Chapter Text
It's not every day
That you watch a fucking angel
Fall out of the fucking sky
Nicholas D. Wolfwood
Wouldn't exactly call himself a superstitious man
(Despite being raised Catholic
A dubious choice for any parent to make
Or, in his case
Orphanage to make)
But watching a human-shaped body
Tumble down out of the heavens
And leave a small crater in the street below
Well, it does something to you
And all he had wanted was a late-night smoke
Now, his cigarette dangles
Precariously perched on his lip
As he peers off the corner of the balcony
Trying to make sense of what he sees
As clear as day
Feathers shift and shiver
So white that they almost glow in the faint starlight
Furling and unfurling
Quickly hiding a small body beneath
At least Wolfwood thought he saw a body in that mess
It’s hard to tell
Hard to make sense of anything
What with
You know
A literal angel writhing in the street
Or is it an angel?
There almost seems like bits of crooked limbs
Amongst the feathers
And are those eyes?
Well
It’s biblically accurate, at least
He takes another drag of his cigarette
Barely feeling his numb fingers
This could be a hallucination
Probably is
He’s been working too many hours lately
The apartment’s been quiet with Livio out of town
Despite Wolfwood assuming he’d be fine without his roommate
(He’s never liked being alone
At least if he’s working
He can’t think)
He should go back inside and go to bed
This obviously isn’t real
He’s probably a little crazy
Well, definitely a little crazy
But more crazy than even he thought
And it’s not even a realistic hallucination
For one, when something hits this hard in movies
Things rattle
Car alarms go off
People should be running outside
But the air is still
Freakishly so
He doesn’t even hear the buzz of a single insect
Hanging around the heat of his cigarette
Amidst the cool night
No, it’s too surreal to be reality
So he drops his cigarette into the ashtray
Pointedly ignoring the shaking of his fingers
Turns back toward his apartment, and—
There’s sound
There’s screaming
He almost wants to call it inhuman
But there's something unmistakable to it
Something so guttural
So desperate
So painful
Wolfwood moves before he can think about it
Running through his apartment
Jogging down the steps
Bursting through the creaky doors
And there it is
Right in front of him
Writhing
Furling and unfurling
And, from this angle
Whatever the hell this thing is
Looks almost as tall as the building he ran from
If not taller
Growing and unraveling
So pearlescent and white that it almost seems to be glowing
Or maybe it is glowing
Wolfwood hesitates for one moment
But the screaming only grows
In both sound and rawness
Echoing through the street
In a haunting wail
He dives in
And a part of him knows this is stupid
Wonders why the hell he's doing this
When it probably isn't even real
He’s either hallucinating
Or maybe having a weird dream
The most vivid he’s ever had
But this noise
It cracks something in his chest
Shatters something he didn't even know existed
And he just—
He has to do something
As he pushes through crooked limbs and bent feathers
The feathers are unbelievably soft
Warm, even
When his fingers brush against them
But they seem to move away quickly at his touch
Almost as if afraid
Or maybe making room
Either way, eventually the wall of white breaks
And he stumbles into a small opening
So bright it makes his eyes water
With a body curled up on the ground across from Wolfwood
Whoever it is looks so small
Compared to the enormity of wings and feathers sprouting from them
Not just from their back
But everywhere
Pulling from pale skin
Discolored in places
Scared
As the person continues to scream
“Hey, I—”
Wolfwood doesn’t even know what he wanted to say
What he was supposed to say
Because then the creature looks up at him
The angel
He—it looks like he might be a he—has white eyes
Pure, absolute white as bright as his feathers
But the eyes in those feathers
They all turn to Wolfwood
Staring at him from every angle
As if piercing his skin
And finding him broken, dirty, wanting
Oh, Wolfwood’s made a mistake, hasn’t he?
He usually isn’t this impulsive
Stupid, yes
But he really must be having a mental break
If this seemed like a good idea
He should run
He needs to run
But the creature’s screaming has stopped
And it’s moving
An arm-like shape emerging from the chaos
Covered in feathers
In scars
In eyes
Reaching toward Wolfwood
Tentative
Shaking
And Wolfwood’s arm lifts
Just as tentative, just as slow
Taking another step forward
Until he snaps to his fucking senses
And pulls his arm back
The creature lets out a noise
Soft, but somehow worse than the screaming
As if someone took a knife to its chest
And carved its heart out
Pulled clean of the ribcage
Still bleeding
And it curls into itself
Until, once again
All Wolfwood can see is a chaos of feathers and eyes
A shell against him and the world
This is the excuse he needs
And it’s a perfect one
Wolfwood should turn around and leave
Forget this wild psychotic break ever happened
Go to bed like he should’ve done hours ago
But his legs won’t move
Because, even as foreign and strange as it was
That face…
The way that he reached out…
Goddammit
It’s stupid
He shouldn’t
But Wolfwood steps forward
The feathers don’t pull away like before
Their softness seems to have left them
Instead, they push back
Weak but firm
Pressing against him, even if barely giving a fight
Until Wolfwood finds the angel again
Curled up against cracked pavement
Breaths shuddering
So, so small like this
Despite the vastness of his wings
And for a moment
Wolfwood isn’t sure what to do
What he can do
But there are streaks of red against this creature’s pale skin
What he can see of it, anyway
Obviously some sort of wounds
And he needs treatment
Wolfwood reaches out—
“Don’t.”
The voice is trembling, fragile
Broken in more ways than one
But clear as a bell in Wolfwood’s ears
And Wolfwood pauses
Wondering if he should stop
It makes no sense
None
Not to get out of there
To choose to stay
But…
This creature had reached out to Wolfwood before
He had screamed out in more pain than humanly possible
He needs help
So
Wolfwood moves slowly
But he still gets closer
Aiming for a tiny sliver of visible skin
Fingers shaking
As he makes contact
Oh
He’s warm
Maybe a little too warm, for ordinary people
But nothing about this is exactly ordinary
Though he still feels soft
Just as most skin would
Which shouldn’t be surprising but still, somehow
Is
And the feathers bursting from the skin around Wolfwood’s fingers
They still
In their fury of pulling at flesh
Tearing through the air
Then they stop, and then
They retract
The portion of skin showing growing around where their skin meets
Huh
Well
That’s something
“I’m just trying to help,
Okay?”
Wolfwood’s voice is rougher than he intends
But he has to try and say something
After this thing tried talking to him
In this sorry state he’s in
For a moment
Wolfwood doesn’t think he’s going to get a response
The quiet only interrupted
But rough, struggling breaths
And the soft rustle of feathers
“You shouldn’t.”
The creature’s voice cracks
A shudder running through it
And it’s not like this creature’s wrong
No one in their right mind should be doing this
But, well
Wolfwood's established pretty well that he's not exactly sane at this point
(And he’s just going to ignore that small little niggling
In the back of his mind
How nice it feels
How right
To see this creature settle
Almost like healing
Beneath his touch)
“Why not?”
Wolfwood asks, even as he shifts so that his entire palm slides onto skin
The feathers and wings chased away at his touch
Discovering a shoulder blade
Covered in scars
And some dirt
And a few scrapes and cuts
“I’m…”
A breath rattles from the creature
His muscles relaxing
Just slightly
“I’m bad luck,”
A laugh bursts out of Wolfwood
Making the poor thing jump a bit
“Well, hate to break it to you
But I’m Murphy’s law”
There’s a noise from the creature
And Wolfwood can’t decide if it’s a grunt
Or a laugh
Either way, he doesn’t move away from Wolfwood’s touch
If anything
He leans into it
A firm presence beneath Wolfwood’s touch
As his hand slides down his back
Some of the feathers here don’t pull back
Forming some sort of wings and appendages
But it still settles
Less fluffed up and more limb-shaped
The effect seeming to spread
More and more skin being exposed
And, god
There are so many scars
Puckered and angry and some even fresh
Littered among new wounds
Whatever he’s been through
Wolfwood’s not sure he wants to know
He’s not sure he’s prepared to know
Because he’s seen some fucked up shit
Growing up in an orphanage teaches you how vile humanity can be
He’s known things that many adults choose to ignore
It’s been in his life since he was in the single-digits
But this is just…
It’s something else
He moves his hand back up
Following the lines of muscle
Until he’s uncovered the curve of a neck
A thick scar looped around it
Like someone tried to cut off his damned head
And apparently failed
And then his fingertips find a cheek
For a moment, the creature tenses
And Wolfwood freezes
Almost pulling away, but not quite
As the remaining feathers puff up again
And suddenly, Wolfwood’s not sure if he’s helping
Or hurting
This thing has obviously been through enough already
Without Wolfwood making it worse
He has a habit of stumbling into trouble
Didn’t he just say he was Murphy’s law?
It’s not like he didn’t mean it
But then the creature sighs
The first noise it’s made that’s unstrained
Almost relaxed
Before he turns
Sliding his cheek into Wolfwood’s palm
And letting the weight of his head sit there
Almost limp
For a second, all Wolfwood can do is stare
As the feathers pull back
And he sees a closed eye
With dark lashes fanning against a cheek
So trusting
Of some random guy on the street
Wolfwood runs a thumb along his cheekbone
He shudders underneath the touch
And there’s a soft rustle in the air
As the feathers, the eyes, the limbs
They make a vast retreat
Pulling from the air and folding back into scarred skin
Plunging them into sudden darkness
And sudden quiet
No rustling of feathers
No broken screaming
No movement
And Wolfwood is simply crouched in the middle of the broken street
With a naked, wounded, and very feathery man