Of Angels and Demons

by oooOutisooo

Alfred, like many other ten-year-olds, doesn't often think about the consequences of his actions. Matthew, his Shoulder Angel, finds managing him near impossible, especially when competing with Gilbert, his Shoulder Demon. But that's fine, because when Alfred runs away from home, the get some help, in the form of Arthur, the guilt-ridden "Hand of Heaven," and Francis, "Fist of Hell

21. Chapter Twenty: Arthur and Francis

Hey! I'm back! Happy really-late Holidays! I'll try to update more frequently in the future.

And does ANYONE have a better idea for a summary, 'cause mine's rubbish.

Chapter Twenty; Arthur and Francis

~Earlier, On Halloween Night~

~Francis~

"What's your name?"

"Alfred."

"Well, Alfred, I do have to be going now. Actually," Kiku chuckles. "It's a funny thing, but you dragged me closer to my… home." Not that he'll be going there. At least… Not tonight. By now, someone has undoubtedly noticed his absence, and he might as well prolong his freedom. There will be no running away a second time. He does hope that Alfred doesn't notice the slight pause before "home," though.

Kiku turns, and jogs out of the alley, but Francis isn't paying attention to him. Francis hasn't been paying attention to anyone but Arthur since Kiku asked Alfred's name.

Francis always keeps a watch on Arthur out of the corner of his eye, and mere moments after Alfred answered Kiku, Artur had frozen momentarily, emerald eyes widening in panic, dread, and shock, before whirling around to face something that Francis cannot see.

He's never been able to see Arthur's creatures. When Arthur had told him, nearly a year into their first assignment, that he can see things that others can't, Francis hadn't believed him at all. He'd thought it was a prank. Or else that his partner was cute, but crazy. But over the years, Francis has grown used to Arthur conversing with invisible creatures, and hundreds of years is a bit long for a prank.

"What are you?" Francis hears Arthur say, his voice colored by disgust and cool contempt. It reminds Francis of when Arthur was the Angel of King John, and watched the simpering coward sign away most of the Crown's power. Arthur had had the same disgust and contempt in his voice after the signing of the Magna Carta, when Arthur had informed the cowering king of his exact opinion of him, and promptly stopped talking to John. Even now, Arthur had yet to speak a word to him since then.

After a pause, during which Arthur appears to be listening, and Francis becomes more and more unsettled, Arthur says, "Not interested," very curtly. He then promptly moves as though to walk back to the group, where Alfred, Gil, and Matthew are preparing some sort of shelter. But something stops him, and pulls him back.

Another pause, and when Arthur speaks again, the ice in his voice is so cold that Francis shudders, and wonders what is making Arthur sound so bitter and broken. It makes him wish that he could protect Arthur somehow, or at least perceive his torturer, though Francis has never been much of a fighter. "I thought you said you have friends. Talk to them."

Arthur's back is to him again, so Francis can't read his expression, but after a moment, he says, "I already told you I wasn't interested." Then he turns turns again, striding toward the group. "Leave me alone."

Arthur can't have taken more than three steps before he freezes. Francis can't read emotions the way that Arthur can, but the pain in Arthur's face is unmistakable. Anger is there, too, in the set of the jaw. The eyes show fear and shock and misery and rage. The rage increasing with every moment.

"You…" Arthur says furiously, whirling. His fists tightening so that the knuckles show white against his already pale skin.

Somehow, he seems to calm himself, or at least reign himself in. "What are you?" he asks again, this time sounding almost... defeated. "Why am I the only one who can see you?"

Francis can tell that, whatever the creature's answer is, it exasperates Arthur, because his head falls forward ever so slightly, and shakes by the tiniest fraction.

"Different how?"

Another frustrating answer is indicated, but Arthur moves on. "What, exactly, happened to Alice? Why did you torment her?"

Well, if this… encounter has something to do with Alice, then it certainly explains the turbulence of Arthur's emotions. All these centuries, and still Arthur has not forgiven himself. He blames Francis, and Headquarters, and whoever else, in part, but… In Arthur's mind, it is he himself who holds the most blame. During assignments, Arthur loses himself in the job when he can, and tries to forget the pain, to do his job, bury the past in honor and pride and responsibility, but…

In the end, Arthur can't run from the past, and he certainly can't run from himself. And the effort of trying exhausts him. He can't work tirelessly, and forever. He needs the vacations he's allotted. And when he is given a vacation, he visits Alice.

He's only allowed to see her once during the vacation, unless there's a change in her condition. A fact that Francis appreciates greatly. Bad enough that Arthur visits the once, sometimes at the beginning of the vacation, often towards the middle. He tries to resist seeing her for as long as possible. But he always relents in the end. Before he goes, he'll sober up for a week, look and act respectable. But after, he always drowns himself in spirits. And he does not hold his liquor very well. Other than that, he sleeps, mostly. Barricades the doors against operatives from Afterlife trying to do their job and look after his mental and spiritual help. Try to bear visits from his family stoically.

Francis would check on him, sometimes with Dylan, but often alone, mostly because when Arthur got drunk he wouldn't let any of his brothers into his room. And it would only get worse as the vacation wore on. Especially the fourth year. The fourth year was when Arthur started to get creative about trying to kill himself. Then he'd start sobering up halfway through the fifth year, only to start the vicious cycle over again with burying the past in work. Always the same basic pattern, no matter what anyone tried.

It destroys Francis as much as it is destroying Arthur. But still better than when Arthur was allowed unlimited access to Alice during vacations. When they tried that, he wouldn't drink, but he wouldn't sleep, either. Or do anything other than follow Alice around like a shadow, keeping up his appearance for the sake of his daughter who hardly notices, or sometimes even bursts into frightened tears at the sight of him. Bad enough that Arthur swallow even that one dose of guilt every vacation.

"Who's Olivia?"

Arthur's voice, cutting through the apparent silence, snaps Francis out of his state of contemplation. Looking up, he sees Arthur's eyes widen.

Briefly, they feature something akin to hope, but that is quickly drowned in disappointment. Misery still burns in those emerald lights, but there's no anger, or fear. Shock… Shock, yes, but of a softer variety.

Arthur's hands are out, as though someone had grabbed them, and his voice, when he finds it, is gentle. "I'm sorry. I'm not going to play with you."

A child, then. Of course. Even before Alice, Arthur has always had a soft spot for children.

His hands are released, but Arthur continues to stare sadly at the spot where the child must have been, until suddenly, he flinches.

In response to a question that Francis can not hear, Arthur whispers,"I'd like it if you'd leave me alone."

The words are barely out of his mouth before he collapses.

Francis is at his side in a moment, kneeling beside him.

There are no definite ways of determining whether or not a Spirit is still "alive," but Arthur, as a habit, breathes, and Francis is glad to see that slight movement in his slender chest.

"Arthur," Francis murmurs, "You've been keeping secrets, and that is no good for you." He picks Arthur up gently, feeling a slight pang that he was becoming accustomed to the angel's slight weight in his arms. "I don't want to bring up the painful past," Francis continues softly, "But when you wake up, we need to talk."

~Present~

~Arthur and Francis~

Arthur wakes sometime between six and seven, to all the sounds of people going to and from work. His eyes open not very slightly, and catch a glimpse of two soft blue ones directly in front of him.

Abruptly, his eyes close again.

"Arthur," Francis warns, "I know you're awake."

"What do you want, Francis?" Arthur mumbles, sitting up.

Francis touches his shoulder gently, his head less than a centimeters* from Arthur's own. "To talk," he says, cautiously, turning Arthur so that he has to meet his eyes. "You owe me some explanations. Who were you talking to last night?"

For a moment, Arthur freezes, and then he starts abruptly as realization dawns on him. "None of your business!" He snarls defensively, avoiding Francis's eyes.

"Arthur," Francis pleads, catching Arthur's gaze. "Please. Who were you talking to?"

"His name is Oliver," Arthur whispers before dropping his eyes and turning so that they were sitting side-by-side, and then Arthur turns his gaze to the sky. "And before you ask, I don't know much more than that about him. I couldn't have even told you that before last night, but he's been more… talkative, lately. Which has me worried, of course, since the last time he was anywhere near this active…" Arthur hesitates. Then, he sighs, and continues. "The last time he was even remotely near this active, Alice was taken away from me."

"But who, or what, is he?"

"I told you, I don't know. Not really. But… he said he was me."

"How do you mean?"

"He said… that he was me. A me who is…" Arthur grimaces. "Uninhibited by sanity. But…" Now, silent tears run down Arthur's face. "No one else has ever been able to see or hear him. He claims that anyone else would go mad, but sometimes, I can't help but think-wish, even-that I'm the one who's mad. That he only exists inside my head, and I'm the one in the mental hospital, instead of Alice."

"Oh, Arthur…" Francis murmurs into his ear as he hugs him. "Won't you ever forgive yourself for her fate? It wasn't your fault."

Arthur only shakes his head to the last part, as always, and says, "Probably not," as an answer to the first. Then he wipes his eyes, and gently removes Francis's arms. "Is Alfred awake yet?"

"No," Francis says, leaning back on his arms, "And Matthew and Gilbert are on lookout for Ivan."

"Oh, is that the russian boy's name?" Arthur asks as he also leans back, relaxing now that the conversation is in safer waters. "Why is he so hungry for revenge? Revenge for what?"

"Apparently," Francis says, not in the least surprised by Arthur's quick uptake. "Ivan was the source of Alfred's recent income."

"So Ivan is the rich neighbor, and despite what Alfred assumed, the missing money did not go unnoticed?"

"Presumably."

They sit there for a bit, an uncomfortable silence building, until Arthur clears his throat, and tentatively speaks up.

"Um… it's a bit late, but…. I've always meant to say, but I never did get around to it… so…."

"What, petit lapin?"

"I'm sorry… about Joan."

Francis just shakes his head. It figures that Arthur would take responsibility for her fate, as well. He's almost tempted to mention that it's more than a bit late, but he knows that Arthur will take it seriously. Instead, he says, "No apology needed. It was a political trial. There was nothing you could do."

"I could have vouched for her visions."

"It still wouldn't have made a difference."

Francis has made his peace with the fact that Joan d'Arc's execution couldn't have been prevented, given the circumstances. Not that he hadn't been extremely upset in the immediate aftermath. He'd said a lot of things then that he regrets now. Not the things he'd said to those kings, but the ones that he'd said to Arthur.

"It was an absolutely awful way to go."

"She recovered." Unlike Alice. Inspite of themselves, both Spirits find that unspoken thought flashing through their minds.

Silence falls again as they sit there, avoiding each other's eyes. It's a long time before Arthur speaks again.

"I was jealous, you know."

"You? The Hand of Heaven? Jealous?"

"Yes, jealous. You heard me."

"...Of what, pray tell?"

"Joan."

Francis turns to look at Arthur, head cocked to the side quizzically, encouraging Arthur to go on. "You have proper descendants. I've my immediate family, and their descendents, and then my stepson, and his. But none of my own. I died before my only child was even born."

Briefly, Francis can't think of anything to say. He's glad that Arthur will talk with him like this, but every time they have one of these moments, he is reminded of how brittle Arthur really is. And how careful he has to be, not putting too much pressure on the really delicate places, even with good intentions. So instead, he tries to steer the conversation towards safer waters of teasing.

"Isn't it practically impossible for Angels to get jealous, though? Especially you. You're supposed to be a paragon of virtue or whatever, aren't you?"

"Paragon? Isn't that word a little big for you?" Arthur says, playing along. Truth be told, at times like this, he welcomes an excuse to fight with Francis, instead of talking.

"Shut up."

This time the silence is more comfortable, and Francis is content to let it fill the air, relaxing back to lay down with his head resting on his arms. Arthur relaxes too, letting his head roll back, and closing his eyes.

"Honestly, though, I'd wondered about that. I mean, an Angel can't 'fall' because of anything their charges do, but they can, and do, because of their own actions and convictions. Back then, I wasn't secure in the fact that Headquarters like me as an Angel. I thought for sure that, since I was jealous of you, and I didn't do everything I possibly could for Joan, I'd 'Fall.' And then I didn't."

"I think that you have stricter morals than Headquarters does, or has had since the Middle Ages and the Inquisition. Besides," Francis chuckled. To think that Arthur had worried about Falling after Joan, who became a Saint, when later… "You didn't Fall after Hornigold so I doubt you ever will. Not without going so dark that Headquarters won't even let you out on the field, at least."

"Well, yes," Arthur concedes, cracking a smile, "I was a bit worse with Hornigold. But that was after that. And besides, I still maintain that the... enthusiasm I had for piracy was harmless. And Benjamin was really more of a... Privateer. In spirit, at least. He wouldn't attack a British ship."

"And I suppose raiding all of those other ships was strictly necessary."

"Well... Yes, to a certain degree. It was a way of earning a living."

"Not all of them.

"Now, that is…"

"Hats!"

"..."

Arthur contemplates, for a moment, how best to defend that particular raid. Finally, he concludes, "That hardly counts against me. There wasn't much harm, and it was just a bit of fun…"

"Precisely!" Francis interrupts. "That's it. 'A bit of fun.' You had fun as a pirate. And you were worried about jealousy."

If Arthur were a cat, or, indeed, a rabbit, one would see his fur bristling with irritation and denial. (As it is, his hair is sticking up a bit, and his shoulders are hunched. And the extra fluff in his wings could be considered a bristle, if one squints.) "That," he insists, "Is besides the point, even if it were true. And if I enjoyed being pirate so much, why would I encourage him to accept the pardon from the king…"

"Because you're dutiful first, and thrill-seeking second. And because you still consider yourself honor-bound to England." Francis answers dutifully, fully aware that Arthur wasn't done talking.

"And later encourage Ben to take up pirate-hunting." Arthur finishes, pretending that Francis hadn't spoken.

Francis is really glad that Arthur brought up the pirate-hunting. He'd been hoping for that. "And as for that last one, well… It wasn't the piracy you loved, mon petit lapin. It was the excitement. It was the same with Benjamin. Moral go-ahead, and fighting on the high seas? Pirate-hunting was a dream come true for both of you."

Arthur hardly knows what to say. Most of the time, Francis is frustrating, irritating, lecherous… And just generally difficult to deal with. But on occasion, he shows rare moments when he can be really insightful, and…

"Of course, the fact that it did have something to do with piracy helped. You claim to love the sea, but you hardly ever encourage respectable sailors, like the Navy. You really have a thing for piracy."

And he always ruins it very shortly.

"I do not."

"Oh?" Francis says, "Then I suppose that encouraging Elizabeth to promote the use of privateers against the Spanish Armada had nothing whatsoever to do with the love of piracy you found when you were Benjamin's Spirit?"

"And now I know your mind is going. That was long before Ben's time."

"Not so very long."

"No, not really," Arthur agrees. With an existence such as theirs, concepts like time become a little bit less clear, though no less cruel. Now, one might wonder how an active existence would be any different from a retired one. The answer is, of course, this; for those who are retired, time means less. Although, eventually, retired Spirits will become sort-of… vegetative. And, eventually, start to look a bit see-through around the edges. Like Arthur's great-great-grandmother on his father's side, who "moved on" seven years ago. This state is a relatively recent occurrence, just a few centuries old, and research is ongoing. Some theorists even go so far as to speculate that this is what occurred to the spirits of early human species, assuming that evolution is a thing, which is put into question by the lack of any extremely prehistoric human Spirits. Regardless, we were discussing the active existences of Arthur and Francis. The point being that, in such an existence, looking at them objectively, a few centuries are, well… practically nothing, really.

"Still, I am the one that hears voices. I'd just always figured that my mind would go before yours did." He'd counted on it, really. After all, all signs pointed-point-to an eventual snap.

"Hey!" Francis objects. "It's too soon to go that far, old man."

"You're older than I am, you know."

Francis pauses for the smallest of moments. He doesn't think about it often, but he actually is a bit older than Arthur. They both died within a week of each other (a week or less being the standard amount of time it takes for one to be given an assignment after death, and be assigned a pair of Spirits after birth,) Francis had been in his late twenties, and Arthur, his early twenties. But years sit more heavily on Arthur, who takes even this joke of a life so seriously. He seems so much older than Francis, who isn't anywhere close to uptight. In many ways, this included, Francis is more ideally suited to a long, active existence than Arthur is. It's a sobering train of thought, whenever it comes up. Still, Francis continues with the rapport.

"By what? Five years?"

"I'm not sure," Arthur answers, honestly. "How old are you again, exactly?" He asks, knowing not to expect an answer. Even if either of them were inclined to admit their true age, they honestly didn't know. During their lives, modern dating wasn't in wide use. But to give you an idea of the time period, Arthur's cousin's granddaughter married Ealhmund of Kent, and gave birth to King Egbert (Ecgberht,) who is considered by many to be the first real "King of England." This is also part of the reason for Arthur's particularly intense loyalty to the Crown.

"Stop changing the subject," Francis says, only as a way to demonstrate that, no, they would not be digging into that particular sort of speculation at this time.

"You're the one changing the subject, but fine," Arthur mumbles. Then, louder, he says, "Yes, it was unrelated. Even ignoring the fact that that particular sequence of events occurred before Benjamin Hornigold was even born, to suggest that I encouraged Elizabeth to procure the aid of privateers against the Spanish because of some… fascination with the idea of piracy is absolutely ludicrous. The point being that the use of privateers was a strategic necessity, and nothing more.

"Whatever," Francis says, flashing his brilliant teeth and leaning in close. "Just admit it, Arthur," he whispers into Arthur's ear, "You've a thing for piracy. Not that I mind."

"So what if I do?" Arthur says quietly, turning his head to stare defiantly into Francis's eyes, now only a few millimeters* away.

Then, like a songbird heralding the apocalypse, the ten-year-old boy who had been quietly listening for quite a while decides that now, of all times, is when he ought to speak up.

"I don't know if you guys are enemies or lovers or whatever, but if things are going to get really mushy or kissy, I need to be warned or something."

The two Spirits visibly jumping, ending up about a centimeter* apart. Arthur not looking at either of the other two, and very distinctly flustered. Francis, on the other hand, isn't flustered, but annoyed. It would appear that Alfred has the ability to read moods just enough to manage to find the precise statement needed to thoroughly kill it, and then, unthinking, say it.

A frustrating quality in a child.

And, equally frustrating, all too common in them.

But back to the flustered Arthur.

"Alfred!" Arthur says, blushing as though he and Francis had been doing something much more embarrassing than talking (and almost kissing.) But that's largely because of his old-fashioned and straight-laced views, and some of the thoughts he ended up thinking right at the end of the conversation. They hadn't even properly cuddled. Which would have been adorable, but Francis had wanted to talk to Arthur once the Angel woke up, and not get yelled at and hit because Arthur woke up to being cuddled by, or, god forbid, cuddling, Francis. Or any cuddling at all, really. "How long have you been awake?"

"Only since when you were talking about Hornigold. Wasn't he, like, Blackbeard's mentor or something? Who's Elizabeth? Wow, you get to meet exciting people, huh?" He spoke quickly, not pausing to think. Actually, speaking quickly so that he wouldn't think. Partially because he's really not fond of having his mind read, partially to disguise the fact that he'd been awake a bit longer than he wanted to admit. He's not completely incompetent at reading people, and knows that what Arthur had said about being sorry for Joan's death was extremely personal, something he could respect. He'd only interrupted them because it had been extremely likely that they were about to kiss, and he wasn't very comfortable with hearing or seeing that.

"You're lying. And you were eavesdropping. Both are very bad habits, and I'd prefer it if you would attempt to minimize indulging them." Arthur scolds, ever the dutiful Angel.

"Mind-reading's just as bad, if not worse," Alfred retorts, "Anyway, who's Elizabeth?"

"Elizabeth I of England, obviously. Daughter of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn, known as Good Queen Bess. Current Angel of Elizabeth II." (Headquarters enjoys assigning Spirits to those related to them, at times, and Bess volunteered.) Arthur sighs, knowing that the boy wasn't all that interested, he just wanted to keep the subject off of his eavesdropping. "Though of course you don't know much about that," he mumbles, "Americans…"

"And Hornigold, what about him? Was he really Blackbeards mentor?"

Alfred has a little more genuine interest in this. The innocent interest of a little boy regarding the macabre.

Francis answers before Arthur has a chance to. "Yes, and once they saw Arthur with Hornigold, Headquarters thanked their lucky stars that they hadn't put Arthur in charge of Blackbeard himself."

"I wasn't that bad." Arthur protests, but more on principle than anything.

"You could have been," Francis teases, a smirking smile making it's way back onto his face.

Arthur opens his mouth to protest again, but Alfred speaks first, cutting them off before the situation can escalate again.

"Would you both just stop flirting and tell me where Mattie and Gil are. I haven't seen them since I went to sleep."

Artur is slightly stunned by Alfred's innocent and sincere accusation of "flirting," but Francis answers without so much as blinking an eye.

"If you will recall, they are on lookout for Ivan," he reminds Alfred gently.

"Iva…" It takes Alfred a moment to remember. He may have been aware enough to listen in on Arthur and Francis since before they'd been talking about Joan, but he'd still been half-asleep for most of their conversation. "Oh, yeah," he says when he does remember, "Shit! I guess he did realize I took that money. And now he knows that I'm here."

"At this point," Arthur says, having recovered, "I think it would be prudent for you to give as much of the money back as possible, apologize sincerely, and go home."

"An cut my adventure short?!" Alfred is indignant. "No way!" He still intends to go home eventually, of course, but he doesn't see any need to be hasty. Even with his hiest not having turned out as smoothly as he'd hoped.

"Then how do you expect to deal with Ivan?" Arthur is sincerely concerned for Alfred, the Ivan's intense drive towards some sort of revenge, and Alfred's obvious nerves leading him to conclude that the Russian could be a real threat. "You really are afraid of him."

"Nonsense, a hero's never afraid." Alfred says, even though, of course, he is. Ivan is older, taller, and more intimidating than him. "Besides, he can't stay here long. The school will notice that he's gone."

"The school will notice that you are gone, too, you know." Arthur reminds him. "And you've probably been out longer than he has."

"Nah," Alfred says, grinning proudly. "They won't. I photocopied Mom's signature a while ago, so that I'd have it if I needed it. Got it off a field trip permission slip. I sent in a typed note with her signature copied and pasted onto it telling the school that I got chicken pox."

But surely they'll call your mother to check." Arthur points out. "Or your Mom will call the school when she realizes that you're missing."

Alfred almost gives in, reminded, suddenly, that he really does miss his mom, and that despite having all her time consumed by running his dad's business, she really did love him, and would worry about him, like she had that one time when he'd fallen asleep at the park because he refused to go home to take a nap, and Amelia and her couldn't find him, since he had crawled under the equipment for shade. He'd never admit that he was having second thoughts, though.

"Yeah, maybe," he says instead. "But not for a while. I figure I've got at least a week, and I'm not about to waste it."

Arthur wishes he could show his sympathy to Alfred, but, at this point, recognizes that the American would not welcome any sympathy for knowledge discovered using "mind-reading." Instead, he acknowledges that he cannot do anything to stop Alfred, saying, simply, "On your own head be it."

Alfred nods, accepting the acknowledgement.

"Oh, and Alfred?" Arthur says, figuring he may as well ask the boy, at this point, "Do you know where the other boy you met last night went off to?"

"Kiku?" Alfred asks. "No, but he said that he lives nearby. Why do you want to find him?"

Francis looks at Arthur, an echo of Alfred's question in his eyes. Keeping eye contact with Francis, Arthur answers them both.

"I'll tell you if we find him."

*For the sake of simplicity, all measurements will be referring to measurements from the viewpoint of a human. For a general idea of what this means, where I write "millimeters" for two Spirits, I might write "inches" or "centimeters" if they were both human. In other words, a human millimeter is somewhere between a Spirit inch or centimeter, but doesn't translate exactly.

And there you have it! Chapter Twenty! Do hope it was worth the wait.

Overdue Thank-You's:

pastaaddict: No, it's not. Sometimes it is, but whenever Oliver decides to poke his manipulative little fingers into Arthur's dreams, it's not. And I'm not done with the 2p's quite yet, so more are on their way!

BitterSweet Addict: Exactly! Couldn't have put it better myself!

Guest: Thank you very much for taking the time to offer that small praise.

Everyone: Thank you all very much for sticking with me this long, and for your wonderful praise and patience.

Guest-who-is-so-my-sister: Use Kandom as your name next time, why don't you, just so I don't have to play is-she-or-isn't-she. And you'll be lucky if I have a Christmas chapter next year, at the rate of my procrastination.

~oooOutisooo~

P.S. You all may have noticed that I have a new fic up, "From Birth to Death." Rest assured, this doesn't mean that I'll be splitting my time between the this and that. I just typed it while I was procrastinating about this chapter, and I think that it stands on it's own as a one-shot, for now. So I thought, "Might as well."