give me time I will be clear, given time you'll understand

[godtooksides]

The angel is sitting in a park. This, in and of itself, is not terribly surprising. What is surprising is that it's not actually Grant Park or any of the affiliated parks; it's actually a tiny little park with nothing more than a small playground on one end and some scraggly trees

Comments

[cookiesandhugs]

Gladys has missed Jeremy him, has thought about him often and worried about him. Worried whether or not he was doing well, worried that he had skipped town entirely. Worried that something worse had happened to him.

But she's also been afraid. She's been afraid to contact him, to do too much pushing. She knows what happens when you poke around painful things too much--they tend to rear their ugly heads at you, and then it's a mess that has turned into a huge disaster.

So she waited. She waited until she could almost forget he needed her--until he was just another in a long line of people that needed her, and she could wait another day to check on him. And another day. And another.

But that day has come and so here she is, carrying a picnic basket full of cookies and smiling her widest smile as she walks up to the swingset.

"Hello there!" she says brightly.

[godtooksides]

It's still weird, seeing her the way she is now. In his memories she's still the redheaded girl that looked around his age -- not that he looks his age anymore either, he supposes. She looks more her age than he does his, it occurs to him. Not that he's entirely sure how old he is anymore. Still, the way she is now is a reminder of everything that happened

[cookiesandhugs]

Gladys smiles back when he waves, and she goes to sit on the swing next to him, placing the basket in her lap.

"I try to!" she says. "You never know who will need one when you're out and about. Would you like one?" Swinging every so slightly, she opens the lid to the basket and offers him his own selection. "They're all chocolate chip, I think--there may be some ones with M&Ms towards the bottom, if you want to dig."

She knows he probably won't take one--most people don't. But it's something. It's her own slight way of nudging him, of reminding him that she's here. She knows there's a reason she's here, that he wouldn't have contacted her unless he needed something, and she knows that it's probably hard. She can feel his hurt--it's a little drumbeat in the back of her head, erratic, bah bum bum bum bah bah bum. But she's not going to push too hard--she can't let this go wrong, she can't let him regress when he's moved so far.

Plus, she's missed him a little bit. He really truly needs her--everyone does, and she knows that. She

[godtooksides]

He sucks in a long drag on the cigarette, eyeing the cookies in the basket. They do look delicious, in the weird way that he doesn't actually want to eat them, just look at them. If he could get his nutrients through just looking at food, he'd be set, though. Not that there are a lot of nutrients in the cookies at all

[cookiesandhugs]

Gladys beams when he takes the cookie--at least he took one. She doesn't really much care if he eats it or not, he took one. It... means something. To her, at least. "You're absolutely welcome, dearie. Any time." She places the picnic basket back on her lap and swings for a little bit, admiring the park around them. It's a beautiful park, or at least she thinks so

[godtooksides]

It's better and worse. It's been up and down. Maybe it's about the same. He was on the run for awhile, laying low until people forgot about everything, and then the Conrad blew up and it was all okay. Everyone was distracted, and he feels like a fucking horrible person for even thinking that.

But everything has receded a bit, and he's gathered the courage to finally face this. So maybe it is better.

Instead of expound upon this, he just shrugs at her question. "Been alright, I mean--I've got. A fucking place to stay and all. Sometimes. And--"

He interrupts himself with his cigarette, flicking a long worm of ash off it and inhaling what's left of the butt. Then lights another. This one he won't forget about. "I don't--I was just--fuck."

He shifts, pushing himself in little circles on the swing. "Can I--can I ask you something?"

[cookiesandhugs]

Gladys nods, smiles. He has a place to stay. That is... that is good to hear. He's taking care of himself. Gladys knows that, and that is a reassurance.

That doesn't stop her heart from racing up as he asks her. "Of course," she says, managing to keep her voice clear of any sign that she's nervous about hearing his question. "You can ask me anything, Jer--you can ask me anything." She smiles, though there's too much concern to really let the smile light up her eyes. It's convincing either way. "Shoot," she says finally.

She doesn't know what he wants--she can't know. All she knows is it's something he's having trouble asking. She wants to help--that burning itch as it beats itself into her head is telling her that he's hurt and she needs to help him. She needs to--that's what she was built for. "Anything," she says. "You can ask me anything."

[godtooksides]

He winces both at the almost-naming of him and at her concern. He knows he can't escape her concern, but he still wants to. He doesn't deserve it in the least, not from someone like Gladys

[cookiesandhugs]

She almost goes rigid in the swing--practically drops the basket, but she doesn't. She holds on--she always holds on. She always has a grip on this. He was never there when she didn't. The smile flickers, but stays on, his pain twisting up and grabbing a hold on her heart like the hold on her wrist as they tattooed blue numbers into her forearm. It's all wrinkled over now, faded away maybe, but suddenly her wrists are cold and she knows they're there, the numbers. She knows it's all there.

Her wings itch. They need to come out, but she can't let them. Not yet. She needs to take two deep breaths to keep her heart beating steadily, no speeding up, and then she needs to formulate words.

There's something in her screaming that she play innocent--heal him of what? After all, she wasn't there. She doesn't know--can't know--what he means. Except she does. She knows what happened to all of them during the war, after the war. She knows what he went through, and she knows she wasn't by his side during any of it. After she promised him--

[godtooksides]

It'd be a lie to say he never blamed her. When he finally remembered everything, for awhile he did blame her. Her and everyone else they took from him, as if they could have fought against those leading him away. As if anything really could have ever been okay.

But the anger faded -- at least, the anger toward her, toward everyone in their group. Sometimes it would flare up, when they turned him away again after they'd all been part of the pact that had kept them going for so long. Even if they didn't want to think about those times anymore; he couldn't help it if he was a reminder. But Gladys had never said anything about that, had never pressed. So he couldn't blame her anymore, even if he'd wanted to.

He stiffens a bit, the swing stilling, when she says she will. He doesn't know what he's so scared of, what's been keeping him from asking this simple question for a year now. Isn't this what he's been working toward his whole life? Being whole again? Starting over from scratch, from a proper blank slate and not some

[cookiesandhugs]

She wants to comfort him--she wants to reach out and take him in her arms, like he was just a kid again and all she had to do was tell him it was okay. She wants to sweep the hair out of his eyes and look him in the eye and tell him everything is going to be alright. But she won't. She knows she can't do that, not right now.

Instead, Gladys listens to him patiently, her hands still wrapped around the picnic basket. She nods. "We can do it here then," she says softly. "If you're comfortable. If. You don't have anywhere else to go." She would offer her room in the Kashtta, but she feels like that space--that many people, the building itself, and it being so far away--she can't afford to scare him off. Not after all the effort he's put into asking her.

She's not thinking about what it means for her--distantly, in the back of her head, some rational part of her knows the consequences of doing this. It's not stopping her. She owes him this much--owes him so much more, years of their lives, but this. This she can do. This she has to do

[godtooksides]

He doesn't get up when she stands, barely looks at her through the curtain of near-dreadlocked hair he's pulled in front of his face. Dirty hair, but then, he's done that on purpose. It's okay if he's off-putting in that way; keeps people from getting close enough to be put off by the lack of wings. Not that it's been keeping people from getting close, lately. One of the things he can't decide of he hates or likes about Chicago

[cookiesandhugs]

It starts with the laying on of hands. She can't stop herself from trembling, but it doesn't really matter now because it's worse with his wingstubs out. The drum is incessant, pounding in her ears, rattling her teeth and pressing up behind her eyes. Her own wings are aching, but she doesn't let them out

[godtooksides]

He tenses when she touches him, the shaking turning visible again. It's been a long, long time since he's touched anyone, or anyone has touched him, aside from fights. Aside from when the Calling comes back. He's not sure what to do with it, with the idea of someone's skin against his. The idea almost makes him sick, most of the time, though he's never sure if it's sickness at the idea of others being in such close proximity or at the idea that they'd want to be so close to him. He never really hated anyone other than himself for very long.

Except the men who sawed off his wings. Except those who killed simply because their victims were different. The mere thought, accompanied by the hands on his neck and back, by his wings, makes his hands clench, his breath hiss between his teeth

[cookiesandhugs]

It hurts.

Of course it hurts--she remembers now that it hurts. At first it just feels like a kind of weak tingling in her back, in her wings. It hurts but she takes a deep breath because this is what is right. This is what he wanted, and this is going to fix him. This is going to make him Jeremy again.

She was built to do this.

She was meant to--born to. She's fought the Calling for so long it's a relief to just let go, to just be an Angel of Healing and do what she was meant to do--heal. She heals people, makes them better, and that's what she's doing right now.

But then there are the flashbacks. The reason she tried so hard, resisted for so long.

There's a pounding in her ears that won't stop building. He hurts, she hurts, they all hurt. They all suffer, pain is all around them, pain and the faint stench of death. It clings to the ragged clothes, settles in her hair, is under her fingernails when she goes to sleep at night. There's suffering everywhere and she doesn't know how to make it all stop. She can't fix everyone and

1/2

[godtooksides]

He was okay as long as he wasn't breathing. When he wasn't breathing, it wasn't really him. He wasn't really alive, just a still form of pain. A tabula rasa being born, in a way.

But he has to breathe sometimes. And when he breathes in, he smells decay and gags. And that's when his self-control shatters.

He can't open his eyes. He can smell the rank stench of everyone piled together, everyone sleeping in their own filth. Everyone sick, starving. The smell isn't just any one thing, though, he knows. He knows death when he smells it.

His back is burning, and he can still smell it. He doesn't really think -- he couldn't think, he can't think. In that moment, it's not Gladys behind him, though there were so many times when she fixed him or someone else up, when she thought they didn't notice. Maybe they really didn't. She'd survived long enough like that, she'd survivedIn that moment, with the burning pain, he's thrown back into the cell they strapped him down in. Only this time he's not strapped down; he's only