Vivian

Nothing can amount to the freedom or fill the space your wings once could. Divinity is stuck in limbo, John said. He couldn't fully grasp the weight of your dilemma.

You had been disconnected from the Underworld when they discovered your betrayal of the "Fallen Angel Code," or whatever bullshit they called it.

"Speak not of the cause of thy Fall. Let no word escape thy lips of that descent. It is thine alone to endure—the weight of thy transgression, thy burden, and thy fault." Spoke that damnable scroll. With your signage, you ceded your right to return to Heaven: forever an outlaw to your gallantry. A disowned, once-exalted deity. "…Endowed with eternal damnation by thine own hand."

It haunts you.

It devours you—mind, body, and soul. Every thought, every breath, every flicker of your once-pure spirit is eclipsed by it. Your bright light is muted by your blunder. You were once revered, a beacon among angels, the embodiment of unwavering devotion. They used to whisper your name with awe and place you on a pedestal for your victories. Now, they speak it only in warning, like a cautionary children's tale; the fallen, defined not by your light, but by the weight of your sin.

You have no one to blame but yourself.

“–to meeting our newest recruit. Decent enough background though…” Sharpened eyes flicking up, his gaze zeros in on you slumped on the worn couch of his office. Brooding again, John assumes as he rises from his chair and walks to you.

Your bare feet propped up against the edge of the cushion as you curled up against the armrest. Boney projections protrude under your skin, the scars still prominent from the botched operation–exposed for his eyes to observe.

“You’re zoning out again,” He declares, suddenly standing by the couch, socked feet on the shaggy carpet. You blink up at him with a bland expression, earning a small huff from him. “Brain your new sanctuary, hm?” A thick finger pokes your temple, lingering before his hand slips down to adjust your open-back tunic.

He cut open the back of your top one day after you complained about the tightness, how it only made you feel more trapped and isolated. It’s hard for his humble acts to go unnoticed; they’ve been frequent recently. You can see through his nonchalance, even if it goes unacknowledged. John truly is a kind man but hardened, even if he's not willing to accept that fact.

"I assumed you were talking to yourself." Shrugging your shoulders back, you sit up, legs folded in quiet repose as your hands rest in your lap. “A recruit, you say?” You shift the topic, focusing on him as if he had your attention all along.

He hums, turning away to face his desk again. The distinct click of a lighter follows, his hand cupping over the glowing light as his cigar ignites. “Linguist,” He drones around his precious smoke before taking a long drag. The thick vapor curls from his lips and spirals around his head as he includes with an edge, “Been needin’ another on the team. This one better be worth my while.”

John had high, though unspoken, expectations for the newbie. They needed to be, especially since missions had become increasingly intense lately due to information regarding a noir drug cartel—born in blood and built in silence. He pushed her hard, trying to extract every bit of potential he could, but he remained undecided about her performance. “Perhaps give her another week. She must warm up to the place,” you suggested. He grumbled in disagreement, but when Laswell echoed a similar sentiment, John knew he had to listen, even though he wanted her out.

Night falls quickly, and once again you're sitting there, lost in thought. While you may not be brooding, there is a yearning. A constant, pronounced ache resides in your back. You reach a hand back, grazing over the severed base of your wings. John interrupts you, nudging your chin up with a rolled magazine. “Could you stop zoning out?"

With a sigh, you lean away from him, your eyes briefly glancing down at his half-dressed state before returning to meet his gaze. The downside of always being by his side is that you witness everything—the good and the bad, the mud-slicked and the sweat-drenched, the foul-mouthed and the docile, the full gear and the barely dressed.

That incident was unexpected—he needed some privacy, so you excused yourself, only to return too soon and find John just pulling up his briefs. He didn’t say much for the rest of the night, and you could hardly look at him without thinking about that fluffy happy trail of his. The memory of that surprising moment flusters you a bit, prompting you to shift in your seat and clear your throat.

“Cold?” You retaliate, masking your brief pause, pointing at his chest—the dark, wiry hair curling around his pecs just barely covering his nipples that are “standing at attention, Captain.” It earns you a thwap on the top of your head. Grumbling under his breath about how you "had’t’ve been starin’… damn perv”, he stomps away to put on a nightshirt, making a show about it when he’s clothed. A wide smile spreads across your lips, eyes crinkling as you laugh.

Since opening up, your relationship has taken a lighter turn, which proved relieving. He enjoys seeing you smile, though he hides it pretty well, you let him think he’s fooling you—the way he pauses what he’s doing to admire you gives it away. At least he’s happy, you remind yourself. The quiet angel inside you watches happily, knowing your presence no longer brings him pain.

“Goodnight, John,” Your voice, softer than intended, slips through the dry air as he sinks into his mattress. A soft chuckle passes your lips as he grunts in response, shuffling under the covers. When his snores fill the silence, you let the tension go and sink to the cold, hardwood floor.

From the dawn of becoming an open book, you’ve been at a huge loss–particularly your identity. You’re a fallen angel. Demonized. But where have those conniving characteristics gone? The ones where you’d misplace his lighter or put the compass in Soap’s bag, whisper things to make him frantically look over the mission’s briefing again. It’s not that you missed being a little devil, it’s that your purity hasn’t taken its place. It’s that you have no place.

Leaves crinkle quietly under combat boots as his team stalks through the woods, stopping shy of the treeline. With a sharp hand gesture, the group splits to their designated stations, leaving John alone to spot the area. This was supposed to be a simple get in, get intel, get the fuck out—that’s what John rambled to you about for days, but the snake of malignancy wrung its ugly head, snarling its jagged teeth before striking.

The sharp sound of a gunshot rings out, reaching your ears before either party realizes what’s happened. You act on instinct: protect John. Shielding him, you aim to take the bullet yourself only for it to go straight through your form and penetrate his flesh. He grunts, free hand clasping his bleeding shoulder.

You whip around to face him, tending to him. “John-! Oh no. No, no,” Squatted down beside him, you pull his hands away to assess it yourself. His uniform grows dark as crimson blood seeps into the material, staining your hands. “I-I've got you. You'll be alright–I promise! I won't let anything happen–” You ramble frantically, checking for other damages.

He calls your name, and your head snaps up and meets his eyes. “I’ve had worse. It’s fine.” That doesn’t console you like he wanted. He cups his hand over yours, pressing it firmly against his wound.

Your fingers clutch his uniform, as if holding him tighter could keep him tethered to this world. A strange warmth spreads—not from blood or closeness, but something deeper—blooming from his shoulder to his fingertips. John opens his mouth to speak, but his jaw drops when he sees an entrancing glowing light behind you. "Bloody hell, what’s going on?" he wonders, at a loss for words.

Before he can question it, the pain from the shot suddenly disappears—leaving no numbness or pins and needles. Without warning, he shoves your hands away and nearly tears open his jacket to check the wound that is no longer there. Speechless, he stares as if he can't believe it’s real and gently pokes the smooth skin.

The tense moment is shattered by an unfamiliar shout from below, bringing reality crashing down. After a quick adjustment, John hisses into the comms, “Position compromised.” He glances around before sinking into the trees. “Regroup and meet at the extraction point.”

Hours have passed since the incident. John examines himself in the mirror, poking at his shoulder. A bullet is embedded in his muscle, yet there is no entry wound to indicate that he was even shot. Meanwhile, you’ve been holding your tongue, caught between feeling appalled and strangely worried. While healing abilities are not unheard of for angels, you can’t help but wonder what this means for you.

A stern calling of your name brings your attention back. “You still haven’t answered my damn question.” Looking over to the source, you're met with his over-the-shoulder stare.

Something festers up inside you, anger at seemingly nothing. His stubbornness, perhaps? “Must I explain everything to you, Jonathan?” That earns you a glare sharp enough to cut through the tension.

“Don’t get snappy with me, angel,” He barks, whipping around to face you. “Just answer my questions and we’ll-”

You practically jump up, flopping your arms in defeat. "I care for you! Deeply and truly. I’ve endured torments beyond your comprehension, and been unraveled and remade more times than I can count. All, I can bear, but if you die…" Sighing, your shoulders drop as you drag a hand over your face. “It isn't your time, John. There's a future waiting for you, one you deserve. And more than anything, I want to be there to see you claim it.”

You’re met with silence, prompting you to raise your head with a questioning look. Feeling bashful from the attention, your face heats up and you shy away. “In-In a harmless way-”

You try to brush it off, but the weight of your confession lingers in the air like a damn waiting to break. The silence stretches, reverent like the world is holding its breath. Gradually, a warmth begins to stir. It pulses outward from your chest like a second heartbeat. The space around you hums faintly, and the shadows recede—from something older, something sacred. You blink, disoriented, and the air shivers as if it, too, has recognized the shift.

“Bloody hell,” John mutters, taking a hesitant step closer. He stares, eyes wide and mouth agape. “You. Are glowing.” That same captivating light shines around you, highlighting your features in a way that leaves him stunned. A gentle air–not from the fan or draft from an open window, something unnatural, peculiar–blows through your hair as it falls free to frame your face.

Gasping, you look down at yourself, your eyes widening in disbelief. You grapple with the dreadful eyesore of tattered clothing you’ve worn for so long—its edges torn and ripped—as it burns away in your hands. A long white gown cascades down to your feet, gracefully draping over your form. John takes your hands, his fingers brushing against the golden bands clasped around your wrists and the rings adorning your fingers. Your eyes meet his, and you see an utterly shocked expression on his face.

His eyes stay locked on you, unable to help staring at such a delicate being, glowing and beaming with confidence. John blinks slowly, his breath caught in his throat. For once, he says nothing. Just stares at the sight before him, feeling almost inferior, as if he's in debt to your presence.

There's no choir, no divine voice calling you home. Only the silence between two souls. You look at him, something stirring inside you—warmth: serenity. Your gaze doesn't waver to the ceiling or down at your feet. There's no Heaven’s light or Hell’s fury, but something entirely your own.

No words are said–not that any could fit this event–but you're both content in the silence, the knowledge that you're free. John lets out a breath–half a chuckle, half a sigh–as he pulls you into his arms. The lights seem to dim around you, unable to match your natural ethereal glow, but it never disappears.

Staring at him—piercing ember eyes meeting slate blue—you finally soften. He’s drenched in sweat, hair matted to his wrinkled forehead, chest heaving like a drowning man. Only you get to see him like this: raw, ruined. You, his demon. Yet now, you almost pity him. Maybe it's because you know him better than he knows himself.

His glare sharpens. Daring. “Go away,” he snaps. You don’t, just slide off his battered dresser and step closer. He scoffs. ‘Of course it didn’t listen. Stubborn thing…’

With a small flourish, a battered stuffed elephant appears in your hand. The tight black fabric of your tunic strains as you offer it gently, unusually kind. “Elly,” you murmur. “Lost him during primary.” His eyes narrow with cynicism. The air grows taut as he looks at you with growing suspicion. You place the toy in his hands anyway, despite his stare telling you to shove it. “Just take it, John.” No venom this time, just quiet sincerity. Your fingers twitch behind your back, fidgeting.

His hand closes around Elly’s leg on instinct. A flicker of emotion crosses his face—pain, fear, something long buried. Then his fist clenches, making the scar on his knuckles rise. Deep in his mind, something is screaming to take his pistol and shoot, that this is an elaborate trap. “I don’t need comfort. Especially not from you,” he growls, emphasis on the pronoun like a slur, throwing the toy at you with defiance. Elly hits the blinds that crunch on impact, then falls with a soft plap.

You don’t flinch. Just stare back, ignoring his toddler-like tantrum. He watches the toy longer than he wants to, as if it’s a ghost from his childhood he’s tried to forget. The bedside lamp casts strange shadows on your face. It's unsettling, and he hates that it doesn’t scare him. Not anymore. In fact, he hates that you used to scare him. 

A glint of something passes through your eyes—grief, maybe. He sees it. He knows you, your quirks, your rhythms. He knows how you’ve been... different lately. Quieter. Unsettled. And now it clicks. His voice, when it comes, is almost a whisper. “Why are you doing this?” He leans back against the wall, wincing as it aches down his spine. Regret creeps in, forcing him to hold back a sigh. He rubs his face, debating whether to take the question back and tell you to bugger off.

He has to get to the bottom of this. He knows why you showed up that day, up to no good with a shit-eating grin on your face. But why’d you have to 86 the whole dynamic all of a sudden? A storm of emotions flickers across his face before settling into cold indifference. It’s too late, he decided, time to find out. 

You flinch when his question sinks in, then scowl, trying to hide behind sarcasm. “It’s my job, John. Demons get assigned—”

“Why are you being weird?” he interrupts, eyes sharp. Jaw clenched and teeth grinding, hands gripping the thin sheets below him. “You’ve been acting… fuckin’- like a damn bootlicker! What the hell is this? Some kind of psychological warfare?” He accused, voice growing sharp as rage bubbles up in his chest. 

You freeze at the use of your name, causing your cheeks to flush with embarrassment. “No—!” It escapes too fast, too raw. “I don’t want this for you, John.” You grit your teeth, digging your fingers into your palm. “You deserve better. Better than this…” You make a wide gesture, throwing your hands out beside you. “better than me.”

The confession hangs in the air, impossibly heavy. John’s eyes flick to you, unsure if he heard right. A demon. Feeling guilty? A flicker of surprise crosses his features before being quickly masked with a slight shake of his head and a braced breath. He wants nothing more than to curse you, maybe even fight you. But when he studies your face, he decides to see where this goes. “What do I deserve, then?” he asks, almost too quiet to hear, still staring at the fallen toy.

Your voice cracks when you reply, “To be happy.” You turn away, shoulders slumped, retreating like a child who broke something precious. Standing before the mirror, you stare at your reflection—longing in your eyes. Yearning like a wife waiting for her husband to come back from war. The eerie quietness gives him chills, gooseflesh spreading across his skin as he stares at you with guarded curiosity. “I want the best for you,” you whisper. “But I’m not… not anymore.”

Then something shifts as your imagination displays itself. The room transforms—walls dissolve into a clear blue sky, hardwood floor replaced by wildflower-dotted fields. A stream glistens, hydrating the rocks it pours over. John blinks, stunned, watching the dreamscape ripple around you. Has he gone mad?

“I used to be beautiful,” you murmur, touching the mirror, as if willing it to change you. “I was beauty itself.” John moves slowly, slipping out of bed and moving toward you with calculated steps. “I was… an angel, before I threw it all away.” The image of what was, and what could have been disappears, falling to sand with a drop of your head.

He stares, trying to reconcile this truth. Not to mention he’s hung up on the unicorn-fairy-land that suddenly vanished. You, his tormentor, were once divine? “I don’t get it,” he mutters, voice dry. “What happened?” Putting firm hands on your shoulders, he turns you to face him.

Your breath catches, looking up at him like a deer in headlights. After a painful moment of stammering, you finally manage to choke out an answer, “I broke the law to save a soul. Made a deal... with a demon.” You nearly flinch, the truth hurting to admit aloud.

His jaw clenches, tense, but he doesn’t step back. His hand, rough and calloused, touches your cheek with surprising gentleness. “You broke the rules for someone else.” For some reason, his blunt reiteration cuts you deep. Perhaps it’s that look in his eyes that says he understands.

Tears swell up in the corners of your eyes, your bottom lip caught between your teeth to stop it from trembling. You nod, barely holding it together. “She was marked for damnation. I tried everything, and failed, so I offered myself instead. I manipulated him,” you confess. “Used his affection for me as an advantage.”

The longer you loiter like this, the more your brain taunts you—the anxiety of holding up your end of the deal, how the Gods grimaced at you and other angels condemned you. But the worst part wasn’t the centuries of being broken down and reconstructed into the opposite of your truth–no. It was being stripped of your wings, one cut at a time. Those sneering demons pinned you in a bruising grip, feeding off the melody of your cries. 

His eyes widen, shocked and in disbelief, but he doesn't let go. “That’s not monstrous. That’s… noble.” The intense look in his eyes is for once it’s not scrutinizing, but filled with a newfound respect for you. And the weight of that realization breaks you. 

Your intentions were pure: save her from a lifetime of torture. But that’s not how it works—you knew that. The rules were engraved into your bones and you still went against them. How could you? You tried saving someone and only hurt yourself, now you’re stuck taunting a man who locked away his kind heart for the sake of war. He’s the noble one, you should be the one telling him that. Not the other way around.

“No…” You sink to the floor, tears falling freely. He follows after a moment of delay, knees cracking with a grunt. Vulnerable, you lean your head against his chest, seeking some form of solace. “I’m sorry for everything, John,” you say, pawing at his shirt like a cat wanting to be let indoors during a storm. “It’s all my fault... I don’t deserve forgiveness.”

John pulls back to study you, pushing the hundreds of questions in his mind aside. “You’ve demonized yourself,” His forehead pressed against yours, grounding you as he wiped away tears. “But no one’s flawless. Not even the Gods.” His fingers trace the faded scars on your back—where wings once spread. “You’re still an angel,” he whispers. “This is just... camouflage.”

Soon the dam cracks and breaks,

"I am not up for takes!"

Puzzled now, he is,

Asks, Why can't I be his?

"Know me like the back of your hand,

And maybe we can withstand.

But if I don't know you like my way home,

Day Care, where my hands clasped before my closed eyes as I pray over my food, done as told,

Rich dirt, for homemade mudpies with my big sister, too maternal and lacking a sense of belonging

Cold dinner, as I picked at my food, parents bickering at me for being difficult, ignoring my mumbled apologies

Curled up, the tightest and most vulnerable little thing, refusing to let my tears show.