A/N: what's your most recent emoji?
My gaze tore toward the mountain of drugs.
"Noah," Madrick growled.
He wanted me to move towards him so we could teleport out. We had seconds, at best, but there was no fucking way on this earth that I was leaving this hotel room nearly sober. I turned towards the drugs, piling the white dust manically into bags, while Madrick teleported towards me. The door flew open in my peripheral vision, followed by the sound of gunfire as Madrick's familiar, stronghold wrapped around me, along with that tingly feeling of being teleported to another location.
We landed awkwardly in the dirt, tumbling over each other in a wrangled mess.
In a haze, I noticed the clear satchel bag that had spilled open, leaving contents of white dust all through the mud. On my elbows and knees, I crawled, dragging my nose through the dirt and inhaling whatever the fuck was left. With a dazed smile, I rolled onto my back, riding the remains of that blissful high. The world was slow in the way it moved–I noticed Madrick spinning in threes as my eyes rolled back into my skull and then movement in my peripheral vision. The gunfire didn't surprise me, but I was still lost in that golden euphoria as I heard him yell my name.
One.
Two.
Three.
And the world sped up again. I used the force of my back to spring to my feet, just as he tossed me the fucking gun. I caught it like it was an extension of my own hand, firing at the two people to our left, right, then the one fucker behind him with throwing stars. Madrick had just turned to face him as the bullet I'd fired flew through our enemy's skull, causing the backsplash of blood to coat over him–shame it was vampire blood, or it would've made a nice dessert.
Madrick stood there, half-dressed, with his white angelic wings folded back. He was nearly as dirty as I was.
Both of us were breathing hard as we turned our guns on each other.
"You're out," I told him. "You also wouldn't shoot me."
His golden eyes glistened as he stared me off and lowered his gun. "Fuck," was all he said at first. He was still breathy as he stared at me, clearly feeling the exhaustion of teleporting so much–or perhaps so far. I looked around, wondering where the fuck we were. My gaze returned to his as he added, "How'd you know I was out?"
"I told you, I can multitask," I replied, also lowering my gun, though I kept it steady in my grip as I approached him. Neither of us blinked as we stared at each other. Then, I flipped the pistol in my hand and smacked him across the face with its handle.
He grunted as his head jerked in the direction of my blow; breathing steady out his nose, he slowly turned back in my direction.
"This is your fault," I told him. "If you were any good at your damn job, this wouldn't have happened. None of this would've–"
"If you were any," he started to say, then wisely bit his tongue.
"What was that?" I asked. I knew what he was about to say, and I dared him to finish that fucking sentence. It was his job to train me, so if I was wrong or made incorrectly...if I was imperfect or fucked up in some way, that was on him. This was all on him. And he fucking knew it.
"Nothing," he said.
"Yeah, you're damn right nothing," I said. "So this is how this is going to go–you're going to teleport these bodies somewhere disposable to hide the evidence. Then, you're going to teleport us to a safe house in the human realm. Somewhere crackhouse-like–and you better hope your pretty angel ass that it's actually a fucking crack house."
Madrick returned a flat look.
"If your dumbassary cost us all those drugs, I'm gonna kill your precious Chad."
"What–why.... What did he do?"
"You're useful for four things," I told him. "Telling the future," I counted the things off on my fingers, "a cosmic Taxi service, being my drug dealer, and sucking dick. Three of those four things just became unless–so either correct some or do the last one right. And if you think I'm being mean, call Bryce and have a fucking cry about it."
"Bryan," he said.
I shot him what might've been the most filthy look known to man.
"Or Bryce," Madrick muttered. "You know, whatever works.... You're the demi-God."
– † –
Madrick had done what I'd asked him to–disposing of the bodies and teleporting us to a safe house in the human realm, though he passed out nearly instantly from the exhaust of over-teleporting. Even angels like him needed time to recharge and recover. I stared at the tanned skin of his bare back, which still had my light nail marks scarred into his flesh–a reminder of the time we'd shared together before everything went to shit. I didn't know why I was so surprised. It was routine for us...brief moments of drug-filled euphoria, jaw-dropping sex, then...the fall.
I should have been used to it by now, but I really thought this time would be different.
My gaze dropped towards the gold band that wrapped around my marital finger, marking the perfect picket fence life–the life the great Noah Turner was supposed to lead, and then my gaze lifted to drink in the sight before me...a half-naked angel passed out in a cheap motel.
We had an agreement.
An understanding.
And I wanted to hate him for it.
I wanted to hate him so fucking badly.
I drew in a shaky breath as I stepped towards him, nudging him twice. He snored loudly, clearly in a deep sleep. It was probably immoral and should've probably been the least important thing on my list of concerns right now, but curiosity got the best of me. I reached into his pocket, slowly plucking out his mobile phone, and then I used his pretty fucking face to unlock it.
I chewed on my lip as I scrolled through his messages.
Tim.
Tom.
Jack.
Hayden.
The names went on and on....
My eyebrows furrowed as the acid rose inside my stomach. Only momentarily did I allow myself to feel it...emotions he didn't deserve to have the power to pluck from me. The back of my eyes ached, but I refused to cry for him.
It did seem like he was telling the truth that he didn't meet with any of them, but the conversations were pretty perverse. Lots of pictures and sexy videos and dirty talk, promises of sexual exchanges, which I wasn't sure whether he was going to go through with, but I felt that pang of shock and hurt either way.
We had an agreement.
We both lived double lives, we had to with the positions we were put into. We both legally had wives, who we were intimate with on occasion, and I gave him free rein to fuck any woman he wanted to. My wife knew of our agreement, his didn't, but that was his choice, and, frankly, I didn't give a shit so long as I was the only guy he touched.
Technically, as far as I knew, I still was...but the messages confused me.
Why did he need this?
Why did he need attention from other men?
Why did he need videos of men jerking off?
Why didn't he just watch porn during the times we were away like I did?
Why wasn't I ... enough?
Why wasn't I enough?
Why was't I....
The thoughts spiralled on and on, and I just wished I had my elixir to fall back onto.
I wasn't an idiot.
I knew we didn't love each other.
It was just...sex. Just sex. I didn't even like men. I wasn't even attracted to men, but there was something about his stupid fucking face and perfectly crafted cock that I couldn't quite pull myself away from. I put it down to the history between us–the way I became what I was, the connection that was built, calcifying over the many years. All I knew was that I only felt this way about him, and he, apparently, felt this way about everyone.
Sure, I'd been with other men–just as he had, but that was history. It didn't count. This did.
So, I'd texted all his whores that it was over–threatening to cut their cocks off if they contacted him again. I didn't care that he might see it. A few texted back, but his phone was floating in the pissed-filled toilet by then. If he wanted it, he needed to fish through the bowl. Frankly, he was lucky I didn't strangle him in his fucking sleep.
I used the hotel phone to call Rose, thankful-and unthankful–that I had an eidetic memory. She answered, and I looked back at Madrick, who looked so fuckin' peaceful.
"Put Darien on," I told her.
Being who I was, it was safe to say I wasn't her favourite person.
"I didn't blow up the prison," Darien said.
"Where are you?"
"Deacon went fucking haywire–"
"Where are you?"
"I can't.... I didn't want it this way. I'm sorry, No."
My throat burned. "Where are you?!"
He hung up.
I yanked the phone from the wall and pegged it at the ground. I didn't want to deal with this shit right now. I didn't want to deal with his shit, period. He didn't understand that this decision didn't only incriminate and endanger him, but me too. I was guilty by association. And it had to be dealt with because I was not spending my afterlife hiding like he clearly wanted to.
I was done hiding.
In fact, I refused to hide any more than I already was.
A/N: what's your favourite trope?