This is a multichapter request by Eternal-Tempest. Enjoy!
Two figures were hurtling towards him, air was rushing around him in powerful, swirling gusts, tossing at his hair and clothes; a localised hurricane.
"No!" The person was yelling at him, he was sure, "No, No!" Eyes the most beautifully incandescent shade of blue stood out from the blur of white and gold that made up the man flying towards him. It annoyed him more than a little that the whole scene played out as though underwater, with the blue fire in the other man's eyes being the only thing he could see clearly.
He shared some sort of bond with this man. A powerful connection, but he couldn't seem to place the nature of it. Fraternal, maybe, platonic, yes, but it felt like maybe there was something more.
"Gabriel, don't you bloody dare!" Another voice called out, and he was aware of gold, and black, and the most vivid green. The same connection, the same pang in his chest sprang up when confronted with this figure. Both were male, that much was obvious. Both cared for him. And he was about to do something stupid.
The world became momentarily clearer, the two men were getting closer, and he tipped his head back to the golden sky, feeling something burning against his clavicle. He was holding something. Tightening his grip, he pulled whatever it was towards him, feeling it sear his flesh as it pierced his chest. He could feel himself screaming; feel the ground opening up beneath him.
No matter how much pain had been caused by the thing he had impaled himself with, the feeling of his wings ripping out of his back as he tried to catch himself mid-fall was infinitely worse.
~====o)0(o====~
"Another nightmare?" Carlos asked as he handed Matthew a frozen yoghurt and a cup of coffee.
"It's getting ridiculous," the Canadian confirmed, accepting the items gratefully and heading towards a table, "I feel like I got worked over with an Acme meat tenderizer in my sleep. You know; a giant one from those Road Runner cartoons."
"What was this one about?" his Cuban friend asked, sticking a plastic spoonful of vanilla into his mouth.
"I can't remember much. Just being in a lot of pain. People were calling out to me. Falling. Screaming. I woke up feeling like my spine had been ripped out, but it went away almost iMadamediately. Like a phantom pain, you know?" Matthew sighed, gulping at his coffee. Paediatrics was not an easy field of medicine at the best of times, and these dreams certainly weren't helping.
"I have a friend who could help you with those, you know. Sweet girl. Hoodoo priestess. If you give her a lock of your hair and a little bit of blood, she can cure anything," Carlos nodded, "I was having problems with nicotine, yeah? I went to her and I haven't felt like a cigar in months."
"You work in a hospital. Doesn't that automatically mean that you can't believe in Hoodoo and Voodoo and that kind of thing?" Matt asked, feeling fractionally more like himself now that he had coffee in his system. He'd woken up late and had to dash out of the house before he'd had time to make his caffeine fix.
"I'm a radiologist, Mattie, I can believe whatever I want to," the Cuban shrugged, eating more ice cream. Matthew sighed, doing the same. He loved his job, he really, truly did. There were few things as rewarding as working with children. But those dreams. They had become more and more frequent of late, clinging to his days with dark tendrils of pitch. Following him out of the nightmares and sucking him back down into the Lau Brea tar pits of his subconscious.
"Alright," the Canadian huffed, stacking his polystyrene cups together for disposal, "I have an appointment now. I should be going." Someone had had a bouncing baby boy, and it was his job to make sure that the little angel really did bounce. Figuratively speaking, of course. Babies were his favourite part of the job. They had the whole world in front of them to explore and so much to learn about; love, heartbreak, hope and faith. He always wondered what the little life in his hands would grow to be. Sometimes Matthew liked to try his hands at clairvoyance and predict what he thought the baby would grow to be.
"Hold it," Carlos said, hurriedly fumbling a pen from his pocket with one hand and a clean napkin with the other, scribbling something down on the soft tissue, "Take this. It's the number of that Houdon. "
Matthew grimaced, a faint whine slipping past his teeth.
"I know, I know, you don't believe in any of that kind of thing, but, ay, Mattie," the Cuban pursed his lips in genuine concern, "If you lose any more sleep, it's going to affect your work." He waved the serviette around, refusing to stop until Matthew had tucked it into the breast pocket of his lab coat and promised to think about it.
~====o)0(o====~
"I'm sorry about this," a harassed looking mother said as she handed her squalling infant to Matthew, who just smiled, taking the child into his arms. Jeremy was barely 24 hours old after all, he didn't know any better, "He just won't stop crying."
"That's alright," he smiled, cradling the child to his chest and pressing one finger to those damp, pink lips, "Hush now, child. You will have your time to speak."
Amazingly, it worked. Well, more amazing for Jeremy's mother than his doctor. Matthew had found that that particular little trick worked for him long ago.
The examination was otherwise routine. Jeremy was a perfectly healthy, happy baby boy and his mother was informed of this as he was returned to her. The rest of the afternoon passed in much that manner. Waving in patients; some of them no more than a few days old and some of them much older. Lots of mummies and daddies were bringing their darlings in for inoculations because Rubella was making the rounds again, and that meant lots of tears before bed time and a serious depletion of Matthew's stock of lollipops.
Oh well.
~====o)0(o====~
The sound of metal ripping filled his ears, painfully loud and heartbreakingly sad. All around him, combatants gathered up their swords; brothers fighting against brothers. The scent of blood was heavy in the air and it made his stomach turn. Beating his wings, he rose above the melee, parrying another thrust from someone he had only a few days ago laughed and smiled with. The man screamed as he fell to earth, and the angel swallowed back more bile. Cherubim with broken wings littered the ground, and those who still could tried to fight, stumbling over the corpses of their brethren.
"Gabriel!" he turned to the voice, hoarse as it was with screaming, it still commanded his attention, his heart resonating like a plucked string.
Michael cast a terrifying, awe-inspiring silhouette across the field of war. He was blood-streaked and weary, but still he fought, sword mercilessly cleaving flesh from limb in the light of Lucifer's flames.
"Sound another attack!" Michael sounded as though his vocal chords were bleeding as much as the rest of him was.
"You'll kill us all!" It was very disorientating. The first time he had heard his own voice. It too was ragged and thin, but clear as a bell through the howls of the dying, the roar of the dragon and the thunderous clash of blade on blade.
"Better dead than under Satan's rule!" as though the blade weighed his own bodyweight, Michael hefted it up.
"Lucifer, he's not- he's just-"
"Sound another attack! Gabriel, please!" He never had been able to watch Michael beg. Reluctantly, he raised a horn to his lips, the note ringing clear across the battlefield, rallying the living to the front lines.
The dragon turned to face the renewed wave of angels. Verdant eyes lingered on him and he bowed his head.
"I'm sorry," he whispered as another of his brothers fell beneath his sword, the sickening aroma of death pervading the air.
When he was next able to look to the dragon that had curled around Heaven's gates, Michael was upon it, his sword raised in the centre of a storm of flame. The killing blow.
"Michael, no!" he shrieked, vocal chords ripping.
The sword stopped. Michael glared at him, the preternatural blue of his alight with the fervour of battle. An unholy scream ripped from the Archangel's throat and he threw his sword aside.
"Betrayer," the Archangel roared, pushing the dragon beyond the pearly gates. The creature's bulk disintegrated, leaving a man and his ragged army. Green eyes blazed as Lucifer stared at him, but there was no hatred there as Michael spoke again; voice ragged, "In the name of God, I cast you out!"
~====o)0(o====~
Matthew clung to his duvet with trembling, aching fingers; more perspiration on his skin than there was precipitation in the Amazon basin. Getting out of bed, his legs buckled and it took several tries before he was able to stand up and even then walking was right out of the question. He just sat back down on his crumpled sheets and tried to breath.
One soul-searching shower and an industrial-strength cup of coffee later, Matthew was feeling a little bit more like himself. It killed him that he wasn't able to remember that wretched dream, but at the same time if he felt like this and he couldn't remember, if he actually could he would probably puke.
Toying with the serviette, the blond let out an almighty huff of air and picked up the phone, dialling the fuzzy black numbers. If only to humour Carlos, he might as well try out whatever Esoteric had come recommended. And if her placebo-effect mumbo jumbo made the nightmares go away, then as far as Matthew was concerned, it would be worth the price.
~====o)0(o====~
"Madame Laroche?" Matthew asked hesitantly, knocking on the gaping front door of a house that looked surprisingly neat, given that it belonged to a Houdon priestess. It seemed perfectly ordinary, actually, except for that it smelt rather strongly of herbs.
"Monsieur Williams," a young woman in a blue dress stuck her head around a cupboard, "One moment, please, come in and make yourself comfortable." She waved one thin hand in the direction of a sofa while she rummaged through a stock of dried plants too desiccated to differentiate.
Lingering awkwardly around the threshold, he walked slowly to the blue and white patterned couch, sitting down gingerly on the edge of a cushion, fiddling with his fingers. This entire experience was one he was entering into with more than a mild sense of trepidation. Matthew had never really found himself to be drawn to the occult and while he wasn't exactly up to his eyebrows in chicken feet and rhino horns, there was still something about this place that made him very uncomfortable ā an itch he couldn't scratch.
It took a few minutes for Madame Laroche to sort out her herb cupboard, but once she had, she waltzed over to Matthew, collapsing in an arm chair covered in the same optical-illusion patterned fabric. She was considerably younger than he had expected her to be. Far too young to be a Madame. Her soft black ringlets were divided into two bunches.
"You like my couch?" she asked, a winning smile on her face, "It's shwe-shwe. Imported."
"It's," the Canadian paused to run his hands over the stiff material, "It's lovely-"
"You said you were having bad dreams," Madame Laroche interrupted, though not unkindly, though Matthew was still a little irritated considering that she had stopped him answering her own damn question, "Could you tell me about them?"
"I don't really remember them," he sighed, trying to meet her eye and finding his gaze drawn magnetically to the floor, "They're horrible. I wake up screaming and sweating; sobbing even," if this was even going to have a hope in hell of working, he figured he might as well be honest, "I don't think I have ever been as scared, as miserable or in as much pain as I am when I wake up from those nightmares. I remember," Matthew closed his eyes, breathing deeply, "I remember falling, fighting and," every nerve in his body seemed to pinch at once, "Agony." The word came out as a huff of breath. When he opened his eyes again, Madame Laroche was kneeling in front of him with an expression of deep concern, and her proximity made him start mightily.
"Your Third Eye is blocked," she announced suddenly.
"Oh, that's⦠um. That's bad?" he tried, grimacing slightly, unsure whether he should be smiling or frowning.
"Cher, that's very bad. Your Third Eye is your greater thinking; your spiritual awareness. And yours is completely blocked off." She darted forward, grabbing his hand in surprisingly strong fingers, poking at the pale skin and drawing lines across it with her fingertips, "Your past wishes to communicate," she murmured, "But something stops it. I can't help you here, you have to work this one out on your own."
Though Matthew had been expecting disappointment, this was beyond ridiculous. To have come all the way out here only to be told that his third eye was blocked and to have to muddle it out himself was so far past the point not funny that it was practically criminal.
"Right," he said, a touch stiffly, getting up and smiling, "Thank you for your time. And how much do I owe you for this?"
"Nothing," she smiled flippantly, getting up to follow him to the door, "I did nothing I can charge you for, so you owe me no money."
"Oh," Feeling rather childish, Matthew held out a hand to shake, "Well, thank you. I'll have to see what I can do about my third eye." At least she was nice enough not to charge him for a waste of time.
"Be cautious with your heart, Matthew Williams. It is more important than you think." Grinning nervously Matthew thanked Madame Laroche and excused himself, promising to be cautious, whatever she meant by that. It wasn't until he was halfway home again that he remember he hadn't introduced himself.
~====o)0(o====~
"So," Carlos asked, relieving Matthew of a cup of coffee, "How did it go with Madame Laroche?" It had been about a week since their last shared break and they both looked like they could use the rest. Matthew's nightmares had done nothing but increase in regularity with frightening speed.
"My fifth eye is blocked, or something like that," Matt sighed, rubbing at his eyes and having resigned himself to the fact that his bags were starting to scare the children.
"Optometry is not my department, Mattie," the Cuban sighed, leaning heavily on the table, "But I tell you what. There's a new club down town and I hear it's good. Let's go. You'll be too tired to have a nightmare, and if you feel like it, you can find someone to keep you company."
Matthew shook his head, expression doubtful, "Carlos, I really don't think I'll be up for a club tonight," and for some reason Madame Laroche's warning about his heart had just stepped up to the forefront of his mind and the idea of a one night stand seemed a little less than appealing.
"Please," his friend asked, face unprecedentedly serious, "Just this once, Mattie. I'm worried about you."
"Fine," the Canadian relented, "I have to go now. But I'll see you later. How's eleven?"
Carlos grinned, slapping Matthew on the back, "You know the party doesn't start before then!"
~====o)0(o====~
On this list of things Matthew didn't like, clubs were pretty high. They were loud, noisy and smelly, as a general rule. This one wasn't really any different, but it blasted half-way decent Latin-American dance music rather than the usual base-dropping bump and grind anthems that had gotten so popular.
But maybe that wasn't what he really liked about this particular club. What was great about the club was that there was someone checking him out; that was always appreciated. And the man doing the checking wasn't unattractive either. He was hallway down the bar, and not being particularly subtle with his gleaming blue eyes and his wide smile ā white enough to glow in the ultraviolet lighting.
He even winked at Matthew, who grinned into his beer bottle, raising it in a toast, and the stranger did the same with his own dark glass.
Maybe it was the strobe lights and the way they made everything look like an underwater zombie apocalypse, or maybe it was because the Canadian was disgustingly over-tired. Either way, it looked like the blond moving towards him was flickering, vanishing and reappearing a few feet closer. Tall and tan, blond and broad, his shirt stretched smooth over his chest, he probably could have pulled anyone at in the club. Matthew couldn't place the strange confidence in the back of his mind that this beautiful stranger wouldn't come to anyone but him.
"Angel," the man asked voice just loud enough to be heard over the thump of the drums. That voice reminded him of something. Something powerful, beautiful and intense and God how he missed it. "Did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?"
"Pardon?" the Canadian asked incredulously, not sure that he had heard that correctly. He hadn't thought that people actually used pickup lines like that.
"Did it hurt," the stranger repeated, "When you fell from Heaven?"
Maybe it was those intoxicatingly blue eyes; maybe it was that handsome face. Heck, maybe it was the beer. The whole situation confused the Canadian more than he would ever care for. So maybe it was that wild, aching, unknown feeling inside him that prompted the words from his lips;
"It was excruciating."
~====o)0(o====~
"My Lord!" A dark smile was lit by darker eyes, sweat dripping from sallow skin as the wretched being panted on the floor, "We have found him, my Lord. We have found the Gabriel!"
Claws tapped on the carved arms of a marble throne, legs uncrossed and a man leant forward into the flickering firelight; gimlet eyes flashing,
"Is that so?"
