Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's "Preacher." Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: Based on the popular fan theory that Fiore and Deblanc are actually Genesis parents. I wanted to examine their backstory a bit and ended up getting ahead of myself, so-
Disclaimer:canon appropriate violence, blood, gore, injury, death, religious imagery/definitions/symbolism/discussion.
Temenos
Chapter Nine
Neither of them moved.
He flat out just didn't breathe.
He couldn't.
All his energy was focused on the pale, long fingered hand that was sharing space with his. Layered across the dirty-dark of his palm like it belonged there. Like Fiore wanted it there. Like-
They remained frozen together as he counted the hiccuping thrum of his heart. Trying not to lose himself in the strange spreading pleasure that threatened to change everything. Realizing with growing panic that his anger had been a smokescreen for something else. Something deeper. More-
"What are you-? I don't-"
An age passed before Fiore's fingers flexed awkwardly against his. Catching in the grooves as he spread his skin and laced their fingers together like a divine catechism. All of it happened without him even thinking about it. Natural like breathing as he squeezed gently. Uncertain of what to do about it when Fiore let go of an obscene little gasp. Head tipping back like it was too much as something in the pit of his belly smoldered.
And it felt-
Oh god.
It was-
"I don't understand," Fiore issued hoarsely. Grasping his hand tightly all the same as an overstimulated mewl rose up from his throat unbidden. Making no move to pull away as the sharp of his nails ghosted down the tender of the angel's palm.
"Neither do I, my dear," he whispered, stunned into a strange sort of contentment as the moment stretched. Rumbling low and sweet and unabashedly hungry under his skin. "Neither do I."
But part of him did.
Part of him knew that somehow this was what they'd been working their way up to all along.
That it was unstoppable.
Right.
Fiore was nonverbal beside him.
Coming to grips with it just like he was.
Working it out.
Justifying it.
The muscles under his skin jumping.
Twitching.
Translating into something stiff and unyielding until-
Because before he could come to terms with it, the tension was bleeding out of him like water rinsing out an infected sore. Unfurling around him like the soft pedals of a flower that'd just found a superior patch of sun. Feeling him - Fiore – in every way he possibly could as the angel's grace nudged hesitantly at his darkness. Pressing up against the underside of his skin like an overture as he gritted his teeth and let it in. Unsure and trembling until the light simply curled up in the center of his chest with an eon-old sigh and settled.
The terrible part was that it hurt.
The purity of Fiore's grace made his horns ache and his insides burn.
It was too much.
Maybe even too much for him to bear.
Highlighting the divide between them as needle-sharp throbs spread from where they were joined.
But he welcomed it all the same.
Anything Fiore gave him, he would accept.
He'd come to terms with that a long time ago.
They sat together, silent in the aftermath.
Soaking in the power of it as their hands grew clammy and slippery with sweat.
But they didn't pull away.
The discovery was too precious for that.
Too new.
And somewhere in the depths of him, the fragile little part he thought Hell had burned away - the stubborn part that still clung to the inner of his skin, the one with the homesick heart - stuttered itself into a shocked, but contented silence.
He prodded at the inner of his palm later in the mildew-dank of his usual nest. Worrying the spot where Fiore's hand had been like it was a fresh wound. Macabrely curious as his skin eventually tore and pitch-red blood leaked from the growing wound. Waiting impatiently for the good sensation to return.
Greedy for it.
Addicted.
Only it didn't and he wasn't sure why.
No, that was lie.
He knew why.
He didn't want to, but he did.
Huffing in frustration when he realized the common denominator was missing.
Fiore.
He just didn't want to admit the reality that was going to come with it. Knowing deep down in the marrow of him that this wasn't going to end well. But also knowing, just as deep, that he would doing anything just for a second more of it.
He supposed that meant something profound.
That there was a word for the feeling.
Only he couldn't remember it.
He was still considering the problem when a lone demon descended into the nest with a noticeable limp. Hissing with pain and ill-temper as she slid down the muddy edge and firmed against his side. Her long black hair stringy and slicked thin to her scalp, stinking of rot and mildew.
"What happened to you?" another demon asked. A ganging creature with horns smaller than theirs - younger by at least a thousand years as he lifted his head from the pile of sleeping flesh and eyed her wound with distaste.
"Adelphi scum," she answered, slapping the youngling's hand away as it darted up to poke at the edges of the sword-slash that'd torn out a good chunk of her stomach flesh.
"Why didn't you just let it finish you?"
He held his breath. Waiting for the reaction he knew would-
"Mind your own business, gutter-swill! I don't give the fair ones the satisfaction of the kill when I can help it. Unlike some," she spat, eying the younger as she leaned the majority of her weight against him. Shoulder to shoulder like he and Fiore had been only hours earlier and everything about it was wrong, wrong, wrong.
The base of his horns throbbed again.
He wanted to rip himself away.
To ram his fist through the rotting wet of her belly and finish the job.
Anything to get away.
His nails bled through the inner of his palms. Holding himself back as the demon turned to look at him, irritated by his unwelcoming stiffness.
"Ease up, brother," she snarked, squirming against him as she tried to get comfortable. "You might break a nail.
He knew her better than he knew the others. They had rested together before. Even had each other more than once as the centuries marched past. And for good reason. She had crawled out of the pits hours before him. They were the sole survivors of their batch of tortured souls – the only ones who found their way out of the maelstrom to be promoted to the battlefield. Her face had been the first these eyes had seen after the human soul had been burned away. Before Fiore she'd been the closest thing he had to-
The she-demon wrinkled her nose. Looking him up and down with clear disgust.
"You smell strange," she growled, eyes glowing red as she scented the air. Seeming to zero in on the palm Fiore had been holding earlier. "Cleaner...complicated."
Fear wasn't an unfamiliar emotion, even to a demon.
But that was the moment he realized it had shades.
A/N: Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. – More to come, stay tuned.