Title: Falling a Little Farther

Author: MidKnight

Email: MidKnightslair@juno.com

WebSite: http://www.angelfire.com/realm2/midknight/

Disclaimer: Fallen does not belong to me. It belongs to Kaido Rakean, whom I am sorely indebted to for allowing me to play with her creations. Of course, had I the ability to play with Faustus the way I'd like to, well, then I'd be in trouble with my boyfriend, for obvious reasons, and with Aido, for not sharing. ^_^

Music I listened to while writing this: Beethoven 'Fur Elise', Lifehouse 'Breathing', Duncan Sheik 'In the Absense of Sun', Rufus Wainwright 'Hallelujah', Smashmouth 'Waste'.

 

Falling a Little Farther

MidKnight

 

I see him stretch and it's kind of like looking at art. The way his muscles shift under his skin, the way the bones in his back re-align, the soft popping and cracking a musical counterpoint to how he's moving. Abadon turns on the couch, grabbing the arm of it, and twists himself. The motion produces a ratcheting sound as his lower back snaps back into place, and he easily moves to the other end of the couch so he can twist himself the other way.

 

The sound that reminds me of pop-corn makes me wince as I take a sip of my coffee.

 

I haven't really got anything planned for the day, no jobs lined up or anything, and so I've taken my time this morning, brewing coffee and lazing about. Somehow the tv hasn't clicked on yet and I can't really say that I care whats going on out in the real world.

 

Void hasn't made her presence known yet, and so I have to assume she's out on the roof smoking. Or something. Like I said, I don't really care this morning.

 

Abadon produces more popping noises and makes some vaguely uncomfortable sounding whimpering noises. Like he can't get whatever it is he wants to pop. But that can't be right, because from the sounds of it he's popped just about everything else in his body.

 

I smirk into my coffee and flick my eyes to the window in time to see a cigarette butt fall past. It's trailing smoke and a few seconds later I hear muffled cursing from the street below. I make a mental note to congratulate Void on her good shot later.

 

Abadon whimpers again and I turn back from the window to see him trying to rub his back with his hand. It's one of those uncomfortable angles you get at every time you have an itch, one you can't quite scratch. Except it seems he can't quite pop it. Or whatever he's trying to do.

 

I let myself admire the handsome, muscled figure under the black tank top for a minute.

 

Hey, there have to be a few perks to taking an angel of death into your house, don't there?

 

Abadon catches me staring, maybe two minutes after I've started, and by that time I'm in a pretty good mood. I almost want to ask if the angelic host has some kind of gym membership, or if the body goes with the halo? Thankfully my mouth stays shut and Abadon just looks puzzled. The way he does most of the time when presented with a human situation.

 

I arch an eyebrow in question and return to my coffee, not expecting him to say anything.

 

"My back..." Abadon says, and I swallow quickly, startled.

 

"Yes?" I ask him when he says nothing further. I suddenly recall the sight of him on the couch, not exactly spread out, but as spread as a man his size can get on a little couch like that, curled on his side. His tank top's cut a little weird in the back,  looking so much like the letter 'x', to reveal the shoulder blades and all the musculature that goes along with that. I remember the odd scars/birth marks there, where his wings could have been attached. You know, if his kind of angel had wings.

 

*Had* wings. Past tense.

 

They must have stripped them off when he'd been cast out. I wince and the next mouthful of coffee tastes more bitter that any cup I've ever had before.

 

"Your back?" I prompt, curious. Morbidly curious, actually. Of course I have to ask the angel if they tore his wings off.

 

"It hurts. I can't seem to," Abadon pauses, flexing again and rolling his shoulders. "Fix it."

 

And suddenly I've got this strange urge to touch him. Actually care for him and make him feel better. If I didn't already know he was an angel of death I'd think he was trying to make me feel nice and philanthropic through some kind of angel-power. I sigh and set the coffee down on a counter top; it doesn't really matter which in such a small apartment, and turn away from him. I go into my bedroom and retrieve a blanket from the bed. It leaves things looking a little ruffled, a little used, and I force my mind out of the gutter. The angel in the living room may be hot, but I think a god somewhere would have a conniption fit if I slept with my charge, and we all know how those stories end. Lightning, plagues, true love.

 

He's looking puzzled again when I come out of my room, bearing the blanket, and I wonder if he thought I was just going to ignore him, again. I throw the blanket down on the floor to provide some padding and get down on my hands and knees to make sure it lies flat. When I look up at him he's still looking a little pole-axed; he could have been born a blonde and that expression would have made more sense.

 

"Come on." I say.

 

"Come where?" Abadon asks and I sigh. Then I pat the blanket. In one smooth motion he slides off the couch and is kneeling next to me on the floor.

 

"Lie down." I order, then think better of it. He's halfway to the floor by the time my hands reach the hem of his tank top and  I pull it up, feeling the material stretch and give as it slides over his muscles. And what's revealed is the six pack of heaven; like the light of god is shining forth out his navel, perfect and divided, skin taunt like a drum. Abadon gets his arms stuck in the shirt, because I've still got a hold of it and I've frozen, staring, and he squirms a little. The muscles flex as he moves and I forget whatever good Samaratin instinct that made me get down on the floor with him.

 

I'm about to reach out and touch that ironing-board flat stomach when I suddenly remember what I'm about to touch is angel-flesh. Angel of Death flesh, to be precise. I draw my hand back and with the other, tug the shirt over his head, throwing it to the side where we can get it again later.

 

"Now you can lie down." I say, and he does, no puzzled expression or anything. I have to remind him to roll onto his stomach, and it's kinda obvious to me that angels never exchange back rubs, because he looks a little nervous. I'm wearing jeans and they pull a little tight as I throw a leg over his hips and settle on top of his warm body. Jesus, are angels supposed to be this warm?

 

I take a good look at the marks on his back, the scars or whatever they are. They're shiny, like a scar, but the color is just too dark. Almost like a wine, or a strong tea, and I purposefully don't start there. My hands go to his neck, thumbs finding the vertebrae and tracing them as my fingers follow the line of muscle around and up the back of his neck. Abadon whimpers again, except this time it comes out a little like a sigh and thats a good sign. I slowly move my hands down, tracing his shoulders and then back up his neck, and each time I sweep down I cover more territory, hands cupping the roundness of the top of his arms, where the shoulder ends, gripping the bicep, tracing his ribs.

 

He's got ribs like a starving fashion model and I have to wonder if its true, that angels eat moth balls. Its from a story I read once, a Spanish author, something about a town where they found a wounded angel and weren't sure what to do with him. Some old lady tried to feed the angel moth balls, and thats always stuck in my mind. I can almost fit my fingers into the groves between the bones, and this time when my hands slide back up Abadon almost purrs.

 

The sound brings a smile to my face. I slide my hands back down his back, fingertips barely brushing the marks, or whatever they are, and his whole body shudders. Like when people say that someone walked over their grave. He gets goosebumps, and for a few seconds I entertain myself by running my hands up and down his spine, avoiding the scars, smoothing out all the raised hairs.

 

My hands go back to the scars of their own will, tracing the edges of them with my fingertips, outlining them even as he shivers under my touch. I lean forward a little and notice he's clenching his hands into fists at his sides. I press my palms to his scars and watch as his shivers intensify.

 

"What do you feel?" I ask him. His teeth are clenched and at first I'm not sure he's going to answer. He's breathing hard, too, like he ran a race or had some really good sex.

 

Ok, I didn't need that last image.

 

I move my hands to his lower back and Abadon released his breath in one fell swoop. He's still gasping for air like a fish out of water but I can tell it's easier for him now.

 

"It's like...Flying." He says between gulps of air. "Everything...So intense."

 

Maybe the sex thought isn't so far off base, after all. I slowly slide my hands back up, letting him know what the inevitable is and by the time I reach his marks he's already shaking with built up tension. He actually cries out, and his arms slide to his front as he half-tries to sit up, half-thrashes. His ebony hair falls back, over my arms and hands and for a second I'm outside all of this and I get really jealous. We use the same conditioner and shampoo; how come his hair is softer than mine?

 

I let my hands slide up, cupping his shoulders, fingers tracing his collarbone and I make soothing noises while he pants, face buried in his arms. I don't know whats going on or what the hell we're doing but I want to see how far I can push this. See how far I can push him.

 

He makes a sobbing noise when I touch his scars this time, like he's lost, and I hold on, palms massaging into his skin. For a second I feel it- whatever it is that he feels when I touch his scars.

 

Light and falling and the wind holding me and pain and freedom and my feathers on my wings and angels and humans and voices and everything. Everything. My vision is superimposed, I see through his eyes, seeing the world rushing up to meet me as I fall in from space, see the sky blue and the white clouds and all the stars in the sky rushing past, and I see my hands gripping his shoulder blades, scars peaking out as we struggle, see these black wings folding out from his back to fill the living room and they're going through the couch and the far counter. There are voices in my head, cacaphony of singing and sobbing and talk, voices rising and falling, musically pure and whiskey rough and somewhere behind and in and around all of that I can hear Abadon pleading with me to let go.

 

He sounds really desperate.

 

I hold on tighter and I can see all of it, the world and the universe, see how everything is going to happen or has already happened or will happen. See how it all folds up and how everything ends and begins and ends again, I see light and darkness, see the gods walking around in all their forms, see the Avians as they were meant to be. I see Abadon with his black wings spread out, hands reaching to take down the world and I see the fire in the barn, see him standing there with his scythe, ready to take the child...

 

Ready to kill me.

 

I let go, fall back to lay on the floor with my legs tangled with his and my eyes are blind. My hands are twitching fetally above me but I can't feel them and my ears are ringing so loudly I can't hear Abadon gasping for air somewhere to my left.

 

He should have killed me. He should have taken me in that fire, when I was little. He should have killed me. And somehow I got spared and, gee, the obvious just hit me.

 

I'm the reason he's stuck here now. I'm the reason he's got to live on earth and I'm the reason he got his wings taken off.

 

I'm sure we make a sight when Void crawls back in off the roof. Me lying in a heap, tangled with Abadon, laughing so hard I'm crying, and Abadon, shirt missing, gasping for breath.

 

She looks at us, the scent of cigarettes filling the room with her presence and she sighs and goes right back out on the roof, muttering to herself.

 

Abadon raises himself up on his elbows, looking over at me, wearing this face like he's a deer in front of a car. I don't think he meant for me to see or feel all of that. Or maybe he didn't know that was what would happen. Whatever.

 

"Eve." He says, like thats the answer to everything.

 

Well, in this case I guess it is.

 

I decide to do something simple. I reach one hand up, tangle it in his hair, and pull him into a kiss. Abadon squeaks in response, eyes going wide.

 

I guess this isn't one of the things he 'conditioned' himself for.

 

Oh well. I'll just have to help him with that.

 

The End