Me again - and so soon after my first PATEOD fanfic!
This was originally a oneshot but I'm terrible at waxing lyrical in writing, so it's becoming a two-shot. This is entirely angst and I'm sorry, please forgive me, but please let me know your thoughts at the end!
Man, the most irritating aspect of this whole World After thing is the lack of phones; relying on other people to be where you expect them to be when you expect them to be is a load of nonsense.
Well, I reflect, not the most annoying thing. But it certainly is in this moment.
Hands on my hips and for some reason looking at the ceiling, as though Raffe's angelic blood and archangel title will somehow be called to if I stare at his true home, I shout his name. "Raphael!"
It doesn't work, just as I didn't expect it to; he's off on some mission trying to negotiate between the human Council's viewpoint and the angel camp's view regarding the return of the angels to heaven. However, just because he's busy doesn't make me suddenly want to react rationally; instead, it just makes me more pissed off than I was before.
"Look, Maggot Slayer," Hawk begins, his hands stretched towards me in what I assume is meant to be a placatory gesture. "Commander's busy. He'll be back later, and we'll have calmed down then, so we don't need to share this, yeah?" He sounds worried, as though he's concerned about how Raffe's going to take his involvement in this sorry affair, but that's the least of my worries.
"Urgh," I say, hearing the Californian teenage girl stereotype in my voice as I speak. Well, I am Californian, teenage and a girl, so I'm the exact sort of person who should be speaking like this. "Why can't this be the World Before, so I could get my phone and leave him a message telling him to get his sorry ass back over here now?" As I speak, I find myself doing the hand gesture for a phone: middle fingers closed onto my palm, whilst my pinky and thumb strain as far away from each other as possible.
Hawk looks confused. "What's this?" He asks, changing the subject completely, as he tentatively attempts to mimic my hand signal. "Is it a new form of human swearing that you've not introduced us to yet?"
I roll my eyes, unsure how I managed to get the job of explaining all of the popular culture which has developed over the last few centuries to the Watchers. Raffe, despite his insistence on 'watching' humans rather than getting involved in their life, has clearly picked up more than a bit during his extended sojourn on Earth.
"It's the signal you do if you want to ring someone," I explain through gritted teeth. If Hawk thinks that distracting me like this is going to diminish my rage, he has another thing coming. "Like, 'oh, pick up your phone', if you're miming at someone across the room?"
"But surely you could just whisper it across the room?" Hawk replies, his brow furrowing.
"We don't have your super-hearing," I remind him, rolling my eyes. That was the worst attempt Hawk's made in attempting to distract me over the last four months since the Apocalypse, and I'm not unwilling to share this.
"But, Penryn, a serious question," he continues. "Phones don't look like this," he says, making the hand signal again, "I've seen them. The Council have some, don't they? And all the billboards around, advertising the iPhone things – they're just rectangles. Why the hand gesture?"
I sigh. For once, he's made a valid point; I'm just too pissed off to acknowledge it. "Why do you follow Raffe wherever he goes?" I retort. "Why do people walk on one side of the street if they're going one way and the other side if they're going the other?"
He looks at me blankly.
"It's cultural capital, Hawk. A symbol of what it means to be human." A pause and then, "plus, phones used to look like that. I don't know why we still use it."
He doesn't reply, but he also doesn't leave, which is more than slightly frustrating. Probably, I think bitterly, he's making sure I don't try and wreck the joint, or do something to Raffe's stuff. Which would be a lot more effort than it's worth – and I'd probably have to arrest myself for breaking the peace, or something like that, given that's one of my responsibilities on the Council. Keeping the peace among humans, and all.
"Maggot Slayer," Hawk begins again, taking a step towards me.
I ignore him.
"Penryn," he tries again, using my actual name. It's a rarity to hear it from the Watchers, I have to admit.
I don't reply, but I do turn my head marginally towards him, suggesting that I'm willing to listen.
"Boss makes some daft decisions, I've always known that," Hawk says, his tone as gentle and soft as liquid honey. "But whatever idiotic things he's done in the last few months has been because of one person: you. You make him go crazy in a way that we've never seen before. It's like…like it's not just him anymore. That part of him is in you."
I blush slightly, imagining an unintended double entendre in his words, but don't relent in my anger. "Try and defend him all you want, Hawk, but it isn't that," I reply, my tone as coarse as possible. "Use your free time to go and read some YA lit or something to learn how to explain a declaration of love better, okay? Because, not going to lie, that sucked."
Hawk smiles. "Alright, Maggot Slayer. Maybe later, when the Commander's back."
"Who, me?" A voice startles both me and Hawk from the front door, which makes a change as Raffe normally enters through the window when he's been to the angel camp.
As I look at him, my first thought is, as usual, how damn hot is my Raffe. The dark hair atop his head curls, some of which are from when I had my hands in fists in his hair this morning; his dark blue eyes shine and captivate me in a way that nothing else ever has. His body, fitter than even 'standard' angel bodies, begs me to reach out and touch it.
But I resist. And, somehow, I even manage to keep a murderous glare on my face as I meet Raffe's eyes.
"Uh, yeah, well, that's my cue to go, see ya later, Maggot Slayer!" Hawk declares, sounding panicked. "I'll be back tomorrow to get that YA lit list I need to read," he calls back over his shoulder on the way out of the door, slamming it shut behind him.
"Hey," Raffe says, taking a step closer to me from the door. "You okay?"
I don't know how to respond, how to translate the growing rage inside of me into words which make sense enough to get across the magnitude of the feelings inside of me. It's all well and good being the de facto Council Leader of this entire settlement when I haven't even finished AP Lit to help me get across my feelings (or even views on a matter) in a way that isn't either super basic or super sarcastic.
"I don't know, am I?" I retort, kicking myself inside. Way to go, Penryn. Arguing with an eons old archangel, and you go for the 'am I' response.
Raffe's brow raises slightly, a natural response to my tone, but I can see the confusion in his eyes. He doesn't know what he's done wrong. Which, I have to admit, is sort of the problem.
"Penryn," he says my name, his voice full of gravitas, as though he's speaking to one of his Watchers. Or an unruly child. Or both. "What do you think I've done?"
That does it for me. I spin around fully, both hands on my hips, and the rage pours out of me in words which, although not particularly eloquent, get my point across.
"Oh, I don't know, maybe the fact that you don't think I can look after myself!" I half-shout, watching him flinch backwards slightly at either the increase in volume or the harshness of my tone. "The fact that, if you're not here, you just happen to leave orders with the Watchers to make sure that I don't go anywhere alone. As if you don't trust me to…I don't know, what don't you trust me to do, Raffe?"
His response irritates me more than his actions have done: he laughs. Normally, it's the sound of angels – quite literally – to my ears. Today, it's the worst sound he could have possibly made.
"Penryn, I don't…" he trails off, realising how serious I am.
"Clearly, you've forgotten who saved your life dozens of times over," I continue, lowering my volume as my voice becomes even more scathing. "Not all of us have bird brains, so let me remind you, me. It was me who did that. Who slayed angels. Who thought of using your sword to go into the Pit and rescue your friends. And that you don't think I can handle myself here, after all that, is insulting, Raffe. More than that, it's hurtful."
When I look at him again, his face is hard, impassive, and it's reminiscent of the time that he told me that he didn't even like me, in the first aerie.
"Do you really think I'd do that?" His voice is quiet, low, steady. Everything I'm not. "After everything we've gone through in the last five months, do you really think that I'd ask the Watchers to protect you?"
"You did," I retort. "Don't even deny it."
His eyes narrow, and I can see that I've gotten to him, piqued the river of rage that flows through him, even now.
"I can't deny something that I didn't do, Penryn," he spits out. "I can't believe that you would think that I would do that?" Clearly, you don't…" He cuts himself off, but I can tell what he's going to say. What he would have said.
"Clearly," I respond, doing my best to even out my tone, to make it clear that this isn't just some petty disagreement. That this is serious. "I don't know you very well at all, do I?"
I move towards the door, passed his still and seething body, but he doesn't react, doesn't say anything, doesn't move. Only as I grab my jacket and open the door does he speak.
"Penryn," he says my name, simply, expressionless. "Where are you going?"
I don't look back at him as I say, "You don't know me at all if you have to ask me that question, do you?"
Barely fighting back tears – of rage, sadness or irritation, I don't know – I slam the door shut behind me and race down the stairs and across the street to the apartment containing my Mom and Paige.
…
It took three hours for me to get to my Mom's apartment earlier. Firstly, I had to go and run off the excessive rage, then cry out the abundance of tears that I felt, and then I was cornered by some of the Council wanting my opinion on how to re-establish some form of justice system and whether I wanted to advocate penal or restorative justice. Not that my heart was in it at the time, but apparently being the Leader of the Council doesn't give you a pass from making decisions.
I couldn't go straight home because, to be quite honest, I couldn't deal with my Mom. Regardless of her mood, she made some form of quip about me being the 'devil's bride' every time I came to see her or Paige, and I don't think my heart could have handled it at that point.
But, finally, I made it inside the house and kept myself together enough to deal with her comments, even though I spent most of the time with Paige. In her usual 'practically a psychic' way, she could tell something was up and insisted on spending most of the evening in my arms. I suspected that that was more to do with comforting me, rather than her being desperate to cuddle me, but I wasn't complaining. Having her in my arms stopped my eyes from gazing out of the window across the street to our apartment to see what Raffe was doing, or at least the outline of it.
When I put Paige to bed, I decided to stay. Whilst I'd calmed down enough to feel my heart beating at a relatively normal rhythm, I didn't think that I could face Raffe tonight. And so that's how I came to be curled up on my little sister's sofa, my breathing steady, and wishing that I could possibly know what I want.
It's strange, to be in this position, I think, as I try and force my breathing to regulate. In the four months since the angels admitted defeat (or whatever it was that happened), I've spent exactly three full nights apart from Raffe. I've gone to bed without him – or him without me – but I've woken up in his arms. And I can't say that I particularly slept well on those three nights; I was worried that he'd either left me (irrational) or that he'd been killed (slightly more rational but still extremely unlikely). That might have to be something I get used to.
Immediately, I berate myself for being foolish. One argument – or whatever it was, because I think I'd have to classify it as more than an argument – doesn't mean that we're splitting up. It just means…it means that we have a lot to work on in a relationship which doesn't involve certain death stalking us or being in our path every step of the way towards our near impossible goals.
Carefully, I shut my eyes, preparing to fall asleep slowly. I concentrate on my breathing, on the familiar sound of Paige's steady breathing, the imagined sight of her chest rising softly if my eyes were open.
Just as I'm about to drop off, I hear pebbles against the window. And all of the rage rises in me once again.
Stubbornly, I ignore the sound, even as they strike the window three, four times more. The sound gets louder, as if the user is using either more pebbles or bigger ones.
"Um, Penryn, I think someone wants you," my little sister startles me with her voice. I had forgotten that if I can hear these pebbles, she almost definitely can too. "Do you want me to go to the living room?"
I sit up and shake my head. "It's alright, sweetheart," I whisper. "Go back to sleep. I'll deal with whoever it is and speak to them elsewhere. I love you."
"Love you too, Ryn-Ryn," she murmurs, rolling over in her bed and pulling the quilt over the side of her head. Probably to give me a modicum of privacy; my heart swells with love for my little sister in that moment.
I glare towards the window and stalk across, ripping the flimsy curtains back. Part of me is expecting to see Raffe either on the ground or hovering outside the window, but instead I see Cyclone and Howler. I roll my eyes inwardly at myself; if I'm too stubborn to go back, he's certainly too stubborn to even consider coming over here to speak to me.
Wrenching open the window, I glare at the two guests.
"You realise that my seven year old sister is sleeping in here?" I whisper, trying to get the irritation I'm feeling across in my voice. "Or, rather, she was until you two decided to throw half of the rocks in San Francisco at her window!"
"Uh, yeah, sorry about that, Maggot Slayer," Howler says, with the good sense to look at least slightly ashamed. "Sorry Paige," he continues, directing his words over my shoulder.
"It's okay, Howler," she whispers back.
"And the conversation ends there!" I declare, raising a hand to stop either Howler or Cyclone speaking. "Let's take this conversation to the living room – you do know which window that is, don't you?" I speak with my attention directed entirely on the pair of angels, not allowing myself to look across the street towards our apartment block. Not daring to look at whether he's in there, looking out of the window at me.
I shake myself and shut my eyes. I need to pull it together; I have more important things to do than worry about the fact that I'm in an argument with my boyfriend.
"See you there, Maggot Slayer," Cyclone says, giving me a mock salute.
I roll my eyes and shut the window as gently as possible, closing Paige's door on the way out of the room. Time to see what these two Watchers want now.
…
"So, I hear there's a bit of discontent in paradise," Howler says by means of starting the conversation as he flies into the living room.
"More than a bit," Cyclone adds, landing smoothly on the carpet.
"Enough that the entire block could hear it, I imagine," Howler continues, closing the window behind him. "Though I have to say, I wish you'd held off for another week. I'd have been rolling in it if you had."
"Instead, I won," Cyclone says with a smug smile. However, it fades as soon as he realises the volume he's been speaking at. "Um, your Mom won't, er, overreact at seeing us here, will she?"
I fight back a smile. Of all the creatures on earth, my Mom is the scariest thing these Watchers have come across, it seems. Admittedly, it was a sight to see her pelting them with rotten eggs the first time that they entered my apartment unannounced when she was visiting, and I particularly liked the way that she managed to get Dee and Dum to give them demonic nicknames for a few days. She's calmed down since then, though; she even let Hawk babysit Paige the other week, even if she did have rotten eggs lined up all around her bed.
"The doors are reinforced so she won't be able to hear anything," I promise him, neglecting to mention the fact that Mom doesn't really sleep at night. Too much fear of satanic rituals.
"Okay, so Penryn," Cyclone says, taking a seat on the sofa in the centre of the room. "What is going on between you and the Boss? Because I've gotta say, I've never seen him more torn up. And that includes when he sent us all to the Pit."
"Well," Howler interrupts, "Maybe he was a bit more upset when he sent his best warriors and best of friends to the Pit. But he's certainly at his second-most upset at the moment, which is saying something. Because he's seen a lot of shit stuff."
"I got that," I respond, sinking onto the footstool left by the World Before owner of this apartment. Back then, this place would have been worth millions; now, it's priceless. Mainly because we've not yet managed to restore a monetary currency yet.
"So what happened?" Cyclone pushes. "And don't go 'it's between us', because we definitely heard our names mentioned. And we're emotionally invested in your lives. So that makes us involved."
I bite back a smile; even if they've not got themselves caught up on popular culture, they're practically like Lisa, my best friend from the World Before. It's as if they know exactly what to say to get me to spill my beans. Or maybe it's just the looks of extreme concern on their faces at the fighting between two members of their family. Because, if they're Raffe's family, they're mine, too.
Taking a deep breath, I say, "Look, it's stupid and yeah, I probably overreacted. But I didn't need you two coming over and getting involved."
They exchange a knowing look. "Maggot Slayer, spill the beans," Howler says, not unkindly. "We're literally giving you a midnight sleepover chance to spill the inner contents of your heart. I've heard that it's practically sacrilegious to ignore such an invitation."
Clearly, someone other than me is giving them popular culture lessons.
"It feels like he doesn't trust me," I blurt out, and watch their eyebrows raise. "I don't know. I don't think that's the right word. Maybe. I mean…he doesn't trust me to protect myself," I elaborate. "He goes and you appear. And that's not a bad thing; I like spending time with you. A lot of time. But sometimes I just want time on my own and you know that, but you don't go. And then I realised that the only person who can tell you what to do is Raffe."
"Well, not the only person," Cyclone interrupts, but stops himself with a look from Howler. "Sorry."
"So if you weren't going when I asked you to, it meant that Raffe had asked you to stay. To protect me." I continue speaking as if Cyclone hadn't interrupted, before taking a pause to gather my thoughts. "And, man, it just hurts. Hurts that after everything we've been through – and everything that's happened since – he doesn't think that I can look after myself. So I got a bit mad."
"More than a bit," Howler jokes. "But seriously, I think you've misread him on this one, Slayer. He knows you're probably the safest Daughter of Man in this place. You've saved his ass enough times to prove that to him."
"So why?" I retort. "Don't get me wrong, Howler, I love spending time with you all. But you've got to tell me: what order did he give you?"
He exchanges a glance with Cyclone, who shakes his head almost imperceptibly. "Can't tell you that, Maggot. When the Commander gives you an order, you don't share that order."
"Then you're just proving my point," I highlight. "Because if it was an okay order, you'd share it. Like you normally do. Like when he told you to get the pizza takeout place shut for the day so that I couldn't get the Hawaiian as he doesn't think pineapple belongs on pizza."
"She's got a point, Howler."
Taking a deep breath, Howler prepares himself to overthrow his chain of command. "Okay, well, you're taking half the responsibility for sharing this, Cyclone. But…So his order was a bit confusing. He wanted us to be there, just in case you needed us. He didn't really give us any specifics; it could have been anything from help opening a bottle of water to fighting off some hellions. And he didn't want us to tell you this, so we just wanted to look like we were spending time with you."
"Which we were," Cyclone continues, "And I think there was something else, something he didn't quite say out loud."
He pauses for breath – or dramatic effect – and it has me on the edge of my seat, almost without realising. Damn Raphael.
"When he's gone, I think he knows that you worry that he might be gone forever," Cyclone finally says, his voice much quieter. "That he might not come back, despite the fact that he's so madly and deeply in love with you, he'd ignore any order from any higher being to say that he should stay away from you. So, if we're there, it's consolation – because he wouldn't leave us behind, just like he wouldn't leave you."
I blink back tears which have formed in my eyes. "I…"I begin, but trail off. I have no real idea what to say – I can't tell if I'm angry or happy or sad or anything other than an emotional wreck.
"So give him a chance to say his piece, yeah?" Howler says. I'm so used to him being the practical joker that it seems strange, him giving this emotional advice. "He might be sharp at first. He isn't used to not having the last word, or being walked out on. But his love for you is apparent – and it's never going to fade, regardless of the amount of time that passes. He'll still love you this much in ten millennia, that I can promise." A note in his voice tells me that, even though it hasn't been 10,000 years since he lost his Daughter of Man, he's speaking from experience.
"Okay," I sigh. "You're right. Maybe I was a bit harsh. I was just pissed, you know?"
Howler and Cyclone exchange knowing looks before standing up and moving across to me. They lift me from my footstool with ease, and enclose me in a hug. It's warm and soft and feels almost – but not quite – like home.
"We know," they say in unison. "But tell him that, not us."
"And if he asks, we didn't tell you anything," Howler warns. "Not unless you want to see us being sent back to that Pit. Our Commander has a bit of a temper when he's pissed."
…
I feel strangely hesitant as I make my way across the road to our apartment at a little after six in the morning. Unable to make myself look up at the window, I stare straight ahead at the entry door to the apartment block, trying to make the emotions in my head form into some form of words. Despite the heart-to-heart with the Watchers last night, I still don't think that I know what it was exactly that prompted such an overreaction yesterday. It feels like more than just the Watchers protecting me. But surely it can't be?
It takes me a few minutes to get in as, in my haste to depart yesterday, I left my keys in the block. Thankfully, I still carry my lockpicking set everywhere – a legacy of the apocalypse days – and soon manage to get into the building.
Taking a deep breath, I pause outside my apartment door, before realising that Raffe must know that I'm here already. There's no need to hide, as there's certainly no ability to pretend that I'm not here.
The door swings open to reveal a disappointingly empty living room. That's probably because it's six am, I counter in my head, and Raffe doesn't have any meetings until the early afternoon. He's probably still asleep.
"Hey." A voice – his voice – comes from within the kitchen, and I jump a little in surprise. Of course he's awake.
"Hey," I reply cautiously, switching the lights on. "You're up early." Making conversation feels ridiculous, and I regret the words as soon as they're out of my mouth.
"I could say the same thing to you." His tone isn't harsh, but it's clearly curt, and I can feel the heckles on the back of my neck rising in response. "I take it the Watchers spoke to you?"
I can't stop myself. "I take it you're still unwilling to recognise that you're in the wrong?"
His blue eyes flash, and I can tell that we're heading for an argument ten times the scale of yesterday's, simply because he's actually going to get involved.
"Stubborn as ever, Penryn," he retorts, taking a step out of the kitchen and into the living room. He's wearing a shirt, which surprises me, but it helps me to keep my focus. I don't know how well I'd fare in an argument if he was bare-chested. "And unable to listen to any view other than your own. Do you even want to hear my side of the story?"
"What, so you can lie and pretend that I'm making it up?" I shoot back, barely able to hear the words coming out of my mouth. "So you can belittle my opinion because I haven't lived for eons, and just 'won't understand' what it means to give a directive to your Watchers as their Commander?"
"Damnit, Penryn!" He half-shouts. If his wings were out, I would instantly see him as a demon, as opposed to an archangel. "You don't understand, and that's the point! You haven't been a Commander of a team of soldiers for eons. You haven't had to send them away. You haven't made tough decision after tough decision since the beginning of time."
"In case you'd missed my job title," I begin, my tone scathing, but he interrupts.
"Yes, you have decisions to make about whether to punish criminals or let them back into society," he retorts, his tone almost mocking. "And, with time, you'll start to get what it is to have my relationship with the Watchers. But a Daughter of Man could never understand fully. Especially when they're completely unwilling to even try and listen to another perspective."
"You mean the perspective of the side which hunted my people like animals?" The words shoot out of my mouth before I can stop them, though I'm not sure I would have.
That stops him in his tracks; the rage disappears and instead is replaced by shock and pain. Until, slowly, it disappears and instead is replaced with the cold, harsh mask of Archangel Raphael. Commander Raphael. The one who sent his Watchers to the Pit. The one who made the tough decisions. The one who said, "I don't even like you," all those months ago.
"Clearly you missed the part where I told you I haven't killed a human in centuries," he speaks, his voice ice-cold. "Though if you'd like verification, please ask the sword as it's clear you don't trust my opinion."
Something snaps in me, and the blazing anger fades to nothing. Well, not nothing, but all I feel is spent. I can't begin to think of the words that I want to use, let alone actually carry on being angry. It's clear that we're not the same. And I was daft to think that our love could bridge our differences. Evidently, I'm not enough.
Somehow, I choke some words out. "How many Daughters of Man have you spent more than a few hours with?"
The mask shifts slightly on his face, revealing his shock at the change in conversation. "How is that relevant?"
"Just answer the question."
He sighs. "Just you, Penryn. You know that."
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I don't know if this is the right decision – in fact, half of my body is screaming that it isn't, that I'm making a huge mistake in saying these words – but I fight to get the words out before the lump in my throat closes it completely.
"Then how can you possibly fathom that you're in love with me, when you've never spent more than a few days with anyone else?"
He laughs, and the sound pierces my heart. "You're concerned I don't love you, Penryn? Is that what this is all about? That I fell in love with the first human I spent more than a bit of time with?"
The tears begin to form in my eyes, a completely irrational response, and I force them down. I haven't cried in front of Raffe before, and I'm not about to now.
"I think that you don't really know what you're talking about," I murmur, as loudly as I'm able to speak. "And, you know you were my first. I don't know if I know what I'm talking about either."
The mask disappears, and he's in front of me but not quite close enough to touch, his expression open and strangely vulnerable. Vulnerable in a way that even I have only seen once or twice.
"I know I love you," he whispers. "And I know that you know that."
I shake my head, hoping the movement will help me stay strong and stop myself from crying. Again.
"I don't know," I spit out. "And I think that it's a good idea if we see other people – or angels – for a bit. Maybe it'll help."
I can't look at his crestfallen expression. I can't.
"So, to get this straight," he says, his voice monotone. "We argue because you think I'm protecting you too much – which, to clarify, was not the purpose – and now you're convinced that I don't love you because I haven't spent time with other Daughters of Man? I can't see your logic, Penryn. I just can't."
"I know you're out later, I'll come by and get some stuff," I whisper, putting my hand over my eyes. I can't stop the tears, but at least he won't be able to see them.
"Penryn, stay," he pleads now. "Sit down. Let's talk about this. Please."
I don't think I've ever heard him beg before.
"Goodbye, Raffe," I murmur. "I…" I go to say I love you, but I can't quite bring myself to say it.
"Please," he repeats, grabbing my arm.
I flinch at his touch, aware that I'm so close to breaking and just saying screw it and letting him win me around. But I don't think it's a good idea.
I wrench my arm out of his hand and walk back to the door, opening it softly and closing it with a bang.
…
When I re-enter my Mom's apartment, I see that she's awake. I can't hide the tears, nor do I particularly want to at the moment.
She looks at me blankly for a moment, before saying, "Does the devil no longer want you as his bride?"
I look at her silently for one beat, then two, before running into her arms and crying on her shoulder.
And, for the first time in forever, I feel like she's my Mom.
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