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the sky is getting heavy tonight
Jul. 11th, 2012 02:00 pmIt'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."
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."
