A pit started to form in Gabriel's stomach as he heard Paul's response: he had spoken out of turn, wrong in his action, and he already regretted it.  The words weren't loud, but they were sharp, stabbing at him viciously; they stated his misbehavior all over again, dismissed him as not being Paul's ideal little plaything.  'I am your angel,' he wanted to argue, to beg.  'I am your angel, always...'  He would do everything Paul ordered, would always try to please him...<i>You cannot possibly be him.</i>He was, he always was...<br/><br/>"I will behave.  I can do better...  I promise, sir..."  His voice ached, caught in his throat as he spoke, nearly a whimper before the words died.  If only Paul would accept such feeble vows, if only he would let him prove himself again...<br/><br/>Gabriel then grew quiet, barely making a sound, barely breathing.  He knew he wasn't acting right, he<i>knew</i>it, and he desperately did not want to upset Paul, to disappoint him...  It was a terrifying thought-- not the idea that Paul would injure him because he was angry, but that Paul might just leave, might find someone better who would behave perfectly and always give him what he wanted.<i>That</i>would hurt so much more than anything physical.<br/><br/>He grew utterly still, entirely restrained in effort to please, and hoped Paul would forgive this bizarre lapse.  It would not happen again, not if he could help it.  Gabriel was like a figure of stone, carved and shaped to fit perfectly over the bed, and his silence only served to further the illusion as he waited anxiously to see if Paul would accept his attempt to be more obedient, to be what he wanted...