Title: Angels' Tears (1/1)
Genres: Drama, Hurt/Comfort
Warnings: Description of burn victim; religious imagery
Summary: In Johnny’s desperate hour of need, his Angel comes to him.
Date Of Completion: August 6, 2010
Date Of Posting: August 10, 2010
Disclaimer: I don’t own ‘em, Universal does, more’s the pity.
Word Count: 1111
Feedback welcome and appreciated.
Author’s Notes: I wanted to exercise my skills at writing symbolic imagery and this idea popped into my head. If you’re curious about it and aren’t familiar with the fandom, all you need to know to read this story is that the main character is Johnny Gage, firefighter/paramedic, and half-Native American. In my stories, he’s in an established relationship with Roy DeSoto, his firefighter/paramedic partner.
I did use angel imagery quite a bit because angels 'speak' to me. Also, I mixed Christian and Pagan imagery.
The beautiful cover is my birthday present by ctbn60. Thanks, hon! :)
May the touch
Of the one
Cool the fire.
The flames danced in red and yellow and orange, ribbons of color spiraling like veils as his turnout coat began to melt, running down his arms and chest, pooling at his feet in a smudged, ugly, yellow-brown puddle, mixed with rusty blood. His skin began to flake as the heat rose, roaring like a dragon or Cerberus guarding the gates of Hades.
Firemen didn’t fear hell. They’d walked through it more than once and came out the other side. They respected it, tucking their fears away. To panic was to die.
Johnny called out, his voice disappearing like smoke as his lungs burned. The ceiling rained down in blackened glittering pieces like confetti down the Canyon of Heroes in New York City. The walls crumbled like stale cookies as a blinding light seared his eyes. The iron Maltese Cross on another wall burned as the old prayers came back to him, “Our Father, who art in Heaven…”
A figure in a flowing white gown walked through the flames, her hair as blond as Roy’s with streaks of strawberry fire. Magnificent white wings spread out, tinged with gold. She was an Angel (did Angels have genders?), her raiment shining with unearthly light as she glided to him. She wore a blue-and-yellow Indian headband and carried a dreamcatcher in one delicate hand. A gold sash glittered at her waist.
“I’m burning,” Johnny rasped, the pain exquisite. “I want Roy.” He sounded like a petulant little boy.
A great sadness welled up within him. “I want Roy.”
Tears slid down his cheeks, but they burned on reddened skin. He stared at the Angel, the feathers of the dreamcatcher fluttering as a hot draft blew down from the Cross.
“I’ll teach you yet, you heathen.”
A black-garbed nun swam before his vision, slashes of white accentuating the black. An ebony crucifix dangled from her belt, a ruler in her gnarled hand.
“Am I going to hell?”
The Angel smiled, her blond hair framing her face like a halo. “You’re already there.”
Laughter hurt too much. Strands of his hair flaked down to sprinkle his turnout coat as his boots melted, his skin beginning to curl up as muscle fell away from the bone.
“Because I love Roy?”
The Angel smiled. “Love is never worthy of hell.” She lifted her hand. “I can catch your dreams.”
“The bad ones.”
She nodded as the ceiling flaked and black smoke billowed around her, filling Johnny’s lungs as the tears burned down blistering cheeks. He could smell the end of everything, charred and black.
“Take away the bad dreams,” he rasped as the pain sliced through his lungs and he heard hollow coughing that split him in two as the flames danced and crackled like demented tribal dancers around the campfire.
Her hair formed into braids as she spoke the language of his fathers, his own shattered voice entwining around hers.
The fire crackled around the campfire as Gray Wolf’s deep voice said, “Stay away from the blond and blue-eyed.” His dark eyes glinted in the firelight as the smoke spiraled up to the stars. “They are trouble for one such as you.”
No, Gray Wolf. Blond and blue-eyed is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
The Angel spoke as Johnny’s rasp joined hers in the ancient language…
Beneath my feet
As my bones
Turn to dust.”
The cross melted as the smoke curled around him, slipping inside his lungs and through his veins, lava bubbling in his blood as blackness crossed over the Angel.
Hot against my face,
My skin tearing
As I gasp.”
The Angel’s eyes were so blue, cool and calm, never flinching as a scream echoed hollowly across ashen air, followed by the moans of the damned.
Red with blood
As the cry
Of the Warriors
The Valley of Death.”
Her wings began to char at the tips, blackness curling the feathers as the flames ate away the downy softness, crumbling to ashes at his feet.
Touch thy lips
And cool the flames
In thy heart.”
The Angel slowly morphed into his Beloved, his hair brighter than hers, his eyes bluer than sapphires sparkling in the sun. His black helmet with the number 51 shone and his turnout coat glittered, as pristine as his pants and boots. In one hand he carried a halligan, in the other the trauma box. His skin was as pale as starlight, unblemished by Johnny’s sins. His Angel smiled with the light of a thousand suns. If there was a hint of wings, they shimmered and were gone before Johnny could focus blurred eyes.
“Roy,” Johnny breathed. He reached out shaking hands. “Don’t leave me.” Tears flowed, searing his skin.
His Angel came closer and Johnny sighed, fear skittering away to dance at the edges, his limbs trembling. Roy would take care of him like he always did.
“I’m burning,” he sobbed.
“I don’t want to die.” Great pain twisted his heart.
Cool hands touched his face, the skin stretched taut across his bones. He drank in the sight of his beautiful Angel, feeling the love curl around him like smoke and hold on tight. Love tinged with sadness was soft in shimmering blue eyes. Loving arms reached out and wrapped around his shaking body, pulling him close.
“I love you,” Johnny rasped as his voice turned to smoke.
Cool lips touched cracked ones. Roy could always soothe him when his fire burned too brightly as he melted like the Wicked Witch of the West.
He drifted on a sea of pain, the cries of the gulls piercing humid air (or were they the cries of people?) and the light was too bright as he called for his Angel.
“The cavalry came over the hill for us, Junior.” A pause. “Oops, sorry ‘bout that. Bad choice of words.”
He tried to answer but laughing hurt too much and his voice turned to smoke. Maybe smoke signals? Chet would love that.
It was hot, so hot as the voices were murmurs except for agonized screams and his Angel’s music. He drifted on the sea, his mouth full of ashes, and when he finally opened his eyes, his Angel was there, dressed in white that crackled.
“I’m burning,” he rasped, words scraping like broken glass in his throat.
His Angel leaned over and his tears fell, cooling Johnny’s endless fire.