The next time he awoke, it was late afternoon.  His lids were gummy and it took an effort to get his eyes open.  Their play of color shifted until they settled into a dim blue-gray, as dull aches assaulted him.  But no more of the piercing pain of the night before.  Unless he tried to take too deep a breath, which he did.  He immediately exhaled it in a pained whoosh, gritting his teeth until it passed.

Once the sparks stopped shooting in front of his eyes, Angel turned, gingerly, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.  Just that small bit of effort left him breathless, but he set his jaw, waited a moment, then cautiously, he stood.  His head swam, and he gripped at the bed frame until his feet were steady enough to keep him upright.  The injured hand was clutched to his chest.  The first step to cross the room sent agony ripping up his side.  But he forced himself to take another.  Then another.  The pain was enough to make him want to lie back down and stay there, but there were things he needed to do.  So he crossed the room with unsteady steps.  To the fridge, where he clung to the door for long moments, until he had the strength to pull it open, and retrieve a bottle of water.  

When the contents of the fridge were revealed, Angel had to let go of the door long enough to rub his eyes.  Glance around, to be sure he was still in his own home.  He looked again.  Had he gone grocery shopping while he was delirious?  That... wasn’t possible.  He remembered waking up in his bed, a few times even, and there had been someone with him.  

Angel’s eyes fell down to the bandaged hand.  He flexed the fingers just the least bit.  It made him wince, but the wrapping had been done so well that he couldn’t possibly do unintentional damage to himself in his sleep.  He remembered... that man had set the bone in place.  He distinctly remembered the infinite regret in those eyes when they’d met his.  As though he hated the very fact that he would have to cause pain with that necessary act.  Angel hadn’t understood.  Each touch had been made with utmost care.  Even the stomach-churning pop of the fracture slipping back into place had been done with exactly enough force to set the bone, and nothing more.  

Once more, his eyes cast about the room.  Nothing was out of place.  There was no evidence that anything at all happened last night, except the bandages on his person, and the food in the fridge... and something sitting on the table.  There was... just no way that had all been a dream.

He gripped the cap in his teeth so he could close the refrigerator door, then used that grip to break the seal with his undamaged hand.  The cap fell to the floor and rolled away, causing Angel to wrinkle his nose.  He’d pick it up later.  He genuinely feared if he tried to retrieve that stupid insignificant bottlecap now, he’d fall.  So he drained the water, and set it down.  Then came the arduous walk from the fridge, to the bathroom.  There was a sour, metallic taste in his throat.  He wanted to brush his teeth and then go back to bed.  No way he’d be leaving anytime soon.

When he finally made it to the bathroom door, he had a distinct feeling that something was missing.  He could smell blood in the tiny room, but there was none to be seen.  An image flashed in front of his eyes.  A pile of torn clothing on the floor, covered in cooled, drying blood.  The clank of... a belt buckle, or light chains hitting the tile.  The voice that was simultaneously rough and smooth, like rocks in the bed of a stream with all the edges worn off, and faintly accented, begging him to stay...

Angel shook his head and stumbled over to the sink.  Greeting his eyes was his own reflection.  His features were bruised, decorated with superficial cuts that could have been caused by being struck with a hand sporting a ring.  He remembered... His eyes closed, and he swayed unsteadily, gripping the edge of the sink with his good hand to remain standing, feeling the water in his gut swishing uncomfortably.  A few deep breaths, as best he could with the ache in his side.  The moment passed, and the cobwebs cleared.

He remembered the beating; how could he forget.  What he wasn’t sure he remembered was getting home, and being cared for by a pale stranger with crystalline eyes and a feather tattooed on his face.  Some sort of guardian angel, watching over the one that was named for them?  Angel snorted.  That was fanciful thinking at its finest.  Whores don’t have guardian angels.

It was an agonizing walk back to the bed, once he’d finished what he needed to.  He’d already done too much, just getting up.  But by walking the perimeter of the room, clinging to the walls with one hand, he managed to stagger back.  It was so very tempting to collapse onto the mattress with all his weight, but he knew he’d regret it.  So he lowered himself as slowly as he could. Lay down on his back as gingerly as he’d gotten up.  Brought his legs into the bed.  Blanket... he needed the blanket.  He was shivering with fatigue again, and he hadn’t managed to close the window.  The sun was setting, and it was getting cool.  It had already sunk low enough that the building across the street was cast in shadow.  What he could see of the sky was a wash of blues and oranges.  

Just a few minutes.  He’d be able to get the strength to pull the blanket over himself in a minute.  As soon as he got his breath back he’d-

There was a muted rush of air, the rustle of something that wasn’t fabric, and then the presence that he’d felt all last night as he’d clawed for consciousness.

“You shouldn’t have been out of bed yet.”

Angel’s head turned sluggishly, his eyes blinking as the blanket settled over him.  In spite of his suspicion, Angel grasped the edge of the blanket and pulled it closer to his chin.

“I had to piss.”  he managed.  The smirk on his lips was twisted as though daring the stranger to say something else.  He didn’t say a word.  Instead, he knelt beside the bed.  Angel met his gaze defiantly, unafraid, despite being physically incapable of defending himself.  He flinched, bracing himself, when he saw a tattooed hand raise.  But no harm came from it.  Only gentle fingers brushing over his forehead.  It was a tentative touch, as though expecting to be swatted away.  It felt familiar.  There was no doubt in his mind, this was the same touch that had been with him all the night before.  It really hadn’t been a dream.  Angel frowned but didn’t move.

“You don’t have a fever.  That’s good.  Are you hungry?”

With a frown on his lips, Angel started to snap that he wasn’t at all, but his stomach gave him away with a low grumble.  The utterly scandalized expression on his face that resulted from such betrayal drew the very faintest hint of amusement from the man, and he stood.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”  he said in that riverbed-voice.  

Angel looked away, staring at the wall, but he listened to him moving about on the other side of the room.  The fridge door opened, and something heavy settled on the countertop.  Cabinet doors opened and closed.  Finding his way around an unfamiliar kitchen?  Angel tried to will himself back to sleep, but he was no longer tired.  Sore and stiff, but not sleepy.  In his mind, he began cataloguing the places that hurt the most, trying to match them up with the memories.  Much of it was a blur of motion and pain.  Once his attackers had brought him to his knees, the rest of it was smudged together.

He was taken from his memories by his rescuer approaching him again.  His eyes turned from the wall to meet him.  Angel’s features were colored with skepticism, but not fear.  Curiosity, and calm suspicion.  There was nothing of panic in his gaze, even though the pulse jumped in his throat.  He frowned when he was offered another bowl, and a warm, savory scent drifted up, making his stomach churn noisily again.  It smelled familiar.  

“It’s just soup.”

Angel glanced from the bowl, to the hand offering it, then up to the face that hand belonged to.  Then he accepted, struggling to sit up, even with the stranger’s help.  He let out another pained sound, and was....surprised to see something of that pain echoed in that marked face.  Guilt?  Angel didn’t understand.  What did he have to feel guilty for?  

He shook it off, that spiraling confusion, before it could consume him, and took the bowl with his uninjured hand.  Much like he had the night before, the stranger assisted him, and Angel hungrily devoured the light meal as though he’d never eaten before in his life.  His eyes flicked over the rim of the bowl, and he wanted to frown when he noticed the completely pleased expression on the face watching him.  When he lowered the dish, his tongue absently ran over his lips to capture any stray droplets, but he did not take his eyes from that graceful form as it crossed silently back to the counter with the empty bowl.  Angel watched him as he washed it, returned it to its place, and made the kitchen area look as though he’d never done a thing, all with a quiet efficiency.  He hit the fallen bottlecap with his foot, and paused to look at it.  Then he picked it up, and took both that, and the bottle Angel had left on the counter, to place in the trash.  Finally, when all that was done, he stood in the middle of the room, looking around aimlessly.  His gaze flicked to the window several times, then back to Angel, then to the window once more, as though he had… absolutely no idea what to do with himself now.

Angel scowled at the whole display.  Just what was he playing at?  Why did he save him at all?  He should’ve died last night.  Those men were going to kill him, and then this strange man had just... stopped them.  Then he’d somehow found Angel’s home, brought him here, cared for him... It didn’t make sense.  Was he waiting for Angel to say thank you?  He hadn’t asked for his help...  

He grit his teeth and once more swung his legs over the edge of the bed, throwing the blanket back as he forced himself to his feet quickly, far too quickly.  He teetered dangerously, utterly ignoring the pain ripping up his side.  The stranger turned towards him in alarm.

“You know what I am, don’tcha?”  he snapped, gripping the bed frame with his good hand so hard the knuckles turned white.  “I know why you saved me.”

The man moved so fast it was barely more than a blink, and he was at Angel’s side.  A strong hand wrapped around his uninjured wrist.

“You shouldn’t-”

Angel didn’t give him time to finish his sentence.  He leaned his head up and pressed his mouth against the stranger’s in a fierce kiss.  There was nothing behind it, not from Angel.  It was hard, and lifeless, forced... even pained.  He knew what he was.  He was a whore.  A toy.  Something pretty for men to use, and cast aside.  He’d believed only that, for so long, that he couldn’t see any other reality.  There was only one reason anyone could ever have to save him.

And yet in the span of a heartbeat, Angel felt it all at once. Every muscle in his savior’s body went rigid, drawn taught with surprise, before momentarily melting into him, the lightest touch of fingers across his cheek and jaw, just an instant before the stranger turned his head away with an expression so very tortured, it made Angel freeze.  So many heartaches, so many tears left unshed. He put his hand to his lips and looked at Angel with such a haunted expression. Angel took a shuddering breath and tried to maintain his anger.  He couldn’t.  He just... couldn’t.  This wasn’t it.  This wasn’t why.

His heart began to beat in a panicked confusion.  He let himself be lowered back to the bed, wearing the expression of someone whose whole world had just been upended and given a good shake.  This man wasn’t interested in what Angel had to offer.  So... why?  When his voice managed to work again, it was trembling and soft, the disbelief on his features echoed in his tone.

“That’s... not it.  This isn’t what you want at all...”

The softness in the expression of the man who looked down upon him was unnerving. Angel didn’t flinch away from fingers that once more traced the lines of his features and spoke to his flesh in a voice he didn’t understand. If he didn’t want that, what did he want? Why did he do it? There had to be something. His hand withdrew and Angel fought the wish of wanting to feel it again. When he went to stand Angel grabbed his wrist, frowning at the action even as he did it, but when the man went to take a step, to pull away, his fingers tightened and he looked up, hoping somehow maybe he could say what he wanted without any words. Angel couldn’t say that he didn’t want him to leave, wouldn’t... but the thought of feeling that vague emptiness around him was far worse than holding on.

When the man shifted and turned toward him, Angel forced his mouth to work. “What’s your name?”

A pause before a breath was taken,  one that was far too shallow. “Dallieh...”

Angel furrowed his brow saying the name in his head and then letting it touch his lips, only once. Again he could feel him turn in his grasp as though he were going to pull away but he tightened his fingers and chanced a small tug, pulling Dallieh toward him and the bed. Angel looked up just before he sat carefully beside him and turned his back, hiding any hope Angel may have had at understanding what he was thinking. Angel tentatively released his wrist, half expecting him to bolt the moment he was freed. He didn’t. He was so still.