#ibellator

     He wants to accept it. He wants to fall into it, to lean into such a touch and become lost amid the comforts of a lover he knows inside and out. But it’s fear that grips him with ice cold claws sinking in beneath his skin. It’s fear that guides his hands to brush comfort aside when he needs it the most. The man before him doesn’t change. Blackwatch’s Commander knows it. Knows it all too well.

     Knows that the man before him should know every twist and turn of him. Every scar, physical and emotional, between them is known. Understood. It’s a sudden fear that he himself has changed beyond all recognizability. That if he should let the man before him dig deep like he wants to that he will recoil in disgust of what he’ll find lurking just beneath his skin. It’s in his veins, it exists just in the back of his mind that is no longer his own. It’s a terrifying force, it watches like a hawk and it waits for its moment to sink it’s teeth in, to give the body a drive. 

     He’s becoming someone else, and he can never remember what this new person does. All he knows is horror stories, an aftermath that he has to navigate. He’s walking on eggshells. If he dare misstep he’ll face the music of actions that do not belong to him. It’s terror that grips him now, and it flashes momentarily in his eyes, taken over in a moment only with an unholy frozen look of what could only be taken as a certain hatred, before eyes squeeze shut, a sharp exhale accompanying as Gabriel stumbles back, holding a hand outward, intending to stop the man in front of him from making any other move. His voice betrays him, as it always likes to around Jack. His tone wavers in that slight manner only his sunshine would recognize. Fear bleeding through the facade in such a minuscule way.

     “I can’t.”

    IN THE END

                                 let me choose                                                                 𝒽𝑜𝓌 and 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝕀 𝔻𝕀𝔼.

     Devoted. Protective. Loyal.

     These are not the traits of monsters. Not for men with empty chests that ache for a beating heart.

     Yet the wraith is the embodiment of them all, watching over the man that the world believes is just as dead as he. But there the Strike Commander lies, twisting fitfully as though subconsciously the soldier could feel the hellion beast at his backside…yet the wraith knows what plagues those dreams are not of his vicious doing. No. Not when he finds the name upon pale lips that speak louder than the hitched and labored breathing.

     Old wounds that openly bleed, unable to mend and scar despite the rampant chemicals that had promised them both the ability to save the world.

     But not themselves.

     The shadows move like rippling silk, the extent of the abyss reaching with sharp and wicked talons towards the vulnerable form. The nearness of them are sapping that warmth, the wraith nothing more than a thief that leaves behind empty chill. But when they touch, it’s skittering cold against feverish skin, sweat warm and flushed with self inflicted torment..it soothes, a balm provided in gentle sweeping strokes to calm and placate.

     Like someone would have in the past. A ghost that would whisper sweetly with calm praises and tender affection.

     Perhaps—

AnGELA heLP

         “RIGHT BEHIND YOU, Commander Morrison.” As she spoke, Athena lightly traced her fingers along the other’s shoulders, to let him know exactly where she was. “I brought all the information I was able to find on Akande’s escape, as well as possible new alliances. I hope this’ll be enough.”