Gabriel would never have mocked Billy-Ray for his straight razor. Leaving aside the images he now kept, in which he knew with vivid detail just how sharp that razor was, the Archangel had seen many such uses of barbers' razors over the years. Small did not mean harmless.
He preferred chalk as his weapon. Actually, he preferred his spear, but that wasn't a possibility right now so chalk would just have to do, and Gabe could tell from the look on Sanguine's face that he viewed that chalk the same way people viewed his razor. It was just a pity that Gabe couldn't prove to him otherwise without revealing too much.
"Havin' fun watchin' counts as doing something," Gabe retorted, but without nearly as much heat as he had had only a few minutes ago. He turned away, picked a direction at random, and started walking down it. Contrary to Sanguine's thoughts on 'floundering', the Archangel didn't move hesitantly at all. It was clear he didn't know the area, but he moved with slow, careful purpose: he was obviously unable to move fast, bearing out his comment about injuries, but he was neither hesitant nor afraid.
Every time he reached a corridor he marked where he'd come from and turned north, blatantly ignoring the sorcerer behind him.
~~~
"Perhaps," Solomon agreed in a murmur, quite clearly distracted. Lost in his own thoughts, the very last thing Solomon expected was physical contact--let alone a hug. The moment Father O'Reilly's arms came down around the sorcerer Solomon stiffened with surprise. The last time he'd been hugged by anyone had been--
The pounding at the door seemed to lure everyone in the house like moths to a light, but just as Kian's feet hit the floor beneath the stairs his father intercepted him, spinning him around from the entrance into the hall. "No, Kian! Stay!"
"But, Father--"
"Kian." Da's face was weary, careworn; the expression made Kian's chest clenched. Yet, at the same time Da's face was soft as it hadn't been for years. Not since--before. The man lifted a hand and cupped Kian's cheek, and there was a resignation in his eyes that made Kian's stomach flutter. "It never really went away, did it?"
Kian's eyes widened and his mouth dried, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest. He wanted to tell his father that he'd tried to make it go away. That he'd tried to be a good man. He tried, he really had. But the teen couldn't find any words, so he just shook his head mutely.
(Distantly, through the thick walls of the manor, he heard someone shout: "Open in the name of your king!")
Da nodded. He already knew. He'd seen how Kian struggled with it. The thought should have filled the teen with relief, but it didn't. "Whatever happens, Kian, promise me that you won't use it. You cannot use it, do you understand me?"
"I understand, Da," Kian whispered.
Abruptly the man pulled Kian close to him, holding him tight, one hand squeezing the back of his neck. Kian felt the brush of lips against his forehead, so quick and sudden that he wasn't entirely sure it had happened. Then Da had pulled away and was striding toward the door where one of their footmen was trying to talk the soldiers into leaving, and Kian was left standing at the foot of the stairs.
He was crying, Solomon realised dimly. Not sobbing. He didn't have the strength for that. Not even resisting the hug, because he didn't have the strength for that either. He didn't even have the strength to try and keep the tears from coming, or to figure out just what he was crying for. His father? Himself? Father O'Reilly?
Instead he just sat there, head bowed and cradled in the priest's arms, and wept.
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He preferred chalk as his weapon. Actually, he preferred his spear, but that wasn't a possibility right now so chalk would just have to do, and Gabe could tell from the look on Sanguine's face that he viewed that chalk the same way people viewed his razor. It was just a pity that Gabe couldn't prove to him otherwise without revealing too much.
"Havin' fun watchin' counts as doing something," Gabe retorted, but without nearly as much heat as he had had only a few minutes ago. He turned away, picked a direction at random, and started walking down it. Contrary to Sanguine's thoughts on 'floundering', the Archangel didn't move hesitantly at all. It was clear he didn't know the area, but he moved with slow, careful purpose: he was obviously unable to move fast, bearing out his comment about injuries, but he was neither hesitant nor afraid.
Every time he reached a corridor he marked where he'd come from and turned north, blatantly ignoring the sorcerer behind him.
~~~
"Perhaps," Solomon agreed in a murmur, quite clearly distracted. Lost in his own thoughts, the very last thing Solomon expected was physical contact--let alone a hug. The moment Father O'Reilly's arms came down around the sorcerer Solomon stiffened with surprise. The last time he'd been hugged by anyone had been--
The pounding at the door seemed to lure everyone in the house like moths to a light, but just as Kian's feet hit the floor beneath the stairs his father intercepted him, spinning him around from the entrance into the hall. "No, Kian! Stay!"
"But, Father--"
"Kian." Da's face was weary, careworn; the expression made Kian's chest clenched. Yet, at the same time Da's face was soft as it hadn't been for years. Not since--before. The man lifted a hand and cupped Kian's cheek, and there was a resignation in his eyes that made Kian's stomach flutter. "It never really went away, did it?"
Kian's eyes widened and his mouth dried, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest. He wanted to tell his father that he'd tried to make it go away. That he'd tried to be a good man. He tried, he really had. But the teen couldn't find any words, so he just shook his head mutely.
(Distantly, through the thick walls of the manor, he heard someone shout: "Open in the name of your king!")
Da nodded. He already knew. He'd seen how Kian struggled with it. The thought should have filled the teen with relief, but it didn't. "Whatever happens, Kian, promise me that you won't use it. You cannot use it, do you understand me?"
"I understand, Da," Kian whispered.
Abruptly the man pulled Kian close to him, holding him tight, one hand squeezing the back of his neck. Kian felt the brush of lips against his forehead, so quick and sudden that he wasn't entirely sure it had happened. Then Da had pulled away and was striding toward the door where one of their footmen was trying to talk the soldiers into leaving, and Kian was left standing at the foot of the stairs.
He was crying, Solomon realised dimly. Not sobbing. He didn't have the strength for that. Not even resisting the hug, because he didn't have the strength for that either. He didn't even have the strength to try and keep the tears from coming, or to figure out just what he was crying for. His father? Himself? Father O'Reilly?
Instead he just sat there, head bowed and cradled in the priest's arms, and wept.