Angel

by Merrow, JL;

  “Like what you see, Donnie? Or is it all too much, too tainted?” He moved back towards Don. “I’ll bet it’s not what you see when you look in the mirror. Is there a single blemish on you, Donnie? Is what’s under those clothes as perfect as that angel face of yours?”

  “I’m not perfect,” Don returned angrily, fighting the urge to back away.

  “Maybe what you see in the mirror isn’t what I see, then.” Michael reached up a hand to stroke Don’s face. Don shivered at the jarringly delicate touch. He could feel the heat coming from the man’s body, and those glacial eyes were mesmerizing, so close to his own. Suddenly Michael’s other hand shot out and around Don’s waist, pulling them together. Don could feel Michael’s erection pressing into his groin, making his own cock stiffen in response. He should pull away, he should…

  He should not let Michael kiss him, his tongue tasting of whiskey and of want. Should not allow his hands to snake around the other man then, mindful of his injuries, fall to his hips. Should not use his hold on Michael to pull him closer, tighter.

  Michael’s hand stroked his face once more, then moved to run through Don’s hair. Gently, as if he were afraid his fingers might become tangled in Don’s curls, might cause him pain. Don moaned softly, bewildered by the force of his desire for this damaged man, and when he felt Michael pushing him away he resisted without thinking.

  But Michael was smiling up at him, the light in his eyes now seeming white-hot where before, it had been icy. “Can’t get anywhere with you like that, now, can we?” he asked, unbuckling Don’s belt. He undressed Don with the same eerie gentleness.

  If Michael had been rough, Don thought, he could have stopped this. A touch of discomfort, of pain, and he might have come to his senses. He was paralyzed by the care Michael took, by his soft, almost reverent touches. And when Michael dropped to his knees and took Don in his mouth, there was no more thought, only sensation, and he could not have stopped had his life depended upon it. He bucked into Michael’s mouth, eyes fixed upon that dark head as Michael took him further and yet further. Fingers raked through the honey-coloured curls at Don’s groin, and dropped to fondle his balls. Don moaned again. Things were happening so fast; it was exhilarating yet terrifying.

  Michael pulled off a little, teasing the head of Don’s cock with his tongue, pressing it into the slit. It was too much. Don grabbed his head and forced it down again, forced his cock as far down Michael’s throat as it would go, and with a sobbing cry, came.

  It wasn’t until he had ridden out the aftershocks that Don realized his iron grip upon Michael’s hair had to be hurting the man. He let go, hurriedly, and watched numbly as Michael clambered to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Michael was still erect, Don noticed with a stab of guilt.

  But Michael smiled at him in that odd way of his. “Time for that shower. You coming?”

  Don looked down at himself and saw with horror that his hands and arms were smeared with Michael’s blood. He felt filthy, unclean. He’d wanted to save Michael, and instead all he’d done was use him. “I should go,” he said abruptly, forcing himself to meet Michael’s gaze.

  It was as if a sea of Arctic water had doused the fire in Michael’s eyes. The chill washed over Don as well, searing his soul with its cold burn. “Then go,” Michael told him, his voice flat.

  Don dressed, his fingers numb, and left.

  When he got home, he threw all of the clothes he’d been wearing into a garbage sack and showered until long after the water had run cold and clear.

  * * * *

  Walking into church next morning, Don almost expected to be struck down, just as Michael had been all those years ago. Was there accusation in the gaze of his fellow churchgoers? Or simply concern for the haunted appearance and dark-rimmed eyes Don had been unable to banish?

  Don took his seat at the back of the hall and kept his head down, no doubt presenting an attitude of piety and devotion. The thought was a bitter one. He struggled to listen to the sermon—when had he ever been in more need of God’s guidance?—but the meaning of the preacher’s words trickled from his mind like holy water through a priest’s fingers at a baptism.

  Robert, the church elder, came over at the end of the service, as Don was about to slip out without staying for coffee. “Don, I wonder, might I have a word?”

  Don felt trapped. “I, uh, I’m sure you’ve got lots of things to do…”

  Robert smiled. “Nothing that’s more important than the welfare of my congregation. Why don’t you step into the office?”

  He led the way to the back of the church, to what had once been the vestry, dealing swiftly and graciously with members of the departing congregation who tried to collar him. “Now, sit down, please. And don’t look so alarmed. This isn’t an inquisition. I simply noticed that—well, to be frank, you don’t look well, and I saw that you didn’t take communion today. I just wanted to be sure there isn’t some problem I could help you deal with.”

  Odd, how fatherly Robert could seem, given that he was neither an ordained priest nor more than a handful of years older than Don himself. Don sighed. “I guess I’m missing going to confession. I—I did something last night I’m not proud of, and I didn’t sleep well. That’s all it is, really.”

  Robert gave a wry little chuckle. “You’re human; you make mistakes. All of us do. If you truly regret what you’ve done, you may rest assured that God has already forgiven you.” He paused, and then leaned forward to look at Don intently. “Are you sure that’s all it is, though? Because there seemed to be a little uncertainty in your tone.”

  “I—” Don got up abruptly, unable to sit still. “I had sex with a man. That’s wrong, isn’t it? I mean, I know you accept gay couples in the church, but we’re not—I mean, we’re not in a relationship. And we shouldn’t be.”

  “He’s married?”

  “What? No, no, he’s—it’s complicated.” Don took a deep breath. “He’s a client—I mean, I’m his parole officer. Was. I’ve handed the case over.” But he hadn’t told Michael that, had he? “And he’s…vulnerable.”

  “Vulnerable? In what way? Is he much younger than you?”

  “No, no, we’re the same age. He’s—he thinks he’s damned,” Don forced out, the whole truth seeming too unbelievable to even contemplate confessing it. If Robert thought him ill now, what would he think if Don told him he’d seen a man with demon’s wings?

  Robert was inexorable. “Why should he think that? Was his crime so very bad?”

  No. Maybe. “It’s not what he’s done. It’s…” Don ran a hand through his hair. “Do you believe in demons?”

  There was a pause as Robert looked at him in surprise, and seemed to consider his words. “I think, for me to be able to answer your question, I would have to know precisely what it is you’re asking. For instance, if you are asking if I believe that there are forces in this world that can influence us for bad, if we let them, then I would have to say an unequivocal yes. But one has to remember that it is only human nature to want to find some external reason for actions of which we are less than proud—”

  “I’m not saying it because I want someone to blame! It wasn’t—it was all my fault, not his.” Don leaned on the back of his abandoned chair, and regarded Robert earnestly. “He hasn’t done anything. That’s why it’s so unfair.” He looked away, exasperated with himself. “I’m not making sense, am I? He—he thinks he’s a demon. Accursed.” Even now, Don couldn’t bring himself to mention what he’d seen.

  “Don, you tell me you’re not in a relationship with this man, but it seems to me that you have strong feelings for him.” Robert was silent for a moment. “Does he return your feelings?”

  Don almost laughed. “He must hate me, now. After we’d—afterwards, I just walked out on him.” He sat down and rested his head in his hands. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Robert’s tone was kind when he answered. “I think, perhaps, some sort of apology might be in order, hmm? And I
suggest you pray for guidance on how best to help your friend. It strikes me that he is in need of spiritual aid, but it’ll be no good unless he’s willing to receive it.” He paused. “I should very much like to meet this young man of yours. Do you think you may be able to persuade him to come along one Sunday?”

  Don did laugh, then. It had a bitter ring. “He’s not had a good experience with Church-going, in the past.”

  Robert smiled sadly. “I’m afraid that’s true of far too many people. Christians, I regret to say, can on occasion be just as intolerant as anyone else. Not all of us can be saints.”

  “I told him that,” Don muttered distractedly.

  “I’m glad,” Robert said. “I wonder, did you also tell him that our Lord does not turn away any who truly come to him?”

  “Even demons?”

  “People forget that even the demons were angels once. They simply took a wrong turning, once upon a time.”

  “You’re saying it should be easy for him to turn back to God?”

  Robert smiled ruefully once more. “We all have to find our own way to God, and for some of us it is easier than for others, no matter how it may appear to the outsider. You of all people should be aware of that. I hope your friend will find his way back into the fold, for his sake and for yours. But you cannot force him to take it.”

  * * * *

  Don stood in front of Michael’s door for several minutes that night, steeling himself to rap on the peeling door. The sound, when he made it, was jarringly loud even over the half-heard noise from the street outside. If it hadn’t been for the knowledge that he’d have to meet him across a desk on Monday morning—or worse, report him as a no-show—Don didn’t think he’d have gone through with it.

  There was no clue in Michael’s face as to what he was feeling as he wordlessly opened the door wide, clad only in a pair of jeans slung low on his hips. After a moment gazing at Don, he turned and padded barefoot to the kitchen. Don followed, unable to keep his eyes off Michael’s slender, disfigured back. He supposed it would still be a little uncomfortable with a shirt on, although the damage did look ridiculously minor in the light of day. Either Michael had washed his jeans since the night before, or this was a different pair; there were no spots of blood marring the denim.

  “Coffee?” Michael asked abruptly. “Or did you just feel like a fuck?”

  Don hung his head. “I’m sorry about last night. I didn’t mean for anything to happen and when it did, I—well, I freaked out a little. I’m sorry,” he repeated. “Are you all right?” he asked impulsively, looking up just in time to catch a flicker of emotion pass across Michael’s face before the mask dropped firmly back in place.

  “Oh, I’m fine, Donnie,” he said expressionlessly, spooning coffee into the filter. “You do know our next appointment’s not for another ten hours, don’t you?”

  “You want me to leave?”

  “Does it make any difference to you what I want?”

  “Of course it does!” Don sighed. “You’ve every right to be angry with me.”

  “The righteous anger of a demon? I think a lot of people would have problems with that concept, Donnie.”

  “I think a lot of people would have problems with the concept of a man with wings, Michael,” Don said quietly.

  Bizarrely, Michael was smiling, although as always, there was a bitter twist. “Aren’t you going to ask me where they go?”

  “What?”

  “The wings. Aren’t you wondering where they disappear to when I fold them? It’s what I’d ask.”

  “Okay, so where do they go?”

  Michael looked away, his inky hair sweeping his shoulders as he turned and leaving Don with the strange fancy that it ought to leave brushstrokes upon his flesh in its wake. “I don’t know. To Hell, I guess.”

  “But you don’t know.” It only took two strides for Don to cross the room and look Michael directly in the eye. “I spoke to our church leader today. He told me…things I already knew, but had forgotten. Do you know, Michael, what the difference is between an angel and a demon?”

  Michael’s lip curled. “Are you mocking me?”

  Don took an involuntary step back. “No! There is no difference. The demons are simply angels who have walked away from God—”

  There was a noise like a thunderclap as Michael’s wings snapped out. In the tiny apartment, the sound seemed to echo. He couldn’t open them fully in here, Don noted dully, fighting a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as Michael stepped toward him angrily. “Don’t tell me these are the stigmata of a celestial being!”

  Don stood his ground. “I told you before: looks have no correlation with holiness. The way you look—the way I look—it’s nothing but an accident of birth. God sees what’s in your heart.”

  “Is that right, Donnie? Because God had the chance to see what was in my heart when I was ten years old, and he didn’t like what he saw. Or had you forgotten that?” Michael paced angrily, wings twitching. “I was a boy. A child, and your God rejected me!”

  Don hesitated, then reached out and placed a hand on Michael’s arm. Michael stilled at once, but Don could feel the tension quivering through his lean, tortured body.

  Don spoke quietly. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget that day. But the water that burned you was blessed by Father Thomas. It was his church you were flung out of, and his curse that banished you. And he’s a good man, a good Christian—but his faith is narrow, not broad, and it doesn’t bend.” Don gave a wry smile. “I believe he’s still praying for me to turn from the sinful path of homosexuality.”

  He paused. “You should come to my church next Sunday. It’ll be different there, if you let it be. I think…I think it has to be a two-way process. No one’s a Christian by default; it doesn’t work like that. Remember what I told you about free will? You have to use it. Exercise your God-given right to choose whether or not to turn to Him.”

  “And why should I turn to Him, as you put it? Why should I go against my nature, my origins, and take that risk?”

  “Because you’re not happy,” Don told him simply. “I know you’re not—the way you speak, the things you do to yourself- “

  Michael’s lip curled. “You’re displaying a great deal of ignorance and prejudice about the BDSM lifestyle.”

  “No, I’m—I don’t know, all right? I don’t understand it and I probably never will. I can accept that some people find it satisfying—but you don’t, do you? It’s not about pleasure, for you. It’s about your need to be punished for who you are.” Don flinched as Michael took a step toward him, but held his ground. “I spoke to the arresting officer on your case, you know. He said it was as if you wanted to go to jail. That you called the police and the first thing you said was that you’d killed a man. Not that there had been an accident, but that you’d killed him.”

  “So you’d take an admission of guilt as proof of innocence?” Michael turned away. “Strange how the court didn’t agree.” His tone was bitter.

  “Damn it, what do you want?” Don cried, exasperated. “You tell the police you’re guilty, of course they’re going to believe it! What did you expect?” He ran a hand through his hair, abruptly weary. “Look, Robert—he’s the leader of Holy Trinity Church, the one I go to now—I spoke to him about you, and it was his idea for you to come along next Sunday. I think he can help you.”

  “And you told him what I am?” Michael’s eyes were piercing.

  Don flushed. “Yes.”

  “You’re a poor liar, Donnie.” Michael wrenched his arm free of Don’s tentative grasp and leaned on the windowsill, staring once again at the dirt upon the pane. “You should go now.”

  Don stood there for a moment, looking at the bowed shoulders, the tensed wings. Hesitantly, he reached out his arm once more—then sighed, and let it fall. “Please think about it. I won’t…I won’t see you Monday. You’ll be seeing one of my co-workers. I couldn’t keep on…It wasn’t ethical. But I still want to help you.”

>   Did he just imagine Michael’s stiff figure hunching in on itself even further, as if in pain?

  Michael’s voice was hoarse. “You should forget about me, Donnie. Go. Go and forget about me.”

  “I’ll go,” Don told him. But I’ll never be able to forget you. As he opened the door, he chanced one look back at Michael—and the desperate longing upon Michael’s face was enough to make Don’s heart clench in pain. Should he stay after all?

  “Go,” Michael repeated softly.

  Don left.

  * * * *

  It was probably a sin, Don thought guiltily a week later, to allow his attention to wander when the preacher got a little long-winded. But looking around at the glazed eyes of the rest of the congregation, it seemed he had plenty of company in his transgressions. Will Baldwin was a bible-thumper of the old school, bless him, who thought that if a point was worth making it was worth making several times over.

  Don found his mind straying in a predictable direction. Was it more of a sin if instead of concentrating on the preacher’s words, you were thinking of a demon? He hadn’t seen Michael since the previous Sunday, having forced himself all week to respect the man’s wish to be left alone. Don hadn’t even reported him for not turning up to his Monday appointment. Don’s colleagues would be horrified if they knew—if they even believed it of Don. Any faint spark of hope that he might see Michael today had flickered and died as the service wore on. Although in truth, it hadn’t been very strong to start with.

  It had taken several nights of agonizing over the possible harm he might cause before he plucked up the courage, but Don had prayed for Michael. Not that he’d come to church, no, that hadn’t seemed right, despite what Robert had said, but that he’d find the path that was right for him. And if Don had also allowed a hint that he’d like that path to include him—well, he was only human, wasn’t he? He tried to push down the nagging worry that he was wrong, that it was his actions, not his prayers, that Michael needed. Surely the events of the previous week had shown that to be a lie?