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hackthis_archiveFor [Bad username or site: mirichan @ livejournal.com] for the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
help_haiti auction. It's not quite the story I set out to write, but I hope you like it all the same.
Generation Kill
Alternate Universe
Brad/Nate
Rated PG-13
Every Goliath Has His David
In the beginning, Brad just observed.
Three thousand years is a long time to watch.
At first Brad was appalled by what he saw. The lies, the cruelty, the abuse. There were moments of kindness. Hints of what God found so intriguing in the human design. But for the most part Brad was not impressed. The warmongering, the hate, the intolerance. And then God gave Brad a new purpose. Instead of just observing, Brad began to take part. He was given responsibilities. Humans to watch over and protect.
He went from being just an angel to being a guardian. His wings began to change from white to gray.
There are some angels who do nothing but look after humans, copious amounts of them. Ray has anywhere between ten and fifteen humans on any given day. Walt has more than thirty. Brad began with almost fifty humans himself. As he became more adept at dealing with their peculiarities, he was given fewer humans to handle and more opportunity to actually guide their paths. And then Michael was promoted and Brad was moved into his position. Management is not something Brad ever wanted, but you don't tell Him, "yeah, no thanks." So now Brad watches over most of the guardians instead of participating. After all this time, though, he has also earned the right to keep one human if he so chooses. There's something about them, something intriguing. As a whole they're an utter disaster and Brad's sorry the floods and locusts and plagues haven't worked. On an individual level...they're fascinating.
Brad is there when his humans are born. He watches them grow, guides their legs, hears their first words and makes sure that care is taken (physical and emotional). That skinned knees and broken hearts are attended to. That lives are lived, extraordinary or not. Brad's humans are born, live and die without ever meeting their guardian angel. This is par for the course. This is as it should be.
Brad cannot remember the last time he was given a human as a gift.
In three thousand years, Brad cannot remember anyone ever being given a human as a gift.
"Gabriel said this one is for you," Michael says, presenting an image of a pale young man bent over a large stack of books in a library that can't be more than a few decades old. The building is so new that it still has that new library smell. Brad likes his libraries full of dust and mold and history. This is just tacky; how typically American.
Brad raises an eyebrow. The human chews on the end of a pen. "I already have a human."
"You had a human," Mike corrects.
"I'm still recovering from that last one," Brad says. Michael narrows his eyes. Brad blinks. "As I understood it, accepting gifts is optional."
"Would you care to tell God you are refusing his gift?"
Fuck. "Where's his guardian?" Brad tries. "You can't tell me he's been running around unsupervised all this time. What is he, twelve?"
Mike's mouth twitches at the corners. "He's twenty-six. He's just left the Marines. This is his first semester in grad school."
The young man pushes sandy-colored hair behind his ear. Brad's new human needs a haircut. "Why me?"
"Why not?"
Brad looks over at Michael. He's been here even longer than Brad. His wings have turned completely black.
"Gabriel took him away from his guardian to give him to me?" Brad presses.
Brad is known for his persistence; Michael's known for his calm. "Yes," Mike confirms.
"And again I ask, why?"
"Are you questioning God?"
A noise escapes from Brad's nose. Michael ignores it.
"I would never question God," Brad says.
"Good answer."
Brad sighs. He learned that back in the 15th Century from one of his humans who had to put up with a lot of stupidity in the name of God. "What's his name?"
Nathaniel Christoper Fick was born on September 13th at 4:13 a.m. He likes to be called "Nate." He's right-handed. His left leg is slightly longer than his right. His eyes are green like the olive paint that one of Brad's humans liked to use for his cypress trees series.
Nate likes to sleep on the right side of the bed.
He likes to sleep naked.
His favorite book as a child was Go, Dog, Go! by Dr. Seuss. His favorite book now is a tie between David Webb's Fields of Fire and Charles Dickens' Bleak House. He reads Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics when he wants to relax.
He sings in the shower.
He's utterly tone deaf, but he plays the guitar beautifully.
He runs when he's stressed out. He runs when he's happy. When he's tired and can't put one foot in front of the other. He loved being a Marine; he misses his men. He's got physical scars from his service. Big ones. He's got emotional scars. Brad sees them.
Brad hasn't watched one of his humans this intently since Evan went to Iraq and got embedded with those fucking Army brats. (Brad learned how to curse from Ray in the 19th Century. He hasn't been able to shake the habit; he hasn't tried very hard though). It's too bad Evan couldn't have gotten embedded with Nate's Marines. That might've been very interesting. Things might've turned out better for Evan, too.
Before Nate, Brad had a journalist, Evan Wright. Evan was special. From the day he was born, Brad knew Evan was going to bring him nothing but headaches and inappropriate amusement.
Angels are supposed to be impassive; humans make this very difficult.
Evan did too many drugs, fell for all the wrong women, watched porn for a living, got paid to talk to porn stars and wrote articles about all his drugs and porn. He was very entertaining. And then Brad did what Brad tends to do with his humans and made a few suggestions. Guardian angels are allowed to do that. You can't be seen; you shouldn't be heard; but you can make suggestions. Except the next thing Brad knew Evan gave up Hustler for Rolling Stone and Vanity Fair.
And then he went to Iraq and got killed with the aforementioned Army brats.
That was not quite what Brad had in mind.
Angels do not feel in the human way, but Brad does have a sense of something being very unjust about this loss. Still, Evan seems very happy in heaven with several of his idols, like one of Ray's former humans: Hunter S. Thompson.
As far as Brad can tell, free will has ruined more humans and given more guardians a complex than anything else God has ever done.
No, that's not true.
Jesus has done more to ruin humans than anything else God has done. Not that Brad's allowed to have such a thought...as a sharp pain in his kidneys reminds him, if he had kidneys, anyway. He doubles over briefly en route to his favorite watching perch.
"I forgot!" he bitches. "It happens."
"You been thinkin' shit about Jesus again?" an amused voice asks from behind Brad.
Brad's wings ruffle in irritation as he rounds on another angel. "Don't you have some Mexicans to get across the border?" he asks.
Poke was one of Brad's first humans in the New World. The son of a famous Indian chief, Poke was renowned for his bravery and valor. When he died defending his village from an influx of settlers and syphilis, Brad was there at the gates to greet him. Peter nearly passed out in shock. It's one thing for humans to come to heaven, it's something else entirely for them to mingle with angels. For them to be welcomed and championed.
In two thousand, five hundred and eighteen years Brad had never championed anyone to be given wings. Poke was his first. One hundred and thirty years later he was followed by Ray.
Brad has never regretted his decisions, despite what he tells Poke and Ray on a regular basis.
"How's your new boy?" Poke asks conversationally.
Brad is not fooled. "Why?"
"No reason," Poke says mildly. "I was just noticing you seem to be pretty taken with him."
"I'm his guardian," Brad retorts. "I'm not going to let him go over Niagara Falls in a barrel."
Poke holds up his hands. His white wings, shot through with the blue of the Erelim, are fluttering behind him. "That was Ray; that didn't have anything to do with me."
Brad just scowls.
Angels are so fucking nosy.
Heaven is not a white haven high in the sky, made of clouds and eternal sunshine with angels playing harps. Most angels hate harps. They're heavy and unwieldy and have too many strings. Heaven is actually full of colors and buildings that aren't quite buildings. It looks a lot like Los Angeles but without the smog and the earthquakes and the traffic.
There's a reason Ciudad de los Angeles translates as City of the Angels.
That little voice in the back of your mind telling you to go right instead of left – that's your guardian. Your guardian is the one who suggests that maybe you don't want to go home with that guy, or that you shouldn't take the shortcut today. Your guardian hints that perhaps you should go home a little early or that maybe the next flight is a better one. What humans think of as gut instinct actually is a voice belonging to someone – something -- else.
For a long time guardians used to simply tell their humans what to do, but that led to a lot of humans ostensibly arguing with themselves and an influx at several psychiatric hospitals, so communication evolved, like it does.
In the beginning, Brad is nothing more than a tiny voice in Nate's mind. And not a very distinct one at that. The more a human listens to his or her guardian the more defined the voice becomes.
The first time Brad makes contact with Nate is because of something tiny: Nate has a cold and it's sitting right in the middle of his sinuses. He wants to go to class, Brad wants him to go stay home and rest. Brad doesn't win that battle and Nate ends up with bronchitis. Stupid fucking human. Now they both have to suffer. When Brad points this out rather reasonably, Nate tells him to shut up. The girl in the next chair over at Student Health looks at Nate as though he's hearing things. Which he is.
A week later the debate is whether or not Nate should sleep in and skip his Theory of Microeconomic Economies lecture. Nate is not a slacker. Brad insists that the class is canceled anyway. It's pointless to get out of bed, get dressed and slog halfway across Harvard just to find this out, when Brad already knows this information to be true since Dr. Butler has been detained by his wife. And his mistress. Angels have much better communication systems than anything the humans could come up with, but there's no point in telling Nate that. He'll just think he's going crazy. Brad urges Nate to check his email before class. Just do it. And so Nate does.
Class is canceled.
In heaven, Brad grins smugly.
On earth, Nate frowns at his computer.
Every human appears as a projection, an image that needs constant attention and upkeep; so, being a guardian is like watching a plethora of monitors all at the same time. The more humans you have, the more time you spend in a fog of screens, trying to prioritize. It's like minimizing and maximizing windows on a computer. Except angels don't have computers.
The younger guardians are given more humans with the idea that the busier they're kept the less likely they are to fuck up everyone they come in contact with. The odds are in their favor that at least a few of their humans will make it.
The better you get at human management, the more adept you prove to be, the smaller the screens become until they're not physical transparencies but images that play out in the mind. This is why Nate is always in Brad's head.
Even when Brad's not thinking about Nate, he's thinking about Nate. Guiding him.
The green shirt, not the blue. The fish, not the beef.
For the most part, Brad's contributions are small things. It's not that he's not talking to Nate; it's that he's fairly certain Nate's ignoring him. At least he presumes so, since more often than not when Brad speaks to him, Nate just waves his hand dismissively as though Brad's a feather to be batted away. Which he's not.
Sometimes Nate does talk to him. But only when Nate's alone. Sometimes Nate tells him to shut up. Sometimes Nate makes a noise as though agreeing with Brad pains him. Sometimes Brad doesn't say anything, he just thinks very hard at Nate to stop being such a strong-willed pain in his angelic backside.
"If I wanted someone to nag me, I could call my mom," Nate complains to his reflection one morning after Brad's suggests he needs to rest more and not work so hard that he falls asleep standing up in the shower.
Brad's wings bristle. He is not anyone's mother.
He's a guardian angel. Nate's guardian angel. And he has a name: Brad.
Nate just stares at his face in the mirror. "Okay, when the voice in my head is telling me he's a guardian angel named Brad, there's a problem. You do know I'm an atheist now, right?"
In heaven, Brad winces. Maybe Nate's a little bit more tuned in than Brad thought.
Time doesn't pass upstairs the same way it does for humans. In the span of one inhalation (not that angels need to breathe, but sometimes Brad likes to try out human characteristics just to see) Brad can watch Nate's hair grow, see him fall in love and take an entire semester of classes. He can watch Nate go running along the Charles River, day after day, week after week, in the rain and the sleet and the snow. Sometimes on sunny days Nate runs without a shirt; Brad likes those days. He likes looking at the play of Nate's muscles in his back, the way the scarred skin slides and moves. There's an unconscious beauty to Nate that Brad hasn't seen in a long time. If ever.
Angels aren't suppose to have favorites, but Brad has preferences. After all these years he's earned the right.
For the most part Nate is totally self-sufficient. Brad supposes this is part of the appeal. Nate doesn't need him; on some level Brad wishes he did.
Nate having his heart broken by the girl he loves isn't quite the opening Brad was hoping for, but angels aren't supposed to hope anyway.
And then Nate goes out and gets so completely drunk that Brad doesn't have any choice but to intervene. He's just supposed to get Nate home. He's just supposed to ensure that Nate's friends get him home.
Brad's been around this block more times than the milkman. His last four humans have all been emotional cripples -- apparently Gabriel thinks Brad's good with them. But Nate's not crippled; he's just...human.
He's not broken; he just needs attention.
He just needs Brad.
That thought is not supposed to cross Brad's mind.
Brad stirs up dust motes upon his arrival in Nate's bedroom; he has no business here. It's only mildly dark and there's a waxing moon that filters through the blinds.
The shower cuts off and every fiber of Brad's being, every feather in his wings quivers in anticipation. He's hardly dressed for company in his gray robes. He has to leave. The bathroom door creaks open.
There's something utterly outrageous about an angel hiding in the closet, but there's room for Brad and his wings so he'll take it.
Through a crack between the closet doors, Brad watches Nate dry his hair with a towel before dropping it in an open dresser drawer. He purposely averts his eyes when Nate unwraps another towel from his waist. Soon enough Nate's drunken mumbling calls to Brad and he turns back in time to see Nate trip over his own feet and fall on the bed. It's a good landing, safe, right until Nate rolls off of the duvet and falls onto the floor.
Brad shakes his head; how can he love such a clumsy object?
The words repeat in Brad's head, but he ignores them in favor of watching Nate's nude form scramble back onto the bed and slide underneath the sheets.
The moon illuminates the scar tissue marring most of Nate's back. Brad knows all about that.
He watches Nate's rib cage rise and fall: first, deeply, and then more shallowly. Nate's facing away from him and all Brad can see is the back of his head. The strawberry brown blond hair that curls around his ears.
Brad doesn't realize he's moved until he finds himself hovering over the bed, wings beating slowly, his fingers brushing soft hair away from Nate's forehead.
Nate stirs and Brad studies him intently. The tiny ears and slight curl of his mouth. "She wasn't worthy of you," he says softly. A pause. "I'm not sure anyone is."
Nate murmurs something, his eyes fluttering and Brad freezes. "What?" he urges.
Nate repeats himself slightly more intelligibly and Brad inhales air he doesn't need.
Since when does Nate say, "Shut up, Brad" in his sleep?
So, Brad went to earth and saw his human.
In the scheme of things it could be much worse. He's not sure how, but it could be.
"Fuck," is the first word out of his mouth when he gets back to heaven.
Thankfully there are no Malakhim waiting for him, which is a good sign. Messenger angels never deliver good news. And yet, Brad knows that he is walking a very dangerous path.
He finds himself unsettled and passes a long stretch of what the humans call time walking among the newly arrived in heaven. Their wonder and awe is always something to behold. He has no time for the reverence they show him or the staring, though. He's just deciding to leave when a small human runs up to him. She can't be more than three or four of the human years. She has skin the color of strong tea and her hair is in tidy braids. She smiles up at Brad with a gap in her teeth.
"You have wings," she says boldly.
Brad looks down at her. "Yes, tiny human. I do."
"Can I touch them?" she says, little fingers already outstretched.
Brad can feel the multitude of eyes on him and he sighs.
"Yes," he finds himself saying. "Of course you can."
It's been a long time since Brad's let someone touch him.
Ray finds Brad eventually. Ray always finds him eventually. He's not technically one of the Ophanim, the Never Sleeping, but he might as well be.
Brad's not having a spiritual crisis, but based on the pacing and the way he's gesturing to himself it might seem as though he is.
"You know talking to yourself is the first sign--"
"That I am going to put you in a ball gag," Brad finishes for Ray.
Ray narrows his eyes, his white wings fluttering behind him. "You're just saying that to be mean; I've been trying to get Walt to use a ball gag for centuries."
Brad shakes his head. "Too much information."
"You can never have too much information," Ray says derisively. "Like did you know your new human looks like a porn star?"
Brad's wings ruffle behind him.
Ray takes a step back. "So you do know," he says, eying Brad's wings warily.
"Don't talk about my human, Ray."
"I was just saying..."
Brad's wings extend fully, seven feet across from tip to tip, the dark gray color a stark contract to his skin. This is an act of aggression in heaven and tends to send most angels scurrying. Ray's face just takes on a mulish look. Then again, even by guardian standards, Ray is unique.
He's constantly running around heaven, yelling instructions, berating or praising and conversing with humans no one can see unless Ray offers them a projection. Ray likes to do that -- show off his humans. He finds them tremendously amusing, but he also cares a great deal. He's one of the best guardians Brad's come across; Walt could not have a better mentor.
Ray carries on defiantly. "I'm just saying, there's been talk about you and your human. Is it true he almost saw you?"
"You need to stop gossiping with Walt and Poke."
"It wasn't even like -- look, they're watching you, that's all I'm saying.
"Ray."
"Brad, he's just -- he's just a human."
"So were you. So was Walt."
Ray's face turns stormy. "Yeah, but he's not now."
"Exactly."
Ray frowns.
Brad meets his gaze.
"I'm going to remember this later," Ray says eventually, before turning on his heel and stalking off. It's not really stalking, though, since Ray's wings are lifting him up several inches from the ground.
Brad stares after Ray for an indeterminate period.
Nate is tugging on his mind, but someone else is now physically tugging on his wings.
He turns into the face of a Seraphim.
"Brother, you need a friend?"
Jesus.
Ow.
"I get it!" Brad hollers to the sky, before turning back to Rudy.
"No, Rudy, I don't need a friend."
Rudy doesn't even bother to hide his disbelief. Then again Rudy is the sort of Seraphim who makes all the heavenly host (excluding God) look bad. When Rudy was a guardian he had a human named Michelangelo. He was good painter. And apparently he was so taken with Rudy that he spent his entire life trying to replicate the voice in his head on the ceilings of churches and in marble. Brad doesn't think the David looks much like Rudy at all.
"You don't mind if I don't believe you?" Rudy asks.
Brad looks over Rudy's shoulder. "I wouldn't believe me either," he admits.
Brad needs distance. He has to get what the humans call "perspective." He tries to leave Nate to his own devices. He doesn't attempt to guide anything Nate does. He lets Nate make his own decisions. He watches Nate do brilliantly on one exam and terribly on the next. He doesn't insist that Nate sleep instead of killing himself working on extra credit for the exam he bombs.
He just watches. Every now and then he hears Nate say something that sounds like his name. Like Nate cursing him for not helping, for being a terrible guardian angel, but that's just ridiculous. Brad is the best there is. No wonder guardians have to learn how to dissociate from their humans.
Brad's resolve lasts eight earth days and seven nights. He's reviewing Walt's progress with one of his humans when something sharp pierces his thoughts.
Nate's angry. And upset.
Brad lets his consciousness of Nate come to the forefront of his mind. He can't quite parse what's going on. There's a cracked mirror. And hurt. There's alcohol involved. Someone died.
It's only when Brad's wings knock over a lamp in Nate's living room that Brad realizes what he's done. He really should've thought this one through better, but that's a bit irrelevant since Nate's standing in the middle of the same living room with a bottle in one hand and a drink in the other.
At no time are angels allowed to be seen by their humans. The apocalypse is the only exception, and at that point it really won't matter.
Brad exhales. He can see why the humans like it. "Hello, Nathaniel."
The glass slips from Nate's hand and lands on the floor, spilling brown liquid everywhere. "Huh," Nate says rather brilliantly.
Brad bows his head slightly. His mouth curling upwards. "I always thought I'd get a better reception the first time we met," Brad says.
It's only after the words come out that Brad realizes how true they are. This day was always going to come. It was only a question of when.
Nate steps back. Brad watches intently as Nate blindly sets the bottle on a table behind him; not once do his eyes leave Brad.
"Aren't you going to say something?" Brad prods. "I know your parents taught you better than this."
Nate's mouth opens but nothing comes out.
Brad snorts quietly. It tickles his nose. He can see why Poke likes doing it. "Do you know who I am, Nate?"
Brad shouldn't be thinking at Nate loudly as he is, but he can't help it. He doesn't want to help it. He wants Nate to see how they're connected. He wants to see Nate's reaction to him.
Nate's eyes close briefly and then they snap back open. "Brad."
Brad's wings flutter in pleasure; he should probably retract them before they make a bigger mess than they already have. "I'm sorry about your lamp."
Nate's eyes look away briefly before returning to Brad; he shakes his head. "I have to stop drinking," he says.
"That probably wouldn't hurt," Brad agrees. "But I don't think that's why I'm here."
Nate rubs a hand over his face, his hair standing on end. He looks so tired. There are dark circles under his eyes and stubble at his jaw. His laugh is raw and painful. "You're here because I've obviously gotten alcohol poisoning and fallen into a coma. I have to admit that I didn't think my imagination was up to making the voice in my head this hot, but I was clearly wrong."
There's an unfamiliar heat in Brad's face. He takes a step toward Nate, who eyes him curiously. "I'm here because you called me," Brad says.
"No," Nate says. When he scratches his neck it leaves red lines. "I'm pretty sure I didn't call any six foot Nordic gods with wings."
"Why are you upset?" Brad prods again. "Someone's died. I can sense that much, but I've never quite grasped all the human emotions. I need you to tell me what I have to do to fix it."
Nate's laugh is bitter. "Can you bring people back from the dead? Can you bring back the men who died for some war that should never have happened?" Nate's movements are quick, deft, as he yanks his shirt over his head and turns his back on Brad. "What about this? Where were you when we were ambushed at Al Muwaffaqiyah?"
Brad closes the space between them, studying the expanse of pale skin as he advances: the healed burns and the pock marks from shrapnel.
He's never touched human skin before. It's warm. Soft. He can smell Nate. The anger, the sadness, the tang of alcohol. Nate inhales sharply as Brad's fingers skate along his shoulder blade and down his side. "I'm sorry this happened to you. I wish I could say I could've stopped it, but I couldn't. I can't. I can't do anything except guide you and care for you."
Brad should stop touching now, but when Nate turns around, Brad's fingers keep skating along the exposed skin. He feels the soft hairs on Nate's forearm, the firm muscle of his abdominals.
Nate licks his lips. "What are you?"
Brad can feel Nate's chest rising and falling underneath his hand. "Your guardian angel," Brad says.
Nate raises an eyebrow. "So, you were the voice in my head."
"Yes."
"It's nice to know I'm not going crazy."
"You never thought that."
"I had doubts." Nate gives Brad a considering look. "If you're an angel, where's your halo?"
"Angels don't have halos; they're a human invention, like jelly beans."
Nate's eyes crease at the corners. "I didn't know guardian angels looked like porn stars. They didn't mention that in Sunday School."
Something in Brad's chest is shifting, a fissure is opening. His mouth twists strangely. "Even porn stars have guardians," he says thoughtfully. "Ray has quite a few."
"Who's Ray?"
"It's not important."
"What about your wings, are those important?"
"Do they bother you?"
"No," Nate says stridently. There's a pause and then his voice softens. "No."
Brad just waits.
Nate looks from Brad to his wings and then back again. "Can I touch them?"
"Yes."
Brad is so going to hell.
Nate is the second human to touch Brad in several days, but this is nothing like being touched by that tiny human. Nate runs the back of his fingers along the edge of Brad's left wing and Brad's eyes fall closed.
Nate's hands are everywhere. Stroking along the inside curve of Brad's right wing, petting the back of his left wing. Tracing from the primary feathers to the second coverts. Brad draws his wings in closer to his body to give Nate more access.
The heat that was in his face is spreading to places Brad didn't know it could go. "If I'm hallucinating that's okay," Nate says after some time.
Brad opens his eyes and Nate's entire face is full of wonder. "You don't have to imagine me; I'm as real as you are."
Nate's hands still. "So you're as real as my ex-girlfriend who dumped me or my men who didn't make it back? Are you as real as all my faults? Because you're perfect and --"
"Nate," Brad interrupts, "I'm real enough to know that anyone would be lucky to have you."
Nate licks his lips. "Would you have me?"
"If I could."
When Nate leans in, the fissure in Brad's chest explodes. And then there's a tightness in his gut like he's being pulled away from the inside.
Oh.
No.
Brad is on his knees. He doesn't have to lift his head away from the white marble steps in his periphery to know he is at the foot of The Father.
He takes an unneeded breath and lifts his head.
On his throne God sits impassively, his steel gaze fixated on Brad.
At his right hand is the Metatron, his dark hair standing at attention.
Oh, sh...
"What exactly do you think you're doing, Bradley?" the Voice of God asks flatly.
Brad gets to his feet. He will ask for forgiveness, but not on his knees. "Nate was -- he was in danger." Brad explains, looking directly over God's left ear. "I was protecting him."
"By appearing to him in your true form?" If the Metatron did incredulous, he'd be doing it right now.
God blinks.
"Nathaniel has not been in danger of anything but you becoming entirely too attached to him," the Metatron intones. "You were sent to guard him; not to influence him. And certainly not to do -- well, whatever you were just doing."
"We've always influenced them," Brad protests. "That's what we do."
"That is not what we do."
"If you didn't want me influence him, then why'd you'd give him to me?"
God glances over at the Metatron who wavers slightly. Crap. God must be seriously pissed.
The Metatron fixes Brad with a glare. "Because he is important to the future; we expected you to guide him. This...business between you is unacceptable."
"I made a mistake," Brad agrees, "it won't happen again."
"Guardians are not allowed to make mistakes."
"So your humans are infallible but we're not?" Brad protests. "You expect us to take care of them and influence them but we should be immune?"
God fixes Brad with a look. The Metatron flinches.
Something bad is coming. Brad can feel it. His wings curl in on him reflexively as though able to offer protection.
And then, for the first time since granting Brad the right to choose his own humans two hundred years ago, God speaks to him.
"Godfather is displeased; he expects better of you in His name. This behavior will not be tolerated. You are no longer allowed to have contact with the human, Nathaniel Fick. We are giving him a new guardian."
The humans' dictionary flashes through Brad's mind. Pages rustle until they stop on the letter "P."
Panic. A noun. Can also be an adjective or a verb. 1) A sudden overpowering fright; also : acute extreme anxiety 2) : a sudden unreasoning terror often accompanied by mass flight.
Brad's wings expand of their own accord.
"No!" he protests vehemently. "You can't do that."
Brad has been exiled to God only knows where (literally). Time as a concept passes, but he could not say how much or for how long. All Brad knows is that Nate is on earth and Brad is not able to watch him. For thousands of years Brad has watched humans suffer, but this separation is insufferable. Brad will not do this. Not even for God.
The act of falling is not one to be taken lightly.
And yet, the act itself does not involve falling in the slightest.
Brad's watched his humans trip over their own feet, stumble down stairs and figuratively fall for other humans. When an angel falls it is nothing more than a descent. You leave heaven and you land on earth.
And you don't go back.
He hopes Ray and Poke will understand.
He's prepared them the best he can.
Brad does not land forcefully, but with a soft splash in a puddle on a side street. It's near dusk in Cambridge. Brad is alone. Wet. He is wearing the garments of a guardian. Water falls from the heavens staining his face and hair. Humans claim rain means God is crying. Only humans would be so sentimental.
God does not cry. Not even for his fallen.
The sky is gray, dark like Brad's wings that flap behind him in confusion. Desperate for flight. He's going to miss them.
Falling is deciding that there is something greater than yourself.
That wrenching yourself apart for one tiny being is worth any price.
Brad strokes the edge of his right wing, closes himself briefly once more in their cocoon. Their heaviness rests on his shoulders for the last time.
He reaches over his shoulder, grabs hold of the place where his wing joins his back, feels the feathers flutter underneath his fingers and then he wrenches. Hard.
There are no words for the agony.
Everything goes black for several moments.
So...this is pain.
It takes Brad much longer to remove his left wing.
Brad comes to with a persistent voice in his head. Get up. Get up now. No, really, get up now, Brad. The instructions come hard and fast: you are naked; you need clothes. Dig in that trash can. Remove that long coat. Cover yourself. Leave this place. Go left. Right. Left again. Find the motel with the orange awning. Tell the man at the desk that Ray sent you.
Brad inhales. He feels...he feels.
He can do this.
He takes a wobbly step towards the desired trash can and his bare feet brush over something damp and soft. Brad's wings lie at his feet, rain washing away the blood trickling from their severed joints. And then there's a puff of smoke and there's nothing left but wet ash and an outline of broken wings scalded on the ground.
Fine.
So be it.
The rain is cold.
Wet.
Relentless.
Brad's hair blows in his eyes and stings. He's never experienced this level of discomfort before.
The building with the orange awning is far. Brad doesn't know if he's going to make it.
Each step is more difficult than the one before it. He has no idea how humans do this day in and out. His hands shake with the effort of holding the long coat around him. He finally reaches his destination and his fingers slip on the door handle.
There's so much pain.
Brad wakes up lying on his stomach. There are antiseptic smells in the air and white cotton underneath his head. A compact man with a moustache sits in a chair across from him. "So," the man says, "he lives."
Brad makes a noise. His head is going to come apart at the base. He wipes at his face and his hand comes away wet, yet it's not wet indoors. Curious. He sniffs it.
"You're sweating out the last of your fever," the man announces to Brad before looking up at the ceiling. "It's been touch and go. I haven't done this in a while, so I hope you appreciate this, Ray."
Pain spikes behind Brad's eyes. "Where -- where am I?"
"Someplace safe." There's a pause. "You can call me Doc Bryan."
Brad shakes his head and attempts to sit up. He clenches his jaw. That hurts. His back hurts. His wings...
He reaches behind him for something that's no longer there.
His fingers brush against something cool and gauzy.
And then he passes out again.
"Fuck!" a voice mutters from far away. "You could at least have told me who the hell Nate is."
There are basic things that Brad has no concept of. Money. Directions. Showering. Sleep. Human amenities escape him. He's so accustomed to just appearing where he wants to be in the manner he desires that just figuring out how to use the bathroom is an adventure. Eventually Doc gets tired of Brad banging around and gives him a tutorial.
When Brad emerges from cleansing himself with a very scratchy piece of linen and a crumbling white bar, Doc Bryan points to several items on the bed. "Only strippers go around wearing trench coats and nothing else. Put some clothes on."
Brad picks up a pea-green piece of cotton and studies it curiously. Doc shakes his head and points. "Arm holes, put your head through there. Mind your back."
Brad winces as he lifts his arms over his head.
Doc watches expectantly. "Yeah, you have to be one of the fallen; no human would be able to move with twenty-two stitches in their back."
"Stitches?"
Doc blinks. "Where your wings used to be."
Brad drops down on the bed behind him and closes his eyes. Pain shoots up his spine. All this pain just for one human. He only opens his eyes when Doc speaks again. "So who's this Nate?"
Brad takes a shuddering inhalation. It catches in his throat. He's breathing. Oh, God, he's breathing?
"He's a human," Brad says, opening his eyes. "He's my human."
A familiar voice tells him to calm down. "Shut up, Poke," he mutters under his breath, his eyes focusing on Doc punching away noisily at a silver-colored piece of metal.
Doc glances up, an eyebrow raised. "I don't suppose Nate's got a last name?"
"Fick," Brad offers. This breathing thing is tedious. "Nate Fick."
Doc's fingers fly over the metallic object.
"Is that a computer?" Brad asks, pushing himself to his feet.
His toes sink into the ground underneath him. It feels strange underneath his bare soles. He rocks back and forth unsteadily. It's like he's never walked before. Maybe he hasn't.
Doc looks up. "Yeah, it is. I don't suppose you've had much use for them in your prior line of work."
Brad shakes his head. "No, but I admit to being very curious. How does it work?"
"Nuh uh," Doc says. "I am not going to train you, too. I did my part by making sure you got this far."
"I understand." This is already more courtesy than Brad's come to expect from humans.
"Being human is a shitty business." Doc Bryan chuckles. "I hope this Nate is worth it."
So does Brad.
Doc has a firm grip on Brad's bicep. They're standing before a familiar green door and Brad's legs don't want to work.
"You sure this is where he lives?" Doc says. "There were a whole lot of N. Ficks in the phone book."
Brad's reply is barely audible. He swallows, his throat is dry. "Yeah," he repeats after a moment. "This is it."
Doc peers at him intently. "You need a lot more rest. You sure your Nate is going to be up for taking care of somebody who just went through a life crisis?"
"Life crisis?"
"Yeah, now that you're human, you have a life," Doc says wryly.
"Nate will be fine," Brad says.
It's not a lie; Nate will be fine. Brad, on the other hand. Brad might not be fine at all. He doesn't even know how long he's been gone. Nate could have moved. He could be married. Oh, God – no, not God.
Doc shakes his head and presses a small gray box by the front door.
Nate's voice comes through in fuzzy tone. "Yeah?"
"I have a delivery for Nate Fick," Doc announces cavalierly, as though he drops off fallen angels every day. Maybe he does. It would certainly explain his bedside manner.
Brad's knees buckle slightly and Doc's fingers dig into his skin. "You really need to still be in bed," he says irritably.
"No, I don't," Brad says just as irritably. "I need--"
The green door swings open and Brad's presented with stubble and wild hair and wire frame glasses. Oh.
Nate's mouth falls open. "Brad?"
A flare of pain shoots across Brad's shoulders. He winces before opening his mouth, only to have Doc speak over him. "So you're the fine owner of this fallen angel?" he says wryly. "Try to take better care of him next time," he adds, reaching out and replacing his own hand with Nate's.
And with that Doc heads back down the stairs and Brad's left standing on the doorstep with Nate's hand supporting him. He really does not feel good.
Feelings suck.
"..rad... Brad... Brad."
The urgent tone pulls Brad back to the now. "Hi," he says awkwardly.
Nate's face clouds over. "Where've you been?" he says, tugging Brad inside. The door snicks shut and Brad pauses in the foyer. Nate's thumb is rubbing along the inside of his arm. It sends shock waves to Brad's groin. He has skin, and Nate's touching it. Huh. Nate's eyes are enormous behind his glasses. "What's wrong?" Nate asks. "You look...you don't look well."
Brad shakes his head. "I'm fine." Nate's look is all disbelief, but Brad ignores it and nods towards the stairs. "Have you moved into the lobby or are we going upstairs?"
Nate purses his lips but he leads Brad up the stairs, looking over his shoulder at Brad every five seconds.
Brad braces himself, grabs the railing and watches the muscles in Nate's backside shift underneath his sweatpants as he moves forward.
It's the longest three flights in the entire world.
By the time they get to Nate's door, Brad's had enough. Nate stops just inside the door as Brad follows him inside his apartment. "Are you going to tell me what the hell is going on?" Nate presses.
Brad drops down to his knees and is sick all over the floor.
For the second time in his human life, Brad wakes up lying on his stomach on white sheets. His back aches, but it's not quite as bad as earlier. His forehead is cool, his body is warm and free of the oppressive human garments. Sitting in a chair just a few feet away is Nate, chewing on his lower lip and flipping through a book.
Brad grunts as he attempts to get up. It's not a very dignified sound to make.
Nate looks up. "Hey," he says, setting the book down before getting up and crossing over to the bed. "Slow down." Brad can't really see past Nate's thighs from this angle. The muscles in his face turn downward. It feels strange.
Nate drops to his knees and Brad blinks at him blearily. Nate's smile is small as he reaches out, his fingers brushing over Brad's forehead as he pushes Brad's hair out of his face. "So, do you want to tell me why your back looks like you went to battle and lost?"
Brad lifts his head a fraction just to get more of the fingers stroking his hairline. "I didn't lose," he says thickly. There's a terrible taste on his tongue. His mouth doesn't want to work. "I'm here."
Nate laughs softly. "Yeah, I know you're here. Which is good, because after that last disappearing act I was starting to think I'd run you off."
Brad would shake his head, but it seems like too much work. He lets his head fall back onto the mattress and closes his eyes. Something soft brushes against his cheek and he falls back asleep.
Brad dreams that Poke and Ray are arguing about him. They're fighting over who gets to be his guardian. Walt announces that they're going to have to share custody. Like in a divorce.
It's probably not a dream.
The third time Brad wakes up, he's not alone in bed. Scant inches away is Nate, lying on his stomach, eyes lidded but alert. Waiting.
Brad watches out the corner of his eye as Nate reaches out. His fingers dance along Brad's arm, skating down his bicep to his forearm before brushing over his fingers. A vaguely familiar warmth spreads through Brad when Nate twines their fingers together.
"So, would I be correct if I assumed that your entire back being stitched up has a direct correlation to your lack of wings?"
Brad nods, his cheek brushing against the cotton under his head. "Yeah."
Nate nods back. "Can I ask where they went?"
Brad swallows. "I gave them up," he rasps out.
"You gave them up?" Nate's tone conveys his disbelief rather well. "I admit it's been a while since I went to church – but can you do that?"
"The last time I checked, it's been eight years, seven months and eleven days since you set foot in a church."
"Christmas mass doesn't count?"
"Not when you spend it answering messages on your cell phone."
Nate smiles ruefully. "Stop changing the subject. You. Wings. The lack thereof. I admit I'm not really up on my angelic lore, but rumor says that if give up your wings, you can't go back to heaven. Is that true?"
Brad nods again, trying to speak past the dryness in his throat.
"You need water," Nate says, extricating their fingers to push himself to his elbows.
Brad reaches out and tugs him back down. "In a minute."
Nate frowns. "Brad, I'm not going anywhere. You need water."
"I'm not going to die without water," Brad says peevishly. And then he remembers where he is. What he is. "Actually, that's not true anymore," he grits out. "Get the water."
Nate climbs off the bed and pads over to the corner. "What's not true anymore?" he says, pouring bottled water into a plastic cup with Harvard Crimson scrawled on it.
"That I won't die without water," Brad replies.
Nate turns sharply on his heel, the cup of water slipping out of his hand and landing on the floor. "What?" Nate looks utterly stricken.
Brad struggles to push himself upright. Twenty-two stitches and cast out of His Glory to be here now. He has to make it worth it. He tries to imitate the way Walt looks every time Ray praises him. Like he's...content. Loved.
The stricken look on Nate's face falls away instantly and transforms into something much more pleasing. Happier. Hopeful.
"So you did it?" Nate asks. "You...fell." Brad nods.
Nate's "oh" is soft. Barely audible. He never looks away from Brad the entire time he picks up the cup from the carpet, refills it and crosses back towards the bed. He sits down close enough that he's almost on top of Brad; Brad doesn't mind.
He's watching Brad as though he might disappear at any moment. Brad doesn't think that will happen again.
Their fingers tangle again when Brad takes the cup and sips at it. The water makes the sour taste in his mouth dissipate. "Cold," he says. And then he realizes what that means.
"You don't like cold water?'
"I'm not sure," Brad confesses.
"You're not sure," Nate repeats thoughtfully. He pulls the cup away from Brad and sets it on the floor by his feet. "I'm feeling a little slow at the moment, so why don't you explain this to me one more time. You were here; you completely seduced me and then you left. Then you show up at my front door, sick, feverish and wingless. I haven't heard you in my head in weeks. I thought – I thought you'd left me."
"I didn't want to leave you," Brad says bluntly. "I don't want to leave you," he corrects. "So I decided to stay. Permanently."
Nate's eyes go wide. "Permanently?" he echoes.
"Well, as permanent as this body is." Brad's mouth twists at the corner. "It occurs to me that I probably should've asked if you were okay with this, but I want to be with you, so I'm asking now. Are you okay with being the guardian of a three thousand year-old angel who has no idea how to be a human or use a computer?"
Nate's mouth falls open and then he gives Brad a deeply suspicious look. "You're not a tool of the devil are you? Sent here to seduce me, defile me and lure me into a depraved lifestyle with your staggeringly good looks?"
Brad doesn't bother to hide his shock.
Nate laughs. "I was just checking."
Brad purses his lips. Nate leans in and brushes his mouth against Brad's own. Brad makes a surprised noise after Nate pulls away. "You do know what kissing is?" Nate asks dubiously.
Brad rolls his eyes. "I've been watching humans fornicate since before you even knew what to call it. I've been watching you fornicate since..." He stops talking.
"You've been watching me fornicate?" Nate says slowly.
"I have to learn the fundamentals somewhere," Brad says guilelessly. "Your masturbation technique intrigues me. I think I'll need to study it in depth."
Nate's smile turns wicked. "I would be happy to teach it to you...once your back heals."
Brad protests loudly. Nate just laughs. "We have time, right?"
"Just one lifetime," Brad corrects.
Nate nods. "So we'll have to make sure it's enough. Okay?"
Brad leans in for another kiss. "Okay," he says quietly. "We'll make it enough."
Nate smiles. "Good, but before that, we need to introduce you to this thing called a toothbrush, because kissing somebody who recently vomited is just not appealing at all."
Brad opens his mouth to protest and Nate cuts him off. "Yes, even when they look like you."
Brad...doesn't get it. "What do I look like to you?"
Nate makes a stuttering noise and then he shakes his head. "Angels don't have mirrors, do they?"
"No."
"Ah." A pause. "You look like...like something only God could make."
Brad snorts. "That's because he did."
"You look like something only God could make for me," Nate clarifies.
Brad can feel the heat in his face. "Oh," he says. "That's how I feel about you."
Nate's face flushes a rosy pink. "If you want me to kiss you, you don't have to flatter me."
"But I mean it," Brad protests.
Nate leans in and kisses Brad firmly on the mouth. "I know," he breathes, "so do I."
-end-
This story would not be possibly without the beta awesome that is![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
maurheti. She has a very nice whip and a very red pen and is not afraid to use either one. And to the always brilliant alethialia who won't let me get away with anything, ever, thank you.. ::hugs::
Toalethialia and sparky77: I am well aware you are capable of inspiring me to write anything and everything, but did it really have to be wing!fic? Idek. I still love you though.
I played fast and lose with the Jewish angelic hierarchy, because I can.
Special props to the original GK wingfic: How Ray Saved the Universe, Blasphemed a Whole Lot, and Finally Got Laid. This is sort of a homage/rip-off of Legion/Dogma/City of Angels, and like, I don't even know. The title is a song from The Boy Least Likely To. I have to go have a drink now.
help_haiti auction. It's not quite the story I set out to write, but I hope you like it all the same.Generation Kill
Alternate Universe
Brad/Nate
Rated PG-13
In the beginning, Brad just observed.
Three thousand years is a long time to watch.
At first Brad was appalled by what he saw. The lies, the cruelty, the abuse. There were moments of kindness. Hints of what God found so intriguing in the human design. But for the most part Brad was not impressed. The warmongering, the hate, the intolerance. And then God gave Brad a new purpose. Instead of just observing, Brad began to take part. He was given responsibilities. Humans to watch over and protect.
He went from being just an angel to being a guardian. His wings began to change from white to gray.
There are some angels who do nothing but look after humans, copious amounts of them. Ray has anywhere between ten and fifteen humans on any given day. Walt has more than thirty. Brad began with almost fifty humans himself. As he became more adept at dealing with their peculiarities, he was given fewer humans to handle and more opportunity to actually guide their paths. And then Michael was promoted and Brad was moved into his position. Management is not something Brad ever wanted, but you don't tell Him, "yeah, no thanks." So now Brad watches over most of the guardians instead of participating. After all this time, though, he has also earned the right to keep one human if he so chooses. There's something about them, something intriguing. As a whole they're an utter disaster and Brad's sorry the floods and locusts and plagues haven't worked. On an individual level...they're fascinating.
Brad is there when his humans are born. He watches them grow, guides their legs, hears their first words and makes sure that care is taken (physical and emotional). That skinned knees and broken hearts are attended to. That lives are lived, extraordinary or not. Brad's humans are born, live and die without ever meeting their guardian angel. This is par for the course. This is as it should be.
Brad cannot remember the last time he was given a human as a gift.
In three thousand years, Brad cannot remember anyone ever being given a human as a gift.
"Gabriel said this one is for you," Michael says, presenting an image of a pale young man bent over a large stack of books in a library that can't be more than a few decades old. The building is so new that it still has that new library smell. Brad likes his libraries full of dust and mold and history. This is just tacky; how typically American.
Brad raises an eyebrow. The human chews on the end of a pen. "I already have a human."
"You had a human," Mike corrects.
"I'm still recovering from that last one," Brad says. Michael narrows his eyes. Brad blinks. "As I understood it, accepting gifts is optional."
"Would you care to tell God you are refusing his gift?"
Fuck. "Where's his guardian?" Brad tries. "You can't tell me he's been running around unsupervised all this time. What is he, twelve?"
Mike's mouth twitches at the corners. "He's twenty-six. He's just left the Marines. This is his first semester in grad school."
The young man pushes sandy-colored hair behind his ear. Brad's new human needs a haircut. "Why me?"
"Why not?"
Brad looks over at Michael. He's been here even longer than Brad. His wings have turned completely black.
"Gabriel took him away from his guardian to give him to me?" Brad presses.
Brad is known for his persistence; Michael's known for his calm. "Yes," Mike confirms.
"And again I ask, why?"
"Are you questioning God?"
A noise escapes from Brad's nose. Michael ignores it.
"I would never question God," Brad says.
"Good answer."
Brad sighs. He learned that back in the 15th Century from one of his humans who had to put up with a lot of stupidity in the name of God. "What's his name?"
Nathaniel Christoper Fick was born on September 13th at 4:13 a.m. He likes to be called "Nate." He's right-handed. His left leg is slightly longer than his right. His eyes are green like the olive paint that one of Brad's humans liked to use for his cypress trees series.
Nate likes to sleep on the right side of the bed.
He likes to sleep naked.
His favorite book as a child was Go, Dog, Go! by Dr. Seuss. His favorite book now is a tie between David Webb's Fields of Fire and Charles Dickens' Bleak House. He reads Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics when he wants to relax.
He sings in the shower.
He's utterly tone deaf, but he plays the guitar beautifully.
He runs when he's stressed out. He runs when he's happy. When he's tired and can't put one foot in front of the other. He loved being a Marine; he misses his men. He's got physical scars from his service. Big ones. He's got emotional scars. Brad sees them.
Brad hasn't watched one of his humans this intently since Evan went to Iraq and got embedded with those fucking Army brats. (Brad learned how to curse from Ray in the 19th Century. He hasn't been able to shake the habit; he hasn't tried very hard though). It's too bad Evan couldn't have gotten embedded with Nate's Marines. That might've been very interesting. Things might've turned out better for Evan, too.
Before Nate, Brad had a journalist, Evan Wright. Evan was special. From the day he was born, Brad knew Evan was going to bring him nothing but headaches and inappropriate amusement.
Angels are supposed to be impassive; humans make this very difficult.
Evan did too many drugs, fell for all the wrong women, watched porn for a living, got paid to talk to porn stars and wrote articles about all his drugs and porn. He was very entertaining. And then Brad did what Brad tends to do with his humans and made a few suggestions. Guardian angels are allowed to do that. You can't be seen; you shouldn't be heard; but you can make suggestions. Except the next thing Brad knew Evan gave up Hustler for Rolling Stone and Vanity Fair.
And then he went to Iraq and got killed with the aforementioned Army brats.
That was not quite what Brad had in mind.
Angels do not feel in the human way, but Brad does have a sense of something being very unjust about this loss. Still, Evan seems very happy in heaven with several of his idols, like one of Ray's former humans: Hunter S. Thompson.
As far as Brad can tell, free will has ruined more humans and given more guardians a complex than anything else God has ever done.
No, that's not true.
Jesus has done more to ruin humans than anything else God has done. Not that Brad's allowed to have such a thought...as a sharp pain in his kidneys reminds him, if he had kidneys, anyway. He doubles over briefly en route to his favorite watching perch.
"I forgot!" he bitches. "It happens."
"You been thinkin' shit about Jesus again?" an amused voice asks from behind Brad.
Brad's wings ruffle in irritation as he rounds on another angel. "Don't you have some Mexicans to get across the border?" he asks.
Poke was one of Brad's first humans in the New World. The son of a famous Indian chief, Poke was renowned for his bravery and valor. When he died defending his village from an influx of settlers and syphilis, Brad was there at the gates to greet him. Peter nearly passed out in shock. It's one thing for humans to come to heaven, it's something else entirely for them to mingle with angels. For them to be welcomed and championed.
In two thousand, five hundred and eighteen years Brad had never championed anyone to be given wings. Poke was his first. One hundred and thirty years later he was followed by Ray.
Brad has never regretted his decisions, despite what he tells Poke and Ray on a regular basis.
"How's your new boy?" Poke asks conversationally.
Brad is not fooled. "Why?"
"No reason," Poke says mildly. "I was just noticing you seem to be pretty taken with him."
"I'm his guardian," Brad retorts. "I'm not going to let him go over Niagara Falls in a barrel."
Poke holds up his hands. His white wings, shot through with the blue of the Erelim, are fluttering behind him. "That was Ray; that didn't have anything to do with me."
Brad just scowls.
Angels are so fucking nosy.
Heaven is not a white haven high in the sky, made of clouds and eternal sunshine with angels playing harps. Most angels hate harps. They're heavy and unwieldy and have too many strings. Heaven is actually full of colors and buildings that aren't quite buildings. It looks a lot like Los Angeles but without the smog and the earthquakes and the traffic.
There's a reason Ciudad de los Angeles translates as City of the Angels.
That little voice in the back of your mind telling you to go right instead of left – that's your guardian. Your guardian is the one who suggests that maybe you don't want to go home with that guy, or that you shouldn't take the shortcut today. Your guardian hints that perhaps you should go home a little early or that maybe the next flight is a better one. What humans think of as gut instinct actually is a voice belonging to someone – something -- else.
For a long time guardians used to simply tell their humans what to do, but that led to a lot of humans ostensibly arguing with themselves and an influx at several psychiatric hospitals, so communication evolved, like it does.
In the beginning, Brad is nothing more than a tiny voice in Nate's mind. And not a very distinct one at that. The more a human listens to his or her guardian the more defined the voice becomes.
The first time Brad makes contact with Nate is because of something tiny: Nate has a cold and it's sitting right in the middle of his sinuses. He wants to go to class, Brad wants him to go stay home and rest. Brad doesn't win that battle and Nate ends up with bronchitis. Stupid fucking human. Now they both have to suffer. When Brad points this out rather reasonably, Nate tells him to shut up. The girl in the next chair over at Student Health looks at Nate as though he's hearing things. Which he is.
A week later the debate is whether or not Nate should sleep in and skip his Theory of Microeconomic Economies lecture. Nate is not a slacker. Brad insists that the class is canceled anyway. It's pointless to get out of bed, get dressed and slog halfway across Harvard just to find this out, when Brad already knows this information to be true since Dr. Butler has been detained by his wife. And his mistress. Angels have much better communication systems than anything the humans could come up with, but there's no point in telling Nate that. He'll just think he's going crazy. Brad urges Nate to check his email before class. Just do it. And so Nate does.
Class is canceled.
In heaven, Brad grins smugly.
On earth, Nate frowns at his computer.
Every human appears as a projection, an image that needs constant attention and upkeep; so, being a guardian is like watching a plethora of monitors all at the same time. The more humans you have, the more time you spend in a fog of screens, trying to prioritize. It's like minimizing and maximizing windows on a computer. Except angels don't have computers.
The younger guardians are given more humans with the idea that the busier they're kept the less likely they are to fuck up everyone they come in contact with. The odds are in their favor that at least a few of their humans will make it.
The better you get at human management, the more adept you prove to be, the smaller the screens become until they're not physical transparencies but images that play out in the mind. This is why Nate is always in Brad's head.
Even when Brad's not thinking about Nate, he's thinking about Nate. Guiding him.
The green shirt, not the blue. The fish, not the beef.
For the most part, Brad's contributions are small things. It's not that he's not talking to Nate; it's that he's fairly certain Nate's ignoring him. At least he presumes so, since more often than not when Brad speaks to him, Nate just waves his hand dismissively as though Brad's a feather to be batted away. Which he's not.
Sometimes Nate does talk to him. But only when Nate's alone. Sometimes Nate tells him to shut up. Sometimes Nate makes a noise as though agreeing with Brad pains him. Sometimes Brad doesn't say anything, he just thinks very hard at Nate to stop being such a strong-willed pain in his angelic backside.
"If I wanted someone to nag me, I could call my mom," Nate complains to his reflection one morning after Brad's suggests he needs to rest more and not work so hard that he falls asleep standing up in the shower.
Brad's wings bristle. He is not anyone's mother.
He's a guardian angel. Nate's guardian angel. And he has a name: Brad.
Nate just stares at his face in the mirror. "Okay, when the voice in my head is telling me he's a guardian angel named Brad, there's a problem. You do know I'm an atheist now, right?"
In heaven, Brad winces. Maybe Nate's a little bit more tuned in than Brad thought.
Time doesn't pass upstairs the same way it does for humans. In the span of one inhalation (not that angels need to breathe, but sometimes Brad likes to try out human characteristics just to see) Brad can watch Nate's hair grow, see him fall in love and take an entire semester of classes. He can watch Nate go running along the Charles River, day after day, week after week, in the rain and the sleet and the snow. Sometimes on sunny days Nate runs without a shirt; Brad likes those days. He likes looking at the play of Nate's muscles in his back, the way the scarred skin slides and moves. There's an unconscious beauty to Nate that Brad hasn't seen in a long time. If ever.
Angels aren't suppose to have favorites, but Brad has preferences. After all these years he's earned the right.
For the most part Nate is totally self-sufficient. Brad supposes this is part of the appeal. Nate doesn't need him; on some level Brad wishes he did.
Nate having his heart broken by the girl he loves isn't quite the opening Brad was hoping for, but angels aren't supposed to hope anyway.
And then Nate goes out and gets so completely drunk that Brad doesn't have any choice but to intervene. He's just supposed to get Nate home. He's just supposed to ensure that Nate's friends get him home.
Brad's been around this block more times than the milkman. His last four humans have all been emotional cripples -- apparently Gabriel thinks Brad's good with them. But Nate's not crippled; he's just...human.
He's not broken; he just needs attention.
He just needs Brad.
That thought is not supposed to cross Brad's mind.
Brad stirs up dust motes upon his arrival in Nate's bedroom; he has no business here. It's only mildly dark and there's a waxing moon that filters through the blinds.
The shower cuts off and every fiber of Brad's being, every feather in his wings quivers in anticipation. He's hardly dressed for company in his gray robes. He has to leave. The bathroom door creaks open.
There's something utterly outrageous about an angel hiding in the closet, but there's room for Brad and his wings so he'll take it.
Through a crack between the closet doors, Brad watches Nate dry his hair with a towel before dropping it in an open dresser drawer. He purposely averts his eyes when Nate unwraps another towel from his waist. Soon enough Nate's drunken mumbling calls to Brad and he turns back in time to see Nate trip over his own feet and fall on the bed. It's a good landing, safe, right until Nate rolls off of the duvet and falls onto the floor.
Brad shakes his head; how can he love such a clumsy object?
The words repeat in Brad's head, but he ignores them in favor of watching Nate's nude form scramble back onto the bed and slide underneath the sheets.
The moon illuminates the scar tissue marring most of Nate's back. Brad knows all about that.
He watches Nate's rib cage rise and fall: first, deeply, and then more shallowly. Nate's facing away from him and all Brad can see is the back of his head. The strawberry brown blond hair that curls around his ears.
Brad doesn't realize he's moved until he finds himself hovering over the bed, wings beating slowly, his fingers brushing soft hair away from Nate's forehead.
Nate stirs and Brad studies him intently. The tiny ears and slight curl of his mouth. "She wasn't worthy of you," he says softly. A pause. "I'm not sure anyone is."
Nate murmurs something, his eyes fluttering and Brad freezes. "What?" he urges.
Nate repeats himself slightly more intelligibly and Brad inhales air he doesn't need.
Since when does Nate say, "Shut up, Brad" in his sleep?
So, Brad went to earth and saw his human.
In the scheme of things it could be much worse. He's not sure how, but it could be.
"Fuck," is the first word out of his mouth when he gets back to heaven.
Thankfully there are no Malakhim waiting for him, which is a good sign. Messenger angels never deliver good news. And yet, Brad knows that he is walking a very dangerous path.
He finds himself unsettled and passes a long stretch of what the humans call time walking among the newly arrived in heaven. Their wonder and awe is always something to behold. He has no time for the reverence they show him or the staring, though. He's just deciding to leave when a small human runs up to him. She can't be more than three or four of the human years. She has skin the color of strong tea and her hair is in tidy braids. She smiles up at Brad with a gap in her teeth.
"You have wings," she says boldly.
Brad looks down at her. "Yes, tiny human. I do."
"Can I touch them?" she says, little fingers already outstretched.
Brad can feel the multitude of eyes on him and he sighs.
"Yes," he finds himself saying. "Of course you can."
It's been a long time since Brad's let someone touch him.
Ray finds Brad eventually. Ray always finds him eventually. He's not technically one of the Ophanim, the Never Sleeping, but he might as well be.
Brad's not having a spiritual crisis, but based on the pacing and the way he's gesturing to himself it might seem as though he is.
"You know talking to yourself is the first sign--"
"That I am going to put you in a ball gag," Brad finishes for Ray.
Ray narrows his eyes, his white wings fluttering behind him. "You're just saying that to be mean; I've been trying to get Walt to use a ball gag for centuries."
Brad shakes his head. "Too much information."
"You can never have too much information," Ray says derisively. "Like did you know your new human looks like a porn star?"
Brad's wings ruffle behind him.
Ray takes a step back. "So you do know," he says, eying Brad's wings warily.
"Don't talk about my human, Ray."
"I was just saying..."
Brad's wings extend fully, seven feet across from tip to tip, the dark gray color a stark contract to his skin. This is an act of aggression in heaven and tends to send most angels scurrying. Ray's face just takes on a mulish look. Then again, even by guardian standards, Ray is unique.
He's constantly running around heaven, yelling instructions, berating or praising and conversing with humans no one can see unless Ray offers them a projection. Ray likes to do that -- show off his humans. He finds them tremendously amusing, but he also cares a great deal. He's one of the best guardians Brad's come across; Walt could not have a better mentor.
Ray carries on defiantly. "I'm just saying, there's been talk about you and your human. Is it true he almost saw you?"
"You need to stop gossiping with Walt and Poke."
"It wasn't even like -- look, they're watching you, that's all I'm saying.
"Ray."
"Brad, he's just -- he's just a human."
"So were you. So was Walt."
Ray's face turns stormy. "Yeah, but he's not now."
"Exactly."
Ray frowns.
Brad meets his gaze.
"I'm going to remember this later," Ray says eventually, before turning on his heel and stalking off. It's not really stalking, though, since Ray's wings are lifting him up several inches from the ground.
Brad stares after Ray for an indeterminate period.
Nate is tugging on his mind, but someone else is now physically tugging on his wings.
He turns into the face of a Seraphim.
"Brother, you need a friend?"
Jesus.
Ow.
"I get it!" Brad hollers to the sky, before turning back to Rudy.
"No, Rudy, I don't need a friend."
Rudy doesn't even bother to hide his disbelief. Then again Rudy is the sort of Seraphim who makes all the heavenly host (excluding God) look bad. When Rudy was a guardian he had a human named Michelangelo. He was good painter. And apparently he was so taken with Rudy that he spent his entire life trying to replicate the voice in his head on the ceilings of churches and in marble. Brad doesn't think the David looks much like Rudy at all.
"You don't mind if I don't believe you?" Rudy asks.
Brad looks over Rudy's shoulder. "I wouldn't believe me either," he admits.
Brad needs distance. He has to get what the humans call "perspective." He tries to leave Nate to his own devices. He doesn't attempt to guide anything Nate does. He lets Nate make his own decisions. He watches Nate do brilliantly on one exam and terribly on the next. He doesn't insist that Nate sleep instead of killing himself working on extra credit for the exam he bombs.
He just watches. Every now and then he hears Nate say something that sounds like his name. Like Nate cursing him for not helping, for being a terrible guardian angel, but that's just ridiculous. Brad is the best there is. No wonder guardians have to learn how to dissociate from their humans.
Brad's resolve lasts eight earth days and seven nights. He's reviewing Walt's progress with one of his humans when something sharp pierces his thoughts.
Nate's angry. And upset.
Brad lets his consciousness of Nate come to the forefront of his mind. He can't quite parse what's going on. There's a cracked mirror. And hurt. There's alcohol involved. Someone died.
It's only when Brad's wings knock over a lamp in Nate's living room that Brad realizes what he's done. He really should've thought this one through better, but that's a bit irrelevant since Nate's standing in the middle of the same living room with a bottle in one hand and a drink in the other.
At no time are angels allowed to be seen by their humans. The apocalypse is the only exception, and at that point it really won't matter.
Brad exhales. He can see why the humans like it. "Hello, Nathaniel."
The glass slips from Nate's hand and lands on the floor, spilling brown liquid everywhere. "Huh," Nate says rather brilliantly.
Brad bows his head slightly. His mouth curling upwards. "I always thought I'd get a better reception the first time we met," Brad says.
It's only after the words come out that Brad realizes how true they are. This day was always going to come. It was only a question of when.
Nate steps back. Brad watches intently as Nate blindly sets the bottle on a table behind him; not once do his eyes leave Brad.
"Aren't you going to say something?" Brad prods. "I know your parents taught you better than this."
Nate's mouth opens but nothing comes out.
Brad snorts quietly. It tickles his nose. He can see why Poke likes doing it. "Do you know who I am, Nate?"
Brad shouldn't be thinking at Nate loudly as he is, but he can't help it. He doesn't want to help it. He wants Nate to see how they're connected. He wants to see Nate's reaction to him.
Nate's eyes close briefly and then they snap back open. "Brad."
Brad's wings flutter in pleasure; he should probably retract them before they make a bigger mess than they already have. "I'm sorry about your lamp."
Nate's eyes look away briefly before returning to Brad; he shakes his head. "I have to stop drinking," he says.
"That probably wouldn't hurt," Brad agrees. "But I don't think that's why I'm here."
Nate rubs a hand over his face, his hair standing on end. He looks so tired. There are dark circles under his eyes and stubble at his jaw. His laugh is raw and painful. "You're here because I've obviously gotten alcohol poisoning and fallen into a coma. I have to admit that I didn't think my imagination was up to making the voice in my head this hot, but I was clearly wrong."
There's an unfamiliar heat in Brad's face. He takes a step toward Nate, who eyes him curiously. "I'm here because you called me," Brad says.
"No," Nate says. When he scratches his neck it leaves red lines. "I'm pretty sure I didn't call any six foot Nordic gods with wings."
"Why are you upset?" Brad prods again. "Someone's died. I can sense that much, but I've never quite grasped all the human emotions. I need you to tell me what I have to do to fix it."
Nate's laugh is bitter. "Can you bring people back from the dead? Can you bring back the men who died for some war that should never have happened?" Nate's movements are quick, deft, as he yanks his shirt over his head and turns his back on Brad. "What about this? Where were you when we were ambushed at Al Muwaffaqiyah?"
Brad closes the space between them, studying the expanse of pale skin as he advances: the healed burns and the pock marks from shrapnel.
He's never touched human skin before. It's warm. Soft. He can smell Nate. The anger, the sadness, the tang of alcohol. Nate inhales sharply as Brad's fingers skate along his shoulder blade and down his side. "I'm sorry this happened to you. I wish I could say I could've stopped it, but I couldn't. I can't. I can't do anything except guide you and care for you."
Brad should stop touching now, but when Nate turns around, Brad's fingers keep skating along the exposed skin. He feels the soft hairs on Nate's forearm, the firm muscle of his abdominals.
Nate licks his lips. "What are you?"
Brad can feel Nate's chest rising and falling underneath his hand. "Your guardian angel," Brad says.
Nate raises an eyebrow. "So, you were the voice in my head."
"Yes."
"It's nice to know I'm not going crazy."
"You never thought that."
"I had doubts." Nate gives Brad a considering look. "If you're an angel, where's your halo?"
"Angels don't have halos; they're a human invention, like jelly beans."
Nate's eyes crease at the corners. "I didn't know guardian angels looked like porn stars. They didn't mention that in Sunday School."
Something in Brad's chest is shifting, a fissure is opening. His mouth twists strangely. "Even porn stars have guardians," he says thoughtfully. "Ray has quite a few."
"Who's Ray?"
"It's not important."
"What about your wings, are those important?"
"Do they bother you?"
"No," Nate says stridently. There's a pause and then his voice softens. "No."
Brad just waits.
Nate looks from Brad to his wings and then back again. "Can I touch them?"
"Yes."
Brad is so going to hell.
Nate is the second human to touch Brad in several days, but this is nothing like being touched by that tiny human. Nate runs the back of his fingers along the edge of Brad's left wing and Brad's eyes fall closed.
Nate's hands are everywhere. Stroking along the inside curve of Brad's right wing, petting the back of his left wing. Tracing from the primary feathers to the second coverts. Brad draws his wings in closer to his body to give Nate more access.
The heat that was in his face is spreading to places Brad didn't know it could go. "If I'm hallucinating that's okay," Nate says after some time.
Brad opens his eyes and Nate's entire face is full of wonder. "You don't have to imagine me; I'm as real as you are."
Nate's hands still. "So you're as real as my ex-girlfriend who dumped me or my men who didn't make it back? Are you as real as all my faults? Because you're perfect and --"
"Nate," Brad interrupts, "I'm real enough to know that anyone would be lucky to have you."
Nate licks his lips. "Would you have me?"
"If I could."
When Nate leans in, the fissure in Brad's chest explodes. And then there's a tightness in his gut like he's being pulled away from the inside.
Oh.
No.
Brad is on his knees. He doesn't have to lift his head away from the white marble steps in his periphery to know he is at the foot of The Father.
He takes an unneeded breath and lifts his head.
On his throne God sits impassively, his steel gaze fixated on Brad.
At his right hand is the Metatron, his dark hair standing at attention.
Oh, sh...
"What exactly do you think you're doing, Bradley?" the Voice of God asks flatly.
Brad gets to his feet. He will ask for forgiveness, but not on his knees. "Nate was -- he was in danger." Brad explains, looking directly over God's left ear. "I was protecting him."
"By appearing to him in your true form?" If the Metatron did incredulous, he'd be doing it right now.
God blinks.
"Nathaniel has not been in danger of anything but you becoming entirely too attached to him," the Metatron intones. "You were sent to guard him; not to influence him. And certainly not to do -- well, whatever you were just doing."
"We've always influenced them," Brad protests. "That's what we do."
"That is not what we do."
"If you didn't want me influence him, then why'd you'd give him to me?"
God glances over at the Metatron who wavers slightly. Crap. God must be seriously pissed.
The Metatron fixes Brad with a glare. "Because he is important to the future; we expected you to guide him. This...business between you is unacceptable."
"I made a mistake," Brad agrees, "it won't happen again."
"Guardians are not allowed to make mistakes."
"So your humans are infallible but we're not?" Brad protests. "You expect us to take care of them and influence them but we should be immune?"
God fixes Brad with a look. The Metatron flinches.
Something bad is coming. Brad can feel it. His wings curl in on him reflexively as though able to offer protection.
And then, for the first time since granting Brad the right to choose his own humans two hundred years ago, God speaks to him.
"Godfather is displeased; he expects better of you in His name. This behavior will not be tolerated. You are no longer allowed to have contact with the human, Nathaniel Fick. We are giving him a new guardian."
The humans' dictionary flashes through Brad's mind. Pages rustle until they stop on the letter "P."
Panic. A noun. Can also be an adjective or a verb. 1) A sudden overpowering fright; also : acute extreme anxiety 2) : a sudden unreasoning terror often accompanied by mass flight.
Brad's wings expand of their own accord.
"No!" he protests vehemently. "You can't do that."
Brad has been exiled to God only knows where (literally). Time as a concept passes, but he could not say how much or for how long. All Brad knows is that Nate is on earth and Brad is not able to watch him. For thousands of years Brad has watched humans suffer, but this separation is insufferable. Brad will not do this. Not even for God.
The act of falling is not one to be taken lightly.
And yet, the act itself does not involve falling in the slightest.
Brad's watched his humans trip over their own feet, stumble down stairs and figuratively fall for other humans. When an angel falls it is nothing more than a descent. You leave heaven and you land on earth.
And you don't go back.
He hopes Ray and Poke will understand.
He's prepared them the best he can.
Brad does not land forcefully, but with a soft splash in a puddle on a side street. It's near dusk in Cambridge. Brad is alone. Wet. He is wearing the garments of a guardian. Water falls from the heavens staining his face and hair. Humans claim rain means God is crying. Only humans would be so sentimental.
God does not cry. Not even for his fallen.
The sky is gray, dark like Brad's wings that flap behind him in confusion. Desperate for flight. He's going to miss them.
Falling is deciding that there is something greater than yourself.
That wrenching yourself apart for one tiny being is worth any price.
Brad strokes the edge of his right wing, closes himself briefly once more in their cocoon. Their heaviness rests on his shoulders for the last time.
He reaches over his shoulder, grabs hold of the place where his wing joins his back, feels the feathers flutter underneath his fingers and then he wrenches. Hard.
There are no words for the agony.
Everything goes black for several moments.
So...this is pain.
It takes Brad much longer to remove his left wing.
Brad comes to with a persistent voice in his head. Get up. Get up now. No, really, get up now, Brad. The instructions come hard and fast: you are naked; you need clothes. Dig in that trash can. Remove that long coat. Cover yourself. Leave this place. Go left. Right. Left again. Find the motel with the orange awning. Tell the man at the desk that Ray sent you.
Brad inhales. He feels...he feels.
He can do this.
He takes a wobbly step towards the desired trash can and his bare feet brush over something damp and soft. Brad's wings lie at his feet, rain washing away the blood trickling from their severed joints. And then there's a puff of smoke and there's nothing left but wet ash and an outline of broken wings scalded on the ground.
Fine.
So be it.
The rain is cold.
Wet.
Relentless.
Brad's hair blows in his eyes and stings. He's never experienced this level of discomfort before.
The building with the orange awning is far. Brad doesn't know if he's going to make it.
Each step is more difficult than the one before it. He has no idea how humans do this day in and out. His hands shake with the effort of holding the long coat around him. He finally reaches his destination and his fingers slip on the door handle.
There's so much pain.
Brad wakes up lying on his stomach. There are antiseptic smells in the air and white cotton underneath his head. A compact man with a moustache sits in a chair across from him. "So," the man says, "he lives."
Brad makes a noise. His head is going to come apart at the base. He wipes at his face and his hand comes away wet, yet it's not wet indoors. Curious. He sniffs it.
"You're sweating out the last of your fever," the man announces to Brad before looking up at the ceiling. "It's been touch and go. I haven't done this in a while, so I hope you appreciate this, Ray."
Pain spikes behind Brad's eyes. "Where -- where am I?"
"Someplace safe." There's a pause. "You can call me Doc Bryan."
Brad shakes his head and attempts to sit up. He clenches his jaw. That hurts. His back hurts. His wings...
He reaches behind him for something that's no longer there.
His fingers brush against something cool and gauzy.
And then he passes out again.
"Fuck!" a voice mutters from far away. "You could at least have told me who the hell Nate is."
There are basic things that Brad has no concept of. Money. Directions. Showering. Sleep. Human amenities escape him. He's so accustomed to just appearing where he wants to be in the manner he desires that just figuring out how to use the bathroom is an adventure. Eventually Doc gets tired of Brad banging around and gives him a tutorial.
When Brad emerges from cleansing himself with a very scratchy piece of linen and a crumbling white bar, Doc Bryan points to several items on the bed. "Only strippers go around wearing trench coats and nothing else. Put some clothes on."
Brad picks up a pea-green piece of cotton and studies it curiously. Doc shakes his head and points. "Arm holes, put your head through there. Mind your back."
Brad winces as he lifts his arms over his head.
Doc watches expectantly. "Yeah, you have to be one of the fallen; no human would be able to move with twenty-two stitches in their back."
"Stitches?"
Doc blinks. "Where your wings used to be."
Brad drops down on the bed behind him and closes his eyes. Pain shoots up his spine. All this pain just for one human. He only opens his eyes when Doc speaks again. "So who's this Nate?"
Brad takes a shuddering inhalation. It catches in his throat. He's breathing. Oh, God, he's breathing?
"He's a human," Brad says, opening his eyes. "He's my human."
A familiar voice tells him to calm down. "Shut up, Poke," he mutters under his breath, his eyes focusing on Doc punching away noisily at a silver-colored piece of metal.
Doc glances up, an eyebrow raised. "I don't suppose Nate's got a last name?"
"Fick," Brad offers. This breathing thing is tedious. "Nate Fick."
Doc's fingers fly over the metallic object.
"Is that a computer?" Brad asks, pushing himself to his feet.
His toes sink into the ground underneath him. It feels strange underneath his bare soles. He rocks back and forth unsteadily. It's like he's never walked before. Maybe he hasn't.
Doc looks up. "Yeah, it is. I don't suppose you've had much use for them in your prior line of work."
Brad shakes his head. "No, but I admit to being very curious. How does it work?"
"Nuh uh," Doc says. "I am not going to train you, too. I did my part by making sure you got this far."
"I understand." This is already more courtesy than Brad's come to expect from humans.
"Being human is a shitty business." Doc Bryan chuckles. "I hope this Nate is worth it."
So does Brad.
Doc has a firm grip on Brad's bicep. They're standing before a familiar green door and Brad's legs don't want to work.
"You sure this is where he lives?" Doc says. "There were a whole lot of N. Ficks in the phone book."
Brad's reply is barely audible. He swallows, his throat is dry. "Yeah," he repeats after a moment. "This is it."
Doc peers at him intently. "You need a lot more rest. You sure your Nate is going to be up for taking care of somebody who just went through a life crisis?"
"Life crisis?"
"Yeah, now that you're human, you have a life," Doc says wryly.
"Nate will be fine," Brad says.
It's not a lie; Nate will be fine. Brad, on the other hand. Brad might not be fine at all. He doesn't even know how long he's been gone. Nate could have moved. He could be married. Oh, God – no, not God.
Doc shakes his head and presses a small gray box by the front door.
Nate's voice comes through in fuzzy tone. "Yeah?"
"I have a delivery for Nate Fick," Doc announces cavalierly, as though he drops off fallen angels every day. Maybe he does. It would certainly explain his bedside manner.
Brad's knees buckle slightly and Doc's fingers dig into his skin. "You really need to still be in bed," he says irritably.
"No, I don't," Brad says just as irritably. "I need--"
The green door swings open and Brad's presented with stubble and wild hair and wire frame glasses. Oh.
Nate's mouth falls open. "Brad?"
A flare of pain shoots across Brad's shoulders. He winces before opening his mouth, only to have Doc speak over him. "So you're the fine owner of this fallen angel?" he says wryly. "Try to take better care of him next time," he adds, reaching out and replacing his own hand with Nate's.
And with that Doc heads back down the stairs and Brad's left standing on the doorstep with Nate's hand supporting him. He really does not feel good.
Feelings suck.
"..rad... Brad... Brad."
The urgent tone pulls Brad back to the now. "Hi," he says awkwardly.
Nate's face clouds over. "Where've you been?" he says, tugging Brad inside. The door snicks shut and Brad pauses in the foyer. Nate's thumb is rubbing along the inside of his arm. It sends shock waves to Brad's groin. He has skin, and Nate's touching it. Huh. Nate's eyes are enormous behind his glasses. "What's wrong?" Nate asks. "You look...you don't look well."
Brad shakes his head. "I'm fine." Nate's look is all disbelief, but Brad ignores it and nods towards the stairs. "Have you moved into the lobby or are we going upstairs?"
Nate purses his lips but he leads Brad up the stairs, looking over his shoulder at Brad every five seconds.
Brad braces himself, grabs the railing and watches the muscles in Nate's backside shift underneath his sweatpants as he moves forward.
It's the longest three flights in the entire world.
By the time they get to Nate's door, Brad's had enough. Nate stops just inside the door as Brad follows him inside his apartment. "Are you going to tell me what the hell is going on?" Nate presses.
Brad drops down to his knees and is sick all over the floor.
For the second time in his human life, Brad wakes up lying on his stomach on white sheets. His back aches, but it's not quite as bad as earlier. His forehead is cool, his body is warm and free of the oppressive human garments. Sitting in a chair just a few feet away is Nate, chewing on his lower lip and flipping through a book.
Brad grunts as he attempts to get up. It's not a very dignified sound to make.
Nate looks up. "Hey," he says, setting the book down before getting up and crossing over to the bed. "Slow down." Brad can't really see past Nate's thighs from this angle. The muscles in his face turn downward. It feels strange.
Nate drops to his knees and Brad blinks at him blearily. Nate's smile is small as he reaches out, his fingers brushing over Brad's forehead as he pushes Brad's hair out of his face. "So, do you want to tell me why your back looks like you went to battle and lost?"
Brad lifts his head a fraction just to get more of the fingers stroking his hairline. "I didn't lose," he says thickly. There's a terrible taste on his tongue. His mouth doesn't want to work. "I'm here."
Nate laughs softly. "Yeah, I know you're here. Which is good, because after that last disappearing act I was starting to think I'd run you off."
Brad would shake his head, but it seems like too much work. He lets his head fall back onto the mattress and closes his eyes. Something soft brushes against his cheek and he falls back asleep.
Brad dreams that Poke and Ray are arguing about him. They're fighting over who gets to be his guardian. Walt announces that they're going to have to share custody. Like in a divorce.
It's probably not a dream.
The third time Brad wakes up, he's not alone in bed. Scant inches away is Nate, lying on his stomach, eyes lidded but alert. Waiting.
Brad watches out the corner of his eye as Nate reaches out. His fingers dance along Brad's arm, skating down his bicep to his forearm before brushing over his fingers. A vaguely familiar warmth spreads through Brad when Nate twines their fingers together.
"So, would I be correct if I assumed that your entire back being stitched up has a direct correlation to your lack of wings?"
Brad nods, his cheek brushing against the cotton under his head. "Yeah."
Nate nods back. "Can I ask where they went?"
Brad swallows. "I gave them up," he rasps out.
"You gave them up?" Nate's tone conveys his disbelief rather well. "I admit it's been a while since I went to church – but can you do that?"
"The last time I checked, it's been eight years, seven months and eleven days since you set foot in a church."
"Christmas mass doesn't count?"
"Not when you spend it answering messages on your cell phone."
Nate smiles ruefully. "Stop changing the subject. You. Wings. The lack thereof. I admit I'm not really up on my angelic lore, but rumor says that if give up your wings, you can't go back to heaven. Is that true?"
Brad nods again, trying to speak past the dryness in his throat.
"You need water," Nate says, extricating their fingers to push himself to his elbows.
Brad reaches out and tugs him back down. "In a minute."
Nate frowns. "Brad, I'm not going anywhere. You need water."
"I'm not going to die without water," Brad says peevishly. And then he remembers where he is. What he is. "Actually, that's not true anymore," he grits out. "Get the water."
Nate climbs off the bed and pads over to the corner. "What's not true anymore?" he says, pouring bottled water into a plastic cup with Harvard Crimson scrawled on it.
"That I won't die without water," Brad replies.
Nate turns sharply on his heel, the cup of water slipping out of his hand and landing on the floor. "What?" Nate looks utterly stricken.
Brad struggles to push himself upright. Twenty-two stitches and cast out of His Glory to be here now. He has to make it worth it. He tries to imitate the way Walt looks every time Ray praises him. Like he's...content. Loved.
The stricken look on Nate's face falls away instantly and transforms into something much more pleasing. Happier. Hopeful.
"So you did it?" Nate asks. "You...fell." Brad nods.
Nate's "oh" is soft. Barely audible. He never looks away from Brad the entire time he picks up the cup from the carpet, refills it and crosses back towards the bed. He sits down close enough that he's almost on top of Brad; Brad doesn't mind.
He's watching Brad as though he might disappear at any moment. Brad doesn't think that will happen again.
Their fingers tangle again when Brad takes the cup and sips at it. The water makes the sour taste in his mouth dissipate. "Cold," he says. And then he realizes what that means.
"You don't like cold water?'
"I'm not sure," Brad confesses.
"You're not sure," Nate repeats thoughtfully. He pulls the cup away from Brad and sets it on the floor by his feet. "I'm feeling a little slow at the moment, so why don't you explain this to me one more time. You were here; you completely seduced me and then you left. Then you show up at my front door, sick, feverish and wingless. I haven't heard you in my head in weeks. I thought – I thought you'd left me."
"I didn't want to leave you," Brad says bluntly. "I don't want to leave you," he corrects. "So I decided to stay. Permanently."
Nate's eyes go wide. "Permanently?" he echoes.
"Well, as permanent as this body is." Brad's mouth twists at the corner. "It occurs to me that I probably should've asked if you were okay with this, but I want to be with you, so I'm asking now. Are you okay with being the guardian of a three thousand year-old angel who has no idea how to be a human or use a computer?"
Nate's mouth falls open and then he gives Brad a deeply suspicious look. "You're not a tool of the devil are you? Sent here to seduce me, defile me and lure me into a depraved lifestyle with your staggeringly good looks?"
Brad doesn't bother to hide his shock.
Nate laughs. "I was just checking."
Brad purses his lips. Nate leans in and brushes his mouth against Brad's own. Brad makes a surprised noise after Nate pulls away. "You do know what kissing is?" Nate asks dubiously.
Brad rolls his eyes. "I've been watching humans fornicate since before you even knew what to call it. I've been watching you fornicate since..." He stops talking.
"You've been watching me fornicate?" Nate says slowly.
"I have to learn the fundamentals somewhere," Brad says guilelessly. "Your masturbation technique intrigues me. I think I'll need to study it in depth."
Nate's smile turns wicked. "I would be happy to teach it to you...once your back heals."
Brad protests loudly. Nate just laughs. "We have time, right?"
"Just one lifetime," Brad corrects.
Nate nods. "So we'll have to make sure it's enough. Okay?"
Brad leans in for another kiss. "Okay," he says quietly. "We'll make it enough."
Nate smiles. "Good, but before that, we need to introduce you to this thing called a toothbrush, because kissing somebody who recently vomited is just not appealing at all."
Brad opens his mouth to protest and Nate cuts him off. "Yes, even when they look like you."
Brad...doesn't get it. "What do I look like to you?"
Nate makes a stuttering noise and then he shakes his head. "Angels don't have mirrors, do they?"
"No."
"Ah." A pause. "You look like...like something only God could make."
Brad snorts. "That's because he did."
"You look like something only God could make for me," Nate clarifies.
Brad can feel the heat in his face. "Oh," he says. "That's how I feel about you."
Nate's face flushes a rosy pink. "If you want me to kiss you, you don't have to flatter me."
"But I mean it," Brad protests.
Nate leans in and kisses Brad firmly on the mouth. "I know," he breathes, "so do I."
-end-
This story would not be possibly without the beta awesome that is
maurheti. She has a very nice whip and a very red pen and is not afraid to use either one. And to the always brilliant alethialia who won't let me get away with anything, ever, thank you.. ::hugs::To
alethialia and sparky77: I am well aware you are capable of inspiring me to write anything and everything, but did it really have to be wing!fic? Idek. I still love you though. I played fast and lose with the Jewish angelic hierarchy, because I can.
Special props to the original GK wingfic: How Ray Saved the Universe, Blasphemed a Whole Lot, and Finally Got Laid. This is sort of a homage/rip-off of Legion/Dogma/City of Angels, and like, I don't even know. The title is a song from The Boy Least Likely To. I have to go have a drink now.
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Date: 2010-02-08 04:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-10 10:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-08 04:12 pm (UTC)Also, I loved what you did with Doc Bryan!
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Date: 2010-02-10 10:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-08 04:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-10 10:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-08 04:16 pm (UTC)Loved the appearance by Doc Bryan and his sarcasm and how somehow Ray has him all filled in. Poke and Ray squabbling over who gets to be his guardian is PRICELESS along with Walt's likening it to divorce proceedings. :D
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Date: 2010-02-10 10:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-08 04:18 pm (UTC)Of course Hunter S. Thompson was Ray's.
And the idea of Brad saying Tiny Human fills me with joy.
And, btw, the Jesus stuff is killing me.
And this is pretty much the most adorable thing ever. I have no words. Brad! Nate! Ray! Walt! Poke! Rudy! Everyone! BRAD WITH WINGS! WINGS!!!! I am so proud and I love you and this story very, very much.
WINGS!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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Date: 2010-02-09 09:00 am (UTC)...but I do have a purpose here. For some reason I got it in my head that you think jelly beans are bad/unnatural/evil/whatevah. Am I making that up? I swear I'm not making that up, but Z doesn't remember it, so I could be.
In conclusion: TINY HUMAN! (I flailed. Textually. For reals.)
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Date: 2010-02-08 04:35 pm (UTC)This is fabulously bonkers and I approve of it wholeheartedly!
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Date: 2010-02-10 10:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-08 04:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-10 10:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-08 04:52 pm (UTC)::awes::
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Date: 2010-02-10 10:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-08 05:03 pm (UTC)I mean, just...
Jesus.
Ow.
I died. That was blasphemously fabulous and I love good blasphemy...
And then add in the hot and the sweet and the Angel!Brad (and each of them thought the other looked like a porn star! ...okay, so Ray technically is the one who said it but Brad agreed!)
In conclusion: Love.
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Date: 2010-02-10 10:52 pm (UTC)This was a fabulous comment and I just laughed and laughed.
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Date: 2010-02-08 05:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-10 10:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-08 05:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-10 10:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-08 06:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-10 10:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-08 06:08 pm (UTC)As a rule (that is thus far absolute) I love anything you write, but there's usually a particular line that grabs me so much that I am overwhelmed by how much it is that I love it; for this story, this is that line.
Fuck. "Where's his guardian?" Brad tries. "You can't tell me he's been running around unsupervised all this time. What is he, twelve?"
Mike's mouth twitches at the corners. "He's twenty-six. He's just left the Marines. This is his first semester in grad school."
Naaaaaaaaaate and your pretty, creepily ageing-resistant faaaaaaaaaace. And Michael being Mike is a stroke of genius.
And God calling Brad 'Bradley'! And God referring to himself as Godfather!! I nearly died.
Overwhelmed by love, I tell you. ♥
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Date: 2010-02-10 10:54 pm (UTC)As a rule (that is thus far absolute) I love anything you write, but there's usually a particular line that grabs me so much that I am overwhelmed by how much it is that I love it; for this story, this is that line.
I'm so pleased that you liked that particular thought. It just seemed like such a Brad thought to have. Thank you so much for the lovely comment!
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Date: 2010-02-08 06:17 pm (UTC)I loved so much here, but Doc is stellar, and Nate & Brad's reunion after the Fall was just perfect
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Date: 2010-02-10 10:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-08 06:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-10 10:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-08 08:13 pm (UTC)You made me laugh out loud (in public, facepalm) when God referred to himself as "Godfather". And the kidney jabs every time Brad takes Jesus' name in vain were genius.
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Date: 2010-02-10 10:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-08 08:33 pm (UTC)SO much of it had me actually giggling out loud. Jesus! Godfather! And then there's the imagery! Particularly love the visual of the burnt outline of Brad's wings. Oh, and Doc Bryan! Joint custody Guardianship! SO MUCH AWESOME IN THIS FIC! ♥!!!!!!!!
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Date: 2010-02-10 10:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-08 08:54 pm (UTC)Am so head over heels in love with this. Thank you for writing it.
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Date: 2010-02-10 10:59 pm (UTC)This is pretty much my default setting for GK fic: I laugh, I cry (figuratively), I angst, I drink copiously. It's how I do. I am very pleased that you enjoyed the story so much, thank you for reading and commenting.
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Date: 2010-02-08 09:40 pm (UTC)*goes to read again*
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Date: 2010-02-10 11:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-08 09:50 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2010-02-08 10:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-10 11:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-09 12:03 am (UTC)I laughed so hard. I felt blasphemous and I’m not even religious.
But I love this interpretation of heaven and guardian angels. The image of human projections like minimizing and maximising windows is great. I can totally see Brad awesomely multitasking his humans.
The son of a famous Indian chief, Poke was renowned for his bravery and valor. When he died defending his village from an influx of settlers and syphilis, Brad was there at the gates to greet him.
Heh, Poke defending his people from syphilis :-D
The bit about Evan was sobering. Like how differently things could have gone for the real Bravo Two without Brad or without Nate or even without Ray.
This made me laugh…
"You can't tell me he's been running around unsupervised all this time. What is he, twelve?"
Mike's mouth twitches at the corners. "He's twenty-six.
And this:
The younger guardians are given more humans with the idea that the busier they're kept the less likely they are to fuck up everyone they come in contact with. The odds are in their favor that at least a few of their humans will make it.
It could explain quite a lot… And it made me laugh (g)
And then it got all sad and painful. But in a good way… because it brought Brad and Nate together :-)
And then there was this line, and it made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside
"You look like something only God could make for me," Nate clarifies.
Brad can feel the heat in his face. "Oh," he says. "That's how I feel about you."
There are so many more awesome clever things in this that I loved that I want to comment on like Tiny Human, and Rudy being more heavenly than everyone else bar God, and Doc Bryan, and Godfather, and just so much!
(And I have one question, is Metatron Encino Man?)
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Date: 2010-02-10 11:11 pm (UTC)I laughed so hard. I felt blasphemous and I’m not even religious.
What an absolutely lovely comment! Thank you so much for taking the time out to let me know what lines you really liked. And to answer your question, the Metatron was actually Maj. Eckloff, but somebody else mentioned the possibility of it being Alan Rickman from Dogma and I'm okay with that, too.
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Date: 2010-02-09 12:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-10 11:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-09 12:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-10 11:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-02-09 12:58 am (UTC)Loved the funny parts and the romantic parts of the story. It was cool to recognIze familiar GK characters as I read it, especially Ray Ray, Poke and Walt as guardian angels. And Nate fondling Brads's wings was very sexy.
Thanks for posting it, I loved it!:D
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Date: 2010-02-10 11:12 pm (UTC)