[Torchwood: Miracle Day] "Hoc Est Enim Corpus Meam..." (R)
Author's Note: Written for < lj user="love_bingo">'s "forbidden love". Angelo Colasanto/Jack Harkness, set during the events of the extended flashback in "Immortal Sins". Dark fic, containing moral angst, blood, violence, period-specific homophobia, and weird use of religious themes
Word Count: 975
A year in jail for 'violation of the Volstead Act', and Angelo had spent that time regretting that he had ever met nor gotten involved with the strange, handsome man who spoke of wonders he could barely imagine, and in whose arms he had found such pleasure and so much regret. If he had not fallen in with Jack Harkness, he would not have fallen so far: the jail sentence he did not regret, but what happened to him behind the iron bars seemed a punishment from God for the sins he had committed, when he had yielded to the tempting words and the seductive scent of that man. Angelo's mother had told him stories of succubae, demons in the form of beautiful women, who tempted men in their sleep, and incubi, demons who seduced women. Was it possible for an incubus to approach a man and tempt him to sin by lying with him? If so, Harkness had to be the most seductive of their kind.
And so he had done his best to keep his head down in prison, to keep his senses aware of who was behind him at all times. He tried to assert himself on the very first day, as his older brothers had taught him in case he was ever jailed; he picked a fight with an older inmate, but got the worst of it, which landed him in the hospital wing for a week. He procured a crude shiv, which he kept hidden in his boot, but that came at a price which he hardly dared to pay, till Dunluvin, the convict who crafted the shivs in the prison machine shop, wore him down: "Hate to see that pretty face of yours get smashed up when you could ugly up some mug who deserves it." Angelo yielded, but the whole time that Dunluvin had him bent over a work bench, taking him from behind, he imagined himself in Jack's strong but gentle arms. And he hated himself all the more for letting himself think of that man, if he was a man.
And it was not the first time he had thought of Jack, the better to endure his trial. Night after night, after enduring the catcalls and wandering hands of some of the inmates and the cold concern of the guards, Angelo would dream of Jack wishing he was back in the relative shelter of their room above the butcher shop, his head on the other man's broad shoulder. And hating himself for yielding to the man's advances, if he was a man at all. From this mix of yearning and loathing, another desire emerged: Jack had spoken of a time when people would travel backward and forward in time, as easily as a man might leave home on a journey and return home by the same path. If he had the means of traveling back in time, he would go back and leave some message to a younger version of himself, warning him never to let himself get involved with a roguish charmer who called himself Jack Harkness. Or better yet, to go back, get himself alone with the man, then pull the shiv on him and stab the man, to the death if necessary. He could plead self defense, claim that the man had tried to force himself on him and pray that the judge would be easily swayed toward sympathy.
But all these thoughts were pointless fantasies. Once out of prison, he would need to start all over again from the beginning, finding work (hopefully Papa Russo would let him have his former job again), perhaps find something more permanent that paid better. Perhaps find a girl who would have him, marry her and have a family, a normal life, a blessed life. No more wild adventures or fierce nights in the arms of a strangely-made man with the beauty of a demon.
And then a miracle happened: he was released from prison and the first face that he gazed on, in the daylight beyond the prison walls, was the handsome, grinning face of the very demon who had gotten him into the situation that had lead to the prison sentence. Proof enough that the man was, in fact, the worst of Lucifer's brood.
Perhaps God had allowed this creature to survive. Perhaps this was the second chance to redeem himself, to wash his soul clean through shedding the blood of this demon.
Not here, not before the gates of the prison, not where he could be caught so soon after his release.
He let Harkness guide him back to the one home they had known before this nightmare, to the rooms they had shared for a few blissful weeks before it all went wrong, let Jack guide him upstairs, past Mama Russon's protective but knowing gaze. He let Harkness take him into his arms again, only half feigning his shock and relief as he opened the other man's shirt to find the man's flesh unmarred from his brush with death.
Then, as he leaned over Harkness, Angelo reached for the shiv, still hidden in his boot drawing it, plunging it into the man's chest, just below the ribs. The demon cried out, in shock and pain, bleeding out onto the bedcovers, the light in his too-bright eyes fading.
In a moment, the dream turned to a nightmare: this was not a demon that lay beneath him, but the man who had looked at him not as a weakling or as a sinner, but as a man worthy of love as his heart saw fit, a man who lay slain by a kiss as much as by the blade in Angelo's hand.
Judas, dost thou betray the son of man with a kiss? The words of the Gospel came back unbidden, like a rebuke...
Word Count: 975
A year in jail for 'violation of the Volstead Act', and Angelo had spent that time regretting that he had ever met nor gotten involved with the strange, handsome man who spoke of wonders he could barely imagine, and in whose arms he had found such pleasure and so much regret. If he had not fallen in with Jack Harkness, he would not have fallen so far: the jail sentence he did not regret, but what happened to him behind the iron bars seemed a punishment from God for the sins he had committed, when he had yielded to the tempting words and the seductive scent of that man. Angelo's mother had told him stories of succubae, demons in the form of beautiful women, who tempted men in their sleep, and incubi, demons who seduced women. Was it possible for an incubus to approach a man and tempt him to sin by lying with him? If so, Harkness had to be the most seductive of their kind.
And so he had done his best to keep his head down in prison, to keep his senses aware of who was behind him at all times. He tried to assert himself on the very first day, as his older brothers had taught him in case he was ever jailed; he picked a fight with an older inmate, but got the worst of it, which landed him in the hospital wing for a week. He procured a crude shiv, which he kept hidden in his boot, but that came at a price which he hardly dared to pay, till Dunluvin, the convict who crafted the shivs in the prison machine shop, wore him down: "Hate to see that pretty face of yours get smashed up when you could ugly up some mug who deserves it." Angelo yielded, but the whole time that Dunluvin had him bent over a work bench, taking him from behind, he imagined himself in Jack's strong but gentle arms. And he hated himself all the more for letting himself think of that man, if he was a man.
And it was not the first time he had thought of Jack, the better to endure his trial. Night after night, after enduring the catcalls and wandering hands of some of the inmates and the cold concern of the guards, Angelo would dream of Jack wishing he was back in the relative shelter of their room above the butcher shop, his head on the other man's broad shoulder. And hating himself for yielding to the man's advances, if he was a man at all. From this mix of yearning and loathing, another desire emerged: Jack had spoken of a time when people would travel backward and forward in time, as easily as a man might leave home on a journey and return home by the same path. If he had the means of traveling back in time, he would go back and leave some message to a younger version of himself, warning him never to let himself get involved with a roguish charmer who called himself Jack Harkness. Or better yet, to go back, get himself alone with the man, then pull the shiv on him and stab the man, to the death if necessary. He could plead self defense, claim that the man had tried to force himself on him and pray that the judge would be easily swayed toward sympathy.
But all these thoughts were pointless fantasies. Once out of prison, he would need to start all over again from the beginning, finding work (hopefully Papa Russo would let him have his former job again), perhaps find something more permanent that paid better. Perhaps find a girl who would have him, marry her and have a family, a normal life, a blessed life. No more wild adventures or fierce nights in the arms of a strangely-made man with the beauty of a demon.
And then a miracle happened: he was released from prison and the first face that he gazed on, in the daylight beyond the prison walls, was the handsome, grinning face of the very demon who had gotten him into the situation that had lead to the prison sentence. Proof enough that the man was, in fact, the worst of Lucifer's brood.
Perhaps God had allowed this creature to survive. Perhaps this was the second chance to redeem himself, to wash his soul clean through shedding the blood of this demon.
Not here, not before the gates of the prison, not where he could be caught so soon after his release.
He let Harkness guide him back to the one home they had known before this nightmare, to the rooms they had shared for a few blissful weeks before it all went wrong, let Jack guide him upstairs, past Mama Russon's protective but knowing gaze. He let Harkness take him into his arms again, only half feigning his shock and relief as he opened the other man's shirt to find the man's flesh unmarred from his brush with death.
Then, as he leaned over Harkness, Angelo reached for the shiv, still hidden in his boot drawing it, plunging it into the man's chest, just below the ribs. The demon cried out, in shock and pain, bleeding out onto the bedcovers, the light in his too-bright eyes fading.
In a moment, the dream turned to a nightmare: this was not a demon that lay beneath him, but the man who had looked at him not as a weakling or as a sinner, but as a man worthy of love as his heart saw fit, a man who lay slain by a kiss as much as by the blade in Angelo's hand.
Judas, dost thou betray the son of man with a kiss? The words of the Gospel came back unbidden, like a rebuke...