Stigamta

Ira came awake with a start. The remnants of the nightmare swirled and clung to the edges of his brain as he tried to separate dream from reality. It wasn’t till he felt the warm body beside him shift, that he came back to himself.

He looked down and felt his racing heart steady, spying the waifish figure pressed against his side. He turned his head slightly, trying not to wake his lover, and spied his gun laying on the night stand, near his head. He had his weapon. Quil was safe. All was right with the world, well, with their world anyway. He’d never say it out loud, not with Quil near anyway. The younger man didn’t like being treated like he was fragile. But Ira couldn’t help himself. The instinct to shelter and protect was simply in his nature.

The red numbers on the clock said 6:47 a.m. No point in trying to go back to sleep now. But he stayed in bed a little longer, loving the feel of Quil’s body so near his own. The boy lay pressed against Ira’s side ,head on the big man’s shoulder, arm laying across his chest, long finger’s coming up to tangle in Ira’s hair. His slender thigh was draped across Ira’s hips. Ira would have liked to stay this way forever.

He stopped himself then. He knew better than to think like that. Nothing lasts forever, he knew that better than anyone.

Gingerly, he slid out from beneath the boy, trying not to wake him. He couldn’t hold back a smile, though, when Quil wiggled in to the warm spot Ira had just vacated. He grabbed his gun and tucked it into the back waist band of his linen trousers and slipped into the tiny bathroom, finding the light already on. He couldn’t help but give a small smile. He hated the buzzing of the room’s one florescent light. But Quil had a terrible fear of the dark, from time to time, when the nightmares were at their worst. The youth would wait until Ira was asleep, then sneak to the bathroom and turn it on, with the door open just crack, creating a night light of sorts. They didn’t talk about it often. Quil say the nightmares as a weakness, something he needed to deal with on his own. And in Quil’s world, dealing often meant pretending it never happened.

He smiled a little wider when he saw all of his things laid out on the bathroom sink. Quil had this giddy obsession with organizing things. Perhaps because he’s never had things to organizer before. Whatever the reason, the bigger man found it to be quite endearing. Ira had never been sentimental , but something about his tiny lover/partner pulled on the heartstrings Ira had never been sure he had.

“You’re growing soft,” came a voice from nowhere in particular.

Ira jumped, cursing and stared angrily at the mirror. There, staring back at him through the dirty glass, was not just his own reflection but the face as translucent as a wisp of smoke. Gabriel.

“What do you want,” Ira snapped at the Angel as he went back to brushing his teeth.

“You shouldn’t think of him as a child you know. He’s nineteen, nearly twenty. Besides, I felt the need to remind you of the true nature of your relationship with the Seer. It seemed for a moment there that you might have forgotten his place...and yours”

A flair of anger rose up in Ira’s chest. He did not like being told what to do. He spit in the sink.

“That’s pretty good talk from someone who doesn’t posses emotions. And anyway, I don’t think about him as a child. I think of him as a human being, unlike you…”

“Don’t change the subject. I’m not here to talk about him.” the angel retorted, “I’m here to talk about you, the one I chose specifically for your lack of emotion. Don’t choose now to grow a like for your own species.”

Ira growled.

“I get the fucking job done.”

“Very true, Ridden, very true,” the angel agreed, ”But if you keep thinking about your tool like that how long before it’s you who fucks up?”

With that the face in the mirror faded and was gone.

Ira growled, running a comb through his too-long, shaggy hair. Why did that winged bastard so love to piss in everyone’s lemonade?

Comes with the territory I guess. No one said beginning one of the Ridden would be easy. I mean it’s not like we got a manual or somethin to go off of, we just gotta wing it…. He thought

The Ridden, chosen by God and guided by his Angels. Guardians of the mortal world against the forces of the supernatural and maintain the balance between the realms. At the end of the day, love it or hate it, that was who Ira was. It was what he did. Had he been anyone or anything else, he’d never have met Quil in the first place. Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.

It was hard to believe it had been almost a year, a long hard year since he’d found the boy in the gutter; sick with the visions and the withdraw, just where the angel had said he’d be. He would never in all his life forget the first time he’d heard that voice, soft as leaves in the wind.

“Hello Ira. I’ve been waiting for you,” the youth had said, his voice weak from the sickness and the drugs. Then he’d lifted his head, and Ira had looked into those eyes; one bright blue, the other colorless as a bowl of sugar. After that there had been no turning back.

Damn that boy. Ira tried to stop thinking so much.

He walked in to the shabby kitchen, pulling a shirt over his head. Quil was standing at the counter, smoking one of his long cigarettes and wearing only a pair of too-big pajama pants, rolled up to his knees. Quil was almost painfully thin, the juts of his hips and shoulders standing out sharply under his milk pain skin. His shaggy blonde hair was pulled back into a short nub of a tail.

“Mornin’. Coffee?” he asked over his shoulder, his husky voice still rough with sleep. He acted no different than any other morning, despite the viciousness of last night’s fight. Ira spied the dark bruises on his lovers slim, pale arms and he felt a deep pang of guilt.

“ That’d be much appreciated, Sug,” he answered, using his lover’s pet name to fill in for an apology.

The young man’s lips quirked up in a smile and he turned back to making the coffee, while Ira sat down at the table, placing his gun near his elbow, and watched his lover make them breakfast. He loved watching Quil do the mundane tasks of every day life. It kept him sane, reminded him that at the end of the day the were both still human. Quil’s fragile beauty made him appreciate the small things in a way he never had before. But a little piece of him wondered what Quil might have looked like, how lovely he might have been, before the visions, and drugs, and a life on the street had gotten to him. Ira wondered what the boy might have looked like with a little muscle under his milk pale skin, with a little more shine to his butter-cream colored hair, a glitter of blue in both his eyes. Perhaps he would not have been so pale or sharp or wary. But then again if he weren’t those things he wouldn’t really be Quil. Not Ira’s Quil anyway. Like it or not Ira wouldn’t have wanted him any other way but pale as spun sugar. That’s why Ira called him Sugar Baby, or sometimes just Sug for short. Though Ira couldn’t deny that under that milk and honey skin, Quil was hard as steel and sharp as razor blades.

Ira was snapped out of his thoughts as Quil sat a chipped white mug of steaming hot coffee on the table in front of him.

“Sleep well?”

Quil’s voice was soft and deep and smooth, like molasses.

Ira smiled at the youth sitting next him, one leg curled beneath him in the mismatched wooden chair, lighting another cigarette.

“Well enough. What about you? I saw you left the light on.”

“Oh,” Quil responded, looking intently at the swirling black surface of his coffee, taking a deep drag before he continued, with a shrug, “That was for you. You almost always puke when you get that drunk.”

Ira felt another shot of guilt. He had been under a lot of stress the past few days, worrying about their upcoming missions, the cryptic visions, and the feel of unusual unrest. He didn’t think a couple of drinks would hurt, just take the edge off of things. But two had become four and four had turned into six, like it always did. He hadn’t meant to snap on Quil, who was only trying to help, but before he could stop himself he had thrown the boy against the wall.

“Oh,” Ira said, feeling a little ashamed, “ Are you all right? I didn’t mean to hurt you, ya know.”

Quil shrugged lightly. His nonchalance at the violence still made Ira uncomfortable.

“Just a few bruises. No worse than any other time. How’s your lip?”

If Ira hadn’t feel like shit before, he sure as hell did now. Ira resisted the urge to lick the cut on his lip, where Quil had hit him. He didn’t remember getting that, but he was more than a little glad to have it. He deserved it and so much worse. Quil was a good fighter, but much quicker than Ira. If he’d left a mark on the bigger man, it was because he hadn’t had a choice or a place to run.

Quil saw the change in Ira’s face, and laid a pale hand on top of his lover’s. Silver on Copper. Then it was over, quick as a flash. Ira went back to reading through his files while Quil finished his coffee, got up, and began washing the cup out.

After a few moments, Ira sensed something was different. He stopped, listing to the sounds in the tiny apartment. A sluggish breeze from the open windows, the noise of people and traffic outside, the water running in the sink. Then there it was, the resonating sound of ceramic shattering on the scrubbed linoleum floor, sending shards of thick glass every where. Quil stood by the sink, stock still, making no indication he realized he’d even dropped the glass. He was staring straight ahead, at something beyond the wall, something beyond the vision of normal people. Slowly he raised a hand, as if to touch something Ira could not see.

Ira leapt from his chair in an instant, pulling the barefoot man over to the table and sitting him down in the chair. He hurriedly placed a piece of paper in front of Quil and slipped a pencil into his slack hand. Still staring at the beyond, the Quil began to draw, muttering unintelligibly under his breath. Ira watched him intently, watching to see what news the vision would bring. In the back of his mind, he noted that later he would have to tend the hundreds of little cuts that now decorated Quil’s calves and feet. Then Quil took a deep shuddering breath, and it was over. The youth blinked slowly, and latched onto the arm Ira offered him, steadying himself.

“What did you see?” Ira asked worriedly

Quil lifted his head slowly and their eyes met.

“He needs to see us. Now.”