A very long time ago, Gabriel had worked very closely with Death. The Nephilim pogroms, the plagues of Egypt, long before his Father had learned some valuable lessons from Number One Son. But he had since lain down his sword in favor of milder - or just more creative - forms of justice.

He leaves the bags of food - brown paper bags smelling faintly of grease and salt and pickles - on the table before sitting opposite Death. "I may be reckless, but even I know when not to be rude."

"They're safe. Holing up in the bunker and on the mend away from prying angelic eyes."