Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ryan is finding out the hard way that, despite being a literal angel, he will never have the patience of a saint. 

“I, for one, have known this the entire time,” Jen points out helpfully. 

“And I, for one, didn’t ask for your opinion.” 

“Has that ever stopped me before?” 

“Shockingly, it has not.” 

“Then stop fighting me about it. Just accept that you are—” 

A loud voice interrupts their hushed conversation. “Bergara, Ruggirello—is there something you’d like to say?” 

He stops side-eyeing Jen to glare down the long table at TJ, who is glaring back at them both with slanted, black eyes. Ryan’s first instinct is to bare his teeth, and so he does, not looking away from the power of TJ’s impressive scowl. TJ’s True Form wriggles at the edges of his vessel in response to Ryan’s defiant attitude, and it makes Ryan’s eyes flash white, makes his own True Form push up against his skin. 

“Yes, actually. Stop acting like I answer to you, and like I can’t take my eyes off of them for more than a moment at a time without missing something vital. We’ve been looking at the same shit for four months now.” 

A low growl leaves TJ’s mouth at this. One of the other demons, Keith, laughs deeply and says: “Oooh, the angel’s got some bite, boss.” 

“Knock it off,” Kelsey tells both of them, voice even but crisp. TJ doesn’t take his eyes off of Ryan, and Ryan fights the urge to let his Form shred his vessel and start a brawl. “He’s not used to being confined.” 

“Bergara’s always on the move,” Eugene (demon) agrees, amused. “Always interrupting. Always there when you don’t want him to be. Always trying to save the day.” 

“I wouldn’t need to save the day if you guys focused on the bad civilians like you’re supposed to. This isn’t the Dark Ages—you don’t need to pick on the lost ones anymore.” 

“The lost ones!” Zach (demon) laughs, head tipping onto the back of his tall, stiff chair. “Apparently you’ve never heard of grey morality. We go for the ones who’ll be joining us in Hell someday, but need a little push to get them where we all know they’re going.” 

Daysha (angel) squints at him from the side of Ryan that Jen isn’t occupying. “All the more reason for us to intervene. A similar push could pull them back to our side, keep one more soul from rotting.” 

To that, Tania (demon) gives Daysha a salacious wink. “Rot’s not the term we would use. Try ‘arouse.’” 

Daysha’s eyes go white, like a crystal ball fogging over, and Kelsey cuts off whatever she was going to spit back with a sharp: “Enough!” 

The air at the table is tense and uneasy, an expected occurrence for this situation. Kelsey is right about Ryan not used to being locked up; the same can be said for every single angel and demon at the table besides her and TJ, who are their respective bosses. There’s too much power and animosity amongst them to have it be confined to such a small space for such a long amount of time. They’re all going stir-crazy. 

When it’s clear that the point has been made, and that no one is going to make a swipe at someone else, Kelsey settles back into her seat. 

“We’re going to take a break. Try not to snap each other’s necks on your down time or you’ll be assigned something much worse than sitting and judging. Be back in half an hour.” 

No time at all, but enough for him to get some air. As soon as TJ nods his consent, Ryan is out of his seat and striding towards the doors of the council chamber, Daysha hot on his heels. A taunting catcall follows them, but Ryan is determined to forget about the demons for just a few, Blessed minutes, and he won’t let them ruin this small slice of peace he’s just been granted. 

When they exit the council chamber, Daysha shudders like she’s forcing her Form back into her vessel. 

“I hate those smartasses,” she hisses to him. “They make it so hard for me to be objective.” 

“I think that’s the point,” Ryan hisses back. They have to pass by the staircase that leads to their sleeping chambers, with statues of Cain and Abel as its protectors on either side, and then they’re at the door that will take them out into the sweltering, smoggy air of Los Angeles. He shoves it open like it’s TJ Marchbank blocking him from leaving. 

The two of them spill outside, and no one on the street pays them any mind. The whole building is glamoured to look like a connector between the two businesses on either side of them, and only the angels and demons can see it for what it is: a parthenon of sorts, used solely for important events that require both Heaven and Hell to meet, discuss, vote, and set a course of action. A city hall, a neutral ground, where they play nice and interact without their rivalry getting in the way of rational thinking. 

Yeah, right. 

Ryan sits down on the huge marble stairs and takes a deep breath, eyes falling shut. Daysha takes a seat next to him, doing the same. He’s been working with her for a long time, and has been close friends with her for almost as long, so he doesn’t feel suffocated or agitated by her presence like he might by anyone else’s right now. Instead, he feels some of the frustration and dark, itchy anger weaken into relief. 

They’re quiet for a long time, listening to the lull of voices on the sidewalk and honking cars, breathing in the scents of hot asphalt and street food. Ryan slowly and surely feels his shoulders start to unbunch, the crackling energy of his Form simmering into its usual faint hum. 

Eventually, Daysha says to him: “I wish he would just come back.” 

Ryan feels a pang of longing at the words. He wishes he would come home, too, and put a stop to this. To the jury, to the confinement, to the arguing and snipping and barely concealed hatred. To the ache in Ryan’s old, old chest. 

“Me too,” Ryan admits, pressing his fingers into the warm marble step beneath him. “I’m tired of this. Of watching him and judging him like he’s a criminal.” 

“He won’t be as long as we have a say.” 

Ryan doesn’t voice his next thought out loud, but he’s sure Daysha hears it anyways: I feel like that won’t be the case for much longer. 

They’ve been part of the jury for Steven and Andrew’s trial for almost four months now, and before, that would’ve been the blink of an eye for Ryan. But it’s been day after day of watching Steven through a divine telecast, of watching him pick his way through the undertow of Hell, and then the space between their realms, and now across America to avoid detection with Greater demon Andrew Ilnyckyj in tow, and Ryan has felt every single one of them like he’s a mortal living life in slow motion. It’s been countless hours of watching Steven fight off lesser demons, get torn to shreds by TJ’s snarling Hellhounds, and outwit new angels left and right to keep from being captured and returned to Heaven and Hell. They manage to slip away every time, and then the hunt continues while the jury sits and watches, always the wiser as to where they are. 

Ryan had asked, at the very beginning, why Kelsey and TJ didn’t just bring them in when they found out Steven and Andrew had flown their corresponding coops. Kelsey had given him an unreadable look, but TJ had said very plainly: “We want to see how this one goes.”  

‘This one’ being the most recent occurrence in the history of an angel and a demon fleeing to be together. For as long as Ryan has been around, he’s only seen this happen a few times, and each time the angel and demon are stripped of their powers and sentenced to mortal life on Earth for breaking the most sacred law of Heaven and Hell: don’t fall in love with anyone from the opposing domain. They were like the two faery courts, coexisting but never allowed to mingle beyond necessary pleasantries; Seelie was never, ever allowed to breed with Unseelie without dire consequences. 

The whole dog and pony show is drab to Ryan, whose main concern is and would always be making sure that good outweighed evil in the world. And that the demons kept their claws off of his prospective angels. But once the angel and demon pair that escaped this time was revealed to be Steven and Andrew, who are both higher ranked than everyone at the jury table besides Kelsey and TJ, the urgency of tracking them down changed slightly. TJ is interested in seeing how long Steven and Andrew can evade the various attempts to capture and return them to Heaven and Hell, and Ryan suspects that Kelsey, too, is curious to see the outcome of this situation. 

Ryan will tell anyone who’ll listen over and over again that he doesn’t give the slightest damn about the trial, or whether or not Steven and Andrew deserve to be together. His desire for Steven to return is purely for the reason that he misses Steven like he is Ryan’s wings, like he is all of Ryan’s power and essence and has disappeared without a trace. They had been inseparable the moment Ryan woke up and found that hey, he was dead, but hey, he got into Heaven, and had a pretty sweet gig lined up, so there wasn’t a lot to cry about. Ryan doesn’t care that Steven is in love with a demon. He cares that Steven almost lost an arm from one of the Hellhounds and that Andrew isn’t able to accelerate his healing process without making Steven scream in agony. 

He also cares a lot about the look on Andrew’s face the first and only time he tried it. 

Ryan knows where Steven is right this second, and it takes every single shred of his self control to not go tromping after him, to scream and shake some sense into Steven until he agrees to come back to Heaven. He’s bound by honor to serve on the jury, to be a judge for this trial taking place, and breaking his celestial vow to follow Kelsey’s orders will result in some serious shit. Maybe being sentenced to Hell as the lowest ranking demon possible. Maybe banishment from Heaven as an immortal angel who is never allowed to use his powers or see his brethren again. Kelsey is sweet until she isn’t, and Ryan knows exactly what she’s capable of. Has been watching the sweetness drain out of her more and more each day that passes.

So he stays right where he is, fingers digging into the step and heart aching for his oldest and dearest friend to wake up from this madness and return home. He’s been watching Steven run with Andrew for four months now, while also knowing right where he is the whole time, and it’s slowly and surely wearing on the precarious patience Ryan has worked almost a millennium for. He stays right where he is and tries to come to terms with the fact that there is nothing he can do about it for now, that he will just have to endure the madness of this whole thing. 

Ryan and Daysha aren’t disturbed until their half hour is nearly up. There’s been nothing but silence, traffic, and Top 40s music for almost thirty minutes, and then there’s the groaning sound of the front doors being heaved open. 

“It’s almost time,” Annie informs them. “Ryan, you need to get your pouting under control or TJ’s going to make this harder for all of us. And you know how Curly gets when he has to take orders from TJ.” 

“Yeah, he gets like me,” Ryan replies, hackles rising again, like a Pavlovian response to TJ’s name. “Because Marchbank’s not our boss and he can’t help himself from acting like it.” 

Annie gives him a pointed look, and Ryan sighs, holding his hands up. 

“Okay, fine. I’ll try to keep it to myself.”  

Daysha laughs. “I highly doubt that. The last time you kept something to yourself was—oh, yeah! Never!”  

Ryan thinks of the council chamber, of a very specific thing inside of that room. “You ever hear that expression ‘I’ll take it to my grave’? The afterlife is not the grave.” 

Daysha ushers him towards the doorway, where Annie is still standing and waiting for them to come back inside. Ryan lets her, trying not to think of going back inside of the parthenon like he’s going into Hell itself. 

“Bergara, even if you did take some secrets to the grave, I bet they’re not worth us hearing you run your mouth about. Unless they’re Steven and Andrew level secrets, no one has time for them.” 

Ryan is used to wearing a mask, and he wears it now, praying for the cracks in it to stay together. He doesn’t look at Daysha or Annie, just flattens his voice and says, “In that case, I’ll continue to keep them to myself.” 

Another reason he wants Steven to come back and give up this pointless game. Another reason he wants Steven to come back and give up the hope that it could ever work. He’s giving Ryan too much hope, too much room to let all of his deepest, darkest desires spill out of his carefully controlled vault. But he would never admit that, not even if Steven asked him. Ryan would not admit he’s a breath away from becoming Steven Lim if someone held an angel’s blade to his throat and threatened to cut the truth out of it. 

His mask is almost cemented back together when they make it to the council chamber again. Ryan’s resigned to another long evening of this, of watching Steven and Andrew hole up in an abandoned house together in Wasteland, Kansas, waiting for Hellhounds or one of TJ’s cronies to come crashing through the moldy front door. Another long evening of Steven going softer than Ryan’s ever seen him, forehead pressed against the softest demon Ryan’s ever seen, and knowing how doomed they are, whether they survive another night or not. 

The wretched safety of his seat is finally in view when a long, long body suddenly looms above him, slow enough to let Annie and Daysha pass but not Ryan. 

“Enjoy recess?” 

Ryan doesn’t recoil, even as his stomach does. “Yes.”

Shane Madej doesn’t back down at the cold, one-worded answer. On the contrary, it makes his grin widen until Ryan can see every single one of his big, pointed teeth. 

“I’m sure the City of Angels really does it for you, Bergmeister. Lots of innocent, impressionable souls. It’s like an all-you-can-eat buffet out there.” 

“Sounds like it’s more your speed.” He levels Shane with an unimpressed frown. “And don’t call me that. I’ll light you up with Holy Fire before you even have the time to take it back.” 

“Aw, don’t be like that,” Shane cooes, stooping closer. Ryan hates him, hates the icy-hot cavity that forms in his gut at the sight of his unruly hair and his black, black eyes. “L.A.’s big enough for the both of us, sweetheart. We can share.” 

The ‘sweetheart’ is what gets him. Ryan’s breathing goes thin and angry, and his vision goes blindingly white, something that’s happened more in the past four months than it has in the past century. 

“I can’t wait for this to be over,” he seethes. He’s mostly angry that Shane manages to fuck him up so badly, and that he can’t control himself around the Greater demon no matter how hard he tries. “After this trial has concluded, if I see you at all in the next two hundred years, you’ll be begging for the Fire.”  

Shane’s hand finds his hair, long fingers brushing back Ryan’s fringe, messy from hours of pushing it out of his face. The cavity in his sternum bleeds ice, all the cold leaking out of it, and then the heat follows, like the Fire he’s promised to douse Shane in as soon as he catches his breath again. 

“Is that a promise?” he taunts, expression going from amused to vaguely hungry. “I specialize in fire, in case you forgot, angel. I live for it.”

Ryan has to get away, has to leave before it all comes crashing down. He replies, voice reedy: “I’ll bring the ice, then.” and jerks away from Shane. He hears an amused snort follow him, but he doesn’t look back, doesn’t look anywhere but his designated seat. Daysha and Jen are both giving him discreetly concerned looks, but he ignores them. He drops into his seat and sits like the ice he promised to wreak upon Shane is woven into every cell of his body. He stares resolutely at the telecom, where Steven and Andrew are rolling through the backwaters of Wasteland, Kansas in a car they stole, and doesn’t look at anyone at the table. Not Daysha, not Jen, and especially not the smarmy piece of shit demon that’s taking his seat right next to TJ, where he belongs. 

“Let’s get back at it,” TJ announces, when they’re all sitting. “Some of the angel younglings are going to attempt to talk to Steven again pretty soon.” 

Ryan feels the ice in his core splinter, but doesn’t waver, doesn’t let anyone see how badly he’s suffocating except for his clenched hands underneath the table. He stares at the telecom, resigned, and tries to find some kind of solace in the tired, freed Light to Steven’s eyes and the gentle, loving curl of Andrew’s smile as he takes them farther and farther away from home. 

~.~.~

Steven and Andrew carefully pick their way across Kansas into the sprawling fields of Missouri, and then into the winding backroads of Illinois, and Ryan has to watch them almost every single step of the way. Since their vessels only require a full night’s sleep every few days, Kelsey and TJ like to push them through as many hours as they can on the other days. This is the hardest night in the stints of being on the jury: the night before they’re allowed to take a longer rest than normal, enough to sleep and have some time with their own thoughts. Ryan feels like one wrong word will send him across the long, marble table at the demons. 

The only thing keeping him from fidgeting is knowing that said demons will see it as a weakness, and do whatever they want or need to to exploit that weakness. So Ryan sits perfectly still, keeps his eyes on the telecast, and does everything in his power to keep the anger and the terror locked up tight. He lets the soft cadence of Steven’s familiar voice soothe what aches it can, even when the words were never meant for him to hear. 

Andrew and Steven talk about all sorts of things while driving together, and most of it makes the demons scoff in revulsion or mockery. Some of the angels, while not disgusted, are very vocal about their discomfort with invading Andrew and Steven’s privacy by listening to every single thing they say to each other. Ryan secretly takes great comfort in their frivolous conversations, in the fantasy world they’ve built between fighting off the low-level demons and Holy wards set up to trap them. 

Tonight, they’re talking about what they’d do if they were mortals, Andrew carefully guiding them down another long stretch of empty highway and Steven’s fingers tangled with the hand not being used to drive. 

“It would be fascinating to be a twenty year old mundane in college,” Steven tells him, laughing quietly. “College kids are like an entirely different species. Most of them sleep less than we do and still manage to excel in all parts of their lives. It’s incredible.” 

“What would you study?” 

“I’ve always had a great interest in literature and linguistics. It would be intriguing to study both of those since I never have the time to now.” 

Andrew looks over at him, smiling widely. “An angel studying the arts? How unique.” 

“Okay, wiseass—what would you study?” 

Andrew takes a turn to think about it. “I heard that Psychology and Sociology are an up-and-coming pair. I’m good with people and figuring out why they do what they do.” 

“A demon studying the deviance and troubles of mortals? How unique.” 

“I never said I was a special guy. That’s just what I’m good at.” 

At this admission, Steven softens. He moves his free hand into the back of Andrew’s hair, pushing some of it behind his ear. “You’re great at a lot of things. You don’t think you’d be able to take a different path if we were humans?” 

“Babe, why do you think they sent me to Hell in the first place?” He gives Steven a look, one with nothing hidden or deceptive mixed into it, and it still shocks Ryan to his core to see a demon laying everything out for an angel to see. “I chose this path when I was a human, and now I’m walking it like I was meant to. I don’t think an alternate version of myself would know how to do things differently.” 

“Just because you’ve done bad things doesn’t mean you’re bad,” Steven says. “And just because I’ve done good things doesn’t mean I’m necessarily good.” 

Andrew looks away from the road longer this time, long enough that Steven can see the naked adoration in his eyes and relay it back to Andrew. 

“You are good. You’re magnificent.” Andrew brings the hand that he’s holding up to his mouth, and brushes a kiss over the back of it. “You’re the only good choice I’ve ever made.” 

Ryan’s throat runs dry at these words, while most of the demons at the table all start to groan and curse. On the telecast, Steven gets a little choked up, but still manages to say: 

“See? You’re not bad at all.” 

And it’s clear that Andrew doesn’t believe him, not for a single second, but Ryan can see that he wants to. He can see that Andrew wants to believe Steven more than anything, wants to believe that the cruelty inside of him could possibly ever turn into something loving, and it tears him up. 

They fall silent after that, content with each other’s company and the crackle of music through the car’s ancient stereo system, and this is when the demons start speaking up. 

Ned announces: “Well, it’s a good thing we haven’t eaten anything lately. That was fucking vile.” 

“‘You’re the only good choice I’ve ever made.’” Zach parrots. “Apparently so. Everything else he’s ever done or said has been complete horseshit.” 

Ryan has to clench his jaw against the need to shut him down, to actually jump to the defense of a fucking demon. Quinta, on the other hand, does not keep it to herself. 

“If I do recall correctly, Andrew Ilnyckyj is a Greater demon over all of you, literally and figuratively.” 

Sara hisses, “What would you know about Greater demons?” 

“I’m older than almost all of you at this table, if you’ll recall once again. I was there when Andrew Ilnyckyj was promoted to Greater demon—it was right after I was promoted to Archangel. He did more than half of you combined to get where he was before he left with Steven. I know because I had to spend so much time cleaning up all of his messes.” 

“That’s the point,” Tania tells her, looking bored. “Ilnyckyj did all this sinister bullshit to climb the ranks, and then threw it away for some goody goody angel who would let God strike him down to Earth and thank him for it.” 

“He might have been a Greater demon, but he’s worthless now,” Adam adds, which surprises Ryan. He doesn’t know if the demons are ever really friends with each other, but Adam and Andrew had a very pleasant relationship as far as he could tell. “Just as Steven Lim was once an Archangel, and is now worth nothing more than a fumbling cherub. They’re both fools for giving everything they worked towards away for nothing.” 

Curly turns to him, face grave. “If it was nothing, there wouldn’t be a trial, now would there?” 

Adam turns to him, face horrible. “If it was worth anything, if there was any way that it could survive, there wouldn’t be a trial, now would there?” 

They stare at each other for a few bated breaths, and Ryan finally starts to understand what’s going on. He’s been so focused on keeping his own emotions in check, on keeping all of the things he would rather die than let the demons witness inside of himself, that he never thought to look for it in them. It’s hard to see past all of the contempt on Adam’s face, but Ryan can make out the vague outlines of pain, and underneath that, something like desperation. 

“You’re afraid,” Ryan says, barely above a whisper. Adam still hears it like he shouted, because he flicks that enraged glare onto Ryan. Ryan looks back without flinching and says it again. “You’re afraid. You’re afraid of him becoming nothing. You’re afraid of what’s going to happen when they’re brought back here.” 

Adam’s vessel starts to tremble, his Form rising to the surface like lava. “I advise that you back the fuck down before I make you feel afraid, Bergara. It wouldn’t be hard. You already know that Steven’s wings will be stripped when he’s dragged home, and they’ll throw him right back to the Hounds after it’s done. Maybe I’ll arrange it so you can watch in a front row seat.” 

Ryan hardly moves to get to his feet before Jen’s hand is clamped onto his arm, holding him down. It doesn’t stop the fizzle of energy that escapes into the room, one that makes everyone straighten in their seats. 

“Enough,” Kelsey says to them both, hands flat on the table. “Save it for your off time, boys.” 

“We’re not boys.” 

“Then stop acting like it!” TJ bellows. “Maybe you need a refresher course when all of this wraps up, Bianchi? It can be arranged—Ilnyckyj will be your classmate.” 

Adam pushes against it for a few moments, and then he forcefully sits back in his seat, nostrils flared. 

“I understand. I’m sorry for the interruption, boss.” 

TJ looks at Ryan next, face thunderous. Ryan isn’t feeling particularly giving today, or prone to grovelling, so he says: 

“I’m sorry I let your underling get a rise out of me. It won’t happen again.” 

As soon as the words pass his lips, Ryan wants to snatch them back up. Not because of the enmity seeping out of Adam in waves, and not because of the snarl that TJ stares him down with, but because it invites a new voice to the discussion. It invites the one person who gets under his skin no matter what to get his digs in. 

Shane releases a throaty laugh from TJ’s side, clearly amused by the whole transaction. “I’m inclined to disagree. There’s nothing that gets a rise out of you more than malice, casual or no.” 

Ryan hates how true this statement is, and how the dark, gravelly tone to Shane’s voice makes his entire body lock up like it’s made of iron. He gives Shane a look that could bring just about any mortal to their knees if he tried hard enough, but just makes Shane grin. 

“Nothing gets a rise out of me more than listening to the lot of you spew nonsense for hours on end. I’m tired of hearing your fucking voices.” 

“Oh, we know,” Shane drawls, giving Ryan a leer. “We can’t help it. You’re just so cute when you’re mad.” 

Ryan hasn’t heard the word ‘cute’ used in reference to himself in decades, centuries, maybe his entire existence. The use of the word now makes his blood run hot, makes it boil painfully like it does just before he casts a demon back down into Hell. 

He’s prepared to fight back with everything he’s got, stretched too thin and full of too much sulphur, and the way everyone else at the table is eyeing each other agrees with his sentiment. But before any blood can be shed, Kelsey stands up at the head of the table. Her vessel comes undone just enough for her Form to push her to a towering height, at least eight feet, and she looms over every single one of them. Her eyes are so white they’re almost blue, and Ryan looks away from them to where Steven is stroking his thumb over the length of Andrew’s throat and telling him about the stars. 

“That will be enough.” Her voice fills every empty space in the council chamber, and only the highest ranking angels and demons are able to keep from flinching at it. Ryan just scrapes by into that category. “Might I remind you that you’re all here to do a job, a duty that you are bound by honor to complete? If you can’t sit quietly and perform your basic required duties as Heaven and Hell’s finest without acting like children, we’ll shove you into Purgatory for a few decades and see how you fare. And we’ll telecast it for everyone to see.” 

When no one says or does anything else, Kelsey gives them a final: “We’re almost finished for the night. Do not test my patience again.” and then sits down. From the corner of his eye, he sees TJ appraise Kelsey, openly appreciative of the way she handled the situation, and his stomach turns. There’s something about their similar disposition on the jury that makes him feel sick and uneasy, but he doesn’t dare to voice this concern out loud, not even to Daysha or Jen. 

He tries to ignore the sick feeling and focuses once more on the telecast. Andrew is now telling Steven about how the stars look when you can only see them, when you live in the darkness that makes the stars glow so brightly, and Ryan hones in on the calm, warm infliction of his voice. 

There’s a heavy gaze on the crown of his head, though, one that lingers too long to ignore. When Ryan looks up, he is first drawn to Shane Madej, as always; Shane is looking at his fingernails, like he truly cares what they look like outside of when his claws push through the beds. It takes Ryan a long moment to figure out that it’s Adam Bianchi who is staring so intently at him that it feels like a hand pushing down on his shoulders. 

The stare is full of lingering traces of hostility, but Ryan sees the fear in it, sees it now like it’s the thing he should have seen first. He sees all of this anger, hatred, and fear, and he also sees something another demon has never shown him: sorrow. Sorrow like he wants to make this stop, like he knows Ryan wants to make this stop, but there’s no way either of them can. 

Sorrow like he knows how much Ryan loves Steven Lim, and how much it’s going to hurt when he’s dragged back to Heaven only to go tumbling out of it again. Sorrow like he knows that Ryan knows how much he loves Andrew Ilnyckyj, and how much it’s going to hurt Adam to watch the Hounds pull Andrew apart so completely that there’s no way anyone will be able to put him back together again. 

He could shut everything up and look away, could pretend like the demons are nothing to him no matter what; instead, Ryan looks, and lets Adam look back, and he sees everything. 

He doesn’t look towards Shane’s end of the table again. 

~.~.~ 

The main reason why Ryan despises Shane Madej more than any of the other demons, maybe next to TJ, is because of his particular brand of malignancy. He was right in saying that Ryan hates malice above all else, but he’s completely equipped to deal with raw violence, with the kinds of demons who would strip the skin from your bones without a second thought, would do it slowly just to enjoy it longer. He can handle the demons who thrive on the screams of fear that echo throughout Hell’s many levels, the demons who possess people and make them feast on their loved ones. 

Ryan is not so great at handling demons who are malicious in a more nuanced manner. The ones who can sweet talk a man into signing his soul away for ten years of fame. The ones who use charming, alluring words to get mortals to fall in love with them and then break their hearts beyond repair. Ryan can handle the demons who have fun breaking bones; he cannot handle the demons who have fun by slowly and steadily ripping all of your insides out and leaving behind only the hollowed-out remains of your body. 

Maybe it’s because he likes it more when someone is direct and upfront about their feelings with him. Maybe it’s because he knows that if things were different, all Shane would have to do is whisper the word sweetheart into his ear and Ryan would give him every single part of his mind, body, and soul. It fills him with a painful amount of anger and despair to know it to be true. 

So Ryan does his best to stay away from Shane Madej and his honeyed, cloying tongue. It’s just a shame that no matter what corner of the room or even the Earth itself that Ryan is standing in, Shane somehow finds a way to get to that corner, too. 

It’s a few days after the Adam incident, when Ryan is moderate on sleep energy and low on food energy, that Shane finds him in a tiny diner up the street. The parthenon is stocked with everything they could possibly need, but Ryan would give up the absolute finest food in the universe for a chance to spend an hour outside of that miserable building and its inhabitants. 

Ryan is tucked into the back corner of the diner, drinking coffee and people watching out of the window, when Shane’s hulking form drops into the seat across from his. His knees spread wide, effectively caging Ryan’s in between them, and only Ryan’s immortal reflexes keep him from dropping his mug. 

Shane gives him his signature smug, appraising look, one long arm resting on the table and the other draped along the back of the booth. He’s dressed in nothing more than black slacks and a loose, white shirt, and his eyes are that beautiful shade of amber he chooses to don around the mundanes, and Ryan has to make a point of carefully setting his coffee down without spilling it. 

“Can I help you?” 

“Not even a ‘Good morning’ from you, huh?” Shane flags the waitress down with a careless wave of his hand, one that makes Ryan bristle. “I’m just trying to have a civil meal with you, Mr. Bergara.” 

“‘Civil,’” Ryan scoffs. “Yeah, right. I’d just as soon believe that Tania Safi would ever voluntarily try to seduce a man than believe you’re capable of civility.” 

“We’re all full of surprises,” Shane tells him. “I think Zach was serious about something one time, back in the Dark Ages. Or maybe it was World War II? Never say never.” 

Ryan regards him coldly. “What do you want?” 

His tone makes Shane’s eyes flit to black, just long enough for Ryan to count to three, before they’re back to amber. It makes him stiffen, hands curling into fists on top of the sticky table. 

“I told you what I want. I want to have a civil meal with you. Nothing more, nothing less.” 

Ryan highly doubts this, and opens his mouth to say as much, but is cut off by the arrival of their waitress. She takes Shane’s order—coffee and some obscenely large breakfast platter—and then she’s off, telling Ryan that she’ll bring them both out at the same time. Shane gives him another smug smile, as if to say See? Now you have to eat with me and Ryan wishes he could flee. Not just from the diner, but from the city, from the state, from any part of the world that Shane can follow. 

Instead of running, he picks his coffee up again and takes a sip, doing everything in his power to keep the frantic, caged feeling in his chest off of his face. Another angelic trait that Ryan never quite got the hang of, alongside mercilessness: hiding his emotions, unless under extreme duress, like sitting in a room full of Greater demons. Here, he’s only sitting in front of one, and it’s the one that can find Ryan’s weak spot without lifting a finger. 

Shane lets Ryan stew until the waitress drops his coffee off; he picks the mug up after she leaves and stares into it dubiously, one eyebrow perfectly raised. 

“This looks repulsive,” he announces. He takes a tentative sip and doesn’t bother to hide his grimace. “Ah, excellent. It tastes just the same as it looks.”

Ryan, for some unfathomable reason, almost laughs at the look on his face. He hides it in his own cup and says: “Repulsive coffee for a repulsive creature. I think that’s a fair trade.” 

Shane doesn’t try to smother his laughter at all, and it booms across the diner. Ryan feels every pair of mortal eyes like hot brands in his side, and he does a quick gesture with his hands to get them to turn away, settling a light shield of glamour over his and Shane’s corner of the room. The humans immediately forget about their existence and go back to talking like nothing drew them away the first place. 

Shane releases a long breath when he’s done, grinning at Ryan. “You really do hate me, don’t you, little guy?” 

“You always sound so shocked when you remember.”  

“It’s because sometimes, when you’re not snarling and threatening to kill me, I feel like you don’t actually hate me all that much.” 

Ryan’s heart lurches, but he keeps his voice even. “You’re old as dirt and you still can’t tell that I hate you? Apparently all Greater demons get less great the longer they’re employed.” 

Shane doesn’t drop the attitude, but his mouth does fall a little; Ryan tries to see it as a victory. 

“I haven’t grown senile, if that’s what you think has been cooking up in my noggin all this time. It’s called wisdom, angel. I make illusions for a living, and I know how to look past one. You can’t fool me.” 

“Yes,” Ryan agrees, adding a glacial edge into his voice. “I know perfectly well how skilled you are at creating something out of nothing.” 

Shane pauses at this. All of the humor drains from his face, and an impassive, calculating look takes its place. Ryan looks back at him and uses every single forged piece of his emotional temperance to keep from cracking under the weight of that stare. 

After they’ve looked at each other for long enough that it almost becomes unbearable, Shane asks: 

“What is it about me that you hate so much? And don’t say it’s because I’m a demon. I want specifics.” 

Ryan thinks of everything that he could possibly respond with. He considers going with: You said it yourself, there’s nothing that gets a rise out of me more than malice, and you’re full of it, or maybe: You can’t tell me you forgot about the one time you ran Maycie through with a sword and almost killed her, back when I was young and fragile. Back when I could never take a Greater demon head-on. I never forgot it and I’ll never forgive it. 

Then he glances down at Shane’s hand where it’s wrapped around his coffee mug. To an outside observer, the grip on his mug would be casual, a subconscious, forgotten gesture. But Ryan can see the way Shane is carefully running his thumb over the lip of it, can see the way that his knuckles are a little white around the handle, and thinks that maybe a touch of honesty will get Shane off of his back. Just this once. Just enough honesty to make Shane understand. 

Ryan finds his eyes again, so disarmingly beautiful and warm, and he tells Shane in the most sincere tone of voice he can manage: 

“I hate you so much because I can never tell if you mean it. I prefer knowing if the demons I’m facing are out for blood and won’t rest until they’ve tasted it, or if they’re in it for refining their charisma and persuasion skills. I can read every demon on the jury perfectly except for you. I’ve never been able to tell when you mean what you’re saying.” 

Shane doesn’t crack, just as capable of remaining stoic as Ryan is when he needs to be. “You don’t like a little mystery in your life, then?”

“No,” Ryan replies. “I don’t like illusions.” 

There’s another pause, and Ryan should feel victorious at the surprise within the silence, like he really pulled one over on Shane, but instead he feels empty and sore. Shane’s knuckles have gone so white around the mug that Ryan expects it to be in shards on the ground any second. 

And then he relaxes, and tries to stitch together another duplicitous grin, but Ryan has already seen the splintered edges of it. It’s the first time he’s ever seen something resembling candor from Shane Madej, and it does nothing to fill the vacuum within him, makes him feel even emptier than before. This is why he avoids being anywhere near the demon. It always breaks something he’ll never be able to repair within him. 

“Maybe I like a little mystery in my life, did you ever think about that?” Shane carefully presses one of their knees together under the table, and Ryan feels it all the way to the tips of his fingers. “Maybe I’m waiting for someone who can see past all of the illusions and the mystery.” 

Ryan is abruptly very exhausted, the kind of exhausted that coffee can’t fix, that nothing short of memory loss could fix. He feels ancient, and helplessly lost, and exhausted, exhausted, exhausted. 

“You’ll be waiting for the rest of eternity, then.” He takes another sip of coffee and wills the warmth of it to bring him some kind of relief. “How many centuries have you spent behind a mask, pretending that you don’t know what you want?” 

Shane purses his lips, and replies with: “More than what you’ve been around for.” 

“And it’ll probably be many more after I’m gone,” Ryan says. “You probably don’t even remember what’s underneath all of those illusions. Just more trap doors and riddles no one will ever be able to unravel.” 

The smile that splits Shane’s face is horrible, more like a jagged slice than anything else. It sucks all of the warmth from his eyes and turns it into vacancy. “I know perfectly well what’s underneath my mask. I’ll never be able to forget. I’ll never be able to look away from it.” 

Ryan does look away, feeling suffocated by the same emptiness in his gut that is leaching the emotion from Shane’s expression. He looks away to where all of the mortals are going about their days, full of life, love, and hot, beating hearts, who have never had the unfortunate task of trying not to see Shane Madej’s hot, beating heart and the cage around it. 

All he can do now is release a deep, deep breath and tell Shane and his hot, beating heart: 

“It’s going to die with you. You’re the only one who’s ever going to see what’s underneath that mask, and then it’s going to follow you into oblivion.” 

Ryan doesn’t except him to answer, but Shane does, with a very quiet, “I fucking hope so.” 

They don’t say another word for the rest of their civil meal together. They nurse their repulsive coffee, eat their food when it’s brought out, and do not speak again. When everything is gone, Ryan magicks up money to pay for their food and then he slips out of the booth without looking at Shane. He can feel Shane’s old, curious eyes following him out of the door, but Ryan doesn’t turn around and he doesn’t wait for him to catch up. He heads back towards the parthenon, blending easily into the crowd of mundanes walking to work or home or wherever their hearts desire. He’s afraid of Shane seeing through all of the missing pieces of Ryan’s mask, the one he’s spent almost a millennium creating only to have it shattered whenever the Greater demon is in range. He’s afraid of looking into the mask that Shane has spent more than a millennium creating and never being able to find anything else but the illusions, the tangled threads of his morality and his sense of purpose. 

He’s afraid of looking into that mask and seeing more split-second glimpses of what lies underneath, like he did at the diner. Of seeing the darkness, the cruelty, the malice. Of seeing the cage holding everything out of reach from the Light, from any attempt Ryan might make to open it up and let it run rampant. 

He’s always afraid of losing, but he’s more afraid of seeing. So he walks back to the parthenon and doesn’t let Shane follow him, doesn’t let him force his way into Ryan’s space again. He uses the growing distance between them to mend his own mask and think of different corners of the world he might be able to slip away to after all of this is done. To try and make his mask stronger. To try and forget about the desolation on Shane’s face at the mention of whatever lies underneath his mask. To try and forget about the warm, divine press of their knees under the table, bodies easily finding each other while everything else stays in its cage. 

To try and forget that if Shane wanted to, all he would have to do is stick his lovely, crooked fingers into the lock on Ryan’s cage and everything would come spilling out right into his palms and stay there. 

~.~.~  

Shane usually doesn’t go out of his way to harass Ryan more than once a day, but after their chat at the diner, he starts to seek Ryan out every time he gets a chance. 

Whenever they’re given a small break, Shane will suddenly appear at his side and ask if he can follow Ryan out to the front steps of the parthenon, or out back to the gardens. Ryan always gives him a flat, unimpressed look and a curt: “I’m fine, thanks.” but it never deters Shane from trying again. On the nights that they get to take a longer rest to sleep, Shane will stop him at the top of the stairs leading towards their individual sleeping chambers to wish him “the sweetest of dreams.” Sometimes, in the mornings when Ryan needs to eat and finds a restaurant nearby to go to, Shane will walk through the door shortly after and take a seat with him, just like the first time. Shane never approaches the topic of Ryan’s immense dislike for him again, but seems determined to get under his skin just the same. 

Today, he catches Ryan on his way back to the council chamber after another break spent outside with Daysha. They’re talking in low voices about nothing in particular when Shane rounds the corner at the other end of the hall. Daysha doesn’t seem to notice, but Ryan always feels his presence like a hand around his throat, and he looks away from her earnest face to where Shane is headed straight towards them. 

“Another lovely afternoon in the City of Angels, angels?” 

The way Ryan tenses could probably be visible from Heaven itself; it certainly doesn’t go unnoticed by Shane, who grins viciously, or by Daysha, who draws herself up to match his gaze. 

“Any moment spent out of your company is lovely, thank you for asking.” 

Shane leans closer. “And any time spent in yours is nothing short of the same, Your Divinity.” 

Daysha scoffs and pushes past him without another word. Ryan tries to do the same, but Shane stops him by touching just the tip of his finger to the space beneath Ryan’s chin. It effectively pins him in place, and Ryan is helpless to do anything but stare up at Shane, that one touch enough to suck all of the feeling out of his vessel.

Shane’s eyes flick between his for a moment, and even this close together Ryan can’t tell what’s behind them, behind the teasing and the darkness. This close together, Ryan has trouble remembering that he shouldn’t let Shane Madej within touching distance of him, and that he shouldn’t be rendered so useless by their single point of contact. 

When Shane’s thumb curls in so that it’s pressed right under the swell of his bottom lip, so that he’s grabbing Ryan by his chin, Ryan inhales and Shane’s eyes fall to his mouth. And when he speaks, his voice sounds like the sweetest, darkest dream, like a song pulling him towards the depths of the sea. 

“Any moment spent in your company just leaves me wanting another. A city full of angels, and only one who makes me desperate for more.” 

The mention of other angels is what breaks Ryan out of his trance. He jerks his chin from Shane’s hold and shoves past him, hands balling into fists at his sides. 

“I can’t say the same,” Ryan says dismissively, not looking at him again. “Every second spent in your company makes Purgatory seem like Wonderland.” 

He can hear the smirk in Shane’s smoky voice when he says: “Oh, well—they do say that distance makes the heart grow fonder!” He clenches his jaw against the desire to lash out at Shane and stalks back into the council chamber, any trace of peace from his break gone just like that. 

When Ryan reaches his seat, he drops into it silently, trying to hide his shaking fists under the table. Daysha must notice, though, because she leans in and mutters: 

“He has an unnatural fascination with tormenting you.” 

And isn’t that the truest thing he’s ever heard? 

In a moment of weakness, Ryan mutters back: “He drives me absolutely mad.” 

Daysha’s gaze pins him in place, much like Shane’s touch and nothing at all like Shane’s touch. He doesn’t dare return it, keeps his eyes on his shaking hands so that Daysha won’t see the agony in them. 

“Why is he always out for you? All these centuries and I still don’t understand.” 

“I don’t know anymore than you do. When I figure it out, I’ll let you know, right after I damn him to the deepest layer of Hell.” 

“That’s where he crawled out of after he woke up. I don’t think you sending him back will help.” 

He sighs. “I know.” 

Daysha hesitates, and Ryan knows that she wants to say more, can already hear all the truths that she might bring to Light, but TJ calls them back into session before she can push it. For the first and only time, Ryan is grateful for TJ’s immaculate timing and his effortless ability to command the room. 

“Okay, okay, you’ve all had your break, children. It’s time to refocus on the task at hand here.” 

Niki in particular, from Kelsey’s left side, gives TJ a dark look at this comment. He grins nastily in response, daring her to speak up, and just for a moment, it looks like she might; but then she clenches her jaw and looks down at the telecast without a word. Ryan makes the mistake of catching TJ’s eye afterwards, and the nasty grin deepens into something more sadistic, something meant to instill fear and horror into whoever has the misfortune of looking upon it. He stiffens, but doesn’t look away until TJ does to say something to Shane. 

Ryan then makes the even bigger mistake of watching Shane’s face while TJ whispers between them. It goes mysteriously blank, so suddenly and totally that it startles him a little, and then it splits into an expression that reflects TJ’s sadistic grin perfectly. 

He startles as subtly as he can when Shane suddenly turns and meets his stare. His eyes are two obsidian gems, and they gleam with everything but benevolence; Ryan feels his stomach swoop at the sight of them, like he just missed the last step on the parthenon’s front staircase. 

Shane must feel the dread that stirs within him, because he winks at Ryan across the long, marble table like they’re in on some joke together. Ryan manages to look away, his Form trembling underneath the skin of his vessel. He would give anything, anything in the whole, wide, useless world to be somewhere other than in this council chamber, locked inside with Shane Madej and his boss. 

Kelsey enlarges the telecast once more, creating a somewhat effective barrier between the angels and the demons. They can still see each other, but their eyes are drawn naturally to where Steven and Andrew are now traipsing through some ghost town in Indiana. They’re looking a little worse for wear: clothes rumpled, eyes sunken, mouths downturned. But they’re still together, they’re still alive, and they’re still holding hands like it pains them to let go of each other for even a second. Ryan’s heart sits like a stone in his sternum at the sight of them looking so beat up and so in love at the same time. To see what love looks like after it’s been put through the jaws of a Hellhound and the whimsy of an elite Archangel and an elite Greater demon working together to snuff it out. 

“Are there any plans for the night?” Eugene asks, sounding uncaring but trying his best to be interested. “Or is it going to be more Hounds and more of those weird entry-level demons?” 

To his right, Keith snorts rudely. “Like you didn’t start out as one of those weird entry-levels.” 

“I didn’t. The Boss knew I was too good to waste on hiding in closets and welcoming other newcomers. I woke up ready to work on the chopping block.” 

That doesn’t surprise Ryan in the slightest. 

Eugene is one of TJ’s favorites, so he lets the sass in the remark slide. “Have you got any ideas you’d like to share with the class?” 

“I said I woke up ready to work on the chopping block, didn’t I?” 

“Lose the attitude and give up the tactic.” 

“It’s nothing crazy,” Eugene admits, shrugging. “I haven’t seriously been thinking about any tactics to use. But you could always call in the Dreamers now that Ilnyckyj and Lim are more susceptible to them.” 

The Dreamers are very innocently named for a group of the worst demons, in Ryan’s personal opinion. All demons are gifted with glamouring abilities, but the Dreamers specialize in creating illusions, hallucinations, and horrendous, reality-splitting dreams that plague their targets whenever they manage to fall unconscious and continue to lurk at the edge of their minds when awake. They specialize in a very specific brand of torture: slow and steady and all-consuming. 

The thought of one of them getting their hands on Steven, now that he’s so run-down, almost makes Ryan get out of his seat and out of the council chamber. 

Tania interrupts his panic to argue against the idea. “That’s great and all, but the Dreamers are better used when they have time to work their way into someone’s head, in case you’ve forgotten. One night of torment isn’t gonna do much for us--especially since Andrew and Steven are equipped to handle Dreamers and tell when they’re being attacked by them.” 

“A fair point,” Sara agrees. 

Ned, on the other hand, seems to agree with Eugene. “They’re exhausted and fucked up by constantly being hunted. You don’t think that a night with the Dreamers will fuck them up more? It’ll crack them right in half.” 

“Only if we send the right ones!” Zach chimes in. 

At this comment, one of the angels loses their patience. Ryan is incredibly surprised to hear Maycie’s voice from the other end of the table, since she hasn’t really spoken up thus far. 

“Do you think that’s necessary?” she asks, sounding close to the breaking point. “You’re already exhausting your Hounds on them. You think these two are worth the Dreamers?” 

Eugene looks over at her, eyes bottomless. “They’re worth a thousand Dreamers.” 

“No one is worth a thousand Dreamers,” Quinta says. “Not even Steven Lim. And certainly not Andrew Ilnyckyj.” 

He leans across the table towards her. “Andrew doesn’t really count here, to be completely honest with you. He breeds Dreamers like fish breed fry and is mostly immune to their talents. But Steven Lim couldn’t fight off a Dreamer in his current state if it handed him a gun and told him where to shoot. Do you know how many recruits we’ve lost because of Steven? Enough to earn him a thousand Dreamers.” 

They have a staring contest of sorts, where Eugene silently begs Quinta to argue his statement and Quinta begs Eugene to give her a reason to break out her Form. It lasts for a few scalding, rigid breaths, and then Kelsey raises a hand to call for order. 

“We’re not sending any Dreamers to them,” she announces, looking at TJ. “I agree with the sentiment of it being pointless and ultimately ineffective. If you want to use psychological warfare, find something else. The Dreamers are not going to be used like this during the trial.” 

Something about this statement rubs Ryan the wrong way, similar to the missed-step feeling he had earlier. It only worsens when TJ surveys her, as if to say I’m reading the fine lines of your words, and I’m going to remember them for later.  

No one has any other suggestions, so they go back to watching Steven and Andrew creep across Indiana. The silent observing stretches into one, two, almost three hours before anyone speaks up again. 

On the telecast, Steven and Andrew have finally decided to stop for the night. They’re about two hours away from the Michigan border, but both have been running on one night’s sleep for almost four days, and need to rest before continuing further. While Steven is collecting their scant belongings, Andrew checks them into the seedy motel with a bright smile and some glamour to take care of their bill. He’s back at the car with their key in record time, and pulls Steven in for a short, sweet kiss before leading them to their door. 

Once they’re inside, they go about setting up the perfunctory angel and demon booby traps, wards, and sigils like they do with every place they’ve stopped at. When they’re all set up, Steven sinks back onto the bed and groans deeply, hands scrubbing over his tired face. 

Andrew crawls in next to him, hands easily finding Steven’s. 

“You look exhausted,” Andrew says, smiling at him. “Those dark circles are no joke, baby.” 

Steven smiles back, eyes falling shut. “I’m going to fall asleep the second we lay down.” 

Andrew looks like he wants to make another teasing remark, but it falls closer to concern when he tells Steven: “Good. You need to sleep or you’re going to get sick, you dummy.” 

“Rich coming from you,” Steven replies, more of a sigh than words. “Whatever. Sleep, now.” 

“Sleep, now.” Andrew agrees, and they wriggle under the covers with a combined effort. As soon as Andrew turns the lights off and pulls Steven into his arms, Steven is out, as promised. 

Andrew continues to lie awake in the dark, one hand pressed between Steven’s shoulders and the other one carding through his messy hair. He looks like he wants to fall asleep too, like his vessel is aching for it, but he doesn’t close his eyes for a long, long time. He stares up at the ceiling and clings to Steven, seemingly waiting for something or someone to come for them in their vulnerable state. 

After almost an hour, he falls into an uneasy sleep, and this is when the scheming starts up again. 

“So, what now?” Tania asks the room at large. “And no Dreamers, you four piece of shit freaks.” 

Zach sticks his tongue out at her, and Eugene just shrugs his shoulders, as if to say Your loss, bro. 

“They’ve got wards up,” Curly points out. His fingers are drumming on the tabletop, a casual sign of his building anxiety. “The Hounds can’t get in. Or anyone else, for that matter.” 

There’s a pause, and then Keith says: “Hey, aren’t there a lot of rogue wolves in the Indiana area?” 

TJ stares. “You want us to use Hellhound miniatures?” 

“They’re not Hellhounds, so they’ll be able to slip through the wards. Regular wolves won’t be able to cause bodily harm, but they’ll still be able to fuck with them.” 

Niki laughs meanly. “That’s your back-up plan? Werewolves? This jury was truly curated for success.” 

“Well, what’s your great idea, then?” Keith asks her. 

“I don’t have an idea. I don’t want to test their survival skills! I don’t care about watching them duel a pack of wolves. This entire situation is ridiculous, and if I could walk away from it, I would.” She turns to Kelsey, looking apologetic but not regretful. “Sorry, boss, but I’m not cut out for hunting and torture. I’m better at judgement.” 

Kelsey nods calmly. “I understand. That’s what your job is supposed to be. The demons are here for the other part.” 

Ryan still doesn’t understand why all of this is necessary, anyways. He wishes they would have just banished Steven and Andrew from the start and been done with it. It would have been an easier pill to swallow than watching Steven run the gauntlet and waiting to see what pieces of him will remain on the other end. 

“Why is the other part of this jury even needed?” he asks, unable to hold his tongue any longer. “And I’m not asking that to be difficult. I genuinely cannot understand why the torture is a necessary aspect of this trial. A judgement panel would have been enough.” 

“What, so you can exonerate Steven Lim of his crimes and condemn Andrew Ilnyckyj for the same ones?” Adam gives Ryan another one of his rageous, piercing stares, even the faintest trace of their uneasy truce gone. “We’re here to make it fair. You can think and say what you want about the nature of demons and how we collect our souls, but know this: everyone sent to Hell deserves to be there for one reason or another. Steven is not exempt of this same decision because of the wings on his back.” 

“Then we send him there, and stop with the wild chase.” Ryan’s entire body turns to ice at just the thought of Steven actually being sentenced to the rest of eternity in Hell, but he hates the thought of chasing and tormenting him more. “I don’t care if they are the front-runners of their ranks. They don’t deserve to be hunted like animals.” 

“You think the torture is going to stop once they’re back in Hell? Andrew is going to be stripped of his title, and Steven is going to get thrown down into Hell like he just died for the first time. They’re going to be pulled apart and wadded back together just like every other entry-level chump who winds up Downstairs.”

When Ryan says nothing, afraid of what will spill out if he tries to speak, Adam just shakes his head and tells him: “This is nothing, Bergara. The Hounds nipping at their heels between Michigan and Indiana? They’re going to be wishing for just a few run-ins with entry-level angels and demons and the fucking Hounds if they both get sent to Hell right now. The torture they’ll face will be relentless for the next hundred years. And maybe another hundred after that.” 

There must be something on his face, something that slipped out through his carefully made facade, because Ned takes one look at him and laughs deeply. 

“You had no idea, did you? How long have you been around for now, Ry-Ry? You’re not much older than Garrett.” 

At the mention of Garrett, one of the younger demons and a highly skilled Dreamer, Ryan bares his teeth. “That boy couldn’t lift his hand before I eviscerated him back to Hell. Do not fucking compare me to him, Fulmer. I’ll make it quite clear to you just how old I am.” 

Ned seems amused by Ryan’s snappish reply. “Almost a thousand years as an angel and you’re still clueless to how the hierarchy of our realm works. What a shame.” 

“Maybe we should lay it out a little more for you,” Sara adds. Ryan sees a lot of Shane in the malicious grin she gives him, knows that the two are them are thicker than thieves and a force to be reckoned with. “When they eventually get called home, Andrew’s going to start off as a grunt for a few centuries. And maybe, after a lot of grovelling and a lot of repentance, which I know you’re a huge fan of, he might be able to get back to being a Greater demon. He won’t ever be TJ’s right hand again, but he might get the privilege of sitting on a council just like this one someday. Steven is never going to be anything but a Level One punching bag. He is never going to be let off of that chopping block, and he is never going to be anything in Hell but a piece of meat for Level Threes like beginner-Eugene to carve up, over and over and over again.” 

Without thinking, Ryan yells a sharp, thunderous: “Stop!” into the council chamber. 

The single word echoes throughout the room long after it leaves his mouth. Other than that, the chamber remains completely silent, and every single pair of eyes pin themselves to Ryan’s shaking body. He can feel that ubiquitous sensation of his True Form trying to break free from his vessel, can feel the way it pushes against all of his muscles and seams. He breathes heavily to keep his Form underneath the surface of his skin, hands fisted into the fabric of his pants hard enough to tear them. It’s suffocatingly silent, and the more breaths that Ryan takes the more he feels like he’s drowning, the more he feels like he’ll never be able to breathe again.

When the shaking of his body finally calms to a slight tremble, Sara speaks to him again. The malice in her voice is softer this time, could maybe be calming if the words that accompany it weren’t: 

“That’s why we have to torture them a little. They have no idea what’s coming for them when they eventually give this useless dream up. We have to keep it square.” 

TJ jumps back into the discussion to put his foot down. “Yes. Thank you for being the first one who needed to hear it, Bergara, but this goes out to all of you wondering why we needed to organize the trial the way we did. It’s all about making sure that these two know that no matter what, no matter why they chose to do what they did, there are always going to be consequences. There’s always going to be something waiting to rip you apart in between the tiny, meaningless moments of joy. That this is why Hell and Heaven are not to mix.”

Ryan wants to keep pushing it, wants to stand up and scream until his heart bursts. He still doesn’t understand it and doesn’t ever plan on understanding it. The trial, the hunting, the torture, the mindless horror. As far as he knows, this is the only time that Steven and Andrew have ever deviated from the plan as normal. Is there no mercy in one small mistake, in one defiance? 

He’s still not completely in control of his emotions, and everyone sees the way that his face shudders, the way that this whole situation is pulling all of his guts out in handfuls. There are a few snickers from the demons, and an overwhelming sense of pity from the angels around him who have mostly maintained their blank faces. 

And there is a dark, humored sigh that comes from the head of the table. Ryan slowly moves his eyes from TJ to TJ’s right, where Shane is looking over at Ryan like he’s never met a more helpless soul in his life. 

“You’ve really been holding out hope that Steven would emerge unscathed, haven’t you? There’s no version of this trial where he comes out without penalty. There’s no version of this trial where he comes out without losing something great to him.” 

There’s a shift to Shane’s face after he says this. His ruthless sneer breaks apart long enough for Ryan to see something else sitting right behind it. It looks a lot like the same fear, the same doomed terror that Adam presented to him a few nights prior when they were talking about Steven and Andrew losing their ranks. It’s there long enough that Ryan can tell that there is something else in these words that Shane spits at him, and that they’ve been there since the start of this whole mess, but he hasn’t let them surface by choice. 

And then he fixes his face so that it’s back to being nothing but cold, dark cruelty. 

“I don’t think we’ve been going that hard on them, to be completely honest with you,” Shane reveals, the curl of his lip like the edge of a knife. “They’re Greaters. They should know better than to pull a stunt like this and waste of all our times.” 

Ryan feels a little lightheaded by the implications of this statement. TJ, though, takes it in stride. 

“Do you have something in mind?” 

“I thought you would never ask, boss. Rumor on the grapevine is that Darragh finished her mission last night and has some free time before her new assignment.” 

Kelsey Darragh is one of the only other demons that Ryan avoids at all costs, one that he would rather face a hundred Dreamers than ever speak to. She’s even older than Shane, but focuses her talents on targeting and seducing specific high-risk subjects rather than keep the ranks of Hell where they’re supposed to be, like Shane does with TJ. She’s the best at what she does, and the terror Ryan feels at her getting to Steven is like nothing he’s ever felt before.

TJ makes a low, considering noise. “Darragh’s done with that mob prince, then?” 

“Sealed the deal last night,” Shane confirms. “With a big Goddamn kiss.” 

“Madej,” Kelsey warns. 

TJ waves her off. “What’s your proposal?” 

“Darragh is great at being where she’s not supposed to be. I bet if we give her their location, she could find a way to get to them, one that none of the other grunts would ever think of. Like into the ground and through the pipes. Something Andrew and Steven would never need to take preventative measures against.” 

“What would she do after she gets to them? She specializes in talking, and Andrew’s not too keen on partaking in anything of that sort with her. He knows most of her tricks.” 

Shane tilts his head, considering. “Well, she was recruited for the chopping block way back in the day, remember? She was great at pairing words with hits.” 

TJ raises his eyebrows. “You want her to kick their asses?” 

“Nah,” Shane says, and then he looks at Ryan, who hasn’t looked away from him for a second. “I want her to kick Steven’s ass and make Andrew watch.” 

The words form a fist around Ryan’s throat and squeeze, hard enough to force a noise from it. The noise comes out wild and serrated, and makes Shane’s face split open on another gruesome smile. 

Ryan gets halfway out of his seat before Daysha and Jen are there, trying to reel him in. He doesn’t look away from Shane even as they try to bodily drag him back into his chair, makes it perfectly fucking clear that he is not going to sit back and be silent while these fucking demons go for his oldest friend. 

“I swear on Him,” Ryan rasps, “I swear on God Himself that I will kill you if you do this.” 

“Oh, is that so?” 

“I’ll do it myself. I’ll track you to the edge of the universe, and then beyond that if I have to. I won’t rest until I’ve cut you into a thousand pieces and scattered them where no one will ever be able to find them again. I’ll burn them all with Holy Fire and then I’ll burn them again!” 

The demons all giggle amongst themselves at this oath, so Ryan lets his vessel split enough to show the severity of his promise. He raises a few feet higher than his normal height, until he’s towering over every single person at the table. It wipes the humor off of the demons’ faces and leaves behind trepidation. 

Ryan can see the Light of his True Form spearing between the webbing of his fingers and through his solar plexus, the first to go whenever he transforms. He hangs onto the rest of it by the skin of his teeth, leaving enough mind to remember his binding duty to serve on this jury and not attack any of the demons. He’s old enough that he could punch through the bind if he needed to, even if it takes out half of his Form with it. 

“Do not doubt me,” he tells Shane, voice deepening. “I swear on God Himself, if you harm Steven in this way, I will not stop until you’re nothing more than a smear on your boss’ throne.” 

Another heavy silence falls on the group. Ryan keeps his gaze on Shane, and Shane keeps his gaze on Ryan, any remaining humor altering into that cruelty he wears so well. Despite how standoffish he was at the diner, despite how much he wanted Shane to leave and never look back, despite how his heart fluttered when Shane touched his chin in the hallway scant hours before, Ryan can’t help but mourn the burning of their feeble bridge. But he bids it farewell more than he mourns it, and does not back down. 

TJ lets them glare at each other for longer than Ryan would have thought, but when it’s clear that Ryan is not going to take the words back, and that Shane has none to respond with, he points at Ryan and tells him: 

“Sit down, Bergara, or I’ll send you to Hell with your wings still attached so the grunts can rip them off of you.” 

“Then shut the idea down. Darragh is not to go anywhere near those two.” 

“Don’t you fucking dare tell me what to do. I’m your boss here in this council chamber, and I will be so until the trial concludes.” 

“I don’t care! I’m not backing down until you tell me that Darragh is going to stay far away from Steven and Andrew, and that they won’t be coming into contact with her unless they know about it beforehand.” 

TJ assesses him callously, Form coiling out from his mouth and his palms. “That is an order, Bergara, and I mean it. I choose what does and does not happen on this trial, and if you don’t learn how to hold your tongue, I’ll assign Darragh and Garrett to them. They’re the best of friends, in case you forgot—they’d be delighted at the chance to work together again.” 

Kelsey finally speaks up as well. “Ryan, stand down.” 

“I’m not going to stand down, not on this. I refuse.” 

Ryan thinks that TJ is going to let his True Form loose once and for all, and use it to rip him to shreds. He welcomes it, welcomes the chance of getting to fight TJ Marchbank in his True Form like he has since he first became an Archangel. But instead of lashing out with his Form, TJ just laughs. 

“I already told you that I’m in control of what happens on this trial. Kelsey can come to your rescue all she wants, but just like she controls the Holy measures we take against these two, I control all of the players from Hell. You think Darragh beating the shit out of Steven would be bad? Imagine what would happen if I told her to do it the other way around. Imagine if I told her to take Andrew apart down to his Form, stitch him back together, and do it all over again and make Steven watch every minute of it.” 

Ryan can only handle the thought of it for a second. The thought of Kelsey Darragh splitting Andrew at the seams and Steven stuck inside of an angel ward, unable to stop her. He can already see Steven beating against the walls of the ward until his knuckles turn bloody, until he faints from screaming so hard and so loud that every angel in Heaven would be able to hear it for years afterwards. Getting torn apart by Darragh would fuck Steven up, but making him watch it happen to Andrew would ruin him. 

He stares at TJ, eyes wide. “Bastard.” 

The shock of the idea takes most of the fight from his body, and Daysha and Jen use the opportunity to pull Ryan into his seat. He goes, the fire in his gut fading as quickly as it came. 

TJ watches him sink down, face nothing but an endless stretch of wickedness. “You get to choose for me.” 

“What?” 

“Don’t play dumb. You heard what I fucking said—you get to choose how it happens.” 

“I—” Ryan chokes a little, the lightheadedness sweeping over him once more. “No. I won’t—I won’t choose. I’ll never choose.” 

“It’s happening one way or another.” TJ points down the table to the very last demon in line. “Fulmer, you’ll be the one to summon Darragh. Once Bergara tells me who he picks, you’ll fetch her for us, won’t you?”

Ned looks uncharacteristically stoic, but doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course, boss. I’d be happy to.” 

“So, I once again ask: which one is getting their ass kicked tonight, Bergara?”

Ryan begins to shake again, but this time without the accompanying push of his Form. He just shakes and shakes, unable to make such an impossible decision. Kelsey doesn’t step in to stop it, even though Ryan keeps hoping; he looks to her for help, to silently plead for her to stop this, but all she does is look back. Ryan feels hopelessness rise within him like an all-consuming sickness and wishes for the first time in many, many centuries that he had just died and stayed dead after all. 

But even with the suffocating terror, and the scorn he feels for the demons, he still refuses to give into their whims. So he drags his eyes away from Kelsey’s impassive jaw and says: 

“I choose myself.” 

TJ blinks. “I’m sorry?” 

“I choose myself,” he says again. At his side, Daysha stifles a gasp, and across the table, Shane Madej’s face reveals another flash of doomed terror before closing right back up. In this moment, Ryan hates him so deeply and so wholly that it makes his blood burn in his veins. “I would rather let Darragh torture me a thousand times over than let her do it to them.” 

This proclamation seems to take TJ by genuine surprise. He hesitates, before asking: “Even Andrew Ilnyckyj?” 

“Even Andrew Ilnyckyj.” 

“If I summoned Darragh here right now and made you sit and take her blade over and over again, just so that Andrew and Steven could avoid it for a night, you’d let it happen?” 

“Without hesitation,” Ryan says, soft and deadly. “Without a second thought.” 

The words send a ripple throughout the jury. Every angel and demon and their Forms spark in response to the idea of Archangel Ryan Bergara letting Greater demon Kelsey Darragh torture him on behalf of the two people who broke their most sacred rule without batting an eye. If he could feel anything past the desperation to keep Steven safe, he might be offended by their lack of faith in his ability to endure and protect. 

As it is, even TJ regards him a small amount of disbelief. Ryan doesn’t lower his stare, and he doesn’t relax his stance. He keeps looking and looking and looking and dares Ned to call Darragh to them. 

TJ seems like he’s greatly considering the idea, but in the end, he shakes his head. 

“That’s a nice thought, but I’m going to do you one better, Bergara.” When he declines to respond, dread filling every crevice of his body, TJ continues with: “I’m not going to let you take their punishment. You know what I’m going to do instead, thanks to your outstanding courage and bravery?” 

Ryan thinks that he might vomit, but he still doesn’t look away. 

“I’m not going to torture them. I’m going to do worse—I’m going to let them have a night off.” 

That—is not at all what Ryan was expecting him to say. It catches him off guard enough that his face creases, effectively ruining his hard glare. TJ says it again. 

“I’m going to let them have the night off. I’m not going to send anything or anyone after them. I’ll even let Darragh have the night off, too, I bet she’ll be thrilled.” He places his carefully folded hands on the table, and even though his expression is amicable, Ryan can still tell how pissed off he is. “No, I’m not going to torture or hunt them tonight. Instead, I’m going to let them rest and be with each other. I’m going to let them let their guards down. I’m going to let them believe that there may be a small, tiny chance that we’re calling off our trackers and letting them do as they please.” 

Ryan can’t help but ask: “Why?” 

And the expression on TJ’s face is terrible when he responds with: “Because there’s nothing that cuts deeper than hope. There’s nothing that hurts more to lose.” 

There is a truth to these words that even Ryan can’t find within himself to fight. He feels numbness spiral throughout his body and he finally sinks into it, lets himself back down from this pointless, mindless fight. Losing hope is something that he has become intimately familiar with over the past few months, but it still hurts like a fresh, throbbing bruise to feel it slowly trickle out of his heart now. 

TJ takes this silence for what it is: submission. He gives Ryan another hard, vaguely amused stare and watches him sit all the way back in his seat. He watches Ryan fold in on himself, take his fire with him, and revels in it. 

“Andrew Ilnyckyj and Steven Lim thank you for this chance,” TJ says sarcastically. “For one last good night’s rest before the chaos ensues.” 

The numbness plucks all of the emotion out of Ryan and leaves him with nothing but a blank, empty face to give TJ in return. TJ seems to be satisfied by it, anyway, and lets Ryan off the hook with one last sneer. 

“Now that the show’s over, we can continue for a few more hours. Just to make sure nothing else exciting happens.” 

Ryan’s eyes fall to where Steven and Andrew are still curled up in each other’s arms, blissfully unaware of the shitstorm he almost created in the council chamber and the shitstorm he probably just created for them out on the road. Whatever relief he could have hoped to gain from accepting a night of torture in their place is gone, replaced by the dread of knowing that the trial is only going to get worse from here on out. 

He takes whatever comfort he can from watching them sleep peacefully. No one says another word, and Ryan is lucky that he didn’t get cast from the parthenon and down into Hell like he probably should have been, but it brings him no relief. Ryan is lucky that he doesn’t have a dagger buried in his ribs and a smooth, piercing voice to match whispering his many hidden desires into his ear, into the room for anyone to hear.

He still feels like Kelsey Darragh worked him over, anyways. 

~.~.~  

When the night concludes, Ryan wordlessly gets up and makes for the door. Daysha says his name quietly, but he doesn’t wait for her, and he doesn’t look back. He makes for the door and only his overwhelming need to be alone keeps him from collapsing onto his knees. 

Ryan makes it all the way to the top of the staircase and then to the hall where all of the angels’ sleeping chambers reside before someone manages to stop him. The only warning he receives is a sudden, heavy footstep and a large, warm hand wrapping itself around his bicep. 

He turns, expecting it to be Curly; instead, it’s Shane, wearing that revolting look of doomed terror. The sight of it, the sight of that tortured expression on someone who deserves it more than Andrew ever will, burns the numbness in Ryan up and sets the rest of him ablaze, too. 

“Ryan,” Shane starts, and then stops, trying to find the words to say. 

The way his mouth curls around the shape of Ryan’s name makes that fire surge up inside of him, takes any sliver of compassion he’s ever had towards Shane Madej and turns it to dark, brittle ash inside of his chest. 

He pulls his arm from Shane’s grasp hard enough that it makes him stumble. Shane reaches again, as if to steady Ryan, and Ryan throws his hand up to stop him. 

“Don’t fucking touch me,” he gasps. The hand in front of him is trembling dangerously, white Light glaring from between each individual finger. Shane recoils at the sight of it, just a small flinch of his shoulders, but it’s enough to give Ryan the space he needs. “Don’t fucking touch me.” 

Shane tries again, says: “Ryan,” in that destroyed tone of voice that might make him buckle if it were under any other circumstances except for this one. Instead, Ryan gives him a look that is all fire and repulsion and takes another step back. 

“Fuck you.” Shane stares down at him, lost, and Ryan is horrified to feel tears welling in his eyes. His voice quivers when he asks: “Remember just a few days ago, when you asked me what it was about you that I hate so much? Congratulations, now you have your answer.” 

“I didn’t—” 

When Shane doesn’t finish that sentence either, Ryan does it for him. 

“You ‘didn't’ what? Mean it?” He waits for Shane to say something else, but he’s met only with silence. “Fuck you, Shane Madej. I’m so, so tired of your manipulative bullshit and being pulled into it. I mean it with everything I’ve got left when I say fuck you forever.” 

Shane takes another step and says: “I’m sorry.” 

Ryan chokes on a sob and whirls away from him, trembling so badly he’s surprised he doesn’t fall onto the floor. “Don’t ever come near me again or I’ll follow through on my promise to kill you. You’ll be praying for it to be Darragh instead.” 

He hears a strangled breath, but no more footsteps, and takes it as a cursed victory. Ryan practically sprints to his sleeping chamber and throws himself inside just in time to muffle another sob. While he leans against the door and cries into his glowing palm, he vows to himself that once the trial has concluded, no matter the outcome, he will do whatever it takes to never see Shane again, will go to the edge of the universe and beyond that if he has to. 

He has discovered, after all, that there is one thing worse to lose than hope, one thing that cuts deeper still than hope’s destruction.