Chapter Text
Someone went through their liquor shelf.
The Ferryman sits limply against the foot of the bar while they take in the gap between the vermouth and the good vermouth. Not that there’s anything actually impressive here — having too-nice things makes something deep-rooted in them vaguely offended.
Still, it’s a bottom shelf bottle that was stolen, which throws them for a loop on who did it.
Let it be known, they are firm that confronting the thief is beneath them, but. Still. It’s…good to know. And they barely have anything to themselves so yes, fine, it does fucking piss them off a little that whoever it is didn’t goddamn ask them.
Maybe spending so much time around Gabriel’s post-Council clarity is a bad idea if it makes being nice so hard. (They really don’t mind it at all. They haven’t felt this light in centuries.)
… It’s probably not their angel who took it. Again, this is bottom shelf stuff, and he wouldn’t know the differences, would assume all alcohols are the same, would take the nearest bottle at eye-height. He will go for the first thing that offers itself to him, always been an easy lover, their angel, and they would not chastise him for it. Couldn’t bear to.
(They do not hate him for giving his heart away four times over. Easier to turn their viciousness inward and say: they hate themselves for letting it happen.)
(And besides, there’s something deeply wrong about the image of dear Gabriel with a bottle of hard cider.)
But if not him, then either the kings. Unless his mechanical god returned from its frozen grave without them knowing.
It’s probably not Sisyphus. The man loves his extravagances and doesn’t respect them enough to settle for a bad drink. He would reach for the clear absinthe, they think, or maybe the liquid gold of mead. They can’t quite pin down what he wants, sweet kisses or a kick in the teeth. Silvery hands on his shoulders or bloodied, holy ones on the sparring ground. King of Greed or not, it’s obscene that he gets to have both. They can’t even take solace in the petty joy that things aren’t going well between him and the old Judge.
It only means they’re losing their angel faster.
Because Hell and Fate itself will bend to make sure they don’t have too-nice things. They wish those assholes would pick a different target sometimes.
(They have never been at the helm of their destiny before. They aren’t ready to admit that they could have done something about all this.)
So, no, it’s probably not Sisyphus who took the cider.
Minos, then? Again, the image sits wrong. Cider is a festive drink, a cheery drink, and Minos these days… Well, he’s always had a gloom about him, the air of suffering followed him up the ferry and the stench of death followed him back down with every haul of sinners they brought to his court, but it’s even worse these days. They look at Minos and see much less a man than a bottled letter, words never read unless you break the glass.
He would look at home, they imagine, nursing something so strong it’s borderline lethal—or not, he’s the responsible type, probably wouldn’t drink anything more than a glass of champagne, values being sensible and present too much to cope with his work that way. They find themselves caught in an odd mix of envy and pity. They are only the last Ferryman, and for the longest time he has been the sole Judge. He has proven to be a good man, far too good for the damnation they’re all subjected to, and he somehow did it all without ever seeking oblivion one way or another. (Oh, if only they knew.)
It doesn’t give him the right to steal their liquor, though. Nor the right to heap guilt upon their angel’s head and offer him redemption in the same breath. How are they supposed to top that? Of course Gabriel would fall in love with him. Minos didn’t even make an argument yet he already won the war. Spoils go to the goddamn winner, Judge. Treat him well for them.
They lost. Gabriel isn’t their angel. Never was, if they could bear to be honest with themselves.
The Ferryman lifts the empty bottle of cider in their hand, and, with a wordless scream, pitches it clean across the bar.