how i met an honest-to-gods angel

Francisco Gonsalves

Gerald Thorn

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this is a misc. story!

this is a ship fic!

Every shadow seemed to leap out at Francisco on nights like this. Twelve years into this job, and its luster had long since faded. When the Duchess herself signed his contract, Francisco thought the dreams childhood had stuffed into his head were finally coming true. A younger, greener version of Francisco imagined glory and grandeur, crossing blades with mighty swordsmen on his way to knighthood. Instead, he found himself sitting idly by at the gates of Putnam Manor. Francisco twitched at every noise, hand jumping to his scabbard whenever the ribbons of moonlight cast by treetops looked like people.

Worst of all, nothing to do meant no way for Francisco to prove himself. A decade's loyalty meant nothing in the lavish courts of Heaven, and the old blood made sure Francisco knew it every chance they got. The ones who'd never work a day in their lives couldn't help themselves from sneering at the ones who made sure they didn't have to. Without a grand rescue story or lineage from the old world, Francisco's toil was practically invisible to the Duchess he served.

Not having the kids around made the nights worse. It felt like yesterday; he was still chasing the Duchess's rowdy brats back into the manor every sundown. Last time he'd seen them, one kid had roses in their hair and thorns in their fingers while the other held a stolen candle to bring moths to his side, then both of them were laughing as Francisco sprinted after them and--

And then Sam was gone, and the courtyard died with him. Francisco used to be so angry back then. Those moments were a waste of time, he once thought, taking away precious moments where an intruder could have broken in and hurt them-- or their mother.

A smile flickered across Francisco's face. Odd, that he missed those nights so dearly now. He used to see the other one, the moody child who never seemed to age past seventeen, watching from the window to stare at the same ghosts Francisco grappled with now. Soon, Richard-- no, they weren't Richard anymore; their name was Clef now-- Clef was thrust from the manor in a fit of maternal rage, and the grounds of Putnam Manor fell silent again.

Twelve years into this job, and everything changed but Francisco himself. He still shivered at nothing, jumped at the slightest rustle of the leaves, felt the cold grip of dread around his chest. Just like he had when he was fresh out of boot camp and his head was full of dreams. Francisco's eyes grew misty and blurred. He wasn't scared. He. Wasn't. Scared. Weak, worthless men and little boys got scared. Francisco was--

Francisco's vision sharpened. A slight rustle, a few feet forward and to the left. His hand instinctively gripped the hilt of his sword, taking a careful step forward. Francisco took a slow, deep breath. It was a brisk October night. Of course, it would still be breezy at this hour. That's why Francisco was shivering, after all. He told himself over and over again that nothing was wrong while he grimaced at the sound of his boots crunching on dry grass.

The hedge rustled again. Francisco lurched forward when a shadow slipped through the manor gate. That shape was too tall for a child, too fast for a drunk. "Hey!" Francisco barked.

The figure bolted.

Francisco's feet pounded across the manicured path before his mind could respond. He drew his sword at a speed that made its blade whistle, leaving his empty scabbard to shudder with every stride. The intruder's cloak vanished behind the tall garden hedges, veering towards the front of the manor.

The cold grip of dread tightened around Francisco's thundering lungs. He sprinted harder, barely keeping pace with the invader in front of him. The stranger cleared a row of stone planters with nary a sound. Francisco's boot caught one and sent him stumbling, but he kept going. His lungs burned. He couldn't see the figure clearly anymore, only movement. Blurs of shadow slipped just out of reach, slowing down just enough to taunt Francisco before slipping from his grasp.

Twelve years of scolding unruly teens and being laughed at behind his back for playing at knighthood, and this is how it finally went wrong. Now, when it actually mattered, Francisco was alone, outmatched, and too slow. And by what looked like a scrawny whelp in an oversized cape, no less. He rounded the last bend in the hedges just in time to see the intruder clamber up the steps to the manor's main entrance.

"No, no, no--!" Francisco pushed harder. He was almost there. The figure reached into their coat, gloved hands fumbling with something small and metallic, then crouched by the lock. Francisco drew his blade in one smooth motion and lunged.

The intruder spun around in time to deflect the strike. Swords met with a jarring clash that rang through Putnam Manor like a bell. Sparks flashed in the moonlight. The intruder cursed under his breath and dropped low, aiming a vicious swipe at Francisco's legs. The guardsman shifted sideways with practiced ease, catching the blade against his own and twisting it away. Francisco's boots ground against the stones as he pivoted, finally planting himself firmly between the intruder and the manor's entrance.

"You don't want this fight," Francisco warned, breathless, his sword steady and his stance unwavering. "Get out of here and no one--"

The intruder charged forward and let out a twisted laugh. Francisco barely had time to raise his blade. Their swords clashed again in a flurry of metal and momentum. The intruder's movements were fast and feral, driven by mad bloodlust. Their footwork was unrefined and unpredictable, each blow carrying more weight than Francisco expected from a frame this small and a grin that treated the battlefield like entertainment.

The guardsman gritted his teeth and cursed. Francisco matched the intruder's blade with calculated precision. Where this bumbling fool struck hard, Francisco moved deliberately, his parries economical, his counters swift and controlled. Every block was a lesson drilled into him over twelve long years of training. But the cloaked figure was unrelenting, and Francisco was starting to bleed from the slashes that nicked his limbs.

Francisco's back struck the angel carvings on the door. He winced, briefly, then as if on instinct he lifted his leg, boot connecting with the intruder's stomach and sending him backwards onto the dirt. The attacker's sword clattered to the ground, just out of reach. Francisco leapt, his own blade gripped tight in his hand as he landed, not quite on top of the intruder but close enough to block any escape. He raised the sword high enough that it caught the moonlight.

As he swung downwards, the intruder grinned-- their arm moved, and pain erupted from Francisco's ribs. A curved blade slipped between the plates of his armor, rending flesh as the bastard's arm snapped back and ripped it out. Blood poured from the hole in Francisco's side, cascading down the steps in crimson waves. The intruder laughed at the sight, eyes wild, seeming more interested in the bloodshed than Francisco himself.

Francisco gasped and staggered. Rage and instinct took the reins. With a roar, he drove forward. One last wide, desperate swing caught the intruder's neck. Steel met flesh. The cloaked figure collapsed, crumpling like paper into the courtyard grass.

A wet, rattling gurgle filled the air. Francisco froze, breath hitching. The attacker writhed for a heartbeat longer, fingers twitching against the blood-soaked stone, then went still. Their half-severed throat bubbled red, and for a moment there was silence. The wind brushing through the hedges and the dying wheeze of a fool grew quieter by the second, drowned by a crushing emptiness in Francisco's ears.

Francisco swayed. The world tilted. His sword clattered to the ground, and his body soon followed.

Everything hurt.

The cold from the stone seeped through Francisco's armor, through his skin, into the depths of his bones. The wound in his side screamed with sharp, pulsing pain. His body felt like it had moved a few steps away from him. The world swam, his limbs felt too heavy, his fingers wouldn't move.

The moonlight bloomed where shadows should have been-- no, it was too close, too warm to be moonlight. A stark white glow bloomed through the courtyard like morning breaking behind Francisco's eyes. Against his pain, the guardsman managed to lift his head and get a closer look. A flicker of… wings? Feathers? A flicker of something stretched out from either side of a silhouette. In one arm, the silhouette carried something curved and gleaming. A scythe?

It had to be a hallucination. Francisco's vision had gone white from the pain. Details borne from empty space warped and stretched in his mind. Whatever shape hovered above him, it meant nothing. It was nothing. All Francisco had to do was get through this. He didn't die in training, he didn't die a dozen years into this job. He hardly had the right to die now.

Francisco's arm twitched, maybe, or maybe it was just the wind. He tried to roll onto his side-- nothing. His body was like stone. The light grew bright enough to sting Francisco's eyes. He wasn't scared. Francisco repeated the thought to himself like a prayer, rejecting the cold grip of dread in his chest. He wasn't scared. He wasn't weak, he wasn't worthless, he wasn't a coward, he wasn't dying here.

He wasn't scared.

The light of Heaven kept coming closer.

White robes shone in the moonlight as Gerald soared higher, clutching a stranger in his arms.

The golden glow in this man's soul was starting to dim when Gerald had landed-- whether that meant Gerald was carrying a corpse or not, he wasn't sure.

What he did know, at least, was that this was a monumentally stupid idea. The illustrious services of a countertenor in the Church choir were hardly useful when a man was bleeding to death above the courtyards of Heaven.

Stalling meant death. Gerald had to weigh his options-- find a Cleric, one no doubt swamped with preparations for the endless ceremonies on the coming Halloween, and ask them to heal this stranger plucked from a place Gerald was also trespassing in, or…

Gerald shook his head, looking towards the tall spires of the cathedral. He told himself, sternly, that the smart thing to do was find a real Cleric. Gerald had only ever healed stomach bugs and scraped knees. This man needed someone with experience, not a choir boy with perks and a fixation with the arcane.

Warmth seeped damply into Gerald's skin. A shudder passed down his spine, and his stomach nearly tumbled from his throat.

Okay. Deep breath. Think.

Gerald's eyes flickered between the man in his arms and the manor beneath his wings. There was no one in sight, and the courtyard was deathly silent. First option: fly back to the cathedral. That would take at least ten minutes from this distance-- more if they weren't already in the prayer hall. Gerald would have to explain what happened, convince whoever was most experienced to come help… It could easily be half an hour before anyone laid eyes on the body.

Second option: drop back down and flag someone in the manor. If anyone had seen what happened, they'd be here by now. The Duchess clearly hadn't responded or sent anyone to check on the commotion. Either no one was home or they weren't coming.

Third option: send a runner. Who, exactly, would that be? Gerald had never set wing in the walled garden of the elites before. He had no idea which house had someone fast or trustworthy enough to carry that kind of message… And the issue of time remained.

A lump began to form in Gerald's throat. When a Cleric finally did arrive, they'd ask questions. They'd grill him for trespassing on the gates of Heaven while a man's soul faded in his hands. They'd ask about the blood, then they'd ask about--

Stars above, that was a lot of blood. Gerald hadn't noticed how far it had spread until now. His inexperienced, woefully unequipped hands shook with each wing beat. This was so unbelievably stupid, but it was his only real option. If Gerald wasn't already holding a dead body, he'd start holding one soon unless he acted right now.

Fuck it. Gerald tightened his grip and surged into the air. Glowing wings sliced through the night as he flew faster than he'd ever dared before, cold night air whipping past his face, searing his lungs, tugging at his robes as he turned hard across Salem's skyline. The glowing wards of Gerald's neighborhood shimmered in the distance. Every house on the block glowed faintly under the moonlight, except one.

Gerald dove towards the sole house on Clement Avenue that stood cloaked in shadows. The black roof and dark blue sides of the house rendered it nearly invisible, save for the tiny metal archways that lined the path from the road to the door. Tiny screams creaked upwards from the arches as Gerald landed, bounding forward for the final stretch to the entrance.

The hinges weakly protested as the leather of Gerald's boot met wood that already looked tired. Gerald was halfway across the threshold in an instant, breath ragged and wings still glowing faintly behind him as he practically slammed into the house.

One foot in front of the other, Gerald thundered down the hall, kicking open the next door that stood in his way. One arm carefully balanced the stranger as the other flung the blankets from the bed, before turning towards the door and stomping hard.

"Lockwood!" he barked. "Bedroom. Now!"

Gerald crossed the floor in rapid strides, not even waiting for a reply. He snatched his staff from where it leaned by the coat rack, hauled the half-dead man to his bed, and dropped to his knees.

The air around Gerald changed as soon as he tapped his staff on the ground. Heat rippled along his shoulders. His fingers dug into the rough wood of the staff to keep his hands from shaking. His eyes closed, his breath slowed, and Gerald started the chant he'd practiced in the chapel. It came out unsteady; words caught in his throat. His pronunciation was wrong. His focus was on the pool of red forming on his bedsheets. He was supposed to have incense and preparation and a Cleric's guidance and more time and--

A hand clamped down on Gerald's shoulder. A second voice joined the chant, twin voices harmonizing for only a few breaths before the other voice faded and Gerald continued alone. He heard quiet, quick footsteps maneuvering to the other side of the bed. His eyes flickered open to see Lockwood's scarred hands collecting wisps of golden light, nudging them through the stranger's chest before more wriggled free.

Soon, the wisps of light collected, staying within their container at last. The twins looked at each other, and Lockwood nodded. "You got this."

If there was one thing Gerald learned from Father, it was how to persist in impossible odds. His hands moved automatically; armor off, cape off, shirt off, undershirt off. Gerald stood beside the stranger from Putnam Manor, stripping away the blood-soaked fabric with careful hands. Gerald barely suppressed a grimace at the sound of torn threads peeling from raw skin.

The stab wounds were too deep for someone to be breathing. They still oozed slowly with thick blood, even after divine intervention had cauterized the worst of the damage. Gerald shivered, just once, as the adrenaline finally began to cool in his veins. He stared down at the ruined tunic and the blood still seeping through the cracks between half-healed tissue.

No time to waste. Gerald pulled the sutures and needle from a kit beneath his cabinet, then lit a lamp. The warm glow spilled across the table, catching the sharp point of Gerald's needle as he threaded it with quivering fingers. He wiped them off on his robes, then realized it wouldn't make a difference.

Gerald took a shallow, shaky breath, and pressed a ball of wool to the stranger's wounds in hopes of slowing the bleeding. The torn skin beneath was raw and wet and angry-looking, barely holding together where the spell had knit the layers of flesh inside. The rest, the outermost layer where blood still pooled, was up to him.

The last time Gerald had stitched anything was a split seam in his choir robe. "We should not be the ones to do this," one of Gerald's many souls hissed, but the man on his bed was still breathing. No one else was here, and these stab wounds wouldn't close on their own.

The first puncture was the worst. The needle sank into flesh with far more resistance than cloth. It felt somehow firm and squishy at the same time. Gerald's stomach lurched. He didn't gag, but only because Lockwood was still somewhere in the house and someone here had to pretend they knew what they were doing. Gerald grit his teeth and kept going. In, out, tug, in, out, tug, over and over again.

Thin, dark pinpricks of blood welled with each stitch. "Sorry," Gerald whispered once, unsure if it was to his patient or himself.

The man's breathing stayed steady. The skin slowly pulled closed. The largest wound, as grotesque as it was, began to look like something survivable. By the time Gerald reached the man's smaller injuries, his hands were steadier-- though his stomach still churned. He'd never seen this much blood outside of… well. Since he and Lockwood still lived with Father.

Gerald slumped back onto the floor, bracing himself with one blood-slicked hand as the full weight of the last hour dropped onto his shoulders. His entire body ached, his throat was raw, his robes had been dyed a deep crimson, and a stranger's sword lay on the floor, forgotten in the chaos.

The adrenaline dropped him like a sack of bricks. The room spun around him, just slightly, as he stared at the faint orange glow of the lamp above his head. His chest rose and fell, like he couldn't quite get enough air.

The door creaked open slightly. Lockwood poked his head inside, carrying a towel and two mugs of what looked like tea. His eyes flicked to the stitched up man on Gerald's ruined bed, then to his twin, then back again.

Gerald released the breath he'd been holding for the past hour.

"Told you," Lockwood hummed, setting the mugs on the dresser before helping Gerald partially upright. Gerald slumped against the wall, quietly mouthing his thanks as Lockwood handed him the towel. "Lemme know when you want your tea."

Gerald wiped the sweat from his face and the blood from his hands, before nodding once. Lockwood handed him the mug.

The two remained quiet for a moment, both their backs against the wall as they quietly drank their tea. Gerald tried in vain to wipe the blood from every surface of his body. Lockwood grabbed the sword from the floor and pulled it close to his chest. Both felt a sharp dread as the full weight of what they were doing closed in on them. Neither had the courage to give that dread life through their words.

The light of Heaven had faded and re-appeared in an instant. Francisco still couldn't move. His entire body felt like lead. The light slowly faded again, now taking shape as the world came into view.

A plain bedroom was laid out before him. Someone's cloak, red with rose gold trim and a white hood, hung on the corner of the dresser. The door was open, the light from the hallway spilling onto the floor. Francisco's shirts and armor were crumpled into a heap and shoved in the corner. The wall in front of him was a deep blue, with little white specks scattered on its surface.

Wait.

Where the hell was his sword? The cold grip of dread sharpened like claws around the guardsman's chest. Francisco was trapped in a strange house with no idea how he got there, no clue of their intentions, nor even a weapon to defend himself with--

Francisco paused. The window and door were not only unlocked, but still open. No shackles or magic confined him to the bed. There was soft murmuring from deeper in the house, occasionally broken by the clinking of what Francisco assumed were dishes. He took a breath slowly, feeling the grip of dread loosen.

He had been saved. The light of Heaven had smiled on Francisco and brought him to a house to--

"You're awake!" A young man's voice-- barely out of his teens, if Francisco had to guess-- gasped.

The guardsman jumped slightly as a pair of brilliant, wide sea-green eyes popped into view from the side of the door frame.

"Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to scare you," this strange host mumbled sheepishly, stepping into the doorway and holding up a lamp. "How are you feeling…?"

Francisco blinked, fighting back the urge to curse in both his mother and second tongue.

The host looked away. "Y-yeah, that's… I apologize. I'm not the most experienced with this…" he admitted sheepishly, cheeks turning pink. "I'm, uh… I'm Gerald. I heard you get attacked, and..."

Francisco's eyes narrowed. "The name's Francisco…" the guardsman said slowly, cautiously trying to piece together everything that had happened while he was unconscious. He needed to get out of here. "How soon will you release me?"

It was a bold thing to ask immediately, Francisco knew that, but it seemed to rattle the young man to his soul. "When you're fully recovered, of course…!" Gerald stammered, gesturing in a way that looked more like fidgeting. "You only woke up a few moments ago. It would be foolish to send you home in this state…"

"I have a duty to attend to…!" Francisco protested, shaking his head. "The Duchess is defenseless; if I'm not there to protect her, then--!"

"Does she not have others?"

Francisco winced. "Leaving Madam Putnam in the care of a half dozen whelps…" He shuddered. "She'll end up in far greater danger from them than from anything outside the manor." Francisco turned, reaching for the end table as he moved to rise from the bed. Gerald stepped forward quickly, sighing under his breath as the two locked eyes.

"You're going to have to count on them." Gerald's voice wanted to sound apologetic as he stepped closer, but he flashed Francisco a stern look as the guardsman tried to rise again. "If you get out of bed now, you'll only die quicker. Those wounds were... gruesome."

"How are you so sure? I survived that attack." Francisco folded his arms. "Can't have been that bad."

Gerald shook his head, eyes flicking over to the red cloak on the dresser. "It was bad."

Francisco winced, pain blooming from his side as he shifted. As much as Francisco hated it, Gerald was right. He wasn't going anywhere. Martha was… the guardsman winced again. His eyes drifted towards his side. The stitching was tight, unsteady, and the wound around it was an angry shade of red.

At least he was still alive. "Gracias," Francisco practically growled.

Gerald sighed softly and smiled, "If there's anything I can do to make this comfortable for you…"

"Right now, I… believe I need to be left alone." Francisco glared towards the door he wanted desperately to reach.

Gerald paused, then slowly nodded. The door closed with a gentle click, leaving Francisco in a silence that felt colder than he'd hoped. Darkness surrounded the guardsman from every direction.

Gods above, he was an idiot. How could he have let himself get blindsided like that? This was the one thing that gave Francisco's life value to the world. If Francisco didn't know combat, he knew nothing at all. And he had been made a fool of after twelve years of so-called mastery. Worse, the attacker wasn't operating on much more than animal logic. Was Francisco truly so rusty as to find himself nearly murdered by any common burglar?

He blinked slowly, the darkness smothering him as his vision grew blurry. He had at least killed this attacker. He had… Francisco scoffed under his breath. He had cheated death. Perhaps that itself was a punishment from the divine. He had no idea how long he'd be confined to this bed, trapped in the home of a man he didn't know.

Francisco knew nothing. He was nothing. He laid there, useless, arms at his sides, staring at the ceiling as the world around him seemed to float away. Tears he couldn't allow to fall welled in the corners of his eyes.

He blinked, vision blurring as time stood still. Breathe. This was no place to fall apart.

Francisco's head snapped up as he heard the faint tap of knuckles against the door. "Dios mío, I wanted to be left alone!" he barked, his fists balling tighter with each degree the doorknob turned.

"I know. I'm just dropping this off for you."

The door opened, and Francisco stared despite himself. For a man who seemed like he'd barely come of age, this stranger's appearance told a tale of horrors. Pale scars webbed across his body wherever it was visible, streaming red down his neck and disappearing beneath his collar. Each patch of skin seemed to be a different color. Some were fair, others pink, and the largest of them all was a bruised shade of black and purple. One jagged seam traced along the stranger's jaw, sewn more neatly and deliberately than all the rest. Francisco's eyes traced that seam for far too long and widened as he took in the sheer length of the wound that its presence implied.

The scolding Francisco had prepared dissolved on his tongue like spun sugar as he cautiously took the mug. "Mm. I suppose I should thank you, ah..."

"Lockwood." The stranger smiled a crooked little smile, and let out a laugh that belied some hidden joke. "Don't thank me; I'm just here to help my brother make bad decisions."

Francisco bristled. "If that's what he calls it."

Silence fell through the room of glittering stars, but Lockwood didn't leave. He lingered near the foot of the bed, rocking ever so slightly on his heels like a child who had forgotten what he meant to do next. Francisco felt Lockwood's presence like an itch between his shoulders. "...You may leave, sir," the guardsman said after far too long, his tone clipped enough to cut glass.

"Alright then. Shout for us if you need anything." Lockwood nodded once and made his way towards the door, revealing yet more scars along the back of his limbs. Lockwood paused at the threshold just long enough to add, "Don't wait for it to get cold," before closing the door behind him with a little click.

Francisco let out a sharp breath and raised the mug to his lips. It smelled... sweet. Too sweet for a soldier. The scent of tea was drowned in honey, chamomile, and something floral like the stuff the Duchess drinks at dinner.

Perhaps that had been unnecessary. Francisco told himself that his irritation was justified. They had insisted on bothering him after he'd requested to be left alone. But the reassurance rang hollow. Something about these boys-- something about him-- compelled them to generosity even when it was rebuffed.

It was unsettling. A fresh wave of guilt washed over the guardsman with the scent of sugar and tea. These strangers who brought him to their home had been nothing but kind all night. A kindness Francisco hardly earned, judging by his own conduct.

They had so many reasons to throw Francisco back onto the street. He focused rather intensely on his cup. An apology seemed unfit for the gravity of Francisco's debt. It was much too small for the weight of what Gerald and Lockwood had done for him, too pitiful for what he had done in return.

...What did one do with a second chance at life?

Francisco took a deep breath. Starting small would be for the best. Apologize, and then work from there. He took another sip of tea that went down faster than he'd intended. There were more layers to this drink than Francisco expected from the smell; it was rich and warm, and almost... savory? It tasted like herbs and smelled like the earth after a long rain. The tea brought a comforting feeling through the brisk air of autumn and loosened the cold grip around Francisco's chest.

It was better than he deserved.

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