Gabriel (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
impudentsongbird) wrote2012-10-26 08:35 pm
impudentsongbird) wrote2012-10-26 08:35 pm
Entry tags:
gift-fic from Anne
Fandom: Book of Joby
Characters: Gabriel and Michael
Prompt: Most people don't know it, but there were angels pilgrimaging through the American Midwest.
Constance is six years old. She has dark hair and dark eyes. Her mother tells her to stay by the wagon, lest something dreadful happen to her. "There's snakes out there," she tells her daughter severely, "and wolves, and coyotes, and people who might wish us harm. You stay close, where your brother and I can keep an eye on you."
But Constance doesn't want to stay by the wagon. It shakes under her, making her bottom hurt, and kicks up dust in her face if she walks beside it. Besides, it smells old, like horse and oats and dried-up food, and most of all it smells like Joshua's sweat. He stays by the wagon always, because he's thirteen and her mother relies on him. He never goes on adventures anymore.
She taps him on the shoulder and tells him, "There's a man at the back of the train. There's a man in a silly hat, to hide how bright his hair is, and he's got his brother with him."
"Where's their wagon?" Joshua asks absently and turns to look at her for the first time in three days.
"They don't have a wagon." She pushes her hair out of her eyes, aggravated. "They don't need one."
"Don't be stupid," he says, turning away again. "Who would travel without a wagon? Anyway, we know everyone on the train, so stop making up stories. I'm busy, Constance, can't you see that?"
Joshua never thinks to ask how she knows they're brothers. If Constance were asked she wouldn't know how to explain. She just knows. It is in everything they do, everything they say, every movement they make. She pokes her head out of the back of the wagon and watches them covertly, the dark one with the hat and the kind eyes, the fair one who seems, in each moment, aware of absolutely everything around him. The dark one has a horse, a great chestnut mare; the fair one walks, his hand occasionally resting on the mare's neck, for comfort or strength.
Tuesday (she thinks it's Tuesday) is what the men call "unseasonably hot," although Constance doesn't think they know what "seasonably hot" is here. Air doesn't move inside the wagon: she thinks she's breathing in the breaths she's just let out. Joshua is gone, her mother in a restless sleep at the reins, and Constance should stay to keep her safe - but.
She looks out the back of the wagon, and the dark brother is wiping his sweaty curls out of his face with a bright peal of laughter that she feels was produced for her ears only.
That's all it takes. She slips through the canvas, quiet as a prairie rabbit, and presses it shut behind her like she's closing an envelope.
Making her way to them is like letting a wave wash over her. She doesn't have to move at all, only dodge every once in a while when a wagon's not going quite straight, or give a horse a pat on its way past, or dodge a falling cowpat. Soon the last wagon is past, and there they are, farther back from the train than she'd thought.
The dark one catches sight of her immediately. He rests one hand on his mare's neck, one on his brother's shoulder, and the three of them stop in unison. He considers her closely for a moment while Constance studiously scrutinizes his horse. She's magnificent, almost too much so, oddly free of dust or even sweat. Her coat gleams in the midday sun.
There's a grunt and a quiet thump, and Constance looks up to see the dark one straightening up at his horse's side, a cloud of dust clearing away from his boots. She looks further up, and there it is: that smile, the one that makes her glow inside, like God has looked down at just her personally and told her she's a good thing.
"Howdy, missy," he says to her, his voice light and lilting as a wooden whistle. "What can I do for you this fine day?"
He tips his hat to her, his big round hat with a wide brim and a dip in the middle, and she wrinkles her nose to keep herself from laughing at him. "You're funny," she tells him, then shifts her eyes away. She's not supposed to tell grown-ups they're funny, she's supposed to speak when she's asked a question, and then only to answer the question.
"I mean," she tries again, "that I'm all right and I don't need anything from you, sir. Thank you."
The fair one laughs quietly, and she looks at him fiercely to see if he's laughing at her - but no, he's looking at the dark one, and the way his eyes wrinkle around the edges is kind.
"He's very funny," the fair one tells her, "though he doesn't always mean to be." He crouches down in front of her and looks her square in the eye, the way Joshua used to. After a moment of contemplation, during which Constance feels she's being judged, though not in a bad way really, he reaches out his hand.
"My name is Michael. This is Gabriel. He's my brother."
"I know," Constance counters archly to cover her surprise at being offered a real man's handshake. Her hesitation lasts only a second, and then she grasps Michael's hand in the firmest grip she can manage. He looks a little bit surprised, but not very, and shakes twice before loosening his grip. Constance feels satisfied once he's let go, like she's just been given something she's deserved for quite a while.
"Does she have a good handshake?" Gabriel asks him, the wrinkles at the side of his eyes smaller but no less kind.
"Of course she does, brother." Michael smiles at her and straightens up, slapping dust off his pants. "She's honest. Can't you tell?"
Characters: Gabriel and Michael
Prompt: Most people don't know it, but there were angels pilgrimaging through the American Midwest.
Constance is six years old. She has dark hair and dark eyes. Her mother tells her to stay by the wagon, lest something dreadful happen to her. "There's snakes out there," she tells her daughter severely, "and wolves, and coyotes, and people who might wish us harm. You stay close, where your brother and I can keep an eye on you."
But Constance doesn't want to stay by the wagon. It shakes under her, making her bottom hurt, and kicks up dust in her face if she walks beside it. Besides, it smells old, like horse and oats and dried-up food, and most of all it smells like Joshua's sweat. He stays by the wagon always, because he's thirteen and her mother relies on him. He never goes on adventures anymore.
She taps him on the shoulder and tells him, "There's a man at the back of the train. There's a man in a silly hat, to hide how bright his hair is, and he's got his brother with him."
"Where's their wagon?" Joshua asks absently and turns to look at her for the first time in three days.
"They don't have a wagon." She pushes her hair out of her eyes, aggravated. "They don't need one."
"Don't be stupid," he says, turning away again. "Who would travel without a wagon? Anyway, we know everyone on the train, so stop making up stories. I'm busy, Constance, can't you see that?"
Joshua never thinks to ask how she knows they're brothers. If Constance were asked she wouldn't know how to explain. She just knows. It is in everything they do, everything they say, every movement they make. She pokes her head out of the back of the wagon and watches them covertly, the dark one with the hat and the kind eyes, the fair one who seems, in each moment, aware of absolutely everything around him. The dark one has a horse, a great chestnut mare; the fair one walks, his hand occasionally resting on the mare's neck, for comfort or strength.
Tuesday (she thinks it's Tuesday) is what the men call "unseasonably hot," although Constance doesn't think they know what "seasonably hot" is here. Air doesn't move inside the wagon: she thinks she's breathing in the breaths she's just let out. Joshua is gone, her mother in a restless sleep at the reins, and Constance should stay to keep her safe - but.
She looks out the back of the wagon, and the dark brother is wiping his sweaty curls out of his face with a bright peal of laughter that she feels was produced for her ears only.
That's all it takes. She slips through the canvas, quiet as a prairie rabbit, and presses it shut behind her like she's closing an envelope.
Making her way to them is like letting a wave wash over her. She doesn't have to move at all, only dodge every once in a while when a wagon's not going quite straight, or give a horse a pat on its way past, or dodge a falling cowpat. Soon the last wagon is past, and there they are, farther back from the train than she'd thought.
The dark one catches sight of her immediately. He rests one hand on his mare's neck, one on his brother's shoulder, and the three of them stop in unison. He considers her closely for a moment while Constance studiously scrutinizes his horse. She's magnificent, almost too much so, oddly free of dust or even sweat. Her coat gleams in the midday sun.
There's a grunt and a quiet thump, and Constance looks up to see the dark one straightening up at his horse's side, a cloud of dust clearing away from his boots. She looks further up, and there it is: that smile, the one that makes her glow inside, like God has looked down at just her personally and told her she's a good thing.
"Howdy, missy," he says to her, his voice light and lilting as a wooden whistle. "What can I do for you this fine day?"
He tips his hat to her, his big round hat with a wide brim and a dip in the middle, and she wrinkles her nose to keep herself from laughing at him. "You're funny," she tells him, then shifts her eyes away. She's not supposed to tell grown-ups they're funny, she's supposed to speak when she's asked a question, and then only to answer the question.
"I mean," she tries again, "that I'm all right and I don't need anything from you, sir. Thank you."
The fair one laughs quietly, and she looks at him fiercely to see if he's laughing at her - but no, he's looking at the dark one, and the way his eyes wrinkle around the edges is kind.
"He's very funny," the fair one tells her, "though he doesn't always mean to be." He crouches down in front of her and looks her square in the eye, the way Joshua used to. After a moment of contemplation, during which Constance feels she's being judged, though not in a bad way really, he reaches out his hand.
"My name is Michael. This is Gabriel. He's my brother."
"I know," Constance counters archly to cover her surprise at being offered a real man's handshake. Her hesitation lasts only a second, and then she grasps Michael's hand in the firmest grip she can manage. He looks a little bit surprised, but not very, and shakes twice before loosening his grip. Constance feels satisfied once he's let go, like she's just been given something she's deserved for quite a while.
"Does she have a good handshake?" Gabriel asks him, the wrinkles at the side of his eyes smaller but no less kind.
"Of course she does, brother." Michael smiles at her and straightens up, slapping dust off his pants. "She's honest. Can't you tell?"