Chapter 115: 17.1.3
Gabriel preferred to work in windows of clarity, not chemical stupor. The mind was the final frontier, and a soup-addled one couldn’t learn the rules. So he timed the dosages with a sniper’s precision, letting the Class-E sedatives ebb just enough for consciousness to return—a raw, vulnerable consciousness, stranded in a foreign body and a gilded cage.
The hunter woke on the third day not with a panicked jolt, but with a slow, wary blink. He was lying on his side on the divan, a light blanket over him. His orange eyes tracked across the room, taking in the high ceilings, the serene murals, the archangel at his desk a dozen paces away, scribing luminescent runes onto a scroll that smelled of ozone and ambergris.
Gabriel felt the gaze like a physical touch—a hot, brittle point of focus. He didn’t look up. He completed the rune, the celestial ink sinking into the parchment with a final, satisfied glow, and set his stylus aside. Only then did he turn.
“Hello, petal. Feeling more yourself?”
Koen said nothing. His expression was flat, a mask of exhausted defiance. He pushed himself up, movements cautious, testing. The clumsy panic was gone, replaced by a grim, calculating tension. He swung his legs over the side, feet touching the floor. He stood, slowly, gripping the divan’s arm. He was steadier today. The body was learning, adapting to its new parameters even as the mind raged against them.
“Bathroom,” Koen said, his voice rough from disuse but clear.
“Of course.” Gabriel gestured languidly toward a side archway. “The facilities are through there. You remember the rule.”
A muscle in Koen’s new, softer jaw twitched. The rule was simple: no closed doors. Every space in Gabriel’s home was open, or magically rendered transparent at his will. Privacy was a privilege for the domesticated.
Koen walked. His gait was still off—a little less width in the shoulders meant a different arm swing, the slimmer hips altered his balance—but it was purposeful. He didn’t look at Gabriel. He disappeared through the archway into the small, elegant washroom.
Gabriel returned to his work. A petition from the Stellar Choir regarding a disputed nebula required a diplomatically worded dismissal. He crafted three sentences of exquisite bureaucratic lethality, his senses partially extended to monitor the other room. He heard the expected sounds. Then silence stretched a beat too long.
With a sigh, Gabriel waved a hand. The wall beside him shimmered, becoming a window into the washroom.
Koen wasn’t at the lavatory. He was at the high, narrow window, his fingers wedged into the minute groove of the casement, his whole body straining upwards. He was trying to climb. The window was ten feet tall and sealed with wards stronger than adamantine, but the hunter, predictably, was testing it with his bare hands. The sight was almost quaint. His renewed strength, though diminished, was evident in the corded tension of his forearms, the set of his shoulders. He’d managed to haul himself a few feet off the ground.
“The view isn’t any better from up there, darling,” Gabriel said, his voice carrying perfectly through the open wall.
Koen flinched, losing his grip. He dropped, landing in a crouch that was still instinctively graceful. He turned, his face flushed with effort and humiliation. “Go to hell.”
“Already been. The decor is atrocious.” Gabriel snapped his fingers. A compulsion glyph flared on the floor at Koen’s feet, a gentle but inescapable tug. “Come. It’s time for your meal. You need to keep your strength up.”
“For what?” Koen spat, but his feet were already moving, dragged by the magic. He fought it, digging his heels in, muscles trembling. It was like watching a man struggle against a slow, deep river current. He lost, step by grudging step, until he emerged back into the salon, chest heaving.
“For the day ahead,” Gabriel said pleasantly. A low table had appeared beside the divan, laden with food: roasted fowl, soft bread, fruit, a rich broth. The aromas were designed to be irresistible to a metabolism starved for fuel after days of xenodrugs and regeneration. “Sit.”
Koen remained standing, a statue of rebellion. His eyes, however, betrayed him. They flicked to the food, just for an instant. His stomach gave a traitorous, audible gurgle.
Gabriel ignored him, taking his seat at the desk again. He unrolled another scroll, this one a complaint from a Earth-bound guardian angel about ‘soul contamination via industrial soot.’ Droll. He began drafting a memo to the Pollution Regulation Seraphim, his writing fluid and quick.
He let the silence stretch, punctuated only by the scratch of his stylus and Koen’s stubborn, standing breaths. After five minutes, the hunter’s defiance began to curdle into awkwardness. After ten, the smell of the food was a tangible presence. Gabriel finished his memo, sealed it with a press of his signet ring, and glanced over.
Koen was still standing, but now he was staring rigidly at a point on the far wall, his jaw clenched so tight Gabriel could see the pulse in his temple.
“Sit down and eat, Koen.” He used the real name deliberately, a tiny concession, a hook.
“It’s a trick,” Koen muttered, not looking at him.
“The trick is letting your pride starve a body that’s already confused. The food is just food. Sit.”
Another minute passed. Gabriel pulled a ledger forward, beginning to cross-reference soul-delivery manifests. The scratch of the pen was loud.
With a sound of pure frustration, Koen moved. He didn’t sit so much as collapse onto the cushion beside the low table. He snatched a drumstick from the plate, tearing into it with a feral, jerky motion. He ate like he was expecting it to be stolen from him—fast, defensive, barely chewing. He finished the fowl, attacked the bread, drained the broth in loud, hurried gulps.
Gabriel watched from his periphery, hiding a smile. The demonic heritage showed in the unconscious manners: the slight hunch over the plate, the low growl in the throat when he swallowed, the way his eyes kept darting up to check his surroundings even as he devoured the meal. He was a stray, scavenging in an alley. Perfect.
When the last crumb was gone, Koen leaned back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Some color had returned to his face. The wary tension was still there, but it was now underlined by a sullen, bloated fullness. He looked more present. More capable of mischief.
Gabriel’s communication crystal chimed softly—a priority summons from the Celestial Logistics choir. It would require his full attention for at least an hour. Inconvenient, but not insurmountable.
“Good,” Gabriel said, standing. He walked to the cabinet. Koen’s eyes tracked him, the sullenness sharpening into immediate suspicion. “Now, I have some tedious business to attend to. You’ll rest.”
“I’m not tired,” Koen said instantly, pushing himself to his feet.
“You will be.” Gabriel selected a vial. A mild somatic relaxant paired with a gentle psychic suppressant. It wouldn’t render him unconscious, just deeply placid and suggestible. Useful for imprinting basic concepts.
“No.” Koen took a step back, his hands curling into fists. “You’re not putting more of that shit in me.”
“It’s not a request, pet.” Gabriel advanced, the injector in his hand.
Koen bolted. He didn’t head for an exit this time. He dodged around the divan, putting furniture between them. His movements were quicker, more assured than the day before. His body was learning. He snatched a heavy, jade bookend from a shelf, hefting it in one hand. A weapon.
Gabriel felt a flash of genuine amusement. “Really?”
“Stay the fuck away from me!” Koen brandished the bookend. His stance was all wrong—the center of gravity unfamiliar, the weight of the stone throwing off his balance—but the intent was fierce.
Gabriel didn’t bother with magic. He simply walked forward, around the divan. Koen feinted left, then darted right, trying to flank him. It was a decent move, born of street-fight instinct. Gabriel shifted his weight, cutting off the angle. Koen reversed, surprisingly agile, and lunged, bringing the bookend down in a short, powerful arc aimed at Gabriel’s temple.
Gabriel caught his wrist an inch from impact. The force of the stopped blow vibrated up Koen’s arm. His eyes went wide. Gabriel held him easily, the grip like carved stone. With his other hand, he brought the injector up.
Koen snarled, a purely demonic sound, and twisted, trying to kick Gabriel’s legs out. Gabriel absorbed the kick on his shin, unmoved. He pulled Koen’s trapped wrist, yanking him off balance, and spun him, pinning his back against Gabriel’s chest, the same imprisoning hold as before. Koen thrashed, his breath coming in sharp, angry grunts.
“This is getting repetitive,” Gabriel murmured into his ear. He pressed the injector to the side of Koen’s neck.
The hiss was met with a final, violent jerk, and then the fight seeped out of him like water from a cracked jug. The bookend thudded to the carpet. Koen’s body went loose and heavy, his head lolling back. Gabriel guided him to the divan, laying him down. The orange eyes were open, but their sharp fire was dulled, gazing at the ceiling with a vacant, peaceful blankness.
“There now,” Gabriel said, smoothing the hunter’s hair. “That’s better.”
He returned to his desk, activated the communication crystal, and submerged himself in the intricate, soul-numbing details of afterlife supply chain management. For the next hour, his world was tariffs, soul-volume quotas, and inter-choir grievances. His voice was calm, authoritative, flawless.
Throughout it all, his celeset lay quiet on the divan. Occasionally, Gabriel would glance over. Koen would sometimes shift, curling onto his side like a child, his fingers plucking absently at the velvet. Once, he made a soft, confused sound, a quiet “hmm?” at nothing at all. The drugs kept him in a soft, hazy bubble, harmless and close.
When the crystal finally dimmed, Gabriel let out a long breath. Celestial logistics were more draining than a dozen rogue demigods. He turned his full attention back to the divan.
The suppressant was wearing off. Awareness was seeping back into Koen’s eyes, but it was slow, syrupy. He blinked, his brow furrowing as he tried to place where he was. He pushed himself up on his elbows, movements languid.
“Wha’s… happening?” he mumbled. His voice was thick, but the edge was gone.
“You’re waking up,” Gabriel said, coming to sit on the edge of the divan. He reached out, and this time Koen didn’t flinch. He allowed Gabriel to touch his forehead, to brush the hair from his eyes. The fight was chemically erased. This was the blank slate. “How do you feel?”
“Weird,” Koen sighed, the word drawn out. He looked at his own hand, turning it over slowly. “Floaty. ‘S nice.”
“It can be nice,” Gabriel agreed, his voice a soft, coaxing melody. “No anger. No fear. Just quiet. Would you like that? To be quiet inside?”
Koen’s drugged gaze drifted to Gabriel’s face. He seemed to be trying to focus, to understand. “M’not s’posed t’be quiet,” he slurred, but it was a memory of protest, not a current one.
“Why not?”
“Gotta… gotta fight. Gotta get out.”
“Why?” Gabriel pressed gently. “It’s safe here. You’re warm. You’re fed. No one will hurt you.” He let his thumb stroke Koen’s temple. “Fighting is so hard. Isn’t it easier to just… let go?”
Koen’s eyes clouded with confusion. The concept was too complex, a knot his doped mind couldn’t untangle. He leaned into the touch on his temple, a slow, catlike nudge. The demonic mannerism, emerging through the chemical haze. “S’easier,” he echoed, the words barely a breath.
“Yes. Easier is better.” Gabriel smiled. This was the ground into which seeds could be planted. Not in the raging fire of his resistance, but in this soft, fertile ash. “Can you say that for me? ‘Easier is better.’”
Koen’s lips moved silently. Then, a whisper. “Easier… is better.”
“Good.” Gabriel praised him, and a faint, ridiculous blush touched Koen’s cheeks even through the drug fog. He was so pathetically responsive to any scrap of positive attention. “Now rest. We’ll talk more later.”
He rose, leaving Koen in his placid state. The hunter’s eyes slowly closed, a small, unguarded sigh escaping him.
Gabriel returned to his desk. There were still seventeen scrolls awaiting response, and a disciplinary report to file on a sloppy reaper. The work of Heaven was endless. But he felt a spark of progress. The physical shaping was holding. The mental conditioning had begun. The hunter fought him every step of the way, with tooth and nail and desperate, clumsy rage.
And every step of the way, Gabriel was there, ready with the correct dose, the unbreakable hold, the soothing, insidious words. The battle was asymmetrical. It was also already over. All that remained was for the hunter to understand it.
All that remained was for the hunter to understand it. The understanding would not come as a revelation, but as a slow, cellular surrender. Gabriel began the process that evening, dissolving a milky, opalescent powder into the cup of honeyed wine that accompanied Koen’s supper. The Class-J xenodrugs were subtle. Their magic was cumulative, a gentle persuasion of the neurochemical landscape.
“Drink,” Gabriel said, pushing the cup across the low table.
Koen, freshly roused from another enforced stupor, eyed it with raw distrust. His hair was mussed, his linen shirt rumpled. “What’s in it?”
“Honey. Wine. Calories you desperately need.” Gabriel didn’t look up from the territorial map he was annotating, a dispute between river spirits. “Your regeneration is burning everything you eat. This will help.”
A low grumble from Koen’s stomach decided the matter. He snatched the cup, draining it in two bitter-tasting gulps. He wiped his mouth, waiting for some immediate effect. Nothing happened. His shoulders, tense for a fight, slumped in minor confusion. Gabriel hid a smile. The first thread was woven.
The next morning, a finer powder was whisked into the creamy porridge. Koen ate it, shoveling the food with a surly vigor born of hunger. By the third day, the powder was in the broth at midday, and a few drops of viscous liquid were mixed into the evening wine. The ramp-up period was a study in delicate calibration. Gabriel monitored Koen’s readings, adjusting the celestial correspondence piled on his desk with one hand while fine-tuning the xenodrug regimen with the other.
Koen fought. Of course he fought. His resistance was the one predictable constant. He tested the boundaries of every room, searching for a weakness in the wards, a loose stone, a forgotten tool. He attempted to barricade the washroom archway with a chair, a futile gesture Gabriel allowed him to complete just to watch the frustrated collapse that followed. He shouted himself hoarse when Gabriel administered the direct sedatives, his curses evolving from creative to desperately repetitive.
But the fight was changing. The Class-Js were doing their work in the deep channels of his mind. The outbursts, while fierce, began to end not in sullen isolation, but in exhausted, tearful confusion. After a particularly violent struggle against a compulsion glyph that left him sprawled on the carpet, Gabriel found him not glaring, but curled on his side, shivering.
“It’s cold,” Koen muttered, his voice thick. He wasn’t looking at Gabriel. He was staring at the intricate pattern of the rug, his fingers tracing it.
“The floor often is,” Gabriel replied, not moving from his desk chair where he was verifying soul intake ledgers.
“Why does it have to be so hard?” The question was small, plaintive, and utterly new. It wasn’t a challenge. It was a genuine, bewildered plea.
Gabriel set his pen down. This was the opening. “It doesn’t,” he said, his tone softening from its usual clinical precision. “It only feels hard because you’re pushing against the only thing keeping you safe. Come up off the floor.”
Koen was silent for a long moment. Then, with a shaky, defeated sigh, he pushed himself up. He didn’t return to the divan. He walked, slowly, to the hearth where a low fire perpetually glowed. He sank down on the thick fur rug before it, drawing his knees to his chest. The posture was defensive, but the intent was different. He was seeking comfort, not making a fort.
Gabriel returned to his ledgers. An hour passed, filled only with the crackle of fire and the scratch of Gabriel’s pen. A soft sound broke the silence—a quiet, rhythmic sniffle. Koen had hidden his face against his knees, but the shake of his shoulders was unmistakable.
“Come here, little one,” Gabriel said, not looking up from a column of numbers.
“No.”
It lacked conviction. The word was a wet mumble into fabric. Gabriel waited, finishing his calculation. He made a neat notation. Then he pushed his chair back and stood. He walked to the hearth and sat on the floor beside him, not touching him. The heat from the fire painted their skin in gold and shadow.
Koen flinched at his proximity, but didn’t scramble away. The chemicals in his system were singing a low, steady song of connection, weakening the walls panic had built. His sobs quieted to hiccups.
“You’re lonely,” Gabriel observed, his voice neutral. “You’re built for a pack, for a partner at your back. This silence feels like starving, doesn’t it?”
A minute nod against his knees. That was it. The first admission, non-verbal and drugged, but real.
“You don’t have to be.” Gabriel reached out, his hand hovering just above the knotted curve of Koen’s spine. He didn’t touch him. The choice, however illusory, had to be his. “The fight is just you, alone. The peace could be shared.”
Koen uncoiled, just slightly. He lifted his head. His face was a wreck of tear-tracks and flushed skin, his orange eyes glassy and red-rimmed. He looked at Gabriel’s hand, then into his eyes. The conflict there was visceral, a war between ingrained defiance and a deep, drug-softened need to not feel so terribly, awfully alone anymore. The Class-Js tipped the scale.
He leaned back, ever so slightly. The arch of his spine pressed into Gabriel’s waiting palm.
The contact was electric. Gabriel could feel the shudder that went through him, part anxiety, part something else. The drugs heightened tactile sensitivity, transforming a simple touch into a wave of sensory information. Gabriel began to move his hand, slow, firm circles between his shoulder blades. Koen went rigid for a heartbeat, then melted. A broken sigh escaped him, all the remaining tension flooding out on that breath. He slumped backward, his weight settling against Gabriel’s side.
“See?” Gabriel murmured, his hand moving up to card through the ashen hair. “Easier is better.”
Koen made a non-committal sound, a weak hum. But he nuzzled his head slightly into the hand petting him, the demonic, catlike instinct overriding everything else. He was warm from the fire, pliant from the drugs, and for the first time, quiet. Truly quiet. Gabriel held him there, watching the flames dance, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing even out into something calm.
A chime from his desk, insistent and crystalline. The quarterly audit summons. It required three hours of uninterrupted, focused computation.
Gabriel shifted. Koen made a small, distressed noise at the movement, his hand coming up to clumsily clutch at Gabriel’s sleeve.
“Shh, I have to work,” Gabriel said, his tone leaving no room for debate. He extracted himself, guiding Koen to lie back on the fur rug. The hunter’s eyes were already heavy, the combination of touch and xenodrugs pulling him toward sleep. “You’ll stay here. You’ll be good.”
Koen blinked up at him, his expression soft and unfocused. “Don’t go?” The words were slurred, a child’s request.
“I’m just over there.” Gabriel stood, brushing off his robes. He fetched a light blanket from the divan and draped it over Koen. As he turned to go, a hand shot out from under the blanket, fingers closing weakly around his ankle.
The grip was pointless, easily broken. It wasn’t an attempt to hold him. It was a request for anchor. Gabriel looked down at the hand, then at Koen’s face. The hunter was watching him, a deep, drug-fueled yearning swimming in those hazy orange eyes. The need for connection, amplified and laid bare.
Gabriel gently pried the fingers loose. “Later.”
He returned to his desk, the auditor’s crystal lighting up the polished wood. He plunged into the vast, numerical ocean of celestial finance. Columns of soul-energy allocations, manifests of blessed artifacts, the endless decimal points of divine grace distribution. His mind partitioned itself seamlessly. One hemisphere processed quadrillion-credit discrepancies, the other remained aware of the silent form by the fire.
Halfway through the audit, a soft rustle. Gabriel glanced over. Koen had rolled onto his back, the blanket kicked off. He was staring at the ceiling, one hand resting on his own stomach, rising and falling. He looked… content. A faint, unguarded smile touched his lips at nothing at all. The Class-Js were firmly in the driver’s seat now, broadcasting their chemical happiness.
When the final calculation was verified and the crystal dimmed, the salon was deep in the quiet of simulated night. Gabriel rose, his back stiff from perfect posture. Koen was asleep, but it was a light, dozing sleep. He stirred as Gabriel approached, his eyes opening to slits.
“Done?” Koen mumbled. His voice was sleep-rough but clear, free of its usual bristle.
“For now.” Gabriel settled beside him on the fur. Koen didn’t hesitate. He turned and pressed his face into Gabriel’s thigh, one arm looping around his leg with a possessiveness that was both new and startling in its simplicity. He emitted a deep, rumbling sigh of pure satisfaction.
Gabriel placed a hand on his head, feeling the soft hair, the solid warmth of his skull beneath. The hunter was breathing in his scent, nuzzling against the fabric of his robes. The fight was gone, chemically sedated, replaced by a cuddly, tactile craving that sought its source in the very entity that had orchestrated its captivity.
This was the foundation. The dependency was no longer just physical, for food and care. It was neurological, emotional. Koen’s happiness was now, literally, tied to Gabriel’s presence. The archangel looked down at the sleeping, clinging form, a work of art more delicate and pleasing than any statue. The correspondence for Heaven was complete, filed without delay. The training was advancing exactly on schedule.
Tomorrow, the doses would be slightly stronger. The resistance would undoubtedly flare again—a testament to the hunter’s stubborn spirit—but it would flare from a lower base, and crumble into this seeking, sensitive need ever more quickly. The momentum was irreversible.
all told from gabriel’s pov. gabriel never falls behind on his work while training his celeset and if he has to work for a longer period of time he administers some xenodrugs to keep his celeset docile and pliant. koen fights him, or at least tries to, every step of the way. as the days pass gabriel starts lacing koen’s food and drink with class-j xenodrugs (Long term drugs that make the celeset very cuddly, while also increasing sensitivity to touch and general happiness. Using Class-Js safely usually requires a ramp-up and ramp-down period of a few days.)