December 10th
Genre: Drama
Rating: T
AN: A scene from Reverse!verse.
Warning: A very vague presentation of PTSD
A knock on the door drags Michael away from the comforts of the sleep. He fumbles his phone and squints as the bright blue screen that lights up when he brushes it. The clock reads 3.17. He groans and slumps back on the mattress. The neighbor's drunk has probably confused the doors. Not the first time.
The knock recurs, this time louder. He probably won't get sleep at peace before he has guided the poor bastard on the correct door. Sighing he scrambles off the bed and at the door.
He turns the lights on and looks that he's decently dressed. He pulls the first drawer of the hallway table open and checks that the gun is still there before unlocking the door.
But instead of a drunken balding middle-aged man, there's a young blond boy, definitely no more than in his early twenties, a little shorter than Michael and dressed in an old t-shirt and shabby sweatpants. He doesn't have shoes or even socks.
"Yes?" Michael asks when the boy lowers his hand he has raised for the third knock.
"I'm Adam. I'm here to work as your guardian."
"Excuse me?" Michael starts to slowly reach for his gun behind the door. Unfortunately, this is not the first time a guy with the mental health problems is roaming around the building. They guy from the first floor thinks he is the newborn Jesus. But unlike most tenants of the building, the boy has definitely not being in an army. He looks like he has wandered off from a college dorm.
"We know everything about you, Michael Milton. We know that you are a devout man." Before Michael can open his mouth to comment, the boy continues. "And we know what happened in Samarra."
Heavy cold weight settles in the bottom of his stomach. No one other than his superiors is supposed to know the exact places of the Operation. He even has to cut off all the place names from his stories to his psychiatrist. He quietly cocks the gun.
"Who are you?" he asks giving the stranger another, now much more calculating once-over.
"As I said, I am Adam and I'm here to‒"
"Yes, I got that. But what are you?"
"I'm an angel of the Lord."
Michael snorts. "I don't know which kind of sick joke this is or how you know about Samarra, but you can tell for whoever hired you for this that they can fuck the hell of."
The boy, Adam (if that's his real name) sighs and after a small pause the dim light over them starts to flicker. A sudden gust builds up in the stairway and without a warning, the eyes of the boy flashes and the light bulb shatters with a shower of sparks and shards. The shadows accumulate into pair huge wings that fill the narrow space. Only experience prevents Michael from stepping back and pulling the trigger.
The wind dies down and the shadows recoil. Michael can only guess what Adam sees when he scrutinizes his face. "These things are probably better talk behind the closed doors. May I come in?"
Michael doesn't know what to say, so he steps aside letting the young angel (because there's no other explanation for what he just saw) into his tiny apartment.
The angel looks around the spick-and-span one-room flat letting Michael in turn free to analyze him, The boy certainly doesn't look like an angel. He's barely an adult and has a bed hair and a t-shirt, which image is so worn you can't read the text. The string of the sweatpants must be broken because they are hanging almost too low.
Adam turns and notices his look. He glances at his own attire. "He's a med student from Wisconsin. I was in hurry and had to settle for the first vessel I could find."
"What," Michael shakes away his thoughts.
"An angel needs a vessel to have a physical form on Earth. There are nuances concerning taking a vessel, but the main idea is that a willing human gives his body into an angel's use."
"That… that's not it. Your clothes are just a bit… unconventional for other than sleeping."
The angel looks his shirt. "These are the ones he was wearing when I possessed him."
"I could lend you some cloths if you want."
The boy fingers the hem of the shirt and looks Michael. "Maybe I should change," he finally agrees haltingly.
"I'll pick you something," Michael says turning quickly to rummage his closet. An angel shows up at his doorstep and out of all the things he could have done, he offers him a change clothes. He notices that he's still clutching the gun and has to muster his willpower to release his hold and slip it under the elastic band of his pants. His faith for the goodness of the God had died on the hot desert, but now a messenger of His grace is standing in the middle of his apartment. How is he supposed to react?
"Here," he turns back and hands Adam a black shirt and jeans. "They should fit."
"Thank you." Michael can't turn away fast enough when the angel starts to undress then and there. Apparently celestial beings doesn't share the same boundaries of personal space and modesty as humans. He pours his concentration into a making a cup of coffee. At least it prevents his hands from shaking. He does his best not to listen the rustle of the clothes behind him.
Finally, the noise stop and silence fills the flat. Michael braves himself to turn around and look. The angel is now properly clothed. Although Michael doesn't believe it's his place to tell him that he has gotten his shirt backwards.
"So, now that we are both comfortable," the angel starts obviously blind for Michael's uneasiness about having a real angle of the Lord standing in the middle of his apartment. "The reason why I am here." Adam straightens himself and for a moment he looks a bit like the creature with the shadow wings at the stairway. Michael does his best to meet the unblinking blue eyes. "We have been watching you now for a while. And we have work for you."