For centuries after the Fall, Gabriel believes that Lucifer—Lucifer will come back. He could. He might. One day he will simply walk back through the gates, laughter on his lips, as though nothing has transpired. The Father will forgive him—the Father always forgives, and Lucifer was loved so well. It is only a matter of time.

(It isn’t until the first of their brothers falls to Lucifer’s war, until Gabriel sees the bloody feathers, the ribcage opened up and the organs spilling out like magician’s scarves, that Gabriel realizes there can be no homecoming for their prodigal brother.)

Raphael is more realistic. Raphael only believes that Lucifer will return for a few decades, a quiet hope that mostly takes the form of letters written and left unsent, letters that say come home the flowers are in bloom ramiel is learning to fly michael is miserable and taking it out on the fledglings he misses you gabriel keeps asking when you’re coming back I miss you I miss you come back come back.

(Then, Azazel falls. His is not a flood of quintessence and fury—Azazel is only a cherubim, not the Morningstar—but a quieter leaving, a sudden absence and a hastily scrawled note: He promised me more than Heaven. Then, Raphael knows. All that is good in Heaven could not bring Lucifer back to them.)

Michael never believed. From the moment Lucifer laughed that cold, mirthless laugh, from the moment he refused to kneel—Michael knew.

(Michael still never got to say goodbye.)