His Fallen Angel (Chapter 1/?)
Title: His Fallen Angel
Author: strychninetwist
Rating: PG-13 for this chapter
Pairings: None just yet - but there will be slash soon
Disclaimer: I own nothing but this story
Chapter One:
He was barely aware of anything. His vision was black, his lungs were constricted and had he not gone numb long ago he would feel an agony he'd never felt before. The last thing he'd known was the bullet that had delivered the final blow to his head.
Fink never expected to wake up again, but when his consciousness broke through and the disorientation had worn off he found himself surprised to be choking. Careful hands and a rough voice soothed him while the tube was pulled out of his throat. He drew precious air into his starved lungs with quick breaths. The Samaritan propped Fink up and fed him a half-drunk bottle of water. Once he had calmed down and the Samaritan had been satisfied with the wounded's comfort, Fink moved his head to look around.
The room was clean and small but warm and had clearly been designed with home at heart. The walls were an inviting stone colour and the windows tinted black, obviously to stop intruders peering in, with thick black curtains. The carpet was something between charcoal and blue. A large, dark maroon L-suite occupied the corner and the short wall stretched from it's end to the opposing corner with books on shelves reaching the beautiful artext ceiling. The long outside wall had a gentle fire crackling away, the windows carefully placed either side of it along the wall with photographs and art between them. On the opposite wall was more art, but just enough to make the room tasteful without being tacky or over decorated. In the centre was a mahogany door with a brass handle. A three-seat sofa matching the suite was to the door's left, between it and the shelves. On the right there was a gramophone on a small cabinet that was playing J.S.Bach's Joy of Man's Desiring and then, in the corner, a large cabinet stood containing medical supplies. In the centre of the room sat a round antique table, completing the setting. On the remaining wall, Fink was laid in a bed, the foot of which stuck out into the room. To his right was the machinery he found himself hooked up to and to his left was a reclining armchair that matched the other seats. Beside that was a table, the same wood as the door and shelves, with a thick, green book, a plate with half a sandwich, the now empty water bottle and a coffee cup.
Fink finally turned to the Samaritan, a tall man dressed in black trousers, a long-sleved white shirt and a dark jumper which the cuffs of the shirt stuck out of and the collar sat over. On his feet were white shoes and on his head was a flat cap. All this made him seem as soothing as the room, except the man's face was covered by what looked to Fink like bandages of some sort. And he wore round sunglasses that blocked his eyes from view. Fink was made visibly uneasy by this. His Samaritan held his hand, "Trust me, what's behind the mask is scarier." Fink shivered and tried to pull the covers over himself to hide. The man stopped him, "Are you cold?"
Fink shook his head and licked his dry lips, "Who are you?" His voice sounded awful having been out of use for who knew how long.
"My name is Van Gough. Do you know yours little demon?"
Fink looked confused for a moment before two realizations hit him. This man had not only saved his life but saved it in a warm environment with care, and this man had done it even after seeing his deformity up close. He nodded slowly and whispered, "Wilhelm Fink," in a voice underlaid with gratitude.
Van smiled warmly, despite the fact Fink couldn't see it. "Are you hungry Wilhelm?"
Fink nodded his head with a yawn and went to rub his cheek to feel something quite different to his usual smooth skin. What he felt was almost jagged to the touch and reminded him distantly of dried leather. He looked to Van in distress who left the room and returned with a mirror. A scar ran along Fink's cheek from his ear to his jaw, thick and ugly, with the main centre red and raw while at each end skin was starting to form. He also noticed several burn scars, from the torture he'd suffered. Fink's heartbeat increased and an anxiety attack began, an unfortunate similarity he shared with his brother. Tears stung his eyes when he thought of Billie Joe and what might have happened to him. Fink dropped the mirror and tried to get up, but Van wouldn't let him.
"Please. Let me go" he begged.
Author: strychninetwist
Rating: PG-13 for this chapter
Pairings: None just yet - but there will be slash soon
Disclaimer: I own nothing but this story
Chapter One:
He was barely aware of anything. His vision was black, his lungs were constricted and had he not gone numb long ago he would feel an agony he'd never felt before. The last thing he'd known was the bullet that had delivered the final blow to his head.
Fink never expected to wake up again, but when his consciousness broke through and the disorientation had worn off he found himself surprised to be choking. Careful hands and a rough voice soothed him while the tube was pulled out of his throat. He drew precious air into his starved lungs with quick breaths. The Samaritan propped Fink up and fed him a half-drunk bottle of water. Once he had calmed down and the Samaritan had been satisfied with the wounded's comfort, Fink moved his head to look around.
The room was clean and small but warm and had clearly been designed with home at heart. The walls were an inviting stone colour and the windows tinted black, obviously to stop intruders peering in, with thick black curtains. The carpet was something between charcoal and blue. A large, dark maroon L-suite occupied the corner and the short wall stretched from it's end to the opposing corner with books on shelves reaching the beautiful artext ceiling. The long outside wall had a gentle fire crackling away, the windows carefully placed either side of it along the wall with photographs and art between them. On the opposite wall was more art, but just enough to make the room tasteful without being tacky or over decorated. In the centre was a mahogany door with a brass handle. A three-seat sofa matching the suite was to the door's left, between it and the shelves. On the right there was a gramophone on a small cabinet that was playing J.S.Bach's Joy of Man's Desiring and then, in the corner, a large cabinet stood containing medical supplies. In the centre of the room sat a round antique table, completing the setting. On the remaining wall, Fink was laid in a bed, the foot of which stuck out into the room. To his right was the machinery he found himself hooked up to and to his left was a reclining armchair that matched the other seats. Beside that was a table, the same wood as the door and shelves, with a thick, green book, a plate with half a sandwich, the now empty water bottle and a coffee cup.
Fink finally turned to the Samaritan, a tall man dressed in black trousers, a long-sleved white shirt and a dark jumper which the cuffs of the shirt stuck out of and the collar sat over. On his feet were white shoes and on his head was a flat cap. All this made him seem as soothing as the room, except the man's face was covered by what looked to Fink like bandages of some sort. And he wore round sunglasses that blocked his eyes from view. Fink was made visibly uneasy by this. His Samaritan held his hand, "Trust me, what's behind the mask is scarier." Fink shivered and tried to pull the covers over himself to hide. The man stopped him, "Are you cold?"
Fink shook his head and licked his dry lips, "Who are you?" His voice sounded awful having been out of use for who knew how long.
"My name is Van Gough. Do you know yours little demon?"
Fink looked confused for a moment before two realizations hit him. This man had not only saved his life but saved it in a warm environment with care, and this man had done it even after seeing his deformity up close. He nodded slowly and whispered, "Wilhelm Fink," in a voice underlaid with gratitude.
Van smiled warmly, despite the fact Fink couldn't see it. "Are you hungry Wilhelm?"
Fink nodded his head with a yawn and went to rub his cheek to feel something quite different to his usual smooth skin. What he felt was almost jagged to the touch and reminded him distantly of dried leather. He looked to Van in distress who left the room and returned with a mirror. A scar ran along Fink's cheek from his ear to his jaw, thick and ugly, with the main centre red and raw while at each end skin was starting to form. He also noticed several burn scars, from the torture he'd suffered. Fink's heartbeat increased and an anxiety attack began, an unfortunate similarity he shared with his brother. Tears stung his eyes when he thought of Billie Joe and what might have happened to him. Fink dropped the mirror and tried to get up, but Van wouldn't let him.
"Please. Let me go" he begged.