It would be over soon.  Everything would stop hurting soon.  Pain is temporary, always temporary.  Everything hurt so very much... what was one more bruise?  The youth could have laughed if it didn’t feel as though his throat had been rubbed raw with sandpaper.  Then, when the contact with pavement didn’t occur... he blinked owlishly at the man whose arms prevented the fall.  Something was trying to force its way into his thoughts, struggling through the haze of pain that threatened to choke him, and make his senses fade.  It had stopped.  The pain wasn’t gone, but the beating had stopped.  His name.  He heard his name.

Lashes fluttered as he struggled to maintain his awareness, the color of his eyes dimming and brightening in stages.  He opened his mouth to speak, but coughed wetly, heaved a shuddering breath out of his lungs and struggled to keep his feet under him.

“H-how...”  he croaked.  He swallowed the metallic taste in his mouth, trying to force his bruised jaw to work.  “How do you know my name?”

If there was an answer, Angel never heard it.  His eyes had a feverish gleam to them, roving about his surroundings madly, trying to get his bearings, looking for his way home.  He knew the way... tried to stagger in that direction.  He lost his footing and would’ve fallen, but strong arms caught him again.  He would’ve struggled, if he had the strength.  He barely had the strength to keep his eyes open, let alone fight.  His vision faded as he felt his feet swept out from under him.  His head listed to the side, and was instantly cradled against a warm shoulder.  Distantly, he felt himself being carried.

He clawed against the fog that clouded his mind, groping blindly for his way home.  He should turn soon.  It was the old apartment building at the end of the road.  It might have been grandiose when this part of the city had been decadent and wealthy.  Now it had fallen into disrepair... Thirteenth floor.  No, the elevator wasn’t working.  Never had as long as Angel had lived there.  Staircase to the right.  Such a bitch to carry groceries up those stairs.  Good thing he usually just ate take-out.  Was he floating?  Why couldn’t he hear his footsteps on the old metal stairs?

Down the hall, stupid.  Don’t you know how to get to your own apartment?

His key.  He had to get his key out of his pocket.  How odd... he felt the key being removed, but couldn’t feel it in his hand.  It was as though he hadn’t moved at all.  Nonetheless, the door swung open on creaking hinges.  Despite the warmth around him, he was shivering.  His body felt like it was breaking into pieces.  It was the only reason he didn’t bother trying to chalk up his daze to being drunk.  It hurt too much to be intoxication.  It would fade.  It had to fade.  Pain always fades.  And there was something he was supposed to be thinking about.  He didn’t have the luxury of allowing himself to hurt like this... Something was wrong.  Something.... He faded out again, the thought lost.  

Water was running.  He could hear it.  Had he left the faucet going?  Someone was here with him.  Was that what was wrong?  He couldn’t think around the many aches and the tremors that threatened to shatter his skinny frame.  Even though his eyes did not blink, he couldn’t see. There was a muted roaring in his ears, growing steadily louder. Someone tugged at his clothing, and he cursed himself.  Why the hell had he thought it was a good idea to go to work like this? He was probably coming down with something. That was why he couldn’t stop trembling. Would serve this bastard right if he caught it too...

He let himself be moved and manipulated. Something jagged was digging in the back of his mind... Water.  He was in water.  Hot water.  It soothed those aches and bruises.  Then he felt warm fingers against his brow, gentle, as though in deference to the pain.  Why did it hurt so much?  His head rested against the coolness of the tub, eyes a dull, unresponsive silver-grey.  Someone lifted his hand, and he felt a vaguely familiar texture; a sponge, maybe?  A sharp agony as it cleansed away blood and dirt from fresh wounds.  A soft whimper of pain.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." A soft voice with a rich accent. "I should have known. I should have come sooner. I should have known. I'm sorry." The words changed but not the intention behind them as they emerged in another language and then another. The voice felt familiar,  gentle, like a comfort in the cold.

All at once, he knew what he was supposed to be thinking about.  He’d almost died.  He should have died tonight...  That customer.  He’d beckoned to him.  Angel had smirked and followed.  He wasn’t even surprised to see more than one person waiting for him.  He couldn’t understand why these idiots had to pull this kind of thing.  If they would just tell him what they wanted, he’d do it... But then they’d set upon him like beasts, and he’d been overwhelmed before he’d even known what happened.  This hadn’t been what he’d expected at all: to be torn open like a carcass by a pride of lions.  He was going to die.  They were going to kill him.  It wasn’t what he’d been expecting, but it didn’t make a difference.  Another dead whore, oh how the world would weep...

Then... there had been the rustle of wings.  Another presence, a powerful presence.  A touch against his cheek that was not skin.  A voice.  His name.

The water was pink. It was very clear that he was going to have to get him up if he was to wash him properly. The rose of the water was stronger closer to the form, now pale and fragile, in his hands. He hadn’t been aware that he was talking. He wasn’t even speaking in English. He wasn’t even saying words that he thought Angel would understand at all. A name, just as fragile on his lips as the man in his hands. He had to get him clean but the water, the warmth first.

He closed his eyes as he leaned in. Touch. It was going to be a hard night. Angel had become less and less responsive and now looked like a broken doll, lifeless in a tub of his own blood, staring unblinking into the space between them. He could still hear his voice and couldn’t seem to stop it.  The place where his forehead touched the gentle slope of Angel’s brow felt as though it were a bloom of heat. That connection had to mean something. He pulled back and opened his eyes to discover that Angel had closed his. A sign. Somewhere in there, there was still a part that had been left unbroken. Now he just had to make the shell clean so he could call the ghost back. Once more he traced the soft line at the edge of Angel’s cheek with his fingers, smoothing his hair away from where it left bits of rouge upon his face.

He rose, slowly, carefully, and turned before letting his pants hit the floor. He winced. The sound of the chains on tile was much louder than he had wished... but it didn’t seem to spook the form who lay so still in the tub. The water was getting cold. He had to get him clean. He had no choice. He was revolted as he looked down at the stark clean line across his hips where his pants had been. He was still covered in blood. He’d have to get them both clean. He couldn’t afford to be modest.

Dallieh turned and sank to his knees, pulling the plug on the tub of water that was almost too cool to help anyway. He knew that Angel would slump as the water gave way and fought to scoop him up just as he began to slip. It was hard trying to figure out how to do ten arms’ worth of work when you only had two, but he managed. He was thankful that his... overindulgence had turned him into a furnace and was reliant on his own warmth to temporarily feed the body in his arms until he got into the tub with the shower on. First knob... fuck cold! He grit his teeth as he turned the other one and evened it out. He’d been fumbling blindly behind him. He was glad he had been able to shield Angel from the shock of it. The man in his arms had begun to shake anyway.

What was happening in that head? He leaned in and whispered, then cursed and whispered again in English.

“Angel, I need your help. I need you to help me keep you standing. I need you to come back to me...” His voice had cracked. He wasn’t sure if he was getting through. He had to get through somehow. For whatever reason, Angel had to live. So many had died and Dallieh just wanted this one to live. Why was it so important that this one should live? He bit his lip. He couldn't help but stare at him, that ageless face, so beautiful under all that had happened and Dallieh couldn't help but smooth along the lines that tears would have taken if he had shed any. This person was so precious. This life meant something. 

He turned the man in his arms so his back was to the tile wall. He rested him against it, between the gentle pressure of his body and the wall, Angel was partially pinned but partially standing. The water ran between them, at first in crimson-tinted rivers and then clear. So carefully Dallieh traced the lines of that elegant face, but this time with a washcloth, gently taking away the pain one touch at a time. Angel had not cried. Even as he was getting beaten, there was no trace of tears in the blood upon his face. He washed his long dark hair, he wished he could erase every trace of what had happened but knew, even as he felt the shallow breath against his chest and held him, held Angel against him in the warm torrent of water, only time would heal. All he could do to help was get him clean, get him fed, and lay with him until the night was over to make sure he didn’t stop breathing. Even knowing that he would have to be there... that he could not really leave him like this, and that he was going to have to get closer before he finally fled... it was desperately hard for Dallieh to open his eyes once he had come to rest. It was even more painful to lift his head from where it nestled in wet clean hair and carefully rearrange the man in his arms so that he could turn off the water.

Two towels later and he was instead arranging him on the daybed in the other room and taking a brief but thorough inventory of the damage. Angel was lucky. He was flexible and supple so bent before he broke. Both legs were fine. Both arms were fine. One of his hands had a bruise in the shape of a boot tread and a spiral fracture, but he had not even tried to defend himself so they were otherwise unmarked. So long as he was careful, it would heal. His ribs were fractured on one side but only bruised on the other. None of it was the whole way through but Angel would have to spend some time with his wings clipped, healing, quiet... alone.

Dallieh hadn’t realized it but at some point, he had stopped. He had only been caressing the side of that nearly lifeless face, smoothing strands of damp black hair away from the pale body that had already started to bloom with bruises. How long had he been kneeling before him, naked, lost in his eyes, speaking in any language his mouth would form. The same thing again and again. He hadn’t realized what he’d been saying, over and over, by now a thousand times over.

“I’m sorry. I should have come sooner. I beg you, Angel... stay with me.” Not once, not one single time did his voice falter, until the name, until the name in a tongue he knew the man before him would understand.