the good grace to know which is which

aka the Gabriel and Beelzebub buddy cop fic that no one asked for but we're still getting.

i. Say Your Prayers

If you want it done right, you should just do it yourself.

Humanity has so many trite sayings. Gabriel loves a good portion of them - loves that some of them are often a variation of what Heaven has said too - but this is one he would rather prefer to not actually execute. Agents should be capable of doing the tasks you have set out for them to do. They must be efficient, reliable, and above all unquestioning and loyal. There’s a severe lack in the last one on all sides, sadly (or maybe not sadly, because that’s just common for Hell and Earth, but well - then, there’s Aziraphale, in regards to Heaven), so now there’s an ongoing review as to everyone within the ranks. 

But, matters, whatever they may be now that the Apocalypse has been put on hold until further notice, need to be attended to, and there’s only so much manpower that can be spared when those who are known to be loyal are reviewing the paperwork of ten million angels. 

And yes, the Apocalypse has been on hold, and nobody knows what to do now, but that’s exactly it. No one knows what to do, and so what should be done is to be figured out. Which, well, if they really think about it, what should be done is to figure out the Ineffable Plan.

And while they’re at it, maybe also figure out how the Great Plan factors into it, because it is written, it’s just that two yahoos had pointed out some plot holes in it. 

So, if you want it done right, you should just do it yourself.

Thus, this is the reason why a previously unoccupied sidewalk that’s currently being battered down by the rain suddenly finds itself occupied. There is a sound similar to the crack of thunder, but isolated to a single spot. Lightning strikes the ground, but it hits nothing else, and the flash that erupts from it condenses, in less than a second, into the shape of a man. When the lightning dies, there is a man-shaped being there, dressed impeccably and being thoroughly avoided by the raindrops for fear of their existence.

The man-shaped being lifts his head and surveys the area. It is late at night. There is no one around the street at this hour.

Good. Smiling slightly, which is a thing he does a lot but rarely means, the Archangel Gabriel steps off the sidewalk, not an umbrella in hand, but dry as if the rain wasn’t there at all.

-

Contacting the angels is obviously already out of the question. Aziraphale has already been fraternizing with a demon for years and can’t even be hurt by Hellfire for it, so that’s not even something worth considering. Everyone else who has had assignments here, however brief, has been recalled back to Heaven for evaluation. 

This means Gabriel is doing this alone. 

The first step to figuring out the Ineffable Plan is to figure out exactly how to even approach the figuring out part. The Ineffable Plan, sadly, is by its nature Ineffable, so nobody knows a single thing about it save for the Almighty. Now, the logical answer to this conundrum is, of course, to ask the Almighty. Not the Metatron, the Almighty. Unfortunately, none of the angels know the Almighty’s office hours (they haven’t since the Fall of Mankind), which is the reason why they’ve kind of built a bureaucratic system and run things by themselves for the past six thousand years. 

So, therefore, while the dealer in this game of universe stays smiling while giving out the cards, Gabriel is going to have to figure out the rules so Heaven can play the game and play it right. 

He’s got a plan. Or at least, the inklings of one. Because, see, while direct contact is rare for the angels (and no, messages passed on through the Metatron do not count, it’s called direct contact for a reason), and even rarer for demons (not that Gabriel knows that; not even Crowley knows this, but this is just a bit of a footnote to existence), it’s not at all rare for humans. 

Yes, Heaven and Hell muck around and influence them, push and pull and thwart and wile, but humans do most of what they already do themselves. They also have a large sounding board that, every now and then, slips notes under the door to the Archangels’ office, or sometimes just delivers it straight to the requesting humans’ living rooms. 

Which - now that he thinks about it, if Heaven isn’t directly contacted, then doesn’t that mean that maybe they’re doing something wrong? He doesn’t think about it, though. There is no room for doubt here, so he curb stomps that thought straight out of existence and continues walking down the path to the large church down the road. 

That’s actually a bit of luck (or - maybe, just maybe, not luck at all, but he wouldn’t know that) since he’d just randomly tapped a place on Earth and descended. The plan is to go find someone who prays and have them ask for him, as when they’d done a quick check on the list of answered prayers in the past six millennia, the list had been about nine times as long as they’d initially thought it would be, with the miracles attributed mostly to no one, as there was no name logged in for them. They’d done another check on the archives of the history of the world, cross-referenced and put two and two together.

(And, okay, maybe it stung a little that they weren’t the favorite kids, after all, in a matter of speaking but, they’re still angels for a reason and the demons are still demons for a reason, so, hah.)

He knows all about praying. It’s a direct hotline between humans and Heaven, in a way, even if all their prayers end up in a Request Center and the employees assigned there sort out which prayers are deemed well enough for a miracle and hand out the work to the rest of the host. But, if there’s a way that the Almighty is just directly answering the prayers even if Heaven hasn’t approved of it, then there has to be something to it, right?

A special line, maybe? Some holy number? Words?

He’s going to have to figure it out.

Gabriel walks the thirty minutes to the cathedral in the middle of the downpour, and stands by the door. In the olden days, most churches were usually open at night, and were a good place to duck into for street urchins and the few people who’ve gone on a bender and have gotten nothing out of it but anxiety and existential dread. As it’s no longer the olden days, however, and Gabriel’s chosen this particular church at 2:30 in the morning, no one is awake to open the doors for him.

He knocks, of course, but no one answers. He knocks again and again, between five minute intervals, and eventually, a human in ragged clothes passing by tells him he’s going to have to wait until the five o’clock mass to get inside. This makes him frown, but - well, two more rounds don’t open the door, so he waits outside, standing prim and proper, hands folded together like some life-sized wax figure of an office manager. Patience is a virtue, after all. 

He waits the two hours and thirty minutes it takes until the church doors are opened. And then he goes inside and waits an hour more for the mass to end.

-

He’s never had an opinion on churches. Pride is a sin and humans also tended to get so much wrong and then say they’re doing it in the name of God, so everyone upstairs pretty much voted, nah this ain’t it. Actually, that’s Gabriel’s usual approach to humans, plus that they’re very gullible, because they are. He’s lost count of the amount of reports of ‘miracles’ reaching Heaven and causing confusion, since no one had been assigned in that particular area for a quick miracle. Whenever they checked, they always found out that, oh, the humans tricked themselves again.

So he just sits at the back, unimpressed, listening to the human preacher talk about some thing or another; around him, the humans seem to have an understanding that the pew he’s sitting on isn’t somewhere they should be occupying and so they’re avoiding it. Rightfully so, he’d rather not share a seat with any of them. 

The service has a lot of standing up and sitting downs, and he does none of those and instead just sits down for the whole thing, because it’s not like anyone’s going to notice, not when he’s at the very back, and the pew on the opposite column from his has two kids who are busy playing on their phones.  He just waits, angelic patience and all, until the service is done and the humans all start to file their way out.

He knows who he’s going to talk to. Obviously, the leader of the church shouldn’t be anyone he could go wrong with, so he stands and starts to make his way to the front when he feels the prickle of something behind him. 

Where good thrives, evil is often not too far behind, intent on tying up good's shoelaces, so he’s not at all surprised. He is, however, annoyed, because this is just inconvenient, especially if the demon is here to tempt the priest. So he turns around, ready to do some impromptu smiting if need be. Or a casting. Humans are terribly vulnerable to possession as well. 

He tries to spot the source of the evil, seeing not with his corporation’s eyes to make the process faster, and spots some dark stain among the throng of multicolored human souls. His desire to not rub shoulders with the humans battles with his desire to get a good throw down with the demon for a small second, but the angelic duty wins out, because of course it does. However, in this small second of hesitation, the dark stain suddenly steps out from the crowd of souls.

Gabriel’s incorporeal wings flare up for a moment, thinking it’s spotted him, but when he adjusts his sight back to his vessel, he sees that the demon is actually just looking towards the altar, positively annoyed with having to brush past so many humans. 

And also very notably not getting their feet burned. 

He looks down. They’re wearing really thick platform shoes. Maybe seven inches. 

The demon adjusts the ruby red aviators on their face from where it’s almost slipping off. The altar boy beside them laughs.

“Shut the fuck up, Jonathan.”

“You can’t curse, this is a church,” the boy says. His soul appears to be just as bright as the rest of the humans, unstained and untainted. He just doesn’t seem to know he’s talking to a demon in camouflage corporation. 

“Whatever, where’s the father?”

The altar boy motions for them to follow him, and they start to make their way down the pews. Maybe they really are here for some tempting then (maybe drugs? They have a satchel). 

Gabriel follows them, not even trying to be discreet. As soon as he’s only two feet away from the demon, they halt in their steps. The altar boy stops too, confused, and when he turns and spots Gabriel, he offers a toothy smile.

“Sir?” he asks.

Gabriel ignores him. He smiles at the kid, but then he focuses the rest of his attention at glaring at the demon in front of him, who’s just turned and is lowering their glasses to peer up at him. 

He blinks.

Beelzebub sighs, exasperated. “John, would you be a dear and tell the father someone wants to have a talk with him? I’ll be with him in a second, I just have to catch up with this asshole here.”

“You can’t curse.”

“Oh, scram, kid, go on. Shoo.” They motion for him to get on with it, and he leaves, cracking a small smile, but his gaze turns wary as he glances at Gabriel. 

Figures humans wouldn’t be able to identify an angel if one was in the midst of them. 

“Hello, Gabriel,” Beelzebub says, with absolutely no patience for him. They push their glasses up and cross their arms. “What do you want?”

“Nothing to do with you,” he says with a smile. “I’m here for the priest.”

“Time for him to get raptured or what?”

He snorts. “Not at all, although I don’t see why I should be telling you any of Heaven’s business.”

“Ah, alright then.” They turn around and start to head where the altar boy is currently talking to the priest, but Gabriel grabs their arm. They pull it back sharply like they’ve been burned, and he can hear loud buzzing around his ears for a solid five seconds as they bare their teeth at him. 

“Don’t touch me.”

“You are not going anywhere near that priest.”

“Watch me, prick,” they say, and stomp their way towards the altar, but Gabriel lets his wings flap out a small puff and stands in front of them in less than a second.

They narrow their eyes at him from behind the glasses. “Alright, not only are you an idiot of the highest order, you’re also just difficult.”

Gabriel does his signature blink-and-smile-with-a-tilt-of-the-head at them. “I prefer persevering.”

“Perseveringly a pain in the ass,” they say, go around him, and continue their way towards the altar, their platform shoes smoking a little at the bottom with every step they take. The altar boy and the priest have frozen now, gaping at them, likely because they’ve seen Gabriel go from point A to point B without actually having to walk there.

He finds he doesn’t care, not really, and just goes after Beelzebub, save that they’ve speedwalked towards the altar and are climbing the steps before he can grab them down from standing on what’s effectively the church’s holiest area.

“Hi,” they say, smiling at the altar boy and the priest, and they both seem to snap out of their bewilderment now that they’re not staring at Gabriel.

“Uh - Father Renee, this is Belle, the one I told you about,” the altar boy manages out, and then he glances back at Gabriel in confusion.

“Lovely to meet you, Father,” Beelzebub says, holding out a gloved hand. The priest shakes it, none the wiser, and Gabriel finds that a tic has started under his eye at the fact that there is a demon, with slowly-smoking platform shoes and thick leather gloves, standing by an altar and exchanging pleasantries with a priest like they belong there. 

This is a church, for Heaven’s sake.

“What did you want to talk about, child?” The priest asks, looking like he’s taking considerable effort to not grill Gabriel on what he just did, and actually addressing the one who wants to ask him questions in the first place.

Gabriel should drag Beelzebub by the collar and throw them out the church. Better yet, he should just smite them on sight, but Heaven and Hell have a treaty at the moment, if only to have a little bit of space to figure out the Ineffable Plan and also maybe, just maybe, find a way to pull on Aziraphale and Crowley’s ears a little if they can’t fully wipe them out of existence. 

Unfortunately, he’s already given the humans a little scare and...well, as much as he doesn’t actually care about them, the prerogative is to blend in with them. Also, paperwork.

So instead he just smiles and stands next to Beelzebub, and both of them push at each other’s auras as a celestial version of arm wrestling for the next ten minutes. 

“I wanted to ask how to contact...uh.” Beelzebub points upward. 

Gabriel raises an eyebrow.

Well, this is a surprise. 

He supposes that backstabbing is incredibly common in Hell, but actually seeking out a way to Rise? That’s something else.

He tries to evaluate where he’s supposed to stand here. On one hand, Heaven is all about forgiveness and mercy and love and all that jazz. They’re the good guys, after all. On the other hand, there’s a reason that demons are demons, and, really, if one of them is looking to Rise, it’s probably just to be inside man and pull a Morningstar 2.0. 

Right, so, smiting is still on the books. He pushes at Beelzebub’s aura harder.

“Oh.” The priest laughs, like he's been asked this question too many times and expects it at this point. “Well,  I would start with prayer, my dear.”

Beelzebub’s fake smile turns a little strained. “Prayer, Father?”

“Yes,” he says. “It’s easier than most people think it is, it’s not all just Hail Mary’s or Our Father’s. Just say what you really want to say to God, and He’ll listen.”

Gabriel only isn’t able to correct the man because Beelzebub throws the equivalent of a sucker punch at his aura and he has to hold his ground to not physically topple. They are a Prince of Hell, after all. 

“Just like that?” Beelzebub asks, smile still strained. “No closing eyes or clasping of hands? No Words? ”

“Oh, that’s a formality,” the priest says, “Really, what matters is what’s in your heart when you’re praying. People close their eyes to focus, clasp their hands to feel like they’re holding on to something. But it’s the words and the intent that matters.”

“Ah,” Beelzebub says. “Right.” 

Gabriel’s mind drifts to the Request Center in Heaven. It’s the biggest department in the whole organization. His plan had been for a human to pray to God, and to God directly, but this just sounds like regular praying. He’d actually been hoping they’d had something else up their sleeve. Maybe the Our Father’s and Hail Mary’s were onto something.

Maybe it still is, but - hm. This approach might be useless.

“No Hail Mary’s or Our Father’s?” Beelzebub tries, even when they mumble the prayer’s names through gritted teeth.

“Those are guides, child,” the priest says, “Or a way of relief, for when one is doing penance.”

“I see,” Beelzebub says. “There’s no other way to contact G - uh.”

Father Renee laughs heartily, amused, as if he’s forgotten the presence of Gabriel there. “Not unless he appears face to face or sends an angel - ” There’s the tic again. “ - child. And even then, I don’t think we’d know it until after.”

“Ah.” Beelzebub’s smile widens, not in any form of mirth. “Thank you, Father.”

“I can show you how, if you want to,” the man says.

Beelzebub is already walking away, platform shoes leaving a melted rubbery mark where they’d been standing for minutes. Gabriel almost staggers at the sudden loss of pressure pushing at him. “That won’t be necessary.”

The priest looks down in surprise at the puddle of melted rubber. Beelzebub’s shoes’ soles are only around four inches thick now.

Gabriel considers his next move. For one, if he’d ask the priest, the answer is likely going to be the same, since the man had no idea that Beelzebub was a demon, but - 

“There’s really no desk phone to talk to God?”

The man turns to him, smiling at first, but then remembers exactly what he’d just seen him do and stutters.

“Uh, well,” he says, “I’m afraid not. Everything would be a whole lot easier then, wouldn’t it?” He tries for a friendly smile, but it just ends up being half-terrified. The altar boy slinks off in the awkwardness, maybe to find something to scrape off the rubber Beelzebub’s left behind.

“Right,” Gabriel says. He gives the priest a smile of his own, and then follows Beelzebub out. 

The demon has stopped right outside the church and is looking around, hands on their hips, huffing in annoyance. They turn when they hear his footsteps.

“What?” they ask.

“Why do you want to talk to God?” he asks.

Beelzebub winces a little at the mention. “None of your business.”

“I think it quite is, given that I’m an Archangel.”

“Does that actually mean anything other than a fancy desk label?”

He frowns at them. 

Beelzebub simply turns around and starts trekking down and away from the church. Their platform shoes, now sadly melted to around three inches and a nine centimeters, have thankfully stopped smoking. 

Gabriel stuffs his hands in his pockets and mentally crosses out his first course of action. Well, there went that theory. He can revisit it later, but for now, it just seems like it really is a bust.