give me time I will be clear, given time you'll understand
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
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He waves, not smiling, and then sucks the cigarette down another few millimeters, pushing his swing around awkwardly. "You always fucking have cookies, don't you?" he asks. There's no venom in it. He'd appreciate the cookies more if he felt like he could eat them, but he likes the thought.
It's not quite possible to ask what it was he wanted to, not yet. He's terrified of it, but at the same time, this is what he came to Chicago for. This is why he's been looking for her. Now that he's found her, he can't just run away from it. He wouldn't know what to do with himself.
He's a little afraid he won't know what to do with himself afterward, either. The journey has been his life for so long. If he doesn't have it, he's not sure what's left in the space left. Maybe he'll find a name. Maybe it will fix whatever it is he can't quite put his finger on. Erase his memories.
Hah.
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"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 knows she's needed in Chicago, and if she can help him, she's going to without a second thought.
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But it's difficult to say no to her earnest offer, to be honest. Not when he's been avoiding her entirely. Not when he's about to ask her to do what he's about to ask her to do.
So he reaches in, taking the top cookie. And then fiddles with it a little bit, like he doesn't really know what to do with it. He doesn't, because what do you do with a cookie you can't eat right then? Putting cookies in one's pocket just seems like a bad idea, especially now that he doesn't have his sweatshirt with him anymore. It's at Jessi's house, in his bag in an innocuous little corner of a closet just in case she has a walk-through or something. He still feels guilty for staying there.
"Thanks," he says, quietly, flicking some of the crumbs -- and ash -- off the knee of his jeans.
And then he sits there. Not knowing how to phrase the question. Not really able to get the words out. Fiddle fiddle fidget. Smoke smoke smoke.
Finally, he takes a breath. "So uh, how've you been?" He hates smalltalk, but at least it distracts from the question he wants to ask. Or doesn't, but knows he needs to.
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She watches him quietly out of the corner of her eye while she swings. She can't decide if he looks better or worse from the first time she saw him. She hopes it's better, but she can't quite figure out which it is. So with a sigh, she looks straight ahead again, and pushes her feet against the ground a little harder, making more of an effort to swing.
He'll come around--he has to, right? And if he doesn't, Gladys will wait. She's good at that. She's waiting right now, waiting for him to say something, to ask what he needs to ask. Gladys can wait. She's waited for almost seventy years. She can wait a year or two more, if that's what it takes. It's just a question of how much time he has left. She has all the time in the world.
She makes an effort to smile when he asks the question. "Oh, I'm just fine!" she chirps. "Just doing what I normally do, dragging the wagon around and baking and the like. It's been quiet since the hotel was ruined, so I really haven't been all that busy." There's a pause, and the smile flickers just a bit before coming back full-force. "How have you been?"
That's not pushing. There's nothing in the question to scare him off. It's a perfectly reasonable question in response to the question he asked. It's only fair. She's not pushing him. She really isn't.
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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?"
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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."
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The repetition gets her a little smile, barely a smile at all. The words keep catching in his throat, so he takes another drag of the cigarette. Smoke trails out of his mouth when he opens it, closes it again; the rest of the smoke in his lungs vacates when he sighs, heavily. "Fuck."
"I just--It's been so fucking long, you know? That I've--" Another drag, hands shaking. "Been here. I--"
He can do this. If he just says it all, like pulling off a bandaid or whatever that saying is. He can do it.
So, staring at the burning ember of his cigarette, he just forces it all out. "I-wanted-to-ask-you-to-heal-me."
And then he just sucks on the cigarette, not looking at her, so he doesn't hyperventilate. It's the question that's been plaguing him since he came to Chicago and found she was here. It's the reason he's here at all, one of the reasons he's stuck around this long. But it still makes him sick to ask.
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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--promised him--that they'd stick together. That they would have a family. That things would be okay.
The one thing that has never changed about Gladys is she never goes back on her promises. None of them, except this one. And now she has the chance to make it right again.
Her hands are twitching, fingers aching and palms itching to do what needs to be done. Can it be done? It's not a question Gladys needs to answer. It's not a question of can or cannot. It's not even a question--it's a matter of must. Of need.
So she lifts her head, the smile on her face simultaneously broken and twisted and yet beautiful and strong. "Of course," she says softly. "Of course I'll heal you." There is no 'if I can'. It's a definite--she will heal him. She will.
She glances around the park quickly. "Here?" she asks. "Or... you probably want elsewhere. It might hurt you a little bit, I don't know--I don't want it to, but. I'll try not to let it."
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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 half-broken, pieced-together template?
The idea is terrifying nonetheless. He curls up for a moment, putting his face in the hand not holding his cigarette and then yanking his hair down over his face as he lifts his head again. Remembering to breathe.
"I don't--I didn't fucking think about it," he admits. It's easier to think of it as 'it', as something distant and impersonal, so he's not reminded of what, exactly, he's asking her to do. He's asking her to fix his wings, and he hopes she realizes, now, what that means. He hopes she knows she could lose hers in the process. He doesn't even know if it can be done, so long after the wound has healed.
Well, physically healed. He doesn't think she can heal the emotional, the mental wounds. He doesn't know that anyone can, but if anything can get close, it might be this. The ability to be whole again.
He wishes the thought didn't scare him as much as it does.
"I guess here's as fucking good as any," he says. "I don't--don't know if--" Cigarette time; this one's near gone now. "Don't fu--don't know if she'd be okay with."
It's one thing to sleep on Jessi's couch -- well, he's been sleeping on the floor, just in case he accidentally stains the couch or something because carpets are easier to clean than couches, right? -- but it's an entirely different thing to do something this personal in someone else's house. It just feels wrong.
"Don't know where else to go." It's said with a shrug, but it's a small one, a shaky one.
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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, damn the consequences. So she stands up and looks around, almost shyly.
"So," she starts, trying to find the words. "How do we do this, exactly?"
She's the Healing Angel. She really ought to know, except it's been so long since she healed someone. Because of what it does--because of what she thinks about when it happens. She knows what to do--knows, instinctively, but. She doesn't know how to start. How he would be comfortable starting.
And there's something small inside of her that's afraid, but it's being beaten out by the drumming of pain, coming off of his skin in waves. She has to fix him. She has to fix him. She has to fix him.
She has to at least try.
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"I don't fuc--don't know," he mutters, throwing the cigarette on the ground and grinding it out with one torn up boot. She's the Healing Angel, it's true. She's the one who knows how to do this; he's seen her do it before, a long time ago, in secret when they weren't watching. "I remember it--" He can't quite finish the words. They mean he remembers the camp, and that's not something he wants to bring up between them. It's already hanging so heavy in the air around them as it is.
So eventually he forces himself to stand, to face her for a moment. "I'm sorry," he says. It will hurt her more than him, he thinks.
Then he closes his eyes, turning his head away again and letting out the wingstubs. His hands are shaking as he turns around, but it's hard to tell; there's none of the fear on his face as long as his eyes are closed, so he keeps them that way.
It's like a laying on of hands, he knows. Something that was denied him so long ago, something he shouldn't be asking Gladys to do because of the fact that it was denied him. He's been scorned, cast away. He's not sure he really deserves to be brought back into the fold or not. And he's absolutely terrified, because he remembers, and while it's not taking over him right now, it always does, eventually.
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This is it. This is the moment they've both been waiting for. The pain is everywhere, buzzing, crawling across her skin like a thousand insects. She can barely hear the cars driving in traffic, normal city sounds, wind in the trees, anything. It almost feels like nothing exists except the two of them, except the history that they share and the pain that they feel.
This is it. This is everything. This is what Gladys was built for, born for, called to do. She knows how to do this--she has over three hundred years of experience. She has a lifetime behind her, and she can use that to her advantage.
She's afraid--she's more than willing to admit that there is a part of her that is afraid. But she's also determined--she knows she needs to do this. She's strong. She can be here for him, she can do this for him. He is her reminder of a life before, and while it was a life full of pain and conflict and fear, it was also a life full of love. And she's going to do this, afraid or not, because she loves him.
Still shaking, she reaches for him, pressing cool hands against his neck and his back, and exhales heavily, closing her eyes. It's easier if she closes her eyes, she remembers--watching things get repaired in front of you can be a little nauseating. And it's going to hurt, and she knows it's going to hurt, but it's worth it, because she loveshim, like she loves this city and every person in it. It's worth it because it's another wrong she can right in this broken place with broken rules. It's worth it because it's something she has to do.
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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.
He forces the memories back.
It starts with tingling, where she's touching him and then in his back. At his shoulderblades. Where his wings used to be. It itches at first, like a healing wound -- and why shouldn't it? Isn't that logical, if she's healing him?
He forces his hands out of the fists, crossing his arms in front of himself and holding onto his shoulders instead. Curling in on himself wouldn't be a good idea right now, he knows, but oh, he wants to. He wishes he'd sat down before she started, but he can't ask her to stop now. Can't ask to move. She's doing far too much for him -- the idea still makes him ill with guilt -- and he can't ask her to do anything more. Even if her hands feel like--
He's not thinking about it. He can't.
So he's just going to be here, concentrating, not breathing, waiting for the pain to hit.
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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 keep herself alive at the same time. She's going to have to die.
Her wings are burning now, on fire, everything hurts but the drumming doesn't stop. It doesn't stop. She screws up her eyes--every muscle in her body is twitching, it hurts but she can't stop now. She should have done this years ago and she's not going to stop now. She's done hiding from it all.
There's just so much pain. It's not just him, not just the angel in front of her who used to be Jeremy. It's everywhere, everything. She has to fix it all. The drumming doesn't stop, it doesn't stop, just keeps pounding along, keeping time with a thousand beating hearts and a thousand ragged breaths. She can fix it all.
She has to fix it all.
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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 survived.
In 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 paralyzed by his own fear as they saw through his wings. He can feel their hands on them, his wings he never saw, bending them outward. The better to get them away from the bone saw as it whines through.
For a good, long moment, it's only fear. Fear so great he cannot move for it, fear pervading every sense in him. It's as effective as the restraints had been. But only for so long.
Because then the anger comes. It always does, boiling up from somewhere deep in his gut, quickly consuming his entire self. He doesn't try to control it, not now, not this time -- he doesn't have a reason, and there's no way he's not going to take this opportunity to tear the fuckers limb from fucking limb like they deserve.
He whirls around, suddenly, lashing out and catching a face, a jawline, in his hand. It takes little thought to bring the other hand around, wings mantling -- and a small voice in his head thinks, wings?, but it doesn't matter now. The neck snaps neatly, and he drops the body, taking a few steps back immediately and snarling.
Snarling at nothing at all.
It takes him a moment to notice. When no more 'scientists' -- not fucking scientists fucking torturers -- come at him, when nothing else moves toward him, he finds it in him to breathe again. Again. He wasn't breathing for any of that, nothing past the --
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Wait. White blood. White blood at his feet, and his wings partially back and --
Oh.
Oh god oh god oh God.
He's at the other end of the tiny park before he can help it, or even realizes he's moving. And then he's motionless again, staring at the body on the ground. The body of the one person in Chicago he could call his friend, if he could call anyone his friend, anymore. After this, there's nobody that would. After this.
What has he--
He drops to the ground, a half-noise strangling its way out of his throat. For a long while, he's curled up, arms over his head, shaking. There's no way he can process this. Not now. Not now and maybe not ever. This was not what his Calling was supposed to do. This was never.
Panicked, he realizes he needs to get out. It doesn't matter where; he's killed so many people in Chicago already, and now...this is more than he can ever atone for. This is more than he can ever forgive himself for. The others, they were -- there was nothing redeeming in them. He's sure of it, he has to be. But this.
This was. Not. Him.
He has to get away. But he can't move. He has nowhere to go. He can't move. But he forces himself to at least drag out his journal from his pocket. He doesn't write in it right away; he can't. Just that much movement sends him into another bout of panic stricken paralysis, head touching the ground. But eventually, he manages to scribble an entry, trying not to notice how his hands are covered in blood, smearing the pages. He traces the words over and over again, almost tearing through the paper eventually.
This was not him. This couldn't be him.
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