It wasn't a foregone conclusion. Or at least, that wasn't what Skulduggery intended. Maybe that was just wishful thinking.
What he'd been worried about, for the most part, was that Gabe didn't even realise he was manipulating anything. With free will being so new to the Archangel, there was every possibility he might be going through changes even he didn't notice. It was Skulduggery's job, Skulduggery's innate instinct, to think of what no one else would, even if it meant drawing the ire of an Archangel. He'd been prepared for that. He faced Raphael's tightly controlled fury as if he regularly faced a possibility of being smote.
Gabriel didn't even have to be actively manipulating the name anymore - he used Skulduggery's true name for what they could only assume was months spent in between dimensions, during which anything could have happened that neither of them were aware of. It all really came down to what was happening before then, and that was the dilemma. Skulduggery couldn't remember if he'd actually felt anything towards Gabe before, or if he'd just been in denial practically the whole time.
He couldn't remember. That was what bothered him.
And then, very suddenly, he could remember, but it was about the furthest thing from what he was trying to remember as possible. A memory crashed over him, large and loud and powerful, subtly angry and protective and it didn't stop crashing. After a moment, he finally figured out it wasn't even his. Rafe's. Angels sitting on the Hollywood sign. Skulduggery remembered it as clearly as if he were there, as if he were the one with an arm slung around Gabe's shoulders recalling a conversation with God.
A conversation with God.
If there was any part of Skulduggery that could still think clearly, with his own memories, then it was definitely thinking that God was decidedly different to how Skulduggery always thought of the man - being - thing - no, concept. He'd been raised Catholic, technically. There was something viscerally wrong about hearing the whole Bible summed up as a child might phrase it, but from the Lord Himself. Skulduggery didn't even have the ability to be properly in awe - it was a secondhand memory, reactions and feelings about the conversation that were not his own taking precedence over anything else.
And then: 'We've all had people like that, haven't we? People who think they have to like us just because of what we are, and then the people who really do.'
Gabriel wasn't going to sully what he'd only just discovered his Father always wanted. Not because of that fact, but because he actually understood why. Skulduggery could feel that, through Raphael's memory, through whatever angelic connection it was they had. Not just acceptance. Understanding. Understanding and agreement that came from Gabe, not from some misplaced notion that he had to agree just because. And when angels understood something, they understood it with everything they had.
That was the last thought Skulduggery could have before the memory abruptly ended, and he was faced with the jarring realisation that part of it had been a punishment. Getting memories forced into your head like a bludgeoning axe hurt. He stumbled backwards a step with a strangled gasp, and caught himself on the edge of a table behind him before he could fall.
Something inside his head pulsed with revulsion. Pulsed. Like a headache that had come from nowhere. But Skulduggery didn't get headaches as a skeleton, regardless of what he looked like on the outside, because there was nothing there to hurt apart from the skull. Nevertheless, something quite definitely pulsed. Something in the place where his ears used to be popped.
Just how good was an angel's illusion?
Skulduggery's own memories washed in to take the place of the intruders, a feat that was rather like a small wave trying to wash off an entire beach. He remembered when Gabe instinctively put together a mobile phone for him, without thinking, and how even through Skulduggery's complaints he could now use the heat-activated interface as if his fingers still had blood pumping through them. Simply because Gabe felt bad about not thinking the 'smartphone' part through. Because, now that Skulduggery could approach this with a fresh and deeper understanding of angels, the place where intent met action in their existences was so blurred it practically didn't exist.
Gabriel would never be able to do anything he'd never consciously do. It was just a fact. A simple, unalienable fact.
And through the pain, through the guilt, through the sudden and new feeling of having acted like a bastard, Skulduggery accepted that.
He took a deep breath. Released it. Then another one. The pain in his head slowly subsided, his thoughts knitted themselves easily back together in the usual, familiar pattern, and Skulduggery could let himself reason things out again.
Why had this been bothering him so much? Yes, it was a legitimate concern, but as Raphael pointed out, Gabriel gave Skulduggery his own name. Never mind that Skulduggery would never be able to pronounce it out loud. He had it. Because Gabe trusted him. Because if there was even a hint of that trust being based off manipulation, Skulduggery would have seen it; he was too close, too deep in that healing process, not to. Wherever their souls touched, the air actually burned gold.
Skulduggery didn't have to be a genius to know that couldn't be completely one-sided.
So then why? Because he couldn't understand an Archangel feeling that way towards him? That wasn't it either. That was something Skulduggery accepted as fact no matter which scenario he was worried about. The only thing it could be, then, was guilt. Or, as Raphael called it, his neuroses. The idea that he didn't deserve to feel the same way back.
Objectively, that was a ridiculous idea.
Skulduggery's knuckles were white gripping the edge of the table. Strange, how that looked strange. His skeletal knuckles were white, after all. He slowly let his fingers loosen, and then pushed himself off of the table. "Thank you."
All he felt now was relief that they managed to get this out of the way before Gabe got back.
no subject
What he'd been worried about, for the most part, was that Gabe didn't even realise he was manipulating anything. With free will being so new to the Archangel, there was every possibility he might be going through changes even he didn't notice. It was Skulduggery's job, Skulduggery's innate instinct, to think of what no one else would, even if it meant drawing the ire of an Archangel. He'd been prepared for that. He faced Raphael's tightly controlled fury as if he regularly faced a possibility of being smote.
Gabriel didn't even have to be actively manipulating the name anymore - he used Skulduggery's true name for what they could only assume was months spent in between dimensions, during which anything could have happened that neither of them were aware of. It all really came down to what was happening before then, and that was the dilemma. Skulduggery couldn't remember if he'd actually felt anything towards Gabe before, or if he'd just been in denial practically the whole time.
He couldn't remember. That was what bothered him.
And then, very suddenly, he could remember, but it was about the furthest thing from what he was trying to remember as possible. A memory crashed over him, large and loud and powerful, subtly angry and protective and it didn't stop crashing. After a moment, he finally figured out it wasn't even his. Rafe's. Angels sitting on the Hollywood sign. Skulduggery remembered it as clearly as if he were there, as if he were the one with an arm slung around Gabe's shoulders recalling a conversation with God.
A conversation with God.
If there was any part of Skulduggery that could still think clearly, with his own memories, then it was definitely thinking that God was decidedly different to how Skulduggery always thought of the man - being - thing - no, concept. He'd been raised Catholic, technically. There was something viscerally wrong about hearing the whole Bible summed up as a child might phrase it, but from the Lord Himself. Skulduggery didn't even have the ability to be properly in awe - it was a secondhand memory, reactions and feelings about the conversation that were not his own taking precedence over anything else.
And then: 'We've all had people like that, haven't we? People who think they have to like us just because of what we are, and then the people who really do.'
Gabriel wasn't going to sully what he'd only just discovered his Father always wanted. Not because of that fact, but because he actually understood why. Skulduggery could feel that, through Raphael's memory, through whatever angelic connection it was they had. Not just acceptance. Understanding. Understanding and agreement that came from Gabe, not from some misplaced notion that he had to agree just because. And when angels understood something, they understood it with everything they had.
That was the last thought Skulduggery could have before the memory abruptly ended, and he was faced with the jarring realisation that part of it had been a punishment. Getting memories forced into your head like a bludgeoning axe hurt. He stumbled backwards a step with a strangled gasp, and caught himself on the edge of a table behind him before he could fall.
Something inside his head pulsed with revulsion. Pulsed. Like a headache that had come from nowhere. But Skulduggery didn't get headaches as a skeleton, regardless of what he looked like on the outside, because there was nothing there to hurt apart from the skull. Nevertheless, something quite definitely pulsed. Something in the place where his ears used to be popped.
Just how good was an angel's illusion?
Skulduggery's own memories washed in to take the place of the intruders, a feat that was rather like a small wave trying to wash off an entire beach. He remembered when Gabe instinctively put together a mobile phone for him, without thinking, and how even through Skulduggery's complaints he could now use the heat-activated interface as if his fingers still had blood pumping through them. Simply because Gabe felt bad about not thinking the 'smartphone' part through. Because, now that Skulduggery could approach this with a fresh and deeper understanding of angels, the place where intent met action in their existences was so blurred it practically didn't exist.
Gabriel would never be able to do anything he'd never consciously do. It was just a fact. A simple, unalienable fact.
And through the pain, through the guilt, through the sudden and new feeling of having acted like a bastard, Skulduggery accepted that.
He took a deep breath. Released it. Then another one. The pain in his head slowly subsided, his thoughts knitted themselves easily back together in the usual, familiar pattern, and Skulduggery could let himself reason things out again.
Why had this been bothering him so much? Yes, it was a legitimate concern, but as Raphael pointed out, Gabriel gave Skulduggery his own name. Never mind that Skulduggery would never be able to pronounce it out loud. He had it. Because Gabe trusted him. Because if there was even a hint of that trust being based off manipulation, Skulduggery would have seen it; he was too close, too deep in that healing process, not to. Wherever their souls touched, the air actually burned gold.
Skulduggery didn't have to be a genius to know that couldn't be completely one-sided.
So then why? Because he couldn't understand an Archangel feeling that way towards him? That wasn't it either. That was something Skulduggery accepted as fact no matter which scenario he was worried about. The only thing it could be, then, was guilt. Or, as Raphael called it, his neuroses. The idea that he didn't deserve to feel the same way back.
Objectively, that was a ridiculous idea.
Skulduggery's knuckles were white gripping the edge of the table. Strange, how that looked strange. His skeletal knuckles were white, after all. He slowly let his fingers loosen, and then pushed himself off of the table. "Thank you."
All he felt now was relief that they managed to get this out of the way before Gabe got back.