The Proximity of Angels and Demons

A man.

A Christmas gift of a man wrapped in a rumpled Armani suit, tie loosened, hair ruffled, eyes lost far away.

Sometimes he seems to be too much-too big of a presence, filling too much of your universe. You're pretty sure it's not healthy. As you sip your juice, he leans close and breathes words onto your neck. "You gonna eat that?" A press of thigh against yours, an extended hand and then the toast is gone from your plate.

But you don't mind.

Because he is all there is.

Chris is gone, but he is always there. Leaving you to hobble around the empty echo of your apartment, leg throbbing in time with your heart, the odd grimace of pain as the floorboards return pressure.

He returns with a smirk.

"You really expected me to stay?"

And then he moves away.

And you are left sitting in a dark corner, glancing at the clock on the wall with only a vague realisation of what you are doing. It's become pretty automatic by now - the slight shift in your focus, the knowledge of the long, dull hours pressing against the present. How much longer it will be before you see him again, your stomach churning not uncomfortably at the thought.

But now-

Now, there is only the frustration.

Because there is nothing more frustrating than having a saviour from heaven sitting less than a metre away and not being able to hear a word of what the celestial being is saying. There is nothing stopping you from shifting closer, except, of course, for the crushing weight of his hostility, so you allow your gaze to wander over the line of bottled inebriation on the shelves before you, watching the sweating barman struggle to match supply to demand and straining to catch the story being recounted next to you.

He raises an eyebrow, self-satisfaction strutting across his features.

"Crawl back to your cushions, child, leave the important to the important."

Not exactly the popular concept of an angel.

No sylph-like fragility and dewy serenity here, this particular deity is a huge, meaty man whose face is flushed red with alcohol and self-importance.

Time passes with a slight shift of focus and a repetitive tick.

Tick.

This man should roar at ear-shattering volume; how can he be so quiet?

But you can't move closer.

"Or what?"

He sneers, the contortion of his face a familiar one.

"Or what?"

Words unsaid linger in the air, and you know what Chris will dream of at night.

"Or what?"

His voice is smooth, like good whiskey, and he moves strangely fluidly for a man his size, giving the impression of liquid seeping through the air.

He-

He is an addiction in human form, an angel in an addiction, if only for the images he weaves through cleverly crafted sentences and tones and-

Lord, you need a drink.

But you know that is impossible so you lose yourself in your alternate addiction.

"...n't afford to wait, if we want a position, we're going to have to leave now." His company is small, insignificant and so you ignore him, her, them. Instead watching your guardian angel, watching every shift of muscle, expression, pitch, tone, the stealing shadows slithering into the crevices untouched by light. You wonder what brings him to this place.

"People don't change, they smooth over their wrinkles."

"Shut up, Chris." You don't mean to say it out loud, being far too used to the ease in which you speak within your head, but you do and before you can take it back the angel's eyes are on you and you notice too late that you have moved forward when you shouldn't have. But then, it is always hindsight that is 20/20; everyone is quite blind when it comes to the future, the present.

Eyes of undiluted darkness bore into yours, striking you silent in the flash of lightning that shoots from that gaze, begging for the truth but not the truth. The truth isn't fit for daylight, anyway. It's a good thing that you have found your angel in hell.

Then he grins, company forgotten.

"I haven't seen you in a while!" The words are slurred, but the grin is eager, causing you to return it.

"There's a reason for that," if the words are cold, you don't know how it happened. After all, this is your angel, your saviour... An angel, yes. Serene and forgiving? No. Eyes narrow in wavering accusation and dizzy indignity.

"I did what I had to do." You sigh; it's the reconciliations that'll be the end of everything.

"I believe you had good intentions," you murmur, almost inaudible amid the raucous yelling of the damned, but he, with his holy ears, hears you.

"And they pave the road to hell." The words are ambiguous; not quite a question but not quite an answer either.

"Exactly."

Your gaze flicks down to the fingerprint-smudged bench and the bottle sitting on it in front of you. The bottle whispers your name and promises wondrous things. Lovely, lovely lies that you love to hear, that can be heard too clearly.

Simple pleasures which will surely end up costing too much.

"I've had too much to drink." You look up at him, welcoming the distraction from temptation and notice the uncertain swaying of his torso, causing you to bite your lip.

"Well, come on then, I'll pour you into bed." You help him home, stumbling under his unconscious weight.

Maybe you're the angel.

He groans in obvious pain as he spills into bed, almost pulling you with him.

"Things will look worse tomorrow, I promise." You say with a wicked grin.

"Your s-en-se of humour is-s-s twis-sted." He is practically unintelligible now, so you leave him, after turning him onto his side.

"Just like me." You say softly.

"Sleep."

He turns hypnotic demon eyes to you, still an angel.

"Thanks for that."

You know it's hard for him. "Don't worry about it," assuring then reinforcing, "sleep."

And he does, near once again.