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Something that floated up. Writing Gabriel for the meme possibly prompted it. Set in the same universe, I think, as this ficlet, wherein SPN Death is Methos' father.
Title: First Death
Rating: PG-13
Fandoms: Supernatural, Highlander
Characters/Pairings: Gabriel, Methos, mention of Death
Summary: An ancient immortal guides an archangel through his first death
Wordcount: 803
Warnings/Notes: Set following SPN 5x19 (I've no idea what, if anything, S6 did with Gabriel). Post-series for Highlander, I think
Disclaimer: Neither are mine
Title: First Death
Rating: PG-13
Fandoms: Supernatural, Highlander
Characters/Pairings: Gabriel, Methos, mention of Death
Summary: An ancient immortal guides an archangel through his first death
Wordcount: 803
Warnings/Notes: Set following SPN 5x19 (I've no idea what, if anything, S6 did with Gabriel). Post-series for Highlander, I think
Disclaimer: Neither are mine
First Death
"So. You're one of the stranger things Dad's dropped on me in his time."
Gabriel blinked, struggling towards consciousness against the pain in his chest and the nagging impression that conscious, right now, was something he really, really didn't want to be. Unfortunately, tearing agony or not, curiosity really did kill the cat. And the archangel. And a few other things besides.
"Mrrrfff?" he asked, intelligibly, and managed to screw his eyes open somewhat. Not that it helped, overmuch, but he was sure the blur of light and colour would resolve itself eventually. Into an amused, vaguely sympathetic expression, on an unfamiliar face, but at this point, he was taking what he could get. "Mpf. Wha' happened?"
"Haven't a clue," the stranger cheerfully informed him. And then gave him one of the most professional squint-eyes Gabriel'd ever seen, and smiled lopsidedly. "Though, given the gaping hole in your chest, and the fact that Death himself dropped you off, I'm going to take a wild guess, and say you died."
The pain surged as though by command, and the stranger's smile grew softer, something dark and knowing in his eyes as Gabriel's hand flew to his chest and the edges of a wound carved by a brother's sword, as Gabriel's face paled, and memory came rushing back.
"First death?" the man asked him, gently enough. "It takes a while, I know. No-one ever sees it coming, the first time."
Gabriel didn't answer. Couldn't answer, eyes screwing shut, gaping chest hitching as lungs that didn't need to breathe struggled desperately around a sob nonetheless. His hand tightened, fisted, smeared itself in his own blood as he pressed, unconsciously, into the wound. Into the evidence, the proof. His chest heaved, feeling the fluttering pulse of blood around his fingers, and he cried, softly, a keening sound he couldn't quite believe was coming from his own mouth.
And then, a pale, slender hand wrapped around his own, white fingers slipping through his reddened ones, and the stranger was there. Touching his face until Gabriel's eyes fluttered open involuntarily, hand tightening about Gabriel's and pulling it, firmly, carefully, out of the blood.
"I know," the man said softly. "Shhh. I know. It's always like this. It's okay. It'll pass. It'll pass."
"He killed me," Gabriel gasped, softly. Desperately, clutching tight, drawing the other near, an archangel's strength compelling the closeness. "He killed me. My brother. He killed me."
Something flickered across the man's face, some shadow of something past, lines carving themselves softly about his eyes. He didn't flinch from the strength of Gabriel's grip, didn't shy from the naked pain the archangel knew was in his eyes.
"I know," he said quietly. Meaningless, because he didn't, couldn't, wasn't there, but his eyes weren't lying, the darkness in them wasn't false. "They do that. That happens." A small, strange smile, and Gabriel knew, suddenly, that this thing before him was ancient, as ancient as he. "We're born in violence, you know. Children of the gods. That's how we come to be."
Gabriel's breath hitched. A sob, perhaps, or an abortive chuckle. Children of the gods. Angels and demons, and yes, they were born for war, he knew, he'd always known, but not him. Not his brother. He'd never thought to die by a brother's hand.
"Who are you?" he asked, clawing back from a brother's pain, tightening bloodied fingers in a stranger's hand. He could feel the wound begin to close, in his chest. He could feel the absence beneath it grow only larger. He shoved curiosity into the breach. He had nothing else. "What are you?"
The man's face split into a smile, a grinning thing, dark and distant, and the Trickster in Gabriel clawed suddenly to wakefulness, swung suddenly to light. The stranger grinned, a softly darkling thing.
"Methos," he said, simply as a summoning, as the commanding of a name. "I'm Methos. An immortal." That lopsidedly smile, that squint-eye that looked so casually into Gabriel's soul, and judged him mildly amusing. "Nephilim, I think you call us. Sons of gods and angels. Or, in my case ..."
And Gabriel remembered, the crackle of his wakening, and the first thing he had heard ...
"Death," he said, and tried not to acknowledge the faint tinge of awe. He was the most jaded of all the archangels, the most cynical being in Heaven or Earth. He'd stood in judgement over kings and paupers both. He'd no call to be impressed by a potent lineage. Even ... even that one. "Your father is Death. And he ..."
Methos grinned at him, sitting back on his heels above an archangel, fingers tangled tight with Gabriel's, and blood still on his hands. "As I said," he mused, watching Gabriel with twinkling eyes, "you're definitely among the stranger things he's dropped on me in our time. And it's been a long, long time."
Yes. Gabriel could imagine.
"So. You're one of the stranger things Dad's dropped on me in his time."
Gabriel blinked, struggling towards consciousness against the pain in his chest and the nagging impression that conscious, right now, was something he really, really didn't want to be. Unfortunately, tearing agony or not, curiosity really did kill the cat. And the archangel. And a few other things besides.
"Mrrrfff?" he asked, intelligibly, and managed to screw his eyes open somewhat. Not that it helped, overmuch, but he was sure the blur of light and colour would resolve itself eventually. Into an amused, vaguely sympathetic expression, on an unfamiliar face, but at this point, he was taking what he could get. "Mpf. Wha' happened?"
"Haven't a clue," the stranger cheerfully informed him. And then gave him one of the most professional squint-eyes Gabriel'd ever seen, and smiled lopsidedly. "Though, given the gaping hole in your chest, and the fact that Death himself dropped you off, I'm going to take a wild guess, and say you died."
The pain surged as though by command, and the stranger's smile grew softer, something dark and knowing in his eyes as Gabriel's hand flew to his chest and the edges of a wound carved by a brother's sword, as Gabriel's face paled, and memory came rushing back.
"First death?" the man asked him, gently enough. "It takes a while, I know. No-one ever sees it coming, the first time."
Gabriel didn't answer. Couldn't answer, eyes screwing shut, gaping chest hitching as lungs that didn't need to breathe struggled desperately around a sob nonetheless. His hand tightened, fisted, smeared itself in his own blood as he pressed, unconsciously, into the wound. Into the evidence, the proof. His chest heaved, feeling the fluttering pulse of blood around his fingers, and he cried, softly, a keening sound he couldn't quite believe was coming from his own mouth.
And then, a pale, slender hand wrapped around his own, white fingers slipping through his reddened ones, and the stranger was there. Touching his face until Gabriel's eyes fluttered open involuntarily, hand tightening about Gabriel's and pulling it, firmly, carefully, out of the blood.
"I know," the man said softly. "Shhh. I know. It's always like this. It's okay. It'll pass. It'll pass."
"He killed me," Gabriel gasped, softly. Desperately, clutching tight, drawing the other near, an archangel's strength compelling the closeness. "He killed me. My brother. He killed me."
Something flickered across the man's face, some shadow of something past, lines carving themselves softly about his eyes. He didn't flinch from the strength of Gabriel's grip, didn't shy from the naked pain the archangel knew was in his eyes.
"I know," he said quietly. Meaningless, because he didn't, couldn't, wasn't there, but his eyes weren't lying, the darkness in them wasn't false. "They do that. That happens." A small, strange smile, and Gabriel knew, suddenly, that this thing before him was ancient, as ancient as he. "We're born in violence, you know. Children of the gods. That's how we come to be."
Gabriel's breath hitched. A sob, perhaps, or an abortive chuckle. Children of the gods. Angels and demons, and yes, they were born for war, he knew, he'd always known, but not him. Not his brother. He'd never thought to die by a brother's hand.
"Who are you?" he asked, clawing back from a brother's pain, tightening bloodied fingers in a stranger's hand. He could feel the wound begin to close, in his chest. He could feel the absence beneath it grow only larger. He shoved curiosity into the breach. He had nothing else. "What are you?"
The man's face split into a smile, a grinning thing, dark and distant, and the Trickster in Gabriel clawed suddenly to wakefulness, swung suddenly to light. The stranger grinned, a softly darkling thing.
"Methos," he said, simply as a summoning, as the commanding of a name. "I'm Methos. An immortal." That lopsidedly smile, that squint-eye that looked so casually into Gabriel's soul, and judged him mildly amusing. "Nephilim, I think you call us. Sons of gods and angels. Or, in my case ..."
And Gabriel remembered, the crackle of his wakening, and the first thing he had heard ...
"Death," he said, and tried not to acknowledge the faint tinge of awe. He was the most jaded of all the archangels, the most cynical being in Heaven or Earth. He'd stood in judgement over kings and paupers both. He'd no call to be impressed by a potent lineage. Even ... even that one. "Your father is Death. And he ..."
Methos grinned at him, sitting back on his heels above an archangel, fingers tangled tight with Gabriel's, and blood still on his hands. "As I said," he mused, watching Gabriel with twinkling eyes, "you're definitely among the stranger things he's dropped on me in our time. And it's been a long, long time."
Yes. Gabriel could imagine.
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