Work Text:
Mo always saw himself as a reasonable guy.
He married his highschool sweetheart when he thought she was the love of his life. He pursued education and found a job that supported them. They had plans for a beautiful and bright future together.
When suddenly a vampire broke into their house and killed her while he was at work, he became a hunter to avenge her memory and protect their 2-year-old daughter.
Reasonable.
Just something every husband or parent would do.
But he never thought ‘reasonable’ meant ‘worthy’. Never thought of himself so highly. So, when he sells his soul to make sure no harm ever comes Meggie’s way, he doesn’t expect an angel to come down and rescue him from Hell. From the early ticket to damnation that he willfully dealt.
“An angel?” He squints, staring at Elinor.
“It’s what the psychic said,” she shrugs. Shakes her head. “I don’t understand it any better than you do, kid. Never had to deal with celestials myself.”
Meggie is chewing on her nail, shaking her leg. “Are we just not gonna talk about the whole ‘sold my soul to a demon’ thing?” When there’s no response, she jumps up and looks between the two adults. “Dad? Elinor?”
Mo looks down, avoids her eyes. Elinor can’t offer an answer either. And he knows he should say something, but what? She can’t understand it yet. She’s too young to know that parents would do literally anything for the safety of their children.
“I just wanted to keep you safe, Meg,” he murmurs at last. Finds her eyes. She’s fuming. “I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you, like… Like what happened to your mom.”
“So you’d rather leave me alone?” Her voice hitches. “With no one to look after me?”
“You’re a big girl, now.” She’s not and he knows, but Mo was 12 when his dad bailed and his mom had to take on three jobs to keep them fed. So she has 4 years of advantage. And he thinks after all that he’s taught her well enough, not just in hunting, but also in survival. “Plus, Elinor’s always here if you need–”
“I don’t want Elinor, dad, I want you!”
He sighs, glances at Elinor – who doesn’t seem to have taken it personally, which he’s thankful for – then back at Meggie. When he goes in for a hug, she shoulders past him and marches outside.
Mo rubs his eyes. God, he’s so tired. Feels like he hasn’t had a proper night of sleep since Resa died and everything started. That was fourteen years ago, now. The years are getting to him… Maybe Hell wasn’t so bad after all.
Flashbacks flood his mind and he has to reel himself in to keep from throwing up. All the torture and pain. So little time passed here on Earth, but it felt like a lifetime down there. The memory of Meggie’s smile, the only thing that he could focus on to remind himself that it was all worth it…
But now this. Angels. An angel was sent to rescue him, to pull him back to the land of the living, because… Who even knows why. And what took them so long. And why the oh-so-mighty angel didn’t stick around to say something, anything at all. As usual, he has more questions than answers and no one’s ever around to help.
Thunder breaks out. The sound is loud, as if it fell nearby. They’re out in Elinor’s farmhouse, so he rushes to the backdoor to call Meggie back in. She’s already halfway up the stairs when he swings open the door.
“I think some… thing is here,” she whispers in a broken voice. Mo drags her to stand behind him, already pulling out his pistol, loaded with silver bullets.
“Looks like we have company,” he yells at Elinor over his shoulder and hears as she scrambles to get a shotgun. When he thinks about telling Meggie to find her knife, she already has it in hand. The three of them stand, covering each others’ backs, watching and waiting for whatever happens next.
Then a blinding white light covers the land. Mo blinks a few times until his eyes are able to focus again. Marching towards them is a man. Tall, slender, very pale, with red hair and coal black eyes. He wears a long threadbare coat and an old, loose sweater, as well as ripped jeans, all in black. Mo figures he’s some demon, sent to collect him, and his spine grows cold. Terrified, even as he knows he should be down there.
Angel, he finds himself thinking, if it’s so important that I stay alive, this might be a good time to show your hecking face.
Before he’s able to move, Elinor shoots.
The man (demon?) stumbles back a couple steps, but he resumes his marching no more than a second later. His face is unreadable. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t even seem to breathe. Mo can’t tell what his intentions are, but one thing is certain: he’s coming for him.
He’s climbing up the stairs now and Mo is taking some hesitant steps back, and Elinor and Meggie are both pushing him forward, to make him hold his ground. Then it’s Meggie who lunges at the man, sinks the demon knife into his chest with all her strength. Mo pulls her back before the creature has the time to react, puts himself between them. A small smile creeps up on the demon as he pulls the blade clean off his chest, unbothered. He lets it fall to the ground with a loud clang.
After everything he’s seen and killed, Mo isn’t much religious, but he’s saying a soft prayer in his head as he puts up his gun and stares down the barrel at the creature.
“Who are you and what do you want?” He barks, trying his hardest not to let his voice waver.
Lightning cracks again and Mo’s mind fills with a memory that had been suppressed – flying out of Hell, dazed, feverish. Someone’s hand, a hard grip on his shoulder, where there’s a scar now. Wings flapping around them. And red hair.
He blinks up and the angel smiles. “Hello, Mortimer. You called for me. Twice.”
“So, which one are you?”
The angel turns his head to stare at Elinor. His movements are stiff, weird, almost robotic. Like he’s still getting used to his human body.
He cocks his head a little to the side, watching Elinor with intent, and his eyes seem to read way beyond her form. Mo wonders what else he can see. Whatever it is, he seems to find it interesting; there’s a glint in his eyes, the shape of a smile slowly curling his lips.
Something of jealousy crosses Mo – he wishes he were being studied like that – and he almost has to slap himself out of it.
A few minutes pass and he doesn’t respond, so Elinor, now a little flushed with the attention, pokes, “Like, Gabriel or something? I’ve never–We’ve never met an angel before.”
“I know,” he says simply, but doesn’t answer the question.
It’s only when he reaches out to pluck a loose hair off her shirt that Mo thinks it’s enough. He jumps to his feet, grabs the angel’s arm before he can actually touch Elinor. He doesn’t know why, considering this is probably just a human vessel, but he’s surprised to find that beneath the fabric his arm is soft and normal. Deep down Mo expected something else.
The angel looks up at him and Mo almost takes an instant step back. There’s kindness and wonder in his eyes, but his stare is intense. It carries so much power and knowledge. Mo knows, then and there, that this angel could destroy him without batting an eye, the same way that he flew into the flames of Hell and came out unscathed. He saved Mo, yes, but should Mo cross his way, he could end Mo just as easily.
“She asked you a question,” Mo says slowly. Pulls his hand back, but holds his ground, standing between Elinor and the stranger.
A long silence falls between all four of them. The angel holds Mo’s gaze, unblinking. Mo can feel the sparks, the tension, but at the moment it feels like some power play. One that he’s obviously already lost, but he’s not backing down. He might have brought Mo back here, but if the angel thinks that gives him the right to come around and threaten his family… Mo would make him regret it.
“Meggie,” he hears Elinor a while later. The two women silently walk out, leaving Mo alone with the angel. Who’s still smiling that all-knowing thing that gets under Mo’s skin.
“Who are you?” Mo asks again. His voice is but a dark whisper.
A loud scratching sound follows his question. The angel stands up, the chair almost topples to the floor behind him. He steps up to Mo, standing mere inches away, where Mo can smell ashes and something… Something ethereal in his clothes. On his skin. Their noses almost touching; Mo’s lips part on their own accord as he struggles to breathe.
Is this how all angels are?, he wonders. Prodding. Invasive. Elusive… Alluring. Mo’s hands itch and he closes them into fists, blinks some sense into himself.
The thing about Mortimer Folchart is that he loves danger; becoming a hunter taught him that about himself. The thrill of a hunt, of chasing a creature, of slicing open their skin and watching life fade in its eyes. Coming back home and washing blood and grime off himself. Knowing that he could have died, but he bested out something that was designed to destroy humans.
Danger pumps the good kind of adrenaline into his veins. And so far, with so little given, this angel is still giving off danger.
“Dustfinger,” the stranger says at last. His breath dances over Mo’s face and he eats it up…
“‘Dustfinger’?”
It’s underwhelming, not to mention a little senseless. His fingers seem fine (Mo glances downwards quickly) and pretty dustfree.
“This human likes to be called Dustfinger,” he says and that’s the first time he gives a straightforward explanation. Mo’s eyebrows shoot up involuntarily. “It has a nice sound.”
If you’re a madman or a five-year-old, Mo almost says.
“Dustfinger, then,” he gives. It’s hard to gather his thoughts when Dustfinger still stands so close to him. He takes in a long breath – the scent of something-that-should-not-be-here goes straight to his stomach – and asks, “Why did you bring me back?”
Dustfinger does that head thing, where he tilts slightly to the side to analyze something. He’s studying Mo’s face this time and much like Elinor, he finds himself blushing. He wishes he could train his eyes to not show how affected he is right now, but realizes that it probably makes no difference. Dustfinger looks at him like he can read Mo down to his molecules. His thoughts and emotions are probably open like a book to the angel.
“You weren’t supposed to die… Yet,” he murmurs, now studying the bridge of Mo’s nose.
“But I s-sold my soul,” he coughs. “Where’s free will and all that?”
“Free will?” Dustfinger pulls back and finds his eyes. Mo almost takes a step back, again, still not used to the intensity of his glare. “Free will doesn’t mean the Lord has no plans for each of you humans. And His plans for you are greater than eternity locked up in Hell, Mortimer Folchart. You should be grateful He sent me to your rescue.”
At last, Dustfinger steps away from Mo and he lets out a breath he’d been holding pretty much since that conversation started. The angel walks around him to look closer at one of Elinor’s many bookshelves, takes a particular interest in her handwritten hunting guide. This gives Mo some time to process what he just said.
God. God has plans for Mo and isn’t willing to let him die. Yet.
What the fuck?
Well, sure he’s grateful to be back, but that entails more trouble than good. Because what in the world could God want from Mo that he’s willing to send an angel down to Hell to bring him back? And who’s going to deal with the demon that bought Mo’s soul when he comes around to recollect it, like he’s bound to?
And where in the fuck was God when that vampire broke into his family home and killed Teresa? Was it part of His plan, too? To have the love of Mo’s life die so he could spend the rest of his sorry existence hunting hellspawn? Is that what God wants from him?
“I sense some confusion,” Dustfinger says plainly, his back still turned to Mo.
He snickers, “Yeah, no shit.”
“I understand that you’ve lost your faith after your wife passed, Mortimer Folchart–”
“Just call me Mo,” he groans.
“–But you have to trust that my Father knows what’s best for you all. It’s why He sent me to watch over you,” he says that last part with importance.
“Wait,” Mo shakes his head. Blinks. “‘Watch over me’? What, are you like my guardian angel now?”
Dustfinger stops and thinks for a second, then nods. “And Meggie’s. I suppose so, yes.”
“Now I’ve seen it,” Mo says. And he cackles. He bursts into laughter at the absurdity of it all. Mo Folchart, demon and monster hunter, needs a personal guardian angel because God has ‘greater plans’ for him. This life never fails to surprise him, and he’s seen, heard and been through his fair share of crazy shit.
Dustfinger watches him with that little tilt of his head, brows pinched together, with equal parts confusion and interest. Mo just laughs himself out of the room, and when Elinor and Meggie come back to check on the angel, he’s gone.
Over the weeks that follow, Mo and Meggie resume their work hunting creatures and monsters. They don’t discuss the ‘sold my soul to the devil’ thing again and it feels like something broke between them. Mo hates that. Hates that the reasonable thing he did to protect her has backfired in such a way that Meggie is slowly estranging herself from him. Yet, they plow on, hoping that the dust under the rug never piles up high enough that they might trip and fall.
Elinor, on the other hand, starts researching celestials. In bars and other hunter meet-up spots, she hears hushed stories about people who’ve had encounters with other angels in the past. But all of it seems almost make-believe. No one has real information, because apparently their whole thing is that they must go by unnoticed. And they’re good at it.
It’s a rainy night and they sit around Elinor’s fireplace. She has a leather-clad binder in hands, where she’s been gathering all the information on angels and other celestials they could find.
As Mo and Elinor discuss their discoveries, Meggie sits by the hearth and watches the flames pensively. Mo fears for her, sometimes. That he doesn’t know her thoughts these days.
“Why don’t we just…” She starts suddenly, interrupting their discussion. “Ask. The, um… Why don’t we just ask Dustfinger everything?”
Mo has considered this once or twice. But Dustfinger has been pretty much MIA since their last – and first – encounter, here at Elinor’s. Maybe the way Mo laughed at the concept of him being their guardian angel offended Dustfinger, who knows. From what they’ve been able to find, angels are pretty full of themselves, you know, being the only creatures in the entire universe who have close contact with the Big Man Himself and serving His purpose, or whatever.
“That’s actually clever, Meggie, but how do we, you know, find him?” Elinor shrugs. “I’ve been looking into his people for weeks now and he hasn’t shown up.”
“Have you tried… Calling for him? Maybe like, praying?”
Elinor and Mo share a look. He knows very well that, much like him, the years of demon hunting have stripped away Elinor’s faith. She does still carry a cross around her neck, but it’s mostly to keep vampires away.
“Alright,” she clears her throat and raises her voice a little. “Uh. Dustfinger?”
The three of them go so silent that the only things they can hear are the crackling of fire and the pitter-patter of rain outside. A minute or so passes without any other sign of life and Mo’s ready to call it quits, but Meggie pulls herself up.
“Dustfinger? Can you hear us?” She says, a little louder than Elinor even. “We, like, kinda wanted to ask you some things.”
Again, nothing happens for long, sufferable minutes. Mo shrugs, gets up to pour himself another shot of whiskey, but as he makes to walk away from the two, Meggie grabs his arm.
“You try it now.”
“Meg, I think he’s made it very clear that he’s not listening–”
“No, Mo, come on! He was sent to save you. Maybe he’ll listen to you!”
Mo sighs. Even as he can kind of see her point, he only gives in so she’ll quit it and let him and Elinor go back to their brainstorming. So, feeling as silly as one ever could, he draws up his shoulders, takes a long breath, and says, “Dustfinger. If you’re there, we need to talk.”
Not a single beat passes after Mo stops talking and they hear something rustling, like wings. Big wings. Dustfinger appears from a dark corner of the room and walks up to Mo. Up and close and personal, like he did that other time.
Meggie is beaming. Mo feels stupid.
He places a hand on Dustfinger’s chest and pushes him away. “Personal space, dude.”
“Apologies,” Dustfinger murmurs, taking a reverent step back. “You called?”
“I, uh, we are.” Mo has to breathe. Dustfinger’s presence still evokes something that he knows he shouldn’t feel. It’s not danger anymore; sure, he’s a little scary with all his celestial powers and all that, but he’s almost… Tame around them.
No, he makes Mo curious. Mo is taken by this want to feel him, break him apart, find out what he’s made of and what can be unmade of him. He smells alien, like he doesn’t belong in human land, even as he is “wearing” one. What else changes about a human body when a celestial possesses it?
But he shouldn’t. He’s committed enough heresy in this life. Tainting a holy creature would probably send him all the way back to Hell in the blink of an eye, and this time for good.
Mo clears his throat. “Elinor here is doing research in angel, uh, lore. If you will. Would you mind telling us some stuff?”
“It depends,” Dustfinger frowns. “Some information cannot be shared with humans.”
Elinor nods, understandably. Mo nods as well. He needs that drink now more than ever (a fucking guardian angel who responds to his call like a trained dog…), so he taps Dustfinger’s shoulder gently and walks past him towards the front door. “Great,” he says over his shoulder. “The three of you can figure it out.”
And he leaves the house.
Mo is well aware that he’s gonna hate himself once he sobers up and realizes the mess that he’s probably making, but a quick fuck in the back of a car is just what he needed to get Dustfinger out of his mind. Forget the angel, forget Hell, forget the hand-shaped scar on his arm, get rid of this built-up tension and just feel human again.
This guy looks nothing like Dustfinger, with his straw hair and tanned skin, and hands of someone who clearly works on a field. Which is exactly what Mo wanted.
He’s not a hunter, so he’s not gonna ask Mo how the fuck he’s back from the dead. He’s not gonna want to discuss exorcisms and the best ways to clear goo off of leather boots. He’s just gonna fuck Mo senseless and disappear back into this corner of the world that Mo rarely visits – the one where people live free of the knowledge of things that lurk the night.
Yet, when he closes his eyes to savor the orgasm, the face that fills his mind is Dustfinger’s.
“Where the hell have you been?”
Meggie is shouting. Why is she shouting? Why are teenagers so loud?
Okay, maybe she isn’t shouting, but Mo’s head feels like it’s gonna explode, so all he does is groan incoherently as he walks past her and into Elinor’s kitchen.
“Dad!” She starts again, behind him now. And she only ever calls him ‘dad’ when she’s upset, so he stops, turns around and pulls her into a quick hug, kisses the top of her head. She pushes him away.
“You look like shit, kid,” Elinor says from the table and Mo sinks on the chair next to her, immediately pouring himself a cup of coffee.
“You smell like shit,” Meggie is pinching her nose as she stands across from him at the table. “Where did you go last night? Dustfinger–”
Mo grimaces and snaps before he can catch himself, “Why didn’t you ask the holy angel where I was? Pretty sure he could tell you. Seems to know where I am all the time.”
Just as the words are out of his mouth he realizes what else they mean; does Dustfinger really watch him at all times of day? Or does he only come when he’s called? Did he know what Mo was up to last night?
And, as shameful as all of this is, there’s a part of him that’s twisted enough to be excited by the idea that the angel was watching last night. As he got railed in the back of the van. Thinking about Dustfinger all along.
“God, you’re such a dick sometimes,” Meggie groans angrily and stomps outside. Mo considers scolding her for calling him bad names, but he knows she’s right. He hasn’t been himself since Hell.
“Sounds like her mother,” Elinor chimes with some sarcasm and Mo just glares at her. “No use looking at me like that. Where did you go last night?”
He sighs around a piece of stale bread. “Needed to get out. This whole angel thing’s been driving me crazy.”
“You know what drove us crazy?” Her arms crossed, she leans over the table, “When you got dragged away by a bunch of hellhounds. And died. For months all Meggie did was cry and beg me to find a way to bring you back. We should be thankful that angel was stupid enough to go get your ass out of Hell.”
And he knows. When he lost Teresa, he was destroyed. The only reason he didn’t end his own life back then was Meggie. But if it weren’t for Elinor to help them pick up the pieces, he would have rotted away.
So really, he’s thankful, because he’s had good people in his life, in spite of all the shit show. But he’s tired of being grateful to this fucking angel. All he’s ever done for Mo is mess up his plans and his mind.
“What did he tell you?” Mo asks to change the subject. Elinor leaves the kitchen and comes back a minute later with her binder. Flips through pages and collages, until she finds some handwritten notes, dated last night.
“Here,” she says, pushing the binder towards Mo. “He said there’s some kind of hierarchy in Heaven. That only a few selected angels have direct access to God and these guys pass on His missions to other angels. That all the big figures from the scriptures are still around. And Dustfinger–” She frowns at the silly name, “–is actually one of these who’ve been around since… Well, pretty much since the beginning of everything. Used to be a warrior, fighting off demons and whatnot. Got assigned to you and Meggie recently. Oh, and that angels need permission to possess people. But they can be very persuasive.”
“Assigned,” he mutters. Huffs a laugh. Feels small, pathetic. He’s nothing but a job to Dustfinger, one that could be replaced by tomorrow, who knows.
“He also mentioned something called ‘Angel Blade’,” she moves on, now flipping the pages again until she finds a sketch. A spear of sorts, but small enough to be carried in one hand. “Said it’s the only thing that can kill a celestial. Can kill pretty much anything, really, so not everyone is allowed to carry them around. He didn’t have one on him.”
“Well, that’s very reassuring,” Mo says sarcastically. “My ‘guardian angel’ doesn’t even carry a weapon.”
“Doesn’t need one,” Elinor shrugs. He realizes she probably asked the same question to the angel, only probably a little more respectful about it.
She leaves him to look through her notes, then, and goes to check on Meggie. Mo doesn’t look through them.
He’s tired, he feels like shit, he smells like shit; he needs about four liters of water, a long shower and a 3-day nap.
Probably won’t get any of these.
It turns out that some angels, including the noble ones up higher, have been corrupted. It wasn’t God who sent Dustfinger to Mo’s rescue. The corrupt angels wanted to use Mo’s escape to create a path for Lucifer’s own escape. As fucking insane as that sounds.
Dustfinger is destroyed to find that he’s been used. That he was never realizing God’s wish in the first place and that his actions are going to, instead, bring more evil into the world. He becomes a target once they find out that he knows the truth and now him and Mo and Meggie are on the run. Together. While Elinor does her research and they try to figure out what to do next.
Being around Dustfinger all the time is hard, because for a guy who’s been alive since the beginning of time, Dustfinger is so inexperienced it’s cute. It’s because of Meggie that he finds out that ice cream will give you brain freezes and because of Mo that they find out he can’t get drunk. Mo teaches him how to fix cars when the van breaks down one night in the middle of nowhere and Meggie, who inherited Teresa’s taste for music, tries to teach him how to play guitar. With the Folcharts, he finds joy in this human world that for so long he watched from a distance. It makes a hard time easier.
But it makes it hard for Mo. He falls for the angel a little bit more everyday.
The sky is littered with stars. Many of these constellations aren't even visible in the city. They're far into the country, hidden in a little forest that, they’ve found out, for whatever reason the angels can’t track. A safe haven, if you will.
Meggie is asleep in the van, but Mo finds that he needs less and less sleep these days. Maybe Hell changed something in him, maybe he's just that much stressed.
Him and Dustfinger sit outside on folding chairs, watching the night pass them by. In comfortable silence. Mo looks over at the angel and his expression is soft, in spite of everything. Angels shouldn't be allowed to pick attractive vessels, he thinks bitterly, because Dustfinger is quite simply the most beautiful man he's ever laid eyes on and this is very messed up.
"My Father made great things, don't you agree?" Dustfinger starts as if he knew Mo's thoughts.
"He also made some bad shit," Mo mumbles just to poke at the angel.
Dustfinger turns to him with a stern look. "People with their 'free will' make bad choices," he pipes; it feels practiced. A second later his face twists to something of shock. Mo wonders if that's something angels are taught to think and say; it sounds terribly like some extreme reading of the Bible.
"But some people," he adds and his eyes soften up when they find Mo's. "Some people choose to do good."
If this wasn't an angel who doesn't know any better, Mo would think he's being flirted. His stomach does a little flip.
"Was it good when I sold my soul?" He raises a brow defiantly. Doesn't know why, but feels the need to push Dustfinger away.
"Your intentions were."
Mo snickers, "Literally the road to Hell."
But Dustfinger is having none of his self-pity. “You’re too harsh on yourself, Mortimer–”
“Please, Mo is fine.”
“–With all that you’ve been through, you’ve made reasonable decisions. Because there’s good in your heart.”
Mo doesn’t know why, but hearing Dustfinger talk about him like that touches something deep within that hasn’t been touched in a long time. Has him holding back tears, and he can’t cry in front of an angel, can’t show weakness, so he does what he thinks is opposite – he gets mad. Jumps to his feet, leans over Dustfinger’s form (who doesn’t even blink or bulge at his approach) pointing a finger at his face.
“‘All that I’ve been through’? As if you knew!”
Dustfinger’s eyes are so dark and so black that Mo can see his own reflection in them.
“I know,” he says plainly. “I know everything. I was briefed–”
“Briefed!” Mo laughs hysterically, throwing his hands up.
Dustfinger just stares at him. “I don’t understand what’s so upsetting, Mortimer.”
“What’s upsetting, your highness,” Mo says, leaning over him again and placing his hands on the armrests of his chair. Their faces inches apart and he instantly regrets it, but doesn’t pull back. “Is that you and your little angel friends treat me and my daughter and the people I love as if we’re insignificant. As if we’re as small as ants. Toys. Lives that you can meddle in as you please to ‘serve the Lord’s will’. Well, you know what? Lord’s will be damned. I decide for Meggie and I from now on, understood?”
When he stops talking, there’s no immediate response. Dustfinger just stares at him, watches as Mo breathes until he calms down. Doesn’t even seem to be breathing himself; Mo wonders if he even needs it.
Slowly, softly, his expression begins to change as Mo’s words settle in. His face becomes apologetic. Deep down he must know how he’s influenced the Folcharts’ lives, following fake orders. And Mo can tell that he regrets it now.
It’s not fair, none of it is. It’s not fair that Resa died, causing Mo to get into this business. It’s not fair that the demon Basta threatened to take Meggie’s life as well and Mo felt that the only way to save her was to trade his own life for hers. It’s not fair that the angels were compromised and it’s not fair that they sent Dustfinger on this mission. Both of them – and Meggie – are victims in this situation.
Mo sighs, deflating. It’s not fair for him to place the blame on the angel, either.
“I’m sorry–”
“Mo, I’m sorry–”
They both stop. Mo stares up at his own reflection in Dustfinger’s eyes. Suddenly he feels as though a magnet is pulling him closer and closer to the angel, when their faces are already so near. The tip of his nose touches Dustfinger’s. The air he breathes is charged with his ethereal energy.
“Did you just call me ‘Mo’?” He asks and realizes that his voice has naturally fallen to a whisper.
“I thought that’s what you wanted…”
And you know what else isn’t fair? The fact that Dustfinger is good.
He talks about Mo having it in his heart, but Dustfinger is the embodiment of goodness. He’s understanding, he cares about people; he finds wonder in every little thing and bug and creature to crawl the Earth. He enjoys learning and appreciates people’s efforts to please him. He’s genuinely thankful all the time.
And he’s breathtaking, with the freckles on his nose and the scar on his eyebrow, and the little braids on his messy hair, and the piercings on his ears. Mo wants so badly to kiss him. To take him and ruin him. Make sure he can never go back to Heaven, that he has to stay with them, so Mo can learn every little nook of his body, mark them, make him his.
And he just might…
He just might.
“Dustfinger, have you ever–”
Behind him, a twig cracks. Mo jerks up, pulling out the pistol hidden on his back. Dustfinger gets to his feet, stands beside Mo with his Angel Blade (stolen on his way out of Heaven on the fateful day when he found the truth) at hand. A couple tense seconds pass until a little fox walks out of a bush, calmly. It startles when it sees the two men and runs back the other way. Mo sighs, dropping his arms. Relieved, but exhausted.
“Mo, you were going to ask something,” Dustfinger says and Mo turns to look at him, then just as quickly, turns back around. Can’t bear it.
“It was, uh–I need to rest.” Lying through his teeth. “Can you keep watch?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks.”
He climbs up into the van. Meggie is sleeping soundly. Blissfully unaware.
Mo falls into the driver’s seat and pushes the backrest down as far as it’ll go, and stares up at the ceiling, feeling like an idiot.
How did he stoop so fucking low…
Elinor drives up to their little clearing in the woods the next day. She has some information to share about angel sightings.
They sit in the van, Mo and Elinor around the little table, Meggie on the bed. Dustfinger just stands by the door. Protecting them.
Mo is having a hard time focusing. His eyes keep fleeting to Dustfinger on their own and every time, he catches the angel watching him back.
Last night he got so close to giving in to his wants. He really thought he was stronger than that, but then Dustfinger had to go and be nice. As if he doesn't know what that does to Mo. To the good part of his heart, or something.
"Mortimer."
He blinks. "Sorry, Elinor. What did you say?"
She watches him from above the rim of her glasses, perched at the tip of her nose. Sternly. Then, after a second, "Can I speak to you in private?"
He sighs and agrees. They step outside.
"What's gotten into you?" She starts as soon as the door closes behind Mo. Her voice is a strained whisper. "You've been distant all morning. Do I have to remind you how dangerous–"
"No, you don't, Elinor." He crosses his arms defensively. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? I'm–going through some shit."
"We all are!"
"I said sorry!"
He sounds like a teenager more often than Meggie does. And it makes him feel even more stupid.
"It's Dustfinger," he rubs his eyes. "You have no idea how hard it is–having him around."
Elinor frowns. "Why?"
"It's–" He sighs. "He's just so–" Handsome. Charming. Sexy. "Difficult."
There's a pause and Elinor seems to read him way deeper than he'd appreciate. As if it wasn't enough, the way Dustfinger constantly looks at him like Mo's as simple as water. He's starting to wonder how open of a book he really is.
"If it were anyone else," she starts, carefully. "I would think they're falling in love… But you wouldn't–"
Before she's finished talking, Mo steps away. He wants to scream. He wants to cry. He can't fucking breathe.
How is it so obvious? How immature is he that he has no control over himself? Can't avoid falling and can't even hide it! Pathetic, pathetic!
He bends over, chest heaving, hands at his knees. Elinor marches up to him again, careful enough not to speak where the others can hear.
"You're in love with the angel!?" She spits in a whisper. "Mortimer, are you out of your fucking mind!?"
"Yes!" He whines. "Yes, I am! Jesus, fuck, Elinor, don't you think I know how bad this is?"
"Doesn't seem like you do!"
He straightens up to look at her, "What’s that supposed to mean?"
"How did you go about falling in love with an angel, you idiot?" There's no heat, but Mo still flinches.
"I–" He doesn't know; wishes it was that simple, really. If he could understand it, he'd know how to end it. But feelings aren't always reasonable. "Have you met him?"
She purses her lips. "An angel, Mo. How do you think this is gonna work?"
"I don't." But he wishes it could. Deep down, he does.
"Well, then do something about it, kid," Elinor warns. "Because it isn't gonna end well."
The angels capture him.
It's morning and Mo's tired of being cooped up in this van in the middle of nowhere, so he convinces Meggie and Dustfinger that it's safe to drive a few miles and have something decent for breakfast for once. They probably wander into some area that's being watched, and before they're even done eating, five of them swoop into the diner. A fight breaks out. They've really gone rogue, killing all the other customers and staff and everyone that gets in their way. Dustfinger agrees to go with them if they let the Folcharts leave.
For days and then weeks Dustfinger is gone and only Heaven knows what they're doing to him up there. Mo and Meggie drive to Elinor's again; together, they try everything in their power to track him and/or an entrance to Heaven. Nothing comes up. It seems like a lost cause. Dustfinger is gone for good. Better forget him.
Until…
It's way past midnight and Mo's the only one awake. He's drunk out of his mind, sitting on the back porch in the middle of a storm. Kind of like the one when Dustfinger first showed up. If he cries, at least he can pretend it's rain.
Lighting strikes in the distance, blinding him for a minute. Mo rubs his eyes. He knows he should go inside, though maybe it's not bad if he stays out here and dies. Dustfinger is gone because of him. He decided he couldn’t stay put for a couple more days and now the angel is probably… Jesus, he’s probably dead.
“If you’re listening,” he catches himself saying out loud, and his words are slurring, but no one’s around to hear it, anyways. “I truly am sorry, Dustfinger.”
“Apologies accepted.”
Mo doesn’t just fall out of his chair. He jumps first, slips on the wet wood, then falls. The glass in his hand shatters on the floor, shards flying everywhere. He looks up through the haze in his mind and, clear as day, there is Dustfinger.
He looks clean, is the first thing Mo notices. There had been rips and bloodstains in his clothes the last time he saw the angel, but now they’re perfect. His face is freshly shaved and his hair looks almost professionally styled.
But his eyes…
His eyes are dead. Nothing of that wondrous warmth that he often directed at Mo. Instead, he now looks at Mo like he’s insignificant and unworthy of Dustfinger’s time. Doesn’t even bother helping him get up.
Yet, Mo can’t help the tears when he realizes what the angel said – that he’s forgiven. Not only that. Dustfinger’s here. Changed, but here.
“You’re back,” he murmurs and steps closer to him.
Mo didn’t expect a hug. But he also didn’t expect to be lifted off the ground by the neck. Goes without saying, but this isn’t the good kind of choking.
“Dustfinger–”
“You must come with me, now.”
“Where?”
But already they’re somewhere else. He blinks, something shifts; he’s pulled left and right and up and down and all over and all around, all in one second, but finally his feet touch the ground again. Mo feels sick, so sick, he actually bends over and throws up on the rich rug covering the entire floor.
He has no idea where they are. Just that they’re in a room with expensive looking decorations all over the walls. But no windows. Or doors. Just two chairs and two men – rather, a man and his guardian angel. Dustfinger snaps his finger and Mo’s mess disappears.
“Where are we?” He asks once he’s able to gather himself. He’s sober, suddenly, and his gut tells him he was better off without this Dustfinger.
“It matters not,” the angel replies. “But you’ll stay here until we’re ready for you.”
“‘We’?” Mo’s eyebrows shoot up as he starts to realize why Dustfinger’s eyes look so empty and glassy. He looks brainwashed. “And ready for what?”
“You have a role to fulfill, Mortimer. And we will ensure that you do it,” is all he says, as if that wasn’t ten times more cryptic.
“Who’s ‘we’, Dustfinger?” Mo steps closer to him. He knows the answer, but maybe if he keeps Dustfinger talking, he can break him out of… Whatever they did to him. “What happened to you this whole time? Why didn’t you come back to us?”
The question is answered when another angel appears in the room. He wears a man, too, also very tall and pale like Dustfinger, but with greyish hair and irises so light they're almost clear. He smiles at Mo, condescending. Full of very white teeth. His all-knowing eyes carry a certain shade that Mo recognizes – the angels that attacked them at the diner, the corrupt ones, had the same glare.
"Well done, brother." He walks up to Dustfinger and places a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Father is pleased. Now we can move on with His plan."
"What plan?" Mo asks, raising his voice. Can't help it. The angel's presence is threatening, not only to him, but to Dustfinger as well, with the hard grip the other has on his shoulder.
"You didn't tell him?" The angel asks Dustfinger, ignoring Mo. Dustfinger shakes his head 'no'. "Good." And finally he turns to face Mo, that awful smile on his face again, "You'll find out in due time, Mortimer. For now, we should all trust that Father knows best. I hope you enjoy your stay."
And with that, he's gone.
Knowing for certain that Dustfinger has been turned – either voluntarily or worse – it hurts. Over the days they spent together Mo had learned to trust the angel, in spite of everything he doesn't say. They had built a bond and Mo, unwillingly, had fallen in love.
But now… Now Dustfinger has betrayed him. He has brought Mo directly to whatever trap the angels set up for him. And who knows if they sent someone for Meggie as well? Who knows if his family is safe, while he sits in this disgusting room and just waits for… He doesn't even know what he's waiting for.
The worst part is that looking at the angel still makes something flutter inside him. He still loves Dustfinger, even after everything.
A couple hours pass in complete silence. Mo is too worked up to sleep, but manages to distract himself studying the paintings on the walls. All of them depict angels in some way; some in a more peaceful way, others, as warriors, fighting off the hordes of Hell.
Dustfinger stands by a corner of the room so still he could be a statue. Mo can feel his eyes on him the whole time and there's a lot he wants to say, but he refrains. He supposes it's pointless, anyways. Dustfinger isn't gonna change back to the person he was when they were alone; that was just a facade he put up to get closer to Mo, he realizes bitterly. And this is who he really is.
But when Mo's legs grow tired of walking around the room and he sits down on one of the chairs, Dustfinger pulls the other one and sits next to him. And suddenly it's like they're back at the clearing in the woods, middle of the night, watching the stars and keeping guard while Meggie sleeps in the van.
Mo sighs.
"Humans require sleep, Mortimer." Dustfinger's voice is flat.
"Huh. And what else do you know about human needs, Mr. Specialist?" Mo's voice is flat.
"Food. And a purpose."
He could laugh. "A purpose?"
"Yes," Dustfinger gives a discreet nod. "Yours, for instance, is to avenge your wife and protect your family. Very noble. Reasonable, even."
He can't help but wonder where all of this is coming from. They've been here for hours and Dustfinger suddenly decides to make small talk, but chooses Mo himself as the subject. Talks about him like he's a separate entity from the man sitting next to him, like a duck. Waiting to be killed.
"And what is yours?" Mo asks, voice curt.
Dustfinger's chest visibly inflates. "To serve the Lord and fight His wars."
"Why am I the enemy in one of His wars, then, Dustfinger?"
The angel pauses, his eyes drift off for a moment. Mo doesn't want to get hopeful, but he thinks he hit a spot.
"You're not," Dustfinger says, slowly, a moment later. "You're a–weapon. His weapon."
Again, Mo could laugh, but he eats away the bitterness and sarcasm lest they scare away this wave of truth and reason that's washed over Dustfinger.
"And what war am I fighting here?" He asks instead.
Dustfinger shifts on his chair. "You're not yet to know."
Dead end. Mo's gonna have to attempt another approach. He decides to try and learn more about the other celestials.
"Fine. Who was that other angel?" He tries to sound nonchalant, but knows he's far too invested for it to work.
"His name is Capricorn," Dustfinger says reverently. "He speaks the Lord's will now. Passes on His missions to us."
As Mo had thought (and feared), Capricorn is the one giving orders. But not God's orders. Lucifer's, more likely, since Mo's escape from Hell had been nothing but a way to get him out as well.
"Was Capricorn always this close to God?" Again, Mo tries to sound cool and collected, but fails.
"No…" Dustfinger doesn't seem to notice, however. Too lost in his own thoughts. "No, he took over recently. Around… Around the time when I was assigned to you."
And now he knows he won. Now he can see in Dustfinger's eyes that he's making the same connections that Mo already has – Capricorn isn't working for God, he has his own agenda. He's using Dustfinger, again. Lying to him. Driving him away from his purpose.
Mo turns to the angel, leans closer to him. Dustfinger doesn't flinch; he inhales powder, ashes, ancient power… Butterflies swoop around in his stomach.
"Be honest," he murmurs, worried that Capricorn might be listening. "You really think he speaks for your Father? After everything?"
The angel frowns. "He's your Father, too."
Mo rolls his eyes. "Don't make this weird, DF."
"DF?" A little smile curls his lips; Mo wants to kiss it off his face. "The human likes it."
"Good, good. But listen to me," he places a hand on Dustfinger's cheek to force him to look. Their eyes meet and Mo sees it; he's almost broken out of the trance. "You remember that day at the diner? When they took you? We were having breakfast, you and Meggie and I, and the angels came. They killed everyone and they took you. Remember? You really think Father sent them to kill those people? Whatever did they do to deserve it?"
"Nothing," Dustfinger frowns again. His eyes seem lost. "They did.. Nothing… But they were in the way… In our way…"
"Whose way, Dustfinger?" Mo prods. "God's?"
He groans a no and pulls himself free from Mo's hands. Suddenly, he's fallen to his knees on the floor, head in his hands, moaning like he's in actual pain. His shoulders shake, he pulls at his hair. Mo fears that he's done something irreversible, that he's broken the angel.
"Dustfinger?" His voice is shaking as he kneels down next to the angel. "Dustfinger, what's going on!?"
He still won't say anything coherent and Mo grabs his arms to try and pull him upright. Before he manages it, however, he hears a flutter of wings and suddenly Dustfinger's being lifted off the floor by invisible hands. Mo knows who it is before he has to look, but the face of fury in Capricorn's inexpressive eyes sends a chill down his spine.
"What have you done to him?" He barks at Mo, his voice distorted. "Do you have any idea how hard it was to make him forget?"
"So you did brainwash him." At this point Mo is seeing red. He would kill Capricorn with his bare hands given the chance. If he didn't have Dustfinger in a 'Force choke'.
"Of course we did. We needed him."
"Who's 'we', who do you work for?"
Capricorn smiles, wolflike. "You're not so dumb, Mortimer." His eyes seem to sparkle and Mo realizes that this is even scarier than the usual icy, dead look. "He speaks wonders of the work you did downstairs, you know. When he makes me king of Violence, I'll ask for you to be my right hand."
Memories of the time spent in Hell flood Mo's mind. He never told anyone, but after a while, Basta understood that physical torture wasn't affecting Mo as intended – he could endure his own pain as long as he could evoke the memory of Meggie. So, the demon came up with other ways to make him suffer. His favorite was to send Mo to do his bidding. Torturing other poor souls broke him, no matter how many times he did it.
He shakes with the memory. And with the understanding that this whole time, Basta himself was also working for Satan. He was played left and right, both by demons and by angels. Mo never felt more stupid and alone.
"Let him go," he hisses.
Capricorn laughs. "Or what?"
High in the air, Dustfinger groans as Capricorn's hold on him tightens.
"I said, let. Him. Go."
Mo's eyes meet with Dustfinger's. It all happens fast. He pulls the Angle Blade out of his inner pocket and drops it in Mo's hand. In turn, Mo jumps at Capricorn, who's too busy laughing at his own cleverness, and shoves it straight into his heart.
Slowly, as he seems to realize what happened, Capricorn's eyes fall to his chest, to Mo's hands on the handle of the blade, then they fly back up to Dustfinger. He falls to his knees, stiff and shaky. Mo just stands and watches. As his hands go to the spear in his chest to try and remove it, in vain, his hold on Dustfinger breaks and the other angel collapses on the floor.
"W-What have you done?" Capricorn mumbles.
Mo is already at Dustfinger's side, helping him up. They look back at the other angel in time to watch as an explosion of white light takes over him and, a second later, the human vessel he was wearing crumples to the ground, spent.
"We have to go," Dustfinger whispers. His voice is hoarse, he rests his weight almost entirely on Mo's arms. "The others will soon find out."
"Can you–"
But again, before he's finished the sentence, wings flutter and Dustfinger flies them back to woods. The van isn't here this time and it feels dead empty. The sun has just risen, bathing it in a lazy white light.
Dustfinger passes out in Mo's arms. They're completely alone.
When Mo comes to, he's curled into himself on the ground, a fire burning next to him and Dustfinger's coat thrown over his body. Slowly, he brings himself up. His mouth is dry as a desert, his head and body ache in several places. He's weak, hungry and thirsty… And confused.
Dustfinger shows up about a half hour later, when Mo has already found a stream of water nearby. He's cleaned himself and drank the thirst away. Hesitantly, the angel approaches and offers him a paper bag. Mo takes it.
"What's this?" He asks, already ripping it open. The smell of junk food fills his nose and he wastes no time shoving the burger in his mouth. "Where did you go? Isn't it dangerous to be roaming about on your own?"
"Food. To get food. Yes, but I figured you needed food." Dustfinger lowers himself onto the ground at Mo's side. "How are you feeling, Mortimer?"
Mo rolls his eyes. "Mo," he says with his mouth full. Shameless. "How are you feeling?"
"Like a fool," Dustfinger's eyes lower to his hands. He looks small without the coat. Or maybe it's the look of defeat. "Capricorn used me to hurt you… More than once."
"Hey, none of that." Mo turns to him, putting down the burger. "He lied to you. He–Dustfinger, he brainwashed you. I didn't even know angels could be brainwashed."
He says nothing in return, just stares at his hands. With a sigh, Mo takes Dustfinger's face, makes him look up. There's no light in those onyx eyes.
"I don't blame you, Dustfinger. Alright? You're as much a victim here as I am." He means it with honesty, and can tell the angel understands. "We have to figure out a way to–to stop Lucifer now, I guess. And keep you safe til then."
Mo doesn't see it coming. One second he has Dustfinger's face in his hands; the next, their mouths are smashed together.
It's awkward and a little painful, the strength with which their lips collide, and nothing like how he imagined their first kiss. He barely has the time to react and close his eyes or kiss back, because Dustfinger is already pulling away a moment later, and he just whispers a quiet Thank you against Mo's lips before moving on to stealing his french fries.
"W-What was that." Mo can't even make it a question.
Dustfinger blinks up at him innocently. "What was what?"
"Did you just kiss me?"
Maybe he dreamt it.
"...Yes?"
He didn't dream it.
"I saw it in a film," the angel explains around a mouthful of fries. "An old film. A woman kissed a man to thank him for saving her life. Oh, is it because this human is also male? I thought you had no trouble kissing other men."
Mo isn't even listening anymore, doesn't want to deal with the implication that somehow Dustfinger knows he's bisexual. It’s that this whole thing is happening all in less than a minute, a fucking rollercoaster–
Dustfinger kisses him. Part of Mo lights up with joy, his chest fills with affection. He loves me back, he thinks, foolishly.
But then.
I saw it in a film. Like a child, he’s just mimicking things the ‘grown ups’ do. Doesn’t have real feelings for Mo, doesn’t even understand that the woman in the film probably did love the man she kissed and found the occasion just an excuse to express it.
Mo wants to cry or throw up or maybe both.
“Are you okay?” Dustfinger asks, watching his face. “My apologies, Mo, I didn’t mean to offend you–”
“None taken,” he murmurs and climbs up to his feet. “Need to… Pee.”
He walks off towards the trees. Dustfinger doesn’t follow.
"So, let me get this straight…"
Elinor has once again driven up to meet them in the woods, this time with Meggie and the van at tow. She rests against the hood of her truck, arms crossed over her chest.
They're both angry at Mo for disappearing again, but after hearing from both him and Dustfinger what happened, Meggie pulled him into a hug and won't let go. Not that Mo's complaining; he hasn't gotten affection from her in months.
"You… Killed an angel…"
"Yes," Mo looks sideways at Dustfinger, still afraid that he might have a sudden change of heart and blame Mo for killing one of his brethren.
"How?"
Dustfinger pulls out the Angel Blade and spins it in his hand, then shoves it back into the pocket of his coat. Elinor nods.
"So what now?"
They decide to set up a trap. They know that the angels want ('Need', Dustfinger insists) Mo, so he'll offer himself, draw them in… And kill as many as are necessary to find out how to end this mess.
Knowing what they’ll do tomorrow, that it could easily backfire, the danger that he’s putting the people he loves in, that in less than 24h he could be sauntering his way back to Hell – Mo feels the need to unwind. Meggie took her time to fall asleep, also as nervous and emotionally wrecked (and who can blame her?), but after the exhaustion of the last couple of days finally beats her, Mo steps off the van and locks her in. For extra safety.
Elinor is resting in her truck, parked right next to the van. Dustfinger sits by a fire, in that same folding chair. Mo walks past him without saying anything. The angel doesn’t ask any questions or try to stop him, and they both know it’s for the best. The memory of that kiss is still alive and aching in Mo’s chest; he wishes he could will it away, along with his feelings for Dustfinger.
They’ll disappear in time, he thinks. And who even knows if he’ll live much longer, anyways, to suffer with them. For now, he walks through the trees, listening to the sounds of the forest at night and bathing in the beauty and magic of it all. Of life and all the good it has to offer. To forget the bad and the evil, if only for tonight.
The stream isn’t deep enough to swim in, but still Mo strips off his clothes, folds them neatly on the shoreline, and slips into the cold water. It makes his muscles tense up at first, but he embraces the feeling. It’s grounding. Slowly, he lies down on the rocks, crossing his arms behind his head for cushion, and just breathes.
Goosebumps raise his skin. Mo curls his toes against a slippery rock. The flow of water is almost like a massage, relaxing, despite the cold. He breathes in the wet grass, watches the bright light of the gibbous reflecting on the water, on his own skin. These are the things that he wants to remember if he dies tomorrow. The beautiful things.
It’s a while before he realizes that he’s being watched. Mo has let his eyes close, so he doesn’t see it when Dustfinger approaches. Only some time later he senses the angel’s presence, but he knows whoever it is means no harm – otherwise, he’d be dead already. Yet, when he opens his eyes and finds Dustfinger’s, a chill comes up his spine, raising the hair on his arms and legs. He feels exposed suddenly and not just because he’s naked.
Realizing that he’s been caught, Dustfinger seems to drop the pretense. He approaches the water and crouches next to the pile of Mo’s clothes. His eyes rake Mo’s body up and down shamelessly, causing a deep blush to taint the man’s face.
“Dustfinger,” the angel starts a moment later and Mo frowns at the seeming use of third person. “The human, that is. He likes… He thinks you’re beautiful.”
Mo wishes he didn’t have to make it so weird. The fact that he’s using someone’s body and that their conscience is still in there, somehow, alive and aware that their body is being inhabited, shared by someone else. It makes him wonder if any of their interactions were true. And who it is that he really loves.
“What about you?” Mo asks, because it’s night and it’s dark and no one’s here to see it and he might die tomorrow. So screw it all.
“All of my Father’s creations are beautiful,” he says plainly and it hits Mo colder than the water he’s currently lying in.
Mo blinks up at the sky again, swallowing the disappointment. Sometimes he thinks he reads the angel so well – willing to drop everything he knows and the other angels, in favor of staying with Mo and protecting him; it’s got to be love, right? When he’s not even being ordered to stay. He’s here because he wants to be.
But other times he goes on tangents like these. Doesn’t differentiate Mo from a tree or a star. Or an ant or a wall clock. They’re all the same to him. Mo is insignificant, Dustfinger’s on his own journey, and Mo is merely fighting the same war, so why not join forces.
“Though,” the angel starts again, “there is something… Something different about you.”
Mo lets out an annoyed breath through his nose. “What’s different about me, Dustfinger?” He asks, if only so the angel will finish his speech and leave him alone.
“Sometimes…” He pauses and Mo looks at him. His eyebrows pinched together, eyes downcast, he seems to be struggling to find the right words. “Sometimes I wish I could… Keep you to myself. Even though, like all other things, you’re free. And my Father would scold me for robbing your freedom.”
There are the butterflies in Mo’s stomach again, stealing his breath. Making his heart beat faster, so fast it's deafening.
In his own way, because he’s so inexperienced and doesn’t know better, Dustfinger is saying he wishes Mo was his. That’s it, right? He’s not making this up? Mo unwinds his arms and leans onto a rock, resting his weight on one elbow and lifting his body to get a better look at the angel. He’s confused and avoiding Mo’s eyes, like he’s afraid of being seen.
“What if,” he starts slowly, so as to not scare Dustfinger. “I want to use my freedom to bind myself to you?”
Dustfinger’s eyes fly up to Mo’s face immediately. “I suppose you could do that.” His voice is a whisper so soft, the sound of the stream flowing almost silences his words.
“Would you like that?” Mo asks, because he needs to hear it. Needs to know he’s not fooling himself. “And I mean you. Not… The other guy.”
The smallest of smiles graces Dustfinger’s face. He nods slowly, his eyes earnest. Then nods again, a little more determined this time, as if to send across the point.
If Mo’s wrong about this, he’s never going to forgive himself – but again, he might die tomorrow, so who cares? He sits fully up; Dustfinger’s so close to him now that when he reaches a hand out, the tips of his fingers graze the angel’s chin. He leans in and Dustfinger copies him, until Mo’s hand curls around his nape to pull him into a soft kiss.
Fireworks go off, the butterflies in his stomach seem to cheer, as their lips touch and this time he knows they both mean it. It’s exhilarating; Mo hasn’t felt this in years. The excitement and joy of finally, finally kissing someone he’s been in love with for a while.
Dustfinger lets himself be dragged into the water following a trail of little kisses. He kneels on the rocks next to Mo as he quietly and slowly undresses the angel. Clever fingers shoving the coat off his shoulders until it can be pulled free and tossed away to land. Then pulling off the old sweater to expose his torso. Mo pulls back to look at him, his chest dotted with red hair, nipples already stiff with cold.
“Beautiful,” he mouths into Dustfinger’s neck and the angel lets out a shaky sigh that does unspeakable things to Mo.
He kisses down Dustfinger’s shoulders, over his collarbones and the line of his throat. Mo was never very religious; raised on Catholicism, but not devout, especially not after Resa died and the underworld revealed itself. Right now, though, he feels a sense of adoration take him over, just not for God. No, if he worships something, it’s the sounds of Dustfinger’s arousal, the smooth skin of his stomach, the otherworldly scent of his aura, the taste of his tongue. Mo slides onto his knees as he kisses down his sternum and his hands are working open Dustfinger’s pants, and he’s already converted.
“Lie down,” he asks and Dustfinger obeys; gingerly pats around until he finds balance and rests down, the upper half of his body out of the water, his head resting on Mo’s clothes. “Let me take care of you.”
He lets out a sob at that. Mo crawls over his body to look closer, to find tears in his eyes. The scene makes him stop, wondering if he’s gone too far.
“Dustfinger,” his voice is soft. “Why are you crying?”
The angel blinks the tears away until he can find Mo’s eyes. Realizing the confusion, he takes Mo’s face between his hands and attempts a reassuring smile.
“I’ve never felt such a strong and physical rapture,” he whispers as more tears roll down his cheeks. “Human emotions are so overwhelming… You help me understand your kind more everyday.”
Mo doesn’t know what to make of that, so he just takes one of Dustfinger’s hands and brings it to his lips. Kisses the tips of his fingers reverently, with all the love he feels for the angel.
“Would you like to stop?” He asks, though he wants so badly to go further. But not if Dustfinger isn’t into it, not if he’s only doing it to please Mo.
Yet the angel shakes his head. “Please, continue. I want to feel it all. I want to bind myself to you.”
It’s Mo’s turn to swallow tears, to hide them with a kiss.
Overwhelming, yes. That is the only word capable of describing this feeling. The realization that Dustfinger loves him and wants to be with him. Knowing that they might only have this one night to share together.
Determined not to waste any more time, he sits back on his calves to pull down Dustfinger’s pants, tossing them aside as well as his shoes. His cock bounces back against his stomach, hard and proud. The muscles of his thighs are well defined, much like the rest of him, though he’s so tall and slim. Mo slides his hands down to his knees to pull his legs apart and Dustfinger goes willingly, and Mo fits between his thighs with ease.
“Tell me to stop,” he finds Dustfinger’s eyes. “Anytime. Okay?”
Only after the angel nods does Mo move onto him. It’s almost like saying a prayer when he takes Dustfinger’s cock into his mouth. Except that his god responds immediately, moaning and bucking his hips and filling Mo’s mouth with the taste of his precum.
Mo takes it slow, gives him time to get adjusted to the sensation. Takes one of Dustfinger’s hands and places it on his own head, and the angel seems to know instinctively to grab his hair and guide him. He follows the gentle pulls and the harder ones, as they both figure out how he likes it, what makes him tick. It’s not long until Dustfinger’s coming down his throat with a full body spasm and a groan loud enough that some animal hidden in the trees nearby runs off. Mo himself almost comes on the spot.
A few deep breaths and Dustfinger slowly comes down. Mo waits patiently, sitting back in the cold water, touching himself, not with earnestness, just enough to keep the edge. Dustfinger sits up shakily and pulls Mo into a deep kiss, licking into Mo’s mouth with a certain hunger. Mo picks up the pace as well, sucks his tongue and bites his lip. Takes Dustfinger’s hand and wraps it around his cock, then his on top.
“Like this,” he whispers into Dustfinger’s mouth and guides him to pump faster. The angel looks down with wonder and fascination, takes over following the rhythm that Mo set up. When he asks for more, Dustfinger obeys, until Mo climaxes as well, all over Dustfinger’s hand.
He helps the angel wash it off in the water. Dustfinger’s grinning a silly little thing and he asks, “Did I do it right?” And Mo can’t help the warmth that takes over his chest. He pulls the angel into a kiss, saying yes, yes, you were perfect against his lips just to feel him melt into Mo’s arms.
The water doesn’t seem so cold anymore when he moves back into the deeper part of the stream, now that Dustfinger sits on Mo’s lap, curled into his embrace and nuzzling into his neck. The moonlight gives his frizzy hair a bit of a halo. Angelic, in the more popular concept. Mo thinks as far as beautiful things go, Dustfinger is at the top of his list.
He knows what they did isn’t right. It’s not wrong either, or at least he doesn’t know why, but there’s got to be a reason that angels aren’t supposed to be seen by humans. Not only has he seen Dustfinger, he’s laid with him, taken his virginity. If he was already going to Hell before, now he’s just probably gotten kicked down a couple levels.
Worth it, though. Dustfinger’s hands are gentle, exploring every little part of Mo’s body that they can reach, and he knows the angel wanted this as much as he did. Surely their mutual consent and desire has to overwrite some unspoken rule. Not to mention their love for one another. Them embracing this mutual feeling – it’s only reasonable.
So, when he realizes that Dustfinger’s hardening up again, despite the cold, despite everything, he doesn’t waste another thought on biblical principles. He gently pushes Dustfinger back, switching their positions. The angel looks up at him with apologies in his eyes and Mo chuckles, kisses the corner of his mouth. His fingers are wet enough; he slips one into himself with ease.
“What are you–” Dustfinger starts, but Mo cuts him off with a shh. He presses a second finger in, his jaw dropping to find air as it suddenly feels claustrophobic even as they’re literally in the middle of a forest. His body takes it easily. Mo’s eyes are closed, but he can feel the burn of Dustfinger’s stare on his face.
Pulling his hand free, he raises himself to line up with Dustfinger’s cock. Doesn’t have to say anything (wonders what other kind of movies the angel has been watching), he seems to understand. Slowly, Mo sinks onto him. The burn is delicious. Dustfinger fills him up like he was made for it.
When Mo blinks open his eyes, Dustfinger’s staring at him with an expression of disbelief. His mouth agape, brows creased. Overwhelmed. Mo gets it. He rests their foreheads together and just breathes for long minutes.
Mo's palms cling to Dustfinger's back. The tips of his fingers draw circles on the smooth skin. There are no signs of wings – there never were, and he laughs at himself for thinking that. Dustfinger searches his face for the source of the sudden entertainment.
"Do you have actual wings?" He asks, throwing aside the same. "Or is it just a metaphor?"
"We have wings," he softens up. "But I can't show them to you."
"Why?" Mo asks, his fingers climbing up to play with Dustfinger's hair.
"If I were to show you my real form…" The angel shrugs, "Your human brain can't comprehend it. At best you'd go blind or mad. More likely you'd… Die."
Mad he already is… He's currently fucking an angel, for crying out loud. And blindness would be worth it, he figures.
But he doesn't expect Dustfinger to agree. So instead of insisting, he just grabs the angel's shoulder for leverage and raises himself, just to sit back down again. Dustfinger groans with the unexpected movement. He does it again.
They build up a gentle rhythm. For once Mo isn't in a hurry. He gets to wrap his arms around Dustfinger's shoulder, rest his head against the other's, and feel as they slowly melt together, two parts of a whole finally becoming one again.
He makes love to Dustfinger like it isn't wrong and they have all the time in the world to spare. Like they have the right to be.
Later, they're lying on the grass, curled into each other to fight off the cold while their bodies dry up, and Mo's hand rests on Dustfinger's chest, drawing patterns on the wet hairs. The angel stares up at the stars with nothing but peace in his eyes. His palm is the perfect match to the mark on Mo’s shoulder.
It slowly starts to come back to Mo, all his worries, the fear and expectation. He sighs and Dustfinger looks down, questioning.
"We should go back to the camp," he murmurs. "It's not safe for them out there alone."
Dustfinger hums an agreement and they get up, start tugging their clothes back on. A lot of times in his life Mo has felt or known at the very moment that what he's doing was wrong. Sometimes he's pushed through and done it anyways; other times, knowing was enough to make him stop.This time, however… He looks at Dustfinger, cut out against the trees, bathed in moonlight. This time, though he knows it's wrong, it feels right.
Elinor finds them in the morning sitting together by the fire, eating roasted fish. Huddled into each other, laughing at some stupid joke Mo pulled out of his ass, that only landed because Dustfinger has never heard it before. She pulls him aside immediately.
"I can't believe you, Mortimer!" And she never calls him by his full name, no one ever does, so Mo squares up his shoulders defensively.
"What? What's so terrible about it?" He asks in curt whispers.
"So you're not even gonna deny it!"
"Why should I? Listen Elinor, one of us could die today."
"And we could all survive." She storms off, leaving Mo to his sober, daylight thoughts.
They could survive.
… Was that supposed to be a threat?
A crossroads in the middle of nowhere. The blinding noon. He recognizes this place as soon as they arrive; it’s where he woke up after Dustfinger rescued him from Hell.
Mo stands at the center, the angel by his side and armed with his Angel Blade. Elinor and Meggie sit in the truck, a few steps away. He'd wanted them both to stay at the camp, but Meggie insisted she wanted to be there if something happened to him. So they agreed that she would at least stay a safe distance away.
The other angels swoop in all at once. A dozen of them. A tall and blond figure in glasses, whom Dustfinger identifies as Orpheus, approaches them first. He doesn't smile or try to trick them with pleasantries; they're way past that point.
"I see you brought your boy-toy to the service, brother," he says to Dustfinger. "Had a change of mind?"
Dustfinger steps between Mo and the army of angels. That seems to answer Orpheus's question. He shakes his head disapprovingly.
"Shame."
Orpheus plucks his glasses off, rubs it into his shirt casually, then checks the lenses against the sun. Stalling or wasting their time, who knows. Then, he looks between the two and his eyes linger for so long on Mo that Dustfinger takes another step closer to Orpheus. Placing himself between the two again.
"You know we still need him," he stares at Dustfinger.
"Why?" Mo asks, drawing everyone's attention. His voice sounds so piercing and… Human. Real, compared to theirs. "Why me?"
Orpheus takes a deep breath. "Ah, Mortimer… I wish we could've told you before, but alas. You were so resistant to working with us. Even though we saved your life."
"Saved my life?" He scoffs.
"Of course. Were we to let you rot away in Hell? No, no… That wouldn't do." Another shake of his head. "Not when you carry such a special gift."
"Just spit it out." He can't take all the secrecy anymore. "What's all this about? What gift?"
He notices the way Dustfinger's head bows. Orpheus does, too. He smiles for the first time, a cold thing.
"Tell him, brother," he urges.
It takes Dustfinger a while to turn around and face him. Then another while for him to start speaking. Mo hates the anticipation and how nerve-wrecking it is, to just stand there and wait for the man – angel – he loves to tell him how and why his life is supposedly important for the Apocalypse.
“It’s not you,” he says and his eyes and his voice and his posture, all of him are apologies. “It’s Meggie. She’s the only rightful vessel for Lucifer.”
It’s like the floor opens up beneath him. And the sky above. Everything is black and all hope is lost.
Suddenly all the events that transpired in the past six months or so line up: Basta threatening Meggie’s life, then offering him a pact to never harm her in exchange for Mo’s soul. Him being resurrected, but only to create a new pathway to Hell. The corrupt angels constantly coming after him, because they knew Meggie would soon follow and they needed to hinder him in advance so he wouldn’t get in their way to her.
He thought he was setting up a trap, but the truth is he just fell into theirs.
And until then he had entirely forgotten about Capricorn coming up to Dustfinger and asking you didn’t tell him? when they were locked in that fancy room. All along, he knew. He just purposefully avoided telling Mo the truth, just pretended to be on his side. But he brought Mo and Meggie here, like cattle to the slaughter.
Last night feels like a fever dream. Tears in Dustfinger’s eyes, his promise to be Mo’s alone. The moonlight on his pale skin. The hoarse and sensual tones in his voice. Was it all a lie? A plot to get Mo to trust him even more blindly?
Mo doesn’t hide the tears this time. He lets them roll freely down his face, wants to savor the pain and regret in Dustfinger’s face.
“You will not lay a finger on her,” Mo says to Orpheus, his voice dark. “Not while I’m alive.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Orpheus smiles again and raises one of his hands, palm turned to Mo. For a moment he thinks, is this it? Will it be over so fast? But Dustfinger grabs Orpheus’s arm and pulls it down, and points the Angel Blade at his heart.
The truck doors open and slam. Meggie and Elinor don’t step up to them, but Mo looks over his shoulder to see that they’re pointing their guns at the angels now. Useless, but a reminder that Mo and Dustfinger aren’t alone.
“They do know human weapons can’t harm angels, don’t they?” Orpheus asks with a chuckle. Seems unbothered by Dustfinger’s presence or his threat.
“She’ll never say yes.” Mo doesn’t raise his voice because he doesn’t want Meggie to know yet, not while he can avoid it. “She’s too smart for this.”
“That’s what we’ll see.”
As if on cue, a dark cloud takes over the sky. Heavy and large, charged with thunder and lightning. Suddenly it’s dark like midnight – no, it’s dark like Hell, Mo remembers with a shudder. The ground beneath him begins to crumble and the next thing he knows, Mo’s being dragged away from the rapidly growing hole by Dustfinger. When it seems that they’re safe, now standing next to Meggie and Elinor, he shoves the angel away.
“Mo, what’s going on?” Meggie grabs his arm. He hugs her waist and she hides her face against his chest.
“Listen to me, Meg,” he murmurs into her hair. “No matter what they ask, don’t say yes. Understood? Do not say yes. Even if they threaten me or Elinor.”
“Say yes to what?” She sounds on the verge of tears and Mo hates Dustfinger (in vain, he’s aware) a little more. “To who?”
“Just keep saying no!” He’s shouting now because the wind is howling and the thunder is loud, and they can hear groans of pain coming from the hole on the ground. It hurts to recognize not only the sounds, but the vision of Hell. Mo, too, closes his eyes and hides his face.
Arms are winding around him, but they feel much wider than they should. More resistant. Shielding him and Meggie from the storm. Wings. Mo knows who it is, he doesn’t have to look. Doesn’t need the whisper of I’m sorry at his ear to recognize Dustfinger’s voice. And he’s not ready to forgive the angel, not yet. But this is him picking a side and, once again, it’s Mo’s.
“We strike now,” he says, turning his face slightly towards Dustfinger. “While they’re distracted.”
Dustfinger nods. Next minute, he’s all the way on the opposite side of the portal, dragging one of the angels away from the group.
“Elinor,” Mo calls and the woman looks up from where she’d been crouching next to the truck. “Keep an eye on her, will you?”
Meggie lets herself be guided to Elinor’s side. Things are happening so fast that Mo barely has any time to focus, but when Dustfinger tosses an Angel Blade at him, he grabs it in the air. And he dives at Orpheus.
They dance around the edge of the hole, Mo trying to land a blow and Orpheus, to push him down, now that he no longer needs the hunter. It ends up being Dustfinger who comes up behind Orpheus and stabs him. Wipes the smug smile off his face as his vessel falls in an arch straight into the portal to Hell.
After Orpheus’s death, a general fight breaks out. Together, in synchrony, angel and hunter fight to protect each other. It doesn’t take too long for the number of corrupt angels to start thinning. Every now and again Mo looks back at Meggie and Elinor; the girl is shouting, speaking to someone only she can see, covering her ears with her hands. Elinor, who isn’t in on the truth, just looks at her, confused and terrified.
Mo trusts Meggie’s strength and will. He has to. Right now he has too much in his hands and if it wasn’t for Dustfinger, he figures he’d been dead minutes ago.
When he checks on Meggie again it’s because he hears a laugh that sends chills down his spine, makes him curl onto himself, a trauma response. Basta. Walking towards the two women threateningly; Elinor steps in front of Meggie, now focused on protecting the girl.
He should go to them, he knows. But when Mo finally gathers himself again, Dustfinger cries out his name. The last of the angels standing has pinned him to the floor. Mo rushes to his aid, sinks the Blade into the angel’s neck. They topple to the ground and Dustfinger takes Mo’s hand to bring himself up.
He turns around immediately, ready to run to Meggie. But there’s no need. Basta is on his knees and Mo gets to watch him fall dead as well, as Elinor stands victorious, the demon knife in her hands.
“How do we close the portal?” He asks, but Dustfinger’s ahead of him. Using his own Angel Blade to make cuts on his palms, he starts going around the portal, drawing sigils with his own blood. He chants something, some sort of prayer in Latin, his eyes are glowing white; and when he comes back around to where Mo’s standing, the hole starts closing up.
The cries die down, the wind circles them one last time. The clouds dissipate, letting through the midday sun again. The storm is finally gone. It’s all over.
It’s been so long since the last time Mo slept in his own bed that his body seems to find the softness of the mattress strange. He tosses and turns, can’t seem to fall asleep. Until a flutter of wings at his window makes him give it up altogether.
Dustfinger smells even more otherworldly when he comes back from Heaven. He’s rougher around the edges and he fights for dominance, like the warrior that he used to be. Leaves marks on Mo’s body, little reminders of who he belongs to. Secretly, Mo loves that. Loves that side of him, as much as any other.
And it’s in his arms that Mo can always find peace.
“How’s Neo Heaven coming along?” Mo jokes, his fingers working countless knots on Dustfinger’s shoulders. The heavy burden of his position.
“Slowly,” the angel shakes his head, “but surely. And devotedly.”
“May it be kind, then,” he whispers and Dustfinger turns to find his eyes. “So they don’t think of stealing you from me.”
A small smile tugs at Dustfinger’s lips. An intimate thing, that Mo knows he saves only for their private moments.
Sometimes it’s easy to feel like they’re a normal couple. Mo cooks, Dustfinger cleans. They each have a favorite side on the bed. DF has an ‘office job’ and Mo works from home (when he’s not on a hunt) and cares for the kid. They’re not so different from any other white-picket-fence family.
But other times they hit the road together to some forgotten little town that’s swarming with monsters, and side by side they fight and rinse the world of evil a little bit more each time. And when they finish the job, Dustfinger heals his wounds with a simple touch, scratches blood off his skin when he tosses Mo on the shitty motel bed for a quick fuck, and then he leaves to serve his angelic duty. Caring for the well-being of humankind all the way from Heaven.
Pretty normal. Pretty reasonable.
“They could never,” the angel says, his eyes full of love. “We’re bound to each other, remember?”
As if Mo could forget…
the end