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Gabriel’s drunk.
He’s actually, really, very, exceptionally, staggeringly drunk. Literally and figuratively, which should not be making him giggle into his glass like a ten year old who’s on a juice high. Actually, fuck it, who’s he kidding, he is a ten year old on a juice high. He’s just not exactly sure who’s supposed to be the irresponsible parent that let him drink so much, and if anyone is really ever going make him go sit in his room until he calms down. Probably no one, certainly no one, but that’s alright. He doesn’t want to go sit in his anyways room. And juice is awesome.
“We need more,” he slurs, leaning so heavily on one hand that his cheek’s all squished up in a goofy mess. “Shots… they’re gone.”
“We scared him away,” Crowley says. He’s slurring too, even if no one else can tell. Gabriel can tell. He could always tell. The asshole has this way of holding his vowels and rasping on the edges, like all that posh bullshit slinks away on the corners of his words and forgets what it was pretending to be under the slosh of smoky whiskey.
“Who?” Gabriel asks.
“The tree. The looming tree.”
Gabe snorts. “It’s not his fault he looms. It’s not him that does it anyways. It’s his conscience. That’s the perpetrator. Big, old, loomy conscience.”
“‘Loomy’ isn’t a word, darling.”
“Hey - if Shakespeare gets to make up ‘bedroom’ I can get loomy.”
Crowley’s smiling at him. He could never hide that either. He tried to, like the slurring. He’d cock one side of his lips, all teeth, so no one’s sure wether or not they’re being snarled at or mocked in a silent knowing way. But Gabriel knows better. He knows the way his eyes light up just enough to betray fascination, and fascination is basically the same as lack of bored, which is pretty much as close as he ever gets to downright fucking elation.
And he looks when he’s happy. Actually looks: keeps his eyes on whatever it is that’s making him smile, as if he’s trying to work out just why it’s causing such a strange biological response.
“You’re drunk.” Crowley says simply, “Your shoddy tolerance for quality truly hasn’t improved with age.”
“Quality’s a fucking interpretive relativity.”
That snaps a laugh out of him, low and sloppy.
“Look who’s talking,” Gabriel grins. He knows he looks absurd when he smiles while drunk, the whole thing gets taken away in the tide of humming contentment, wide and lopsided and careless, “You’re as drunk as I am there, teach.”
Crowley’s suddenly looking at him again. He’s still smiling, but it’s slinkier.
“That’s a sobriquet I haven’t heard for a long time.”
“Bullshit,” Gabriel shifts to adjust and quickly realizes if he tries to move gravity’s going to assert herself with a vengeance, “I’m not sober enough for sobriquets.”
Crowley’s squinting at him. He’s got that face on again, like his brain’s doing things he’s not totally comprehending so the environs must be to blame.
“You haven’t called me that for years.”
“I haven’t seen you for years.” Gabriel notes.
He’s squinting. Still.
“I’m not the fucking Torah, jesus christ.” Gabriel shoves back.
“Did you want to see me?” Crowley asks.
Gabriel laughs. Loudly. Too loudly. “Do you have any idea just how wasted you sound?”
Crowley simply smiles, slow and steady, and then snaps his hand out and knocks Gabe’s elbow off the table, which sends his sorry drunken head right down onto the counter like a chuck of lead. Or would have. If Crowley hadn’t caught it and pushed him lightly upright.
“Hey!“ Gabriel tries, distracted as he attempts to sign a new peace treaty with gravity that lets him at least sit up straight without hitting the floor. “Douche-move.”
“I think I still have a patent on those.”
Gabriel’s getting somewhere with gravity, he’s managed to lean back against the bar, elbows providing the requisite security, plus he doesn’t have to look Crowley in the face from here and remember how he’s always had stubble (and how it always felt awesome), or how he licks his teeth way too often when he grins, or how his heavy eyes always got all shocked and light whenever Gabriel did anything especially unique on that couch in his old TA’s office with a chair jammed under the door handle…
Not that looking at Crowley makes him uncomfortable. Gabriel doesn’t get uncomfortable, remember? That would be a big shameful pile of stupid. And even if he was lame enough to be feeling slightly awkward, it wouldn’t even be the creepy, unblinkingly, infinitely penetrating stare, or the memories, or all the vivid sexual flashbacks. It wasn’t that. It never was. It was the sense that someone was looking at him- actually him. He wasn’t looking at Nick or Michael and noticing him to one side by coincidence. He wasn’t distracted by his suit or his lame jokes, or his anything… He saw through all that leaving just Gabriel. Nothing else.
It shouldn’t make him uncomfortable. He’s not even sure there’s anything to see anyways, under flashy fabrics and the wide grins and the lewd winks, without the shadows of his family surrounding him for context. How could there be anything left to see without any of that?
“Gabriel,” Crowley says.
His name always sounded especially nice in his mouth. Gabe turns a bit to look over a shoulder. Crowley’s got an elbow on the bar, leaning closer than before. Staring. Still. The fucker.
“Why are you here?”
Gabriel sighs and turns back, “You know, the horse was dead ten years ago, smacking it’s ass with cricket bats still isn’t doing much.”
“You’re an evasive little shit, you know that?”
Gabe grins at that but manages to swallow the banshee laugh this time, “Yeah, well, your an opportunistic fucker.”
“Hard to imagine anyone doing much fucking without having an eye for opportunity. Especially when it comes to evasive little shits—”
“How’s New York?”
He’s not sure why he’s asked. He didn’t even realize he had. He furrows his brow in confusion as if they’re sitting in the air in front of him and he can’t imagine how they got there at all.
“Don’t you mean how was New York.”
Gabriel shifts against the bar, his elbows are starting to bug him and jesus he was actually getting way to fucking old. “Is that a long standing relationship with the past tense?”
“Fortnight. Maybe.” Crowley shrugs.
Gabriel snorts, “Alright, Orsino.”
“You haven’t told me you missed me yet,” Crowley smiles, leaning a little heavier on his elbow.
“Oh, well, would you fucking look at that?” Gabriel teases.
“I missed you,” Crowley says simply.
Gabriel laughs before he can stop himself. No one misses him. Fuck there’s a line down the block to never see him again. Nick went a year without him, Michael wishes he had, even Cas seemed annoyed more than not most of that time.
Crowley’s brows lower slightly. Gabriel is not looking at him. He’s definitely not looking at him, but he feels it all the same.
“Is that amusing?” Crowley asks.
“I’m still here,” Gabriel says, turning suddenly and catching himself on the bar as he jumps back in time to the earlier question, anything to get away from the last one, “Because my family is here. And unlike you I’m actually still capable of giving a shit.”
“I give a shit,” Crowley says, “I might even give a damn.”
“Well, don’t push yourself too hard there champ.”
“I don’t have to,” Crowley says, smiling, still, “In some cases.”
Gabriel’s thirsty. How did he let himself get so fucking thirsty? And who’s fucking idea was it to get him this damn drunk this early at his own party? He spins, facing the bar the right way now.
“Where’s that asshole? I want at least three more, and I want them in spindly glasses, and all lined up forming at least half of the color spectrum.”
“Are you going?” Crowley asks.
“Where?” He’s leaning over the bar now to try and see all the way down while holding on tight enough to not fall right over.
“With Nick. To ‘Lucius and Moose, sexually frustrated attorneys at law’.”
Gabriel sits back down very quickly. Too quickly. But thankfully he’s still got a grip on the bar and doesn’t tumble right down out of his seat.
“What do you know about it?”
“Admittedly not much, but I expect I’ll be able to learn much more from the shiny corner office by the elevator.”
Gabriel stares. “You’re joining?”
“Yes, well, I think I just might. Depends, really.”
“Depends on what?”
“On if you’re coming or not.”
And that’s exactly why he hates him. Exactly, that.
Crowley looks at him like he cares about the answer, like what Gabriel does matters, when it just doesn’t. Everyone knows that. It’s never mattered.
It doesn’t matter if he shows up to the board meetings. It doesn’t matter if he comes in at noon or one or fucking ever. It doesn’t matter if he fills his office with candy, or video games, or hookers. It doesn’t matter because he doesn’t really matter. He’s never really mattered. He’s loud. That’s really the only option. But it changes nothing. The loud doesn’t really translate into anything that sticks. He knows that. He’s always known that.
So, why doesn’t Crowley? Why has he never quite seemed to see that simple, eternal, biblical truth.
“Nick’s the one who asked you,” Gabriel says. He’s looking at the bar again. The shot glasses are still there, all tipped over on their heads. His are in a sloppy pile, Crowley’s are lined up tidy and military all next to each other.
“So?”
“So,” Gabe laughs, “So, go with him if you want to.”
“Honestly,” Crowley sighs, “I don’t quite see the professed majesty that everyone else seems to think is Nick Lucius. He’s good. I’m not denying that. But he’s far from the Platonic idol he seems to assume he is.”
Crowley leans back as if he’s enjoying this particular pontification, and of course he is. He always loved a good meaty oration.
“The truth - a truth I think you are aware of underneath that wild disarrayed mass of inferiority complexes and a clinical fear of significant attachment to much besides the long suffering fillings in your molars - is that anyone can put themselves where Nick has. In fact many people have done so with far less impressive pedestals to start upon. All it takes is little ambition, a few broken kneecaps, and an eye for details.”
Gabriel swallows. He really is drunk. He’s too drunk. He’s almost drunk enough to reach that scary place where all the blurry lines of the outside are so messy that the inside world tries to compensate by lining up just right and letting thoughts making way too much sense.
“He’s still Nick.” Gabriel says.
“I didn’t come back to Boston for Nick.” Crowley says with a roll of his eyes. “God help me if I had,”
Gabriel laughs, but it’s softer now, not the hard and sharp slice in his throat it was.
“What? Did you miss the ‘chowda’?”
Crowley shakes his head with a little smile, “You know, I truly didn’t think you’d make it through Harvard all those years ago.”
“Yeah, you and me both.”
“You were such and idiot.” Crowley grins.
“Hey!” Gabriel snaps.
“You were hungover most days, and drunk others, and loud, and brash, and I think at least three times you showed up for exams without pants, and maybe once with a well concealed duck under your chair.”
“Aww, Hector! I haven’t thought about him for years...”
“You were a disaster. A disaster with hair gel.”
“Yeah? So why’d you sully yourself?” Gabriel’s suddenly asking. “Disaster’s don’t make great pets you know?”
“Because you’re far smarter than you think you are.” Crowley’s looking at him again, and his eyes are still doing that sparkly thing on the edges. “And you were always fun.”
Gabriel’s ready to slap something back in his face, he’s got at least ten different snappy, slurry things pushing to get the the front of his tongue. But none of them quite get there. Because that’s sort of exactly right…
“You were fun too.” He says instead.
Because he was. It was. In fact, when he thinks about it, those six or so years were maybe the happiest he’d ever had. And it wasn’t Crowley and fucking in classrooms… well, okay, it wasn’t just Crowley and fucking in classrooms. It was that he was on his own, truly on his own, for the first time in his life. He wasn’t stuck in the house with dad reading off Nick and Michael’s latest triumphs while Cas brought home glowing reports from teachers who had insisted two years ago that Gabriel was an ironically titled biblical plague on educators everywhere.
It had just been Gabriel. And yeah, of course they shadows of his family were still there. They were always there, like stained glass that the whole world filtered through, changing the colors that landed. But for a while, for a few years, he could almost pretend that didn’t matter...
“You left. You went to New York,” Gabriel says, looking at him now, “Why’d you come back?”
Crowley shrugs, “New York was dull.”
He leans a bit closer.
“Lot’s of things are dull. Most things in fact.” He smiles, his voice is lower. “You’re not dull.”
He’s close enough now that Gabriel can smell the scotch on his breath… or is that his own?
“I might say you’re maybe even the least dull, of most things. If I was being generous.”
Gabriel’s smiling, but it feels strangely soft against his cheeks, lazy as his half lidded eyes. “You? Generous?”
“Only to my favorites.” Crowley smiles, “Well... favorite.”
Gabriel shakes his head. He’s sure he does. Even if he can’t feel it. “I’m not good at being a favorite. I have pretty much zero experience in that particular area.”
There’s a hand on his leg. It’s warm, confident while careful, and familiar, a familiar that’s turning him in Crowley’s direction far easier than it should be able to.
“You’re better at it then you think you are.”
This is stupid. It’s really, really stupid. But there’s a warm pulsing feeling behind his chest that’s sinking lower and making his tongue heavy and hands hungry and that’s totally not leading anywhere good.
“You better be as good of a kisser as I remember,” Gabriel says.
“Why? Are you going to kiss me?” Crowley asks, voice smoky and rasping just right like it always has. He’s not even pretending to look anywhere besides Gabe’s lips any longer. The hand on Gabriel’s leg is getting tighter. And god they’re close now, close enough to taste the scotch already. He can almost feel the stubble mean and rough against his jaw as always.
“No,” Gabriel huffs, “Even I’m not that fucking stupid.”
“No,” Crowley smiles, one hand slinking up behind his neck and tilting his head just right, “Of course not.”
He pulls him in just enough.
He’s better at it than he remembered. His lips are just rough enough, and he’s never insistent, never pushes, just tempts, suggests, teases, until Gabriel’s the one pushing him open, chasing the smoky taste of scotch and all the other things that have always been him. And Crowley just meets him, easing into the openings like he always has until Gabriel’s got a tight hand on his collar tugging him closer because god he’d forgotten, he’d really forgotten just how good it could be, just how clear everything could get.
Crowley tugs back gently, tightening his grip on Gabe’s neck as he does to stare back at him with hazy brown eyes.
“Good thing I’ve always been the clever one.”
Gabriel grins, “Shut up.”
“Make me.”
And he does, because hey, maybe it’s not fair for Nick to be the only one who likes a challenge or maybe he just missed they way he looks in his eyes after all.