Gabriel wished he had his real senses. He wished he could see so he could know exactly what to say, how to navigate the minefield that was Murphy's soul and avoid causing more grief. But he couldn't see, not the way he ought to have been able. The Archangel felt a little out of his depth, and just as he had during the wager, he didn't enjoy that feeling when it came to something for which he'd been intended to begin with.

There was a kind of justice in Murphy's actions. A terrible, achingly misguided kind of justice, the exact sort Lucifer always utilised best. Except that Murphy had done what so many of Lucifer's couldn't: he'd torn free of the Devil's hold, recognised that he'd done wrong.

Not everyone was able to manage that, let alone beg genuinely for penance afterward. If he could have, Gabriel would have granted the man some measure of the absolution he deserved for that courage, but the Archangel knew he couldn't now. Not even to make an educated guess at his Lord's intent, on Murphy's behalf, by revealing his true circumstances. Murphy wouldn't take to his identity well. He was too broken.

And so Gabe didn't dare say anything at all, to judge or not. It wasn't his place anyway. His was just to listen. It was always just to listen, and watch, and remember.

The Archangel rested his hand on the back of Murphy's neck, shifting enough so he could place a soft kiss on the top of the man's head and making no move to release him until Murphy himself was ready. It wasn't much to offer, but maybe it would help.