Chapter Text
There’s blood on the floor.
He can smell it; copper and dust, foul and metallic, clinging to the air, catching at the back of his throat like rusted pennies under his tongue. It flakes dry against his skin, smeared and cold beneath his fingers. It shouldn’t surprise him. This isn’t the first time Angel’s woken to the suffocating stench of pain, or the feeling of survival clinging to his skin like a parasite. He doesn’t know where it’s coming from, just that it has to be his. The ache in his body, the sticky warmth across his ribs and rattle in his throat makes that blindingly clear.
For a long moment, he doesn’t move. He isn’t even sure he’s breathing. He only knows he’s alive because the pain is too relentless for death to have blessed him. And isn’t that a fucking laugh? So god damned hilarious he can’t bring himself to think of a better joke.
A scoff catches in his throat. Feels the itch of a broken laugh, or maybe a soundless sob begging to be let out. He almost lets it out, because why the hell not? What else is left for him to do?
Instead, he breathes. The air is heavy, sour. It’s his, even if he isn’t sure he wants it. He shouldn’t be breathing; doesn’t know if he’s grateful for whatever fucked-up miracle pulled him back from the depths he was meant to drown beneath. With a heaving breath, Angel rolls onto his side, curling tighter against himself before opening his eyes. Numb, trembling fingers fumble against the rubber tubing knotted around his arm.
He wishes it had worked. Wishes he were high enough to forget why he wants to stop feeling. Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he just wants to escape, pretend things can go back to how they were yesterday. Its hard to really know.
“No one will think twice. Addict trash…”
The voice echoes, a hollow, familiar ringing in his ears. A sound that used to to move through his veins like rushing lust now fades like a broken melody as he shoves it back, buries it beneath the pounding in his skull. Right now, Angel can’t think about how much that voice hurts. He doesn’t want to remember, to think, to feel.
The room swims in and out of focus, his living room bending like a funhouse floor. Nausea claws up his throat. Sharp pain jolts through his wrist as he braces against the coffee table, a white-hot flash through tendon and bone that sears against his eyes.
“Fuck,” he hisses through clenched teeth, dragging himself upright. At least it isn’t broken. Small mercies.
There’s an ache between his legs. Dark stains soak into his jeans. He doesn’t look at them. Problems for later. Right now: get out. get help.
His boot catches on a small cylinder. Glass clinks against the hardwood. An empty needle rolls lazily beneath the couch. He doesn’t think about why it’s there, doesn’t let himself remember anything before he blacked out. Just keeps moving so he isn’t tempted to finish the job.
Get out. Get help. The mantra echoes against the rush in his ears, drowning the static.
Angel staggers out into the night like a man dragging himself through the last stretch of hell. His knees nearly buckle when his boots hit the concrete, fingernails scraping brick as he lurches forward. The city exhales a humid breath through the tears in his shirt; fabric clings to sweat-slicked skin. Pain hums through bruised ribs, each breath jagged and wet. Warm tears streak down his cheeks. Every step is a prayer that his legs don’t give out. That he wont pass out again before he gets away.
“If your listening,” He murmurs, eyes flickering skyward. “I know I ain’t been good, but please, cut a guy some slack.” The plea softens, breaking into a choked chuckle.
Neon hums overhead, blurred into rivers of color. Red bleeds into blue, blue into sickly yellow, vibrant pinks and glowing greens flashing through the wet film in his eyes. Pentagram City doesn’t notice him. Pentagram never notices, not unless you make it.
And what a fucking sight he must be. Bloodied. Bruised. Clinging to the high that should’ve killed him. Stumbling forward, he grips the brick wall. Nails chip. Skin scrapes. His body begs him to stop, but momentum drags him one step further. And another. He’s always been too stupidly stubborn to know when to quit.
A tall shape cuts through the darkness at the edges of his vision a body forming in the blur of smeared colors ahead. The stranger slows at the sight of him, steps becoming increasingly wary. Angel doesn’t have time to wonder if he’ll stop or keep walking. Doesn’t have time to imagine what he must look like to the silhouette staring back at him.
“Help,” His throat is metallic sandpaper as he forces the word out. A single, desperate syllable races the length of his outstretched arm.
The stranger stops. Eyes widen. A voice shouts something distant; warped, underwater. Angel can’t follow. The numb is creeping in, and it feels so good not to feel. He almost forgets why he fought it. Why he bothered trying when surrender was so much easier. His vision tunnels, swirling dark around neon streaks and flashes of memories he doesn’t want. He thinks he feels hands catching him. Then everything goes blissfully dark.
~.~
He wakes to the sound of machines. Beeping. Hissing. A low electric hum gnawing at the base of his skull. Then the light hits him; too bright, glowing through his eyelids until the pulse behind his eyes becomes a steady, dull throb. The smell of antiseptic and recycled air burns the back of his throat. His tongue tastes like gauze and copper. He tries to swallow and nearly gags.
Angel doesn't need to open his eyes to know where he is, hes been here plenty of times before. Its an odd sort of comfort, for a moment, before reality starts crushing down against him.
There’s a band around his arm, something clipped to his finger. The itch of tape on the back of his hand, the dull sting of an IV needle in his vein. His ribs ache with every shallow breath. When he tries to move, pain blooms sharp through his side. New bruises layered over the aches buried beneath the skin, a ghost of hands he doesn’t want to remember.
He exhales through his teeth.
“Guess I’m not dead,” he mutters, wincing as he opens his eyes to a white ceiling he’s seen too many times. “Lucky me.” Beside him, a monitor beeps in time with his heartbeat, mocking him. He wants to rip the thing off the wall just to make it stop.
It isn't long before a nurse realizes he’s awake. Questions he isn't paying attention to fill the silence around the machines. He isn't listening to anything she’s telling him, doesn't much care what she has to say. Isn’t really ready to give her the gossip about what happened. Gazing down at himself in the hospital bed, Angel still isn't sure if hes as grateful to be alive as she says he should be.
It’s not like he’ll stay alive long once it gets out that he isn’t dead.
The door clicks open. Two shapes in crisp blue uniforms step in. Angel watches them enter the room, filling the quiet space with their loud presence, the scents of burnt coffee and cheap aftershave. The nurse speaks to them briefly, but their eyes stay on him. He wants to laugh. They look like they’re expecting him to leap out of bed and make a run for it.
And wouldn’t that be funny? Dressed in the paper thin hospital gown, flashing the best ass in the city and tripping over his own feet while the machines he’s tethered to drag behind him? They’d be talking about it in the break room all night while drinking their stale, reheated coffee.
A throat clearing cough drags him back into the present.
“We’ve got some questions,” says the taller one — Officer Franklin, his tag reads. Broad shoulders, buzzed hair, voice just a touch too cartoonish to sound intimidating. The other, Officer Eggson, is shorter, softer, but wears the stiff look of someone desperate to be taken seriously.
“Everyone does,” Angel croaks, licking cracked lips. “Ain’t so sure I’ve got your answers.”
“I’m sure you’ve got more of them than you think.” Franklin gives a lopsided grin that doesn’t last long. He looks tired, uncertain. Hardboiled and soft shelled. “You’re lucky to be alive,” he says, as if that’s supposed to make anything better.
Lucky. God he wants to laugh in their faces and tell them where they can shove his luck. “Gonna have to take your word for it, because I don’t feel too good right now.”
Franklin gives a dry snort. “You’re lucky it’s not the morgue.”
“Don’t sound so heartbroken about it.” Angel retorts, defensive. Tired of people telling him how lucky he is. “Just, tell me what ya want.”
Franklin sighs, dragging a chair closer to the bed. Eggson stays standing, flipping open a notepad. “You’ve got quite a record,” Franklin says, scanning a small folder. “Drug possession. Solicitation. Disturbing the peace... want me to keep going?”
“Depends,” Angel says, voice flat. “Do I get a prize when you’re done?”
Frank ignores the jab. “Thing is, you’ve also got information. Information that could make you a valuable witness in an ongoing investigation.”
“Uh-huh.” Angel’s brow twitches. He knows a thing or two about what happens to morons who work with the cops. “In a real hurry to make sure I get that afterlife vacation, aren’t ya?”
They blink, momentarily thrown, before the meaning lands. Angel can damn near see the light bulbs flicker over their heads.
“You’d be under police protection,” Eggson says.
“No offense, but that ain't exactly comforting, all things considered.” Angel mutters, looking down at the track marks in the crook of his arm. At the bruises, the IV tethered to him and all the machines whirling their monotone, victorious song about his survival. “I can’t help you,” he says quietly, the first traces of fear lying heavy on his tone.
“You don’t have much of a choice,” Franklin cuts in, careful now. “You’ve got priors, and when you were brought in there was enough coke in your pocket to knock out a linebacker. We’ve been looking into Vincent Voxson and Marcelo Valentino for a long time. We know you’ve got intricate knowledge of what goes on at VoxTek Industries. More than anyone we’ve ever gotten inside undercover. You want to save your skin, you’ll help us.”
“Newsflash asshole, I don’t know shit. I was high most of the time, and even if I wanted to help you,” Angel lets out a bitter laugh that catches on his breath. “You think they’ll let me live if I do?”
Do I want to live? Yes? No? Now really isn't the time to think about it.
“That’s what protection’s for,” Franklin says. “We’ll relocate you. New name. New start. You’ll be safe until the trial.”
Safe. The word lands wrong. Feels like a bruise pressed too hard. Like a joke no one else sees the humor in. He’s heard promises too many times before to think for a moment that its more then just a pretty word meant to get him to do what they want.
“What do you remember, Angel?” Eggson presses. “Were you there the night Ethan Ellington disappeared?”
The name hits him like a pin dropped in a mausoleum. Angel stares at the ceiling. The lights hum louder, the edges of his vision pulsing. He wants to make another joke, I don’t do remembering for free, but the words stick behind his teeth. Because he does remember. He remembers too much. And he wishes to hell he didn’t. None of this would be happening if he was as dumb as he was supposed to be.
“I didn’t like him,” Angel sighs softly, warmth welling in his eyes. “But he didn’t deserve to be, just because he found out what was going on. Its easy to forget how much blood a person has inside of them, ya know?” His voice cracks. Its not the memory of blood splattered across marble floors or the lingering burn of bleach in his lungs that gets to him, he’s well acquainted with death. Its everything that happened after. The way everything changed.
He remembers hearing them talk, raised voices, stammering pleads. He remembers being too high to give a fuck. All he’d cared about was the cold press of the floor against his knees and the weight of Valentino’s cock on his tongue. Someone was always in trouble. As long as it wasn't him, why should he care?
A shot fired. His ears rang. The hand tangled in his hair tightened and pulled as teeth grazed flesh from being startled. Vox’s booming voice, always one octave away from maniacal rage. Valentino’s hand gripping his chin too tight so he wouldn't look back, the smell of his cologne tainted by the scent of blood.
“One less problem for us to worry about,” Valentino had laughed, fucking laughed as if someone wasn't bleeding out on the office floor. “No one will miss him,”
“Even if they do,” Vox replied, drumming fingers on the table before turning those icy blue eyes on him, “they won’t tie it back to us.”
Angel’s voice trembles when he repeats the words. The officers write everything down. Every broken sentence, every piece of the investigation they’ve been building. The same information that got Ethan killed. Extortion. Trafficking. Bribes. Money changing hands behind closed doors and threats whispered beneath champagne bubbles. Blood and bleach and the shadows of stains splattered across a drug hazed memory. All of it spilled across the neatly lined paper in the officer’s steady hand.
“Thats all I got,” he says softly, leaning back against the thin, hospital pilled, eyes heavy, throat dry. “So when do I get my medal or whatever?” The joke is flat, humorless. He isn't feeling very funny right now. Instead, Angel feels like hes just signed over his freedom, signed his inevitable death warrant.
“There’s no medal for testifying,” Franklin says quietly. “You get a chance to live, and a chance to put an end to their organization. That’s something.”
Angel stares at him for a long time, the room humming in the silence. “You sure that’s a prize worth winning? Because if I even make it to the stand, I don’t think I’ll be doin’ much living afterwards.”
Neither of them answers beyond the assurance that he’ll be safe. And Angel bites back the retort that hes never been safe a day in his life.
The details come next; relocation, new identification, mandatory rehab. They talk about rules and safety and starting over, voices droning through the ringing in his ears. He drifts in and out, watching the words move on their lips, no longer listening to their voices.
Outside the window, morning creeps gray and pale across the city skyline. He wonders if anyone even knows he’s alive. Wonders if it’d be easier if they didn’t. There’s only one person he wants to tell and he’s already been told he can’t.
He closes his eyes. The machines keep beeping, steady and patient, counting the seconds of a life he’s no longer sure belongs to him.
~.~
They come back for him a few hours later.
The same two officers shuffle in, their faces carved unflatteringly sharp beneath the fluorescent lights, still trying too hard to look like more than caricatures of law enforcement. He’s barely had time to choke down the gray lump they called breakfast before they’re telling him to get dressed, sign some papers, keep quiet. Play dead.
If he weren’t so goddamned tired, he’d have made a few jokes at their expense. Maybe laughed about how doomed Pentagram City must be if these two are the best it’s got. Mean, sure, but exhaustion has a way of burning out the part of him that cares about being nice.
The clothes they bring are wrong. Plain jeans. A sage-green T-shirt that could’ve come from a thrift bin. A denim jacket too big for his narrow frame. They smell like detergent, not smoke or perfume or sweet city sin. It’s all a little too country for him, but he doesn’t get a say in anything now except his name.
In a few signatures, Antonia “Angel” Romano becomes Anthony DiAngelo. Just ink, but it cuts deep. He’s been meaning to change his name for years, just never thought he’d have to die a little first to live a little linger as the person he’d wanted to be.
They hand him a single suitcase: everything he’s allowed to keep of the life he built. Someone else's decisions about which parts of his life he gets to hold onto. The rest, gone. The sight of it hurts more than he expected. His whole identity condensed into a generic black case. A person packed into something that small doesn’t feel like a survivor; it feels like evidence.
But that's all he is now, isn’t it? Evidence within flesh. Testimony with a pulse. He’s only useful if he’s alive, if he’s someone else long enough to make it to trial. The thoughts do nothing to comfort him as he slips on his sunglasses and follows the officers out, head down, breath held.
The city fades, distorted by the funeral shroud of tinted glass windows as he’s taken away from the place thats felt most like home to him. Those vibrant neon lights become dull shadows against the pale morning smog, skyscrapers shrink, smaller and smaller, until their peaks are tombstones against the early morning skyline. He presses his forehead to the window, watching Pentagram City blur by, his life dissolving one gray mile at a time.
No one talks. The car hums and rattles. The officers bob their heads to something on the radio; a weird mix of steampunk and folk that almost makes him smile. They’re an odd pair, he thinks. But it could be worse. Maybe everything could be worse.
Then again, maybe not.
Somewhere past the dimming glow of the city limits, the world turns beige. Flashy billboards advertising the pleasures of life become sun bleached advertisements for small town businesses like Rosie’s Emporium of Delectable Delicacies, The Happy Street motel and Late-Night Broadcasts with the Demon on station 13. Further down, a sign looms into view—big vintage lettering painted onto weather-warped wood: Welcome to Pridesville.
Angel’s never seen a movie about small-town America and thought, yeah, that’s where I belong. Not once. Yet here he is now, sitting in the backseat of a dark SUV with tinted windows, nothing more than a suitcase to his new name, about to be set up for his stint in small town life.
Gag me with a spoon and bend me over the white picket fence, he thinks, watching as drive down main street and through a downtown ripped out of a wholesome seventies' family sitcom. A schoolhouse. A grocery store. Rows of brick building older than his Nonna was lined up real pretty along the sidewalks. And, Christ almighty, three churches.
“Almost there, Anthony,” Eggson calls softly over his shoulder, scratching at the back of his neck.
It’s the first time anyone’s used his new name. Somehow, that single word makes everything real in a way the past hours hadn’t. His fingers tighten around the handle of his suitcase until his knuckles go white.
When they finally pull into the gravel driveway of a small ranch-style house, Angel almost laughs. He doesn’t know what else to do, because screaming would take more energy than he has left and jumping out of the car to run away isn't an option. He’s been through every hell imaginable, but the thought of living here feels worse than anything he's dealt with. And he knows he's being over dramatic, but it's been a really rough twenty-four hours.
“Home sweet home.” Franklin grins, genuine and goofy as he puts the car in park and slides out to stretch after the long drive. “Lets get you settled.”
Walking down a prison corridor would feel less dreadful than counting the steps from the driveway to the front door, its pale blue paint chipping like a bad manicure. The welcome mat reads Bless This Home, and Angel almost steps on it out of spite.
Inside smells like old dust and lemon cleaner. Pastel floral wallpaper. A pale yellow couch with doilies draped over its arms. Fake fruit in a bowl. Plastic flowers on the mantle. Every inch screams middle-aged woman with too much time and not enough taste.
It’s hell. He’s in actual fucking Hell.
“You’ll have a case officer check in tomorrow,” Franklin says, handing him a manila folder. “She’ll get you set up with the self-help group. Make sure you stay off the drugs.”
“You can’t be fuckin’ serious.”
“We went over this at the hospital,” Franklin reminds him, patient but firm. “It’s for your own good.”
“So are coke and dick,” Angel mutters, crossing his arms.
Neither officer bites. Eggson offers a brief tour, while Franklin explains that the fridge and pantry have been stocked with basics. By the time they go over the rules again, Angel’s ready to puncture his own eardrums just to stop hearing them.
Then, finally, they’re gone. The door lock clicks, and he’s alone.
The silence that follows is so loud the room feels haunted. Now that hes alone, his heart is racing, skipping between tense breaths in an unfamiliar room. Angel stands in the center of the living room, staring at nothing. He could almost laugh. For all the talk of protection and new beginnings, the place feels like a tomb. Every tick of the clock sounds like dirt hitting a coffin lid.
He moves through the house like a ghost. Shaking hands make sure the curtains are drawn shut before he checks the locks on the front door, then the back door in the kitchen. Hazel eyes taking in the knick knack magnets on the fridge before pulling it open to see what law enforcement considered basic essentials. Milk, eggs, grape jelly and a tub of butter. Theres a loaf of bread on the counter beside a jar of peanut butter. Cans of soup, mac n’ cheese. Cereal. Angel can feel his taste buds protesting.
The bathroom is just as depressing. A single toothbrush still in its packaging beside a cheap, unused hairbrush. Theres no makeup. None of his soaps or lotions or even a damn hair dryer. Even most hotels at least offer a fucking hair dryer.
Angel drags his suitcase back into the bedroom, rolling his eyes at the paisly bedspread before falling down onto it. Its soft at least. Clean. For a long while he simply lays there, staring at the ceiling, watching the fan spin. He needs a fucking hit. He wants to crawl outside of his skin and disappear. Eventually, he decides to unpack his suitcase.
To his surprise, there are clothes in the dresser and closet already. Socks, underwear, sweats. All in boring neutral colors and roughly his size. No personality, no sense of himself, just, a dead man's wardrobe. They look ridiculous beside the few articles of clothing that were retrieved from his apartment.
He shuts the case and sits on the bed, elbows on his knees. The mattress squeaks. The clock on the bedside table ticks. There’s a mirror on the dresser. He looks up. The man staring back doesn’t look like him. The bruises are fading yellow, but his face is naked around them. His hairs filthy, disheveled. His eyes are heavy and dull. He doesn't look like someone with a second chance; he looks like someone waiting to be erased. Buried.
Angel leans forward, voice barely above a breath. “You’re a dead man walking.” The words land heavy in the quiet. He laughs, low and bitter, before curling into himself on the bed.
Sure, he’s alive, but this isn’t living. Safe, but nowhere close to free. Rubbing his hands along his arms, Angel feels like an empty being with a past he isn't allowed to hold and a future he doesn't know how to grasp.
Outside, the world moves on like his entire life hasn't just ended and reformed into this dumpster fire of an existence. A car passes. Birds sing. Wind chimes dance on the breeze. Sweat drips down his spine as he listens to the sound of distant voices speaking. He lies back on the bed, stares at the ceiling, listens to the soft thud of his pulse in his ears. Tries not to worry about being found or messing this up.
“Welcome home, Anthony.” He whispers, feeling the warmth within his eyes slid over his cheeks. And when he finally closes his eyes, it feels less like sleep and more like sinking — deeper into the quiet, deeper into himself, into the place between death and survival that he now calls home.