Notes: Thanks very much for the nice reviews, I had the first two chapters and the fourth chapter pretty much written before I started posting, but the third chapter is being a bit of problem. As a result, it may be a little longer before the next chapter is posted. The main plot is split fairly evenly between Katan and Raphael, so occasionally a chapter favours one over the the other, although later chapters are shared between them more equally.
How Angels Fall
Chapter two: Who heals the healer?
He went, anyway.
It was not because of the silly, silly cherub. Katan was someone that most angels somehow seemed to know even though he had never done anything to distinguish himself. Kind and good and so completely angelic that everyone else seemed to pale in comparison, Katan was still hardly anything special when it came to his skills or leadership ability. Katan, Raphael had always thought, was the perfect sort of person to serve others, unwavering in his dedication and devotion to everything that was simplistically good.
But, no-one had told Katan to track Raphael down, and Raphael couldn't help but wonder when Katan had developed enough personality to be able to make such a decision on his own. It was something that would have concerned some of those higher up in the system if they cared for anything other than their own status.
Still, Katan was not the reason why Raphael went. He went, because he always did. People seemed to sometimes forget that, people seemed to forget a lot of things.
Raphael was tired of existing only through the rumor mill.
Perhaps, he was just simply tired. Each step certainly felt heavier than they should the closer he got the main hall, tendrils of pain and hurt reaching out and tugging him forward even before he was at the tall, imposing doors. They weren't closed as they usually were, a broken body wedged there as though it was instead a doorstop.
There was nothing more that Raphael wanted than to turn around and go somewhere – anywhere – else. Instead, he dropped to his knees and quietly placed a hand on the fallen angel's forehead. He let his eyes drift closed, slowly threading back consciousness to the body below him, knitting together muscles and ligaments with an ease that was becoming far too familiar.
The angel would live, for better or worse. He would not, however, be conscious for some time, and Raphael did not bother to move him into a more comfortable position. Moving purposely into the room, his gaze took on a flicker of grimness as he surveyed the mess of bodies. Some were leaning against the tall, pale columns, groaning quietly as they waited for attention. Others still were making their way over to the few who were there to help, pressing forward even though they at least would survive for a few more hours without immediate aid. More, however, were scattered across the marble floors, drowning in a wash of blood that could have been their own.
And, on the far side of the room using his small amount of healing magic on a battered looking angel, was Katan. Of course. Katan, who was trying to save all of heaven on his own. The cherub seemed to know instinctually when Raphael entered, lifting strained eyes to meet his. There wasn't anything knowing or condescending in the gaze, just an unshielded relief that made Raphael feel decidedly uncomfortable.
He didn't acknowledge the other angel beyond that initial contact, turning his attention to the wave of injured. Some growled their politics to him as he healed them, others dared to dictate which ones he should or shouldn't save. All of them, he could tell, were unnerved by the cold, detached way in which he put them back together. If they'd expected a more personable bedside manner, they shouldn't have gotten themselves into such a stupid, stupid situation in the first place – or at least had the decency to be better looking.
It seemed hours before he was done, although surely it hadn't been that long. There were those he couldn't save, at least, ones he thought that he couldn't save without sacrificing his own life in their place, and that slight sliver of doubt stayed with him. He'd cursed them all a hundred times as he'd kneeled in their blood, the red seeping into his pristine trousers and sinking deeper, always deeper. Cursed the angels who fought between themselves, cursed the superiors who pulled the strings. Cursed the arch angel that was supposed to be here, should have been here.
God damn it, Uriel. I can't keep doing this.
The empty corridors were a relief from the claustrophobic hall, although the change did nothing to lift the haziness that always came after his healing abilities had been stretched across too many patients. He still smirked appreciatively when a pretty female angel brushed past, and still invited another one over later when their paths crossed, but it seemed to be more on reflex than through any true desire for company. Right now, what he wanted more than anything else was the solitude of his own room.
He did not break from his step as the corridor wall to his right suddenly imploded, plaster and stone crumbling as through they were instead paper. Michael didn't seem at all bothered by the destruction he had caused, he never did, nor that Raphael didn't greet him. Instead, Michael simply bounced to Raphael's side, sparing the fallen wall a mere backwards smirk before thrusting a huge horn at him.
"Souvenir. Fucking fantastic, huh?"
"It'll go perfectly with my furniture," Raphael said wryly, wincing slightly as he took the grotesque piece. His shelves and mantels were already brimming with various animal and demon parts that Michael had gifted him.
"I was thinking maybe you could hang it above your bed."
And, while he did appreciate all this on some level, Raphael was too damn tired to play this game today.
"Why exactly are you here, Michael? You usually turn up while the blood is being shed, not after."
"Are you that fucking stupid?" Michael looked almost amused. "I'm here to catch you, of course."
The words stilled Raphael mid step, and for the briefest of moments suddenly wide eyes met knowing ones. Then, his knees buckled traitorously and the haze became instead a blanket of colour, and as the corridor around him seemed to simply evaporate, strong arms wrapped protectively around his shoulders.
"Moron."
