-testing, t-testing, one, t-two-

Beth wondered sometimes whether she trusted her own instinct that little bit too much. It wasn’t as if she was right one hundred percent of the time. Yet she had handed the watch over to Gage and went with her gut feeling. She did know that there was always a chance she would never see the guy again—but if not, then he sure as hell deserved an award in sincerity because he came across as completely genuine. Which was actually quite difficult sometimes for Beth—she didn’t trust that easily at all. However, there was something about the guy and she was willing to go with her own judgement about him. Which was a good job really because she was expecting him to return it sooner.

Not too concerned yet though, the brunette decided she would give it three or four more days and if she didn’t see Gage again, would resign herself to the fact that her instincts had indeed been wrong.

Tending to the bar and serving drinks for the next few hours, seemed to go by pretty fast. Beth cocked her brow as she glanced at the time and gave a pursed smile.

 ”I’m outta here.”

She wasn’t entirely sure where she was going—maybe the number six—maybe the Snake eyes or even just hanging around outside. Although it was damn cold and there was more chance of a fight ensuing when you were knocking about on the streets.  There seemed to be a no holds barred thing going off and if someone took a dislike to you and they had the nerve, then some would think nothing of pulling a knife. Sometimes it was because people were hungry and desperate, Beth could understand this reason more. Hunger and sleep deprivation did strange things to the mind, made your fighting instinct come out and those who wouldn’t dream of violence would suddenly use every piece of force they had within them.

"You look tired Beth, not looking that good tonight."

The doorman was smirking at his own words. Beth had found him to be this way since she had given him a hard time once over his presumptuous attitude. Now he just thought sarcasm was the best way—only she fed off of it.

"And you look like an asshat..only trouble is, I will be refreshed and back to my awesome self come tomorrow—but you will always be a fuckin’ punkass."

She tapped his cheek just to add to the insult and this time she smirked back at him, as well as throwing in a wink.

"Yeah yeah—funny aint ya. Oh and there’s some guy waitin’ over there to see ya. More fool him."

Beth cocked a brow and let the last part of his comment pass without any comeback. Instead she walked closer to the figure. It was as she approached him, the familiar face came into view and Beth let a grin form on her lips.

"Well well…Howdy there partner. Glad to see you are a man of your word. How you doin’ darlin?"

  ☽ - — "Hello, m-miss B-beth..."

Gage returned the smile with one of his own - and he'd heard the little interlude - had already been grinning slightly at the sharp tongue and cutting words the bartender-come-fighter offered in return.  But it was the smile that brightened his mood, seemed to shake off the gloom of the back alley and bring a warmth that was at all odds with the constant drizzle of rain.

"I'm s-sorry that it took so long to r-return your w-watch...  I w-was... Uh, I got sick - b-but it's okay, I'm f-fine n-now... N-not sick."  

The latter words were added quickly, just in case she thought he might have something unfortunate or contagious.  Even something as innocuous as a cold in Purgatory could be fatal - especially for those living on the streets, or hungry, with weakened bodies and fragile minds - not that Beth was either of those things - but still... It wasn't something that was desirable, even for those of a more stolid constitution.

And his own constitution was somewhat - improved - beyond the last time he'd spoken with the woman.  And such a blessing was hindsight, or in this case, insight.  He at least, understood now - that moment of - choice... Or at least, it had been a choice for him - not so much for her, and something which didn't result in quite the same oppression from the gifter to the gifted.  Knew what it was like to have that desire to - l i v e - to persist, to exist, and to be willing to pay a price for it.  Though again, the price he'd paid wasn't really comparable...  

It was a sad thing then, that as much as he wanted to talk to her about it - ask her about it - find out more from someone, if not in the 'same' situation as him, then at least one so similar - but... Lips remained silent. She was - Liliths... In so much as he hated the word 'pet' - he could at least see now how it had come about.  That the Princes and the Fallen seemed to use their... Gifts... As a mechanism of control, a lack of choice - a sense of owing, or belonging to... No less that he was now bonded to Ray... And while Beth didn't seem wholly enamoured with the prospect of being a Prince's pet, perhaps those loyalties were still strong enough - even for self-protection.  To have someone bonded to an Arc... Plenty of leverage and a pretty good bargaining chip - so... No... And it was - a sad thing...

"It's ff-fixed... Uh, your w-watch... It's ff-fixed."  Another flash of a smile, then eyes flicked upwards, not really wanting to take the newly repaired piece out for examination in the damp that pervaded the air.  

"W-would you like to go somewhere and I c-can show you?  Or... D-do you just w-want to take it and look at it later?  I know you've just ff-finished w-work so... If you're tired and you'd r-rather just.. Y'know?"

The suit was made to fit his form, and his only. The dark colour suited his skin, brought out his eyes. The material was soft and had a shine to it. When he walked it was with a confidence that came from having complete power over everyone in the building. It was a confidence that came from being a Prince in Purgatory.  

His smile was shark-like, both in its intensity and its cruelty. He wasn’t sure that there were many men in Purgatory who could both arouse and terrify with a simple, well-placed smile. The thought on made his tooth grin wider and he waved a hand to scatter the girls that had gathered. It was a full house tonight, and there was work to be done. No time for fawning over their beloved prince. Not now, at least. But perhaps he’d have his pet fawn over him later. It had been some time since he’d felt the fighter’s calloused hands caress his body, or felt that harsh mouth on his cock.

The steps he took were slow, assured, and at the top of the stair he looked across the lobby to see what regulars and new-comers had come in that night. His eyes were quick to spot anyone who looked like they might cause problems. Lines formed across his brow as he spotted someone he couldn’t quite recognise from first glance. He felt as though he had seen them somwhere, but they were too far to see from his vantage. He caught the attention of one of his girls and was quick to tell them to bring up the guest so he could get a better look at them.

"Welcome to Gomorrah," he began and smiled the same predatory smile he always did. It was how he greeted everyone. This was no different.

  - —He’d gotten a call about lighting.  Flickering lighting.  Not uncommon in Purgatory with unsteady power surges.  But apparently this was solely on the fourth floor of a building, a glitch in the circuits, a fault in the system.

Which would have been fine.  

    If it hadn’t been that particular building.

                   - G o m o r r a h -

       He’d flinched when it was mentioned.  But it was a good job, and yes, it might not be anywhere he ever wanted to set foot inside, but you really didn’t say ‘no’ to anything that had a Prince as the figurehead.  That just pissed off whoever was working for them, things got delayed, questions were asked and then fingers started pointing.  He could really do without fingers pointing in his direction.  So, get in - fix the lights - get out.

The usual duffle bag of tools was slung over his shoulder and he was given a pointed once over by some guy outside as he stepped up to the door — heard a muffled snort along the lines of ‘have fun in there kid’ — wincing slightly at the lecherous tone before walking inside and…

….Nnnnh….

           ….Oh… No… Mh…

This was not going to be easy.

     There was a rather attractive lady wearing… Not very much… Splayed out across something that looked like a couch in the foyer.  He vaguely noticed that there was a lot of red… Velvet… Mostly the couch.  And he thought for a moment about asking the woman if she was cold or would like to borrow his coat…  Which was… Stupid.  

      Because this was a brothel.  Whorehouse.  Whatever you wanted to call it.  And the — nice lady — was obviously just ‘advertising’ her… Er… Talents?

Gage’s head turned away so quickly, that it was possible to imagine that he’d been slapped.  A sharp intake of breath which could possibly have caused a minor vacuum — feeling a hideous heat rising on his face, eyes very decidedly nailed to the floor.  

His glance only raised ever so slightly when he realised he was being addressed...  By another lady - wearing... Not much...

       Hopefully she was the one who’d called and would know why he was here and he wouldn’t have to - wait - in the presence of the nice, but mostly naked lady, for too long.  But he was being ushered elsewhere... Over to a more private area, hopefully someone who could point him in the right direction.

Only to be greeted by someone who looked like he'd quite happily take a bit right out of Gage - and not in any kind of fun way.

        “T-there was… I w-was… A … Uh… P-phonecall?  Sir?”     

Shit.  No.  

    Nervousness wasn’t exactly helping.  Apparently full sentences were out of the window, along with any vague sense of decorum.  

 ”I’m h-h-hhere… T-to… F-ff-fix t-the… The… T-the…. Mm… L-lights.”

It is as if he is speaking only to her.

Apadiel can see his face in her mind, imagines how his eyes move when he recites the words from the page that he’d found. Worn paper held in careful hands, not wanting to do any more damage to the unexpected bit of treasure he’s found.

Hands that build and repair small, precious things. The man can fix anything, they’d told her. Anything except the way he talks.

Just go north, all the way north, into the wastelands. He’s got a fucking bus; you can’t miss it.

She’d known better than to try to ask him, and this information was older than their evening at the Games. Though that had done nothing to lessen her curiosity about him. If anything, it was the opposite, a desire to know more, but the things she wants to know now are answers to questions that she can not — will not — ask strangers.

Strangers can tell her where he lives, but not why he left his home to watch the Games with her. They can tell her that his hands can build, but not what he’d hoped for when he turned his hand to hold hers.

And they can talk about his words, but they know nothing of his lips. There is nothing there that needs to be fixed, but they do not know because he has not kissed them with those same lips or touched them with his hands. There are questions that can be asked without words, answers that can be given without having to speak.

Even alone in her apartment, she feels heat bloom on her cheeks when he speaks of finding stars in unexpected places. It is arrogant for her to assume that she is the star he speaks of, but Apadiel is arrogant, and it’s a sweet hubris, to imagine that he would call her beautiful.

She wants him to think she’s beautiful, not because it will help her in any way, but because she enjoys the idea. That he looks at her and sees someone that he wants, that he could care about. She is already a presence in his life that he wants to tell others about, even if it’s hampered, half-hidden in obscurity. 

She already knows that she cares about him, but with each passing day, her distraction serves only to confuse her more. That a human should wake these feelings in her is alarming, but they are there all the same. Apadiel wanted to have his favor, wanted him to want her. This is more than she ever expected, but she welcomes it, even if she’s unsure what to do with it.

The song is beautiful, not what he usually plays. Yet another message, given to the city, but with her in mind? For a moment she closes her eyes and allows herself to just listen, trying to understand what it is he wants to tell her with this. 

Her fingertips brush over her lower lip, and she’s surprised to find how much she’s smiling, but it’s wonderful. It’s bold, this change in programming, but like so many other things he’s done, he gets away with it precisely because he is Gage.

Apadiel wants to see him. It is a thought that blooms up out of nowhere in time with the music, but it will not be ignored. She doesn’t want to sit alone in her apartment and listen to his broadcast. She wants to look at him again, talk with him. Be with him while he shares his music with Purgatory. 

For a moment, she considers changing, but she knows how harsh the wastelands can be, and there is no point. She laughs to herself as she laces her boots and shrugs on her leather jacket. It’s madness, turning up at his door this time of night, but she is not a madwoman. Far from it; having decided, she feels a sense of calm, but she can’t stop smiling.

It’s the work of a heartbeat for her to go from her home to the wastelands, and immediately she is bombarded by wind and sand, having left the quiet of the apartment behind her. Here there is no music, only the promise of music when she finds him. The rain that plagues the city does not reach this far out, leaving the ground cracked and barren. Apadiel shields her eyes as best she can. After a moment to adjust to the dark, she sees something farther out, a shape that she sets off towards. 

The bus takes shape from the dark as she gets closer to it, antennae sticking out of the roof and steel reinforcements bolted to the sides. It seems an unusual place to find him. Gage loves people; she would have thought that he would live among them, possibly in an overcrowded apartment with his studio tucked away in an attic.

Light shines through the blinds, and she keeps her eyes on it even as the wind threatens to bring her to her knees. She bundles her hair under her hood and rushes the last few steps, grateful for the windbreak that the bus provides. It’s only when she lifts her hand to knock that she hesitates, for the first time considering that she could be wrong. Perhaps he has some other star. In her mind’s eye he’d been alone.

She won’t go back without at least trying. She wants to see him again, and if she can only have a moment, then that will have to be enough for this time.

Apadiel knocks, then steps back to wait, glancing at the window.

"Gage?"

☽ - — He's dozing, slipping midway between sleep and wakefulness.  The warmth of the bus and the push of wind against the exterior are all things which serve to soothe an active mind and lull him into an eased state.  Something away from the brutality of the streets and the ache which seemed to throb through the heart of the City.

And it wasn't so much that he craved the separation, that he wanted to distance himself from people - he liked people - a lot.  He just found it easier to breathe here - even with the dust cloying his lungs and the vicious lash of grit against skin that served to sandblast even the most covered of bodies -- it always seemed to find a way to slip, slide a piece of grit or sand betwixt layers... It was just a place he felt -- comfortable.  Felt more at ease.  Perhaps it was the silence.  Maybe it was because he'd managed to build something for himself... Blood sweat and tears -- mostly when he managed to whack himself on the thumb with a hammer, or smack himself in the face with a particularly stubborn sheet of metal... But it was - his...

...And it was - isolated. So when the knock comes at the door, especially at this time of night, it has his eyes snapping open with a sudden alertness and wary demeanour.  Not so many people came to the Edge.  Even less in the darkness, for fear of wandering too far out into the wastelands beyond the rubble...  Unless of course - that was the idea... And he did wonder what it was that was so despairing that would cause a person - a soul - to set foot out there... Into the never ending darkness beyond....  Swallowed up into an oblivion and never to return...

However, such thoughts didn't linger - and he thinks there's a voice - though the tone of it is stolen away with the wind and the low play of the radio in the background...  And he doesn't know who would seek him out... Brie had never come here, Ray didn't exactly knock - he just made himself at home ( as was his right now ) -- and he'd not seen any of his other visitors in quite some time.

So he slides from the narrow cot at the back of the bus, steps toward the front, sets eyes on the knife he kept near the door -- for emergencies only -- but doesn't pick it up, just makes sure it's within easy reach should he need it.  He never had before.  Hopefully tonight wouldn't be the night for something foul to befall him... Not here...  ...And theres a narrow window at the side of the door - not a lot of good though, when the light was within and darkness without -- it didn't illuminate more than a few inches outside - just enough to see the dust beyond swirling in the wind...

A breath, and his hand was on the latch - a series of intricate locks and bolts all undone with one solid 'thunk' as it twisted and loosened ( more mindful now lest he pull it off it's hinges - again ) --

And then the light was spilling into the darkness -- luminescence surrounding a lone figure, and perhaps -- no, definitely -- the last person he expected to see here...

"It's you!?"

Surprised - but the recognition was immediate - and the smile was no more than a fraction of a second behind it -- lancing across his face clearly, bright and unbrittle - an obvious - if stunned joy...

...But he did not invite her inside.  

Even though the wind curled and whipped loose strands of hair the colour of soft honey into her eyes.  Even though the ground whispered with rolling dust and sand and dirt. Did not invite her in,

because he was already stepping out --

--Barefoot on the ground, and in a single stride he was meeting his - guest... No stuttered hello in greeting.  And no hesitation either --

One arm snaked around slender waist with a strength absent from their last meeting - though not more than should be beyond his means... The other was already curling fingers around the side of her neck, and he was giving and taking and demanding and submitting all at the same time, stolen kiss and a smile on his lips as he did...

She tasted sweet on his tongue and he felt a slow warm roll in his gut, a light churn that told him quite clearly that his brain was being disengaged and all he could think about now were her lips on his, her breath in his mouth and the fact that she was here… not focussing on anything but her… Only her… another quick soft brush before he was parting his lips and tasting her mouth all over again.  

It was all heat and silk -  like the brush of butterfly wings -  vivid flashes of colour and energy. No chaos creator except for the stirring of a storm in his mind, his chest, the singing, heavy beat of his heart - 

Only pausing when breath demanded it - a warmth to his eyes as he pulled back, still smiling...

"H-hey...  You f-found mm-me..."

And in the seconds following, flimsy t-shirt proved little defence against the chill and the cold and there was gooseflesh raising on his skin - a small flicker of his eyes to the side and the still open door behind them.

"It's n-not mm-much - but it's h-home... Uh... Come inside... Please?  Unless..."

A sudden flash of worry crossing his face, clearly visible in the dimmer light surrounding them - and the happiness of the moment was briefly tempered with concern...

The idea of a broken heart is that it happens very quickly. All at once in one big shattering moment, one fell swoop. The a person’s whole world is ruined with a singular event. But this is not true. 

Remiel knows this is not true. 

A heart breaks -s l o w l y-

Piece 

           by 

                piece. 

A sliver at a time falls off and fades away. 

                       Until there is nothing but -{ s t o n e }-

It takes hours and h   o  u  r  s   .   .    . until there is no piece of his heart big enough to break. He shouts until there is no sound. Until his voice is gone, carved out of his throat by screams that had begun as a name, devolved into a desperate plea and eventually faded into nothing but a begging whimper. 

And eventually even that is gone. It has left, as the light in his eyes has glazed over into an empty resignation. 

Despair echos through his hollow bones, like a bell toll, leading the way for something (distinctly) else. Something once buried, pacified with words from the bible. With a mission. With a purpose to help humanity -well, humanity as it was caged in purgatory. 

He has failed. 

The one angel he swore to always protect, to always be there for, above himself, above all others and he had let Gabriel down. He had been too week to be there for him. 

He had prayed and begged and not even an iota of thought was spared to him. Remiel could understand why he was being punished. Doubted himself enough, hated himself enough not to question God’s decision in casting him down. But Gabriel had been pure. Had been clean. Hadn’t deserved to be punished and certainly hadn’t deserved death.

"Why?"

The question is like blood splatter on a wall after a gunshot. It ripples through his mind because any verbalization is caught on his tongue and his teeth. Given up. 

"Why would you give me love to rip it out of my chest?" 

"Why… why would you hurt me?"

Because it had to be his fault. It was his fault. He hadn’t done his job, had broken his promise. 

"I was obedient."

"I was faithful."

"Why would you do this to me?"

And something dark and black and monstrous tore from his soul. It was emaciated, aching for blood, carnal, pure and raging. He felt like he had shed his skin and the demon that had been lurking all the while beneath his half-hearted grin had finally been set free. 

He was not an angel. He couldn’t be. 

So broken and tragic -with a rage to make the devil shiver.

"…You…"

Something in him broke. Like a glass coffin shattering. 

"You are not real and I am all done with you." 

"God. Is. A. Lie."

He is wild, tearing through his own mind, his own grace. Rage burns the last mercies in him. Kills his happiness and dulls his senses to anything but the pain he feels. He is evolving, or devolving, to something baser. Something that can and will kill. 

He does not want justice. He wants vengeance. He wants a reckoning. He wants someone to answer -her- because Gabriel had said she. He wanted the city to know. He wanted freedom. He wanted to burn. He wanted to be absolved. He wanted his sins purged from his skin. 

He wanted to be clean. 

Remiel is a storm, and he carries it with him as he marches away from the city. His entire body is screaming where his voice so long ago left off. 

He can feel the shift of bones beneath his skin. His muscles rubbed raw and he thinks its strange that his face is wet because he thought the rain had let up. His body trembles. He is not right. Not in a good place. Shouldn’t subject Gage to his own turmoil. 

But he can’t -h e l p- himself, can’t -s t o p- from returning; it’s the only home he has. 

[Gage… Gage… please…I did something… I failed… I…please… I’m so angry… everything hurts…I’m a monster… please let me come home. I need to figure… I need to know… to be safe… you.] 

Remiel makes it to the trailer but he feels so disconnected. So different. And he’s a traitor and a beggar and failure and an angel and nothing. He is nothing he ever set out to be. He is the thunder and the lightning which roils the sea. But he is also the lone boat, tossed about by dirty emerald waves. Overwhelmed. He wants to sink,

deep

               deep

                            deep into the water. 

His palms find his eyes as he stands outside the trailer. He is crying and his breath is jagged and he just keeps pleading with Gage over their inherent connection. 

[Gage…

               … please…

                                      …please…

                                                            …Gage…]

  ☽ - —    He's been trying to sleep, but there's something elusive about it tonight. Chasing the tails of the sandman as he runs and jumps and leaps just out of reach.  A light doze and he's turning again.  Unsettled and tense. And he hasn't got a clue why.  

The wind outside is fierce tonight, buffeting the side of the bus with grit and stone and dirt, even rocking it slightly on it's rusted axel. It's another twenty minutes of being unsettled and he finally pushes up out of the cot, pulls on a sweater against the chill and paces -- as much as he can anyway -- in the confines of the tin can.

The radio is still playing quietly in the background -- broadcast pre recorded and transmitting across the city... A constant companion when he's here, alone, hoping that the music will reach out and comfort, inspire, be company for those also alone.  Just knowing that they are not -- in the truest sense of things.  That there is still someone - out there - somewhere.

But it's not that 'broadcast' which suddenly ricochets into his head. He knows the sound and the voice. What he's not expecting is the panic and raw emotion that slams into his chest like a wrecking ball. It's enough to leave him gasping for air, momentarily unsteady on his feet with the sheer force of it.  Grabbing onto one of the shelves to hold himself upright and scramble to find his bearings.  

"R-ray..."  A verbal push of name and he's stupid -- stupid. He can't hear that. A flex of jaw against the tension that's knitting between his shoulder blades.  Rage and grief and loss pouring in like a flood.  Emotions that aren't his own -- and he can only think that Ray must be standing right behind him for that feeling to almost take him off his feet.

So he takes a breath, tries to find the things that are himself, a calm, a warmth, and a welcoming.  To be the antithesis of what he can feel.  To be a rock to ground upon.

Finds that splitting shimmer of light, feels the buzz that knits itself into the back of his skull and tries to pull on it.  Like some kind of lifeline...

[ Ray, I'm here.  Come home.  I'm here for you.  Whatever it is I am HERE for you. ]

Eyes close and he just tries to breathe, tries to keep up the connection, not so much with words, but with simple presence.  And he might not be what Ray needs or wants, he has no idea what's happened only that it's--

                       bad, bad, bAd, wrong, painFuL, 

an ache in his chest and a hollow in his gut that is out of place.

It's not long... Almost as if there's a slow winding in of the thread, that bond, tie, between them, and it has Gage opening the door of the bus before Ray even makes it there, bare feet stepping out into the dirt and he's moving forward quickly, with purpose.

Can see the glint of saline tracks and at this proximity Ray's emotions are a tsunami in his head, a fire in his blood, heavy breaths as if he's the one who'd been running.

it doesn't stop him though, he doesn't falter until he meets the other and has his arms wrapped around the preacher.  Pulling him in close --  it's almost a crash of bodies and another slam into his senses with the physical contact.

But he is that rock and he will be steady.   He is the armour and he will protect.

"You're h-home R-ray.  You're safe h-here.  I've got you.  R-remember?  You've got m-me and I've got you."

And there's a falter, the weight suddenly heavier in his arms as Ray seems to lose the strength in his own body -- and that's okay.  That's what Gage is here for.  Ray gave him strength, so he uses it.  Just pulls his hold tighter...

"N-not gonna let you go, c'mon..."  

Taking the weight, the physical burden, as much as he can and guiding them to the bus, a slight turn to get two wide bodies through the narrow door, but he manages with only one sharp crack to his left knee, nothing even noticed in his hurry to get the preacher inside.

"Sit."  Half order, half just hauling Ray back to the cot and easing him down, a bend of knee to bring himself down to eye level as he detaches, but not completely, one hand resting gently on the other's knee, trying to reassure, to remind that he is here.

"W-what h-happened, R-ray?  Talk to m-me?  P-please... Or..."  

gunshot // lykke li

There was an implicit judgement in his tone that settled under his skin like tiny shards of glass, and he exhaled, soft. He may have been relatively new here, may have still been shaping out what it was to survive upon the edge of a death that infinity had always struggled to comprehend, but he was neither blind nor sanctimonious nor an idiot. He had seen the long parade of rebellion stretch out across the span of human history, and this change of location did not change the essential nature of what was taking place. It was a pattern of eternal, shifting complexity, bred within the human heart. And because of that, he was completely understanding that in order for permanent change to come, it would have to come from within.

Humanity were the ones that would determine the fate of them all. It did not matter how strong the Prince’s infrastructure, or how earnestly the Arcs sought to aid them, their decisions would ultimately shape the outcome of their fates. Rebellion was not a single huge gesture, the bombing of a building, or a man holding up his fist to an unforgiving sky, it was a compilation of tiny things. Small things. Acts of kindness and love. Acts of subtlety to chase away the darkness. Were the Arcs solely there to fight upon the behalf of humanity, they would fail utterly if the people did not wish to change their situation. Because of fear or because of security, if they decided instead, if a thousand individual souls or more decided to remain in the way that they were, there was nothing that they could do about it.

The Arcs, for all their power, were incredibly helpless in this regard. All they could do was attempt to guide along what was already taking place, in fits and in starts. They were not shepherds to mindless sheep, they were the weaker parts in the equation. They were the guardians of something greater than themselves that had found themselves in a precarious position, and when they were no longer useful, they would take their places once more. The Arc felt a felt a kind of soft frustration in being taught like an errant schoolboy when he had understood, for if he did not, what was the use of fighting? He looked up with his weary dark eyes when the other had finished speaking, thinking long for a moment, turning over the complex concepts within his mind slow as he dared, fragile and lovingly as a man holding an antique object.

He was deliberate, and he was quiet. “I think you misunderstand me,” he said softly, his shoulders relaxing. If he were a bird, his feathers would have gently settled back. “I am not ignorant of the situation, although I am new to it, and have much more to learn. I have not come as St. George upon a white horse to slay the dragon. In truth, I have not come at all. Like you, I was granted no choice in coming here. My feet touched earth here with a sense of confusion as well. But just because my placement here was upon orders, that does not mean that what I do here is not of my own will, in addition to the will of the one who sent me.” His smile was soft, beautiful, and achingly faint. “What I meant is…I’m here to try to give you the chance you need. This is not my fight, you see. In the end, what I do, will if anything, only serve as a small spark. The people who will change the course of this, are the people whom this effects.”

His eyes met his. 

“You.”

He sat at the table, his eyes flicking slowly over his face, before averting again, soft. He didn’t need to help him, but perhaps that was the point. They didn’t need to do anything. There was a mandate that was given to him by placing him here, but he didn’t need to follow the implicit nature of what it told him. What he did was his decision upon touching Purgatory’s soil. He could have done nothing, save that that would have tormented him. “Just because someone has stumbled in the dark, doesn’t mean that they are lost forever. But perhaps, it’s not an angel’s place to ‘rescue’ anyone. Perhaps I didn’t express myself in the right way.” He smiled apologetically. “Words. Still I’m…not tremendously impressive, unfortunately. I’m not—-particularly interested in warfare, never have been. But I’m willing to do what I can. If I can do anything—-”

He lifted his head, and a thousand emotions, a thousand emotions that he did not know how to measure or coordinate, flickered across his gaze, sunlight glinting over blackened waves. This close, in his brief agitation, he was emitting a curious aura about himself, a tiny prickling sensation of anxiety, of electricity, like a generator run too hard and too long. He looked down at his right hand, cut and still sluggishly bleeding, and then up to the hazel eyes that studied him. Gently, he clasped his hand in his. 

Trust.

Silent, soft.

“Okay,” he murmured, tilting his head and lowering his eyes.

Gages head tilted at the words.  No, -- - apparently there hadn't been a misunderstanding.  Yes, people did need help.  No, being on orders or of someone's own free will didn't count if they still somehow saw themselves as set aside.   As uninvolved.   A observer or someone with 'duty' to uphold....

I’m here to try to give you the chance you need. This is not my fight, you see.

He bristled at that.  Even though the words were said with a smile from Apollo, it wasn't reflected on the face of the repairman as the t-shirt he'd picked up was sacrificed and torn into thin strips.

"Then d-don't.  F-fff-fight."

He didn't need anyone to 'give him a chance'.  Didn't need the sympathy of someone who didn't KNOW what it was like.  Someone who'd had a taste, an inhale of Purgatory and this -- angel -- apparently knew what needed to be done, and for what reasons -- yaddah.  Decide what's best.  On their behalf.  And maybe not even bother to - ask.                         What do you want.  What do you need.  How can I help... Y-eah.  No, as far as Gage was concerned, that was bullshit.   Live it, until your stomach rumbles with starvation, until the winds and the dirt of the wasteland has rasped your skin raw and brittled the bone beneath. Until the rain had soaked through to your skin from countless nights on the streets seeping in and under flesh, diluting blood down to it's thinnest variant.   Weak. And then find the strength to pick yourself up. To not place blame, but take control. Not to raise hands against the vicious and the violent and return the same in kind, but to hold them out in offering to others who were still drowning of buried beneath the blackened soot -- falling ashes -- a fire in their hearts and a will to be more - do more - give more.... Just needing sight of something simple.

Not a 'fight'. Just a smile...

Not a 'battle'. Just a helping hand...

Not a 'war'. Maybe - understanding, an open mind -- an open heart...

He didn't know about angelic perception of humans, but the words were not reassuring. --'A spark'.  So fine.  Incite rebellion and then watch as people are slaughtered.  Disperate, desperate and scattered, hungry or crazy or lonely or... Well any number of things.

Perhaps I didn’t express myself in the right way.

No shit Sherlock.  But Gage's tongue was tempered.  He could see that the intent was there, it was only a little bit of roughness around the edges.  There was kindness and gentleness and something genuine -- perhaps just not getting things across the way he desired to -- and at least with that, Gage could sympathise, empathise... He knew what it was to have words trapped on your tongue, saying no just the 'wrong' thing, but sometimes nothing at all when the words just got lost along the way.  So he did give a nod, a small one -- something that loosened some of the tension from his shoulders, tried to shake it out of mind and body. No, the angel might not have been here long and he might not have lived all of those things.  But he could, at least see them. And however falteringly it came across - there was still the innate desire or will to help make things better - even if the reasons were different to his own.

So his eyes followed the hand as it met his, and he did manage to subdue the wince -- giving a small sigh of concession.  Then a careful movement to peel his hand away, take Apollos wrist between his fingers and turn the arm slowly so his palm was facing up.

"This mm-might sting a bit."  

A small strip of cloth, dampened in the water, carefully cleaning the blood away while looking out for any shards of glass that might be embedded.  Not wanting to push them deeper or make any of the cuts worse than they already needed to be.

"I d-don't think it h-has to bb-be a ff-fight."  

Just letting his thoughts out now, as easily as they would come.

"The P-princes took the City b-by ff-force, b-but they h-hold it ww-with ff-fear.  The Arena.  The militia that Ba'al rr-runs.  The r-restricted supplies.  If you w-want to h-help, then that's the p-place to start.  P-people are afraid.  Of saying the w-wrong thing.  Of d-doing the ww-rong thing.  Of b-being cut d-down w-where they stand or t-thrown into a cage w-waiting f-for a f-fight ww-which they mm-might survive... If they're lucky..."

Setting aside the stained cloth and looking carefully at the clean skin beneath.  A small 'hm' and furrowed brow, then he was picking up the nylon thread and needle, rummaging around for an old zippo lighter in one of the boxes to sterilise the metal as best he could.

"M'gonna p-put a couple of stitches in that one, or it won't h-heal.  At least, nn-not so quickly and it could get infected."

"It's... N-not a good idea to use your grace.  You're in a b-body nn-now, and it mm-might be a b-bit sore and inconvenient, b-but it you give it a little time then it ww-will h-heal on it's own.  They tend to d-do that.  If you r-remember to r-rest.  And sleep.  And eat..."

His gaze flicked back to Gage from where he sat, half hunched over. Concern met mortification as soon as he began expressing gratitude, which was decidedly the last thing Ray wanted. Not that he doubted the man’s sincerity, or even had qualms with his desire to express such sentiment -especially when he knew Gage’s mouth bit his words in half before he even got them to his tongue. Remiel just didn’t think gratitude was appropriate. Not when he felt redeemed himself. 

The entire event was so much different than he had ever imagined. 

'No. No.

Don’t say thank you.

Stop.

Don’t make it like that. That’s not how it is…

How it’s supposed to be.

How I see it.’ 

His eyes dropped to his lap when Gage asked not to be called an asshole. Red unfurled across his cheeks, though he couldn’t quite remember saying that out loud. “I am sorry,” he said in voice hardly above a whisper, “for calling you an asshole. I think…” He made eye contact to let the other know he was being sincere. 

Ray slipped three fingers through the handle of his mug and lifted it to his lips. His breath caught as he heard Gage, unimpeded and eloquent. He sipped the mug until half of it was gone and Gage had expounded on his own words. Internally Gage still had that same precision of thought, like an arrow loosed at the perfect angle and hitting dead center every time. He wanted to explain that he was a good soldier, or he had been -but in that victory, in all of his victories of war, he had stopped being a good man. Righteous. Faithful. Iron Willed. Obedient. Never a savior, always a murderer. 

'You can hear me? Can't you? When I was waking up… the floor. You heard that. You can hear me now. Or feel it. This is part of it, I think. The bond. Our bond.’ 

Ray let out a deep exhale and set the mug on back on the table. He studied his noodles for a moment, pulling the washcloth off his arm and folding it up to rest beside the mug. “I don’t either,” he said in that same half-whispered tone as he picked up his fork and twirled it in noodles that had grown chubby in their broth, waiting for him. 

"Regret it, I mean." 

'I heard what you said about me… what I am. You wanted me to right? About what we're supposed to do. I'm sorry I don't know more, that I don't have an instruction manual or something for you. God didn't give me a whole heads up, even about falling here. Landing. I don't know.' 

He ducked his head and kept his eyes trained on the bowl he was eating from. It was an uncomfortable sensation. 

'Please,' he moved the fork up slowly, concentrating on what he was sending to Gage and what he himself was doing. It was uncharted territory for the both of them and he hardly had someone he could talk to about it. Quaphsiel had a bond, but Leslie was nothing like Gage, and the princes would just as soon shoot him as give him advice. He had a feeling somewhere, deep in the hollow of his chest, that Gage was different even from that. Different from Asmodeus who rented Kale out for ‘games’ and Lilith who seemed to ignored beth except for when she needed something or needed a familiar punching bag. Even Apadiel, in that quasi-unrequited love-story with the violinist. 

Gage was kindness.

Patience. 

Love. 

And gage challenged him, made him feel better than he had before. Made him better than he was before. 

'Please don't ever call yourself a pet again. If I say it, if I even hint at saying it or thinking it, slap me. Across the face with an open hand. Make it sting.' 

Ray set his fork down and looked at Gage again. His face was soft, thoughtful. His bowl had been emptied but for the broth he would likely suck down in a few minutes time. ”Because I swear to you, you are not a pet. You are not some kept dog. You. Are. A. Human. Being. You are a soul and maybe you don’t believe it or know it yet but there isn’t a thing I wouldn’t do for you. You… well… you showed my my heart when I thought it had,” his arm, which had been slipped back into it’s sleeve, now lifted and he waved his hand in the air. He let it drop back into his lap with a wince, “evaporated and all that was left was some greasy film. You’ve already saved me. You couldn’t possibly understand…” He swallowed and held the other’s eyes. 

'You found me in my darkness. You let me in. You will never owe me anything. There is nothing I wouldn't give you.' 

"Well you do have to drink blood. An arc or prince’s blood will hold you over for a week. A regular angel or a fallen is roughly three days. There might be a little wiggle room. I’m pretty sure that’s how it works though. What I’ve heard, what I’ve seen. You could drink it straight from me… if you wanted. But if you don’t mind, maybe I could just give you a vial? A few to store in case I get lost or can’t be here when you need it. But I think, if you don’t mind, I’ll be here a lot?" He looked out at Gage from beneath his long eyelashes. He offered a somewhat pleading smile. 

He also wondered -- if he closed his eyes, would he notice any difference at all?  Would he know which words were being spoken to him from human lips and vibrating the air around them with 'real' sound, and which were simply thoughts, landing among his own with a very distinct 'Ray'ness' about them.

Yes. Gage decided he would know. There was that - buzz - that strange prickling feeling that seemed to start at the base of his skull and shimmer along his spinal cord - tiny sparks of sensation that seemed to be solely attributed ( for all this was his first and only experience of it ) to the silent but heard communication.

"It's ff-fine..."

In reply to the apology about being an asshole.  He hadn't really taken it to heart anyway.

And in the next moment he neither spoke nor 'projected' -- there were no real thoughts to send as Ray asked him if he could 'hear him'.  Yes, no -- kinda -- if it could even be classed along the same lines as 'hearing' -- a complexity outside the boundaries of any scientific explanation of sound... And Gage would know... About frequencies and modulation and pitch, timbre, tempo, pace, bass, treble... -- -Well, he just knew.  Attempting a broadcast of his own kind across the City didn't really come without a little knowledge... So he let his eyes drop -- concentrated on that crackle of energy down his spine -- wondered what it was, felt as though he could taste it, feel it, touch it -- like it belonged to him, but wasn't 'his'... And he nodded.   That silent confession that yes... He could hear.

However, the preachers next words had Gage snapping his head up...

I heard what you said about me.

"Oh..."   [ Shit ].   "N-no, I dd-d-didn't mm-mean f-for you to... H-hear w-what I w-was...?" [ What I was thinking.  Oh no... No... Wait... Can you hear me now?  Can you hear everything that goes through my mind? ] "Ww-what dd-did you h-hear?  I mm-mean... I ... W-wh-- Uh..." [ What was I even thinking?  Oh God... I hope it wasn't anything too weird. Are you hearing this too!?  How do I know...? ] "This is so... S-so..." [ Confusing. ]

...

A slightly shuddering breath and a long pull on his coffee cup.  To just take a moment to - attempt to - compose himself.  A small pause and Gage was looking back up at the preacher with a slightly scrutinising gaze - painfully obvious that his own mind was trying to blank out and not start on potential, differential and the mechanisms of how something like this could be possible.  One hand loosed from the safety of his mug and raised a finger, as if to request a pause in the proceedings --

Closing his eyes, poking around -- like an errant tongue probing at an aching tooth, instinctually seeking out the new, the different, that thing he can feel which wasn't there before... ...Head tilted, eyes squeezing and crinkling at the corners in concentration.

[ You can hear. Me.  You... Can hear... Me... ]

A quick punch of breath from his lungs, almost a laugh, something like relief, joy, a trill of happiness.  

                                                He can -- be heard...

And it's not words.  Not - s p o k e n - words.  Which get stuck on his tongue and clash and brittle on the back of his teeth, or sometimes are lost in their entirety when he most desperately needed them.

"Mh..."  A wrinkle of his nose at the nest stream of consciousness that hit his mind, 'P e t'.  That was the commonly used term for it, though Ray seemed to use the word 'bond' more... 

"B-bond is fine.  If you don't mm-mind.  'Pet' makes me sound like a p-poodle..."

Though he did shoot the preacher a slightly narrowed gaze -- trying once more to find words that flowed and set them loose...

[  I don't believe that a heart can evaporate. I do believe that it can be shattered or broken.   I believe that it can ache, can hurt.  Can cry or scream. ]

( hadn't his own been doing as much for such a long time? )

[  I think it can be overshadowed, even lost sometimes.  But I don't think it ever leaves you. It just takes care, and attention.  Just like anything else. Broken things can be mended after all. Just not with glue or weld or solder. It's time -- attention -- space to breathe.  To take in the wholeness of everything. To realise that you are more than the sum of your parts, more than the actions or words spoken.

You can never be certain, not one hundred percent, that the status quo will out —  there is always the possibility for a, glitch, an anomaly,                                                                            …a ‘miracle’… ]

"I'm n-not nn-nosferatu."  

The words followed on almost immediately from the thought, latching onto Ray's point about drinking blood.  Because - ew.  However he'd heard as much from Kale already, and he'd rather try to hang on to his faculties...

"I'm p-pretty sure a vial ww-would be f-fine if... If you d-don't mm-mind."  

Because he didn't have to.  Not that he imagined Ray would just -- leave... Abandon him to madness.  But things happened, unpredictable things.  And it was available on the black market - even for those who weren't a pet bond.  Just for the human state to devolve into bliss and block out the pain, if only for a little while.

"I d-don't know ww-what h-happened w-with the d-door... Uh... I think I m-might h-have... Mh... P-pulled it off the h-hinges...  And you are... W-welcome h-here.   This p-place is yours n-now as m-much as it's mm-mine... I w-wouldn't b-be h-here if nn-not ff-for... So yeah..."

[  It's not much, but it's a home -- if you want it..  ]

She lets her eyes flicker over him once as she steps towards him, estimating he’s taller than even Remiel. She’s used to most people being taller than her, but not this tall. It’s hardly of consequence and she smiles at him, fixing her eyes on his face.

"That would probably be a good idea, considering." She tilted her head towards the wall of the van briefly, letting go of his hand to open the noisy door again. "If I knew more about this type of thing, I would do it myself but..I don’t." She’s speaking over her shoulder until she finds the lever under the steering wheel column to pop the hood. "There." 

Closing the door fast does nothing to help prevent the noisiness of it and she frowns at the metal before brushing past him to lift the hood of the van, the only part of she’s able to understand of the metal underneath being where to put the oil.

"I haven’t really looked to see what’s wrong with it, I didn’t want to make it worse, but it made an awful sound when I tried to start it." 

She gave him an apologetic look. Nothing of what she said was helpful, which definitely didn’t make this job any easier, especially paired with the fact that this wasn’t his usual field.

"If it’s too inconvenient, I can still pay you for going out of your way to come out here."

☽ - —Woah...

Gage tries to focus on the kind eyes... Eyes... Swivelling his own into the engine bay.  An small clearing of his throat, attempting to focus on the mechanical parts, the threads of dirty wire through cams, carb, radiator...

Things he could name, things he could relate to, in as much as it was just another thing to be fixed -- just a really, really big watch -- and instead of powering hands, there was axel, drive shaft... Wheels and motion.  

"If it's mm-making a n-noise when you start it it's pp-probably the starter m-motor... The uh, solenoid...  Or could b-be something as simple as the mm-mounting b-bolts..."

"W-why d-don't you turn it over and I'll see if anything's obvious?"

He did wonder at the obligation, at the insistence for payment.  He really didn't mind taking a look at anything.  And there hadn't really been anything that had stumped him yet -- though the words that fell out of his own mouth were a little surprising.  He'd never fixed a car before.  Never even looked under a hood -- but it was all meshing into place -- those memories which weren't really memories.  Just things known, things that seemed to crop up at the unlikeliest of moments in the most random of situations.  As though he had done this before... Maybe... In another place.   ...Before he died.

"It's ff-fine, r-really.  I d-don't mm-mind.  I'm often about in the City..."  

Scavenging, looking for those lost or discarded items that people thought were broken beyond repair, or useless.

"...N-not so mm-many p-people h-have a ww-working vehicle though.  So even this..."  One hand waved vaguely as he peered into the grimy engine bay, "...This is r-really something."

Isn’t that amazing?

You Me At Six -  Room To Breathe (Acoustic Version) 

It was a need to touch and to know, the cast of sunlight on filaments of rain, the look of a creature that still remembers the stars. Words were fascinating, and he played with them capriciously like a child’s blocks, building strange and wonderful creations, and then sending them all knocking down with nothing more than innocent joy in the change. They were in flux, and that gratified him and troubled him, sources of entertainment and sources of loneliness that bit back deep into his throat and prompted despair.

He wanted to express gratitude and apology, and was granted only clumsy tools to do it in. It was like Michelangelo being told to paint the Sistine Chapel with a broken toothbrush. But still, there was something wonderful in it. Something about the fact that, after he had gotten past the fact that humans communicated by flapping bits of skin together, that 26 letters could produce something that blazed white-hot trails across the soul, if handled by skilled hands. Skilled hands were not his own, he had language enough for duplicity if needed, but the language of pure emotion fell entirely short. He could not press his forehead against this stranger’s, and share all that he was, and all of the emotions that shifted tumultuously beneath the serenity of his eye and his smile. 

He communicated far more than in words, was eloquent not in what he said, perhaps, but in the lines of his body, his posture, the way he glanced, or tilted his head, the way he looked towards or away. He used silence as other men might write music, and his silences were distinct, each carrying a different meaning. His narrow shoulders were only partially tense, but that was a symptom of his pain, not his mistrust, an attempt to still as much as possible until he was in a position to allow himself to heal. He did not understand yet, that Grace was far from infinite. Knew only that it came at a terrible cost. Perhaps it was telling that his instinct was to offer it anyway, before logic set in and dissuaded him. Just like his instinct was to connect, to built delicate spider webs of mutuality between himself and others. He sought those subtle connections with the men and women who hunted him. He could not help but attempt with this stranger who he had met, responding to kindness and responding to the fact that he trusted his brother. Betrayal, still, was unthinkable. His defenses were only just hardening, and he was still vulnerable. His kindness would make him a great man, if he survived the crucible of this place, but he was only just beginning. 

Still, he was eager to learn. Eager to adapt, and quick to it. The light rendered his eyes shifting blackness, soft brown shrouded as a distant memory, their surfaces difficult to decipher past their gentleness, their assurance. It was like watching the surfaces of the sea, thoughts flickering across them like sun off the waves, but hinting to unreachability. He was far from infinite, no one was infinite, but he was showing only a small sliver of himself, uncalculated, honest. 

He sighed.

It was a soft sound, an acknowledgement of a danger he was still green too, the sound of a summer wind touching though grass. Denial of something he could not help, that he had never been skilled at, and so he concentrated, dampening what he could. Nothing could erase the panther fluidity of his moments, but perhaps he could choke back what he was in words. He nodded softly, and his eyes met his briefly, before glancing away. There was a small curve of a smile that touched his lips when the name they both thought of went unmentioned, both of them mutually protective. A tilt of his head, eloquent, and an almost tiny nod, followed. Barely visible, but understanding. No names here. They would keep him safe.

He smiled again at the mention of his own false name, and there was true light in that smile, a genuineness that softened around his eyes in a shifting ripple that seemed to light up his entire body from within. It was weary still, a little beaten, but still softly defiant. It had not been stolen by Purgatory yet.

There was an insurgent I heard once called Apollo.

It would be the name he would go by, and it fit him, the incongruous impossibility of having him here. It was like an exotic bird being loosed in a mineshaft, bright, distracting, and totally unsuited to his surroundings. Perhaps it lightened the darkness, having him there, but it also inspired pain, for things as bright as he was, should never be caged. Should never have to sing their hearts out into the depths of an artificial night. Blinded, but still calling out into the darkness. He did not belong here. But then again, none of them did.

It meant something in the way he said it. The single word on the end of the sentence like an anchor, leaving him tongue-tied and lost in the drowning of the spaces of silence that held more meaning and understanding behind it than the words ever could. Instantly, he averted his eyes, but then, raised them again. The shy, thoughtful creature he sometimes was behind the bombast came to the forefront. Pain behind serenity, he would answer him fully, later. He met his eyes, finally. 

“I am sorry, too.”

———————————-

Sorry that you have found your way here.

Sorry that I am one, and do not have all the tools to save this city, not on my own.

Sorry that the Messenger is the one who decided to fight, when it should be the Warrior.

Sorry for what one day undoubtedly will come from my hand, from the people I love.

I will bring destruction in my wake one day, and will only pray that it is worth it,

and I do not b e l i e v e in prayer.

I’m sorry.

————————————-

The words were less eloquent than the silence.

So he followed him.

———————————-

His walking was slow, natural, ease a little halted, but he kept up in his wake, head up, shoulders back, less furtive than Gage, but still with a hint of tension coiled into his spine. He let his muscles do the work of locomotion, let the path become mindless, let his mind wander free. The grit beneath his boots whispered and ground, forming an easy kind of music, dust and dry, choking air, settling over him like a pall. His head lifted at the sound of the wind. For a moment, they had almost sounded like voices.

Fancy.

He looked out onto a flash frozen sea, a grey waste in no need of an ocean, a physical abyss that beckoned as it damned. Negation. All he could think was that it was beautiful. That the voiceless wind carried a kind of soothingness to it. A reminder in some way that one was not alone, and an ease at the temporariness of everything. No good. No evil. Not out in the wasteland. Nothing but the empty arch of the sky, a morally blank world, an empty canvas, without love, without hate, only with perfect indifference.

It was with some reluctance that he pulled his attention away. “It’s fine,” he said with another tired smile. “It’s more than you have to offer to a stranger.” Especially knowing what I am. “And dry is perfect. More than perfect.” 

He followed him in, ducking his head, into the slightly cramped interior, a smile still small on his lips. Signs of a life, of ingenuity. His dark eyes studied him with a new light, and there was a breath of relief as they were out of the open.

Safe.

As safe as they might be.

He spoke after a long time, clearly having held the thoughts carefully, turning them over again and again, as a man would with a priceless artifact. “I am not sorry that I am here,” he said softly, almost shyly. It was a great deal of meaning from him, who often attempted to shy from emotion in his words. “I chose to come here. Don’t know what that says about my smarts or common sense, but I couldn’t let what was happening here occur without trying to do something.” He kept his head down, his eyes on the floor. Humble. Soft. “I’m not much, but I’m here, and I’m willing, and I’m not leaving until I do what I came here to do.”

Or they kill me.

It was there, in eloquent, unspoken silence. He did not voice it.

“You saved me. You didn’t have to. There are good people here. People that need protection. People I couldn’t protect if I gave into my fears and stayed far away.”

“I chose this.”

His eyes finally raised, and he smiled his broken-edged, weary smile. 

It was plain and simple and true.

Gage already shaking out of his soaked jacket and tossing it onto the back of a chair, stepping over to the small sink crammed into the tin can that he called home.  

Called home -- had made into a home.   Take your pick.   The Edge was unforgiving, but the bus could take it.   He had no idea how long she'd been here before he stumbled across her, little more than a carcass, rusted and stripped of most of her component parts.  Wheels dug deep into the dirt and grit, unmoving, or perhaps just - immovable.  But something about this broken shell of a thing had inspired.  And that was what he did, after all... Took broken pieces of things and put them back together.  The trash and the waste and the useless -- the discarded and forgotten.  She had stood here for a long time before him, so with a lot of care, and even more work, perhaps she would stand long after he was gone...  A small legacy to leave, perhaps... But still -- it would be something.

A clatter of something hard on metal as a few errant pieces of glass were plucked from where they obstinately remained embedded in skin -- felt that warm trickle even as crimson smeared hand rose to hit the switch and provide a little more illumination to the cluttered interior before reaching out for some clean cloth and wrapping securely around both palms so as not to cause more mess.

It's not something that was decidedly unusual.  A few cuts here and there, especially when working as he did, with scraps and rusting parts and razor edges of metal.  Something that didn't need the attention of a clinic, just a wrap, maybe a stitch or two to help skin knit together -- possibly the expense of finding some antibiotic to stave off infection on the black market -- unaffordable from most of the pharmacies that extorted whatever they could get.  And those bound hands curled over the edge of the metal sink, shoulders drawing up and tight with tension...

"No one would choose -- this."

But he wasn't angry.  There was no accusation in his tone.  He wondered if the shiny new angel was maybe more than a little delusional.  So he busied himself -- collecting more clean cloth -- sacrificing one of his t-shirts to tear it down into soft coverings.  Some warm water in a bowl, a small metal 'first-aid' kit with scissors, tweezers, a little antiseptic...  And he was turning back to the other with a gesture for him to sit at the small table.

Just about to open his mouth and give another invitation -- a gesture... Which faltered and slipped and fell to the wayside as he got his first real good look at the other man.  Strong features beneath blood and grime.  High cheekbones and deep set eyes - but eyes that didn't seem unkind, more curious about him perhaps?  Maybe in the same way Gage was curious about the angel -- had been, moreso recently, given his more frequent encounters of late... Dark skin which seemed to glow from within, the same light that might be imaginary pinpricks in his eyes, but it seemed -- tired.   Worn.   Too tired for someone who was new here. Is this what Purgatory did to angels? When it pressed them into a flesh and bone shell --  made them breathe and bleed in equal parts. Did that light dim, wear, falter and gutter -- was it something instantaneous -- a shift in nature into something indefinable and poorly understood, basic and baser and nothing of the higher, elevated status of the celestial.  Human's were simple and complex in turns.  Easy to 'be one' if that's all you ever had been -- and it was a case of going through the motions, of action, reaction, breathe, eat, sleep, start over -- hope that you make it from one day to the next.   The rest was a luxury.

"P-please - sit - we can get you cleaned up a bit." 

And still there was no mention of the angel using his grace.  It would be quicker and probably hurt a lot less, it could also severely reduce the mortality of both of the men in the trailer if it was caught by a tracker or a Fallen who might go skipping back off to one of the Princes with a juicy slice of Intel to divulge in return for their 'favours'.  Out here, on that unseen border between City and Wasteland, it was less likely that anything would be detected -- but not impossible...

Gage slipped into the seat across and made another gesture for Apollo to join him, held out his hand -- an offer -- not quite the same as the angel had made, but as much as he could do to help.

"W-what dd-did you come h-here to do?"

He couldn't help but ask.  Almost a knee jerk reaction -- that innate curiosity ever present, Gage's eyes raising once more from his seated position to look up at the other.

"You know... W-were nn-not something you h-have to save.  H-humans..."

"W-we are not a b-bag of dd-drowning kittens in a rr-river."

It wasn't something he liked -- to hear that humans needed to be saved -- they really didn't... They weren't helpless, hopeless creatures.  They were not beyond the capacity or the capability of making those changes for themselves.  It was individually hard to do so.  Unless you sat in favour with those in power, then the iron bands of oppression were very securely shackled to body, mind and spirit... But it was really up to the individual whether they let those chains drag them down, or whether they picked them up and carried their burdens -- watched as that iron corroded, brittled and broke in lieu of a determination to continue - to live in the shadow of bigger and more terrifying things - of those with strength and weapons and power and position... But still... Not bowing, not bending and not breaking beneath the weight of it.  Not suffocating in the clouded air, of rain and darkness and the empty hollows that could easily embed and spread - seeping and spreading like a corruption.

But kept to the simple thingSmiles, hope, friendship, kindness, l o v e.

And made their own lights in the darkness, instead of waiting for one all encompassing swoop from above, only the collective flickers, here and there -- but if they spread, then maybe the light wouldn't need to come from 'above', but right here -- from human hands, and human hearts.

"And this is n-not the ff-first time I've h-heard someone talk like that."

"So-- -I'm going to tell you the same thing I told them.  Yes, there are p-pp-people out there w-who nn-need h-help.  There are p-people w-who are afraid.  And cold.  And h-hungry.  There are the ones w-who scratch out a living and get b-by -- they.... 'Exist'.  They d-don't live...                            - --And yes, I'm aware of the irony in that statement, seeing as ww-we're all 'technically' dd-dead..."

It took a little bit to get him started, to get those words, well... Not exactley 'flowing' but at least emergent... But once he did, there was, as always, that honest offering of thought.  Not a press of opinion, just his own, quiet observations, his own learning, his own experiences -- shared for all they were welcome or rejected...

"The ones w-who are lost.  Or even the ones w-who... Ww-whos... Souls... M-must h-have b-been inclined in the ff-first p-place... To take advantage of things, or live f-from the exploitation or oppression or..."

Well worse.  The torment, torture, even murder of others... But he couldn't quite bring himself to get those particular words out.  However that wasn't the point.

"Mm-my p-point bb-being..."  

A deep breath -- rather soulful hazel eyes flicking back to catch the deeper hue of the others, "W-we dd-don't always n-need to b-be saved.  B-but... If you're that ww-way inclined... It m-might b-be n-nice to h-have some h-help.  Bb-b-because w-we can save ourselves -- w-we mm-might n-not b-be able to d-do it alone or know h-how to, or ww-where to even m-make a start... B-but w-we can... If w-we're given the chance... And a h-hand..."

"Do you want me to bring out the crazy eyes or something? ‘Cause I can do it if that’s what it takes to convince you that I am not attempting to break into this building just for shits and giggles."

Jolly Green just stood there, looking at him and Leslie wondered how much of what he was saying was even registering underneath that mop of hair. The tall guy was regarding Leslie with a disapproving expression, like his mother had told him that stealing was bad and now he’d taken that to heart, regardless of the circumstances. And as proud as his mother might have been, Leslie had not been the one to push that giant out of his vagina so he felt none of the pride and all the more of the annoyance towards the guy.

How long would he have to argue before the guy gave in? Leslie could feel the prickling of sweat on the back of his neck, the beginning of tremors in his fingers would soon follow. He should have been inside the building ages ago. Should have been passed out in a corner of a dingy apartment by now, with something - he really didn’t care what - surging trough his bloodstream and erasing all thoughts and feelings. Instead he was still stuck here, arguing with someone who, unlike most of the assholes of this place, had a moral compass that even pointed vaguely towards north.

“You should just… Go h-home… “

Go home? In the universe where this guy lived - the one where a cup of hot tea and a pat on the head could cure abstinence - that might have been an excellent idea. Unfortunately, that universe were about as real as a unicorn and Leslie was here in the real world, where he needed something to drink or snort as soon as possible to be able to cope with himself and the world around him for another day.

His resolve wavered a little when he heard the building was owned by a Prince. Leslie generally tried to avoid clashing with them, tried to avoid having anything to do with them really. The Princes wouldn’t only get Leslie killed but probably the stupid angel back home too. That old man wouldn’t know the first thing about defending himself.

Leslie glanced back at the door, pictured a different door being kicked open, a reading or knitting-session being interrupted and blood staining old but soft carpets. Fingers tugged a little at the edge of the navy blue home-made scarf around his neck.

Another sound of frustration left Leslie’s throat and he lowered the knife, jerkily thrust it back in its sheath and almost cut himself in the process.  

"Should just fucking murder him myself and I wouldn’t have to worry," he muttered quietly, not meaning the words. Not really, although he’d definitely burn a few fucking books when he got home as a statement of disapproval.

Adressing the giant again, he crossed his arms over his chest, clenching his hands to fists in his armpits to keep them from trembling.

"Has anyone told you you’re really fucking annoying when you do that?" he asked, not really expecting an answer. He kicked a small pebble and sent it flying against the door.

And he sighed internally. Always with the conflict, the friction, the purposeful scratch and grate of contention which seemed to be rife within Purgatory. And if it weren't for his life being threatened (on almost a daily basis) He might even say he was — bored with it. Tired of the verbal pushing and shoving. No less the physical and literal which often followed-- - Wasn’t it -e n o u g h-  that things were already broken? Why try to dismantle what remained? Turn one thing into another ‘just because’. And people wondered where those walls came from,  those barriers. The slamming shut of any flex or flow or understanding when they were constructs oft enough of their own making.

                     However— -                      There’s enough bite to the words that has Gage                      listening intently.                      studying the ruse, the guise,                      it’s calculated but just - f l a w e d                       enough for it to be seen as something of duality                      duplicitous—                     — and he has a choice as to how he rolls with the words.                      Does he make this into something it isn’t?

                               Or — does he pluck the pieces that shimmer through — the obstinacy and attempted intimidation not withstanding - and hope, for once, that this isn’t as one dimensional as it might first appear.

"You and everyb-body else."  

Gage's words were equally grumbled into the damp air between them.  Though he wasn't convinced that there was any need for 'murder'.  There was a power imbalance, and all seemed set for war -- seemed to be the only consideration.  No resolution, nothing other than violence... Bloodshed...

Another sigh, this one audible, breath misting in front of his face in the chill air.  No less that the knife was put away.

It would be nice -- he thought -- to make it home one night without being bloody or bruised.  So, perhaps there was still hope for tonight.

"Ww-w-when I d-do w-what?  Speak?  As a mm-matter of ff-fact - yes.  Quite often."

The sharper tone was gone from Gage's voice as the other seemed to deflate - considered his options and probably didn't like the thought of having a Prince on his tail any more than he liked the thought of not getting his hands on whatever was behind the door.  Less so.

And now that Gage wasn't studying either the door, or keeping his eyes on the knife, he watched, observed, soaked up the details.  Tried to figure him out -- meaning -- if there was any.  The slightly sickly pallor to skin - could be attributed to so many things - the beading of moisture on brow, glints of light in the slight haze cast from a streetlight behind the repairman.  Not just settling of mist or drizzle perhaps.

"I t-told you I-- I h-have a little mm-money so if you d-do nn-need ff-food or something to d-drink or some ff-for a p-place to stay ff-for the nn-night, then I can h-help you... Or..."

"D-don't you n-need... Help?"

This happens repeatedly when he continues to walk. Looking down at the other bastard, Jackson stretched wretchedly to the man’s pants digging for a wallet. He fished for cash. ‘It’s your own fault, sir’ Jackson whispered to himself aloud. That guillotine choke could have killed him. Jackson had no choice but to abandon him there.

The rain could have been enough to pass this body as another homeless on the streets. Normally, Jackson wasn’t this rude, but he felt so attacked and drunk. “Why did you have to do that?” Jackson said to the body whilst tucking a few bucks down his jacket pocket. He shook his head and wobbled away from said body. Then the smell of burned rubber hit him the face, the scent was peculiar.

One would think twice about standing under burning sign but Jackson was about to get a face full of metal as he wobbled right under it’s nose right before the burning sign dangled to its last edge.

Well, so much for altruism.  And good luck to the guy.  Whatever cash Gage had on him wasn't as a result of stealing it from someone else, particularly not someone who'd actually just tried to help.  But the fetid smell of alcohol and the guys demeanour -- regardless of the fact he'd just robbed him blind - only made him less inclined to have anything to do with him. 

So when the man finally stumbled away after taking what he wanted.  The quiet repairman was left sitting on the ground, in the cold, taking stock and picking himself back to his feet carefully so as not to shred his skin on any more of those small shards, taking one last look at the face -- memorising it -- making sure that this would not be forgotten...

...And there was nothing but silence to the questions, he didn't owe him any answers.  He didn't owe him anything.  He'd just tried to help, and being beaten and robbed was his thanks.So, no -- the guy was either too stupid or greedy or drunk to realise what had happened -- too blind to see that it was Gage who had been injured in the aftermath of the act - not him, and that he HAD been trying to move away and apologise for the collision when he was attacked in return.  Couldn't feel the glass crunching under his boots, or realise that the light that had been above their head only moments ago had -                                       --e x p l o d e d - around them.

One hand raised to rub at the tender skin of his neck, no doubt there'd be a bruise in the morning -- and a few errant pieces of glass were flicked free, before Gage turned on his heel, and went on his way with a small sigh and a shake of his head.  A direction decidedly opposite to that of his aggressor.

Remiel shivered. 

He was half awake, clinging to the warm embrace of sleep -of rest- for all he was worth. It was the most he had had in years. Solid, uninterrupted, deep sleep. Sleep with no rain pounding his skin, no cold rattling his bones, no fear that he might not wake up. It was warm. Really warm. Dry clothes pulled against his skin, left impressions, where he rested against them and he had never felt so welcomed in a space as in that hazy bridge between worlds. 

A thousand particles of dust-like specks floated behind his closed eyes, they were all pieces of golden light. Each one, it’s own self-ignited spark. His mind moved in lazy waves, rippling outwards. Reckless. Honest. Unburdened. 

Amber sunlight Smells like Gage I was running                            running                                           running I ran right into Him He built me a home I just got back so late… I built him stars Constellations It was him I was waiting for… … . he waited for me… … Smells like Gage But if I open my eyes I’ll be alone… I can keep them shut Stay here for a minute longer Haven’t had a dream so warm In so long…

He rubbed a hand across his face and breathed in through the soft fabric. It was becoming more real. A slit of one eye opened and he saw, curled around his hand, a sweater that wasn’t his. He panicked when he fully recognized it was decidedly not the grimy fabric of his black button-up. There was no pressure at his throat, no shoes or socks on his feet. He curled tighter into the sweater, pulling the blanket towards his chest. 

Shit… Shit… If I If I slept with him He’s so perfect I love him. If I ruined this for us… Oh fuck… I have to get out, I have to say, I’m sorry. Oh fuck what did I do? 

He rolled from the bed, concern and agitation, trying to remember what had happened, but all he could see were stars and lightening. Gage’s face swimming in his vision. Beauty and a level of pain he hadn’t breached in centuries. He struggled and flailed and fell from the cot with no grace. With no peace. No beauty at all. He hit the floor with a significant thud and an even louder groan. His body ached and not in the good way that indicated blissful butt sex. 

It was an all over body ache. His arm pulsed, red and angry from where it had stitched itself shut and he remembered, in a hazy half committed way. He felt it more than he knew it. His brow furrowed and he opened his green eyes with a wince and another loud groan. 

"Gage…" his throat was dry and the name was a pitiful whimper, released as a sign of resignation. "I’m… the blanket… I’m stuck… can you please don’t ever tell anyone I fell? I can smell coffee, something good." An annoyed moan slipped past his lips and he rolled to his side, sniffling. Remiel let himself remain collapsed there for a moment. The floor was a familiar feeling and a very solid sign that all of it was real. 

"I’m so hungry…"

But his legs kicked again and eventually he was free. Some sardonic version of a butterfly escaping a chrysalis. Out of breath, he made it to his knees and sat back on his haunches. Remiel tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. He thought he should be praying or apologizing or something. Something to absolve himself. What he had just done to Gage. And he hated himself. Hated the pain he had brought and the selfishness with which he had acted. But he couldn’t feel guilty. There was a sense of peace, of wholeness and as much as he told himself he should believe it was wrong, he couldn’t. 

Something in him was gone. He had lost something. It was, he started to understand - - { l o n e l i n e s s } - - that had left him. Filled with something bigger something so much more infinite. 

                                              HOME 

Was the only word that came to mind and he shivered with that realization. 

Using the cot and the wall nearest to himself, Remiel rose, wobbled in an unconvinced way, and shuffled the short distance to the table. It was a strain and he was out of breath again. He let his weight rest on the chair. “Sorry,” he mumbled from somewhere low in his throat. His green eyes flicked to the expectant hazel-blue pools of Gage’s for the briefest of seconds before he moved to balance one hand on the table and the other curled around the back of his chair. It was with a slow determination that he pushed the chair back. His entire body felt sore. It was slow, he was slow and he sucked air in through his teeth, but everything about his movements, the focus of his eyes, said he needed to to do it on his own. 

'I bet I was thrown in front of a truck and now Gage just feels bad because I looked like a damn toad on the side of the road all smooshed up and grubby and…mmmmm coffee.' 

In a bitter sort of grumpiness, awake and sore and a little angry for being in such a state, his thoughts were less poetic. Less coordinated and not exactly aware that he was sending his accusations towards Gage himself as well. 

'My arm is on fire…Oh… fuck he saw it… he saw so much…I'm so hungry. He's a miracle. I hope I didn't look that dirty. If I'd had time to plan I could have cleaned up. Looked nice. He's an asshole, beautiful, food cooking miracle. I didn't think it would be like this. Well, but I mean I wasn't going to chain someone to me either. Lofty ideals and what not. Soldier of God.' 

Remiel let out a derisive snort at his own thoughts and sat down gingerly, legs sprawling underneath the table and shoulders slumping like he’d just run a marathon. 

'Some soldier I turned out to be.' 

"So," he ventured tentatively, meeting Gage’s eyes once he was settled in his chair. He felt a blush creep across his cheeks, skin still pale, freckles standing out against his nose even more so than usual. He wasn’t sure what to say, or how to proceed. His fingers edged nervously towards his mug of coffee. "You. And me. We’re. Yeah… I’m sorry… I don’t know what… I don’t feel good at all. But your uh, bed smells nice," he winced and dropped his eyes. He let out a deep breath, chin pressed to his chest, "which is creepy." He drug his hands over his face and sighed again.

It was the first time in eons Remiel had ever lacked words or the knowledge of what to say. 

He lifted his eyes with a hesitent anxiety but everything that he was, everything he had given, swam behind that gaze. His lips, pale and soft as pink rose petals separated, “you don’t regret it? You’re not mad it was me? You have to know… I’d have done anything, even if you had wanted someone else…Gage…”

...Jaw clenching and flexing and a small sigh at the muffled protest coming from inside the blanket, just about to move to assist when the preacher managed to shake himself free and blink blearily eyed into the early morning... And he had been scared. Worried enough to check for pulse and breathing. To make sure he was still there, still... A l i v e. Had thought several times about maybe calling someone, but the question was -- who? He didn't have any expertise in the are of angels, ( though right now he figured he'd have to get up to speed pretty freaking quickly ) didn't know who Ray would consider a friend or a foe, and with the Arc out for the count, inviting unknown entities into the midst was just too dangerous. But for the most part, it seemed like Ray was sleeping. Resting after the trauma... ...And the red line on his arm remained raw and vivid, but even it had begun to lessen in the viciousness of colour against Ray's pale, freckled and inked skin.

He didn't say anything -- not yet -- wasn't really sure how to ask, or really what to ask...

Things were different -- indefinably different.  How could he possibly express what this meant?  Ray had saved his life.  Saved him.  From that creeping clipping darkness.  Maybe one day he would encounter it again - but not today.  Not for a long time.  Not if he could help it.   Now he had something to life for - to fight for.  A debt to repay in any way he could.  Ray had given him... Well, he wasn't sure... --{ but the memory of stars was there, clear and vivid in his mind, the crisp sensation of snow, that freedom of flying, soaring, running - the fear of falling, the guilt... Guilt... Regret... Questions. And Gage didn't know if it was something of him, or of Ray -- am I good enough.  Am I strong enough.  Am I faithful enough -- well the last one certainly wasn't his... }--

So he waited -- watched slightly sidelong as Ray composed himself - still seemed a little out of it, and he didn't really blame him... While Gage felt like he could run ten marathons over right about now, he also remembered the blood, the frustration, the uncertainty, the pain that had breached the preachers face while he carved into, under his own skin to find something -- that -- piece, which had been given.  Gifted. He couldn't think of it as anything else.  It was - a gift.

Apparently - being 'alive' wasn't the only gift Ray had passed on. A sudden duality of tone.  And he was looking straight at him.  But the other mans lips weren't moving - and he could hear the monologue - the jumping tracks of scattered thoughts.  They were thoughts, right?  It was Ray -- right?  Or maybe he had died and instead of tipping into oblivion he had just dropped into insanity.

One hand raised and a long digit found it's way into his ear, wiggling it a little, brow furrowing -- but he could still hear... Those words drip, drip, slip, sliding into his mind with apparently no intervention from his ears.  It sounded like Ray.  Like he was 'hearing' his voice.  The human tone with an odd vibration nestling just behind it.

So as Ray sat, Gage stood.  Left the mug and the noodles to step over to the sink, a clean cloth dipped into cold water, excess squeezed out, and then he was sliding back into the chair opposite again.

"F-ff-for your arm."

If it was burning then maybe the cloth would cool it.  And he sat in silence for just a moment longer.

"Thank you."

"Ff-or saving m-me... You... You d-didn't h-have to.  B-but you d-did and I... I d-don't know ww-what to say.  It's... It's so mm-much, R-ray... It's... I... Just... Thank you."

"It's just r-ramen.  N-nothing ff-fancy.  Also d-don't call m-me an asshole... P-please." He didn't look up.  Just replied to the unspoken words, let his mind drift, latch onto them, felt around in his mind for the sensation that they brought, an odd itch, like electricity, like that ozone taste after lightening -- and maybe that's what Ray felt like, tasted like, the oncoming storm -- that lightening flash which cracked and burnt and embedded itself deep within the angel himself...

And while tongue tripped over itself, his thoughts bore the same clarity as they ever did--

'I don't know what kind of soldier you are.  Or were.  Or might be still.  But you are a saviour.  You saved me.  You.  Saved me.  I don't regret it, how could I regret it?  Who else would I choose?  I -- wouldn't 'choose' anyone.  I would never ask as much but--  You're my friend.  You're my -- angel.'

"I d-don't rr-regret it."

'I don't regret you.  Don't ever think that I do or that I will.  But what comes next.  What do I do?  How much do I owe you for -- this?  What do I do?  I've heard about... About... Pets.  I know what it takes to exist as one and... How... Just... I...  Blood...?  Do I have to -- do that now?  I am - grateful but I just don't know what I'm supposed to do... '

"I d-don't ww-want someone else, Ray.  Eat your nn-noodles... And... Uh... There ww-was a ... Thing.  Ww-with the d-door I... Mh.  N-never-mm-mind."