A Little Bit of Hell and Heaven

Part 11

Simon is in his room when Steven gets home. Simon hears the front door open and shut, then hears the rustle of wings and plastic shopping bags in the kitchen. He emerges from his bedroom and wanders to the kitchen, where Steven is shoving bags of candy in the cupboards.

"Why did you buy so much candy?" Simon asks, staring at Steven.

"Because I run on sugar," Steven explains, taking a muffin out of one of the boxes and biting into it.

Simon rolls his eyes. "I'm going out," he says, grabbing his purple jacket (the same one that Steven made him buy), and heading for the door. Steven opens his mouth to protest, but Simon is already gone.

Simon zips his jacket against the cold air. A slight breeze ruffles his dark hair as he walks down the sidewalk. He balls his hands into fists and shoves them in his pockets. He isn't mad at Steven, though it might've seemed that way. He just needs time to himself to think.

Thoughts were running through his head so fast, he barely had time to process them. Steven's my guardian angel. He got shot. He's a terrible guardian angel. I had to save him. He pauses for a moment. He saved me. He got shot because he was saving my life. I would've been shot if it weren't for him. In the head, probably. He's not a terrible guardian angel after all. Simon's thoughts are interrupted by the sound of someone coughing in an alleyway a few feet ahead.

"Hello?" Simon calls tentatively. "Who's there? Are you alright?" He cautiously approaches the alley.

Steven's head pricks up from the book he's reading. Something's wrong. Simon's in trouble.  He has a sinking feeling in his stomach. He rushes out the door into the chilly night with no shoes or jacket. On the street, he pauses, then takes off into the sky, following the direction that Simon had taken.

A dark figure steps out of the alley toward Simon. A silver gun glints in his black-gloved hand. Only his eyes are visible through the black mask. His irises are dark pits. Simon backs away, his eyes wide with fear.

"What - who are you?" He stammers, looking around frantically for some form of protection.

The figure says nothing, only continues his slow approach and raises his gun until it comes to rest level with Simon's heart. Simon's eyes widen further. The figure is only a few feet away when he pulls the trigger. Times seems to slow. Simon leaps to the side, but not quite quick enough. The bullet slams into his shoulder, forcing him backward as he falls to the ground.

Simon lays on the ground, stunned and in pain. The figure approaches again, standing over Simon. He lowers the gun, this time aiming between Simon's eyes. Simon squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable. He hears the figure grunt as a shot goes off, and he feels a sudden pain in his right thigh. He opens his eyes and sees the figure grappling with -

"Steven?" He asks incredulously. Steven is locked in fierce hand-to-hand combat with the figure. The gun is on the ground a few feet away from Simon. He crawls over to it, a slow and excruciating process, and snatches it off the asphalt. He aims it shakily at the dark figure and shoots, praying that he won't hit Steven.

The bullet grazes the figure's calf. Not a severe injury, but it slows him down enough for Steven to plunge a silver dagger into his chest. He collapses to the ground. Steven stares at the bloody dagger in his hand and tosses it aside in disgust, then rushes over to Simon's side, his face a mask of worry.

"Are you ok?" He asks frantically.

"Just peachy," Simon tries to smile, but it comes out as more of a grimace. "I only got shot twice. I'm fine."

"You are not fine!" Steven shouts, staring at Simon's wounds. "You almost died! ... And you were making fun of me, weren't you?"

"Yes," Simon chuckles, then winces. "Yes, I was."

"Not funny," Steven scowls. "We need to get you home so I can take care of your wounds." He leans to pick Simon up.

"Wait," Simon holds up his hand. Steven pauses. "Let's see who it was that tried to kill me first." Steven sighs, but graciously obliges, peeling the mask off of the figure's body.

"It's one of Maya's cronies," he gasps.

"They're probably coming after me because I killed her," Simon groans, head pounding and spots dancing in front of his eyes. "Come here. Let's go."

Steven carefully scoops Simon into his arms and takes off into the sky. Simon has his good arm around Steven's neck. Steven is carrying him bridal style, his grip tightening when Simon passes out from the pain and blood loss from his wounds.

When they arrive back at the apartment, Steven sets Simon gently on the couch. His arms and clothes are stained with Simon's blood, but he pays it no mind. He retrieves bandages from the bathroom and wraps Simon's wounds tightly but carefully. He stares at Simon for a moment. His skin is paler than normal, and his veins show darkly through his porcelain skin.

Steven finally notices the awful state that he and his clothes are in. He makes a face and heads into his room. He peels his shirt off over his head. It is red and sticky with blood. He tosses it in the garbage. His torso is also stained where the blood soaked through his shirt onto his skin.

Steven heads into the bathroom, strips off his jeans and boxers and steps into the shower. The hot water rolls over his skin and wings. He scrubs at the stains with soap until they wash off his skin. His arms and torso are pink when he steps out of the shower, partly from the heat of the water and partly from the amount of harsh scrubbing they endured.

Steven stands on the rug outside the shower, dripping. He shakes his wings, flinging water everywhere, and pulls a towel off the rack. He dries his hair a little, then wraps the towel around his waist and heads to his room. He pulls on clean boxers, sweatpants, and a t-shirt, then heads back out to check on Simon.

Simon is still passed out on the couch. His bandages are soaked through with dark blood. After all that blood loss, Steven thinks, Simon probably needs to drink some more blood to replace it. He grabs a bottle of blood from the kitchen, then retrieves new bandages before unwrapping the soiled ones from Simon's shoulder and thigh. He cleans the wounded areas with a damp rag in preparation to put the new bandages on. To his surprise, the wounds are almost completely healed, only round pink scars left behind. There is a slightly purplish spot inside the scar on Simon's thigh.

Steven curses himself. The bullet is still lodged in Simon's thigh. Steven inspects the wound on Simon's shoulder, discovering that the bullet tore straight through Simon's shoulder. Steven winces, imagining how painful that must have been. Simon stirs in his arms. His eyes flutter open and he stares at Steven's face.

"You're so freaking beautiful," he murmurs, reaching to stroke Steven's cheek with his thumb. "What did I ever do to deserve you?"

"Well, you almost died," Steven chuckles, handing Simon the bottle of blood. Simon takes it gratefully and drinks hungrily. "I saved your life," Steven adds.

"My hero," Simon smiles, then furrows his brow. "My shoulder hurts. And I can't - I can't feel my right leg!" He begins to panic. A look of anxious worry flickers over Steven's face.

"Try to stand up." He stands, offering Simon his arm for support. "C'mon."

Simon sits up on the couch and stares at his legs. He turns toward Steven and motions for him to come closer. Steven obliges and Simon wraps his arms around Steven's neck, using him to pull himself upright off the couch. He rests his weight on his left leg and uses Steven for support. He slowly tries to put more weight on his right leg, but his knee buckles and he pitches forward. Steven catches him under the arms. Steven's face is creased with worry and his wings flutter anxiously.

"Are you ok?" Steven asks with concern as he helps Simon sit back on the couch.

"I can't feel my leg. It's useless," Simon growls, glaring at the offending limb. "It's like it's not even there."