[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

[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.

[painhumbles.livejournal.com]

He stiffens a bit. Okay. This has never happened before. ...Not like this anyway. You hang around Woodstock, some naked chick with flowers in her hair is probably going to hug you in the name of peace and free love, and you never know what's actually going on in those orgies, but, um... Actually getting a friendly hug from someone? Yeah, that's unheard of, especially since it feels like a sympathetic one.

And part of him, the snarky Trickster God who spurns anything that isn't hedonistic or slightly vicious, wants him to push her away and mock her for putting her sympathies somewhere she shouldn't, because like he really needs anyone to care about him. The other part, the nearly-fallen archangel who nearly got himself killed by and then had to kill one of his own brothers tonight, only to wind up back in this place and powerless again... That part of him doesn't want to let go. Because he doesn't have anyone to tell. He can't shout at the Winchesters and Castiel and Anna for driving him out of hiding and into a war he never wanetd to fight. They're not here. The only person who is here is a woman he's known for all of a week, which is such a piddly, pathetic stretch of time for a being that can count moments before the earth was ever formed.

So rather than push her away, he just stays there, not quite hugging her back, although he does faceplant into her shoulder a bit. He'll be back to normal in a minute. Right now, he needs this.

[whateverthemess.livejournal.com]

She presses a hand into his hair, the way she would with Dresden or one of her brothers, her nephews, the victims still standing after their first brush with the supernatural. There's no murmured assurances, just the silent message that there's something solid to lean on. Finite and fallible as it might be.

Murphy's the one who moves first, shifting back just a little to look him in the face. She squeezes his hand and lets go. She could probably wait, hold him until he pulls away, but if she does the chances of him letting her touch him again--particularly for comfort's sake--are probably not good. "Feel like some cake?" Her voice is much quieter and more grave than the question warrants. "At least the bandage will keep it from falling out between your ribs."

[painhumbles.livejournal.com]

Gabriel's expression lingers at quietly desperate for a second or two after she pulls away- that moment between wanting to cry and being too much of a macho asshole to do it. Then he closes his eyes, exhales, and looks up at her with a half-cocked brow like she just said that stupidest thing he's ever heard.

"Oh, you're a riot, Murphy. You get put through six walls and four stained glass windows and then see who's laughing." Even though she's not actually laughing. Shh.

He tries to stand up and then promptly sits back down. Yep. Standing right now doesn't feel right- apparently, he used the last of his adrenaline getting up here. "...Actually, if anyone tries to do that to you, call me and I'll return the favor, 'cause that shit stings."

[whateverthemess.livejournal.com]

The warmth that breaks over her face, the tired little half-smile and the slight cant of her head--really? really?--is an expression Dresden probably recognizes quite well. She loves him. All his stupid, eons-old bravado, all his dickish commentary, all the broken strength that keeps him from falling apart.

Aparently, Karrin Murphy has a type.

"I'll try to remember that before my spine breaks on the second wall."

She uses his knee to get back on her feet, taking the chance to give him an extra squeeze before she straightens. "I'll be right back."

[painhumbles.livejournal.com]

He flails his foot out to hook it under an ottoman and drag it over. Yes, he could snap an ottoman into existence, but he's not feeling any heavy duty power work right now and it's just as easy to drag it over. ...Okay, no it's not, but whatever. "Just don't get into any fights with Biblical archangels and we'll be covered, 'cause if you die, I'll be really pissed at you."

He stares at his knee for a few moments after she leaves and then groans as he hoists himself up to get into a more comfortable position with his feet propped up. "You're gettin' soft, Gabe," he mutters to himself, "and I don't think it looks all that good on you."

Not much he can do about it though, other than stop lurking around Murphy like a kid looking for a date to prom, but she's about the only damn person in this universe that doesn't grate on his nerves. Fucking humans.

[whateverthemess.livejournal.com]

When Murphy returns, it is with a whole cake on a tray... and a fork. Two forks, actually, but she figured it would be a waste to dirty up plates when he'll as likely plow through the whole thing anyway. She sets the tray on the table next to her chair, sitting herself down on the part of the ottoman not occupied by his feet. She has to shove a few books out of the way--history texts, mostly, and a criminology text focusing on the habits and backgrounds of delusional psychopaths.

...Murphy does not fixate. What are you talking about. "It's chocolate." She digs her own fork in to take a chunk out of the edge, holding his out. "Do you have a preference for something else?"

[painhumbles.livejournal.com]

"If it has sugar in it, I'll eat it," Gabriel says, matter-of-factly, accepting the fork and digging in it. As a matter of fact, chocolate is his favorite. He takes a chunk off the edge, himself, and digs in, suddenly remembering that he hasn't eaten in ages. That damn apocalypse will take a lot out of you.

And he notices your crime books, Murphy. The fact that he is choosing not to comment on them just means that he's resigned himself to the fact that you're gonna keep getting headaches over this until your brain explodes.

"Let's be honest for a second here, Murph," he announces, half-thoughtful. "You didn't think I was comin' back, didja?"

[whateverthemess.livejournal.com]

Murphy stops, the fork in her mouth. The question catches her off-guard. She sucks her bite off the fork before poking at the cake without taking another mouthful. "I'm used to it."

She's surprised at herself, too. The admission hurts, drives something hot into that space that trust left when she thought Harry died, when he disappeared again, all the times he'd gone off without a word to try and save everyone on his own. Murphy takes another bite of cake to keep herself from saying anything else before she has a chance to think about it. She shrugs, slowly, sucking the cake off the fork again rather than chewing like a normal person.

"I worried," she says, like she stopped worrying somewhere between the last time they spoke and his reappearance. "But you--you're not really the stay at home type." The last part is said with a wryness the rest of it didn't have.

[painhumbles.livejournal.com]

"Nooot really," he says, sprawling back in the chair after finishing off another huge hunk of cake. "I get around. However, I woulda told you if I was actually leavin' for good and I'm insulted that you'd actually think otherwise."

He sticks his lip out in what is unmistakeably a pout. See what you did, Murphy? You made the beat-up archangel pout at you.

[whateverthemess.livejournal.com]

"Consider me properly chastised for doubting the sincerity of an angel." And once again, there's that little twinkle of amusement that's been mostly absent for the past three weeks. Hawkes and Vansen are wonderful, she'd never say otherwise, but there's something she missed so much about having someone around who knows more than she does. It's strange and a little uncomfortable to admit it, even to herself, but not having to be the strongest person in the room is something of a relief.

He makes her happy, which is a lot more than what most of Chicago does. He reminds her that she doesn't always have to feel hurt, or tired, or sad--someone she's known so briefly shouldn't have that kind of power, but there it is. She takes another forkful of cake.

"Would you leave for good?" It's a perfectly casual question. She only has eyes for her sugary mouthful. "No coming back, no hitting up the tourist hot spots every once in a while to stick bunny ears on the easiest targets?"

[painhumbles.livejournal.com]

"Hey! We may be occasionally be pricks, and I can say that, 'cause they're my family and I love 'em, but we are always sincere, sister. Always." They're kinda sincere to the point of people wishing they lied a little more.

And the fact that mentioning his family doesn't make him flinch even slightly is just a testament to how good he is at hiding and holding himself up. That slip earlier was just that- he was hurt, the memory was fresh. He's over it.

Mostly.

"No," he says around a mouthful of cake. "'Cause if every so often I'm gonna get stuck here, I'm gonna stay where the action is." He swallows. "If I can't be an all-powerful demigod and have to be a guy with a really great sense of humor and more power in his little finger than most people have in their whole bodies, then I'm gonna stay where schadenfreude is an extreme sport."

And it has nothing to do with her. At all. Really.

[whateverthemess.livejournal.com]

'Cause they're my family and I love 'em.

A ghost of sadness flickers in her eyes and disappears. Murphy makes a smiley-face in the side of the cake with her fork. "That is an indulgence that I've never really gotten into."

She pauses. "Well. Almost never."

[painhumbles.livejournal.com]

"That doesn't surprise me. Woman with a savior complex? Takin' pleasure in other people's pain? I'd be chokin' on this fork if you said anything different." He waves the fork pointedly at her.

"Who's a little girl scout?" He says, mockingly, still wagging the fork. "You are."

[whateverthemess.livejournal.com]

"I do not have a savior complex." She takes a finger full of frosting and eats it, scowling at him over her finger-full-of-frosting. So very intimidating. On anyone else it would look like a sulk. Murphy is too dignified for that. "And this little girlscout has a clear shot at your crotch from here, wounds or none."

[painhumbles.livejournal.com]

"Riiiight. And I'm a sainted martyr," Gabriel smirks, tilting his head slightly to the side.

He leans over to take another stab at the cake and looks up at her, smirking a bit. "I can take you."

Which isn't fair, all things considering, but a man will not allow himself to be punched in the balls a second time, no matter how much he knows he's asking for it.