The first thing that he noticed upon waking was a feeling not dissimilar to having a large mallet repeatedly dropped on his head. The second was the freezing and slightly damp floor, covered in litter and suspicious piles that he honestly didn't want inspect too closely, even if the blinding pain shooting through his skull had allowed him to do so. The third was that he was certainly NOT where he was supposed to be. He knew this for sure, because where he actually was seemed to be some sort of back alley in the middle of a pair of very tall and grimy buildings. He was sure he would remember if he had had any plans to visit such a place, even factoring in his usually atrocious memory. It just seemed like the important thing one would recall.
Once he had established his current locale, he took a moment to give an exasperated sigh/groan combination, before a little pout adorned his face as he gave himself room to think. He needed a lot of room, seeing as he didn't have a clue where he was geographically or, more importantly, how he'd ended up there.
He flicked his wings sullenly, white tips grazing that concrete floor. Intense absinthe eyes (even if slightly dazed as a result of the leftover alcohol in his system) surveyed his current location, scanning his surroundings for threats, anomalies or potential reasons to hastily flee, but nothing stood out as an immediate threat. The alley itself was abandoned excluding himself, although there was a main road and human voices floating over from his right, along with the roar of engines and blaring horns indicative of drivers with short tempers and a fairly busy thoroughfare. His current position shielded him from their view though, even if someone did deign to look into the desolate place. Allowing himself to relax just a fraction, he closed his eyes and leant backwards against the rusted and stinking dumpster that he found himself pressed against, hoping the brief reprieve would give him a chance to fully orient himself, and then maybe figure out what the hell had happened and what the hell he was doing in some dingy alleyway in (what appeared to be, judging by the strong accents shared by many of the passer-bys floating in the air) New York. God, how he hated New York. Or America in general, for that matter. It was just about his luck to wake up with what was likely a concussion and definitely a hangover there, of all the places in the world.
He was wearing a toga, or at least the scraggly remains of one. He did not like togas. To be honest, he didn't even understand why he was wearing it. He certainly didn't recall putting it on. He surely hadn't had that much rum, right? Anyway, everybody knows that they went horribly out of fashion centuries ago. God, if that bloody frog saw him now he'd have a right fit. It would take decades to live it down. The thought of said Frenchman made him screw up his nose in what was totally not a cute manner, and was instead definitely a manly expression of disgust. At this point he also realised that he wasn't wearing any shoes, and that his feet were a rather uninteresting mixture of brown and red, with flashes of white in the odd place where his pale skin broke through.
Shifting his weight slightly in an attempt to make himself marginally more comfortable, he grimaced as pain shot from the base of his wing sand through to his shoulders, cursing quietly to himself and gritting his teeth, accidentally tearing his lower lip in the process and causing an unpleasant, metallic taste to invade his mouth. But it wasn't the only bitter taste that invaded his senses as realisation of what had happened overcame him, memories of the previous night crashing over him much like a tidal wave, and the severity of his situation becoming painfully apparent.
He'd been kicked out. Of heaven. Too much drinking (too much rum and fun, although he'd been that way for as long as he could remember; it was the only way to drown out the boredom. Why would they act now of all times?) and here he was, lying in a damp and dull alleyway, white wings and all (although they were looking a tad grimy at this point, and were those flecks of blood seeping from near his shoulder blades? His hand came back slick as he inspected, but couldn't see properly in the dull lighting) and he was expected to do... what, exactly? A small feeling of panic fluttered in his chest and was soon a fully fledged hurricane tearing through his insides. What the hell was he supposed to do? He had nowhere to go, and if he started wandering around casually he'd find himself in a freak show or a lab cage or some creeper's basement in no time - he was half a fucking dove, for fuck's sake! Aware that he was starting to hyperventilate he forced himself to take deep breaths, running over his predicament in his head, hoping to find some small source of hope hidden in the recesses of his alcohol-induced blurry memories of the previous couple of days; something he could clutch onto before he spiralled any further down into the panic that was pounding faster and faster through his veins. But he could find nothing.
He attempted to get up, but for some inexplicable reason a lethargic weakness had overtaken his very bones. Attempts to work past this only resulted in him slumping further down to the ground. Panicked and weak, he could nothing more than lie there pathetically, hangover still pounding through his skull, blood splattered over various areas of his body from an as yet un-established source and, to top it off, the sky had decided to endear him with small splashes of rain. Bloody brilliant.
As the rain rapidly increased in ferocity and general wetness, a roll of thunder ripping through the dark sky, illuminated by the occasional whip-crack of lightening tearing towards the ground, he realised the sheer hopelessness of his situation. Only very rarely were angels removed from heaven, and there was never a way back. Once a decision was made on the matter, it could never be revoked. Swallowing the tears and terror that threatened to overwhelm him, he slumped back against the cold metal of the dumpster. True to pathetic fallacy, the rain cried with him as he struggled to remain awake between the haze of pain and despairing truth.
Barely conscious, he didn't realise that another person had entered the alleyway until they were within a few short metres of him. As it was, he was so weak and tired he could managed the barest of starts as their presence dawned on him. From what little he could discern through his blurred vision he was tall, broad-shouldered and wearing casual clothes. A flash of light glinted off the edge of his glasses as another burst of lightening illuminated the dark sky. Although he struggled against it, all instincts screaming to protect himself, hide his wings, get away, darkness encroached upon his vision, and the last thing he heard was a startled intake of breath as the man stopped in front of him.
~SR~
The bed he awoke in felt as fluffy as clouds looked, although he knew from personal experience that they were a lot colder and wetter in reality. These thoughts were able to run through his mind before the slightly more pressing thought that he was in something very soft and dry when he'd last been somewhere very hard and wet made itself heard. He started into full consciousness and forced himself to his feet. At least, he managed the first part. The second he woke up completely he was besieged with an aching pain all over his body and, despite the fact he'd clearly slept, the bone-deep lethargy had yet to leave him. Absently, he wondered if this was perhaps a consequence of his banishment.
To his one side he could hear a quiet rustling as a person shifted, silently as though he was scared of startling the winged stranger he had found collapsed in a dank backstreet somewhere in the depths of New York. He forced his eyes open to see who had rescued (or abducted?) him.
Startling azure eyes met his, followed by a megawatt smile and accompanied by a flash of perfectly white teeth. He tried to move back, instantly cautious of this human, but movement evaded him. Instead he settled on glaring. The stranger, a young man (very young, he noted) looked cautious, but not in a threatening way. Escaping his gaze, he took in his surroundings; the simply decorated room, a combination of pale green and white in terms of decor, and the white bed that was now looking about as grimy as he was. He grimaced internally, his dislike of dirtiness flaring up. He was still in that stupid toga, too, so the man had clearly done nothing more than place him under the covers and towel him off slightly (the offending towel lying in a crumpled heap in the corner of the room, smudged with dirt).
"Hey..." The voice was a little uncertain, and had a strong American accent. He turned back to the man. "I'm Alfred... what's your name?" The question was delicate, with no pressure. Although every sense screamed that he shouldn't be trusting anyone, a small voice in the back of his mind pointed out that he had been at the man's mercy for goodness knows how long, and yet here he was in a bed and not in a cage or a cellar. He moistened his lips, but the words were still hard to force out, parched as his throat was. Stupid hangover.
"Arthur." The look Alfred gave him was enough to make him want to curl up, and suddenly he became very self-conscious as he noticed eyes raking over his exposed wings.
"So... you're an angel," Alfred commented quite bluntly.
"Yes..." Way to state the obvious. He was sounding rather bitter, but he felt the circumstances forgave him for doing so.
"A British one." This statement was accompanied by a nervous but cheeky grin.
"English, actually." As he was English, he was entitled to be pedantic on the matter.
There was an awkward pause as both stared, then at the same time looked away. Alfred shifted again, and Arthur noticed that his own clothes were still slightly damp. Clearly he'd not done anything to dry himself since rescuing the bedraggled angel. He felt was could only be described as a flickering fondness upon realising this fact, before chastising himself. Before Arthur could do or say anything, Alfred had started talking again.
"I was on my way back from my job… I'm studying physics at the local uni," So he was a smart one, "and then it started tipping it down so I decided I'd take a lil' short cut I knew… are you going to tell me what an angel was doing in the middle of New York? I thought you were dead when I saw you." He looked bothered by this fact. "I mean, seriously man… aren't you guys supposed to hang around up in heaven or something?" Realisation of his dire situation crashed over Arthur all over again. Failing to hide the shudder that rippled down his spine, he buried his head into the duvet in an attempt to hide himself from the no-doubt prying and judging eyes above him.
"I... fell." He finally choked this out, feeling the tears rise again, an unbidden one actually escaping through his tear duct and tracking down his filthy face. He looked up, expecting pity and/or disgust, but instead was met with the smile he'd already come to associate with the cheerful young man, despite barely knowing him. Why, though? Everyone knew fallen angels were abominations; creatures to be treated with absolute revulsion. What on earth was he playing? But his response shocked him.
"Don't worry, Artie!" He choked at the nickname, "I'm a hero, so you can stay with me!" Another grin. Stupid happy Americans. "But I think we need to clean you up a bit before we do anything else, 'kay?" He jumped up from the chair and strode into an adjacent room. Arthur couldn't help but wonder about this strange boy, studying science yet so happy to accept the existence of a mythological creature such as him self. And no only accept, but take care of and even be comfortable enough in his presence to use a nickname. Damn, he hated nicknames. He'd had far too many in his life (old life, he reminded himself. No going back), but for some reason this one didn't bother him as much as 'mon petite lapin" and "bushy-brows". Hell, he actually found it endearing, albeit in an obnoxious way. Why was this human being so kind?
In the other room he could hear Alfred start running a bath, twisting the taps with a squeak and then the deafeningly loud pounding of water as it began to fill the tub. He knew he should be panicking, helpless as he was and at the mercy of a complete stranger (and a human, no less) but he couldn't bring himself to be scared. It was almost as if his initial terror had drained him any further trepidation, or maybe it was the sheer exhaustion that robbed him of anything more than the slightest movement (it certainly couldn't be because Alfred made him feel safe. He barely knew the man). The American re-entered the room whilst Arthur was lost in his thoughts, an awkward air hovering around him.
"How much can you move?" He didn't bother vocalising a response, instead shaking his head fractionally as he lay there prone, flopped under the ridiculously soft bedding still. With no other choice, Alfred strode over and lifted the weakened angel.
He was pretty strong, although in all fairness Arthur was lithe and light, so picking him was never a particularly hard task, as Francis had often proven by tossing him over his shoulder and refusing to put him down, no matter how much he cursed and screamed. The remains of his still-unexplained toga were removed and he simply felt even more self-conscious, refusing to meet Alfred's eyes as the young man placed him in the bubbly water and began to gently sponge off the accumulated sweat, dirt and blood. He took special care when cleaning the area around Arthur's shoulder blades and the base of his wings, clearly noticing the flash of pain and discomfort his actions caused. Removing the grime revealed open sores and cuts where the wings merged into his pale flesh. He cleaned Arthur's wings almost reverentially, undisguised awe on his face.
Once he had finished and Arthur was looking a lot cleaner (although shockingly pale, the bones almost visible beneath almost transparent skin of his hands and feet) he lifted the angel out of the now-brown water and began drying him. The towel was, like everything else, ridiculously soft and he could feel himself drifting off again, inwardly cursing how weak he felt. Once dried he could feel Alfred dab something that stung on his open cuts and sores (now that he was clean all were revealed, and it must be said that there was a ridiculous number of them). The gentle hands holding him upright and steady were weirdly comforting, despite belonging to someone he'd know for only an hour or so, and the American's inane soft chattering drifted over his exposed skin. Before he was even aware of it, he was asleep again.
He woke up a few times over the next couple of days. Each time he would awake to find Alfred sitting in a chair he'd situated next to the bed, reading either a comic or a science journal and ready with a glass of water. It became apparent quite quickly that he was a very chatty and good-tempered human, and Arthur couldn't help but feel… almost content in his presence. This annoyed him no end. Occasionally he would change the dressings on his back, but besides that very little of interest happened. Arthur didn't tend to stay awake for very long at a go.
The fifth time Arthur woke up Alfred wasn't there. Forcing himself into what could be described as a technically upright position, he could hear the sound of cutlery clattering in the small kitchen at the other end of the apartment. Unsure of what to do next, having sorely neglected any practise with situations such as this lately, he instead opted to sit there, fiddling nervously with the sleeve of the pyjama top Alfred had given him (green with ducks plastered all over it; it was absolutely hideous). It wasn't long before Alfred came back into the room, tray in hand. He quickly picked up on Arthur's confusion.
"Food!" He lifted up the tray that Arthur now realised was covered in atrociously fattening American food, including a deluge of butter over everything. "You look like you'd blow away if I opened the window, and I'm guessin' you haven't eaten anything in forever!" Arthur scowled.
"Of course I'm light, you idiot. How else am I supposed to bloody fly?" Alfred ignored the insults and general tone, although he was damned if he knew why. Maybe he was just too dense to realise that not all people were sickeningly cheerful like he was. Arthur would never admit it to his face, but it was actually quite pleasant to be around someone who was genuinely happy. Contrary to popular opinion, angels were usually more melancholic than they were happy. It was a refreshing change.
"You're sounding a lot better. Ya need anything else?"
"A cup of tea would be pleasant." Alfred twisted his bottom lip.
"This is New York, man. We drink Coffee!" Arthur scowled again. Alfred just grinned. "You're kinda grumpy for an angel, aren't you?" he teased, and Arthur couldn't hide a small smile in response. Stupid happy and kind Americans who don't have tea. Despite his best efforts, he couldn't seem to stay angry about his predicament. Of course he was still pretty pissed about the whole being kicked out side of things, but on the other hand…
Arthur decided that he liked Alfred, although he was damned if he was going to show it. Hell, if he kept calling the fallen angel 'adorable' he'd be more likely to break his bones than show any sort of affection.
~SR~
It had been 3 weeks since Alfred had found him in the alley and Arthur was still having trouble adjusting. He'd avoided leaving the apartment; despite being able to conceal his wings to an extent, it was uncomfortable to do so for a prolonged period, and the base of them was still tender despite being in the process of healing. Alfred had never pressured him to do anything, though, instead allowing him as much time and space as he needed. It was odd considering the energetic and outgoing personality Arthur had witnessed when Alfred was playing games loudly on Xbox live or simply chatting on the phone to university friends, but it was greatly appreciated. They tended to bicker a lot whenever Arthur was awake (although this was not all too often, much to Alfred's worry. Arthur just figured he was taking time to readjust to living on earth after so long). But all in all, Arthur was content. If anything, unbidden thoughts had started to arise more recently… thoughts about happiness and sadness and how he had a lot of the latter before and a lot of the former now.
Sometimes he thought about what would have happened if Alfred hadn't passed through the alleyway that evening. If it hadn't have rained and forced him to take a shortcut, or if it had been another person, or even if it had been no one at all. Would he be some experiment? A freak to show of to some nasty human's friends? Or just out and out dead? And if he'd died, would he have just ended up back in heaven again? Or hell? Or just limbo, seeing as he'd clearly fucked up everything the first time around? And then he'd stop worrying about it, and curl up on the sofa and watch his new friend yell at people on the TV and scoff junk food like it was going out of fashion, and wonder instead about how his life was going to be from now on.
He decided that even if he couldn't guarantee it'd be fun, it would certainly be a lot more interesting. It would be a lot better it that idiot Alfred stopped calling him 'cute', though.
AN: I was bored and inspired by all the angel-England pictures I've seen on Deviantart and Zerochan. I can't help but think that with his attitude, Arthur wouldn't stay an angel for long!
Please read and review! Even if it's just a single word... they make me happy :3