amongthewreck | the sky is getting heavy tonight

the sky is getting heavy tonight

It's been a while.

Fletcher refused to let his willpower waver for Dylan's benefit—she'd dealt enough with the trauma of her Calling flaring up and taking over, and he didn't want to make matters worse by yielding to his own fleeting rage and trailing more blood into the apartment.

But the more bruises and blood she brought home, the harder it became to keep his anger in check. And when it's no longer enough to punch and kick the outside wall of their apartment building until his knuckles bleed and the bricks start to wear, he knows what he has to do.

He waits until Dylan's asleep, and even then he watches her for signs of stirring before leaving. When she seems to be wrapped tightly in the arms of delta sleep, he creeps into the hallway and out of the building. Chilly predawn air and a sliver of the bright moon greet him, and the beauty of the night almost makes him reconsider everything—but his wings are out and they hurt, and he knows it's too late to go back on his decision.

There's a 24-hour diner a few blocks away that Fletcher's been monitoring for a while, just in case. The late-late night crowd usually includes a demon or two, and tonight's crowd doesn't disappoint; there's a large man seated at a table near the center of the room who Fletcher catches eyeing those around him with piqued interest.

It isn't long before everyone's behavior starts changing. Patient zero is seated in a corner booth; he starts rocking back and forth and mumbling under the large man's gaze, and within minutes the paranoia ripples through the dining area. When the Glays turns his wild stare on Fletcher, his eyes widen and he jumps back from his table, knocking over a plate and sending the crowd into a panicked frenzy. The demon makes a beeline for the door.

Fletch lets him go. The people begin to calm down, and after a solid count to ten, he rises and leaves as well. He finds the demon surprisingly nearby, leaning against a building about a block away. He's bent over with his hands on his knees, breath coming in heavy, frightened gasps.

Then Fletch runs over, and the quiet sound of labored breathing is replaced with a muffled scream.

All the internalized anger Fletcher's been harboring for months pours out of his hands as the adrenaline and instinct take over and block out the rest of the world. Skin splits and small bones crack—fingers break one by one, sockets pop and joints dislocate. As far as the angel is concerned, the body beneath him is the physical incarnation of everything wrong with the world, and he finds himself hissing through his teeth something about manipulation and deserving. The demon screams and squirms and headbutts Fletcher, but the pain is too much and he can't work past it to get up and run.

Fletcher, dazed, pauses in his assault and stares.

And then he stands.

And starts kicking.

By the time he gets back to the apartment, there are splatters of demon blood on his clothing and face and some bloody vomit on his boots. A bruise is blossoming over his right eye and a piece of skin is missing from the side of his left hand—he hadn't noticed it when the demon bit him, and really, he doesn't care—so he immediately retreats to the bathroom and throws everything, clothes and shoes and himself, into the shower.

It'll probably wake Dylan up.

He sighs and leans his head against the tile, the water burning his shoulders. "Fuck."

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She never seems to dream of good things these days. Her Calling is an unwelcome shadow that ever since Christmas, has gotten heavier. Things seemed to be okay at first, she’d done what she’d planned to do for so long. With her mother’s killer dead, the need had faded. The one kill she’d dreamed about for years was done. And for a while, she was happy again, she focused on being a girl and not an archangel.

But Callings never go away. Not even that kill could sate it and soon enough, she started to struggle. The dreams never helped either, the fire and the bones and the blood. What the archangel inside is capable of scares the girl. Dylan wakes with a start; hands curled into fists and her breath held. She wants to cry, to scream, but she can’t bring herself to. She’s tired and agitated, but she wants to keep showing everyone she’s fine. Fletch is the only one who sees her when she’s not these days; it’s hard to keep up a mask with someone you live with. Half the time, she doesn’t even try. There’s no point lying to him. He knows too well when the nightmares start.

Clambering out of bed, she wanders down the hall. She doesn’t like waking him up, but she can’t help it. She can’t sit with her thoughts alone. She’ll go and talk, even if she doesn’t say much and they just sit a while until she feels better about trying to sleep again.

Knocking gently, she peeks glumly around his door, expecting to find him asleep.

“Fletch..?”

He’s not there.

She doesn’t know what to think for a few moments. Why would he up and leave in the middle of the night? And the feelings start bubbling up in her chest. It’s just like last time, when the other him up and left without a goodbye. He’s done it again. And it’s her fault because she can’t keep it together, because she’s tried to and she can’t do it. She can’t do it for Fletch, for Sarah, for anyone. It’s too much for them. She’s too much.

She stops the trail of thought with a soft whimper and shakes her head. Turning, she retreats to her room. She paces, wringing her hands, she doesn’t know what to do. Should she call Sarah? Or Mark? Or Charlie? Maybe it’s all a dream; of course Fletch is still here. It’s just a dream.

She wants to wake up now.

Dylan sinks to sit on her bed and sits there for a long time, presses the heels of her hands to her eyes, trying not to cry. She won’t do it again, not like last time. She doesn’t know what to do now. She has to wake up now. Has to.

She doesn’t know how much time passes until she hears the front door open. She freezes, holding her breath, uncertain. But then she hears a familiar walk. It’s heavier than usual. Fletch. He’s back again, he hasn’t left. He didn’t leave her again. She feels a wash of relief flood her chest, but she’s still confused. She listens carefully, the sound of the pipes creaking, running water, thudding and then a mutter over the sound of the shower.

A few moments, she gets to her feet. Peeking out from her room, she squints at the light from the bathroom falling from the door. There’s blood, spots of oily black on the floor, some of the bigger ones printed in the shapes of boot-prints. She stares for a while but she knows what’s happened, she understands. Turning, she makes for the bathroom door.

Pressing herself against the doorframe, she looks to the floor.

“I … I th-thought you’d g-gone..” she says quietly.

He hadn't thought of that. Of all the things he considered before he left, he never thought Dylan might worry he'd left her for good again. When her voice filters through the sound of the water, he freezes under the stream.

Shit.

The squeak of the shower knob cuts off the drone of the running water, and Fletcher sighs.

"You know how it works when that flares up," he mumbles, unwilling to step out from behind the shower curtain, because a) he feels really bad and b) he's kind of naked and didn't shut the bathroom door all the way.

"I didn't think—" He rubs the water out of his eyes with a knuckle. "I hoped you wouldn't wake up."

She bites down on her lower lip, still hugging the door-frame. She couldn't help it, she didn't know what else to think. He'd just upped and left in the middle of the night. She's not thinking clearly enough.

But then again, she's not doing that much these days in general.

"Are... a-re y-you o-okay?" she asks quietly, "Th-there's a l-luh-lot of bl-blood."

She turns, wringing her hands again, and gazes back at the black bloodstains on the floor. There's flecks of white blood here and there too and it takes her a while to respond to him because she can't look away from it.

"I h-had a n-nightmare." she says softly and after a short pause, ducks away from the door to leave him be for a few moments.

You can't stay in there forever, Fletch.

He follows her gaze down to the floor and makes a face. "Yeah, I'm all right." Probably. That's more blood than he thought he'd lost.

A concerned look crosses his features when she mentions the nightmare. He nods knowingly, then nudges the door shut for long enough to check over his wounds—they're not so bad, mostly just scratches and bruises that will fade quickly enough—and pull on the pajamas he conveniently left on the bathroom floor before he left.

When he emerges, he heads straight for the kitchen, beckoning for Dylan to follow. "C'mon. Tea."

Dylan nods at his reply, but she's not quite sure if she believes him.

She's leaning against the wall in the corridor when he finally comes out the bathroom. She doesn't particularly want any tea, but she'll go anyway, and she's soon trotting after him.

When she's in the kitchen, she catches sight of the bite on his hand. It doesn't look too serious, but it's pretty grim. "Y-you.. got bit. Th-they bit y-you." she says softly.

She wanders to a cupboard and roots around for the first aid kit. Finding it, she points to the table, "Sit. Tea l-later."

He's not sure he believes himself. His hand is throbbing—along with a few of the other cuts and bruises he's collected—and he knows he's going to have a hard time gripping anything for the next few days, but it'll probably heal just fine. At least that's the worst of it.

Fletcher obediently sits and stretches his arm across the table.

There's no use in protesting, so.

"Yeah. Can't say I was expectin' that one."

Dylan's quite for a while, raking about in the box, pulling at bandages and dressings. She's careful to wrap up his hand, it's certainly easy enough to do. Easier than trying to stitch up or bandage any of her own injuries in the past.

Her eyes darken a fraction and she's almost ready to mutter something very horrible about Demons. When he Calling's sated, she's tried to be indifferent to them, but it's currently not and her attitude's towards them has become a little... hateful. She bites down hard on her lip, ignores the ache between her shoulders and tries not to say it. Instead settles for a nod of her head.

It's only when she's nearly finished that she does finally speak.

"Y-you sh-shoulda said s-something to me." she says quietly, "I k-know wh-what you are. I-- yeah. Y'know."

He doesn't flinch while she works. Instead, he watches curiously, blue eyes sharp and focused as she cleans and wraps his hand, and thinks about how lucky he is that he has someone here who cares for him like this.

It would make him smile, if the atmosphere around them would allow it. But it's too heavy.

"You don't need—" he begins, then falls silent for a moment.

Finally: "I don't want my burden to become yours."

Dylan sighs silently when he begins to talk and then quickly falls silent. She finishes up bandaging his hand and quietly packs the first aid kit away. She does care about him. He's one of the few people she does care about.

She puts her head in her hands, looking down at the table for a few moments before he speaks again.

I don't want my burden to become yours.

She looks up at him then and for a while, she doesn't know what to say.

"B-but, it-it's not. Y-you're n-not." she says finally. "I a-am. M-mine's become y-yours. Th-that's.... not f-fair. Y-you've done ev-everything f-for m-me."

It's true, she's had to rely on him for a lot these last seven, eight months. A lot he didn't ask for. And it's not fair on him.

His reply comes as naturally and involuntarily as breathing, so much so that the words are out of his mouth before he even realizes he's said them.

"I've done what I have because I love you. You don't owe me anything in return for that."

She looks up, eyes widening a little as he speaks. Sarah once told her she loved her and she found it hard to take. Her lip wobbles for a moment, what she says doesn't come easily.

"..I ... I love you, t-too." she says quietly.

Her head bows for a moment, "B-but I.. I do owe y-you. I.. I d-don't have m-many p-people. B-but I g-got you. Aa-and I l-love you. I.. I sh-should be th-there f-for you l-like you are f-for me."

Fletcher shakes his head, then reaches out for Dylan's hands.

"Bein' there for me doesn't mean you have t'shoulder any of my burden, sweetheart. Nor would I ask you to do that. This right here, what's happenin' now—this is all I want. I'm perfectly happy with this setup, and that's... that's actually more than I've been able to say in a long time."

Her teeth tug at her lower lips and she frowns a little as she takes that in. But she thought that's what it did mean, weren't you supposed to do that for the people you care for? If he does it all for her out of love, can't she do the same?

"I.. I d-don't mind, th-though." she says softly.

She looks up at him with a crooked smile, "Y-ou feel l-like wh-what home sh-should f-feel like."

She's not entirely sure that's possible, but she knows what she feels.

What home should feel like.

That's the explanation he's been looking for. It hurt for a while in the beginning, knowing he could never go back home. And then it hurt more when he realized he had a double life of sorts that he could never pursue.

But Dylan's been there from the beginning, with him and for him. He flexes his hand, testing the bandages, then rises from his chair and kisses her forehead. "Thank you."

She lowers her head, smiling a little at the kiss. "Th-that's okay." she says quietly. "Y-you don't n-need to th-thank me. It-it's just h-how I feel."

It's just the truth, is all.

She's quiet for a little while, letting that sink in for a moment. She looks at her hands and nods. "Want t-tea now?"

Ah, a topic change. Fletch welcomes it with metaphorically open arms. It's not that these weren't things he didn't want to say to Dylan eventually, but he's just... not great with the extended discussions of feelings.

Still, that felt nice.

"Tea sounds perfect. D'we have any Darjeeling left?"

Dylan's known him long enough to know that long discussions about feelings aren't his most favourite thing in the world. They're not even her favourite thing either, even if she's probably one of the most overly-emotional archangels in Chicago.

Things do need to be said sometimes, and they can be quite nice, but it's... well, a little draining on both of them.

"The o-orangey t-tea?" she asks with a head-tilt. "I d-dunno. M-middle c-cupboard?"

"Should be there, yeah. If not... then just grab the first thing y'find."

And here he suppresses a yawn.

It's been a long night.

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the sky is getting heavy tonight

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