It was... such a curious feeling.  As though he wasn’t quite in his own body anymore.  Everything had faded, bled away in a sluggish stream, to leave him numb and cold.  Minutes lasted hours, then mere seconds, distorted.  The shivers stopped, but his insides still felt frozen.  Like he had congealed into a stubborn knot of dull aches, sharp pains, and little snatches of time when it managed to filter in.  Through it all, there was... a voice.  The voice that had saved him.  The same strong presence.  Gentle touches against his brow, along his body, pausing over the places that hurt the most, but without causing more pain.  

His mind felt blunted.  He could hear his name, but not the rest of the words with it.  Some of them made sense, some of them didn’t.  His lashes fluttered- when had he closed his eyes?  Blurry shapes and colors surrounded him.  But then focus slowly returned, lines sharpened, and he knew he was in his own home.  His own bed.  It hurt so much to even breathe...

That presence was still here.  Slowly, carefully, Angel turned his head, and his eyes fell on... him.  His brow knit, as he tried to pick the face out of his memories.  He couldn’t.  He’d never seen him before tonight.  But he couldn’t deny that this was the man that had saved him.  Angel frowned as the stranger’s lips parted, and he spoke, but the dull roar in his ears returned and he couldn’t understand.  His frown deepened when the man stood, brushing dark hair away from Angel’s eyes, and the colors in them swirled through all the spectrum in confusion.  The hand paused, lingering for a pulsebeat, then withdrew.  Angel’s eyes closed again, and he slipped back into darkness.

He was roused again by that low voice softly calling his name once more.  He came to the surface more readily this time, and a sound of distress came to his lips before he could stop it, as with consciousness came all the pain.  He took short, shallow breaths, each one expanding his chest and causing another stab of agony.  More words filtered in through the white noise in his head.  Gentle arms propped him against a pillow, and something was pressed against his lips.  Angel tried to turn his head away.  He didn’t want anything, except to go back to sleep, and wait out the pain.  The mug followed him, and he made a sound of protest.  That same voice answered him, insistent.

If it made the voice let him go back to sleep, then he’d do it... With another pained noise, Angel accepted the tea.  It soothed his raw throat and loosened the coldness in his gut.  He coughed, and the cough made him groan.  The mug moved away, and a warm caress once more smoothed back his hair.

“Rest.”

Angel gazed at the stranger for a long moment, until his lashes closed, going under again.  Formless dreams tangled his thoughts.  No shape or substance, just emotion.  Sensation.  The smell of blacktop cooling after a long day of baking in the California sun.  The sound of fabric torn.  The sickening crunch of bone giving way.

He woke, gasping for air, his throat burning again. He’d cried out in his sleep.  The stranger was at his bedside again, but this time he’d dragged over the chair from the small table by the window.  He was talking again, coaxing Angel back to awareness, and warning him... about what?

When he was helped to sit up fully, he understood why he’d been given caution. It hurt... so much.  His jaw tightened, which made the bruises ache, but it was all he could do in order to keep in the scream that threatened to rip out of his chest.  He grasped at the arm that assisted him, teeth gritted, digging his fingers in with all the strength he had, riding out the wave of pain.  The stranger didn’t flinch.  When it passed, Angel blinked the thin sheen of sweat from his eyes, and turned his gaze toward the one that was there with him.  He drew in more panting breaths.  The fevered glow was gone from his eyes.  Perhaps he was still a bit dazed, but the clarity in his gaze made it plain he was processing his surroundings.

Shifting colors settled to a hazy orange glimmer, wary and suspicious of the stranger at his bedside.  He knew he owed him now.  Whatever this man asked of him, he was going to remind Angel that he’d saved his life... As though he’d needed him to do it.

Instead, there was only a bowl of something offered to him.  There were no demands.  He stared at the bowl, as though he couldn’t understand what this was.

“You need to eat something.”

Angel’s eyes finally, truly studied the features of his savior.  Blue-green eyes like crystals or precious gemstones.  Skin pale as raw silk, dusted with freckles like a dash of nutmeg atop steamed milk.  Dark hair streaked with the color of chestnuts.  There was something dark curved along the side of his face, next to one eye.  Angel tilted his head slightly to see it better.  It was a feather.  Inked into that pale skin was a feather.  It curled delicately over his brow, and under his eye, and looked so perfectly in place that Angel could only stare for a long moment.  In a flash, he recalled the brush against his cheek in the alley.  It hadn’t felt like skin, or hair, or any cloth he knew of.  Had it been... a feather?

“Angel?  Can you hear me?”

Inky lashes fluttered at the question, and his lips pursed.  His voice came out rough and thick, not at all its usual satin purr.

“How do you know my name?”

The expression that greeted the question was answer enough to tell him that he had asked that more than one time in his delirium. He hurt too much to be more than tentatively curious. Perhaps he had already been answered more than once and the crease that marred the brow of the man before him was only testament to that sad fact.

“You really need to eat...”

He could barely breathe, how could he be expected to eat? He wasn’t prepared for the touch, the fingers that must have smoothed his hair out of his face before but were so achingly gentle. Guardedly he followed the hand up the arm back to the pale features of that marked face. There was something in his eyes. Angel scowled. It wasn’t something he was used to seeing and he couldn’t put his finger on what it meant until the soft voice, nearly a breathless whisper, uttered the word that went with the expression.

“Please... Angel.”

He was going to eat. If anything just to make that look vanish from his face. He tried to lift one of his arms. Bad idea. He was going to wish he could eat to make that look vanish from his face and fail. He whimpered as he tried to shift his weight and a sharp jolt of pain shot up his arm from his hand. How was he supposed to hold a spoon if he couldn’t so much as touch anything without new reminders of things he still couldn’t quite bring to the surface of his thoughts. His hand withdrew from its place smoothing Angel’s hair and grasped the edge of the bowl like he was holding some kind of magical precious brew. He had the look of someone who was used to having paws instead of fingers, the way he extended himself to bring the bowl to Angel’s lips and supported it like a raccoon may have a shell filled with water.

It was less like soup and more like a drink... but it was warm and it soothed his throat. It settled into his belly which had started to growl at the mere mention of eating something, but he had been more concerned with things other than just another hunger pain. That was a pain he was used to, the rest... not so much. He closed his eyes, drinking down what was in the bowl in small gulps. Choking would be a more than memorable experience right now so he didn’t argue when he was made to pause. He lifted his undamaged hand and helped to guide the bowl back to his lips when he was ready for more. Fingers touched his fingers, smoothing them onto the bowl even as he still did not support its weight. His eyes shot open when he felt a shift in the bed and the presence of the man who cared for him came in close, offering support to that elbow with the curve of his stomach and holding his hair back so he could drink more deeply.

Why? The question marched through his head as though he listened to a broken record. Why the care now? What did this mean about what he would do to him later? Just as quickly as his brow furrowed in anticipation of the eventuality he would undoubtedly face, a thumb moved to smooth it away, as if it were a wrinkle in some exotic fabric. The bowl was empty and the man who’d sat beside him rose, slowly, not disturbing or causing him any pain at all, and crossed the room with a grace that could have put most cats to shame. Who was he?