Acts of Contrition Part 3

Angel tosses and turns uncomfortably, his skull is pounding and it’s too hot, letting out a groan of discomfort. His arms feel restrained and it’s hard to take a breath without letting out a deep cough that wracks his frame with pain. He lets out a whimper trying to escape his confines, heart beat pounding into his ears over the sound of a door opening; Eyes opening to nothing but blurs, shutting tightly against the dim light that sends a shock of pain through his skull. He doesn’t know where he is or whats going on, mind blindly where Molly and his Moms could be right now.

A cool soft palm lands on his head as the covers are pulled back, letting the air make contact with his bare collar bone. A soft voice gently shushing him and whispering reassurances. He doesn’t want to risk opening his eyes again, the pain before was too much. Instead the blonde tries his best to lean into the cool touch at his head, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

Letting out a weak shuddering breath, Angel feels the hand running through his hair, gently easing the pain with every pass.

“There now, Dear boy, It will be alright. Shhhh” He’s sniffling now when he can finally distinguish that the voice isn’t that of his mothers nor sister. It’s certainly not Arackniss, too deep for the older boy who hadn’t yet hit puberty and the other would never have laid a hand on him if he could help it even thn. A bloom of faint hope blossoms in his chest as his voice comes out uncertainly.

“D-Dad?”

The fingers in his hair slow but don’t pause in their ministrations as the voice holds for a moment at the question before answering. “Rest now, You’re sick with fever”

Angel tries to open his eyes again wanting to see his father there, but it results in a twist of brow as pain shoots through his skull before his eyes can focus on the vague silhouette in the low warm candle light. “Hurts” He can hear the sounds of the storm howling outside, dimly aware of the blanket that comes back up to cover his shoulders and neck but not aware enough to register his own shakes and shivers.

“Sleep, You need your rest. You will feel better come the morning”

The hand begins to leave his hair, and internally Angel’s nerves jump in panic. He doesn’t realize when his arm shoots up from beneath the covers, grabbing onto the robbed hand that stiffens under his desperate grip. “Stay? Please?”

The silence that follows is long and deafening, so much so that Angel feels like he’s about to retract his hand and cry. It’s stupid, he thinks, hoping the other would stay to comfort him; He’s a big boy now. When the hand lowers gently back to his hair however Angel feels like he really will cry as a timid relief floods him; Another hand taking his now slack arm and tucking it back beneath the covers.

“Of course I will”

The blonde’s breaths are thick with withheld emotion as the other continues to lull him back to slumber, gentle fingers caressing his head. He doesn’t know how long it’s been or how much time has passed but he faintly recalls hearing the soft hum of music before he’s drifting back off to a dreamless slumber. Mom would be in hysterics if she could hear Dad now, humming one of her church hymns, is his last coherent thought before the darkness takes him.

The hand keeps caressing the younger man’s scalp for a short while longer before they finally leave again as the robed man stands up looking down on his hand and then the bed’s occupant.

Alastor felt fortunate having gotten to him in time, any longer in the snow and he would have probably have had to toss him back into the snow just to keep the body from decomposing. Not that he would have minded too much, it’s not unnatural to have a death of one of the unfortunates occur during a blizzard, however having one occur in his church even after he’d took the boy in would very much be an inconvenience.

Alastor averts his eyes when he realizes he had been staring at the blonde’s pale countenance for a while now, quietly leaving the boy to rest in peace. Outside the room the brunette brings both his palms up to his face, rubbing his cheeks and letting out a calming breath, lips upturned rigidly.

When the howling of the wind and snow finally dies down the sky is an overcast of murky blue; Casting the filtered light of the morning sun through the clouds over the empty streets. The world is waking slowly to a cold new day. Excited, children run out, bundled up warmly to play in the fresh new coat of frost that fell throughout the city overnight. In contrast the adults hug themselves tight to stave off the cold from the safeties of their homes, looking out on the day in mild inconvenience.

Few notice the huddled snow covered forms in alleyways, some of them moving sluggishly, others never to move again. The grim reminders of ones own impermanence is apart of every day life these days.

Alastor ladles broth into a ceramic bowl, placing it on a tray with a glass of water to serve to his impromptu guest. Let it never be said he’d forgotten his southern hospitality, no sir! The soup is the best of a, frankly, meager situation; The church’s budget as well as his own oath of poverty didn’t really allow him to spend on much more than the bare essentials, heavily relying on donations from the devout to help keep it alive month to month.

Luckily his repertoire within the kitchen was enough that he managed to whip up a simple but delicious hot broth with nothing more than left over chicken bones, vegetables, water and seasonings.

Lifting the tray, Alastor carefully makes his way from the rectory kitchenette towards the bed room where he’d put up his surprise guest. The blonde haired fellow, he was both quite relieved and surprised when he’d discovered it, had been having a restless sleep since he was found on the church’s door step. The brunette flushes slightly remembering how it took him nearly ten minutes to work up the courage to lift the man’s shirt only to see a flat very masculine chest. The poor soul was soaked through when he’d managed to get him inside and had to divest him of his ‘garments’ quickly before he caught his death. The man feels his own grip imperceptibly tightening on the tray unintentionally.

He’s under no illusion what occupation the young man holds, He’s lived in this city almost four years after the turn of the decade now; It’s amazing what people will admit to on a Saturday or Sunday morning in a dark box.

But it’s not his place to pass judgment on them nor his guest, He understood that sin was a normal thing that all people of varying shapes and sizes have to deal with. It’s not like he has any room to judge their vices.

Blue eyes open to an unfamiliar room, an unfamiliar quiet, unfamiliar sheets. His body aches and he feels like his brain has been through a meat grinder. He tries to move, lifting the blanket from his form slightly before a bite of cold across his naked chest makes him drop it back down with a startled gasp followed by a cough.

With a shiver he takes stock of his body, slowly coming to full awareness.

He blearily looks around the sparse room; White walls, wooden wardrobe and floors, a simple chair next to a bed side desk and a burnt out candle. The window is covered by transparent white drapes that allow the light of the day to fill the room naturally but not for anyone to see the interior of the room.

He doesn’t remember going home with anyone else last night, but this sure isn’t his home. In fact he’s having a hard time recalling the previous night at all. However what he is aware of is he is most definitely bare as the day he was born beneath the blanket he has over him. The man rises slowly, his blanket dropping to expose skin to cold air, causing a shudder to run through his body. Looking around, Angel spots some folded clothing on the side drawer, clearly set out for him to dress in.

Angel tries to shift out of the bed, to a standing position but as he’s attempting to stand, the world tilts on its axis. “Shit!” The curse sends a pain coursing across the roof of his dry throat and back.

His hands try to seek purchase on anything on the bed to keep himself balanced but it only serves to pull the sheets along with him.

Even as his mind begins to panic sending signals to stop his descent his body rebels against him, refusing to work, and he cant stop his inevitable drop to the cold wooden floors. He’s on his side now, head swimming with the blanket pooled over his body, struggling to get up.

The hell is going on? Angel thinks. He’s never felt like this after a night out before. Was he drugged?

Whatever he was probably drugged with has his body shaking all over, mind muddled and dazed. To his relief he’s alone in the room, was the john he was with do it? He’s certainly not about to leave that out of the realm of possibility.

He’s finding it harder and harder to catch his breath, muscles straining against the weakness there to push himself up.  His body is freezing and it’s doing wonders for his mind, keeping him awake and active while he stumbles to push himself back up into an upright position. However it’s also compounding his rising feelings of panic and discomfort.

“Goddammit”

Managing to get to a stand, he reaches for the desk grabbing the bundle of sparse clothing. They’re like the donated clothes you’d see on the homeless: poor quality, plain, boring on top of being too small as well; But beggars can’t be choosers.

Angel manages to get the clothes on after a moments struggle, almost falling over twice. There’s spots dancing on the edge of his vision distracting his wildly wandering mind. He’s got this far, now he needs to find a way out. He’s ready for a struggle if he has to, he wasn’t able to be subtle or quiet and drugged or not he wasn’t about to simply roll over and die.

The door is, surprisingly, unlocked when he tries the handle allowing the blonde access to the small hallway leading out of the room. However he freezes upon making eye contact with a shorter man who had been reaching for the knob, wearing an equally surprised deer caught in headlights look on his face.

He’s not sure what sets him off initially, maybe that his fight or flight responses are firing off or that in his barely lucid that he’s not really able to make civil choices. Angel ends up blaming the creep entirely for what comes next, because that smile is neither natural nor does it promise good things to the reciever.

It’s almost like an out of body experience, blacking out to the man standing in front of him one moment and coming back to him laid out on his back, the tray he had apparently been carrying thrown aside. He crashes against a wall, moving as quick as he can in his dazed state, stumbling away from the shell shocked man trying to find the entrance. Once more his equilibrium seems to disappear and he’s suddenly on the floor again.

Angel tries to right himself but this time his arms and legs refuse to cooperate, doing nothing but roll around slightly in futility. The man is standing above him now, looking down on his fallen form. He’s saying something, probably nonsense, Angel can’t even make out the words he’s saying from the sound of his own erratic heart beat pumping in his ears.

Even with his vision going the blonde feels a small sense of vindication for knocking the guy flat, No one gets laid out flat and keeps on smiling like that. The blonde never catches the surprised look the brunette gives him when his eyes flutter closed.