less annoying than watchin' you fidget around for a couple of hours while I bleed."

It's not like he's the one lying dead in a warehouse somewhere with a stab wound in his chest. Geez.

[whateverthemess.livejournal.com]

Still ignoring you, Gabriel, lalalalaaa. The woman comes back, tapping on the door and delivering the requested supplies to Murphy before fleeing again. The lines around Murphy's mouth and eyes tighten when she sees the beating he's taken, though most of her attention is fixed on the ugly, slow-bleeding gash on his side. The question is out before she realizes she's asking. "Who did this to you?"

Murphy winces. There's not a lot that could. "Never mind."

[painhumbles.livejournal.com]

He frowns, not quite threatening- more warning than anything. "Word of advice, Murph? If it can hurt me, you can't handle it." And that's all the answer he's going to give on the subject. He raises an arm to look at the gash, frowning at it like one might frown at something weird that's trying to crawl up your leg as opposed to a wound that would be fatal on any other person.

"Huh," he notes, far too casually. "I thought somethin' felt weird after that fourth stained glass window."

He could be kidding. He's probably not.

[whateverthemess.livejournal.com]

She gets down on her knees next to the chair, hissing as she gets a closer look. Pink tissue, dark exposed muscle, the slow dribble of blood. Way too slow for something that deep and fresh. It doesn't even have the pink ring of telltale infection around his intact skin. Murphy touches the flesh next to the gash gently. "It really doesn't hurt?"

[painhumbles.livejournal.com]

"Uh. There's a hole in my side. Yeah, it hurts." The snark will continue until... Forever. It never goes away. It's how you know Gabriel is conscious. That said, he lowers his voice to a less snarky tone, "I've had worse, believe me. Like I said, it'll heal."

He'd like to ignore the giant bloodletting elephant in the room, if everyone's okay with that.

[whateverthemess.livejournal.com]

Murphy shakes her head and opens up the kit. Good damn thing there's a big-ass bottle of saline in there. She soaks a cloth pad and starts cleaning the wound, precisely and carefully. She's done this kind of thing a lot. Squall all you want, Gabriel, it would itch her to just cover it up without cleaning it first, even if it would heal on its own, and she can't just leave it... oozing all over.

It would bug her, okay?

[painhumbles.livejournal.com]

YOU'RE THE ONE WHO INSISTED THE SHIRT HAD TO COME OFF, MURPHY. GOD.

He just rolls his eyes and resists the urge to cringe. Healing factor and general awesome god stuff aside, he isn't actually impervious to pain and that stuff stings.

"Sooo," he drawls to take his mind off the irrational urge to hiss like a wounded cat. "A month, huh? Did I miss anything?"

[whateverthemess.livejournal.com]

"Nothing." She grits the word out, her hand still steady as she finishes cleaning away the dried blood. It's going again now, though still not nearly as much as a wound of this kind normally would. She flushes it out, swipes away the runoff, and sits back. She's frowning, both at the wound and at her lack of information.

"If Michael's kidnapping people again, he's doing it very quietly. I've had people watching him as much as possible, but except for Hawkes and Vansen, they aren't trained to this kind of thing, and I need those two here. I should really stitch this shut."

[painhumbles.livejournal.com]

Gabriel flops his head back and shifts a bit. Right. That explains everything. She hasn't caught the little white-blooded freak yet, she feels useless, and so she's mothering the first thing she actually can deal with.

"You're transferring, Murphy," he says, half drawling and half sing-songing.

[whateverthemess.livejournal.com]

"What?" She jerks back, scowling. "Excuse me, Freud, but you were oozing all over my chair."

She digs out a bandage of the appropriate size and gently tapes it into place, her face showing clear discomfort with the idea of just covering up a wound that size. "It's unprofessional to leave it open."

[painhumbles.livejournal.com]

"Okay, fine," he says, shifting, rolling his eyes a bit. "It'll heal weird if you put stitches in it. Does that make you feel better?"

He shifts again. He's still high on something like adrenaline, which is probably for the best, because the crash is gonna hurt like hell. Angels are warriors- they're meant to be able to fight. He hasn't done it in so long, it just feels like he's woken up old muscles that are sore, but aching to be used more.

"It was three months, by the way," he adds, tone a bit softer. "For me."

[whateverthemess.livejournal.com]

She smooths the bandage tape into place, not looking at him. She's not sure how to. He got dragged away, stripped of his power, then dragged back and...

"I'm sorry." She wants to hug him. She wants to fix this. Murphy gets to her feet. "I didn't want to ask."

[painhumbles.livejournal.com]

"I appreciate that you didn't," he says and actually sounds like he means it, "But if you're gonna get all savior complex on me, you oughta know that there's nothin' you coulda done about any of this... Oh wait. That doesn't help."

He grabs her hand, almost without thinking and when he speaks, he sounds a little desperate, "I killed one of my brothers. Okay?"

Yeah, not something he wanted to drag out in the open, but neither of them are very fun when they're angsty and he's not fit to be dropping anyone in a tropical paradise until this all goes away right now.

[whateverthemess.livejournal.com]

She tugs him forward into a hug without pulling her hand away. Murphy's known him for all of a week and he's telling her something like that--which means he doesn't have anyone else to tell. There's nothing. Nothing she could say, do--there's just nothing. This is it.