A note before we begin: I have not (and will never, being someone who recalls the ancient texts) read any Cassie Claire, and I have not ever seen a single episode of Supernatural. My background in this subject comes from Madeleine L'Engle, and from a great deal of time spent studying the theology of early Coptic Christians, with a little bit of inspiration taken from Maimonides, though he would not approve of what I've written here. I want that on the record. Stick with me here folks, there's some twists and turns ahead I think you'll like. Ok here we go.

The elevator was broken - the elevator was always fucking broken, and why she insisted on living in a place where the super couldn't even be bothered to keep the elevator in working order he'd never understand - so he went tearing up the stairs, taking them two at a time, breathing like a bull charging the red flag. Rage propelled him, a rage bright and feral; he was incandescent with rage, so hellbent on accomplishing his task and so fucking angry he probably would've bitten anyone who stood in his way. The anger was familiar, comfortable; the anger was easy. The anger was so big it left no room for anything else, and so long as he was angry he did not have to feel other emotions, like remorse or self-recrimination. He was too angry to feel guilty, and he liked the anger a hell of a lot more than the alternative, however misdirected that anger might have been. On some level, beneath the anger, beneath the ferocious death knells of the wounded beast of his heart, he knew it was wrong, to be angry. Knew it was wrong to cast blame anywhere other than on himself. Knew it, but did it anyway; he'd done it before. I can't be looking over my shoulder…it had been years since he'd said those words, but he could hear his own voice echoing in his mind, and maybe it should've slowed him down, but it didn't. Just something else to feel remorseful about later.

There was the matter of the text message, too, the message from his wife; he had chosen to be angry about that as well, but he'd feel guilty about it when the cloud of his rage had passed and grief came for him. If you don't come home now, don't come home at all. After nearly thirty years, five children, and a perilously close brush with divorce, his entire marriage had come down to a single ultimatum. If you don't come home now, don't come home at all.

He hadn't come home.

Instead he'd come here, to the fourth floor of this inconspicuous block of apartments with its busted ass elevator. Instead he'd come here, and the door he crashed into, the one he was beating his fists against as if it were a child molester and not a simple hollow core door, that door did not belong to his family's home. It was hers. Olivia's.

She answered it quickly, a breath or two after he'd started banging, probably alarmed and not wanting to scare the neighbors. It had been hours since she'd been sent home; she'd had enough time to eat dinner and take a shower and wash Sister Peg's blood off her hands, time to spend alone in contemplation of the day's horrific events, time that Elliot had not been given, because he'd been scooped up by IAB and spent most of the afternoon and evening locked up in a room with his union lawyer and Tucker. It wasn't her fault she'd been allowed to go home and it wasn't her fault that Elliot had chosen not to, but he resented her, just a little, for having been allowed to leave on her own terms, for having a home to go back to, since apparently he didn't anymore. The fact that the loss of his home was his own doing hardly registered now. It would, though. Later.

She opened the door, no doubt knowing already what was waiting for her on the other side of it, no doubt having recognized him by the sound of his fists alone. The sight of her made him angrier, somehow, because she was beautiful, was so fucking beautiful, because she was sad, because none of this was her fault, because he wanted to blame her anyway, just to spare himself. It seemed he'd been right, about the shower; her hair was damp and softly curling around her shoulders, her face washed clean of makeup, no trace of blood on her hands. She wore a pair of stretchy black lounge pants and a plain, loose white t-shirt, and she looked lovelier than any goddamn model he'd ever seen, and he'd seen more than his fair share.

"What's gotten into you?" she demanded, watching him warily, one hand still on the door, blocking the entrance with her body.

"We're gonna talk," Elliot told her darkly. It was not a request. "And I'm gonna ask some questions and you're gonna answer them, Liv. Enough's enough."

For a moment she watched him cooly, something like ice in her dark eyes, probably wondering what would happen if she slammed the door in his face. But they had been partners too long, and they knew one another too well; she knew him too well. If she kicked him out he would not leave, not when he was in a mood like this, would only shout and bang and kick the door until her neighbors called the cops. Let some uni come and put him in cuffs, Elliot thought belligerently; the day might as well end that way. He ought to be arrested, after what he'd done.

You killed her you killed her you killed her, a terrified voice was chanting in the back of his mind, and he needed Liv to let him in, needed her to let him speak, and drown out the sound of that voice. Jenna was a child, nearly the same age as Lizzie, and she had been under his protection, and he'd killed her, and he'd killed her because -

"All right," Olivia said. "Just keep your voice down, all right? I don't want you scaring my neighbors."

Fuck your neighbors, he thought, but she'd opened the door, and so he stepped through it at once, moving to establish himself in the apartment quickly, before she had a chance to change her mind. As soon as he heard her slide the deadbolt home he whirled on her, took a step forward and watched her retreat until her back was flush to the door, watching him like she was scared of him, and he hated himself for it.

"Tell me the truth," he said. "I feel like I'm going out of my mind here, Liv, and I need you to tell me the goddamn truth."

"Elliot, you need to -"

"I need to know!" he barked. Probably she was gonna tell him to calm down, or go home to Kathy, or take a fucking breath, but he couldn't do any of those things now.

"You haven't asked me anything-"

"You aren't hurt," he said. She was right, he hadn't asked yet. He needed to get the words out before he could expect an accounting from her. "You said all that blood on your shirt was from Sister Peg. The medics said you're fine. But I saw it, Liv."

He let the words land, his eyes trained unblinking on her face, searching for some sign that she understood why he was so angry, why he'd come here tonight, searching for some tell that she was already formulating a lie in her mind, but her face was dark and unreadable to him, and that just made him feel worse, because they knew one another, Elliot and Olivia, had worked together for thirteen fucking years and he knew her, and he was supposed to be able to read her. It was an uncomfortable sensation, the sudden not knowing.

"She shot you," he said. "I saw it." Had seen the gun in Jenna's hand, trembling, had seen it swing out, had seen Sister Peg hit the ground, had seen Olivia's body jerk as the second bullet blasted into her stomach, had seen the crimson torrent of her blood staining her shirt. He had seen it, but only him; everyone else had either been behind her or looking at Jenna. Elliot was the only one who'd been looking at her, and he had seen it, and his heart had shattered, and he'd reacted on instinct, and taken Jenna down. Taken her down, not because she'd killed the men who'd hurt her mother, not because she'd killed Sister Peg, not because she posed a risk to everyone else in the bullpen; he'd shot Jenna because she'd shot Liv. Only when Jenna breathed her last and the bullpen went quiet and Elliot looked for Olivia wildly, desperately, she wasn't acting like she was hurt at all, and Cragen had quarantined him alone in the Captain's office and he'd watched through the glass while the medics cleared her and IAB took her statement and she was sent home and there was nothing, no sign of the harm that had been done to her. But he'd seen it, and he had to know.

"Elliot-"

"All that blood on your shirt," he said. "Where you were standing when Peg got shot, the angles were all wrong. There's no way it came from her." It hadn't been blowback from Peg's wound splattered across Liv's stomach, and Liv's stomach hadn't come into contact with the Sister as she lay dying. That blood, it was Liv's. But she was standing here right in front of him, apparently unscathed, and none of it made any goddamn sense.

"Thirteen years, Olivia," he said grimly. "We've had each other's backs, and we've always told each other the truth."

Technically, they had always told each other the truth. There were a number of truths they'd left unspoken, and they both knew it, but keeping quiet wasn't the same as lying. She'd never lied to him before.

Except he was starting to believe that she had.

"Gitano," he said, and watched her blanch like she'd been struck. "I saw him cut you, Liv. You should've died. You should've bled out right there on the floor. And you didn't even need a stitch?"

And another child had died because Elliot had rushed to defend Olivia. Two dead kids, and both times Liv was fine, when she had no right to be.

"Whatever it is," he said. "Whatever this is, I deserve to fucking know." I've killed for you, he thought. God forgive me, but I have. And I need to know why. "And if you can't be honest with me right now, I never want to see you again."

It was the cruelest possible thing he could have said. It cut her to the quick; he saw it, saw her dark eyes go big and doe-like and sad, saw the way her shoulders curled in and she wrapped her arms around herself, a gesture of self-comfort she'd learned as a child when she'd had no one to love her. That made him angry, too, how devastated she seemed at the thought of him walking out on her, made him angry with himself for threatening her that way, made him angry at God, the fucking universe, fate, whatever it was that had made her so fucking lonesome, when she was beautiful and strong and brave and good and deserved love more than anyone else alive. When he wanted, desperately, to be the one to love her, and knew he'd never get the chance. It was downright mean, the words he'd said, but he knew it was the only way he'd ever force her hand. The only thing they couldn't stand to lose was each other.

"I'm not sure you're ready to hear what I have to say," she said slowly.

That threw him off balance; it didn't sound to him like she was denying his accusations. But how could she not? What possible explanation could there be for all this? How could she have been shot, and yet recovered in the span of a few minutes? It defied all logic, but she wasn't denying it.

"I need to know," he said earnestly, pleading almost.

"I don't think you'll understand if I tell you. I think…I think I need to show you."

What the fuck does that mean?

"Turn around, please."

"Olivia, what the fuck-"

"I need to take my shirt off," she said with an unnatural calmness. It was an act, he thought; she was forcing herself to speak slowly and evenly, just like she would with a victim, just like she would if she was afraid. He could see the terror in her eyes, and he felt it echoed in his own heart, but he couldn't back down. The blood of two children was on his hands, and he needed to know why.

"Ok," he said tightly, and turned his back.

The apartment was quiet for a moment, deathly still save for the sound of fabric rustling as she stripped out of her shirt, as she dropped it slowly to the ground.

"Ok," she said into that deathly silence. "Turn around."

On instinct he obeyed her, and turned slowly on his heel, and found himself face-to-face with the smooth tanned skin of her back. She'd shucked her bra, too, a plain tan cotton affair she still held tight in her hands, folded across her chest. All he could see was her back, the arch of her spine from the nape of her neck to the spread of her hips. No scar, no tattoo, nothing, just her, soft and warm and beautiful, and he ached, looking at her, seeing her more exposed than he ever had before, and maybe he should have said something but his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth and he could not draw breath to speak.

"Watch," Olivia said softly.

And he did. He watched, silently, as the elegant lines of her shoulder blades shifted, as if she were stretching. Watched, in breathless confusion, in a dizzying, growing sense of horror. Watched unblinking, and because he watched, because he was sober and of sound mind - ish - and fully aware of his surroundings and the choices and mistakes that had led him to this point, he would not ever be able to deny what he saw then. He watched, and he saw, and his whole world was shattered.

As he watched, spellbound and breathless, it seemed to him that he could see something moving beneath Olivia's skin. Almost as if he could see her very bones moving, the blades of her shoulders growing more and more pronounced, until it seemed like they were about to burst from her skin, and he would have screamed, but his lungs had been frozen solid by fear, and so he only stood there motionless, mouth agape, as with a soft rustling sound a pair of great feathered wings unfurled slowly from Olivia's back. Well, it felt slow; it took somewhat more than three seconds but somewhat less than five for the wings to settle, and then they spread wide, so wide, towering over her by a foot, maybe two, maybe ten feet from tip to tip. They were wings, covered all over in brilliant feathers, a shade of white so bright it was difficult to look at. Wings, beautiful, and graceful, the feathers making the same soft sound as an autumn breeze whispering through pine needles on the ground. Wings, like an angel's.

"Olivia," he croaked, and she looked back at him, her face framed between the curve of her shoulder and the rise of one of the wings. One of her wings.

"I didn't lie," she said softly, sadly. "My mother was raped, Elliot. But she was raped a long, long time ago, and she wasn't raped by a man."

In that moment Elliot's legs gave out, and he crashed to his knees, the weight of this revelation too great for his body to bear. Angels and demons, giants ten feet tall and men who lived for centuries, all those old stories about the shape of the world before the flood, they were only stories, and while he believed wholeheartedly in God and heaven and hell, the rest of it, the angels and the demons and all of it, he'd always thought of it sort of abstractly. No more real to him than ghosts, or fairies; who had time to worry about angels when there were bills to pay and mouths to feed?

"She wasn't the only one," Olivia continued in that same sad voice. There was something resigned to her tone, something that made him feel as if she weren't just telling him the truth; it felt as if she was letting him go.

"There were giants in the earth in those days," she said, and it sounded to him like she was quoting something, but it was nothing he'd ever heard before, "and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown."

"Olivia," he breathed her name in a reverent, holy terror.

"They called us nephilim," she said. "The children of the sons of God and the daughters of man. Not fully angels, not fully human, but something else, something that never should have been. I never should have been, Elliot. But I am, and I'm here."

She was right, he thought; she was right, that she had not lied to him. She had told him what she was, and he had been the foolish one, trying to convince her otherwise. She was something that never should have been, but she was, just the same.

And she was beautiful, and she was sad, and she was his partner, and he had killed a child and forsaken his marriage for her sake, and he would do it all again, he thought, looking up at the radiant beauty of her, the majestic spread of those softly rustling wings. He would burn the whole world down for her.