Chapter Text
Chapter One // A Chance Encounter
Friday nights are Michael’s favourite nights. Weekends are his days off, so he doesn’t have to worry about dragging himself out of bed in the mornings, eyes heavy but a bright, fake smile on his face as he asks Mrs Murphy from two doors down if she’s tried flicking her fuse on and off again for maybe the thousandth time since moving here.
He spends most Friday nights sitting alone on his couch, drinking a beer or two and watching cable until his eyes grow dry and itchy. He eats chips instead of dinner, only occasionally spicing it up with salsa or a Hershey’s bar.; or two, or five... lactose intolerance isn’t even that much of a big deal anyway, right?
Being careless and alone on Friday nights is one of Michael’s favourite things about living alone, thousands of miles away from home. He doesn’t have his mother nagging him about getting to bed or eating right. He doesn’t have any of his brothers sitting on the couch, mocking his choice in TV shows or his hair or his stupid freckles. He doesn’t have his friends, texting him and asking him if he’s coming out to whatever bar or whatever club, because Franco’s dad owns the place, and he can get them in without ID and Jake’s cousin can maybe get them some weed if they pay him double.
He can do what-the-fuck-ever he wants to do. He can watch what he wants to watch without having to hear an opinion. He can eat all the unhealthy shit he can stomach, without a single motherfucking interruption.
And then he hears it.
It sounds like a person. A quiet oof out in the hall; followed by a faint bump against his door, almost like a person has fallen against it. Frowning, Michael stands up.
If this was New Jersey, things would be different. He'd stay, sitting on his couch and eating his chips. He’d ignore the sound, because there’s always some crackhead or drunk causing a ruckus. It wouldn’t be his fucking problem.
But he isn’t living in New Jersey. This is Austin, he has to remind himself. People in Austin are nice, and hospitable and they help each other out.
For Michael, it’s a completely alien concept that he goes along with, just so he can fit in.
Michael walks over to his front door, looking cautiously through the peephole. There’s still always that little bit of New Jersey in him, to never trust anything at face value. Question everything, his mother had taught him. You’re only as good as your weakest defence.
Michael can't see anything through the peephole but his empty corridor, which only makes him frown more, fingers closing around the door handle.
Just kids, He thinks to himself just a couple of stupid kids, dicking around and knocking on doors.
Still, there’s something in him telling him to double check, just in case. In case of what, exactly, he isn’t sure, but he has to check. He doesn’t know why, but he knows that he does. And that makes him curious to no end.
Michael opens the door, and a weight hits his legs. There is a man, who had been slumped against the door, now laying at Michael’s feet. Instantly, Michael groans. Because he had to be curious, didn't he? He had to open the fucking door, and now he’s got his DNA all over some kind of unconscious victim, as he hoists the man up by his armpits, holding him and closing the door frantically.
He’s in way over his head, he knows that. He can see the floppy brown hair sticking to the shallow cut on the man’s forehead. He can feel the blood trickling out from under the man’s sleeve onto his hands, dripping bright and scarlet onto Michael’s dreary looking beige carpet.
Great, now the DNA’s in Michael’s apartment too? He really is screwed, because he's holding the guy around the waist and leaning him against his chest, and he can't really feel the guy breathing...
Suddenly, the stranger lurches forwards, out of Michael’s grip, throwing himself against the wall. He leans against it, doubled over and coughing up blood, all over Michael’s awful, shitty carpet.
“Holy shit!” Michael exclaims, jumping backwards in shock. The man turns, holding a hand out to stop Michael, as he tries to approach the stranger again.
“No!” The stranger groans,, barely able to speak as blood dribbles from his lips. “Do not be afra-”
And then, the stranger falls unconscious again, collapsing against the wall. Michael catches him before he falls, and throws his arm around Michael’s shoulders, dragging the stranger over to his couch.
The man falls down onto the couch like a dead weight as Michael releases him, and for the first time, Michael really thinks, because is this really what his fucking life has come to now? He had to move across the fucking country, all the way to Austin Texas, just to become an accessory to a possible murder? If only his brothers could fucking see him now.
The stranger is laid back against the couch, a bead of blood trickling down his face and settling at his jaw. Michael isn’t stupid, he knows the rational course of action is to call the police, or an ambulance and have the man taken away and taken care of. Michael will never have to ever see the guy again. He can go back to just having a normal, boring, lonely Friday night.
But for some reason, Michael just cannot bring himself to do that, and his eyes fall once again upon the stranger, fixated.
There is something in the impossibly innocent expression on the man’s face, telling Michael to wait. There is more to this stranger. He has a story to tell, and Michael will be dammed if he isn’t going to hear it.
After twenty minutes or so of awkwardly staring at the sleeping man, Michael decides that he had to at least do something. He doesn't know if the man will sleep for an hour or an eternity. He doesn’t even know if the guy will pull through the night, and he really doesn’t know what he’s going to do if he wakes up in the morning to find a dead body marinating on his couch.
Can you be arrested for accidentally allowing a man to die?
With little difficulty, he slips the man’s blazer off. He fingers the soft material, instantly recognising that the suit is an expensive one. He feels around inside the man’s pockets for any ID, but finds nothing, before sighing, and laying the jacket on his coffee table.
Only dangerous people wear suits at night. Only dangerous people show up at other people’s doorsteps covered in blood at night.
Only dangerous people can ever hold Michael’s attention for long.
He looks down at the stranger’s slim, long body. There is blood, pooling on his left arm, so Michael takes out his weighted metal cufflink, and rolls the man’s sleeves up to his elbow.
Michael studies the deep gash on the man’s forearm, and he frowns. The wound seems to no longer be bleeding, and the cut looks to be at least a day old. Raw, but beginning to heal. This confuses Michael, because the blood on the man’s shirt is still wet and warm and fresh. The wound on at his temple was leaking out blood barely a few minutes ago.
Confused, Michael rolls the man’s shirtsleeve back down, and releases his arm. There is something about the stranger’s skin that feels odd under Michael’s fingers. His body isn’t warm, but it isn’t exactly cool either. An unreadable temperature sits on his skin, and it makes Michael squirm a little, as he rests the back of his hand against the man’s forehead, feeling an overwhelming sense of nothing.
His hand recoils, and he lays it back by his side. It unnerves him, the way that he can’t quite figure out this stranger. He doesn’t know anything about him. He doesn’t even know his name, yet somehow, he felt compelled to drag the wounded man into his home and lay him on his couch.
“What the fuck are you, dude?” Michael whispers, more to himself than the sleeping stranger.
Then, he sits back against the couch as the man continues to sleep beside him. Michael can’t tear his eyes away.
He looks like a normal guy, maybe a little lanky, with a nose definitely on the side of large, rather than small. When he had been conscious for a few moments previously, his eyes had been a muted green colour, with a few flecks of gold and brown around the pupil.
He is handsome, Michael can admit that. But what is really drawing him to the stranger, is the intrigue that Michael holds for him. That itch in the back of his throat and against his fingertips, that tells him that somehow, someway, this man does not fit in to the natural order of the world.
Because what kind of asshole would get blood all over a pretty nice suit, without a good reason, before staggering into Michael’s apartment building and collapsing against his door?
Michael thinks of this as he lies his head against the couch, feeling his eyes begin to droop. I'll just shut my eyes for a minute, he thinks. Just for a couple of minutes, then I'll wake the fucker up and get some answers.
Michael is awoken by a panicked gasp, making him flinch and spring awake. His eyes fly open, and for a moment, his body become encompassed in a state of panic and uncertainty. Like when you wake up from a nap, and suddenly can’t remember what day it is.
Michael calms, realising that he’s sitting on his couch in his apartment, safe; he looks over to the stranger, who is sitting bolt upright, eyes wide and breathing heavy.
“Dude, what the fuck!” Michael exclaims, resting his hand over his chest, as if to control his erratic heartbeat. The man says nothing, eyes blinking twice as his breathing begins to regulate to its previous, almost non-existent state. “Are you okay?” Michael asks.
The stranger’s eyes briefly flit around the room, as the man takes in his surroundings, before finally- they settle onto Michael. Michael feels himself shiver under the stranger’s gaze. He isn’t sure why.
The man’s facial expression barely changes from empty, and he stands.
“I'll be leaving.” He says, picking up his blazer from the coffee table and slipping it on over his shirt.
“Wait, what,” Michael asks incredulously, standing up himself as the man adjusts his jacket. “Dude, what the fuck? You can’t just leave, are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” The stranger says with a nod. “You have nothing to worry about. Forget about me.”
Michael silently watches at the stranger stands, stretching once before walking over in the direction of the door. Gone is the limp he held previously, the labouring breaths and the inability to even stand. He walks with a sense of purpose, taking confident strides through Michael’s apartment.
“Dude, but- but your arm, and your head!” Michael points out. The stranger stops in front of Michael’s front door, and turns, to look at him. The blood from before that had lingered around his lips and trickled down from his forehead was gone, as if it had never been there in the first place.
“I’m fine.” He repeats. “You have nothing to worry about.”
“Wait…” Michael shakes his head. For a second, he forgets about the stranger’s lack of injuries. Something else diverts his attention. “You’re fucking British too? What the fuck!”
“It isn’t important.” The man puts his hand up, and Michael is surprised at how quickly he falls silent. “I'll be on my way.” The man says, tucking his hand into his pocket, almost casually.
“Dude… are you like, a spy?” Michael asks. All the anticipation he held as the stranger had laid unconscious on his couch is still there, and his mind is still racing as it searches for at least one plausible explanation. Nothing makes sense, and Michael hates it when things don’t make sense.
“Am I a what?”
“A spy, dude- like James Bond and shit? Shaken not stirred? You know, all that?” Michael tries. The man’s expression remains blank. “Come on, dude- it’s the only fucking explanation? Is that why you haven’t like, told me your name or anything? Are you a spy?”
“I-I don’t know what that is. My name is Gavin.” The man, Gavin, says.
“Gavin… okay,” Michael says, feeling the name swirl around his mouth and sit on the tip of his tongue. Somehow it matches the man perfectly, from his accent to the vacant expression on his face.
“So, Gavin, if you aren’t a spy…” Michael asks, “What are you? Do you work for like… the government, or something? Like a top secret… organisation or whatever?”
Gavin frowns, looking at Michael. He looks at Michael the same way Michael had looked at him as he slept, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed as he studied him, searching for answers.
The difference between Michael and this Gavin, is that as Gavin’s face twists into a smirk, Michael feels like he’s already found everything he’d been searching for. Michael nervously swallows around his throat, and struggles to hold eye contact with Gavin, who takes a step towards him, small smirk lingering on his face.
“You humans.” Gavin says, sounding almost wistful as he speaks. “I will always wonder what it’s like to live in such a primitive mind, with such a vast imagination.”
“W-What?”
“I’m an Angel.” He says, offhandedly, clasping his hands together.
Michael laughs aloud. “Yeah, okay dude- what are you, fucking drunk? What kind of angel is called Gavin anyway?”
“You wouldn’t be able to pronounce my real name, Gavin is just the name of my vessel.” Gavin remains nonchalant as ever, not quite registering nor understanding Michael’s amusement.
“Yeah, okay.” Michael scoffs. “The fucking angel Gavin… and what? You just… dropped in front of my doorstep because God sent you?” he laughs. “Give me a break.”
Gavin frowns, and it’s the most emotion Michael has seen from him all night. “I'll prove it.” He says indignantly as he postures for a moment, chest expanding.
“What, are you going to perform a fucking miracle?” Michael mocks. Gavin only smirks.
“Something like that.” He says, rubbing his hands together gently. “Give me your arm.”
“What?”
“Give me your arm.” Gavin repeats. Michael isn’t sure if it is the curiosity he can feel bubbling away in his stomach or if it’s the authoritative tone that Gavin holds in his own voice, but he shrugs, awkwardly extending his arm out to Gavin.
Gavin runs his finger over the long scar on Michael’s forearm, staring at it intently. Michael shivers under his heatless touch.
“I, uh-”
“-Fell trying to climb through a broken window when you were twelve, I got that.” Gavin nods.
“How the fuck did you- oh”Michael stops talking as faint tingling begins in his arm. It feels like pins and needles, but oddly pleasant, and Michael can’t help but look down, to watch Gavin's movements. There’s something in him that trusts Gavin, completely, and he isn’t sure why. This intrigues him.
Gavin’s hand caresses his arm so gently, and he rubs the pad of his thumb over the scar. Michael looks up to Gavin’s face, and lets out a short gasp, as he notices Gavin's eyes, light up blue.
“You… You’re…” Michael can barely speak and his body feels like jell-o, as Gavin releases him arm, and tucks his hands back in his pockets. The light in his eyes fade, and there is a crack of lighting outside, casting a bright light into the apartment. Michael frowns, because when did it start raining anyway? ;but is soon distracted as the wall behind Gavin is lit up white, with the shadow of Gavin casted on it. He can see Gavin’s body in the shadow, tall and lanky. His hair isn’t floppy anymore, it stands up on end in almost a gravity-defying way, and Michael gasps again as the lighting cracks, and two giant wings are casted.
He looks back to Gavin, who smiles. The brit doesn’t actually have wings in the room, only in the shadows, but as the light fades, Michael can’t help but imagine what they’d look like if he could see them. Michael imagines that Gavin’s wings would be white, like a cartoon, but maybe, they’d have little flecks of brown in them, the same colour as his hair.
“You’re a fucking angel.” Michael says.
“I am.” Gavin nods, as the thunder stops, and the light inside the apartment returns to normal. Michael can’t help but run his fingers up and down the spot where his scar used to be, staring at Gavin, who suddenly seems so much bigger than him. In reality, there’s barely an inch between the two of them in height, but there’s a power there in the way that Gavin holds himself, upright and proud like a soldier.
“Sorry for… dropping in, I was taking care of some… business across town. I got injured, but I’m alright now.” Gavin explains, tapping his fingers against his temple twice, right in the spot that had once been bleeding. Michael can't do much else but nod, mouth still hanging open slightly in shock.
“Thank you for not leaving me in the hallway.” Gavin says.
“I… you’re welcome, dude- no problem.” Michael replies, more than a little dazed. “But, uh… why-why are you telling me all this?” he asks
Gavin smirks at this. “Don’t worry, Michael Jones.” He says. “Come morning, you won't remember a thing.”
Before Michael can ask Gavin what he means, two fingers are pressed against his forehead, and his eyes are closing, the last image of Gavin, with his eyes glowing blue slowly blurring until it is gone completely.
Michael awakens, and it’s morning. He’s laying down on the couch, and slowly, he sits up, wrinkling his nose because damn does he feel groggy.
How many fucking beers did I drink last night?
All he can think about it the night before. Something about angels? Fuck, maybe he was drunk, because he rarely has dreams so vivid before. Michael stands, stretching and clicking his neck. He has a bad habit of falling asleep on the couch in front of the TV, and he always has to pay for it.
He laughs to himself, thinking of his dream, as he sits back down on the couch, arms resting on his knees.
A fucking angel. He thinks, shaking his head and smiling. I really need to stop drinking before bed.
Then, something catches the light from the open window, reflecting into Michael’s eyes.
“W-what the fuck…” Michael shields his eyes as bright light shines towards him, and squints, looking to the coffee table. Something sits there, small and metal, reflecting the light from the window. Michael reaches out and holds it in his hand.
It’s warm, and heavier than he expected. Michael turns his back so he isn’t facing the window, and finally, opens his eyes fully again.
And then the cufflink falls from his hands, hitting the couch cushion and rolling off onto the floor. Michael’s hands tingle, and he jerks his arm up, pulling up his sleeve and staring at the space where a scar belongs. A scar he’s had since he was twelve years old.
It’s gone, he quickly realises. Michael knows that he isn’t supposed to, but for some reason, he remembers.
He remembers everything.