Work Text:
For her to be around him was a gift, one he had taken for granted for too long. She was his light, his hell-angel. Even if she couldn't be a god who reversed his curse, she spread her wings and held him tight. Her outstretched feathers wrapped around him, bought him a moment's respite from the blinding whites of cameras and interrogation rooms. She hated her darkness, yet he found peace in it; her brooding anger keeping him in cold reality while the world lived a fantasy, ignoring the beasts that lurked in the underbelly of Tokyo. He could never get enough of the depths of her psyche, darker than night yet filled with treasures and sarcasm beyond belief. He loved how her warm hand would wrap around his elbow, ever so reliable, a lucky wisp just behind him.
For him to stay with her was expecting a purehearted minnow to stay with an evil shark. But this minnow had a brain (and ego) the size of her wings, and she watched while the halo atop his head flickered and died, destroyed by the men in white and black. She watched as the lights overcame him, and she spread her dark burgundy wings and wrapped them around him. Dried his tears and talked with him; listened to his woes and complained about the cruel world with him. Then he gave up everything just for her: his love, his future, his halo, and shredded his wings so she could fly. It was only fair that she returned the favour, especially when he had willingly bound his soul to hers. In this world where halos brought salvation, and lights would kill a devil like her, it wasn't fair that his blood beat within her body and his wings sat upon her back.
Yet they did, and their souls shared a bond tighter than any other. It was addictive, how a night-dweller like her was tied to his bright torch of a soul, a lighthouse to the lost ship of her heart. She loved how he wrapped his hands around her heart of ashes and illuminated it, blessing it with unnatural warmth. She drank in how that bond let him rely on her, not out of mere necessity but out of choice; out of love. Whenever he did, it made her feel a little stronger, a cherished being, able to fly just a little further.
And fly they did.
***
He would curl up in her deceptively strong arms, one of his arms wrapped round her neck and occasionally stroking her beating wings. She would briefly nuzzle into his spiky hair, his cinnamon shampoo a familiar, calming scent. The lights of dusk brought such calming beauty, a different shade of yellow to orange to blue to black with every graceful sweep of her wings. They were stronger this way; their proximity gave them fuel for the fire in their hearts, drawing from each other's spirits.
***
Who were angels anyway? How were angels defined? Would they still be called angels if they did not try to save the last, lost and least? Or was ‘angel’ a name, a title bestowed to those in power? Because he sure wasn't an angel no more.