Abaddon’s heart trembled and sank deep into him, almost to the point of pain, but he opened his mouth and accepted the food. The syrup melted on his tongue, as sweet as Gabriel’s soul. “Thank you.”
“So let’s get to know you,” Gabriel said with a smile, digging into his tiramisu. “Favorite color? Sweet or salty? Rain or sunshine? Does the answer pop into your head, or do you actually have to come up with it each time?”
It was an assault on Abaddon’s senses. His initial thought was that as an angel he couldn’t have preferences for things like that, but then he met Gabriel’s eyes and realized how very much he enjoyed the look of him. Would he have sucked his cock in the morning if the boy had a different body type or a square, stereotypically masculine face?
This was when he knew that despite his mind feeling like a screened-off stage he had limited access to, there were many things he did know. So he answered.
“Favorite color? Uh… green, but not grass-green, more of a darker, foresty shade. I like both sweet and salty. Ideally both at the same time. I prefer rain to sunshine when I’m inside, but I don’t like to get soaked.”
Seeing Gabriel’s face light up made his heart skip a beat. Should the Angel of Destruction have such tender feelings? Perhaps this too was a part of God’s plan?
“And cake? Is apple pie your favorite, or did you choose at random?” Gabriel asked, and this time left him the last piece of his tiramisu.
Abaddon’s mouth dried at the confusion the question caused him. Because he knew the answer, even though preferences for flavors required tasting food, and he’d only had two meals since he’d been born from the dirt this morning. “I would have ordered banana cream pie, if they had it.”
Gabriel straightened up, giddy like a puppy discovering snow for the first time. “I’ll make it for you.”
“There’s no need,” Abaddon whispered. “You have so much on your plate already.”
“I’ll find the time.” Gabriel lowered his voice. “Between one murder and another.” There was a dangerous glint in his eyes, but before Abaddon could answer, a shrill voice two booths away made him shudder, and his heart began to pound in his chest like crazy.
“What do you mean he ‘went away’?! He just decided to take a vacation? Now? He better be back by next month.”
Abaddon couldn’t breathe, as if that life-preserving skill had suddenly failed him. He squeezed the edge of the table and pushed his back deep into the seat as his vision blurred. Each syllable spoken by the woman’s distinctive voice felt like a blade shoved straight into his soul. One of the four remaining Keys was here.
Gabriel leaned over, his eyes wide as he looked past Abaddon. “Fuck. Do you hear that? That’s Mrs. Benson. Let’s go so she doesn’t see us.” But then his eyes narrowed, and he stroked Abaddon’s forearm. “Are you okay?”
Abaddon nodded, but when he attempted to inhale, it sounded like a saw scraping metal. Clouds of smoke filled his skull along with a growing sense of panic that sent his heart into a gallop.
Gabriel got up and rushed to his side. “We’ll go out the back door, get you some air.”
Abaddon wanted to protest, but if Mrs. Benson, one of his targets, was indeed here, then he couldn’t let her see them. Despite his lungs fighting for air, he threw a few bills to the middle of the table, to cover their unfinished meal, and let Gabriel pull him along as the edges of his vision darkened, full of threatening shadows. Was it blood he could sense in the air?
Did the Lord make him feel like this to prevent his angel from committing an act of violence in public?
Abaddon’s eyes watered and his throat closed as if Lucifer himself was squeezing it. As the world spun, Gabriel’s arm slid around his midsection, and the boy guided him out of the booth and past the sign for restrooms.
“It’s okay, almost there,” he whispered, offering Abaddon so much support despite being so slight in stature.
Abaddon felt as if he were about to perish—just drop dead before he could fulfill his mission here—but why would God do this to him if there was still so much time left until the deadline?
They burst out into the fresh air, stumbling past trash cans congregated at the back of the restaurant, but still, his body seemed intent on killing him.
“I—help,” he whimpered, clutching at the front of Gabriel’s shirt.
“It’s okay, sit down,” Gabriel cooed and cleared off an overturned wooden box so Abaddon could sit on it. “Deep breaths. Focus on me.” He leaned down and cupped Abaddon’s cheeks, touching his forehead to Abaddon’s in a gesture reminiscent of the moment at Dr. Rogers’ office, when their roles had been reversed.