Author's note:
Fandom: Disney's Gargoyles
Time: Takes place after Brooklyn returns from his time-dancing.
Special Notes: Very AU with OCs. The story focuses on two author-created characters, but the all of the cannon clan are there too.
Warnings: Caveat lector (reader beware). M/M interspecies SLASH. That means a sexual relationship between a male human and a male gargoyle. Major character death.
Genre: Action/Plot; Romance; Angst.
The rating is high for later chapters.
Disclaimer: Most of the content is owned by Disney. Original characters are owned by me.
1. Hate
It was an unlikely place for a hate crime. The club—Therapy—was among the most elite and trendiest gay clubs in Manhattan. The clientele were a wealthier sort. Obviously tolerated. Accepted, even. They didn't expect the ambush waiting for them in a dark alley on Ninth Street.
The thugs were young, drunk, and probably what the humans called straight. Pilgrim had spotted them loitering in the shadows, doing everything they could to look suspicious. There were five of them, three with blades, one with a crowbar, and one with a pistol. So Pilgrim had settled down across the street from them. No one noticed the gargoyle perched a few stories above them, hiding in plain sight next to a statue.
Pilgrim wasn't sure how the attackers picked their victim. Perhaps it was because he rushed out of the club alone, unlike most of the humans who left as a couple. Perhaps it was because he moved without regard for his safety, his hands in his pockets and his eyes trained on his feet.
As he passed the alley, a hand yanked him into the shadows, and Pilgrim sprang forward, his wings unfolding to slow his descent. There wasn't much wind resistance built up from such a low take-off, though, so his landing behind the group in the alley was rough. When he turned, he saw that the victim was not completely defenseless: the man had somehow managed to take possession of the crowbar and was fending off two knife-wielding men. That their prey could fight back must have caught them off-guard.
The one with the gun, though, pulled his weapon from the front pocket of his hoodie and took aim. Pilgrim growled and dove at the man, knocking him against the wall. He heard a crack as the human's head hit brick, and taking advantage of the man's daze—hopefully a concussion—Pilgrim grabbed the gun. Matt had shown him how to switch on the safety, which he now did, and turned to the four remaining attackers. Their victim had fallen to his knees, but he was staring wide-eyed at Pilgrim.
"Excuse me, boys," he said, drawing his dagger from its sheath on his belt, "but might I join the fun?"
The action paused as the men looked from the gargoyle to their fallen gunman. Then the three with knives abandoned their original prey for a more interesting target. Pilgrim tossed the pistol over their heads and, to his delight, the man caught it easily. Pilgrim grinned and drew his sword now that his right hand was free.
He kicked the knee of the human who'd gotten to him first, and the man fell with a cry. The second he disarmed with a slash of his dagger across the man's forearm, and Pilgrim jammed the hilt of his sword against his assailant's chest.
He looked up to see a third drop his knife and fall to his knees. The mysterious victim stood over him with a crowbar in one hand and the pistol in another. He pointed the pistol at the fourth man, who must have been the one with the crowbar. The unarmed attacker held up his hands and backed away a few paces before bolting into the busy street. A couple curious people peered into the alley, and whatever they saw in the gloom made them pick up their pace.
"Ye three had best be off, too," Pilgrim said to the others. They staggered to their feet and ran cursing from the alley. Pilgrim kept his dagger but sheathed his sword as he approached the first man, still lying unconscious on the pavement. He remembered the loud crack the human's skull had made and cringed, now worried that he hadn't been more cautious. Humans were so fragile.
He crouched over the man and felt for a pulse. He had just satisfied himself that the human was still alive when he heard an ominous click behind him. Now, too late, he realized his mistake.
Slowly, Pilgrim looked over his shoulder and saw the man with both hands on the gun, perhaps to steady his shaking right arm. The pistol was pointed straight at him, and at such a close distance Pilgrim didn't expect that nerves would make the man miss.
"I saved your life," he said, relieved that his voice should sound so calm.
The human hesitated. Pilgrim appraised the man he'd mistaken for an ally: pale skin, dark hair that hung in his eyes, expensive clothes, a gash on his forehead and the look of man who was preparing for a kill. His silk shirt had torn at the right shoulder, where a bloodstain had spread from a nasty gash from one of the attackers' knives. On his shoulder, bare now that the shirt had torn, Pilgrim saw a tattoo with a familiar sign: a Q with a hammer through it.
Gods help him, he'd given a gun to a Quarryman and turned his back.
Pilgrim switched his dagger to his right hand and leaped at the man, knocking him back. The gun went off—a near miss—but stayed in the man's hand even as he landed on the cold ground with Pilgrim on top of him. Pilgrim stabbed the man in his right shoulder, feeling his jagged blade hit bone, and ripped the dagger back. The man's flesh tore on the way out—his dagger was designed for that effect—and he screamed in agony.
Pilgrim grabbed the gun and ran deep into the shadows of the alley, sheathing his dagger and dropping the gun as he climbed the balconies to the rooftops. He took to the air and did not look back.