Archive of Our Own

He hears something is wrong long before he sees it. The machine isn't subtle, and as erratic as its movements are, its execution of those moves is consistent - elegant, even. To hear it fall out of rhythm is unpleasant.

Gabriel sets his swords down, within reach, but the gesture of grace clear.

Not peace, Hell could never know peace - not without souls willing to permit and enforce it. Gabriel stole Minos' chance, and the Council in turn have stolen his.

A truce.

The machine grapples into the room, its right leg stiff and mangled, and fires in blind, easily dodged panic.

"Machine, wait," he orders, adrenaline surging as he weighs the desire to help with the urge to get back to his swords. There are other methods he can use to defend himself, but the more time passes without Heaven's light in his veins, the more those methods hurt to use.

The machine fires again but lands clumsily, the useless leg crunching beneath it with a sickening shriek of grinding metal.

"Wait!" Gabriel repeats, dodging once more and holding up his hands, pointing at his swords. He won't stoop to 'please', refuses to beg a thing made of metal, but he is willing to give it this once chance to let him even the playing field before their fight.

He's the same distance from the machine as he is from his swords, now. The machine sees it too, holding up its gun, waiting for him to make a move.

He folds his wings behind his back and takes a hesitant step towards the machine.

It doesn't fire.

Gabriel closes the distance between them, slow and steady. "I won't fight a shadow of you. Let me help."

The machine sits as best as it can, never putting down the gun, and Gabriel kneels to assess the damage. Blunt trauma - blades, fire, explosions wound the machine in ways it can recover from, but this has pinched and sealed parts that ought to move freely.

It takes some force, but pulling up the machine's hip with his hands while pushing down its thigh with the full weight of his legs finally frees the limb from where it had been wedged out of place.

Not wholly unlike a dislocated joint, he supposes, and eases it back to where it ought to be, watching with curious satisfaction as cables and pistons heal themselves.

The remainder of the machine's thigh and calf - or equivalent, at least - are dented and split in places, but functional with their freedom of movement restored.

Its foot is another matter, bludgeoned beyond all recognition, and Gabriel reaches for it only for the machine to flinch - not just jerk, but flinch - before it holsters its gun, and sets the foot down in Gabriel's lap.

Humans had called so many things "thinking machines". Even animals were capable of reason. It should feel like mimicry.

It doesn't.

Gabriel keeps one set of eyes on the machine's lens, the others on its foot, as he carefully pulls off the surface metal, exposing the cables beneath. For a fleeting moment he's disgusted by the red spatter across the writing mass, but the horror is replaced by curiosity when the cables reach out and tug at the armoured plating on his gloves.

The ultimate scavenger, he thinks with admiration, then realises he can offer something more fitting than a glove. If he is to die soon regardless, there is no point in holding on to his armour.

He doubts there is anywhere for a dead angel to go. If there is something beyond Heaven and Hell, he prays the God in that other world is kinder than his.

Gabriel shifts from kneeling to sitting, unfastens his boots and offers them to the machine. A moment's thought, and he hands over his greaves too.

The machine fits the armour to its body piece by piece, flexing after each addition, then crawls between Gabriel's legs and reaches for his helmet.

"Getting greedy, machine?" Gabriel asks, amused.

It pauses and shakes its head before touching his neck with a gentleness metal should not be capable of, and Gabriel realises it isn't demanding - it's curious. Just as he had been curious towards it.

A pit in his stomach opens up. "I can't. It's welded shut."

Centuries have passed since he allowed it - proof of his devotion, back when he was himself a creature without doubt, certain of his purpose. His armour had been an extension of his will, and by association, God's Will.

The machine launches forward, and before Gabriel can react, its arms are around him, squeezing so tight it hurts.

He feels sick.

He hopes it never lets go.

The moment can't last forever - the truce is only a truce. The machine needs blood, and he has only hours left, if the Council spoke truth.

If.

He stands up on bare feet, lends a hand to help the machine up, "if" insinuating itself through all other thoughts like an itch that can't be scratched.

If only Councillors control the light.

If reclaiming it is a lost cause.

If.

The nature of their current location does not escape him, and God can not or will not tell him which act of treachery would be worse - to turn on the last living creation of Earth, or to grant it access to Heaven. He could carry it, even knowing the story of the Scorpion and the Frog.

He also knows that if the machine is a scorpion, it's had opportunity enough to sting already.

He reclaims his swords and turns to the machine, sees the flash of a coin in its hand, and recognises the chance to let God decide, one last time, if God were still capable of anything.

"Heads, we fight. Tails, we leave together."

The machine cocks its head, tosses the coin, and they both watch it fall.

Gabriel doesn't ask if the machine can fix the outcome.

He likes the answer anyway.