(A/N: In typical 'me' fashion, I've returned after a long stay away with a bevy of changes to my formatting, storytelling, and technique. Them's the breaks, I guess. I've learned so much about writing since I started this fic almost two years ago. The growth is apparent when comparing my earlier and current chapters. Perhaps when this story is complete, I'll refashion the whole thing to meet my new standards. Until then, thank you to those who are holding on.)
##
Blackness overruled all.
Angel floated in this soundless empty space, his body insensible. When he cried out, demanding to know where he was, the words left his lips, but ravenous silence devoured them before they reached his ears. Opening his mouth turned out to be a big mistake. The nothingness bored down his throat like an ocean of nil, making breathing a battle.
Someone! he thought, sending his pleas out into the oblivion. Someone help!
He thrashed and kicked. He wasn't swimming, and yet he was drowning. It was a harrowing sense of helplessness; a torturous process that taunted the futile fight response onward even as the body failed.
A pinprick of light pushed its way through the veil. It seemed to regard him with equal interest, easing closer. As if breaking the ocean's surface, he could breathe again, and he had a strong inkling that this little star saved him. It danced in pixie-like widdershins around him, appearing harmless and friendly. Angel felt compelled to touch it.
But when he reached out, its innocent quality waned. It stopped prancing and hovered at eye level, staring him down. Then it ascended, looming over him as its radiance expanded. A strange warmth wafted in, rising in intensity but never crossing the line into painful.
Painful or not, it frightened him. Something about the warmth and light instilled a disturbing sense of estrangement. He wasn't supposed to be here; he must flee; return to the dark and cold where he belonged—where it was familiar.
Legs were slow and uncoordinated, as if wading thigh-deep in a pond of molasses. The prominent warmth on his back remained, chasing him. Then, like an atom bomb, it combusted, enveloping all in its glare until he was just as blind as he was before.
Now, the heat hurt. It was as if scalding towels scrubbed his skin raw—scrubbing until it bled. The pain rendered him immobile. There was nowhere to run; nothing but searing white. So he screamed.
Angel sat up, screams tearing out of his throat.
He could barely see in this unfamiliar, ill-lit space, but he could hear himself again. Towels beneath him bunched under his frenetic, opponentless struggling. A soft coolness caressed his naked body, but it only tripled his blind panic. Naked—Why the Hell am I bare-ass naked?! The only scrap of coverage was a towel draped over his lap. Everything fucking hurt. Everywhere had a hot rod of pain plunging down to bone. His hands were encumbered by neatly wrapped bandages. The gashes on his back and legs were pulled taut and sutured. Thrashing pulled at the stitches, but he didn't give a damn. Pain took a back seat to panic. He screamed and screamed, hamstrung by terror.
Then a hand clamped over his mouth. Another braced the back of his head, forcing him to still. He quieted, hyperventilating against a palm that smelled of sandalwood, salty sweat, and sweet champagne soap.
A gentle shushing filled the abrupt silence. "You're alright, Angel."
A calming ebb and flow of amber candlelight guided Angel's breathing back to a natural rhythm. Pulling red eyes held his focus in the sundown gloom, their emittance barely reaching the limits of the gray face encapsulating them.
Alastor.
A door came into view behind the hitherto absent overlord, still rocking on its hinges. His coat was gone and sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
"Everything's alright. Keep your voice down, my dear. The clock's just struck eight. We still have hours until morning." His hand lingered, as if making sure the last of Angel's howls were gone. "My, what a pair of lungs you've got. If you can scream like that, then I'm sure you're well on the mend already." Then his hand went to Angel's forehead. "Your fever's broken as well. Good to see."
Alastor stood and weaved between a half-dozen votive candles to get to the sink. Rushing water flashed on and off.
It was then, Angel realized he was on a bathroom floor. The pastel décor sent him back a century with its rust-pink toilet, pedestal sink, and alcove bath. Floors and walls were finished with white and pink tiles, accented with black bullnose outlines and green wallpaper.
"I've gone back in time," Angel mumbled, amazed by this temporal whiplash. There was an inexplicit familiarity hiding in the old-fashioned patterns and color scheme.
Alastor blew an amused breath out of his nostrils. "Hardly. But wouldn't that be a gas? You're in my home. If I brought you to the hotel looking as you did, Charlie would have gone portal. I'm in no mood to deal with any more hysterics tonight."
The overlord returned, kneeling beside him. A cold compression graced Angel's flushed forehead. Reaching up, he grazed Alastor's knuckles, felt the wet rag, and took hold himself.
"Yer place..." he repeated with a moony cadence, dumbfounded as to how he got here.
"I can see you're still a little muddleheaded. You really caused a fluster. Dare I say, an all out frenzy. Aged Charlie a hundred years if you aged her a day. And when I found you, I just about..." Alastor stopped, a distant glaze passing through his eyes. Then it was gone. "You don't remember?"
Angel shook his head. Droplets ran down his face, spreading cooling boons down the sweeps of his neck and shoulders. There was a troubling mental lacuna between the alleyway and Alastor's bathroom.
The overlord sat on the lip of the tub, settling the bemused spider between his knees. "Well then, allow me to recount while I check your injuries. With a tantrum like that, you'll be lucky not to have popped a suture or two."
Allow or deny, Alastor was already examining his back and shoulders. Careful fingers parted fur, tracing along each stitch of his handiwork as a reader might underline the words he read. A soft buzzing zizzed against Angel's sore skin, but he sat still, said nothing, and let Alastor give his account; willing away the shivers by wringing the life out of the towel over his lap.
##
Two hours prior: The start of the Extermination.
All sensible people kept their matters in control.
It really got Alastor's goat over just how out-of-control this matter became.
Throughout his two-week sabbatical, he stirred up the gall four times to return to the hotel. On each try, something struck his senses hard enough to halt him. First try, the front door's stained-glass and shining-came windows were a spitting image of Angel's broken mirror—a bad omen; second try, too much gloom hung in the air for his liking. One of the times, it was raining, and that postponed his plans for a day. Any melancholic moods would surely be worsened by such dreary weather. Rationale could bend into the most farcical shapes; courage fizzled out like a soft drink in humid summer even so. Then poof—right back to the foyer of his home.
Apprehension: what an ignobly human quality, an earmark of his shame. He hated situations that made him feel human again, reminding him there were still things forever out of his control—no matter how powerful he grew.
His home matched his mercurial temperament in contrasting states of order and ruin. One minute, everything was pristine and organized, then at the burst of his temper, furniture turned to splinters and drapes hung in tatters.
Tonight, order reigned supreme. He made it a point to keep himself in check. When emotion trounced inhibition, his powers were prone to go bang. The last thing he needed was to erupt like a giant demonic flare gun, drawing swarms of Exterminators in. There was a logical line between confidence and recklessness. An overlord stood a better chance than a sinner against an angel, but no matter their caliber, they still stood no chance.
So to keep himself busy, he whittled away at household trifles. He stood at his kitchen sink, cleaning a bowl that didn't need to be cleaned.
Lit by a single votive candle, the kitchen took on an ancient feeling; no longer a part of his home, but the inside of a tomb. A sense of isolation made the hairs on his neck stand, and with that, the sense that he needed to right this wrong—sooner rather than later.
Yet, here he was, sitting shamefully on his hands. Only rising to slink like a panther in the deep night, leave tokens of his apology, and abscond before anyone woke.
But surely, he ought to wait. Wait for Anthon– for Angel to approach him first with that chance to better explain himself? Or should he take the initiative? Convey that despite his follies, he still gave a tinker's damn about the circumstance—what they used to be and whatever they were now?
Would his irenic approach be rewarded or rejected? What if the damage was too great to repair?
It was that same misgiving that stalled him four times before; each time retreating, assuring himself that it was the gentlemanly thing to wait for Angel to decide.
Gentlemanly... I say cowardly.
The bowl in his hand exploded. Ceramic shards plinked against the metal sink. What a miserable revelation, unveiling a sniveling milksop under this fearsome veneer he spent decades cultivating. He braced himself against the counter, shutting his eyes and hanging his head, waiting for the unbidden swell of his powers to pass like a cramp.
For Hell's sake, he needed to steel himself; take whatever came with the same smile he had sported his entire demonic career. Though, maybe a touch more sensitive than usual. This was a delicate situation, one that would smash to smithereens under a bullish method. He effaced the shards from the sink and dried his hands.
Come morning, he would cast his misgivings aside and make his final attempt. He couldn't stay away forever. Eventually, Charlie would come looking, and drag him back to the hotel like a little hooky-playing jackanape. Better to return with some dignity intact.
Alastor left his kitchen for the coziness of his parlor room, taking the candle in his cupped palm. It wasn't so much for sight as it was for warmth, and in an impressionistic way, company from another breathing thing.
Out the parlor's east-facing window, he surveyed the far-off urban range of Pentagram City. Exterminators circled skyscrapers like Curtiss Condor air crafts. The noise traveled over miles in indistinct murmurs and rumbles. He'd only witnessed this heavenly horror from afar. They never came to his territory; he slaved to make that happen.
With a flick of his hand, the curtains closed themselves.
Until morning, his literary collection might help him formulate an apt, meaningful overture. They hadn't failed him before. When souls and situations were too knotty to unravel, his books would elucidate. He traced his hand along a row of hardcover spines—from bush-league works to best-sellers—taking a moment to cherish his memorabilia from a long-ago life.
Then his finger slipped into an empty slot between leather and wood. He glowered at the vexing gap in his monumental collection, a shrine for the one book he never found, nothing short of trying. Moving back to the last book—Reason in Common Sense, by George Santayana—he removed it from its ranks, and took it to his tall wingback chair. Wisdom from one of the great minds of his time ought to help.
As he walked, he skimmed through the century-old book, coming to the last page. Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it, he read, then scoffed. Was this some sardonic message of hindsight from the universe?
"How marvelously helpful," he snarked.
Suddenly, static babbled from the far corner of the room. Alastor glanced up. His staff came to life, sputtering waves of feedback as it zeroed in on the voice pushing through.
A call? At this hour?
"Al!" When the static subsided, Charlie's voice barreled through. "Alastor?! Are you there?"
Alastor set his book on the chair-side table and retrieved the microphone. "Yes, my dear? I hear you loud and clear." He stretched his smile to full capacity, imbuing his response with pseudo high spirits.
"Thank goodness!" she said, but there was no relief in her tone. She sounded distracted, impatient.
"Is everything–"
"Is Angel with you?"
Alastor blenched at the unexpectedly personal question. "Ah– no. He's not. Why would you think that–"
"Fuck!" she wailed. The mic screeched. "Fuck! Oh my fucking Satan! FUCK!"
And now he blenched at her crass language. "Gracious, dear! What in the Nine Rings is going on?!"
Charlie's vulgar meltdown steamrolled over him, leaving him suspended in astonishment. Her rantings quieted; her hysteria relegated to the background.
"Alastor." Vagatha's calmer voice came to the forefront, but an anxious tremor played with her affectation. "Angel's not here either. We've searched the entire hotel. No one can get a hold of him. Dezi said he left to take care of a personal errand earlier today. She said to check with you–"
"He's missing!" Charlie's shrieking escalated in the background. "He's missing in the middle of the fucking Extermination! Fuck!"
"Charlie, get away from the doors!" Vagatha's command pulled away from the speaker. "We can't go out there!"
"He's out there, Vaggie! He needs our help!"
"Husk, grab her!"
There were sounds of a scuffle amongst the discord.
Alastor only half listened. The girls' argument drowned out behind a deluge of caterwaul static. He went to the curtains and yanked them aside. Maybe a second gander would reveal that his eyes played tricks on him before; that the Extermination hadn't truly begun.
Alas, the city was still being strafed when the curtains split. When he squinted, he could see the pinprick-sized profiles of Exterminators thousands of feet in the air, dropping sinners to their second deaths.
No... Dear Hell, Angel, what were you thinking?!
He didn't go out tonight planning for this? Did he?
"I will retrieve him," he said, unlatching the window and raising it an inch.
"You'll what?" Vagatha asked, clearly staggered.
"I will find him." He propped his staff against his chair. "Tell Charlie to sit tight. I'll ring back in a jiffy."
"How the Hell do you plan to–"
Alastor cut the feed with the wave of his hand. Presumably, she was going to ask how he planned to locate one soul in this cataclysm. That would be an explanation given after the fact.
With his thumbnail, he sliced down his left palmar life line, opening layers of raw tissue. His lip and nose twitched at the smarting self-injury. A bloody reservoir gathered in the hollow of his hand. Clenching a fist, blood expressed out his fingers. Droplets flew about the parlor with decisive casts. Fitful, static canticles played on the air as he summoned every shade creature under his command.
The room quivered and buzzed. The candle's flame died under a hard, errant draft. Defying the law of total darkness, shadows—upwards of a hundred—manifested in forms far blacker. They crowded the parlor walls in an array of shapes; some humanoid, some more animalistic, others too malformed to discern, but all sharing the same diabolical, glowing grins in allegiance with their master.
Alastor traced his eyes along his fleet and then, with the hand still dribbling blood, pointed at the burning city.
"Fan out and find him!" He needn't explain further.
The order reverberated throughout the room. A few shadows quivered and tittered from the vehemence in his voice—a quality recouped after decades of inertia. At his thunderous behest they all belted for the window. Pouring through the aperture like an inky cascade, they raced each other to the city, each one vying to find Angel first.
Alone again, Alastor shut the window and slid the curtains closed. He snapped, and the candle's flame sputtered back to life. In the amber radiance, he waited for a message from his shadow scouts.
The minutes trickled by into an hour; his hand had long since healed. Yet still not a word from his preternatural platoon.
Alastor paced between his parlor and foyer. He wasn't a patient soul, even on his best days, but this was maddening. He couldn't sit still, yet he had nothing to act upon. An unfortunate hallway table and Windsor chair became matchwood after crossing his overstrung path.
What is taking those imbeciles?! How hard is it to find one spider?!
Who was he fooling? A scrapper like Angel wouldn't sit still through this holy incursion. He could be anywhere, but Alastor refused to consider that he perished with the vast tracts of other sinners.
Not Angel, who was mettlesome, tenacious, and as streetwise as an alley cat. Not Anthony.
A tickle, like a string brushing barely against the skin, danced up his spine, stroking each individual vertebrae until stopping at the base of his skull. Alastor's ears stood at attention.
One of his shadows was calling. It found him.
In a flash of fine red particles, Alastor vanished, following the pull of that intangible string.
What he saw when he materialized in a grimy alleyway, were piles of bodies. Gory knolls stretched down the street as far as sight could reach. Three Exterminators fifty feet down were busy fashioning another conical carnage pile.
From his alley refuge, he surveyed the scene, searching for a familiar white form in a sea of red. Spotting nothing, he turned to the shadow who brought him here. It was canine in appearance and manner, rippling at a feverish pace; a bloodhound eager to show its master what it discovered. Its master wasn't amused.
"What is this? You said he was here." He glowered. The shadow shrunk away, its whimpering trill also canine. It gestured with wild conviction down the street, scrambling to defend itself.
Alastor looked again.
A fourth Exterminator came around the corner, joining its confrères. Long, blood-glutted trenches dragged from its masked forehead down to its chin. Excess seeped into the crescent aperture of its smile. It looked like any psychotic, bestial cacodemon down here—a spawn of the very evil Heaven condemned. Alastor couldn't help but question the averred disparity between the Divine and the Damned.
But it wasn't the Exterminator's mien that bothered him; he had achieved levels of wretchedness far beyond.
Four arms dangle down the back of the Exterminator, blood trickling down and off motionless fingertips. The back of Angel's head hung like a sunset cloud—white and pink hair marred in maroon blood, blue-gray and charcoal dirt, yellow and orange mystery fluid.
Never before had Alastor's smile fell so fast into a gape of dismay. Once again, he was too late; impuissant in the aftermath as he watched the Exterminator toss Angel's corpse into the growing pile.
A powerful fervor swelled within him. The heart he so often joked about as 'long dead' beat the violent rappings of a Zhangu war drum in his chest. It spurred a feeling similar to his erstwhile appetite for blood-shed and decimation. Though he hated it; he'd do anything to be rid of it. The only cure that came to mind was annihilating those sanctimonious birds off the face of Hell.
A hand, weightless but substantial, grabbed his shoulder and stopped the crescendo.
His foremost shadow revealed the rest of itself from its grip. Soft churrs and clicks emanated from its glowing woebegone expression.
"Don't," it said wordlessly.
And he didn't. The surge subsided.
His shadow counterpart was right. What was done could not be undone. Any sort of uproar would only serve to get him killed as well.
But as he looked back to the pile that harbored that striking white body, his chest constricted. Two more Exterminators rounded the corner, a body on each shoulder, and made their contributions to the cairn. The corpses interred Angel, and in turn unearthed something in Alastor. Just because what was done could not be undone, did not mean there was nothing to be done. Dead or alive, he would not leave Angel to rot in the streets.
He turned back to the two shadows, both waiting in silent eagerness for his command.
"Lead those self-righteous birds on a wild goose chase."
They lit up, figuratively speaking; delighted to unleash their hijinks on a couple of angels. They tittered between themselves and shot out of the alley, shapeless streaks amongst the buildings and light posts. They zipped by the Exterminators, taking care to garner their attention with wild cackles and gestures.
The Exterminators readied their arms and gave chase, following the decoys down the road and around the corner.
Alastor materialized before the pile. Its metallic stench of death, an odor he knew well, agitated him greatly tonight. Using the assistance of a few black tentacular masses, he cast aside corpses and gore until he saw pink and white. Then he scooped his arms up under Angel's armpits and heaved, pulling him out and stealing him back down the alley.
Situating the body on his outspread coat, he took stock of Angel's injuries. Deep lacerations sheared skin, staining fur along his back and legs. Glass protruded from his hands like translucent thorns, smeared in syrupy blood. The damage was plenty; the wounds were sordid. However, not one seemed fatal—no gaping punctures or broken bones. Was there an internal injury? A blow unseen but detrimental?
"For Lucifer's sake, why? Why were you out here?" He foundered in the crushing silence, unable to look at the white face frozen in gentle deathly repose. This is all my doing. I should've–
"Is it ovah'?"
That meek, nasally voice blindsided him. His heart leapt up to his throat, choking a cry of surprise. At first, his reasoning denied it; it was just desperate wishful thinking.
Then Angel's face tightened. The war-torn spider peeked his dark eye open. Meeting the gaze of the overlord above him, he opened the other.
"Holy shit... that worked," he uttered blankly.
"You're alive!" Alastor helped him sit up slowly, pausing intermittently whenever Angel winced. Relief nearly bowled him over, but instead of joy, anger reared. "Damn it, Angel, you scared the bloody-fucking-sense out of me!"
To Hell with it, his expletives could fly as they pleased. Elation and residual grief melded into a state just short of delirium. Every inch of him shook with vibrancy.
Then Angel gave an off-beat, disjointed chuckle, and concern mellowed his ire.
"Sorry," Angel said, eyes locked in a glazed thousand-yard stare. "My possum-playing is pretty good though, huh? Done a couple Necro-fuck features in my time. Ya gotta play dead no matter what they throw at ya... or shove in ya. But I wasn't sure if it'd fool those damn birds..."
Alastor bypassed the dreadful image of some scoundrel having his way with Angel's cold corpse. It was a repugnant concept that came dangerously close to becoming the morning's reality.
The spider stared at him, an artless, dazed wonder on his face. "I can't believe ya came lookin' for me."
"Of course. When I heard you were missing, I had to step in–"
As if someone stuck him in the back with a pin, Angel suddenly sat straight and rummaged through his pockets. The glass shards pulled at his skin, drawing new, vibrant blood.
"Angel, stop that!" Alastor grabbed his arms, but limb-wise, it was like battling two against one. When he grabbed one pair, the other resumed. Angel didn't appear fazed by the pain his riffling surely created. Golly, the poor dear was dog-tired and out of it.
Angel found what he was searching for, and relaxed. "Here."
Alastor was surprised to see his handkerchief in Angel's unfirm hold. Blood pooled between grimy glass and skin. He hesitated, but took it, and the spider slumped back into his vacant daze.
"I was plannin' to give it back to ya. It's got kid snot on it. Sorry..."
Kid... snot? His grip retreated to the very edge of a corner, but he didn't comment. He tucked it into his vest pocket, biting back the minute wave of disgust. "Never mind a piece of cloth. What matters is that you're safe. And in relatively one piece–"
Exterminators rocketed in the skies overhead. Alastor girded himself for a bootless fight, lingering between kneeling and standing. He shot his arms out in a defensive signal for Angel to keep still and silent as he scoured the skies for their return. His tentacular attendants slithered in the shadows, waiting for the order to strike. After a minute of eerie stillness, he relaxed. Those divine slayers didn't spot them, and wouldn't be coming to investigate.
Despite that, the near-encounter charged Angel with terror. The spider went rigid, clinging to his red rescuer's waistcoat like a periled mountaineer hanging on a rope. Alastor eased his hands off to prevent the glass from digging deeper.
"Mind your hands, my dear. You'll exacerbate your injuries."
"Smiles..." Angel began, his tone a blank sort of uptalk, as if checking that Alastor was still there.
"Yes?"
"Can we please–please get outta here?"
"Of course," Alastor assured. "We can leave right now."
Manifesting himself to-and-fro was easy, but when it came to traversing the vast cavity-walls of space, lesser souls often found the trip stomach-churning. He wrapped an arm around Angel's shoulders, summoning a discrete vortex beneath them. Like sinking into a pool of quicksand, so began their descent.
Angel's head bobbed.
"Alas... tor..." His words slurred, the glaze in his eyes stronger.
"Yes, Angel?"
"I'm... gonna be sick..."
As Alastor led him down into the Stygian rift, Angel fell unconscious. They dropped through an eddy in the crown-molded ceiling and landed in his parlor. Before any heads cracked against parlor hardwood, Alastor caught his incapacitated houseguest. Then he stood, gathered Angel in his arms, and carried him upstairs.
Now was as good a time as any to face the past and try to set things straight.
##
"It's been an hour since I brought you here." Alastor finished replacing the bandages on his fourth hand. "I stepped away to notify the hotel you were in my custody. Next thing I knew, you were screaming so frantically, I thought the sky was falling down."
Angel gently clenched and unclenched his fists. The cuts stung, but he didn't feel a single granule of glass. The squalid, gangrenous sensation across his body was gone, and it made a world of a difference. Although he couldn't bend to appease an ache without angering another, it was a clean pain—a recovering pain.
"I took a couple liberties while you were under," Alastor admitted, as if it wasn't obvious enough. "You looked like you waded through a landfill. I couldn't leave your wounds to fester, nor could I have you stew in a tub of your own filth."
Between the toilet and sink were two pails of water, sudsy and cloudy. Washcloths marred in blood and grime piled around their bases. So that was what he felt in that liminal stage of consciousness.
"I was... respectful," the overlord added.
Angel gazed down at the towel: the cotton-blend last line of defense from total nakedness. His stomach flipped and cheeks burned. This wasn't the first time he awoke in a stranger's home au naturel and a bit bewildered, but that recollection didn't ease this suffocating vulnerability. Then again, Alastor wasn't as much of a stranger as he initially thought. In another life, he had seen it all—so much more in depth, intimate. Those were the memories that stayed crisp and vivid as others faded.
Did his impromptu caregiver remember?
"Here." Alastor leaned down from his seat on the tub, offering a bundle of baby pink fabric. "Clean clothing. I hope I've picked something to your taste."
It was a lounge tunic and loose pants. As Angel splayed the pieces out, they were revealed to be way more baggy and modest than he preferred. He could cut a more glamorous figure in a nun's habit, but the material was soft and inviting.
"Thanks," Angel murmured, bunching up the shirt to slip it on with as little movement possible.
"Do you think you can manage?" Alastor asked, hands up, out, and ready to assist.
"I'll be fine, but ya wouldn't happen to have anything to cut the pain? Something heavy. I'm really hurtin'. Oxy? Vicodin? Hell, I'll take the Big H if ya got that." He eased into the shirt, hissing through clenched teeth when he pulled the sutures along his back. When his head popped out of the neck hole, there was Alastor's open palm, two white pills like little stars in an empty sky.
Angel scrutinized them, surprised his want was met without any pushback.
"I had my reservations about giving you anything. However, I can't imagine the pain you must be in, so... I'm sure Charlie would understand."
Angel recognized the little Xs stamped on the pills. Xycodine. Not bad.
Plucking up the tablets, he wondered why and where Alastor acquired such a powerful painkiller. He considered questioning, but decided it best to leave it.
Instead, he'd ask for a drink. His mouth and throat were bone dry. Before he could make his request, a glass of water phased into existence between his legs. He met the earnest overlord's stare with wariness. Alastor appeared to be walking a fine line between attentiveness and restraint; a bizarre position to see the customarily undaunted overlord flounder in—a mannerism all too familiar in Allen.
While Angel took his dose, the overlord's eyes remained on him, as if screening for another signal of need or desire to act upon. In this position of semi-undress, it was stifling. Why wasn't Alastor interrogating him about the Extermination? The uppity overlord wasn't one to refuse an opportunity to pry and chastise, and this was a golden one.
"Aren't ya gonna ask me what I was doin' out there?"
"If it was my business to know, you would've told me, wouldn't you?" Alastor held his hand out to take the empty glass. When Angel gave it, it vanished. "Though, I worry whether you went out there intentionally. As a sort of– ah, well... you were just so upset when we spoke last. I thought, perchance–"
"What? Suicide by Exterminator?" Biting amusement coaxed a dry hum. "Believe me, I didn't wanna be out there anymore than the other poor souls."
Something in Alastor relaxed a bit. His shoulders slackened and he exhaled quietly. "Well then, if you wish to leave it there, we can. I cannot guarantee the same from the others."
"I didn't mean to freak everybody out. I swear. I was plannin' to be back before it started, but... the time got away from me. I just–"
"You don't need to explain yourself right now, least of all to me."
Angel fiddled with the bandages on his hands. "I really thought I was gonna die. Those fuckin' birds are no joke. No different than the most unhinged fuckers down here. But when they kill, it's righteous." His pitch fluctuated with overt causticity.
"Unfair, isn't it?" Alastor canted forward on the tub's rim, his elbows propped on his thighs. "How inconsistent right and wrong are?"
Angel hesitated to agree. If only there was a word stronger than that. When he thought back to Champ, how the Exterminator aimed to plunge its blade into the little imp without regret, it was so much more than 'unfair'. Hopefully, Champ was doing well in that safe house; hopefully, his memory of tonight would fade without leaving a scar. Before Angel realized, he sucked up his lower lip in his teeth, nibbling the agitation away.
"You're going to split your lip doing that." Alastor's voice pulled him back. Angel looked up at the sedated smile and stern gaze. "You needn't worry, my dear. Nothing more can harm you tonight. Focus on your rest and recovery."
That wasn't what uneased him—as he sat on the floor between Alastor's legs. His diatribes against Valentino replayed in his ear, reminding him of his earlier pledges. The occasion came much sooner than he predicted, and he found himself unable to hold that crimson gaze for too long. A part of him wasn't ready. Another part wanted to be.
"I... gotta finish gettin' dressed."
At first, Alastor didn't pick up on the hint, studying him with those deep pools of ruminating red. Then it must have clicked in his head. He rocketed to his feet, posture as stiff as a board.
"Of course. Pardon," he croaked, looking as if his teeth would crack under his taut grin. "In the morning, if your pain is still great, I'll give you another two tablets."
The Extermination's horror and misery were behind him, so why did morning still seem an eternity away?
"Why so stingy? Just gimme the damn bottle and I'll take 'em when I'm hurtin'."
"You know perfectly well why you won't set eyes, let alone hands, on the bottle." Alastor's tone was firm, but still forbearing as he made his way out. "Now, with medication like that, you'll need food in your system. I have something prepared. Come down when you're ready. If you need help, give me a call. And stay away from the windows."
No shit.
Once he was alone, Angel stumbled to his feet, leaving his cotton loincloth crumpled on the floor. Within minutes, the Xyco began its white knight crusade through his system, and thank Satan for that. Even the dampened aches plaguing his shuffle to the sink were crippling enough. His leg muscles had a tremulous unreliability he likened to the aftereffects of a studio gang-bang session—five guys, eight inches minimum.
Come to think of it, this endeavor had royally fucked him. A bitter chuckle bounced off the mirror. He looked as worn-out as he felt. Tote-sized bags hung beneath both eyes. But Alastor had taken meticulous care in the cleanup—he noted that. After a minute of fussing, he worked his tousled hair into a passable style.
How would Val feel if he knew his stunt sent his golden goose right into Alastor's arms? After his homily about betrayal-this and abandonment-that, Valentino practically handed him over wrapped in a bow—that hot-headed, pea-brained smut-peddler. A ghost of a smile manifested on his lips before disappearing.
He performed an ungraceful Tai Chi routine against the sink, slipping into the underwear that was decorously folded within the pants, and then the pants. As he examined himself again, letting the extra material fall in different ways over his slender body, it dawned on him. Alastor hadn't chosen this loose-fitting—damn-near oversized—outfit to impose any puritanical principles. No, his pick was far more considerate. Angel could move however he liked; the fabric rarely came close enough to rub his injuries.
Damn, Al, yer makin' it real hard to stay mad at ya.