Sixteen

Weeks passed. Daphne had taken them both out shopping and gotten them more clothes. She doted on them like a mother hen. In return, they helped out around the house, doing dishes, cooking meals, keeping their room clean. Like good house guests… Or good children.

In truth, it was a little awkward. Emmanuel, who seemed to remember less than Ruth, did not mind the doting and the hovering that Daphne did around them. But Ruth, more and more, was feeling constricted in that house. Confined. Upon discovering Ruth's tattoos, Daphne forcefully encouraged Ruth, with a smile that was too wide, to wear long-sleeved shirts only. This was mostly fine, as it was getting colder by the day, but Ruth did not like the feeling of being told what to do with her own body. She did not fight it, however, for she was living in the woman's house, eating her food.

Food was one of the things they had not been able to continue hiding from Daphne. Ruth did not have it in her to make Emmanuel eat, not when, every time he tried, he immediately wanted to throw it all up. Angels didn't need regular sustenance, and he could not taste it for what it was, tasting only the molecules that made up the food and the chemical reactions within it all. Daphne had noticed—who wouldn't?—that Emmanuel did not eat. So, instead of waiting for her to ask questions, they had confided in her that Emmanuel had certain, strange powers. And one of his powers was that he did not need to eat.

Daphne, being religious, had immediately assumed that these powers were a gift from God. And, much to Ruth's irritation, she was not wrong. It wasn't that Ruth had a problem with God; it was more that she did not trust a woman who took such things at face value and assumed that anything wildly strange had to be a gift or a sign from the divine. Ruth believed in God, too, but she did not have that sort of blind faith. Still, it was nice that they had one less thing to hide from her.

And it wasn't all bad or awkward. During the day, Ruth and Emmanuel had the house to themselves as Daphne went off to work. They spent the time cleaning, if there was any cleaning that needed to be done. Otherwise, they read (Daphne's library was extensive, though most of the books were religious in nature); they took walks around the neighborhood; they simply sat and talked.

On Saturdays, Daphne would take them out to a park or a hiking trail, and they'd spend the day outside. Saturdays were Emmanuel's favorite days, for he found a joy and comfort in nature that even Ruth could not give him. He loved to bask in the glory of God's creation. After three Saturdays, it became Ruth's favorite day, as well, for she loved to see Emmanuel smile, and he never smiled more than when he was pointing out some little insect on a leaf in a bush, or staring up at the sky through a canopy of leaves. He was childlike, in this way, and for that, she loved him all the more. After three weeks, he began to forget his troubles a little.

Sundays were quiet days, though not the whole day. Sundays were church days, which neither of them minded. Church, after all, was where they had been saved—literally. They thanked Pastor Kenny for introducing them to Daphne, and he was glad for their good fortune. After church, they would all gather at one house or another; sometimes it was Daphne's, and sometimes not. They told the others that Emmanuel had some very insane, very specific food allergies, which exempted him from eating with the rest of them.

After brunch, they would return home, or do the dishes if the brunch had taken place at Daphne's house. Then they would each pick some quiet activity to do. Emmanuel would most often choose a book to read and sit by a window so that he could look outside whenever he wanted. Ruth would sit across from him, or beside him, usually with a mug of tea, and simply watch him, or read whatever he was reading over his shoulder. Daphne would be nearby, reading the Bible, or journaling, or whatever other activity she had chosen.

At night, they would all work together to make dinner—even Emmanuel, who did not eat the food. Every meal was homemade; Ruth did not think she'd seen a single processed food item in the house since she'd gotten there. Daphne was adamant that the body was one's temple (a big reason she was anti-tattoo), and she believed that eating well wasn't only healthy physically, it was healthy for one's spirit. Ruth was often annoyed by her religious beliefs, but she had to admit that a home-cooked meal was always going to taste better than some crap from McDonald's—even if McDonald's was delicious.

It was during one of these Sunday nights that their quiet, Brady Bunch life was disrupted. It happened about a month in. Ruth turned away for just a moment, to put a pot of water onto the stove to heat, and heard Daphne scream. Ruth spun around and stared in horror at the gush of blood between Daphne's hands. On the cutting board sat the top quarter of one of her fingers.

Emmanuel had been in the bedroom, changing into more comfortable clothes before coming to help them in the kitchen.

Ruth frantically grabbed a kitchen towel and began to forcefully wrap it, hard, around the hand with the cut finger. At the same time, she yelled, "Emmanuel!" aloud, and in her mind.

Without understanding where it had come from, she felt and heard a great gust of wind in the kitchen that blew her hair back, away from her neck. Still holding onto Daphne's hand with the towel, she turned and saw Emmanuel… and stared.

He was brighter than she had ever seen him, the light that poured from him a blinding white, as opposed to the warmer tone she was used to. His eyes glowed blue-white, and his wings were spread wide in all their glory. He pulled the towel away from Daphne's bleeding hand. Daphne had stopped crying, and was staring up into Emmanuel's face, staring at his eyes. Still, she held her bleeding hand close to her chest, and whimpered.

"Do not be afraid," Emmanuel said, and his voice in Ruth's mind was like fire that touched her without burning. And the light in her body, the energy that matched the energy inside Emmanuel, hummed and pulsated and with such force that it was all she could do to remain standing. Half of her was made stronger by the force of the energy throbbing in her veins; she wanted to scream, to punch something. The other half of her wanted nothing more than to prostrate herself at the feet of the angel standing before her, to kneel down, or to be held in his arms.

She watched in awe as he pressed Daphne's bleeding hand in between both of his own. He closed his glowing eyes for a moment, and then opened them again and let go of her hand. It was made whole, and was no longer bleeding. Ruth looked down at the cutting board; there sat the tip of Daphne's finger, yet Daphne's hand was fine again.

All three of them stared at her hand, her finger. After a moment, Ruth turned to look at Emmanuel. His eyes were no longer glowing; he was staring down at his own hands, at his body, at himself. He looked up at Ruth, searchingly, then stared at Daphne, at her hand, which he had just healed.

Ruth looked at Daphne again. She was staring at Emmanuel with a look somewhere between awe and terror.

Ruth sighed. We have to tell her what you are, she said.

Emmanuel closed his eyes, took a slow deep breath, and nodded his acquiescence.

###

It took even a woman as religious as Daphne a while to process Emmanuel's true nature. She went into her bedroom and did not come out again for hours. They left her alone, and cleaned up the blood, and made dinner. Ruth forced herself to eat her portion, having saved half of it for whenever Daphne came out of her room. She was not very hungry, her stomach twisted into knots, but starving herself wouldn't help matters.

Emmanuel sat beside her, quietly, his elbows resting on the table in front of him, one hand folded over the other, his chin resting on his knuckles. After healing Daphne's hand, the light within him had diminished once more to its warmer, backlit glow. Ruth found that she could look upon him without feeling the urge to cry and kneel at his feet. His wings were folded neatly at his back, though she longed to see them spread wide.

All that power that had been pulsing in his veins for weeks had finally shone itself in those few seconds it had taken to remake Daphne's finger. All that energy, that holy light, had exploded from him for just a few moments. And in those few moments, he had been himself—his true self. Castiel, an angel of the Lord. A warrior, a soldier… a healer. A man not to be trifled with. A man who could break a human in half if he really wanted to, who could have just as easily crushed Daphne's hand to dust as he could heal it.

And he hated it.

He hated knowing that he contained such strength, such raw power. He hated knowing that he could break a man if he wanted to. He hated feeling that electric, pulsing energy inside himself. Somehow, he knew that that power was related to whatever he had done wrong in his past. The power had overwhelmed him, and he had hurt people. Good people. People who did not deserve whatever it was that he had done to them. He sat, rigid, in his char, a marble statue made of pain and the fear of repeating past mistakes—mistakes that his mind, in an effort to save itself, was keeping hidden from him.

Ruth slowly, carefully, reached out and touched his shoulder. To her relief, he did not flinch or move away from her. He merely closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, he turned to look at her. His eyes were sad.

"You won't hurt people," she said, softly. "You can heal people."

He said nothing.

"Try to see yourself as I see you."

He smiled mirthlessly, touching her face. "I cannot. You see me as someone to be worshiped. I am not God. I am angel of God. The two are not the same."

Ruth shook her head, studying his face. His eyes, his nose, his jawline. "You are the closest to God that I have ever been, in the short amount of time in which I remember my life," she said. "And I will love you the way I want to. I will not view you as a monster, because you're not one. You can choose the ways in which you use your powers."

"Then I can choose not to use them at all," he said, his voice strong.

"So be it," she said, quickly, not wanting to actively disagree with him. "Let's just hope Daphne doesn't accidentally hurt herself again. But I think you could do a lot of good in the world, if you chose to heal people."

He accepted her opinion without retort, but without agreement, either.

Ruth stood up from the table and took Emmanuel's hands in both of hers. "Come to bed," she said. "I want to test something."

Curiously, he followed her, his mind still too focused on inward feelings to notice the way she had phrased her request. She led him by the hand into the bedroom, and then released him and went to the nightstand.

Two weeks into their stay, here, Ruth had gone into the bedroom to find a new box of condoms sitting on the bed. She had smiled; for all of Daphne's zealotry, she had at least given them this. But the box had remained unopened all this time. Ruth and Emmanuel knew that they had known each other for a long time, but most of their memories still remained locked behind whatever wall was in their minds. Sex, so far, had seemed… unneeded. Most nights found them simply curled against one another, spooning.

Ruth opened the box and tore one of the condom packages away from the others at the perforated line. She turned and faced Emmanuel, holding the condom between two fingers, her eyebrows raised in a silent question.

Emmanuel sighed. "Now isn't—

"Now is the perfect time," she stated, interrupting him. She moved closer to him, placing a hand on his chest. "Now, when you seem to be at your lowest, when you think so little of yourself. Now is the time to remind you that you are not a monster."

He stared down at her, his eyes soft, saying nothing.

She cupped his face in her hand. "Now is the time to remind you that you can be powerful and strong… and you can be loving and gentle, at the same time."

His face changed as she spoke, and he seemed to stand taller, breathe more deeply. His eyes became more focused, studying her, staring into her. "Powerful," he murmured, repeating her.

"Yes," she said.

His eyes left her face, staring at nothing behind her for a moment as a glimmer of a memory tickled his mind. He looked at her again, his head lifting slowly until he was looking at her down his nose. "Commanding," he said, his tone changed to one she had not heard before—at least not in the last month, not since he had become Emmanuel.

She stared at him, warmth blossoming between her legs. "Yes," she whispered, but tempered it, reminding him: "And loving. And gentle."

He looked away again, smiling, thinking, then glanced at her, his eyes twinkling. "Yes." Suddenly, he swept his arm behind her knees and picked her up, walking her to the bed and laying her down. He took the condom from her and placed it on the nightstand, and then began to undress her, slowly, taking his time, kissing each part of her that he exposed to the air. Being naked around him felt as natural as breathing, for though she only remembered being so once, she knew that it had happened many times before that. She was not nervous so much as curious.

Soon, she lay naked on the bed. He stood and began to undress himself. She sat up to help him but he said, "No."

She stopped, tilting her head to the side, wonderingly.

He did not smile, exactly, but one corner of his mouth lifted in amusement, as if he knew something that she didn't. As he continued to undress, he explained, "You spend your time… worshipping me. And somehow, with no memory, I know that you did it before, too. You found me and I became… everything to you."

Ruth said nothing, though she knew the truth of his words.

"Somehow," he went on, "this, now, this past month has been the most equal we have ever been, because we rely on one another for everything. We anchor one another." His voice was soft, gentle, but contained that hint of power that she could feel thrumming between them, a secret shared. He stood before her, naked, but moved to the foot of the bed.

She followed him with her eyes.

"Tonight," he said, "is not about me." He crawled up on the bed and hovered over the lower half of her body. "Tonight, I will worship you." And he buried his face between her legs.

…

Before the night was through, a massive, unannounced storm raged outside the house, rattling every window, pounding against the roof. Ruth said his name a thousand times, both names, until the angel became a strange mix of two people in her head. And the more she breathed his real name, "Castiel," the more comfortable with himself he became.

And as he finally allowed himself his own release, he sat up in the bed as she straddled him, pulled her head down to his and pressed his forehead against hers, and moaned:

"Brooke… Brooke…"

And the name she thought had had no meaning to her before was suddenly filled with all the meaning in the world.