Fic: Rogue (Gabriel/M, Gabriel/F, PG-13) 12/36
For full notes and other chapters, please see the Masterpost.
Notes: This is the third part of the Missing an Angel series. It is recommended that you read the first two before reading this one.
Chapter Rating: PG-13
Chapter word count: 1,306
Chapter Summary: Gabriel hates every moment away from Fergus’ side. He can’t return soon enough, but even that might be too late.
CHAPTER 12:
Homecoming
Gabriel wrote letters to Fergus, long letters full of stories from wherever he went. Tangier, Algiers, Cairo, then skipping around Jerusalem (he’d spent enough time in that city for an angel’s lifetime), to Damascus and Baghdad. He cut across Asia on foot, cutting a trail of mischief through the unsuspecting populations. A pair of nomadic hunters chased him into Mongolia in 1695, but he lost them in the Gobi desert after a year and a half.
Gabriel wrote letters, and he sent them, but he suspected none were finding their way into Fergus’ hands. Whether it was Raphael’s doing, or the less-nefarious unreliability of human delivery, Fergus was losing faith in him. The man had prayed for him constantly, daily, for the first five years of Gabriel’s self-imposed exile from Scotland, asking him where he was, begging him to come home. The prayers slowly tapered off, coming in infrequently when they came at all. Fergus had no idea what had happened to his oldest friend, and Gabriel had no way of telling him that his brothers had brushed too close for comfort.
Ten years to the day since he left Dundee, Gabriel turned his wings westward and headed home. Home. Because home was with Fergus, even if Gabrielle refused to let him into her house, even if Gavin sneered in his face. Home was sitting in the back room of Fergus’ little shop, head resting against the man’s knee as he worked on his latest commission. Home was a little wood fire crackling in the hearth, the smell of dyed fabric and a glass of the Craig whisky that Fergus favored, with a soft song from Heaven hummed to keep the shadows at bay. Home was freckles and a crooked smile and Fergus. Home was a man with an angel’s spirit, and Gabriel missed him more than he’d ever missed Heaven or any of his other brothers.
Gabriel didn’t bother with the rooms the MacLeods had called their own. He picked his way through the narrow streets of the city, tugging his cap low over his eyes and keeping his wings folded tightly inside his vessel. Dundee’s air hummed and crackled with life and promise, and the lingering angelic grace Gabriel could taste was old, fading whispers of a search years ago. Dundee was safe again. Probably.
A little bell over the door tinkled as Gabriel entered Fergus’ small shop. Faded bolts of cloth sat in in the window, piled at the feet of a dress Gabriel recognized as three years out of style. Dust coated the shelves, and the only light inside came from a weak oil lamp on the counter.
“Fergus?” Gabriel could sense life in this shop, but he didn’t dare stretch his grace out further. He approached the counter the way any human would, one step at a time. “Are you here?”
“Well, well, well. Look who’s back.” Wrapped in shadows, Fergus drawled his greeting from the doorway to the back room of the shop, one arm stretched up the frame, the other hand holding a glass of whisky. “I thought maybe you were dead, you know.” His voice was bitter but so familiar to Gabriel’s ears. The angel’s grace thrashed against his hold, trying to reach out for the man’s soul, but Gabriel kept it tightly leashed.
“I’m sorry.” Centuries of dealing with Michael had taught Gabriel to lead with an apology when a brother was upset. That ingrained reaction asserted itself now. “I had to leave in a hurry. I did write… but I take it my letters never arrived.”
“No.” Fergus scrutinized his glass for a moment, then tipped the rest of the drink down his throat. “They didn’t.”
Apologizing again felt redundant, so Gabriel said nothing. He reached up, slowly pulling his hat off, keeping his eyes on Fergus. Ten years was a long time for a human, a large fraction of a mortal life. Fergus’ face held more creases, his forehead wrinkled from frowns, a permanent crease between his dark eyes. He was thirty-six now, a man in the middle of his life. His body was still strong and lean, but his soul…
Fergus’ soul was shrouded completely in darkness, all but his very core of what had once been the most brilliant soul Gabriel had ever seen now extinguished. His soul wasn’t corroded like Brody’s or shriveled like Issobell’s. It wasn’t damaged, it was just… dead.
“Oh Fergus…” Gabriel closed his eyes to the sight, pulling back to look at the man’s face. “What have you done?”
Fergus gave a sniff, glancing at his glass again before turning away from Gabriel and returning to the back room. A vague wave of his hand at the angel invited Gabriel to follow. “I didn’t know if you’d come back. If you’d come back in time.” He picked up the opened bottle of whisky and refilled his glass before tipping it Gabriel’s way with a raised eyebrow, another invitation.
Gabriel came up beside Fergus, picking up a second glass and wiping out the dust inside with a scrap of cloth. He offered it to the man for a measure of his own and waited for Fergus to sit in his usual chair before taking his customary seat on the floor at Fergus’ knee. “In time for what?” he asked, swirling his whisky around the glass before taking a sip.
Fergus held his glass loosely in both hands, resting it on his knee. His nails tapped anxiously against the sides, drumming out a familiar heavenly chorus. “My death. I’m dying.”
Gabriel twisted around to look at Fergus again, this time checking his health. “You’re not ill,” he said with a frown. “And you’re not old.”
“You and I both know those aren’t the only ways to die.” Fergus took a gulp of his whisky and tapped the glass against his heart on the way back to resting it on his knee. “My soul, Loki. I sold my soul.”
“You didn’t.” Gabriel’s grace froze within him, not even straining to reach Fergus anymore with the shock of what the man had revealed.
Fergus gave a mirthless laugh, ducking his head so he wasn’t looking at Gabriel. “What did I have to lose?”
“Your soul!” Gabriel twisted around, rising on his knees and putting his hands on Fergus’. “What were you thinking, you daft fool!?”
“I was thinking you were gone.” Fergus lifted his head only just enough to look at Gabriel, his whole face shrouded in shadows. “You were gone, Gabrielle is…” he laughed again, another cold and bitter sound, “is a whore, and Gavin’s a little monster. Married, though, thank God, so not my problem anymore.” He hunched forward, curling in on himself with another laugh that came out choked and brittle. “I was thinking my soul was already doomed for Hell, as you yourself keep pointing out, so what’s the harm in hurrying it along? I didn’t think you’d come back. I didn’t think you’d ever come back.”
Gabriel set his glass aside and reached out for Fergus, cupping the man’s face in his grace-warmed hands. Brothers be damned, Fergus needed an angel right now. Gabriel pushed his grace out, unfolded his wings, and wrapped everything he had around the man and his dark, wounded soul. “I came back,” he murmured into the man’s ear. “I’m right here.”
Fergus’ glass toppled to the floor, spilling what remained of his drink, as the man’s arms came up to wrap tightly around Gabriel’s chest. Gabriel ignored the mess, pulling Fergus into his lap and holding him close to his core. He layered his grace over and around his friend, wrapping him in all that was good and holy about an angel, and when Fergus fell asleep like that, cradled in Gabriel’s wings, the angel finally allowed himself to cry.
Next...
Notes: This is the third part of the Missing an Angel series. It is recommended that you read the first two before reading this one.
Chapter Rating: PG-13
Chapter word count: 1,306
Chapter Summary: Gabriel hates every moment away from Fergus’ side. He can’t return soon enough, but even that might be too late.
CHAPTER 12:
Homecoming
Gabriel wrote letters to Fergus, long letters full of stories from wherever he went. Tangier, Algiers, Cairo, then skipping around Jerusalem (he’d spent enough time in that city for an angel’s lifetime), to Damascus and Baghdad. He cut across Asia on foot, cutting a trail of mischief through the unsuspecting populations. A pair of nomadic hunters chased him into Mongolia in 1695, but he lost them in the Gobi desert after a year and a half.
Gabriel wrote letters, and he sent them, but he suspected none were finding their way into Fergus’ hands. Whether it was Raphael’s doing, or the less-nefarious unreliability of human delivery, Fergus was losing faith in him. The man had prayed for him constantly, daily, for the first five years of Gabriel’s self-imposed exile from Scotland, asking him where he was, begging him to come home. The prayers slowly tapered off, coming in infrequently when they came at all. Fergus had no idea what had happened to his oldest friend, and Gabriel had no way of telling him that his brothers had brushed too close for comfort.
Ten years to the day since he left Dundee, Gabriel turned his wings westward and headed home. Home. Because home was with Fergus, even if Gabrielle refused to let him into her house, even if Gavin sneered in his face. Home was sitting in the back room of Fergus’ little shop, head resting against the man’s knee as he worked on his latest commission. Home was a little wood fire crackling in the hearth, the smell of dyed fabric and a glass of the Craig whisky that Fergus favored, with a soft song from Heaven hummed to keep the shadows at bay. Home was freckles and a crooked smile and Fergus. Home was a man with an angel’s spirit, and Gabriel missed him more than he’d ever missed Heaven or any of his other brothers.
Gabriel didn’t bother with the rooms the MacLeods had called their own. He picked his way through the narrow streets of the city, tugging his cap low over his eyes and keeping his wings folded tightly inside his vessel. Dundee’s air hummed and crackled with life and promise, and the lingering angelic grace Gabriel could taste was old, fading whispers of a search years ago. Dundee was safe again. Probably.
A little bell over the door tinkled as Gabriel entered Fergus’ small shop. Faded bolts of cloth sat in in the window, piled at the feet of a dress Gabriel recognized as three years out of style. Dust coated the shelves, and the only light inside came from a weak oil lamp on the counter.
“Fergus?” Gabriel could sense life in this shop, but he didn’t dare stretch his grace out further. He approached the counter the way any human would, one step at a time. “Are you here?”
“Well, well, well. Look who’s back.” Wrapped in shadows, Fergus drawled his greeting from the doorway to the back room of the shop, one arm stretched up the frame, the other hand holding a glass of whisky. “I thought maybe you were dead, you know.” His voice was bitter but so familiar to Gabriel’s ears. The angel’s grace thrashed against his hold, trying to reach out for the man’s soul, but Gabriel kept it tightly leashed.
“I’m sorry.” Centuries of dealing with Michael had taught Gabriel to lead with an apology when a brother was upset. That ingrained reaction asserted itself now. “I had to leave in a hurry. I did write… but I take it my letters never arrived.”
“No.” Fergus scrutinized his glass for a moment, then tipped the rest of the drink down his throat. “They didn’t.”
Apologizing again felt redundant, so Gabriel said nothing. He reached up, slowly pulling his hat off, keeping his eyes on Fergus. Ten years was a long time for a human, a large fraction of a mortal life. Fergus’ face held more creases, his forehead wrinkled from frowns, a permanent crease between his dark eyes. He was thirty-six now, a man in the middle of his life. His body was still strong and lean, but his soul…
Fergus’ soul was shrouded completely in darkness, all but his very core of what had once been the most brilliant soul Gabriel had ever seen now extinguished. His soul wasn’t corroded like Brody’s or shriveled like Issobell’s. It wasn’t damaged, it was just… dead.
“Oh Fergus…” Gabriel closed his eyes to the sight, pulling back to look at the man’s face. “What have you done?”
Fergus gave a sniff, glancing at his glass again before turning away from Gabriel and returning to the back room. A vague wave of his hand at the angel invited Gabriel to follow. “I didn’t know if you’d come back. If you’d come back in time.” He picked up the opened bottle of whisky and refilled his glass before tipping it Gabriel’s way with a raised eyebrow, another invitation.
Gabriel came up beside Fergus, picking up a second glass and wiping out the dust inside with a scrap of cloth. He offered it to the man for a measure of his own and waited for Fergus to sit in his usual chair before taking his customary seat on the floor at Fergus’ knee. “In time for what?” he asked, swirling his whisky around the glass before taking a sip.
Fergus held his glass loosely in both hands, resting it on his knee. His nails tapped anxiously against the sides, drumming out a familiar heavenly chorus. “My death. I’m dying.”
Gabriel twisted around to look at Fergus again, this time checking his health. “You’re not ill,” he said with a frown. “And you’re not old.”
“You and I both know those aren’t the only ways to die.” Fergus took a gulp of his whisky and tapped the glass against his heart on the way back to resting it on his knee. “My soul, Loki. I sold my soul.”
“You didn’t.” Gabriel’s grace froze within him, not even straining to reach Fergus anymore with the shock of what the man had revealed.
Fergus gave a mirthless laugh, ducking his head so he wasn’t looking at Gabriel. “What did I have to lose?”
“Your soul!” Gabriel twisted around, rising on his knees and putting his hands on Fergus’. “What were you thinking, you daft fool!?”
“I was thinking you were gone.” Fergus lifted his head only just enough to look at Gabriel, his whole face shrouded in shadows. “You were gone, Gabrielle is…” he laughed again, another cold and bitter sound, “is a whore, and Gavin’s a little monster. Married, though, thank God, so not my problem anymore.” He hunched forward, curling in on himself with another laugh that came out choked and brittle. “I was thinking my soul was already doomed for Hell, as you yourself keep pointing out, so what’s the harm in hurrying it along? I didn’t think you’d come back. I didn’t think you’d ever come back.”
Gabriel set his glass aside and reached out for Fergus, cupping the man’s face in his grace-warmed hands. Brothers be damned, Fergus needed an angel right now. Gabriel pushed his grace out, unfolded his wings, and wrapped everything he had around the man and his dark, wounded soul. “I came back,” he murmured into the man’s ear. “I’m right here.”
Fergus’ glass toppled to the floor, spilling what remained of his drink, as the man’s arms came up to wrap tightly around Gabriel’s chest. Gabriel ignored the mess, pulling Fergus into his lap and holding him close to his core. He layered his grace over and around his friend, wrapping him in all that was good and holy about an angel, and when Fergus fell asleep like that, cradled in Gabriel’s wings, the angel finally allowed himself to cry.
Next...