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When V1 finishes rebooting, it comes back online in bits and pieces and very, very slowly. Too slow. A hand waves in front of its camera, blurry as all hell, and V1 automatically shrinks back at the sudden intrusion. Whatever the hand is attached to must have caught on to its discomfort, because it retreats in a heartbeat to give it some space.
"Are you faring alright, machine?" A voice rings from above. V1 notes that while the voice holds steady, there's a underlying tinge of concern.
And to answer the inquiry, V1 does a systems check. It blacked out, most likely. That happens more than it'd like to admit.
Physically, it's fine. It's in better condition than it has felt in ages. Not a single wire has been crossed out of place since forever. V1's main processor is still working overtime to load everything in, but it manages to identify The Voice as GABRIEL. Immediately, the machine relaxes, knowing that it's in safe hands.
It briefs the logs. The fallen Lust Layer. A spur-of-the-moment duel, as per usual. Then, they had crashed into one of many bedrooms that could be found in the residential areas. Gabriel had made a wry comment about the chiffon curtains hanging in front of each window, like, really, what good would that do for privacy, surely any other fabricated material would suffice –
He went on many a minute-long tangent afterward, about how King Minos had clearly ordered to have those installed on purpose, because with the light glow coming from the inside (and during lovemaking sessions)… well, it leaves almost nothing to the imagination.
V1 fast forwards through that memory, dated half an hour ago. More back-and-forth had occurred. The bed suddenly looked inviting. It remembers feeling too warm, too fast.
These facts drop into V1's lap as it stitches it all together into a neat line of events. It sits up to take stock of its current stituation. Their framework sinks into the cushy mattress, blankets thrown askew.
… Is that a pillow that had been under its head?
The bedroom itself is impeccably furnished: bureau dresser in the back, wardrobe bursting with clothing fabrics to the side, other material posessions scattered about, awaiting its departed owner to unearth it again. V1 makes a note to scavenge those piles later. To its right are glass doors opening to a balcony; surprisingly, there are no chiffon curtains. In a force of habit, someone had torn them off and replaced them with a thick cloak of the Grecian sort to block off each side.
And that someone is perched at the foot of the bed, hunched over like a gargoyle (although really, Gabriel's the furthest thing from one) to accomodate his larger form. He remains at a distance – unsure whether it is appropriate to draw nearer to meet it or not.
That confirms it, then.
"You were rendered immobile for some time." Gabriel picks idly at a loose thread that had unravelled from a blanket. V1 realizes, belatedly, that he had been waiting for it to process all of this. His helmet shifts upward at V1. His bared cross meets its glassy optic. He looks down in a show of apology. "Or at least, that's what I gathered."
"I am OK," the machine signs. Its forefinger trembles trying to get the last letter out. Ever the diligent observer, Gabriel catches onto the movement.
"That is about as believable as the scripture they had expounded to me in Heaven," Gabriel says in a sardonic tone. When V1 straightens at the crude reply, the angel barks a laugh.
"What, I'm only joking – somewhat – ah, forget it."
He trails off awkwardly, gaze drifting to his front armor plating propped up against the bed. The greaves, pauldrons, and vambraces are arranged on the floor in a neat, deconstructed manner. Gabriel, out of an arbitrary sense of respect for the dead, had chosen not to move any belongings on the dressers to make space for his own, yet he did not hesitate to rifle through the closet or ruck up the bedding.
V1 scrambles to grab his wrist just as he moves to put the metal pieces back on. V1 has no need to put its own armor on because it can't. V1 can't strip down to the wire because it is built into them.
V1 is at a loss. V1, creature of destruction, wants to salvage this.
"Nothing needs to be salvaged between us," Gabriel reassures.
He's – remarkably clairvoyant, that's what he is. As expected from a divine being of his station. He shifts to look at the machine again, thinking hard about his next choice of words.
"We aren't compelled to carry on with this… endeavor, should you not wish to," Gabriel demurs, "and I am only willing if you are, V1."
"I want this."
This statement comes easy to it. Like taking blood. Its body simply refuses to cooperate.
"You do –? Good. Wonderful." He's being overly deferential, reverent, but means every word. "Now – it would be remiss of me to repeat the same error as before; I'd much rather err on the side of caution this time around. How would you like me to go about this?"
"I don't know." When V1 isn't the one in control, it's not sure what it wants. Except maybe to dive and hide under the covers at the current situation.
Gabriel hums. He sidles next to it. The gold filigree on his bare abdomen glints like a coin edge, then disappears into the lower garments fashioned around his waist. A blanket corner slips off onto the wooden floorboards. He doesn't give it a second glance.
"No worries, I've heard shoddier responses. Allow me to rephrase: what should I avoid?"
Avoid. The Gabriel that V1 had encountered in Gluttony (and Heresy, and on the brink of Treachery) was brash and wouldn't have given a single shit about this. Laying dents upon the machine's chassis like paint? Severing its tubing with a swipe of his twin swords? Sure, why the hell not.
But drop him here, and suddenly he's questioning his every move. Because he, at some point, has made an exception for it – in his own strange way.
Although this is different from those initial meetings. Is it? V1 can't tell. It forgot what it was like to feel threatened, that it could relinquish its power. Usually that happened when they were in a position of harm, because their blood reserves would deplete and it risked being too exhausted to resist.
Hence the shutdowns – activated by prolonged contact, physical or otherwise.
Frustrated, V1 grips the linens underneath it, unintentionally tearing a seam with the claws of the Knuckleblaster. If only it wasn't programmed for that; trying to distill this explanation into sign is difficult enough.
A moment passes. Gabriel coughs lightly to get its attention. Ahem.
"You're thinking loud enough for me to hear, machine," he exclaims, motioning to where the cooling fans on its mechanical form are whirring angrily. "I will defer to your judgement if needed, but I have come up with a suggestion. Would you care to hear it?"
V1 stares at him. Nods once. It's coming up short on better ideas, anyways.
He sighs, slumping back against the headboard so that they're lying side by side. "Here is my take on the matter: you have been accustomed to taking in sensory input efficiently, correct? I would assume it to be necessary to anticipate such things. However," Gabriel swallows thickly, "it would not hurt to take it slow, here. So you can adjust. We have time."
His helm tilts to the side. "If I may."
Unsure about what Gabriel's preposition entails, but trusting him regardless, V1 nods again.
Evidently, Gabriel is committed to minimizing the missteps he made last time. He still moves in front of V1 and leans in, except it isn't too close to give it the impression of being cornered, and he keeps both hands in front of its line of sight. This way, the machine is able to match up foreign sensations with visuals easier.
A hand trails up its leg, applying light pressure. V1 registers the contact. It's not… bad, sort of like brushing up against faux greenery in Limbo, but the feeling doesn't fall into the 'pleasant' category enough for it to crave more of it.
Gabriel applies pressure incrementally. Unlike how he accomplishes most tasks, there's a lack of assuredness to his movements (the machine can estimate with 80% certainty that in layman's terms, he simply does not know what the fuck he's doing); instead, he gauges V1's reactions as feedback. It twitches involuntarily, or tenses up, or gets antsy, and Gabriel pauses to let it recalibrate. Then V1 gives its assent and he continues.
"Sorry. Reflex," V1 tries to explain.
"Quite frankly, I would be more concerned if it wasn't."
In an attempt to distract itself, the machine signs, "You like this?"
"You'll have to be specific. What are you referring to, my position or yours?"
"Mine."
"Khm. I, uh – I do. Among others."
"Why?" Maybe it would help to adopt his viewpoint.
“I suppose...” Gabriel wonders aloud to himself, doing his damned best not to think too much about what comes out of his mouth – or what it means. "Well, it feels nice to be taken care of."
His left hand goes up to its upper thigh. The right is firmly planted next to V1, bracing near its waist because it would be nigh impossible for Gabriel to fit completely between its legs.
Their internal temperatures are rising. That might be due to the close proximity. It can hear his heart pumping, inhales, exhales from his lungs. But these are ignored in place of his verbal confession.
"Taken care of?" V1 makes an amused expression. "Like in a fight or…?" It motions with its hands, asking for clarifification. Like the unspoken option even needed to be said.
Gabriel answers weakly. “… both?” He leaves it at that. "It's just preference. I understand how this can be daunting, though," he adds.
Carnage used to be all that he had known. He had been drunk on power, relished in enacting violence because he was prideful, only viewing himself to be as good as the ideas he upheld. Nothing could surmount him. If he tore himself up, if his wings got battered in the process, then so be it.
Facing V1, an object so beneath him yet unnervingly near his caliber, threw him for a loop. It freed him from his appointed role.
(And it made it easier for Gabriel to put himself in scenarios where he could let others take charge, make the decisions for him. But that's beside the point.)
He busies himself. Repetitiveness isn't any different from the previous duties he had. He can keep on stroking along the length of its chestplate, arms, the dips and crevasses near its hip joints, escalating it whenever V1 gets used to it.
Gabriel hooks a finger on some barely-exposed wiring and lightly tugs on it. It immediately flinches, but not out of pain. Its optic lid twitches, settling low across its optic, its legs bump against him, and he has to remember to maintain his composure.
"Fuck –" he mutters. V1 isn't the sole individual affected by this, apparently, given that he has to change how he's sitting every few seconds to alleviate the roiling pit in his gut. It doesn't work. He's practically straddling the machine right now. He wants – more. If only a little. The selfishness might kill him, if not for his limitless restraint.
"I'm going to… I can go further."
The machine shakily taps his crook of his elbow in soundless acknowledgement. Keeping track of each development, one right after the other, is proving to be increasingly difficult. But they're not too sudden that it feels alarming.
For whatever reason, Gabriel reaches upward still (isn't that the wrong way? V1 thinks to itself through the numb buzzing in its head) near its vents, situated by where its engraved name is. He digs a thumb under the blue metal to trace the edges – except simultaneously, his knee presses flush against it.
V1 whines, and jerks at the immediate friction.
Gabriel also jerks, but away from the machine, like he's been burned. He waits a few seconds prior to speaking. Mostly due to his labored breathing. And because his mind has gone completely, utterly blank.
The aftershocks in V1's systems have mostly disappeared by the time Gabriel declares smugly, "Oh, you liked that, didn't you." Never mind that it was unintentional. "Perhaps –" He returns back to it, closer than before, his voice hungry. "– you would like to know where more of that comes from."
V1 grasps onto this warmth, vague as it is.
... Perhaps it would.