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Gabriel was an angel of few vices and, for that, he was proud.
Accordingly, he may be a touch more prideful than She intended, but it was hardly a sin to know you were good at your job. Right?
Philosophising aside, it was his duty to corral the angels and make sure their vices didn’t interfere with heavenly duty. It had taken only a few centuries of trying to ban tobacco and alcohol and other consumables before Gabriel realised that telling his charges “No.” was just making the problem worse. Indeed, he had discovered what would come to be known as the ‘Streisand effect’ before humans had even invented the wheel.
After all, a cup of tea and a biscuit, whilst not exactly Gabriel’s cup of tea per say, was hardly a deadly sin. A tea break was just a blip to the almighty and if it was going to prevent the Host’s larger concerns (namely a repeat of the Nephilium incident) it would be a good administrative decision to schedule smoke breaks and lunch breaks for the indulgent ethereals amongst them.
Gabriel was good at his job, after all.
What he had failed to anticipate was the popularity of the changes effected and suddenly angels were talking of time off requests and unions, and it became a slippery slope which lead Heaven to an internal system of management much like a mid-tier corporation. (When of course, they were the uppermost tier, figuratively and literally).
They’d instigated a smokers’ courtyard that was regrettably shared by the lower-level offices (said literally) and had managed to find space to install a kitchenette slash break room for those angels who liked to make their tea by hand.
(“Far better than a miracle,” Sandalphon dunked the teabag once in the hot water before viciously flinging it in to the trash, “Learnt that when I was on earth.” Gabriel tried to keep his face neutral at the thought of consuming grass soup as the other angel dug around in a cupboard.
“Ah, bless it!” He snapped and a few items appeared on the bench. He peeled open the tin that read “sweetened condensed milk” (Gabriel did have to ask what type of cow that came from) and poured a generous amount in his teacup, “Learnt this from a fellow down on earth.” He flashed a toothy grin and topped up the cup with milk.)
This interaction in particular was hardly the worst of it, as Gabriel came to discover his colleagues’ weird and frankly disturbing eating habits. Smoking he could abide by, and often gave it ago himself. Not because he was addicted, mind you, it was purely a social activity. Anything you engage in socially can’t be a vice, the humans decided that one long ago.
But the kitchenette! Where angels flocked to sully their celestial temples with all kinds of gross matter!
His disgust upon encountering the principality Aziraphale consuming food on earth only served to remind him of the times he’d gone frantically searching for one of his colleagues only to be told “They’re out on lunch” to which he’d scuttle to the kitchenette to find Uriel with a mass of tentacles hanging out of her corporation’s mouth.
(Gabriel couldn’t help but shriek as the tentacles were sucked in.
“It’s pho you idiot.” The angel rolled her eyes and took the document from him.
Gabriel was quite sure he had just got sworn at.)
There was Michael and her “slur-pees” which came in horrific colours that threatened every pantsuit in a five mile radius, especially her own. If one were to be told the archangel was away for lunch, you would likely find her in the break room lounging on the pristine white couches drinking one of those concoctions through a straw that curled in many loops.
There were a few angels, whose names Gabriel hadn’t bothered to learn, who’d somehow obtained cellular devices from earth and spent their allocated break time gossiping over instant-grams, whilst consuming drinks bought with Starbucks. Gabriel had been meaning to ask how one obtains these “Star dollars” and whether they were a better investment than the British pound, but that would likely involve learning their names. It was all very tiresome.
Once. Just once, about two thousand and twelve years after the death of christ, the principality Aziraphale entered the break room. Angels assigned to earth weren’t entitled to “lunch breaks” or “annual leave” partially because Gabriel reasoned their whole job shirked normal heavenly duties, also because Gabriel hadn’t been bothered to tell them about the unionisation.
He came in looking for a pair of scissors, of all things, struggling with something sticking out of his chosen attire that had been “annoying him all decade”.
“See, no frivolous miracles,” he’d glowered at Gabriel, who was standing with Sandalphon. The blond snipped the piece of material that was sticking out with the scissors one of the lesser angels handed him (“Sorry, I couldn’t find a pair, here’s one scissor.” “Thank you dear,”). He did a double take as he spied the can on the bench.
“Are you trying to make tea?” He asked sharply, eyes travelling from the kettle, to the cup, to the now haughty expression on Sandalphon’s face.
“Not trying,” he sneered, “I’m making tea,”
“Apologies,” Aziraphale stared pointedly at the tin of condensed milk — which seemed to be the offending item, “Continue,”
If word got out that the angel’s hands began to shake he would personally track down and smite the angel who started that unfounded rumour. Why was he, Sandalphon, afraid of a traitor who spent his centuries kissing the human’s feet? Well, when he wasn’t kissing the ground they walked on, he’d probably had a few cups of tea. Suddenly the angel doubted the crazed scotsman who’d shown him how to make tea on his brief trip to London.
He went through his usual routine, ignoring the pained noises from the blond as he gave the tea bag a cursory dunk and cracked open the tin. He was just about to pour it when there was a commotion at the door that grabbed the principality’s attention.
“Oof! Hey, bit rude, the Prince said I have permission to be here,” There was a demon in the doorway, and they’d just taken one of the drinks bought with Starbucks to the face.
“Mmm ’s good,” they shook themselves, licking around their lips to show sharp pointy teeth, “Pumpkin spice?”
The angel who’d thrown the projectile nodded.
“You basic bitch!” Dagon snapped and stalked in to the room, clothes miraculously well cleaner than a second ago.
One of the angel’s friends let out a cackle and an “I told you so!” and suddenly most of the room seemed to forget a demon had just walked in.
“Excuse me demon scum,” Gabriel drew himself to his full height and stepped in Dagon’s path, “What do you think you’re doing?”
The demon was hardly intimidated, just shrugging and holding up a mass of tinfoil, “Our microwave’s broken and Beelzebub told me I can’t use Hellfire to heat up my tacos,”
Gabriel frowned, as much as he would like to deny this request and send them on their way, it was quite honestly gibberish to the angel.
In a moment of desperation he turned to Aziraphale, who was still glaring at the cup of tea like it’d personally offended him.
“?” Communicated the archangel and the blond just sighed, taking the parcel from Dagon (who wasn’t quite sure whether they were being robbed — demon and all — so put up a bit of a fight).
“I’ll put it in for 3 minutes and 40 seconds,” the angel said, mostly to Dagon (though Gabriel was still trying to work out what was going on), “I’ll take it OUT of the tinfoil, my dear, I wasn’t born yesterday.”
Dagon had enough decency to look guilty.
He went over to a plastic box and opened it, placing the food (Gabriel was pretty sure it was food) inside.
When he closed the door he turned to the archangel.
“Gabriel, did you want to press the buttons?” How was the other to know it was the same voice he’d used on a two-year-old antichrist?
The desire to push buttons is one of the few innate qualities of humans that the Almighty borrowed from the angels. Her original children were given a curiosity (some more than others, poor Crowley) to press anything that could be pressed, doubly so if there were instructions not to press it. The primal instinct took over and Gabriel bound forward.
“This one three times and this one four times,” Aziraphale said patiently.
There was a dull beep as Gabriel pressed each button, checking with the principality between each press to make sure he’d done the right thing.
“Now we press start,”
Gabriel pressed the big red button and startled as the box started to buzz.
“Very good,” Aziraphale was reminded of an excited puppy as his superior preened under the praise.
Then they waited.
It was supremely awkward, even for those among them who weren’t versed in social conventions.
“They’re fixed the lift,” Dagon offered as the four of them stood around the buzzing box.
Gabriel frowned, ‘The lift wasn’t broken?”
“Yeah, it made that sound, like a soul screaming for mercy in a torture pit whenever it moved between floors,”
The angels shook their heads. Dagon snarled.
“Bloody hell, probably just on the basement floors. Just our luck. Probably some useless disposable demon thought it’d be a good prank, stick an errant soul in the lift mechanism or some shit,” they spat in disgust and the others leapt back, “Sorry, sorry.” They waved away the spot on the ground and brought their hands together briefly in a mock prayer.
Sandalphon had shuffled away, and was now drinking straight from the tin he held whilst giving the demon a nervous look.
The angels in the corner had miraculously found another Starbuck and were chatting like there wasn’t an intruder in the room.
The box kept buzzing and crackling merrily.
There was a noise of surprise from the doorway.
Gabriel groaned, perhaps expecting another visitor from the basement, but it was Michael holding her customary slurpee and surveying the scene warily.
Dagon’s eyes lit up when they saw the archangel, “Oooh, what flavour?”
Michael held her drink protectively to her chest, “Orange creamsicle,” she mumbled.
“Bitchin’! Love the blue raspberry flavour,” for one horrifying moment, Aziraphale thought the demon was going to try and fist-bump the archangel Michael. Luckily, they seemed to have an ounce of self-preservation left and aborted the gesture.
Rather than address the elephant in the room, Michael frowned and sniffed the air.
“What’s that smell?”
“If it’s filth it’s me,” Dagon volunteered lazily, not keen to let the angels get away with their signature joke.
“No, it smells like rotten fish,”
At the same moment, Aziraphale gagged as the stench hit his corporation.
“For the love of our blessed mother,” shrieked one of the angels, leaping up and abandoning his cellular device. The unnamed hastened out of the room and Sandalphon scurried after them.
“Dagon,” Aziraphale said levelly, one coat arm across his face allowing him to breathe breaths that didn’t strictly need breathing. “What is in those tacos?”
The demon didn’t look remotely remorseful, “They’re fish tacos. I found ‘em in the trash outside a fine dining rest-au-rant called “Sal’s Chippies” and thought they needed reheating before I consumed them,” they smiled toothily, “I have standards you know.”
Aziraphale flinched.
“Oh, and they’re not old-old if that’s what you’re worried about. ’S only been a few months.”
Even Gabriel’s eyes widened in horror. The trio of angels scrambled to the exit, leaving the demon standing perplexedly beside the microwave as it dinged.
Dagon grinned maliciously, speaking in to a plastic radio they’d strategically obtained during their last trip to earth.
“Hey, Hastur. I’m in!”