#something that. changes. when gabriel dies. but for reasons unrelated to all of this. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

strainingfororiginality · 6 years ago

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Chapter 13.2 - Redemption

Home - Zayde Wolf

Home, never too far, never too close to come home

Never too lost, never too found to come home

Never too young, never too old to be known

No matter how far you go, you're never alone

We can believe in

We can believe in dreams

Can you hear them? Can you hear them?

The lanky figure to her right she recognized immediately. This recognition stemmed from both EL’s memories as well as her own, though this woman shared far more features with Quintus now than she did with The Master. Dawn wasn’t sure how she felt about her, given their muddled past, but she knew now was not the time to hold any lingering grudges.

As she craned her head to the side and spied the being out of the corner of her eye, a goofy grin slowly creeping across the angel’s face in a poor attempt at half-apology, half-greeting.

Ozyrel. The Master. The Ancients. The Right Hand of God. Angel of Death herself.

"Hello there …" She wiggled her fingers at Dawn with a hesitant wave, followed by a nervous little chuckle all while nervously clearing her throat. “... heheh … hello again … I mean … um ....”

Dawn squinted and her nostrils began to curl up. That fucker ...

"He’s coming." Raphael cut off his sister mid-babble. “Reunions must wait.”

Dawn shuddered. She had never felt as tiny as she did in this moment as she looked around at her uncles and found that they towered above her. She locked onto the intense amber eyes of Gabriel again and she swallowed hard. "So … What now then?" Her time in Hell came flooding back to her and she remembered how Quinlan had used her gifts to defeat their serpentine jabberwocky. “I will be your weapon.”

It was a statement of fact, or at least she felt it was. It was obvious, wasn’t it? It was why she was made, after all. Wasn’t it? To be their weapon. To be their storm. Right?

But she could not have been more wrong. She was not their weapon, just as Sandalphon had never been. She was not something to be used and later discarded. In fact, she was born to replace something that they had each lost, and standing in the center of this powerful formation, she knew what it was and what she represented within it. Dawn gulped again.

"Not at all, my silly child ..."

Michael gripped her left hand first. Energy sparked across her vision and as he stepped into her, his spirit faded to vapor and particles of gold danced over her body. Just as he felt her hate earlier, she was overcome with his love. There was a tiny instance of resistance before she realized how this had to work. She had to forgive him. In all of his glory and all of his flaws, in all of his victories and all of his stumbles, in all of his hate and all of his love. She had to accept him. In fact, she had to accept them all. In every shade of gray they existed.

Her Left Hand. The grandfather. The Lion.

She accepted him. Her residual hate dissolved.

Dawn accepted love. In fact, she bathed in it.

"You misunderstand ..."

Ozryel gripped her right hand. Silver flooded across their skin and Ozryel stepped into her next.

Her Right Hand. The torturer. The Eagle.

She let go of her unrelenting anger towards this angel and her need for vengeance retreated.

Dawn gave forgiveness.

"You are not our weapon …"

Gabriel laid a palm on either side of her shoulders and he nodded to her once before he stepped within and her vision danced with amber streaks.

Her Shield. The pursuer. The Ox.

She released her fear of him. Her desire to run waned and then abated completely.

Dawn took courage and this made her smile.

"We are yours, Daughter of Days."

She could not see him, but she felt his touch as Raphael placed his hands onto her shoulders.

She struggled with this one the most and Raphael was infinitely patient as he squeezed her shoulders gently. "Now it’s time to forgive yourself." His forehead pressed against the back of her head and the tears welled up furiously in her eyes.

"I don’t deserve that. They died …" All of those souls. All of that pain. Their existence had been snuffed out because of her actions. She didn’t deserve to be forgiven. “Because of me … because of my actions.”

"Yes. You are ultimately at fault." Her head swung low and the first tear broke free from her eye and travelled down her cheek. “And no one can understand that pain as I do.” He did. He really did and she felt it. “The past cannot be changed, not even by someone such as you.” She had seen the destruction he caused that day. The souls that he had extinguished. “But you have to let it go.” She clenched her fists. “Atone for it by proving now that their deaths had purpose. Atone for it by ensuring he takes no more this day.”

Her Heart. The guardian. The man.

She set free her self-loathing. Her yearning for punishment.

Dawn welcomed the possibility of redemption.

This was the divine chariot and she was at its very center. Their powers swirled all around her, and she realized she had always been wrong. Dawn assumed she had been born alone with a tormenting insatiable ache that drove an unrelenting loneliness.

Such a terrible fate to be a Hayyoth without an other. EL shared this pain, he explained that they were utterly defective. He said they were broken in such a fundamental way, they could never be fully complete. But now, as the reality of her current situation dawned on her, a slow and steady smile crept over her thin lips.

In the end, EL was right, but just not in the way he had always assumed. She didn’t have an other.

She had four ...

and together, they made five.

He landed on his feet this time, cratering into the pavement below as his thighs tensed, taking the brunt of the impact as an impressive little shock wave emanated in rings around him. He was already moving the manhole cover when Raum landed less than gracefully several feet away, crumpling into a broken ball on the hard street. He whimpered lowly as he cracked himself back into composure.

"Keep her busy." Quinlan barked the command as he moved into the small hole, stepping down onto the ladder and reached to pull the cover closed to hide his escape path. “Buy me as much time as you can.”

Though he couldn’t see the beast, he could hear it clawing is way down the side of the building, barrelling down on them as fast as her seraphim speed could manage.

"Keep her busy?! Are you mad?!" Raum snapped his arm back into place, growling as he came back to his feet. “Wait! Where the bloody hell are you going?!”

"It is clear you are faster than I." Quinlan shrugged, offering an excuse veiled as compliment. “Meet me in the south junction of the 23rd street tube station.” As the dhampir pulled the manhole cover closed above him, he looked at the marid through the tiny sliver of opening left. “Buy me as much time as you can. Take her the long way around. That is …” Quinlan grinned with mischievous and manipulative intent. “If you can manage it, Duke.”

"Hey! I can mana--" Quinlan felt the impact of the dragon on the ground above and even heard a tiny curse from Raum as the marid fled on foot, leading the beast away from him. He waited on the ladder until he was certain she was in mad pursuit and then he jumped down into the belly of the tunnels and smiled gloriously, remembering Vasily’s incessant babbling of this very area.

"Thank you, Mr. Fet." He missed the big man and he was suddenly and irrevocably grateful for all this “useless” information of the New York underground. As he navigated through the tunnel system of the sewer, he quickly found his way into the subway just as the Ukrainian had instructed him.

Sandalphon came to mind and he shook his head as he wondered how fortuitous it had been to have met the man. Everything had always been for a reason. Every single thing. "Clever little prophet."

He followed the tube passage and jumped up to the platform of the familiar station. The very one that Dawn had fled from the train that fateful day and he had pursued her. He hopped over the fallen and lifeless shells of people litter about the ground and on the stairs. His heart thundered with anticipation and he smiled as he drew nearer to his intended destination.

Everything was for a reason. Everything. Dawn had been drawn to that man for an uncertain reason and he had helped to open Quinlan’s eyes to the control of this purgatory. He had told him about the mind fleas and to the conspiracy of this reality. But the dhampir’s absolute certainty slowly waned as he approached the junction of hallways and he heard ... nothing.

He had hoped to hear the ranting from afar but all was entirely quiet and as he rounded the final bend, his heart fell. No one stood. Not a thing moved. Fallen people littered the area and the bum, his obvious target, was slouched against the far wall, legs sprawled out before his limp figure. His head leaned to the side. His hands open and still in his lap.

Could Quinlan have been wrong? Apparently this man was just like all the rest of the mortal souls here. Damnation. This was not what he expected and a Latin curse escaped as he turned to flee back into the belly of tunnels, unsure what he might try next.

Free - Tommee Profitt, Svrcina

Known by the sin of our fathers

Let it all come out and burn like a fire

We'll shout a little bit louder

Cos the night still has a thousand nights

And when the truth is brought to light

You and I, you and I will be

Free, free, free

"I … doubted." It was a whisper, laden with sadness and such viceral anguish that Quinlan froze mid-retreat.

Quinlan spun and the man leaning against the wall twitched and spoke lowly. Oh gods. He had been right. This man was not like the others and the dhampir’s heart raced again with burgeoning hope. "Pardon?" He stepped towards him. “What did you doubt?”

"Forgive me." The beggar seemed to stare down into his open, dirty hands before struggling to his feet, using the wall behind him as leverage. Quinlan might have offered him assistance, but he did not imagine the man would accept it. In fact, he knew he would not. “For the first time, I had begun to doubt you ...”

"I do not require your forgiveness. Right now, there is far more serious--" He offered the statement, but as the man continued to speak out into the open space around them, interrupting the dhampir mid-sentence, it was quite obvious Quinlan wasn’t the intended recipient of his words.

"My faith … I am sorry. I faltered. Forgive me." The man reached for a headless mop handle and took several steps towards Quintus as he finally acknowledged his existence, leaning heavily on the makeshift staff. “Well? Shall we?”

Quinlan cocked his head to the right. "Shall … we?"

"Well ... She is coming." The man pointed down the corridor, in the direction from which Quinlan had entered. “I think we should go now. No?” He took several steps in that direction before the dhampir stammered.

"Wait … Wait." This was no place or time for small talk, though Quinlan didn’t imagine he would have even attempted had there been, but he still felt he was missing something and he hated to be in the dark. “Who … are you?”

The old man tilted his head just a smidge to the right, pushing the hood of his dirty jacket back. For the first time, the dhampir got a clean view of his overly bearded face, of his matted dark brown and gray hair, of his soot smeared skin, and of his … glossed eyes. He had entirely missed this detail before as the man’s eyes were so gray in color that the matching non-black tint of the pupil had been masked.

"That’s the wrong question."

Quinlan was not a fool and he actually knew the previous question had been wrong the moment it fled from his lips and his body flooded with bumps as he knew what the right question was even before the man asked for it. "Who … were you?"

"Yes … Good. Clever one, aren’t you?" The sigh that escaped the man’s lungs was long and tortured. “You see … “ He tapped his ear. “He wept into my ear that night … my last night on Earth ...” He pulled back his sleeves to show Quinlan the scars across his pale wrists. “He wept when he told me I would need to suffer here ... for thousands of years.” He pulled his sleeves back down, subduing the shame that accompanied these marks. “He asked that I come here ... knowing I would bear witness to all the punishments for my fallen children.” The man laughed and though his words were sad in nature, this laugh was rich in relief and gratitude. “He wept when he said he needed me to sacrifice myself.”

"Who?" Quinlan pushed, though the answer was quite obvious. “Who wept into your ear … ?” He very nearly called the man child, but even as the title brushed apprehensively across the dhampir’s mind, a shiver ran down his spine, stopping him. He knew this man was older than even himself. In fact, he felt like he had always known this man.

"My father. My maker. God." The blind man said simply. He was definitely blind, though he stared directly into Quinlan’s eyes and the dhampir swallowed hard. “God cried when he asked me to sacrifice. When he asked me to die … for this.”

"I do not understand." Quinlan prodded as he looked around. This was taking far too long. They didn’t have time for this. They didn’t have time for such crazy banter. And yet … he needed to know. “Why would he ask this of you? Why would he--”

"He said that I would need to be here ... at this time ... in this place ..." Fate. That tricky invisible hand. There should have been no wind in this place and yet the breeze plucked across the man’s face and his mangy hair danced in its chaotic embrace. He smiled, breathing another sigh as he reached out to touch Quinlan’s half human face and much to the dhampir surprise, he allowed him. His dirty fingertips, sticking out from the ends of the tattered gloves, glanced off of Quinlan’s largest cheek scar precisely. “That you would need my help here, son …”

Son.

There was something so profoundly true in that word and Quinlan found himself unable to shake the feeling that encompassed him now. "Your help …?" He whispered the question. “With what exactly?” Quinlan didn’t want to sound desperate, but he was. He knew he was trapped. He knew he was damned, and he still wasn’t entirely sure if this man wasn’t just mad. “What could you possibly do to help me?” This man was blind.

"To help you do what you do best, Fifth Invictus." Was Quinlan really shocked this man knew who he was? Yes and no. Quinlan waited with held breath. “Unconquerable. Invincible. To do what you were born to do.” The man grinned furiously. “Quintus Sertorius … sorry … Quintus … Densus …” Quinlan’s doubt of the man’s sanity melted away. “To do what you do better than anyone else ...”

"And what exactly is that?"

"To disrupt, Prince of the Pale. To dismantle. To destruct. There has never been a cage that could hold you, has there?" The man smiled and for the first time, Quinlan saw a brief glimpse of sanity. Quinlan saw the man behind the crazy and his skin crawled with bumps. “I’m here to help us break free from this cage.”

"And yet, you have still not answered my question." Quinlan tilted his head to the right and peered into the strange visage. “Who are you?”

"I have already said who I am." The man stiffened and stood tall, throwing his shoulders back as pride filled his posture. “I am the Prophet of the Lord.”

"Yes. So you have said." Quinlan tilted his head the other direction. “And which one would that be? History knows many.”

"Really? Certain of that, are you?" The old man chuckled. Old? Was he truly older than Quintus? Very old, in fact.

"Methuselah?" Quinlan offered and the man snorted, waving him off as he began to step towards the tunnels again. “Enoch?” The dhampir scurried after him and his frustration began to mount. “Please, I do not follow. Who are you? Why would God send you to me? What could a blind man possibly--”

"There is not a single answer to your question. I have been many, Prince. My soul has spanned lifetimes."

"How many?"

"I have been a prophet of the Lord hundreds of times. Perhaps more. What does it matter? I’ve lost count now. The years blur since my true beginning."

"Hundreds?" The question was but a rasp as its true gravity hit Quinlan fully.

"A prophet is a dangerous thing, or have you not gathered as much yet?" The prophet shuffled around the corner as Quinlan followed. “Surely you realize that The Great Spirit would not have made more than a handful of us. In fact, there have never been more than five ...” The man pinched his eyes shut with sadness. “At any single time … There is great power in five, don’t you see?”

Five. It was always five. Not four. There were not four brothers. There were five. Five invictii. Five prophets.

"Only five?" Quinlan’s mind swam with the possibility of the man’s statement. “But … there have been more than five prophets …”

The man stopped and faced Quinlan. "I … was the Patriarch of all prophets. I … led the Exodus of the Israelites out of Egypt. I … built an ark so massive that my children could persist after God’s childish wrath. I … brought peace to the five warring clans of the Iroquois nation. I have been burned at the stake more times than I care to remember. And where I am the alpha." Deganawida closed his eyes, taking in a deep and passionate breath, relief washing over him as he shed all need for disguise. “My child … your love … is the omega.”

"The … alpha … ?" Quinlan squinted at him. “You are … ” The Alpha prophet himself. Patriarch of all the prophets. The First? Which meant before even Lilith herself. And this simple fact left only one possibility. Quinlan was unsure if he should be surprised or impressed. He had met many who were more impressive, hadn’t he? “You are …” And yet, this caused him great pause. “Adam.”

"Was." The man stretched. “I was … at one point … at one time … in another life … very far from this one.”

"Was. So then what are you now?"

"Now?" That smile. Quinlan knew it though he was certain he had never met this man before. He knew what it was and what it expressed because he felt connected to him. The feeling of that connection coursed through his veins. “At this point in time? At this instance?” The man placed his hand on the dhampir’s shoulder and gripped it with a familiarity that rattled Quinlan to his very core. “I am to be your salvation, my son.”

There was a concerning vibration in the background, though he knew he had heard this before, he wasn’t able put his finger on what it was. Not yet at least. This should have been his first concern, as EL considered his memory unmatched.

He knelt on that rock and touched it inquisitively. He had left her right here. Dammit. He stood and squinted into the vast darkness, resisting the urge to scratch the back of his head, lest she might be watching him. Best not to give away his utter confusion. "Where’d you go, you slippery fuckers …"

While he knew Michael was here, he wasn’t sure if Raphael had been foolish enough to follow his brother in. "I know you’re here!" He called out. “Come on!” He waved his arms around, egging them on. “Aurora … where did you go? Aurora!?”

Something glinted in the distance and he casually strolled towards it, his footsteps echoing against nothing and everything all at once in the infinite and dark space. "Ah hah! There you are."

As he approached, his head craned to the left. Wait, that wasn’t Aurora. It was much larger than her and it glinted of bronze for a moment. Or perhaps it was silver? Or maybe even gold ...

"Gabriel?" EL snorted merrily. “Are you serious?!” Oh this was getting good. The brute would be the easiest path into the Nexus. He would take him right now in fact, but as he closed the distance, he thought he saw Michael instead, or perhaps it was Ozryel?

As he got closer and closer, he did see Dawn. Short and still. Standing and silent. Her eyes were closed and he stopped five feet from her, pausing as the uncertainty rattled him. Where was the Indigo Child? "You guys really should have stayed out. This isn’t Earth." He waved his hands around at the space in Dawn’s mind. “I’m in charge here.”

"Takes a big man to pick on such a tiny woman, doesn't it?" Gabriel voice echoed from somewhere, from everywhere, all at once, but her lips hadn’t moved. “Feel proud of yourself, Lucy?”

"Small woman? EL chuckled and his laugh was thick and rich with disgust. “You have no idea what she’s capable of. You always think size indicates strength. Haven’t I proved you wrong enough times, big brother?"

"That, my dear, sweet, lost, little sibling …" This was Ozryel’s voice. Her quip rattled through the darkness as she snickered. “Is actually exactly what we’re hoping for.”

"Enough." EL scowled at Dawn, cocking his head to the right and twitching like the bird of prey he was. “I’m done here.” He reached into her mind, feeling for anyone or anything. “I don’t have time for you right now.”

"But … all we have is time, you little shit." Michael laughed with unhindered amusement leaking in his voice. Everything began to hum louder.

Champion - Barns Courtney

I've been on a long road

With the devil right beside me

Rising with the morning sun

It's a hunger that drives me

Woah Lord, set my soul

Take my pain and turn it into gold

Cause all I know, all I know, all I know is...

Champion

I can take a beating, I'll rise again

Burning through the jungle until the end

I can live forever, I'll rise again

Keep rising up I'm

Champion

That sound. Fuck. He knew that sound. The darkness itself had started to vibrate with its rhythm and she hadn’t moved yet. Not even to open her eyes and EL laughed, masking his concern, as he always did.

"It’s not too late." This time it was her and though her lips moved, her voice came at him from all directions. “You can go back home, EL. I’ll allow it.” A smirk. She was making him the very same offer he had just made her. “Trust me, it’s a better deal than Heaven will offer.”

"I’ve been patient." His voice cracked with budding disappointment as he sighed all too dramatically. His form moved and he reshaped himself. His height stretched several feet and his tail slithered towards her, weaving its way around her ankles as the crown of his cobra physique flexed out around his face, curving up around his entire head. “I assure you, far more patient than I have ever been with anyone. You should be honored.”

"You’ve overstayed your welcome and we’re gonna have to ask you to leave now." There was a familiar vibration in those words. Her tone was more masculine than feminine and the vibrations only increased. It wasn’t just one voice. It was many.

"Oh Aurora, Aurora, Aurora ... who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?"

"My name …" That damn noise. It had been distant, but now it was clean and sharp and overly familiar. He remembered it. He had trouble recalling it before because he had only heard it once, at the very moment of his creation. This was the sound of the Living Creatures locking into the chariot. It was the vibration of the individual Hayyoths seeking alignment within the gears of the divine wheel itself. And then the noise hummed with absolute clarity. It began to spin all around them. Faster and then faster. Wind blew through EL’s hair. “Is Dawn.”

"Oh … " EL whispered as a confident grin stretched across her face and he fought the urge to take a step back when she looked upon him with matching rainbow eyes. “Fuck.”

It was too late. This discussion had delayed them far too long and Quinlan was not surprised when Persephone rounded the corner ahead of them. Though, he was surprised to see Raum’s feet in her claws as she drug him carelessly behind her.

"You seem to have forgotten something!" Upon seeing the dhampir, she chortled with glee. “Pity, I might have dropped a bit of him along the way though.” Quinlan hadn’t noticed that the body was lacking its head until she flung the limp Marid towards him with as much strength and speed as possible. He attempted a dodge, but the body hit him with such force, he continued with its trajectory into the brick wall behind them, connecting with the blind prophet as he went. “I’m afraid he wasn’t as fast as you assumed.” The next cackle echoed.

"And you are dumber than I imagined! Fleeing from me into the bowels of the Earth?!" She grunted a low and guttural chuckle. “Stupid thing. Did you forget this is my domain!” The walls shook and the brick that lined them cracked and fell as the ground around the tunnel heaved and swayed to her will. “There are no windows down here from which you might flee me. I have won.”

Damnation. Useless Djinn! Quinlan pushed the headless body from him and came to his feet, glimpsing that the prophet was now unconscious from the impact. He might have cursed, but her claws prevented it as she pinned him against the brick. Leaning down, she took in his smell with deep and eerie inhales. She tasted him from his aroma, drawing it out of the air itself and she licked her lips, showing pleasure from its flavor.

He struggled against her grip. "Stop fighting me. It’s pointless. Useless in fact. No one can help you. Just give in to me, Invictus." Persephone purred into his ear and she stroked the hair that was still upon his head with strange affection. “Surrender.”

He grunted like a child, tensing and thrashing. He bit down, flexing his muscles against her strength. This position. This feeling. Being subdued. Being dominated. It was unacceptable. Clenching his jaw, he felt panic set in and he struggled harder than he even had against Raphael when the angel had pinned him in a very similar way.

"No. No. No. I must go. Release me, Demon!" He chanted over and over and then something began to give. The wall behind started to soften. In fact, everything began to soften. If her eyes hadn’t grown large with burgeoning worry, he would have thought it was her doing, but Persephone pulled him back from the brick and flung him away, sending him skidding across the ground on his side.

"I am insulted! Why don’t you like it here, Invictus? I gave you a beautiful wife. A perfect little family, albeit just a little broken by design. I thought you might enjoy something you would have to fix. It would have made it feel more … like yours." Persephone ruffled her frills as she spoke. Her scaled dragon lips exposing the large teeth in graceful waves as she spoke. “I gave you a life that most would cherish.”

"It is not real." He was back on his feet, glancing at the still unconscious prophet. Useless! “They are not real. Dawn is real. Dawn is--”

"Aurora?! She is above you, lowly born bastard slave. You should be happy that she is free of this place and free of you."

"And that was your folly, Demon. There is no happiness without her."

"If you really cared for her, you’d let her go, wouldn’t you? Everything that you touch, turns to ash. Everyone that you love, eventually suffers for it." She paced before him. “I gave you a suitable replacement, didn’t I? A far more beautiful one.”

"I believe you and I have two very different definitions for that word." Quinlan shook his head as he laughed at her attempted manipulation. “And I will reject any soul you give me to replace her. You cannot … you will not … control my emotions.”

"Oh, you simple little thing. You think that was just any soul? Didn’t you recognize her? Didn’t she feel … familiar to you?"

"What treachery--"

"I plucked her from my garden especially for you. Out of all the ripe ones, I picked her … for you."

"You are mad. You implying I could have wanted that … thing?!" He knew this was harsh, but he wished to make a point of it.

"Do you still not recognize her, little lord? Think. Remember." The stench of her hot breath nauseated him. “Your precious, lost … tormented … tragic priestess.”

"No." Quinlan blinked. She was lying. She had to be. No. NO. “NO.” Purgatorium was filled with the lost and most broken souls of Hell and he knew her words were truth. The familiarity hadn’t been fabricated. The unshakable sense of responsibility that had plagued him. The sense of shame, of betrayal. The sense that he had failed her … Oh gods … Persephone had indeed used this to control him.

"As you said, I cannot control your emotions. That was … all you." Her tongue pressed against the back of her fangs and she whistled the word through her teeth. “You used her up …”

"Stop." He didn’t wish to remember this.

The beast snickered. "Used her up and spit her out. As you do with everyone. Just as you would have done with my niece. Michael was right." She purred. “You are a piece of shit, just like all of them are. They will use us up and spit us out. All the same … all the same.”

Her niece? This was the first folly she had made and Quinlan heard it. Hers. Was there a crumb of affection there?

"Wait … is this really your plan?" He laughed. “To force my compliance through self-loathing?” He shook his head. “You are too late, beast. I already hate myself more than any creature can. There is nothing that you need to say to make it more true, but that will never dissuade me from my happiness.”

"Happiness?" She scoffed Did your priestess experience your … happiness?”

"Then that is why you failed." He laughed. She lunged again and he was too slow again. She squeezed his ribs and even through the pain of her strength, he laughed. “Do you not realize the folly? The fact that I did not love her was why she killed herself.”

"You cared for her once. You still do. I feel it." Persephone licked the side of his face and rolled the tongue in her mouth as she relished in his skin’s taste.

"Caring and loving are two different hearts." Quinlan tilted his head, carefully considering his next words and their ultimate intention. He was about to utter something quite incendiary and her reaction might be explosive. “You would know that … if you ever bothered to love.”

Bellowing a gargantuan laugh that echoed, she cackled at his attempt to infuriate. "That is rich coming from someone as repugnant as you. I’ve seen your mind. Your memories. I doubt that even what you feel for Child of Prophecy is real love."

But something had been plaguing him since he woke. It had itched at the back of his brooding mind and now was the time to call it out. If she wanted to chat, then he would comply. "You are full of shit." The language was overly vulgar on purpose to pique her attention and it worked beautifully.

"Excuse me?"

She gripped his neck tighter and he pulled at her claws, trying to relieve enough pressure for him to speak again. "You know it. Or else why would you send us to that museum … together? Of all the places to send us … "

"Me? I did no such thing." She lied. She was a terrible liar. “I was toying with you both!” The laugh was nearly genuine, but he smirked slightly as he picked up the hint of dishonesty lingering in the very back of her tone. “You know nothing.”

"Bullshit. The fliers in the lobby … the last day … " He could see it now. In her face. In her eyes. The tone of her words. He could see her agony. She was a prisoner herself, the same as he. His lips curled up and what Quinlan did next was entirely against his nature. He took a deep breath and surrendered to her. Every muscle relaxed and he whispered the word again. “Bullshit.” She could have ripped him apart at this moment, and instead, her claws loosened. This had been nothing more than a game to her and he wasn’t going to play it any longer. “You wanted us to find each other. You wanted us to love.”

"I wanted …" Persephone stuttered. “... I wanted her to see the repugnant thing I know to be.”

"Bullshit. You fear her. You would not have toyed with her heart as such." Quinlan stood tall before her and touched his neck as he stretched it, clearing his throat. “The museum. The exhibit. Beauty. Monstrosity. The battle between light and dark. Michael vs. Lucifer. You were painting our narrative for us to see. You were trying to awaken--”

"I wanted her to see you. I wanted you to reject her for who she really was. I wanted her to experience the pain I have. I wanted her to see who your true heart. What men really are ..."

"Bull … shit." She ruffled at the word and Quinlan smirked, shaking his head at her continued excuses and lies.

"You are right, Quintus." This came from the side as the prophet finally spoke. “She pushed you two together. She wanted to watch you fall in love again. She wanted to feel the love that I know she so desperately misses.”

"Shut up!" She spun, spitting at the man. “Enough!”

"And the reason is so very simple. It’s because …" The homeless man hummed. He was back to his feet finally, with that ridiculous mop handle in his hand again. “Persephone has always been a romantic at heart.”

"Don’t speak as if you know me, dirty peasant!" Her attention diverted to the raggedy man and she took several menacing steps towards him, threatening as she approached. “I will wipe your mind again and again and again. As many times as it takes.”

"Wipe it then. Again and again and again. Send your fleas in. It makes no difference because it will never stick. It never has and it never will."

"You are a continued annoyance I will no longer tolerate. Just a fly. Buzzing around my world."

"Do you not wonder why, Maiden?" Quinlan interrupted. “Do you not know what he is?! What makes him different?!”

"Nothing makes him different! He’s just a man." She hissed towards the beggar. “I’ve been in his mind and he’s just a man.” She spun again. “You’re … just a damned man, like all the rest here.”

"You are absolutely right, big sister." Sister. Persephone paused. Her shoulders and neck frill rattled as she shook in disagreement with that word. “I am just a man, but hardly like all the rest. And each time you take from my mind …” A breeze danced across the air. “Our Father will always give it back to me.”

Our … Father.

"No!" She charged him and Quinlan knew there was no time to react. She charged at the gray, frail man, but he stood his ground, not moving an inch as she came to a stop before she touched him. “Stop!”

"I am just a man, big sister." He reached up to touch her cheek and she shrieked at the motion, moving away just slightly enough from his reach that he could not touch her. “I am just a man. In fact, the only man who shares your father, sister.”

" … lies … You are lying." Her resistance to his words waned. “You … you … you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t have … damned yourself ...”

"I would have said the same of you, beautiful maiden."

" … lies … No. Enough! I will not be--"

"אויב איר טאָן ניט טראַכטן וועגן דעם, איר טאָן ניט טראַכטן וועגן דעם .רעהטאָרב רווי אָסלאַ מאַ, איך טאָן ניט גיין"

And as the enochian flowed freely from his lips, she came down to her knees before him, accepting the truth of his words and the truth of his soul. Quinlan had no idea what was uttered, but absolute relief followed her whispered word: "Adam? Why … why didn’t you say something?!"

It was perfect. This distraction was perfect. The dhampir grinned with sinister intent as he quietly dipped to retrieve his sword, approaching her from behind.

He would have swung the blade up and down through her unsuspecting neck, but Adam waved a hand towards him, halting the stealth attack. "Put the sword down, Quintus. There is no longer a need for it. The fight is done."

"Wait … what?!? Are you … mad?!" The dhampir stared at the blind man with budding frustration. “You cannot trust her! If you are not here to help me defeat her, then why are--”

"There is more than one way to defeat an opponent, General Densus." Adam reached out for her again and this time, she allowed him contact with her skin. “When I said I was sent here to help free us from this terrible cage … from this accursed place … from this endless punishment and torment ...” He gripped each side of her massive jaw and pulled the beast’s head down to his level and she allowed it, his touch seemed to soothe the burning fire within her. “From damnation.” Pressing his cheek against the scales of her face, he sighed deeply. “I was not referring to just you and I, Quintus. It’s time to go home, big sister.”

Quinlan’s brows knitted together and his forehead grooved with lines of intense expression as he watched the once great and giant dragon melt back into the frail, old woman she had begun as. Adam accepted her, his arms wrapping around her tiny frame and she wept into his raggedy coat as he rocked her back and forth.

"You should not be here." She cried. “What have you done to yourself? You should not--”

"You have been so very angry for so very long. But it’s not your fault. You’ve simply forgotten how not to be. It’s time to let the despair go. I was sent here to remind you ..."

"I … I am damned. I am alone. Forgotten." Her words refused him, but her body did not and he rocked her, cradling her head against his shoulder. “Forsaken.”

Adam grinned ever so slightly. "Damned? Perhaps, sister. Perhaps. But never alone and absolutely never forgotten. You have never been forsaken. Father has never torn his eyes from you … even in your time here." Adam pulled back and cupped her wrinkled cheeks in his tattered gloves, the very tips of his fingers poking through the torn leather ends and touching her white skin directly. “In fact, his trust in you was so fundamentally absolute that he chose to let you come here, just as he chose me. We are not forsaken. We are chosen.”

"I …" Surrender washed over her and she questioned the prophet with great apprehension. “Do you still hear him?” The blind man nodded simply.

"Such is my curse."

"Does he …" She swallowed hard. “Can he ... forgive me?”

"You have never needed his forgiveness." Adam pulled away from her completely now and she wiped the tears from her face. “Never then and never now. But your next choice will ultimately determine whatever redemption you wish to seek for yourself, big sister.”

"Redemption?" The word hung on her shriveled lips and she considered it carefully. “I am not worthy of such--”

"All things are worthy of redemption." Adam shook her slightly. “Everything that has ever been created is worthy of forgiveness ... and redemption. So what will it be, sister? Freedom or confinement? War or peace? Damnation or redemption?”

"I …" She looked down, shaking her head twice before she met the prophet’s gaze again, understanding what they were asking for. “I can’t help you. I don’t know the way out.”

"Of course not." Adam grinned. “Of course you don’t. You’re a prisoner, the same as me. We cannot break this cage, sister …” He flicked his head towards the silent figure who watched their interaction without interruption. “But he can.”

Quinlan looked shocked to be called out and he motioned to his own chest. "Me? How can I--"

"You cut your way into this place." Adam shrugged and pointed towards the sword in Quintus’ hand. “He says you can cut your way out. Do you remember where you tore through?”

"I do not understand. How can I do something she cannot?" He pointed at the old woman. “Is this not--”

"It’s the Power of Creation." Revelation danced across her hazel eyes as Persephone understood at once and she smiled, staring at his bone sword and then deep into his eyes. “You are an extension of Ozryel himself. Your soul reeks of his divinity.”

"Yes." Adam agreed. He turned to the reluctant dhampir, leaning heavily on his “staff” as he did. “I am told that you started a rebellion in Heaven, Prince of the Pale. And I am told that now … it’s Hell’s turn.”

"Very well then … I can try." The dhampir gripped the blade in his hand, the leather of his gloves squeaking as he shrugged. Just as he was an extension of Ozryel, his blade was an extension of him. In another time, in another place, he would resist fully accepting her as a new ally so quickly, but something felt remarkably right about the situation. He took several steps toward the tube exit, but neither moved to follow him. “Well? Are we going?”

"Quintus ..." Persephone cleared her throat with a tiny giggle and Adam sighed, shaking his head as he pointed the end of his mop handle towards the limp and headless body against the southern wall, expressing disappointment in the dhampir’s feigned ignorance. “Perhaps we should retrieve Raum’s head first?”

Quinlan hadn’t purposefully forgotten about the downed Djinn, or at least he would never admit that openly. The man had helped him, however pointless it had been and the dhampir groaned. "Fine. I suppose he may still be of some use."

House of the Rising Sun - The Animals

And don't forget what your name is

And know what the game is

From the North coast to the South coast

From country to country

Mind to mind

Generation to generation

From time to time

And to sniff across your mind

It wasn’t at all what she was expecting. It wasn’t order. It wasn’t beautifully aligned. It was absolute fucking chaos. They locked into place and as the divine wheel began to spin around her, everything hummed in beautiful harmony until EL came at them. He saw her eyes and there was no hesitation. She envied his quickness to act but it did not belay the fear that she saw thick in his eyes.

But then everyone tried to step forward all at once.

Well, not entirely everyone. She and Raphael watched as the other three struggled for control, attempting to block his first blow. As a result, Dawn took no action at all, and they went sliding across the ground.

It didn’t help that she could feel another fight taking place at the same time, but this one was not in her mind. This one was on Earth. Each of the Angels, including EL, was splitting their attention between the two.

EL pulled her to her feet and his forehead connected with hers. Everything echoed with viscous waves as the force of his strike drew sparks across all their sights.

"Good lord! Who’s elbow is in my face?!!" Ozryel screamed.

"Oz, no one has elbows in here!" Michael sighed.

"If it’s not an elbow, then what the hell is it?!" She bellowed. “Oh god, Gabriel that better not be you!”

"Yeah, you’re gonna wish that was my elbow." Gabriel quipped back, snickering sinisterly.

"Oh my fucking god … that had better be your god damned elbow!" Ozryel was horrified and Gabriel was laughing.

"FOR FUCK’S SAKE! THERE ARE NO ELBOWS HERE! OR ANYTHING ELSE!!!" Michael wailed.

Another strike was imminent and she felt them all flood forward again.

"I’ve got this!" The three of them said all at once.

It was too much. There was too much. EL hadn’t let go of her since the last hit and he cocked his head back as he prepared for another blow and everything slowed to a stop as Dawn gasped for breath. She didn’t even know where she was anymore. She was inside of her mind … inside of her mind? Oh god … Everything reeled and she thought she might throw up, but of course, there was no body. Nor was there a stomach from which to eject stuff. There was just this. Just … her. Her and … them. The chaos of … them.

"I don’t know how to …" She wasn’t even entirely sure who she was talking to and when no one responded, she realized there was no one she could talk to. Everything had stopped. No, that wasn’t entirely right. She had stopped everything.

"Oh shit." She spun but nothing changed. She was alone. “Oh no. No, no, no, no.” She remembered the confluence and Ellie and Lilith. She remembered their training and she closed her eyes (even though she had no eyes) and she took a deep, long breath (even though she had no lungs) and her heart raced furiously (even though this was just her mind) and she focused. She focused on one person in particular.

"Very good." He responded as she released him, or rather, pulled him into her bubble. “You’re learning.” He smiled. She didn’t see his grin of course, but she felt it.

"I suck at this." She had barely begun to reinforce her lack of confidence and she felt him shake his head. “Are they always like this?!”

“Yes.” The answer was immediate and curt. She thought it was intended for humor, but his face was entirely serious.

“I can’t--”

"I have never heard Sandalphon utter those words." He stated it as plain as day. “Not in a million years.” That time span sounded facetious, but something assured her … it was likely not.

"I’m not Ellie." She retorted, stating the obvious but she somehow knew she would regret this doubt.

"Clearly you’re not." Raphael shrugged, squinting at her with friendly, yet manipulative eyes. “You’re much stronger than she has ever been. Than she could ever be.”

Shit.

She waved towards the other three angels in disgust. She knew it was childish to blame Raphael, but her embarrassment allowed the words to rush forth without much lingering thought. "You’re not saying anything. You were just standing there. Why don’t you just do it? I’ll let you. You can--"

"It’s not my place to command here." Raphael admitted without an ounce of arrogance. “I can’t feel them as you do. Besides …” A small and innocent snicker leaked out of his jovial words. “Right now, they are much more likely to surrender to you than me.”

"Yeah right." She dismissed his claim with a huffed breath. “I don’t buy that for one second.”

"I’ve caused them to doubt me. And rightly so." He admitted. “I’ve kept things from them. I’ll have to earn that trust back, but you … “ Oh god. That damn smile. “They want to trust you. I can feel that.”

"I just … Can you help me?" She looked at them and then she looked at him. “I don’t know if--”

"Does a sword command the person who wields it, Dawn?" She didn’t want to answer his question and really, she knew it didn’t matter if she did. He was right and she was just stalling. “Do you take orders from it … Or you do command it?”

"But … What happens if we do and I force him out?" She was terrified to hear the answer. “What happens if we succeed?”

"You know the answer to that." Raphael was full of bitter honesty. “He will be pushed back to Hell.”

"And what about Quintus?" She jumped on the question immediately. It plagued her more than any other. “He’s still there … I shouldn’t have left him there.”

"That’s a very good question. One I have no doubt Sandalphon has already considered. Whatever you might think of her now, you and I both know … there’s more left to whatever plan she set into motion." She felt the longing that raged in Raphael’s heart. “So I suggest … We give The Born as much time as he might require.” She felt his hands on her arms, turning her back around to face the fight. To face her other uncles. “How long do you think the two of us can keep our Light Bringer busy?”

"You mean the five of us." She corrected and she felt the archangel beam from behind.

"Yes. Five."

There is power in Five.

He pushed on the middle of her back gently, urging her to step toward. "Now … try again."

Ah hell.

Adam was less than spry in his stroll. He took up the rear and they had to slow down for him quite often. But it was now only a few more blocks to the point of Quinlan’s initial entry to purgatory and the dhampir slowed down, allowing Persephone and Raum to take the lead so that he might steal a private word with the prophet.

"You can hear him?" Quinlan asked lowly. “God speaks to you even now?”

"I can always hear him. Even when others do not. Even when he himself does not wish it. This is my gift. My curse."

"Hmmm." The dhampir nodded as he carefully considered his next line of questioning.

"Just ask. He already knows what you wish to know."

"Can he …" Quinlan resisted the emotion, but his voice quaked with the words. “Can he see her now?”

"He is always watching her. All of us, in fact."

"Did she make it through her gate?" Quinlan slowed his pace even more, putting more distance between them and the two in front. “Does she live again?”

"Yes."

A wave of relief flushed his body and he breathed out deeply

"But she battles the Morning Star now." The Prophet grinned with great pride. “One of my children fights against the greatest of snakes right now, for the existence all.” Adam’s smile only widened further, exposing the coffee stained enamel of his underlying yellow teeth. “Between the two of us …” He leaned in and whispered the next words as if they were a great secret. “I don’t think the the Light Bringer understands the wrath that he has unleashed.”

"No. He does not." Quinlan tried to meet his smile, both in pride and love, but his weariness shown through. “She is … defiant.”

"She’s with her uncles." Adam nodded. “She is with Raphael now. She has embraced them all.”

This sentence, this thought, was incredibly comforting and Quinlan pinched his eyes shut. "Good."

"But ..." Adam gripped his shoulder, squeezing it slightly. “It was not just her wrath I was speaking of … Your wrath is quite legendary, Prince.”

"My wrath …" Quinlan sighed, shutting his eyes in shame. “My anger drove me for much of my life. It was addictive, in a way. I fed off of it, and it fed from me. But now ..." Quinlan stared down at his gloves. "I am fueled by a new addiction, a better one, I feel."

"Do you really think she is an addiction, Quintus?"

"There is no better word to describe the visceral need I feel for her."

“You can just call it love.” Adam nearly laughed. “All things in creation are worthy of it. Even you, Quintus. In fact, most especially you.”

“I … I wished to prove myself worthy. I told Michael I would, but I … sent her on alone. I promised her I would not do so again. I promised–”

"You worry, but there is no need for that." Adam noted. “She will win, and that outcome, thanks to you diving head first into the belly of the pit itself, thanks to you following her beacon into the most terrifying of places, Invictus, is already in motion. Her victory is unstoppable. That has always been her fate ... but …”

Quinlan opened his pale eyes. "But?"

"But our fates … Our outcome … has never been certain, Prince of the Pale."

"Well?" Persephone interrupted, waving at a spot near in the middle of the road. “This is where he popped right in, swinging his big sword everywhere and cutting my little dolls in half like a barbarian.”

"Are you sure?" Raum looked around, his hand finding its way back to his neck as he stretched it again. Since they had pieced him back together, he hadn’t been able to leave his neck alone let alone stop glaring at Persephone when the situation would permit. He kept a cautious five foot distance directly behind her. “I don’t see anything.”

"No you don’t." Adam leaned on his mop handle. “But he does … don’t you, Quintus?”

Stepping forward, the space flooded him with memories. Yes. This was where it happened and yes, he did see something, but nothing like what he was expecting. He thought it might be a gate of some sort, as Dawn had described hers, but this was almost unperceivable.

The only thing he could see was a blurry spot hovering in the air about five feet high, barely the size of his fist. As he tilted his head from side to side, approaching it slowly, it flickered and undulated, weaving in the air as if it was a heat distortion dancing back and forth above an invisible fire.

As he approached it, he could hear something seeping from it. It was a faint whistling, as if the air was escaping from a tiny hole in a balloon. It was a pressure leak.

"Alright. Great. So what now?" The Djinn asked, but no one answered as they watched Quinlan reach into the spot and his hand faded from site. “Whoa …”

The dhampir pushed his fist in as far as he could and then he felt the edges of the rip fight against the full size of his arm. When he pulled his hand back out, he was relieved to see it was still in tact. But this hole was too tiny for his entire body though. "It’s too small." He voiced the concern out loud, not expecting an answer, yet Adam provided one nonetheless.

"He says to make it bigger then."

Hmmm. Taking a deep breath, Quinlan reached both sets of his fingers into the space and gripped the invisible edges of the hole from the inside. He was certain it would not budge, even as he put his full strength behind it. There was a grunt and he pulled his hands back out. "I cannot."

"It’s not about strength." There was a hand on his shoulder and he didn’t need to turn around to know it was Adam. “Remember what drives you. What motivates you. Find the beacon that calls to you, Quintus. You followed it here. Now follow it out.” It was not a coincidence that that was the very word Sandalphon had uttered to him in Heaven. He had no doubt that even now, God and her were working in concert and then he remembered the angel prophet’s words as clearly as if she was right before him, speaking them again.

"Love, you see, Quintus, is the one force that cannot be explained, that cannot be broken down to a chemical process. It is the beacon that, I am hoping, guides you back to her."

He reached into the void again and gripped its sides, the leather of his gloves squeaking as if they were rubbing against clean metal. Instead of forcing it this time, he felt it. He felt into it.

"And when we find love … no matter how wrong, how sad, or how terrible … we must cling to it, it gives us our strength, it holds us upright. It feeds on us and we feed on it."

He felt through it and then beyond it. He felt out and somehow, he heard her in the distance. She was calling him home and sparks arched through his fingers and then his hands and then his arms. He felt the divinity that was shaping this construct and he began to pull it apart and her beacon became louder. Quinlan smiled. "I am coming ..."

"Love is our grace."

The hole widened and he continued to pull, stretching it out all the way to the ground. As it became bigger, the light all around began to leak into the void and there was nothing but darkness beyond.

"Alright, great. You’ve made a hole. What do we do with that?" Raum noted sarcastically from behind. “What’s on the other side? Should we tether something and throw it in?”

"You are more than welcome to cautiously remain here, great Duke." Quinlan smirked as he drew his blade and stepped into the darkness without further delay.

Note from Author:

Oh good lord. Where do I even begin? Well, first I’d like to ask a few questions of my lovely readers who are left ... this chapter has been a very long time coming. I’m curious about a few things and I’d love to hear some answers to a few questions I had:

Who saw the reveal of Danny being Deganawida and/or Adam?

Who forgot about Deganawida completely? (I mean, he had to have gone somewhere, right?) I kept expecting someone to ask where the hell he was.

Speculation: Who blinded Adam?

Speculation: Who broke Persephone’s Heart?

Speculation: If there is power in FIVE, Quinlan, Raum, Persephone, and Adam make four. Any guesses on who will be their fifth?

This chapter has been a long time coming and it always takes me longer to write them lately than in the beginning. I don’t think I’m waning in motivation, but rather I’m not looking forward to it coming to an end. Three or Four parts left now (depends on how long winded I make the daring escape from Hell). I hope you are still enthralled and enjoying my long winded drabble.

Cheers my friends!

#the strain fanfic #quinlan fanfic #Mr. Quinlan fanfic #quintus sertorius fanfic #quintus densus #strainingfororiginality #an insatiable ache #chapter 13 #part 2

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jewelleighanna · 2 years ago

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I’m asexual (and a destiel shipper) and I agree with some of what you said. I get annoyed when fan make *everything* about shipping - when that’s all that seems to get discussed, when you have trouble finding any place in fandom for enjoying a relationship between characters on a platonic or familiar level and feel like you can’t... it can get tiring. I’ve given up trying to read Sam and Dean (brothers) fanfiction because even when it is tagged as non-romance, it too often goes there (yikes, my eyes!). Platonic/familiar anything can be hard to find. On the other hand, I support other fans for enjoying a show for any reason, so if what they enjoy is shipping, I don’t want to take that away. It just is the way it is? Like I said, I do enjoy Destiel ship, and for me, it’s because they have a strong bond without revolving around sex. The genuine bond part most of all. It’s like the writing and story had actual time to focus and build a relationship and build up dynamic and that’s not something I’d get if you are trying to get me to go enjoy a “romance show” instead. I can enjoy them platonically too, but it just feels like the characters have a longing for something else too. There is part of me that wishes - or at least understands - why fans would want Destiel canon and that’s because it gives it validity. However, I’m also wary because I think the writers would mess it up. The ending how it stands though is the actual worst. They half-acknowledged the ship, “killed” one-half the ship (bury your gays), only to have him resurrected off screen but unacknowledged. It’s shit writing to say the least. I can’t even imagine what they would do if they tried to make Destiel canon in prior seasons -- though I think bisexual!Dean would have been good representation. I disagree that Dean is obviously straight. I mean, I thought that for a long time too. But if you ignore what he says, it very much adds up that he is a closeted bisexual. And not in the way that fans make every character bisexual, I mean textually in show. Too many moments to even list here, unrelated to Cas as well moments. Dean also wouldn’t ever have to choose between Cas and Sam. That’s why Cas is ALREADY an exception to the story. Cas comes and goes from the narrative (dies and comes back to life too). Cas works independently and also with Dean. Hypothetically, they could be in a romantic relationship and not much would need to change. Cas would have no human exceptions of romance “should” look like and wouldn’t ever get between Sam and Dean. Cas even listed Dean loving Sam as one of the reasons that he (Cas) loves Dean. So no choice needed. As for Castiel, yeah, he is an angel. But... the show far deconstructed the notion that an angel is merely an warrior, angel of the lord. ESPECIALLY for Cas, fallen angel, who chose freewill, became human, chooses humanity at every opportunity. And I like the idea of Asexual!Cas, but angels are not inherently incapable of sexual or romantic attraction. Biggest outliers being Gabriel (sex at least) and Serafina (romance!). Cas is an outlier too, where ever he ends up.

Why insert romance into one of the only shows that cherish platonic love more?

I talked to a respectful destiel shipper a couple of days ago and while they were completely respectful, there is one thing I can't understand for the life of me. Why does there have to be romance in everything? I am aroace which is probably part of it, but why can't platonic love exist? ( This isn't meant to be a dig at wincest shippers. I am very well aware you guys know the difference between fanon and canon and love the brother/soulmate/best friend/parent or adult child relationship of Sam and Dean just as much as I from a non-shipper point of view do.) Why does everyone have to kiss or have sex? Platonic love does exist and it baffles me that Dean and Cass can't just be friends even with Cass' goodbye scene. I guess I feel like they see romantic love in everything and it irks me a bit. Maybe destiel shippers are young? I'm 15 though so why would that be a factor? Is it more society's fault than anyone else's?

Why is there so much emphasis on romantic/sexual love and not a lot on platonic relationships? The one show that actually puts emphasis on a relationship that is platonic. The one show that has Sam and Dean choose each other over any romantic interest. The one show that has two brothers in a QPR. The one show that has a possible a-spec reading of one or both brothers. (I've only ever seen one for Dean but I'm sure there is one for Sam as well. ("Sex is sex and love is Sam." I love this quote so thank you to whoever wrote that.)) The one show that has Dean waiting for Sam in heaven because heaven isn't perfect without his brother. Why do they watch this show if they want a focus on romantic interests? I just think if they want a show about romance there are other shows available. Especially if you want representation. Why torture themselves when there is nothing there? ( I see the speech at the end as platonic but even if it was not it wouldn't change anything. At the most it's unrequited.)

Not to mention there are problems with wanting it in canon. ( Shipping it in fanon only is a whole other thing but while I'm sure there are destiel shippers who may do this I'm talking about ones who actually wanted it/saw it( from Dean's side) in canon.) The first problem is Dean canonically is straight. Plenty of evidence for that. The second thing is his love for Sam. Canonically they have left love interests and friends for each other. There is no way in canon that Dean doesn't dump Cass at some point even if Dean was bisexual. Dean could be literally any sexuality but if Sam existed and he was ever aware of it Cass would be fed to the wolves. Also, I don't even like Cass ( I'm a Sam-leaning bibro who is still mad at Cass for breaking Sam's wall and rendering Sam's sacrifice in season 5 meaningless by saying yes to Lucifer in season 11 and messing everything up.) but Cass is literally an angel. Angels are jerks and I think they got that from Chuck but they are also warriors meant to be in an army. I don't even like him, but I know it's a disservice to his character.

That being said shoutout to respectful destiel shippers. I can't say I understand but I thank you for being respectful because a lot of destiel shippers (hellers) are not.

#supernatural #destiel #muses

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gyromitra-esculenta · 7 years ago

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The Indifferent Stars 1: Everybody Dies (And It Is a Load of Bullshit)

Okay, to have all my eggs in one basket, sice i posted only the link earlier, and the second part (along with fear chapter) in on the way, have at the unecessary Mass Effect AU. It’s supposed to be more of a slice-of-life space opera after the second chapter. Renegade scenario with Commander Reyes.

“Do not be deceived,” replied the machine. “I’ve begun, it’s true, with everything in ‘n’, but only out of familiarity. To create however is one thing, to destroy, another thing entirely. I can blot out the world for the simple reason that I’m able to do anything and everything - and everything means everything - in 'n’, and consequently Nothingness is child’s play for me. In less than a minute now you will cease to have existence, along with everything else, so tell me now, Klapaucius, and quickly, that I am really and truly everything I was programmed to be, before it is too late.” – “The Cyberiad - Fables for the Cybernetic Age” by Stanisław Lem, as translated by Michael Kendel

With the labored sound of his own breathing as his only companion, Gabriel Reyes contemplates the stars floating just outside of his reach – stars dulled by the glow of the nearby sun seeping over the edge of his visor. Not much else he can do at the moment, not with the most of the joints of his suit frozen in place due to the power failure resulting probably from the impact with a bigger piece of wreckage from the Overwatch. Which is probably for the better, considering each minute movement sends the distress pangs of sharp pain informing him of dislocated and broken bones. The familiar taste of iron oozes down his throat.

There is something to be said about the cold beauty of the stars, the fact that some of them are long dead and gone, and yet… And yet their image persists. How one could travel away from their chosen sun and keep its memory with themselves forever.

He briefly wonders who will receive his last transmission when he is same as they are, long dead and gone, cold with the unrelenting whispers of space creeping into his bones. He had never been one to lie to himself about the odds, and the odds are not unfavorable – they are impossible and foregone conclusions that slipped through his fingers the moment they were attacked.

To his right a part of the ship’s stern drifts slowly, the fires still burning where the breach containment fields held. Even if he could move there, it would be of no use with the life support slowly switching off in his suit.

Thank god Morrison wasn’t on the deck because he would have killed himself trying to get everyone to the safety – the thought is strangely random and fond, maybe a little bitter – brings out a strained chuckle and a twist of suffering from his ribs. Would it have changed anything if the person he had trusted to be his shadow for years were here? The answer is inconsequential, the ifs and buts mere exercises in futility, the memory…

Morrison walking into his quarters, stopping just past the door, posture rigid and official, hands held behind his back. Staring forward at a spot above his head.

“Commander.”

They are still playing this game, Gabriel thinks, over a week now, and Morrison is still stubbornly fuming like a baby. Should have long calmed by now. He is going to humor him.

“At ease,” Gabriel leans back in the chair, considers the subtle shift at his words. “What do you want, Morrison?”

“Commander, I’ve submitted a request for reassignment,” Morrison keeps his eyes steady on the wall. “I’d ask you to sign off on it.”

The anticipation – the cold suffocating feeling – unfurls in his stomach, races up his spine, covers his shoulders – a sensation he had come to associate with moments before anger and fight. Gabriel grits his teeth and Morrison still – still – refuses to look at him.

“What do you think to achieve by that?”

“I want us to part our ways with mutual respect, Commander,” Morrison breaks his composure for a brief moment, eyes drifting to Gabriel and then snapping back to that space in the air. ”In three days time, the ship will dock on Earth. I’d like to check in with Command then.”

The tense cold doesn’t leave, the expected anger does not come, instead, a slimy chilly thing curls around his back and reaches to his throat. Gabriel flicks fingers over the console.

“Approved.”

Morrison starts, then nods.

“Thank you, Commander.”

Three days, he will come around, but at the dock, he is distinctly reminded Ana, who would have talked Morrison down from his hissy fit, is no longer with them.

“Commander.”

There is it again, the anticipation, the cold prickling at his neck, and Morrison stands before him with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Gabriel waits for himself to get angry but in the end, he clasps Morrison’s arm briefly.

“Good luck out there, jackass. Don’t get killed.”

Morrison blinks rapidly, almost licks his lips – almost smiles but not truly – then bows his head slightly.

“You too, Gabriel. Thank you,” he lingers a second, weight shifting to the other leg, finally turns and walks away. Gabriel lifts back the pad.

“So we have to replace all of those rifles and check for…” McCree is looking at him quizzically with a furrowed brow. “Something the matter?”

“Nah, I suppose you got your reasons, I’ll get to those rifles then, boss,” the kid shrugs, “shouldn’t be a problem.”

Now, Gabriel wonders what would have happened if he had turned around. Had Morrison hesitated and faltered in his step, waiting to be stopped, or merely pressed on without a glance back?

The chill slowly sets in his flesh and with the indifferent stars and the void of the space inside his helmet, Gabriel finds letting go is easier than he ever thought it to be. He slips his eyes closed and floats away.

And apparently, considering the amount of pain he wakes up to, letting go is worth shit, and some more. Something simmers under his skin, hot and freezing simultaneously. The light is too sharp and darkness crowds the edges of his vision. A voice, calling, insistent, drifts in and out, too lost in the static buzzing in his ears.

Gabriel rolls to the side and tumbles down to the ground, disoriented. Something is very wrong in how his body does not want to listen to what he tells it to do. Hearing and sight slowly return to him. Explosions. Shots. Structural damage if the tremors that run through his arms he leverages himself on are not originating from the muscles he feels like he is using for the first time in days. Voice, female, steady but hurried, calling him through the broadcasting systems.

“Reyes. Give me a sign you hear me. Stand up.” Gabriel hoists himself up and defiantly stares at the probable source of the voice, the rude gesture is an afterthought but brings a modicum of satisfaction. The room decidedly does not resemble a proper medical facility, the equipment speaks more of a science laboratory – and vertigo threatens him with nausea. “Good. The base is under attack and you need to move fast.”

The question of the woman’s trustworthiness hangs in the air but the sounds confirm the situation. Gabriel turns towards the door trying to keep his balance – something is off, the way he feels how his body catches up to his intentions. The corridor is empty, the smell of spent ammunition and smoke wafts from the outside.

“The security is compromised and there is no other personnel surviving. We do not have the feed from the next room but other sensors indicate at least one person, you have to find a way to bypass them.”

He notices Talon emblem on the wall, and that brings up many issues in a split second, the most disconcerting being what exactly is he doing in a facility clearly belonging to Talon, and why the woman speaking to him sounds as if he should be here. Gabriel sets the questions aside, the same as he does with his evident survival of the assault on the Overwatch. He runs through possible scenarios as he approaches the door from the side, the rescue mission is a possibility considering the clear association of the base with Talon.

He has no suit and no weapon, which could prove troublesome, but overcoming one enemy while unarmed is not a hard feat, especially if he expects them to be inexperienced in comparison.

After the first shots are fired, Gabriel rushes forward taking in the details. No, no Alliance equipment, the assault rifle is of make not used by the military – ERCS. Not the rescue, at least not an official mission, and the man shoots continuously without pause. The simmer and static rise in volume until it suddenly stops and he stands over a body, twisted and bent, skin grey and gaunt, stretched strangely over the facial bones, eyelids pulled back. He does not recollect what took place except the sudden rush forward.

“Now this is amazing,” a new voice joins in, an accent Gabriel cannot place, “the vitals show unexpected abrupt system stabilization.”

“Doctor, we have no time…”

“This is my experiment, Lacroix, I remind you.”

Gabriel picks up the rifle and checks the ammo. The sensation of being lagged and strangely displaced recedes.

“And this experiment, doctor, will prove to be a worthless venture if Reyes fails to join us. Reyes, you need to go up the stairs and reach the dock. The shortest route will have compromised security bots and human enemies.”

An experiment, an interesting thought. Gabriel cracks his neck and slowly ascends the stairs. The occasional droids he finds on his way are easy to dispose of – no living targets, only bodies. The first woman gives him steady instructions and warnings, and from other information that slips through her guidance, he can glean the situation.

The Talon base he is traversing is, hilariously, under the attack by the members of the very same organization, the snake is eating its own tail. Lacroix’s allegiance also becomes clear. His own role in this whole mess is unexplained but at this precise moment he won’t look a gift horse in the mouth, not yet, not until he gets answers and blows this joint.

The door to the supposed dock hisses open and Gabriel is faced with the first sight of a human since the moment he woke up less than half hour ago. The woman stands pointing a pistol at a hunched down man with his hands in the air.

“Amelie, you don’t understand! What are you doin…” The woman fires a single shot and then holsters her gun turning towards him. Her visible skin gleams with an uncanny tint of bluish coloration.

“Finally, Reyes, you took your time, now put your weapon down because the only way you’re getting off this station is with us,” she nods at him, and Gabriel feels anger towards her – a Talon member – trying to issue him orders. “He was the leader of this little mutiny,” Lacroix misinterprets his posture.

“What’s stopping me from blowing out your brains?”

“For starters, there is only one functional shuttle, and the only person that has access codes is me,” she shows her back and starts to walk away. “Follow me.”

“Not a care about any other survivors?” Gabriel lowers the rifle and follows slightly behind her.

“You are no stranger to necessary sacrifices yourself. Everyone in this facility is expendable but you. Even me, but only after I deliver you to a meeting with my superior.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less of you, Reyes,” Lacroix lets him enter the ship first and closes the hatch behind, fiddles for a moment with the keypad. The undocking begins the moment he sits in front of the other woman inside, a redhead, in a much more flamboyant attire than Lacroix’s bodysuit. Heterochromia, judging by the unusual pigmentation, unless the eye is artificial, with a metallic plaque around the socket.

“Attention to detail, good. Topical albinism,” the one Lacroix referred to as ‘doctor’ earlier gives explanation observing him with a scrutiny that makes his skin crawl. The simmer in his muscles is back. “The parameters still read off the charts, especially with the fact we had to jumpstart you before the planned date, but system stability holds. Tell me, Gabriel, what did you do then? Used medi-gel?”

“Doesn’t concern you,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes, and Lacroix seats herself next to her.

“On the contrary. Doctor O’Deorain is the head of the Reaper Project, and she is singlehandedly responsible for bringing you back to life,” Lacroix flicks open a datapad. “The whole venture took over twenty-nine months since the moment we had recovered your body and sunk more funds than the production cost of the Alliance fleet up to two years ago over the entire period of its existence. We had expected to exceed that significantly but the project had been cut short by seven months.”

Gabriel forces down the unease over the new information – if it’s even true – and puts the rifle on the seat to his right but keeps his hand on it.

“Please, Moira will suffice, and I’m amazed at the headway I had achieved, with the starting parameters he shouldn’t even be functional yet,” the doctor smirks. “Run the personality test.”

“I’m not something you can run tests on,” Gabriel snarls lunging forward, fingers clenching around her neck, digging into the jugulars, and momentarily he feels a cold twist in the back of his throat. His hand loses definition, the edges fuzzy, like smoke, but everything else in the backdrop keeps sharpness of its contours. “What have you done to…?”

Moira pins him with a glance.

“Sit down, Gabriel. It seems that the cohesion suffers in moments of agitation, dare I say, emotional agitation,” he releases her and falls back, staring at his fingers. “Interesting, it’s the same readings from a moment before the system’s stabilization. And to answer your question, I had introduced a swarm of my own design into your body to aid in the reconstruction and to jumpstart your organs. If you are worried about the grey goo scenario, I took the precautions. The swarm is keyed to your genetic blueprint and cannot interact in the same fashion with any other organic or inorganic matter. Amelie, the test.”

Gabriel still cannot tear away his gaze from his hand slowly returning to the solid shape.

“Of course, doctor. Now, Reyes, your career is a surprise with your background. An orphan without traceable kin, outside the system, enlisted military as soon as possible. Torfan, batarians?”

“I’m no stranger to necessary sacrifices, Lacroix, said that yourself. Done the job,” he growls, “some called me a criminal.”

“Which was a surprise considering that even earlier you were lauded for facing the impossible odds and leading your squad with minimal casualties on Elysium.”

“The strategic goal had been repelling the attack, not leading the offense.”

“I think you should try something more recent, we have to at least gauge if there are any significant reticency issues,” Moira fiddles with her omni-tool. “This is still ancient LTM.”

“Virmire,” Lacroix stares at him over the datapad. Virmire. One of the very close calls. The first friend he had lost. “Ana Amari, one associate that had been working with you the longest. Why have you left her behind to die?”

“It was her choice, and in the end, it gave us the time we needed to obliterate the facility,” and this dull pressure on his lungs is the loss, the longing for her presence and advice.

“You needn’t feel guilty, Reyes, it was the right choice, and, as confirmed by our intelligence, Ana Amari is alive. We hope you can both cooperate again.”

“Alive?” He spits, fast, attention suddenly focused on Lacroix.

“We have established, how to say, the communication channel. Now, about…”

“No,” Gabriel interrupts her, fast and harsh. If Talon had put that much of an interest in his life, it is time to make use of it. “You want me to do something, I pick people. I want McCree and Morrison.”

“This should prove entertaining,” Moira regards leisurely her painted nails. “Go on, Amelie.”

“McCree is proving hard to track down but with the bounty that was put on his head only in case of information that proves authentic as to his whereabouts, or his capture, I don’t expect him to stay hidden much longer. Morrison, on the other hand,” Lacroix puts back her datapad, “is listed as killed in action during a raid on one of our minor facilities on Pharese. Our investigation proved to be futile in uncovering any traces leading to a different conclusion.”

The chill stabs into his shoulders, bites into the back of his neck, clenches around his chest, runs along his spine. Gabriel stares at his fingers slipping again into blurred lines. Morrison had one job to do, always shit at listening to the orders, always something. The snarling fury finally comes and he latches onto it, fast, vicious, scorching white-hot sensation at his core.

He is defined.

Gabriel smiles. Over two years, closer to three. He still knows too little. If, and only if, anything he is being told is factually true, there is much more he needs to be aware of to bring down Talon.

“And what do you want me to do?”

Lacroix leans back.

“For now, Doomfist wants to discuss this with you. It is the only thing that is required of you, Commander Reyes, after that you are free to go wherever you please”

He can work with this.

When the news hit, Jack remembers the strange detachment, the certainty it’s all some form of a ruse, or a mistake, but as hours turn into days, and those into weeks, he is overcome by sudden grief, and with hands at his mouth he finally lets himself cry, just like he had when Ana had been declared dead.

It isn’t until he crawls from under the rubble and the bodies of his squadmates that something just breaks. He walks away and does not look back.

Now, he steps off the shuttle, a worn out bag slung over his shoulder, and walks with a step of a man unsure of his destination even if he had familiarized himself with the layout of the station beforehand, at least with what was available to be found. The rest he can find out on his own, exploring, and laying down plans.

Doesn’t take them long to mark him as prey, the predators gorging themselves on the weak and the vulnerable. It isn’t strange that humans are among their favorites, soft, without natural armors and external carapaces.

“Please, I don’t want any trouble,” Jack mutters with his hands raised, empty palms to them, knowing that the display of supplication will only entice them. Five minutes later, he is the single living creature left in the corridor. Methodically, he checks the bodies, collects the money and other things that might prove useful later on. The twinge of guilt is painful, he shoves it back to be forgotten, after all, it was their choice, not his, he gave them a way out.

He has a bigger game to hunt.

#sometimes i write #me!au #r76 #reaper76 #starting with me2 #will go to the end of me3

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llamaswrites · 7 years ago

Text

Spiral

Fandom: Overwatch

Rating: Teen

Pairing: Doomfist: The Successor | Akande Ogundimu/Lúcio Correia dos Santos

Summary:

Hana said it took twenty-one days to form a habit.

It should have been simple to do.

The universe only gave him four days before everything went wrong.

Read on AO3 here.

It was yet another of Hana’s spontaneous theories and, like most ideas she came up with unrelated to battle tactics (either in Starcraft or actual combat), it was completely awful.

“It’s really simple in theory,” she told Lúcio through a mouthful of chips and ice cream. It was a combination that he always found awful, but it made appearance any time either of them had something go down that required ‘bestie time’, as Hana put it. “You just need to stay so busy that you can’t think about him. Eventually, you’ll just forget to think about him. They say it takes twenty-one days to form a habit. Think you can do it?”

Hana didn’t know much about Akande, other than he was exactly Lúcio’s type and managed to severely bruise his fragile heart. She didn’t even know his name, because he’d never told her and she’d never asked. It was the unspoken rule when they got together that the other person didn’t pry, to just let everything flow out naturally.

This time, Hana perched on the ratty old couch she’d found in the depths of Watchpoint: Gibraltar, after having put on something awful (anime, probably) on the holoscreen at the front of the room. Lúcio sat on the floor with his back against the couch, letting Hana comb her fingers through his recently cleaned hair. After a lot of practice, he was comfortable with her helping twist his hair back into locs.

It was hard, sometimes, to reconcile this Hana with the one he went on missions with. When she was out of the MEKA, she was bright and happy and spontaneous. In it, she was cold, calculating, and brutal, everything she trained to be as essentially a child soldier.

“I’m going to bet that’s worked for exactly no one ,” he told her, eyes trained on the screen in front of him but not really watching. “How do you come up with this stuff?”

“I don’t,” she said, but then backtracked. “At least, I didn’t come up with this. It’s something 76 mentioned to me once.”

“You should leave that poor guy alone,” Lúcio mumbled, and then asked “What did he have to say? I didn’t think he really had anything or anyone outside of just being an old soldier past his time.”

“You tell me to leave him alone and still want to scoop? I don’t think that’s fair!” She tugged on a completed loc playfully.

“It’s not like you’re going to leave him alone anyway. Just spill!”

He expected Hana to spill immediately, like whenever she had a juicy piece of gossip about someone on base, but she hesitated. “I’m not really sure if it’s my story or whatever to tell, but...I found him one night when I was exploring, out near the big beacon that acts like a lighthouse over the straight. His visor was off and he was slamming back this cheap ass beer. I asked him if he wanted to have some company, to share some war stories and beer because I had some too and god knows none of us are getting therapy anytime soon and he told me, ‘That’s not why I’m out here’.

“He let me join him though, and few beers later he started talking. Said that back when he was the head of this whole shindig, he had a person that he was really close to, that he fell in love with. He never told them though and they died when that base blew up. He told me that piece of advice, though. Said that’s how he got over it. Maybe it’ll work for you.”

“Did he ever say who they were?” Lúcio asked, curious.

“Nah,” she said, flipping a finished loc over his shoulder. “But hey, his advice has to be worth something. He’s got way more age and wisdom and senior discounts than we’ll ever have. He probably knows what he’s talking about.”

He hummed softly in agreement, but couldn’t help imagining 76 up on that lighthouse tower. Hana probably didn’t realize that if he was up there mourning by himself that his tactics for forgetting hadn’t worked after all. Maybe his advice had worked once upon a time, but obviously something or someone recently dragged every bit of thought and obsession and grief back to the forefront of his mind. Lúcio didn’t plan on taking Hana’s advice, at least not originally. As was the case with everything in his life, but especially concerning Overwatch, trouble soon followed.

He told himself at first that he wanted to know more about Akande because he needed to thank him for the research and schematics left behind on the holo tablet. Not because, he scolded himself, he was still enamoured with the man despite not seeing him in over two weeks and despite the lack of any further promise. Searching for him on the web hadn’t been his immediate course of actions because it felt weird to search for someone he’d been so...personal...with in such an impersonal way. Lúcio was afraid of what he’d find, afraid that his experience that night would be far from unique, even if nothing was promised to make it that way. He soon found that with Akande, that should have been the least of his worries.

Instead, he checked the message Akande left for him on the datapad, hoping for some overt contact information he missed on his first glance through or clues in the metadata. The message itself was as unhelpful at it had been before. Checking the metadata was no better; it was as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to it, leaving it utterly unsalvageable and utterly useless. It was too much like recovered data from old watchpoints and Talon bases, deliberately obscured and damaged to hide the fingerprints of individuals long gone, or long damned in their pursuits.

Lúcio chose to look past the oddity. Surely Akande had his reasons for masking his digital trail. From his knowledge to his (too) expensive suit to the small red plates on his head announcing the fine intraneural nerve wiring to his prosthetic, it was clear he was someone , someone who dearly didn’t want to be found trivially. It should have scared Lúcio more than it did. He wasn’t prepared for how hard the fear and realization would hit him.

It had been entirely too easy to find out about Akande on the web. Lúcio thought that he misspelled his name at first because surely this couldn’t be the intimidating but gentle man he met. A quick check of the message of the datapad confirmed he had it right and a hard, cold lump of anxiety settled deep in his gut. He steeled himself and clicked on the first biography page that popped up. His eyes lighted on the picture and the lump immediately shot up into his stomach, nausea rising quickly. He threw the datapad (the same one from Akande) violently away from him and dashed to the bathroom to lose his lunch. The datapad landed on the bed’s comforter and was fine. Lúcio’s emotional state, however, was not.

Lúcio could honestly say before he saw Akande’s picture that there was not much he regretted in life or, at least, nothing he regretted deeply. He mourned deeply those lost in the revolution he’d started, wished there had been a better way, but he knew his regret would do nothing to change the past and only dishonor their memory. He didn’t really regret the actions that led him to lose his lower legs; after all, he wouldn’t be the same person or have all the same friends today with them.

After emptying his stomach, he rested his head back against the wall. He realized, panting slightly, that this was his first true regret. The only person that could reasonably be worse in this situation might be Gabriel Reyes, if he ever really was a person when he was still in Blackwatch (there was still so much he didn’t know or wasn’t privileged to). Or maybe Widowmaker. Still, Akande -- Doomfist -- was terrible in his own right. He killed so many in his rise to power through Talon; more still would be lost Talon’s warmongering efforts succeeded. He was the antithesis to everything Lúcio stood for in his life and Lúcio had let him see the most vulnerable part of him, both personally and with his tech.

The memory of being touched gently by Akande, by the same hands that killed so many, flitted by in his brain and Lúcio smashed his head back against the tile wall, quashing down the nausea that rose violently in him with pain. He took a few deeps breaths and tried to center himself. Maybe this wasn’t as bad as he was making it out to be. After all, Aka-- Doomfist certainly hadn’t mentioned to anyone what had happened between them and if he did, it hadn’t gotten out. Maybe this was just another passing thing for Doomfist or at most, some manipulation on Talon’s part. He couldn’t let it get to him. He wouldn’t.

The keypad beeping faintly in the distance was all the warning he got before Hana barged into his room, 76 in tow with a tray of food. Apparently in his internal angsting, he missed dinner. Hana joined him on the floor of the bathroom without hesitation, smoothing his locs away form his face. 76 positioned himself in the doorway between the bathroom and bedroom with the tray balanced on a single hand, obviously irritated by being dragged along but still not leaving.

“You never miss dinner, are you sick?” asked Hana. Lúcio shook his head and smiled weakly at her.

“Nah, I’m not sick,” he said and tried to stand up. Hana pulled him back down to the cool floor.

“What’s wrong? I know something’s wrong. Is it him?” she asked once more. Lúcio glanced up quickly at 76. The old soldier seemed to be unimpressed by what the youngsters before him were talking about and studying the room around him. An arched eyebrow above his visor, though, cued Lúcio into the fact that 76 was actually listening to their conversation.

“Um, kinda,” Lúcio admitted quietly, trying to prevent 76 from listening in. It probably didn’t work; super soldier hearing made having private conversations near impossible. “Just...I think I need to take your advice, for once. I’m driving myself nuts.”

Hana helped him to his feet and together, they stumbled back into the bedroom. His prosthetics feld like dead weight as he settled back onto the bed. Hana relocated the tablet to his bedside table, where 76 also placed the tray of food. 76 averted his gaze when Lúcio undid the locks on the prosthetics but Hana just leaned on his shoulder, entirely used to seeing his legs off and knowing it just made everything more awkward if she ignored the elephant in the room.

76 took up post by the door, clearly waiting for Hana as she whispered to Lúcio, “Love sucks. It gets better though. I promise.”

“It’s not, uh, love and thanks. For the advice. And for dinner.”

She pushed herself off his shoulder and off bed. “No problem! Text me if you need anything else. And hey, maybe you should start taking my advice more often.”

“You had a good idea for once?” rumbled 76’s voice finally. “The world must be ending.”

Hana pouted at him with crossed arms as he poked roughly at the keypad to open the door. 76 waited outside in the hall as she hugged Lúcio.

“Can it, mister,” she told the old soldier as she joined him in the hallway. “Besides, this bit of wisdom wasn’t one-hundred-percent Hana Song Certified. If it goes topsy turvy, it’s your fault.”

The door closed, but Lúcio could still hear the indignant, “My fault?” from the other side as he flopped back down the bed. For some reason, he had a feeling that sleep would not come easy.

Everything that could go wrong, did so like this:

Hana said it took twenty-one days to form a habit. Simple enough, Lúcio thought. Overwatch always had a plethora of missions available, ranging from escort situations to active combat situations. He signed himself up for the most mind numbing missions he can find after he fails to not think of the night in Rio for a week straight. This will work, he told himself.

And it did, for about four days. Four days of pushing himself to the limit and falling in his bed or a cot every night, absolutely exhausted. Four days of getting up, showering, and throwing himself back into his work, healing and guiding and fighting with blood making his skin tacky.

His life hadn’t been this intense since living back in the favela under Vishkar. These missions were the most extreme Overwatch had to offer, the ones that were always waiting for one last brave soul to make them a reality. Lúcio found himself crawling through vent ducts and scorching under the heat of the Cairo sun, all in the name of justice (and keeping his mind off of Akande). He didn’t even realize his plan was working.

Everything went wrong, starting like this:

They’re up in a satellite state of Russia and the air was cold enough to make breathing physically hurt. The sun, just starting to set below the horizon, did not help the temperature at all. The mission is in an area that could be described as a slum. Each shack was built out spare parts, whether from the siding of trains or the hulls of Volskaya mechs and rats, more impervious to the cold than Lúcio was, ran underfoot.The streets were narrow and wound through it in an almost non-Euclidean manner, making it all the more impossible to avoid the sharp icicles hanging from the tin ramshackle roofs. If not for the cold, it would make Lúcio miss his favela fiercely.

There was a definite sense of poverty, yes, but also a feeling of community and belonging. Everyone here knew each other and each other’s business, which made the Overwatch team’s presence all the more glaringly obvious. Their objective was a specific omnic living in one of these shacks, particularly escorting them to safety from the harshly anti-omnic groups circling like sharks around the neighborhood. Omnics were exceedingly rare in Russia, though this omnic had managed to survive long enough to see many others of their kind to safety. Now, only they remained, trapped by those wanting to prosecute them for the crime of protecting others. The community didn’t know or trust their intentions to help, though, and so hidden the omnic remained.

Today’s squad was smaller than their usual six man. He was accompanied by Soldier 76 and McCree, of all people and was dismayed when neither man seemed very bothered by the cold. They split up early on, to gain more ground, and Lúcio found himself quietly skating through icy alleys, followed only by the quiet hum of his sonic amplifier and the stares of the slum’s residents. There was at least a clue to where this omnic might be in the form of some sort of symbol painted on the upper left of their door, but that was according to the worried omnics this one helped. Still, working on old information was better than none at all.

He barely turned a corner when an explosion nearby rocked the slums, causing some of the icicles to fall from the eaves, shattering on the ground melodiously. Lúcio quickly backtracked to the alley he came from in search of better cover, hand reaching up to the comm in his ear to consult his team about what just happened.

76 only had time to growl out, “Talon, Reaper,” before the rest of the icicles crashed down in a cacophony as something heavy landed behind him. Lúcio froze, heart in his throat and his skin prickling up from something other than the cold. He had a feeling that, if he were to turn around, he would know exactly who was behind him.

Everything went wrong because Hana’s plan couldn’t possibly account for Doomfist finding him in the middle of a mission.

Once, he read that the now extinct wolves in America proper would refuse to look at or acknowledge humans when they were caught in a trap. Sometimes, a wolf would twist itself around in a trap if that meant not looking at a human nearby. It was as though they thought trouble didn’t exist or would go away if it wasn’t acknowledged. He didn’t understand it then, but he did now.

“We meet again, Lúcio Correia dos Santos,” rumbled a voice behind him. Lúcio willed his knees to not give out and turned around finally, knowing that not facing an enemy was probably the stupidest thing he could do, next to being intimate with the same enemy.

The next stupidest thing came out of his mouth a moment later and he wanted to slap himself. “Just Lúcio is fine, but you know that.”

The corner of Akande’s mouth twitched up into a smirk as he approached Lúcio. The way he moved reminded Lúcio of some sort of big cat stalking its prey. Any other time it might have been a flattering comparison, but in this case…

The prey was a rather idiotic frog.

Lúcio skated smoothly backwards, intent on putting some space between himself and Akande--Doomfist---he really needed to stop conflating this man with anything but enemy . He hoped Doomfist wouldn’t force him to wallride to escape, as he knew there was another wall fast approaching behind his back. Escaping that giant gauntlet while having little control on a wall other than forward was not Lúcio’s idea of a good time. Really, Lúcio ought to just flee but some stupid part of him wanted to know why he was sought out specifically.

Thankfully, Doomfist stopped. Still, his huge frame filled up the narrow alley to the point where Lúcio could barely see past him. In contrast to the images he saw in his earlier search of the Talon, the mountain of a man actually wore a shirt, with one long sleeve that nearly extended past his free hand and the other tied up above his gleaming gauntlet.

“I am glad to see you once more. You were not on any of the usual missions you take for Overwatch.”

Lúcio’s first thought was that, duh, he wasn’t on any of those missions because he was trying to avoid the man, whether it was actually encountering him or simply thinking about him. His second was to question if Akande was actually looking for him . Was the man actively stalking Overwatch just to talk to him? Subtly, he muted the comm in his ear, listening with only half attention as 76 screeched commands into their line like a hoarse, old crow .

“I have to say that, uh, I’m not really that glad,” Lúcio as he shifted his weight back and forth on his skates and studied the eaves. They were just tall enough that wallriding might be possible to get past Doomfist, but there would be a problem if he wanted to launch himself on top of the building due to the eaves.

The smirk dropped instantly and Lúcio felt his veins turned to ice. Happy Akande was terrifying and intimidating but this was on a whole other level. He wasn’t sure if he would be more intimidated of Reaper if the ghast decided to show his face right then and there (it was doubtful though, if the traded gunfire between a pulse rifle and shotguns in the distance was anything to go by).

“I must admit, I thought you might be slightly more cordial, especially after how our first meeting ended.”

Nope. Nope. What man experienced in modern combat would ever say that in the possible presence of comms that either side could hear ?

“Yeah, no, not after what a quick search of you brought up. No way.” Peeking down the other alley revealed a McCree rolling by like a tumbleweed, quickly followed by gunfire. That was a definite no.

“You did not realize who I was.” It was not a question. Lúcio glanced back and met Akande’s gaze levelly. There was no referring to him as Doomfist anymore, not with his insistence of talking about that night.

“No,” he said. Akande huffed out a laugh and shook his head incredulously. The slight movement caused his giant gauntlet to gleam with the weak rays of the dying sun.

“I see. So you make it a habit then, to let total strangers make modifications that could leave you helpless? To let them bring you to the end and--”

“Could you not?” Lúcio interrupted. “Go there, I mean. To answer your question so you will stop coming back to that, no, I don’t. Now if you could stop mentioning that night, I’d be super happy because I know we both have active comms and I don’t particularly want an international syndicate knowing the details of what I do in my free time.”

“My comm is muted,” Akande said. “I assume yours is the same.”

The gears turned in Lúcio’s head, though he was quickly brought out of his reverie by another explosion, this one closer than last time. Helix rockets, maybe?

“Your team doesn’t know either,” he said slowly.

“Yes,” said Akande.

“You’re not here for Talon reasons,” Lúcio clarified and then asked, “Why are you following me?”

This gave Akande pause.

“This is not entirely Talon related, no,” he said. “I saw a kindred spirit in you that night. One who knew what it was like to fight and rise above, to overcome and be better for it.”

“So, what? You think I’m just going to follow you back to Talon because you helped me out that night? Because I fought in a war and came out on the winning side of it?”

“I did not think it would be so simple as that, but in essence yes.”

A harsh laugh rang through the air and Lúcio realized it was his own. Even Akande looked surprised.

“You really must think I’m some sort of idiot.” Akande tried to object, but Lúcio continued speaking over him, fueled by a level of anger he didn’t know that he possessed. “No, seriously. Did you really think I would be, what, seduced by you into joining Talon? Just because I fit into some part of your weird philosophy? Let me tell you a few things.

“I’m not better because of what happened with Vishkar in Rio. Just because I don’t regret my actions doesn’t mean I want to go through it all again, that I can say I’m better for everything that happened. I don’t know how you could think anyone could be better from losing their legs, their family, everything in their life, from watching children and their parents die from the labor they were forced to do or the beatings from being out past curfew. Even worse is seeing people die in the name of a cause you yourself have spearheaded, before they could ever know a better life.

“You think I’m better for that? That they’re better for that? You can seriously fuck right off with that ideology and take your rich boy self elsewhere because I’m done here.”

Lúcio rushed towards Akande and started to crouch to begin his jump. Akande, seeing the change in posture, lunged for him but missed him by inches, hurtling towards the other end of the alley with the gauntlet. Homefree, Lúcio continued to wallride and flipped around to watch as Akande pulled up short of crashing at the end of the alley before backflipping off a wall to land in the larger street.

“Lúcio, wait!”

The first shot, he reasoned later, didn’t make its mark because Widowmaker wasn’t anticipating the manner of his exit from the alley. Still, it shattered the green plexiglass of his goggles and caused him to land off kilter, not entirely balanced on his skates.

The second hit him, but also not in its intended place. Akande, having realizing the gravity of the situation far before Lúcio did, lunged out of the alley and tackled him into the ground. Still the sniper’s bullet found its way into his right lung, entirely too close to his heart. He wouldn’t know that until later, though.

Lúcio’s world seemed to grind to a halt. Some part of him dimly registered how nice and warm Akande was over him, especially compared to how cold it was. Another part registered Akande yelling into his now unmuted com, ordering Widowmaker to stand down as he was pulled into the man’s lap, while his own comm screamed in his ear.

Akande ripped off part of his sleeve and balled it up. When he pressed it against the wound on Lúcio’s chest, the pain finally cut through the haze in his mind.

Fuck.

He’d been shot.

Pain crawled through his chest like fire and he couldn’t suppress a whimper that came out even more pathetic than it should with a pierced lung. It had been so long since he was last shot -- usually his blades were quick enough to keep him out of the line of fire. It was a familiar enough of a sensation to know that something was very, very wrong with the way pain flowed through his body.

Akande murmured apologies as he cradled Lúcio’s body and kept the cloth pressed to the wound, though it was quickly apparent it was doing nothing to help. Lúcio smiled and tried to laugh, even as he failed catching his breath. There were worse ways to go than been looked after by a really attractive guy he thought and he must have vocalized it because Akande ruefully chuckled as he raised a hand to cradle Lúcio’s face. It was getting harder and harder to keep his eyes open and the hand that was cradling his face soon turned to striking it lightly, probably in an attempt to keep him awake.

He heard footsteps quickly approaching and suddenly, the pain cut to a fraction of what it had been. Lúcio found the strength to crack open his eyes and he saw Akande still looming over him, tense and lit by a warm yellow light. Lúcio let his head loll over to the side and saw 76 crouched by them. That explained the light, most likely from one of the soldier’s portable biotic fields.

“I’m not going to kill you,” 76 said quietly. “I’m not even going to tell anyone about this. I’ve been through this same thing. Just please, give him to me. We can still save him from the venom.”

Venom? Was that what was making this so painful?

Akande hesitated, before gently lifting Lúcio up from his lap and letting 76 take him into his arms. The cold leather of 76’s jacket was significantly different from Akande’s own natural warmth and Lúcio shivered violently. Akande’s hand stroked the side of his face gently and Lúcio leaned into the warm touch thankfully.

“Take care of him,” Akande told 76, who inclined his head slightly in response. The soldier shoved the biotic emitter in his pocket and took off running. Lúcio didn’t make to the ship before losing the fight to unconsciousness, but he was awake long enough to hear the tell-tale boom that announced Akande’s takeoff with the gauntlet.

It took three days for Lúcio to wake up completely.

In the meanwhile, he woke up for seconds or minutes at time.

Once, he woke up to Hana tying his hair back in a scarf, considerate of the way it went absolutely bonkers whenever he slept or neglected to take care of it. Her face was puffy and red, probably from crying and she stroked his face gently when she saw that his eyes were open.

Another time, he saw Zenyatta meditating in the corner of the room, lit only by the afternoon light filtering in through the blinds. The chiming of the orbs around the omnic quickly lulled Lúcio back into unconsciousness.

When he finally awoke, the room was empty save for 76. The old man sat in a chair in the corner where Zenyatta previously was, snoring beneath a magazine that lay on his face. The room was darkened and from the lack of light outside, Lúcio could guess it was well past the time any decent person should be awake. Sore and conscious of the too-tight bandages that swaddled his abdomen, Lúcio carefully sat up. He was surprised when nurses didn’t immediately swarm in with the pick up in heart rate, but it was night after all. He noticed that someone had taken his legs off and it irked him slightly that they weren’t in sight.

He tucked a stray lock of hair back into the scarf and dipped his head to his chest to inspect the wound, or what little he could see of it. Purple blood vessels, so dark they were nearly black, crawled out from under the bandage, clearly damaged by whatever the bullet was laced with. It would be a long while before he was completely recovered. With the wound so close to his heart, he was lucky to even be alive at all. Sighing, Lúcio pulled the covers back up over his chest just as someone entered the room.

The omnic clearly wasn’t a nurse. His (because this was probably the most masculine omnic Lúcio had ever seen) expensive suit looked extremely out of place in the hospital and he wasn’t the standard build that any of the nurses probably were. In contrast to most omnics he knew, including Zenyatta, this one had custom sculpting done on his frame to give him a more human-like appearance, belying that he was something outside of the range of the common omnic. Lúcio also noted with some disquiet that all of the omnic’s vital lights were red.

Could this be the omnic they tried to rescue in the slum? God, he hoped so. His luck lately would have this mystery bot be entirely bad news.

“Ah good, you’re awake,” he intoned, mechanical voice belying an accent that was, again, entirely by choice and out of the common range for most omnics. The omnic placed a wrapped box, presumably a gift of some sorts, at the foot of his bed with many more Lúcio hadn’t noticed before.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t recognize you,” said Lúcio. The omnic chuckled darkly.

“That is good,” he said, “for both you and me, but irrelevant nevertheless. I am here on behalf of a mutual friend to check on you and deliver a gift.”

Lúcio eyed the omnic carefully. He was starting to have a few guesses to who this omnic might be and quite a few of them led back to the hole in his chest.

“How...exactly did you get in here?” Lúcio asked and glanced at 76, who still appeared to be quite passed out but still breathing. “Overwatch’s security is pretty good and if I don’t know you…”

“Their security can be the best in the world but it’s not going to stop the owner of this hospital from walking in whenever he pleases.” The omnic tapped at the datapad on the wall, pulling up Lúcio’s charts and examining them. “And don’t go looking for my identity either, you won’t find anything worthwhile there.”

Another glance at 76. Another snore.

“Did you, uh, do something to him?”

“Just a mild sedative in the coffee creamer. Don’t worry, he’ll wake up eventually.”

“So, if your...friend....needed to know how I was doing, why not just check my records through the access you already have?” Lúcio asked and the omnic turned away from the datapad with a sigh.

“Do your questions never cease? And you never ask the right one...Humans, even the more intelligent ones, are astoundingly illogical sometimes. Seeing the records was not enough to assure his heavy heart, though I’m not sure what my presence here will do in regards to that. I will say though, you are looking remarkably well for being on the receiving end of Amelie’s gun.”

Everything clicked at once.

“You’re from Talon. Akande sent you.”

“Finally, some sign of intelligence. Yes, he did. For some reason I’m failing to comprehend at the moment, he has stake in your continued existence. Now that I’ve seen sign of life in all your lacking faculties, I shall take my leave.”

And like that, the omnic strutted out of the room just as suddenly as he had arrived. Dumbfounded, Lúcio could only stare at the small present, wrapped in red paper, sitting out of his reach at the foot of the bed. Everything was spiralling out of control. The night with Akande should have never left the hotel, but now it landed him in the hospital. Overwatch probably thought that he was compromised, Talon was probably looking at him like he was a piece of meat, and now everyone would know how much he messed up.

A short time later, 76 startled himself awake with a snore and then proceeded to act like he’d never been asleep in the first place. Lúcio didn’t enlighten him as to their curious visitor and soon enough, 76 was replaced by a weepy, but happy, Hana. With her, she brought the datapad from where he had abandoned it beside his bed. He left it closed and let her chatter away about what was happening back at the Watchpoint. Being the friend she was, she immediately picked up on his quietness though he initially tried to wave it off as a reaction to recovery and the drugs they had him on.

“76 told me what happened, you know,” she said quietly. “As far as I know, he didn’t tell anyone else. You can talk about it if you need to.”

He shook his head and his gaze caught on the box at the end of the bed for what was probably the thousandth time. Tracing his gaze, Hana grabbed it.

“You keep looking at it,” she explained as she dumped it in his lap. It was heavier than he thought it would be. “Just open it. I think I know who it’s from.”

Sighing, Lúcio carefully untied the silk ribbon binding the box and lifted the lid. Inside was a poncho of some sort, made from tan lengths of woven cloth with green stripes running parallel to its length. Upon closer inspection, there seemed to be little stylized frogs embroidered upon the cloth, hopping the length of the stripes on the front of the fabric leading up to what Lúcio presumed was the neck hole. The reverse side was lined with a heavier cloth, softer than the top fabric by far.

“It’s neat,” said Hana as she reached out to run her fingers over the texture, “but what is it?”

“I’m not really sure either,” Lúcio said. “Look, you can take off the lining.”

“It looks really warm,” Hana murmured as she smoothed her hand over the soft lining. “Which is good, you’re always shivering unless you’re south of the equator! He probably noticed too.”

Lúcio said nothing and traced the outline of a frog. Hana watched him mope for a moment before she snatched the gift from his hands.

“You should wear it!” she announced and fed her hands through the fabric, presumably trying to find the neck opening to shove it over Lúcio’s head.

“Hana, no,” he objected. “I’m fine. Also I have no idea how to wear it.”

“Hana yes,” she said, “and we’ll figure it out together. Hold still!”

Luckily for Lúcio, Soldier: 76 chose that moment to wander back in the room with Efi, a hand on her shoulder. Probably to keep her from excitedly bouncing on the balls of her feet, something she almost alway did when she came to see him.

The hand failed to keep her from tackling him.

“Lúcio!” she cried as she barreled into his chest. Lúcio nearly bit through his lip to keep from crying out as her head smashed into the bandages on his chest. “I was so worried but everyone else at Overwatch said you were going to be okay but the mission details said that both Widow and Doomfist were there and oh my gosh I can’t even begin to imagine what happened, you should have taken Orisa with you--”

“Efi, it’s alright,” he reassured, prying the small girl from her tight hug around his chest. Efi didn’t seem to notice him gritting his teeth. “It all worked out okay. We’ll try to take Orisa next time, okay?”

She nodded solemnly and added, “She would have been able to kick Doomfist’s butt. Then he wouldn’t be able to hurt you or anyone else.”

Lúcio looked up guiltily to meet Hana’s pained gaze (and 76 too, if he’d actually been able to see past the visor).

It was funny how the most innocent phrase could just punch through him like a bullet.

Thankfully, Efi was distracted by the gift in Hana’s hands.

“Oh! An agbada! Can I see it?”

“Is that what this is?” Hana asked. She handed over the folded fabric to Efi, who sat back at the end of the bed and unfolded it. She traced the pattern and giggled when her fingers found the frogs.

“Yup,” she said. “It’s a super common thing for men to wear in Numbani. Or really, any Yoruba guy anywhere. Where did you get this? It’s really cute!”

“Um, a friend gave it to me,” Lúcio admitted.

“A guy friend?” asked Efi with a sly smile and Lúcio felt his face start to burn. She laughed. “It’s okay, I can tell. With the way that this was woven, I can almost guarantee a guy made it. Here, let me help you put it on.”

Lúcio leaned forward as much as his bandages allowed him to let Efi slip the agbada over his head. He was only able to get one arm through a sleeve for fear of snagging his IV, so he elected to keep it slightly wrapped around his abdomen under the cloth. Efi tugged the agbada into place, consequently dislodging the breathing tubes from his nose.

“Oops, sorry!” she said as he fixed them. “But really, you look pretty good. You’re not quite tall enough to be called agunt'asoolo, but it suits you anyway. Whoever made this for you really put a lot of care into it.”

“Yeah...he did.” Lúcio mumbled as he ran his free hand down the front of the agbada. This was physical proof of either how smitten Akande was with him, or how desperate Talon was for him to join them.

He wasn’t sure what was worse.

“I’d still wear something underneath it in the future,” said Efi, oblivious to his turmoil. “It’s really meant to be an overcoat of sorts. Maybe Orisa and I will make you some beads for your hair to match with little speakers in them. Don’t you think that would be awesome, miss Hana?”

Hana nodded with a tight smile on her face. The look she shot Lúcio plainly said we need to talk about this soon and Lúcio averted his gaze back down to the agbada. 76 was not immune to the tension in the room and checked an imaginary watch on his wrist.

“Five more minutes, kiddo,” he growled out. “He’s not going to get any better with you playing on him like a jungle gym.”

Efi plainly struck up a pout. When her parents let her visit Orisa back at whatever watchpoint she currently based out of, the pout was the demise of nearly anyone around her and she was consequently able to get away with murder.

Nearly everyone, except for Ana and 76.

Soldier: 76 stared down the small girl and when it became apparent that he wasn’t bowing, Efi turned her attention back to Lúcio, chattering about some of her newer plans and his concert schedule. When finally 76 determined her time was up, she hugged Lúcio tightly (and no, he wasn’t going to admit exactly how much it hurt, it was humiliating that the strength of an eleven-year-old’s hug made him want to cry) and hopped off the bed. It was Hana who escorted her from the room this time, leaving 76 and Lúcio alone in the small room.

Lúcio shrugged off the agbada and folded it carefully as his nurse finally came into the room. 76 took it from him and set it by the holopad at the side of the bed while his nurse ran through his vitals and started a new drip of medicine going.

“You’re going to be out like a light here in a few,” said his nurse, “so you may want to do whatever you need to before you’re dead to the world again.”

His nurse helped him walk stiffly to the bathroom and after settling him back down in bed, left. 76 settled down in the chair beside the bed and Lúcio prepared himself for a lecture. The old man said nothing, though, as Lúcio fussed with the scarf around his hair (hopefully Hana was up for helping him redo all of his locs once more). Finally, the soldier let out a sigh.

“You’re not the first to do this, you know,” he said, “and you’re definitely not going to be the last.”

“I’m not exactly doing anything,” Lúcio told him, trying to keep the snapping edge out of his voice. “Really, I’m trying not to do anything. But...but…”

He shook his head and immediately regretted it as dizziness sucker punched him from the movement. Obviously, the meds were kicking in.

“But he won’t let go,” 76 said. “And really, I don’t think you’re ready to let go either. Kid, you look like a love sick idiot anytime you so much as see that thing he got you.”

Lúcio flopped back on the bed and huffed.

“So?” he finally snapped, feeling more than a little immature. “So what? Are you going to take me off mission rosters because I’m compromised? Remove my agent status?”

“I’d be a hypocrite if I did,” said 76 and Lúcio stared at him. “Again, you’re not the first to do this. You have a good head on your shoulders and I don’t think you’re going to be leaping to join Talon anytime soon, or give them too much information.”

“So why bring this up, then?” Lúcio’s words came out slurred and his mind struggled to gain traction. He wondered if he’d remember this discussion the next time he woke up.

“I just…” 76 sighed again. “I just don’t want to see you making the same mistakes I did. There’s two sides to this, there always is. Don’t do anything stupid but…”

76 reached up to the visor as if to pinch his nose but settled for running his fingers through his white hair.

“Just know that there’s more to life than fighting, okay? If there comes a time that you’re starting to doubt if you’re in the right place, don’t ignore those doubts. Listen to them. It’ll serve you well.”

76 stood up and reached out to lightly ruffle what he could reach of Lúcio’s hair.

“Take care of yourself, kid. Get some sleep.”

Lúcio watched with drooping eyes as the old soldier marched out of the room and thought back to his encounter with Akande. The face Akande had given him when Lúcio ripped into him was one of a man who, for the first time in his life, doubted the ground on which he’d built his life. 76’s words echoed in his head as he gave into the medication and spiralled into unconsciousness.

He sincerely doubted that he was the one having second thoughts about where he was in life.

#overwatch #doomcio #doomfist #lucio #fanfiction

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not-a-space-alien · 8 years ago

Text

Falling Hazard, Part 2: The Hazard...

Series masterpost

On AO3

The radio was barely audible over the Bentley’s engine as it roared at ninety mph down the road. BBC was talking about the attack on the Temple. It was obviously a terrorist group, they said, but which one? There was speculation, but no one had come forward to claim responsibility for the attack.

Aziraphale and Crowley knew that none of them would. Because the attack on the Temple had been no human terrorist. They had felt the shift in spiritual energy in the place. There were supernatural forces at work.

You didn’t destroy shrines, and you didn’t kill humans. Nobody on any side did either, no matter how unruly. It simply wasn’t done. The rules against direct interference with human affairs, rather than inspiration and temptation and messing about, were ingrained that deeply in all of them.

And at a site as important as Temple Mount. It was unthinkable. Something big was happening. Which is why they had booked it back home from their vacation spot as soon as they as could.

Crowley kept one hand on the steering wheel and extended the other. “Aziraphale, hand me my phone. I’m going to try one more time.”

As soon as it was in his hand he navigated through his contacts to Maltha.

“Come on, come on,” he muttered, and then, “Dammit!” when he got the message she couldn’t be reached.

“Try Beth’s number,” said Aziraphale.

“Come on,” said Crowley, scrolling up to Beth. “Please, somebody pick up.”

Beth was also unavailable. When Crowley hung up, his phone vibrated in his hand with a text from Adam: Please tell me that was a human terrorist at the temple????? And then a few seconds later another: Crowley?????????

“Please text Adam and tell him what’s going on,” said Crowley, tossing his phone into the center console. Aziraphale grabbed the door handle as Crowley executed a sharp turn. The angel flipped his phone open and began to type on it.

There was a car in the parking spot in front of Aziraphale’s bookshop, but it mysteriously and hastily jerked forwards into a tow-away zone to make room for the Bentley. The tires screeched. The parking brake cranked. The engine died.

“Done,” said Aziraphale, pressing Send.

“Okay. Great.”

They both sat in silence. Crowley took a deep breath and leaned back. “Okay. We’re here now. What do we do?”

“I…” Aziraphale grimaced. “I don’t know.”

“Okay,” said Crowley, running his hands on the steering wheel. “We have no reason to believe the attack had anything to do with us. We just happened to be nearby.”

“Right,” said Aziraphale. “Nothing to do with us.”

“No reason to believe anyone would be showing up for us. This is completely unrelated to anything that we’ve ever gotten ourselves involved with.”

“Absolutely.”

“No one could find any way to blame this on us no matter how many mental pretzels they bend themselves into.”

“I believe so.”

“No danger to us personally at all.”

“It would appear that way.”

“Right.”

They both tapped their fingers on various places in the car.

“You get out the spray paint and start putting up protective sigils on the shop,” said Crowley, throwing his door open. “I’m going to try and get ahold of Maltha.”

Crowley got some paper and a pen. He wrote in very large letters, Maltha what is going on. And then, after a bit of thought, added Maltha I swear to God Satan Adam if you’re responsible for this

He stopped, because he didn’t have any way to end that threat. The only power he held over Maltha would be to sever their friendship, and he didn’t think that would end very well for him or Aziraphale.

Then I’ll be extremely upset he finally finished, lamely. Please call me as soon as you get this.

He addressed the letter and went up to the study, where Aziraphale sent and received his mail. When he grabbed the handle, a weight on the other side of the door resisted its opening. He pushed, and fell when it yielded.

His fall was broken by a pile of something and the sound of sifting paper. He pushed himself up to find himself sitting on top of a huge mound of letters.

“Holy shit,” said Crowley. “Wh…What are all these?”

The fact that he not been burned by the letters told him the sender had used parchment safe for him to touch, so he picked one up. It was addressed to Aziraphale, but he opened it anyway.

Aziraphale,

Where is Crowley? You will be disciplined for not responding.

-Gabriel.

That wasn’t good. He set it aside and picked up another one.

Aziraphale and Crowley,

You are hereby commanded to report to Heaven’s gates for a debriefing.

-Gabriel.

He grimaced, set it aside, and picked up a third one.

AZIRAPHALE WHERE IN THE FUCKING FUCK ARE YOU AND THAT SNAKE? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT’S GOING ON? RESPOND!!!

-Gabriel

“Shit,” said Crowley. “Shit, shit, shit.”

He sifted through the letters to confirm that they were all from Gabriel and the messages were more or less the same. They were, overwhelmingly, from Gabriel, although he did find one from Metatron with more or less the same content, which was worded slightly more politely, and one from Uriel, which was not so polite and chastised Aziraphale for abandoning his post.

He dropped the letters from Heaven and picked up his own to Maltha, then waded through the mail to get to the outgoing post. He threw down his letter, which disappeared with a lick of flame. Then, he materialized another piece of parchment and wrote, BETH, TELL YOUR GIRLFRIEND TO CALL ME, and chucked it down after the first letter. Then, he wrote a less harsh letter to Noah, which chased the first two down.

Crowley could feel the barriers around the shop coming up after that. It was the same one they had used in an earlier time of crisis: Bars the entry of all demons except those who love the Earth. He wondered who, if anyone, would be showing up.

Aziraphale appeared in the doorway, clothes speckled with white paint. He furrowed his brow at the pile of mail starting on his desk and cascading onto the floor. “What are all these?”

“Gabriel was looking for us.”

“Shit,” said Aziraphale, picking one up.

“What should we respond?”

Aziraphale sifted through the letters, performing the same investigation that Crowley had.

“What do you think he could want?”

Aziraphale stared at the letters he had in his hand.

“Angel?”

“I don’t like the sound of this,” said Aziraphale. “And I would rather not talk to him at all. Let’s wait to respond to him until after we’ve heard back from Maltha. I would much prefer to talk to her first.”

Crowley tactfully avoided pointing out that Aziraphale was more comfortable around the Queen of Hell than one of his own commanders. “Okay.”

“Surely we can avoid Gabriel a bit longer.”

Crowley somewhat had his doubts about how long Gabriel would fail to notice they were back, but he was fine with anything that kept distance between him and any of the archangels, especially one that seemed angry at them. “Okay.”

Aziraphale wrung his hands. “That means I can’t contact anyone in Heaven without drawing his attention. But it’s not like anyone in Heaven would know what happened at the Temple, anyway, right? The culprit must be infernal in origin.”

“Of course they’re infernal. Who in Heaven would destroy the Temple Mount? This is a blow to Heaven like they’ve never suffered before.” He trailed off. “Angel, what if…what if this is a pre-emptive strike against Heaven before the war the same way Heaven struck at Hell by killing Ba’al Berith the last time they tried?”

Aziraphale grabbed his arm. “We don’t know that. Maltha’s in charge, and she wouldn’t do that. She’s risked everything and committed herself to Earth’s survival just like we have. She’s in love with a human for somebody’s sake.”

Aziraphale had a series of very dark thoughts about Maltha. Because she had only shown up once the throne was empty, and had only been on the throne for a few months before a suspicious someone destroyed one of the most symbolically important places to Heaven on Earth against all rules. And Maltha had never been one to respect rules or symbolism.

Was it a bold move? Very. Would Maltha have the audacity to do it? Yes. Her, and not many other beings in the universe.

Had her redemption been just a ploy to get at the throne?

Had all that about her being Aziraphale and Crowley’s friend been just for show?

Had Beth been just a prop?

The destruction of the Temple would spark something massive between Heaven and Hell, and Earth was their only sanctioned battleground. Did she actually care about the Earth at all? Had that just been part of the act? Would she be willing to sacrifice Earth to further her grudge against Heaven?

It was scary to him that he could even think this about someone who had offered to die defending him. But the state of things had changed, and all options were on the table.

And the scariest thing of all was that if it were true, he had been played, they all had, and events were already in motion, and there was nothing at all he could do about it.

“Who else could it be?” said Crowley, interrupting his train of thoughts. “Renegades in Hell?”

Renegades. Demons who did it without Maltha’s permission. The possibility sent a wave of relief washing over Aziraphale, as well as one of guilt that he had not thought of it.

“Maybe,” said Aziraphale. “That would make more sense.”

“That group didn’t look very happy when Noah ordered them down to Hell,” said Crowley. “It wouldn’t surprise me if maybe they didn’t have everything under control down there.”

“Of course,” said Aziraphale with a breath. “Of course. That makes much more sense. You’re right.”

“I suppose all we can do is wait to see what Maltha says,” said Crowley grimly. “If it was renegades she’d probably know about it, and she wouldn’t hesitate to tell us.”

“You’re right. Let’s just sit tight. Now that our home is fortified, we can wait here and see what happens.”

“Right,” said Crowley.

“I hope Gabriel has forgotten about us by now,” fretted Aziraphale. “I would much rather hear about what’s going on from Maltha. Surely she’ll respond soon.”

They curled up together on the couch. The telly was playing the news, but neither of them was even pretending to watch it. They texted Adam back and forth with decreasing urgency, mostly different iterations of No idea and Keep me updated. Eventually Adam sent them a picture of Dog looking morose in a medical cone with a cast, captioned Got a bit too enthusiastic chasing cars.

Adramelech sent them a message via Snapchat an hour later, but it was about how worried he was about them rather than any useful information. Crowley checked his Instagram account to find that Adramelech was still posting about the makeup he had bought over the weekend. Oryss frequented Facebook, so Aziraphale checked her account, but she had only posted a link to a news article about the attack and put a frame showing her support of the victims around her profile picture. Crowley knew what Botis’s Reddit username was and checked his activity, but it was just a wall of reply posts he had made arguing with someone on r/swords about the merit of shortswords versus two-handed weapons. Abraxas was on tumblr sometimes, so Crowley pulled her account up to find that she had paused the onslaught of pictures of her cats to reblog a thinkpiece about Europeans using the attack to justify Islamaphobia, but not much else. Beth was also on tumblr occasionally, but it turned out that she hadn’t updated since that time a month ago when she told a radical feminist to get off her blog.

No one seemed to have any useful information, or at least none of them were posting about it on social media where they could see it. Aziraphale figured that if anyone wanted to contact him about something, officially, they would send a letter. That was the proper way to do it.

But their inbox remained worryingly empty as time went on. There weren’t even any new letters from Gabriel demanding to know where they were.

They flipped the telly over to a sitcom. They waited. The situation began to seem less dire. No one was coming for them. Maybe, finally, they were off the hook, and events would unfold far away from them, under someone else’s responsibility.

Not that that was much of a comfort, considering the Earth’s continued existence might be at stake.

They turned the telly off. The clock ticking was the only sound in the room.

“Hey, angel,” said Crowley from the crook of Aziraphale’s elbow.

“Yes?”

“Well, earlier you said…”

“What is it?”

“You said… ‘our home.’ You called it ‘our home.’”

“Yes…? What do you, er…”

“Well, I just mean…” He buried his face in Aziraphale’s chest. “It’s your home, technically.”

“Well, I suppose so. But I think it’s safe to say you live here now.”

“But I never moved in.”

“Dear…What exactly is it you’re worried about?”

“Oh, I’m not worried.” He idly twisted his finger in Aziraphale’s hair. “I was just thinking that, you know, moving in together is a big step up in a relationship. We never really did it. Officially.”

“I had assumed we were already on that level…considering all we’ve been through together.”

“I just…”

“Do you not feel like you live here?”

“It’s just not official, you know? I never moved.”

“You barely ever go to your flat anymore!”

“Well, I have all my bills set up on autopay, and my plants….My plants! Angel, that’s it! I left my plants in my flat. If I moved them over here, then we would be really living together, you know?”

“Your plants?”

“Aziraphale, would you like to move in together?”

“Of-of course, my dear.”

Crowley planted a kiss on his cheek. “Then it’s official! I’ll bring my plants over here at the first opportunity.”

“Al right!” said Aziraphale, touched by how excited it made the demon.

Crowley settled back into Aziraphale’s arm. The vibrating excitement around him did not go away.

“Would you like to go get them right now?” said Aziraphale.

“Right now?” said Crowley.

“Sure, there’s nothing going on yet. How long could it take? And maybe we should see if you have any mail at your place, anyway.”

“All right,” said Crowley. “Does…Does Gabriel know where I live?”

“Hm? I don’t know,” said Aziraphale. “I don’t think so. It’s not like you give your address out to anyone. I don’t think my demons even know where you live.”

“Okay then,” said Crowley. “I’ll just pop over there and get them, and we can set them up. My spider plant would go great by the bedroom window.”

“All right, I’ll stay here in case we get word from anyone,” said Aziraphale, like an idiot. He didn’t consider that maybe they should go together until Crowley was climbing into the Bentley.

Crowley didn’t feel the presence inside his flat until he was right outside the door. He froze.

“I know you’re out there,” said a voice, muffled through the door. “Don’t bother running. I just want to have a chat with you. Come in.”

“Just a chat,” said Crowley. “You expect me to believe that?”

“You’re a celestial agent,” said the voice from inside, “and you’ll obey the commands of an archangel like one.”

They had been living peacefully, unbothered, since Maltha had taken the throne, and their lives had started to return to the normalcy they had been used to before all this apocalypse nonsense had broken out. Aziraphale’s wartime caution had started to fade. He was feeling slightly unsettled—anyone would, given the circumstances—but he thought the possibility of danger to them personally was relatively low as things stood. Until his phone dinged with a text from Crowley which said simply, in all caps:

HELP

Aziraphale cursed mightily, instantly ratcheting up into full combat mode, tearing up the stairs and throwing himself out the bedroom window. His wings snapped open and he zoomed into the sky.

He closed the distance between his shop and Crowley’s flat in forty five seconds. He aimed for the dining room window, which he slammed open with a miracle. He dove through it, rolling, and came up with his sword poised.

Crowley was sitting at the table, a teacup in one shaking hand. And in the other seat was the archangel Gabriel.

“G-Gabriel, sir!” said Aziraphale, snapping to attention and saluting.

“I told you I wanted to talk to you alone,” said Gabriel, setting his cup on his saucer with a pointed look at Crowley. It was then that Aziraphale noticed Crowley’s phone was in the middle of the table, bent and cracked, as though Gabriel had smashed it the second Crowley had gotten his text off.

“Not my fault if he wants to show up of his own accord, sir,” said Crowley, sweating.

“Stay here,” said Gabriel, standing and pulling Aziraphale aside into the kitchen.

“Sir, what’s going on?” said Aziraphale.

“I want to talk to him alone,” said Gabriel. “There are certain things he would hesitate to say in front of you.”

Aziraphale’s anger flared up. “He can say anything in front of me. Sir, I must protest! We’ve always worked together!”

“You are naïve, Aziraphale. This does not involve you. Leave.”

And here Aziraphale was faced with a direct order from an archangel, but he did not think twice before ignoring it and saying:

“You waited until we were separated to pounce on him while he was alone!”

“We were watching his flat, Aziraphale. I needed to talk to him as soon as possible.”

Aziraphale took his New Year’s resolution to be polite to Gabriel and chucked it directly into his mental rubbish bin. “Don’t go near him when I’m not around! I’m tired of you archangels bullying him just for some power trip!”

Gabriel’s eyes seemed to catch fire. “What did you just say to me?”

Aziraphale, suddenly becoming self-aware, sheepishly added, “…sir.”

Gabriel looked like he wanted to snap Aziraphale in half. “You forget yourself, principality. He has been a bad influence on you. Leave now. He will come back to you unharmed.”

Aziraphale, his face growing red, marched back into the dining room, pulled a chair up to the table, and began pouring himself a cup of tea.

Gabriel looked incredulous. Aziraphale made eye contact with him from across the room, over his teacup. “Care to join us, sir?”

Gabriel’s face contorted into rage, but he crossed the room and took his seat without comment.

“Aziraphale, I have no idea what’s going on,” said Crowley. “I swear.”

“Mind filling me in on what you were…discussing?” said Aziraphale, with a pointed look at Crowley’s destroyed phone.

Gabriel took his teacup in a death grip. “We were just discussing the fact that Raphael is aggressively pursuing a case that Michael should be cast out of Heaven at Crowley’s request.”

Aziraphale sloshed tea out of his cup. “What?

“As I said,” said Gabriel, “there are certain things he will not have told you. Have you already forgotten that demons are liars? Especially this one?”

“I never asked him to do that,” said Crowley. “I haven’t spoken with Raphael since that time he healed me after Kabata attacked me.”

“He would never admit to doing something like this in front of you, Aziraphale, and he would never admit to keeping it from you for fear of losing your….relationship.” He said this last word with a certain amount of disgust.

“On what grounds is it argued that Michael should fall?” Aziraphale said hotly.

“Crowley claims Michael should fall because of his intentional murder of a celestial agent—himself.”

Aziraphale realized he meant Michael had killed Crowley in the chaos leading up to the last Notpocalypse, who had only been brought back through the intervention of Noah. “But Crowley is alive!” said Aziraphale, gesticulating wildly. “Noah fixed all that! There’s no need for any punishment!”

Gabriel slammed his teacup down. “Yes, that is precisely my point. I am here to convince Crowley to ask Raphael to drop the case.”

“I never asked him to bring it up!” said Crowley. “Why would I?”

Gabriel sneered at him. “Why would a demon have motivation to want to see Michael fall? Take your pick. You’d obviously still be upset about what he did, so you’d harbor some resentment about that. Maybe you’re just using that as an excuse because you want to see the Sword of Heaven be cast out just like yourself. Maybe you want him for Hell’s legions. Maybe you’re just bitter. In any case, he wouldn’t tell you, Aziraphale, because it’s obvious it would upset you.”

“I didn’t,” said Crowley. “I swear. I’m not lying.”

“The demon who made his name corrupting the creation by telling a lie,” said Gabriel, “expects me to believe that he is truthful. Charming.”

“Gabriel,” said Aziraphale. “He wouldn’t. I know him. Even if he was bitter about Michael almost killing him—”

“Succeeding in killing him,” interrupted Gabriel.

“Whatever. Even if, he would rather stay out of trouble than see Michael punished. He’s always complaining about wanting to be left alone.”

“Maybe that is just because he needs more space than you are giving him. You are rather overbearing, Aziraphale,” said Gabriel.

Aziraphale clenched his fist and accidentally snapped the handle off his teacup.

Crowley began, “Gabriel, can we maybe talk about this more later, after I’ve—”

“No,” snapped Gabriel. “I’m not letting you out of my sight until this is resolved. You leave to use the toilet and suddenly you’ll be mysteriously unavailable for three months. I know how you operate, you slippery serpent.”

Crowley, his face red, sunk lower in his seat.

“This must be a misunderstanding,” said Aziraphale. “Crowley would have told me if he were going to do anything like this.”

“You have incredible trust, Aziraphale. It is misplaced.”

“It’s not.”

“You expect me to believe him over my own brother!” Gabriel said. “Raphael would not lie! Raphael loves Michael more than any of us! He would not try to hurt him like this unless there was a very good reason! Crowley is manipulating him into this!”

“I’m not!” he shouted. “I would love to call Raphael off, but I didn’t call him on!”

“I know Raphael offered you help with whatever you wanted the last time he spoke to you, Crowley.”

“I never took him up on it!” said Crowley. “I didn’t!”

“Aziraphale,” said Gabriel, “This must be Crowley somehow. We both know Raphael never takes action on his own. He would not swat a fly out of his own face if it were annoying him.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Aziraphale. “Maybe he’s just finally decided to do something you don’t like after six-thousand years of letting you walk all over him.”

Gabriel’s face twitched with annoyance, and he leaned in towards Aziraphale. Aziraphale leaned back slightly.

“Don’t test me, Aziraphale,” he menaced. “You will not win.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but think he had already been testing Gabriel, and was winning.

Gabriel leaned back, closed his eyes, and took a sip of his tea. Terse silence fell at the table. Crowley’s hand played with his teacup’s handle nervously.

“Hold on,” said Aziraphale, breaking the pause. “This doesn’t make any sense. Whatever’s happening with Michael, what does this have to do with the attack on the Temple?”

Gabriel’s eyes swiveled to him like a predatory bird. “How do you know about the Temple? Heaven hasn’t sent out any announcements about it.”

“We saw it on the news!” protested Crowley, much more thoughtfully than Aziraphale, who had been about to tell him they had been there. “Everyone knows about it!”

“Do you have any reason to believe it was anyone other than a human actor?” pressed Gabriel, suddenly very interested in going off-topic.

“Well, you’d know more about it than we would,” said Crowley. “What do you expect from us?”

Gabriel drummed his fingers on the table. Then he stood. “Come on. We’re going to talk to Raphael. I’m sure he can shed some light on this situation now that you’re back.” He waved his hand, and a circle laced with sigils appeared on the floor.

“H-hold on,” said Crowley as the archangel began to light the incense. “We’re going up there to talk to him?”

“Yes.”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“Surely Raphael can just come down here?” said Aziraphale.

Gabriel, completing the preparations, turned back towards them. “Raphael has been seized with bouts of paranoia as of late and refuses to leave Heaven to come down to Earth. I’m lucky if I can get him to come out of the infirmary at all.”

“Wh-what? What the hell is going on?” said Aziraphale.

“That’s what I intend to find out,” growled Gabriel. “Now, let’s go.”

Light began to fill the circle. “I can’t go into Heaven,” said Crowley. “I can’t. I’m a demon. Surely you must—”

“Lying again,” said Gabriel. “You went into Heaven shortly after your mission to kill Ba’al Berith, and you came into Heaven after Kabata’s attack. You’re not getting out of this.”

“It injured him both of those times!” Aziraphale protested.

Gabriel grabbed Crowley’s arm. “If you insist on joining us, Aziraphale, then come on.”

“Get off me,” said Crowley, wrenching his arm out of Gabriel’s grip. “I can walk on my own. You don’t need to manhandle me.” Crowley nervously slipped a pair of sunglasses out of his pocket and placed them on his face.

“You don’t have to do this, Crowley,” said Aziraphale.

“I’d say you’re wrong, by the look on his face,” said Crowley. “I’m sure Raphael will clear this up. Let’s go.”

Bright, so damn bright, that’s what it always was. Their feet sent up small white puffs as they landed among the clouds. The air stung his lungs, but it seemed less intense than the last time. Maybe that was just his imagination.

The enormous brass gates were off in the distance, the gatekeeper looking at them with interest. Gabriel prodded them to go towards it.

“He can’t go past the gate,” said Aziraphale. “It’s dangerous for him to get near it.”

Gabriel pushed them closer to it, but could not get them to go within earshot of the gatekeeper.

“Gabriel, he can’t go inside,” said Aziraphale, planting himself between them. “What part of this are you not understanding?”

Gabriel scowled and went over to the gatekeeper, who disappeared after a brief conference. Gabriel came back over and said, “She is going to bring Raphael out.”

They waited for a few minutes. Crowley could feel a blood vessel in his nose about to burst as his headache got worse.

The gatekeeper came back out alone. Gabriel stomped over to her and spoke to her in a low, tight voice. She replied indistinctly.

Gabriel came back over. “Stay here,” he snarled. “If either of you leave, I rescind my statement that I just wanted to talk to you, and every angel in Creation will be set on you immediately.” With that threat, he marched into the gates, which clanged shut behind him.

Blood finally started leaking from Crowley’s nose. Aziraphale wiped it with his handkerchief.

“We could run,” said Aziraphale.

“That’ll just make things worse.”

The gates opened back up. Raphael came running out, his robes flapping with his speed.

“Cr-Crowley!” said Raphael, grabbing Crowley’s shoulders. “I thought you were missing? Hm? I thought you were gone and nobody could find you?” His voice held a puzzling desperation, as though Crowley’s presence were an unexpected obstacle.

“Uh,” said Crowley nervously, overwhelmed. “I was, but—”

Gabriel appeared behind Raphael, rushing to catch up, and interrupted, “As you can see—”

Raphael cut him off, putting himself between Gabriel and Crowley. “This is between you and me, Gabriel. Leave him out of this. You’ll accomplish nothing by tormenting him like this.”

Gabriel drew forwards until he was toe-to-toe with Raphael. “Oh, it’s just between us now, is it? Earlier you were moaning about how we need to treat this demon like a real celestial agent and honour his requests.”

Aziraphale now gleaned that he had walked into the middle of something that had been brewing without him for some time and was finally exploding.

“Raphael,” said Crowley, “I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t want you to punish Michael on my behalf.”

“Isn’t that interesting?” said Gabriel. “He doesn’t think Michael should fall.”

Raphael had the look of a sailor taking on water. “Angels can’t just go around killing people without consequences. You don’t think Michael deserves to be punished for what he did? You don’t think he’s too dangerous to have on Heaven’s side?”

“Th-that’s not really for me to decide,” said Crowley.

Raphael put one hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “But you were so upset when we talked about it earlier.”

It was at this point that Crowley knew he could say nothing useful for the rest of the conversation. Gabriel would never believe him over Raphael, even if they happened to be fighting at the time. Nevertheless, he put up the effort: “We didn’t talk about anything. That’s not true.”

Gabriel did not even listen to Crowley and glared daggers at Aziraphale. “Well, it appears the literal lying serpent was not truthful with us! This should come as a shock to no one.”

“Be reasonable, Gabriel,” said Raphael, keeping himself between Crowley and the other archangel. “Of course he’s not going to admit it to you if you barge in and start threatening him. He was probably scared for his life. Most people would lie under those circumstances.”

“Regardless. Listen to him. You can drop the case against Michael. He does not think it is worth pursuing.”

“Well, it doesn’t count if he says it under duress!” said Raphael. “You’re threatening him!”

“I haven’t threatened him in the slightest!”

What is going on here? thought Aziraphale, feeling completely lost.

“Raphael, look—” Crowley began, but Raphael overtook him, hovering over him and clamping his hands on his arms.

“Crowley, I’m sure this has been quite stressful for you, and I don’t think Gabriel should try and coerce any kind of cease-and-desist out of you. You two should go.”

“Don’t go anywhere,” said Gabriel.

“Go on,” said Raphael.

Crowley looked wildly from Gabriel to Raphael, trying to decide who was more likely to smite him for disobeying.

“You know Raphael,” said Gabriel, taking a step closer, “You seem to be putting the wishes of a demon ahead of your own brother’s wellbeing. Some might say that makes you a traitor.”

Raphael released Crowley and spun to face Gabriel. “Interesting that you suddenly care about Michael’s wellbeing.”

Anyone who had stepped between them and taken the full brunt of both of those facial expressions would have surely caught fire.

“I’m just saying,” said Gabriel, “that you should be careful. Because it could very well be someone other than Michael falling.”

“Is that a threat?” said Raphael with uncharacteristic hardness.

“Just a statement.”

“You can’t. You need all six of the other archangels to decide unanimously to make the seventh fall, and Michael is in no state to make any decisions.”

“And whose fault is that, hm?” said Gabriel, staring into Raphael challengingly.

“And even then, we still haven’t appointed anyone to replace Camael yet,” said Raphael.

“Oh, I think I know who would make an excellent fit,” said Gabriel, his eyes sweeping up and down Raphael. “Victoria? That power that threatened you with physical violence when she found out what you were proposing for Michael? “

“I think we should be going,” sputtered Aziraphale, turning around and pushing Crowley towards the exit to Heaven.

Gabriel made a move towards them, but Raphael blocked him with an outstretched wing. “I think you’ve gotten everything out of them that you can, Gabriel,” he said. “Leave them alone. Don’t go near them. Do you hear me? Come to me.”

Aziraphale did not hear Gabriel’s reply, because they had reached the exit and were now hurtling through the clouds with a whomp.

Crowley was splayed out like a skydiver, his tie flapping over his shoulder, his sunglasses flown off his face. Aziraphale snapped his wings out and flapped to dissipate his momentum. Crowley put it off a bit longer, doing great loops and cartwheels through the air to reach Aziraphale.

“What the hell was that?” said Aziraphale.

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

The two of them looked at each other from across the sky for a second. Aziraphale began to feel something unpleasant coming up from inside him, and after a moment he realized it was doubt.

Aziraphale closed the distance between them to grab Crowley’s hand, their wingtips brushing against each other with each flap. “Crowley, did you ask Raphael to open a case for Michael to be cast out of Heaven?”

“What?” said Crowley. “No! Of course not!”

Aziraphale squeezed his hand. “Crowley.”

“I didn’t!” he shouted, ripping his hand out of Aziraphale’s. “You said it yourself! I would rather stay out of trouble!”

“Crowley, I know you’re scared of Michael—” Here Crowley coloured furiously and opened his mouth to reply, but Aziraphale rushed ahead, “It’s natural, it totally is. Especially after what he did, and it makes sense that you’d rather see him as a demon than an angel, so you’d be on the same side. I don’t know exactly how you could do something like this, but you’re clever enough to figure it out. I’m just saying it would make sense that you might try to do it quietly, to avoid upsetting me…”

Crowley stared at him, incredulous. “I don’t believe this,” he hissed. “I don’t believe thisssss. You think I’m lying too.”

“Is Maltha making you do this? If she’s behind the attack on the Temple, this could be part of a plot against Heaven to—”

“I don’t believe you!” he yelled. “After everything we’ve been through together, you still think I’d do something like that?”

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale helplessly. “Whatever’s going on, I want us to face it together. I’m just saying you can tell me—”

“You don’t trust us anymore? You think I would keep this from you? You think Maltha is suddenly some horrid evil bitch? You’re really that stubborn about admitting maybe any of the archangels might be in the wrong?”

Shamefaced, Aziraphale fumbled to respond.

“Do you even see us as people the same way you see Gabriel and Raphael?” Crowley accused tearfully. “This is really all it takes for you to doubt us? To doubt me?”

“Of course I see you as a person,” Aziraphale tried, trying to take Crowley’s hand again. “Crowley, I’m so sorry that you would even think that. Please just—”

“No, you know what, Aziraphale, just shut up. Just stop right there. You haven’t changed a single bit since that day in the Garden, you know that?”

“What?”

“You’ve always thought you were better than me, you’ve always thought you knew better than me, you’ve always been…” He gestured to Aziraphale. “You. I don’t know why I’m surprised by this.”

Aziraphale’s anger flared up. “What are you talking about?”

“How long were you waiting for something like this to happen? You’ve always been so concerned about my basic nature that the second anyone casts doubt on me you don’t even want to take my side! Aziraphale, I thought we were past this!”

“Raphael wouldn’t lie about this, Crowley,” he said.

“And why wouldn’t he? It’s not like the archangels have such a great track record of transparency with me!”

“Raphael is the only archangel in Heaven I would trust right now. He healed you when you were sick. He said he would help you. He’s not doing this just because he wants to! And he’s always been fond of Michael! Why would he lie?”

“Yes, Heaven’s upper management is so trustworthy! God forbid we disagree with our superiors!”

“Well, excuse me for actually being loyal!” said Aziraphale. “One of us has to!”

They both stared at each other, their wingbeats the only sound. Aziraphale, with growing horror, said, “Crowley, I didn’t mean—”

“I think it’sssss perfectly clear what you meant,” Crowley snapped. “Because demonssss aren’t loyal by nature.”

“Give me some credit, Crowley,” said Aziraphale. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Oh you didn’t mean it like that! You must have meant it in some other way then? Like the way I betrayed Hell? Like the way you think I betrayed Heaven?”

“Crowley, listen, we’re both stressed out by what’s happened. Why don’t we wait until later—”

“No, there is no later,” said Crowley. “You stopped defending me as soon as Raphael started talking. I think it’s pretty clear where your loyalties are. You know, deep down. Go to Hell, Aziraphale, and have fun sitting in your home with just you and your books.”

The demon spun and dove in the direction of his Mayfair flat, leaving the startled Aziraphale in his wake with a few loose red feathers.

#good omens #my writing #my good omens fanfic

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