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His knees hit the stone, and he barely catches himself on his hands to stop from falling onto his face as well. Each breath is ragged and wet, a concerning amount of blood dribbling from his lips and out from under his battered armor. He has no energy left, no conviction or reason to besides his own enjoyment. His body aches to rest, but his soul longs to keep going.
It doesn’t matter what he wants though. It’s over. He lost.
He looks up slowly, staring past the gun leveled at his face, into the unwavering yellow light of his opponent’s optic. He doesn’t feel any anger. It had all burned out midway through their clash. The frantic ecstasy that followed had simmered down into something like relief . But still, he feels… frozen. Waiting.
A moment passes in silence.
He is going to die here. He already knows this. The thought doesn’t bring him fear like he expected, or any other drive to escape. In the scant moments between the final blow and now, he’d made peace with his death, and with the one to deliver it. All things must fall, and he was… appreciative that they would be the one to cut him down. This machine had proven themselves more than worthy of it.
A soft laugh shakes him, more blood filling his mouth. He drops his head. The machine still does not move.
“I’ve never felt such joy…”
What was he saying? Why? His final words, and he was waxing poetic at the barrel of a gun. But there’s such emotion in him, so many feelings. It feels like he might burst if he doesn’t get them out. What’s the point in hiding them? He’s going to die, and no one will ever know what happened in these moments before. No one but the warmachine before him, and they wouldn’t tell. Would they even remember him?
"I’ve only ever known victory, but never like what you’ve given me. Is this… is this why you fight? This feeling?"
He looks up at them again, but doesn't really know why. He's not expecting a response. They haven't moved.
"I think I understand it now… I don't hate you. I thought I did, but I… I was wrong. You are a worthy opponent, and I am glad I could face you again."
The words taste like blood, like defeat. It is not wholly unpleasant. Bitter, yes, but like coffee or dark chocolate. He tilts his head forward, until the barrel of the gun rests against his forehead, eyes closed. He doesn't want to die, but he knows it's how this ends. There’s a certain poetry to it. Dying on his hands and knees in a cathedral, his blood mixing with holy water.
"Thank you. For this feeling. For showing me such pleasure. I am… honored, to die at your hand."
Movement. He tries not to flinch at the sound. Still, no shot comes. He opens his eyes.
They have moved closer. A nudge against his golden cross and he tilts his head back with it. They keep pushing until he’s sitting back on his knees, arms hanging limp at his sides. They move the gun down his helm until it’s pressed under his chin. He doesn't speak, doesn't break this spell of temporary mercy, even as he stops breathing.
Steady pressure forces his chin up farther until his throat is uncomfortably bared. He can’t see much but the shadowed ceiling, but the machine is still at the very edge of his vision. They stop pushing when he can go no further, and the gun digs into the edge of his helm. A heartbeat passes. They’re locked in place together again, like statues in this damned room. Still, they don't pull the trigger.
"What are you waiting for?"
The words come out softly, barely whispered on the breath that carries them. He’s not trying to goad the other into action, just… confused, and resigned to his fate. He swallows, and feels metal bump against his throat.
They crouch down slowly and he’s barely able to turn his head enough to watch. They're posed not unlike a long-legged frog, uncomfortably close to him, and it might make him smile if the situation were different. They're… surprisingly small. Even like this, they're looking up at him.
Why haven't they finished him?
The machine reaches their free hand forward, slowly, so painfully slowly. He doesn't move as their fingers brush his chest, nor as they lay their palm flat against his armor. They haven't stopped staring at his covered face. He doesn't know how he knows where they're focused, but he knows they haven't looked away for a moment.
“Why?”
Another whispered question that goes unanswered. The gun digs into his throat. They press their hand against him, not a push or a shove, but a steady pressure on his chest. Seeing if he reacts?
When he still doesn’t stop them, their hand moves higher, to the upper edge of his chest piece near his neck. Their fingers fold over the plating in a loose hold. He can just barely feel cold metal fingertips brush his collar, only slightly dampened by his bodysuit.
"What do you want from me?”
They don’t exactly stiffen, but they seem to… tense. He can count the heartbeats as they’re both frozen again.
A tug on his armor. Not forceful, but strong enough to be intentional. He’s caught by surprise and even more confused, and makes an unintended sound that conveys as much. When he doesn’t move, they tug again. He tries to lean forward into the gesture, thinking they want him to follow, but they shove the revolver harshly against his jaw and he freezes in place.
“What do- I don’t understand.”
He’s not trying to irritate them, but he’s confused and hurting and beaten to his very core. He’s already lost. He doesn’t want to fight any more.
They tug a third time, more insistently. He has to plant a hand against the ground to keep from toppling forward. The pressure against his throat makes him wheeze.
“Off? Do you want it off?”
A sharp nod. He’s never seen it… communicate before. But he’s too tired to muster up the emotion that this revelation probably deserves. He starts to reach for his pauldrons without thinking and hisses as they jab the gun hard against his skin, dropping his hands quickly. They don’t relax and he doesn’t dare move.
But they’re still waiting.
“There’s bindings, near my shoulders.”
There’s little he can do as their free hand moves to his left shoulder. Surprisingly nimble fingers quickly find the straps for his pauldron, and the heavy plating falls to the ground with a harsh thud.
He wonders why they’re doing this, but there’s not much point to asking again, even if they could answer. He’s at their mercy and they’re going to do what they wish regardless of his efforts. So far, they haven’t killed him, and he’s starting to hope he can gather up enough strength to escape. However, that possibility relies on him not irritating or startling the machine into pulling the trigger.
The left side of his chest piece is undone just as quickly as his pauldron was.
His weight shifts as the armor hangs awkwardly, held up on only one side and partially open. They tense again but don’t punish him with either a bullet or another warning jab. After a moment to ensure he’s staying still, they move to his other shoulder and repeat the process. He can’t move his head to look as they toss his armor away carelessly, but he still winces at the metallic clang of plating landing across the room.
He’s uncomfortably aware of how vulnerable he is. His flesh is as soft as any human’s, and just as helpless against sharp steel.
Perhaps they want to gut him like a fish.
He sucks in a shaky breath.
They lay their hand against his sternum again. He can feel the chill of metal through his thin shirt, the thrum of his pulse against their fingers. He waits for pain, for a brutal and bloody death. Will he bleed out quickly? Will they make him suffer?
Their hand slides up and across, curious fingers prodding and squeezing at the muscles of his chest. They don't avoid the few injuries he has here, but they don't linger on them either. The touch is… surprisingly gentle. Almost intimate.
The glow of their gaze still hasn't left his face.
He shudders as they explore his body. Angels were social creatures by nature, but it's been so long since he's been touched so gently. At least since the rise of the Council. He had devoted himself so fully to their orders and his purpose that he had no one to just… be close to. Be held by. Be touched by. That he's moments from death doesn't seem to matter to his body. He relaxes into their hand even while his mind bounces between morbid possibilities.
They move to his collar, their thumb resting in the hollow of his throat. His heart picks up again. This is it. They'll slit his throat like an animal to be butchered. He'll bleed out fast but painfully. Will he see it spray over them? Will they walk away before he's even dead?
He doesn't want to die alone.
Fingers trace the veins in his neck, lingering over the major arteries. Can they feel his pulse too?
Their fingertips bump against the edge of his helmet, opposite the gun. They follow it up and around and he can’t help but be nervous they’ll take it from him too. They're so close, head tilted to look up at him. He can barely see them from the edge of his sight, but it doesn't change how… charged the air feels. Their hand cups the back of his neck and his already uneasy breathing shakes on an exhale. They pause again.
It's almost an embrace. He's seen lovers hold each other like this, kiss each other like this. Whether it's the aftershocks of adrenaline or the anxiety of his looming end, he's so terribly aware of it all. He doesn't want to die. Not like this. Not in this mockery of tenderness. But he doesn't want it to stop. More than anything, he doesn't want it to stop.
They withdraw their unarmed hand and he has to hold himself back from following it.
At last, they look away. He tries not to name the longing in his chest.
They touch his sternum again and then work their way to his right side, their gaze far heavier than their hand. He stiffens as they trace his ribs, working down his side methodically, one after the other. He shudders as they reach the last, pressing in to find his floating rib. They could tear him apart. His lungs are just under those fingers. One quick upwards strike could open his ribcage. They could tear through the muscles, force his flesh to give, hold his heart in cruel metal hands. Still, his traitor body leans into the touch. There’s a lump in his throat that nearly suffocates him.
Their touch continues down his side, until they reach his belt. He's afraid they'll take it off as well, but they just trace the edge back to his front. He shudders again when they reach the center of his torso and follow the curve of his buckle. Something about this makes him so aware of every sensation, every feeling taken to the extreme, and they seem determined to touch every part of him. They pause for a moment, and he doesn't breathe.
Finally, they move away, up the line of his abs. He lets out a trembling breath. Just like his ribs, they follow each contour of his muscles with a nearly systematic focus. He's tense the whole time, unable to define what he feels. It's like they're shocking him, electricity lingering in their wake. The pressure of their weapon has eased off his throat but he still can't manage more than the most shallow of breaths. Even with their cool touch and the chilled water around them, he feels uncomfortably warm.
They reach the top of his abs and prod the golden filigree of his bodysuit where it forms a point. After a moment, they start to trace it down his body. The air is too thin. He's lightheaded and can't get enough. They reach his belt again, the golden lines disappearing beneath it.
Their head tilts up to look at his hidden face once more. Fingers dip under his belt as they grasp it, just like they did for his chestpiece. He sucks in a loud, shaking gasp. They pause.
An achingly gentle tug.
He closes his eyes.
Seconds pass.
The gun leaves his chin, and their unarmed hand moves up to splay against his stomach. He doesn't move, refuses to open his eyes, refuses to see what's coming.
Heartbeats. Seconds. Eternities.
He opens his eyes.
They're still staring. He doesn't know if they can tell what expression he's making under his helm, doesn't really know for himself what he’s feeling. The gun is gone entirely, their right hand empty. They're still so close to him. He lowers his head, and they don't move to correct him.
It all hits him with an awful suddenness. He sucks in another shallow breath. The pain, the sorrow, this unknown feeling boiling in his chest. Confusion and exhaustion pushing him to the edge and now this painful relief. He doesn't know what to do, how to feel. Another gasp. He's going to shake apart, drown in his own head. He's going to die without them doing anything. Something like a sob rattles his chest.
The machine pats his stomach, like they're calming a scared animal. The absurdity of it catches him off guard. It breaks his attention just long enough to pause his spiral and he stares back at them wordlessly.
He lets out a slow breath, though he really doesn't feel any calmer. There's still a horrible tension in the air and he doesn't know what to think, doesn't know how to continue after everything he's been through in just the last few hours. This has been the only peaceful moment he's had in eons, and it might just break him.
"Go on." They don't move. "Do it. You've beaten me." His voice cracks. They’re so, so still. "Take whatever you want."
They start to draw back and a surge of… something fills his chest. He grabs their hand before they can get far, clutching the metal limb too tightly. They tense, other hand already drawn back as if to punch him, but he can't- He can't-
"Please-" What is he doing? "Don't go." Why is he doing this? "Don’t stop.” What? “Please.”
A beat passes.
Their gaze drops to his hands, still clutching theirs. They’re so small compared to him, his hands enough to hide theirs entirely.
They reach forward with their free hand to lay it over both of his, staring at the hold until he loosens his grip. It nearly kills him to let go. His hands fall away limply, empty, far too empty.
He doesn’t get to mourn. Before grief can swallow him, they bring both hands up to cup his pectoral muscles. After a second, they squeeze at the toned flesh. It’s almost lewd, almost funny. It surprises a huff out of him, a quiet sound somewhere between amusement and hysterics, still too rattled to really control his reactions. They look up at him.
"Nothing. It's… Nothing.”
It squints at him. He's startled into a soft laugh. He hadn't realized it had shutters like eyelids, but they make it look surprisingly expressive. They really are just so… lifelike. It's mind boggling. If he can focus on that, then he won't have to think about the heat of his skin under their cold fingers. How thin the air is.
They move quicker this time, both of their hands roaming over his chest. Their gaze follows their touch just like the first time, switching back and forth between their hands. They squeeze at any soft flesh they can find. They paw at his sides. He doesn't startle when they squeeze his waist. His breathing absolutely does not catch when they slide their hands to his front, palms against the hollows of his pelvis, fingers curled against his hips. He doesn't know why it makes him so… nervous. Tense.
When he still doesn't stop them, their hands grab at his belt. Once more, they turn to look up at him. He doesn't trust his voice to answer, isn't fully sure why he's doing this, what they want, but he nods anyway.
They're clever. He'll admit that much. Instead of tugging mindlessly like they did with his chestplate, they search the inside of the belt with their fingers, and beep when they find the clasp for it. If they had emotions, he would call the sound cheerful. Maybe they do. He can’t discount that possibility anymore.
He's focusing on that instead of the sound of more armor being thrown aside, his belt, loincloth, and thigh plating gone. He still has his skirt, but it's only a flimsy layer of protection. One firm hand presses against his upper thigh and they squint again down at his lap. Slowly, they crane their head up to stare at his covered face, still squinting.
Shame and panic fill his throat.
He's… aroused.
He didn't even know he could get aroused. Of course the parts were there, but he'd never- he wouldn't- he was better than, than lust! A weak man's sin, nothing that an angel would even consider, especially not the Righteous Will of-
But he's not anymore. The proof of his weakness is undeniable. And very visible.
"My apologies. I- I didn't know- This isn’t-"
Humiliation silences him. They are still staring. He turns away.
All he can hear is his pounding heart.
A hand cups his hardness, and he gasps in surprise, snapping back to face them. They’re watching him, still watching, but he can’t care in the wake of this, this, this feeling. He stares at them for a moment, then down at their hand on him. They’re just… holding him. The gesture seems so small for the lightning it sent down his spine. For the way it could shatter his world.
He looks up to their expressionless optic again. They haven’t moved. He nearly bites through his tongue when he realizes.
They’re waiting.
It’s an easy decision. Tell them no, and then teleport away. Return later for his armor.
…Wait for his Light to burn out entirely.
…Die.
“If that is… what you wish of me, I will not stop you.”
It’s not a yes, but it is permission. They still don’t move.
It’s not enough.
They could leave. The thought catches him off guard with the rush of panic it brings. They could walk away and he’d likely never see them again. He would rather they kill him themselves than abandon him to his fate. He doesn’t want them to leave.
They could stop touching him. Just like the panic, the thought brings an insurmountable wave of longing, misery. He doesn’t want them to stop. He doesn't know what he wants, but he doesn’t want them to stop.
It really is an easy decision. He bows his head.
“… If you are willing… Please. Please don’t stop.”
More seconds pass in silence, and he worries he’s misjudged their intent.
The sound of moving parts, almost silent under his own breathing. They’re so close that he can hear their inner workings, and the realization makes his head spin. They tilt their head down. He can’t tell where they’re looking, the golden light of their optic making his chest and lap glow. It reflects off his still-armored hands.
Time stretches like spider silk between them. He’s about to fumble out an apology when their thumb swipes over his length. There’s two layers of fabric between them, but it’s still electrifying. He gasps again. Their other hand plants itself on his chest, opposite his heart. To steady him?
It’s not just permission. It’s enough.
Their fingers, so surprisingly dexterous, curl against his covered flesh. They aren’t leaving. They aren’t stopping. The raw gratitude shakes through him and he whispers, “Thank you…”
They don’t answer, unsurprisingly. They do adjust their hold, mechanical wrist bent inhumanly to fondle his hardness through his skirt. He shudders as they give an experimental press and his eyes close against the pulse of sensation. Even through his closed lids, he can see the light of their gaze on his face once more. When he opens them again, they’re right there. His head is still bowed in submission, theirs tilted up to watch him, and it puts their faces dangerously close. He lets out a shaky breath and hears their fans speed up. Are they excited? Can they feel arousal?
They move slowly, like they don’t want to startle him. Their hand leaves his groin and moves to his upper thigh. The way they squeeze the muscular flesh takes his breath away. He can't even be disappointed at the loss because everything is just so, so, new. He can name the tension in the air now, though he doesn't dare, and it makes every touch feel charged. Their hand slides down his thigh, never breaking contact, and lingers at the lower edge of his skirt.
He's torn between watching their hand and avoiding their gaze. The tips of their fingers disappear under the fabric, brushing the inside of his leg, just above his knee. It's not a particularly sensitive area but something about the entire situation makes it feel scandalous. To have them under his clothes, even this little bit…
Another shiver rolls down his spine as they slide higher. Between the fire in his veins and the chill of their fingers, it’s like his bodysuit isn’t even there. Every slow inch steals more and more of his breath. When they finally reach the crease of his thigh, he feels like he’s not breathing at all.
He curls inward slightly as they cup his hardness again and startles as they lean up to bump the upper ridge of their optic to his forehead. He hadn’t realized just how much he had slumped down, slowly closing the distance between them. The gesture itself is so painfully gentle. It feels like there’s a hand around his heart, his lungs, tightening with every new motion. Their hand squeezes his upper thigh and he shudders out another breath.
“Please…”
He doesn’t know why it slips out. He doesn’t know why he thinks it at all. It feels like prayer. It feels like hours on his knees before stained glass windows. It feels like waiting for the sun to rise. He doesn’t know what he’s asking for, but he’s frozen in waiting.
Their fans rev again at his simple plea. This is doing something for them, at least.
They twist their wrist to cup him again, his skintight bodysuit doing nothing to dampen the feeling anymore. He chokes on a gasp as they squeeze and press and move against him. They’re exploring, he realizes, probably just as inexperienced as him. But even these naive touches feel so much better than he expected. His thighs keep tensing, his hips trying to twitch up against their hand. He struggles to stay still. It’s a frightening loss of motor control that feels surprisingly natural, but he can’t give in. He can’t move, he can’t give them any reason to stop. They want him to stay still and so he will.
Finally, they stroke their fingers down the full length of his shaft and he shakes with the effort to restrain himself. Their foreheads are still pressed together, his breath puffing out hot and humid between them, their glowing optic near-blinding this close. Even so, he can’t look away from where their arm disappears under his skirt, can't stop watching the obscured movement underneath it. They repeat the motion and he can't stop himself in time. His hips buck forward. Immediately, he chokes on the fear of failing, of upsetting them and chasing them away, of being left alone in this miserable darkness.
“Please, please, I’m sorry, I can’t—“
Their other hand strokes down the right side of his chest, petting over and over again soothingly, and he nearly sobs at the sheer relief it floods him with.
“Thank you, thank you…”
He’s babbling, tripping over his own tongue, every word rushing out before he can stop it. They reward him by touching more firmly, fingertips pressed into his flesh, rubbing up and down his shaft. Their other hand lays across his pectoral again, massaging and squeezing almost rhythmically, and the two sensations contrast each other in the most terrible and amazing way. He’s burning alive and he never wants it to stop.
They wrap their fingers around his shaft, forcing the fabric to stretch awkwardly across his hips to accommodate their grip. He can’t be bothered by the tightness it causes, not when their touch sends fire through his veins. Honestly, the pressure of his too-tight leggings only fans the flames.
“Yes, yes, please, thank you, thank you, thank you-“
More nonsense tumbles from his lips and they lean in as they finally, finally, finally stroke him properly. He sucks in a ragged breath, hips twitching up again and again as they repeat the motion. Their fans are a low buzz under his own ragged breathing, as though they’re breathing just as hard. He doesn’t know what they like about this, can’t find the headspace to really care past the need swallowing him. They could kill him right now and he’d thank them, as long as they keep moving their hand just like that, fuck-
Their thumb catches under the head and his breathing catches on a shocked moan. Fuck, he’s drowning, he’s burning, he’s, he’s-
Another purposeful swipe of their thumb, a calculated squeeze around the tip, and he shatters.
It’s like the pressure finally snaps, but his muscles seize, and he can’t stop the loud, breathless sound he makes. He has to close his eyes against the onslaught, but their golden light still burns behind his lids. They stroke again and again and it feels like he’s losing a part of himself, losing his mind in this agonizing pleasure, and it’s almost too much. His fingers claw at the stone under him, head thrown back, gasping gasping gasping-
They stop moving right before it really is too much, wiping their hand off on his skirt before moving it to his chest as well. He doesn’t have the words to say how grateful he is. His head drops again, their foreheads touching once more, and he imagines their optic glows a little less harshly. They’re still staring, but it doesn’t make him feel as vulnerable.
They sit together in the silence for several long moments. He works to catch his breath and they simply watch him, occasionally squeezing at his chest with one hand or the other.
After a few moments, when he’s breathing regularly and finally gets his thoughts back into some semblance of order, he breaks the silence, one hand lifting hesitantly.
“Do you want…?“
He doesn’t know how to finish the question. Thankfully, they don’t make him. They simply shake their head and quiet him with another pat-pat to his chest. He lets the silence return, broken only by the nearly-silent sound of their joints and inner workings. Even their fans have quieted. He moves his hands to his lap and they let him.
With the adrenaline fading, he can feel the stickiness of his release, the sweat and drying blood covering him, the pain left behind from their battle. What a strange thing, how different each touch can feel. How this ended.
Their hands leave his chest, but he’s so lost in the fuzziness of his own head that he doesn’t register the loss.
They withdraw and stand in one fluid motion. Awareness slams into him like a freight train, cutting through the afterglow like paper. Fear, loneliness, desperation, fear paralyze him.
They’re leaving.
Oh stars, oh god, they’re leaving.
And he’s sitting on his knees, staring up at them with his mouth agape, completely frozen.
They take a step.
He only faintly registers the way they tense as he reaches for them, recognizes that they don’t pull a weapon on him.
“Please!”
He’s drowning all over again, already floundering without their touch. But they’ve stopped in place, they haven’t rearmed themselves, they haven’t pushed him away.
He presses his face against their stomach, wraps his arms around them, and tries- fails- not to tremble.
“Please, don’t go.”
They’ve already given him so much already. Could he truly ask for more? But if he can have just one more small mercy…
There’s a barely-audible vvvr-click as they tilt their head. It shouldn’t make him so nervous. So hopeful.
“I’m… I'm dying.” It’s the first time he’s said it aloud, and it nearly punches the air from his lungs. He closes his eyes against the tears stinging in them. “I only have a few hours left. I don’t…”
I don’t want to be alone.
I don’t want to die alone.
I don’t want to die.
There’s so many ways to end that sentence, but all of his words fail him.
Seconds pass, hours and eternities and heartbeats compressed into such fleeting moments. He knows it doesn’t matter, knows they’re just going to leave, knows he doesn’t deserve-
A hand lays over the top of his head, gentle and hesitant. He opens his eyes to see them staring.
They’re so small. Just tilting his head up puts his chin against their middle torso. He should let go before they force him to. It'll be less painful that way. But he can’t, he just can’t, he can’t be alone again-
They bend slightly, put their hands on his shoulders, slide them down his back. When they encourage him closer, try to wrap their arms around him, it’s all he can do not to sob.
It’s an awkward sort of embrace. It’s perfect.
He hugs even tighter around their waist. Doesn’t resist as they push him down. Doesn’t stop them from pushing and pulling him every which way until they’re sat in his lap. So long as they don’t let go, just don’t let go.
They’re small, so perfectly small, and he’s able to wrap himself over them. Even with them folded into his chest and completely hidden in his arms, he feels like they’re all that’s holding him together.
This won’t save him. He knows it won’t. But this is the next best thing. He’s found his own strength, found pleasure he never imagined, found a friend to hold him until the end.
In that darkened cathedral, missing his Light and with his life slipping away, Gabriel feels more complete than he has in a long time.