The sun had risen on Chéri’s official first day in Whitby. After washing thoroughly and sleeping intently for a limited amount of hours, Chéri had gotten up at dawn, had prepared themselves very orderly, without adding all the foppish quality to their presentation they had learnt to prefer for professional and personal reasons.

Chéri was again wearing their orange three-piece suit, with the striped pastel and burgundy waistcoat and coral cravat, their beige hat sitting on a chair. The exquisite cut and fabric of the clothes were the last memo of their former wealth: their shoes were the opposite of shiny, they had no perfume to access, their hair was simply styled and they were wearing to jewels of any sort. Overall, despite their fresh and youthful looks, there was something incomplete about them.

How much they were in a transitional phase was also apparent because of the eager way they were drinking the bowl of milk that had been offered to them. They were young, but nothing made them look as young as the enthusiasm they put into consuming their milk.

[CW: Heavy religious guilt/sin/self-denial themes and internalized homophobia]

Gabriel had just finished his Mass and made his way back to the presbytery. His head was slowly getting better, but he was still not well, and since two days ago or so, he was worse. Perhaps it had more to do with his encounter with Elijah than with his other, more physical fall. He had fasted and used his concussion as an excuse the stay in his room as much as possible. There he prayed and cried and denied himself in every way he could. No peace had come over him in that darkness.

Mass had brought him no comfort either. He thought of skipping breakfast too, but Mrs. Higgins would probably put up a fight. And so, resigned, he made his way into the dining room, only to stop in his tracks when he saw a cherub sitting in his chair drinking milk with an almost religious devotion.

Cherubs didn't wear orange suits, actually...

"Hello..." he said hesitantly, still standing in the doorway as if he was uncertain as to whether he should take of his shoes or not.

If Chéri had known they could go to mass that early, they probably would have. They needed all the comfort their faith could provide. But alas, either they didn’t think about it or they just needed to sleep more.

The cherub turned at the greeting “Ello.” They answered, no "h" in sight. Their English went that far. Chéri kept sipping their milk with great satisfaction: if the presbytery had welcomed them, there was no reason to believe they ought to be alone in the building with the weird priest from the previous day.

That didn't give him more information. The cherub continued to drink milk as if drinking milk in a strange house was a completely normal event. Gabriel moved into the room slowly and stopped behind a seat where the table had been laid. "Did father Brennan let you in?"

It was gonna be that or God.

The cherub had no idea what Gabriel had just said, but he could at the very least identify Malachi’s name. They nodded and initially stopped at that, but soon enough they figured that wasn’t going to be enough, so they explained, in French “I cam looking for help to the church. He invited me, gave me food and a bed.” They said. Chéri spoke a fairly standard French when they could put a regular amount of effort in it and had a much deeper voice than one could expect for a cherub.

That solved one mystery. Gabriel glanced once more at the cherub - had to be human if he needed food and shelter, though coming to think of it, Abraham had provided that for the three visitors.

He nodded, pulled out the chair and sat down. "Père Richards. Where have you come from?" he asked in French. He took a small bun of fresh bread and cut it.

If Chéri had heard Gabriel’s doubts about their nature, they would have made a point of reassuring him of their divine nature, possibly just to get distracted by doming something familiar and fun. But they didn’t know. Thank God.

Gabriel sat next to Chéri and Chéri nodded. With a little bit of suspicion, they answered “France.” Because as much wasn’t obvious “Are you from Whitby?” Chéri wasn’t good at small talk, but it felt kind of owed, considering the were in Père Rischàrds kitchen. They looked eagerly at the bread.

Gabriel had figured as much. He caught the cherub's look at the bread and reached out to grab another bun and offer it to the stranger. "Voilà. Please help yourself," he continued in French. "What brings you here, all the way from France?" With no food or place to stay, he added in thought.

Chéri made a giant, warm smile, that reached their eyes and made them sparkle, then took the loaf with the gratitude normally reserved to receiving promotion, long-awaited money and kitties. They looked amorously at the food then raised their head “Are you… fine with thanks? Or do you also not want me to thank you ever?” Chéri inquired, remembering the previous night.

Then Gabriel asked something delicate. Chéri hadn’t figured out what to respond yet, so they summarised with the smallest amount of drama they could conjure for the situation “Someone insisted I come with them here, but we fought and I had to get away.” Which maybe explained the choice of an orange suit in the middle of Whitby.

Gabriel didn't know where the question came from, but he felt more uncomfortable under the very radiant smile than with the thanks. He lowered his eyes, while he thought of what to say. Before he could, however, Cherub answered his question. Someone he had traveled with? Cherub looked hardly older than a schoolboy. A parent? A sibling?

He nodded to show he understood, although he didn't and then asked: "Why would I not want you to thank me?"