There is nothing on his face when he smashes his fist into that bastard's face. He hears bone and cartilage crack and there a sudden warm wetness on his fingers but it doesn't matter because he's already bringing the other hand around to to catch that bastard under the jaw. Head snaps back and there's blood on his face now but he doesn't care because nothing matters. There's no sound and everything around them is so still, but he just keeps whaling on that bastard fast enough that there isn't a responding strike. He's so angry and all he can do is keep going on and on. That fat, arrogant bastard is slow and old and now bleeding and pained and suddenly he hears screaming. So he hits that bastard again and again until there no movement and he's alone.
He realizes as he stares at the body that it's cold. His hands are shaking. At least, he thinks that's why they're shaking. It might be because the body isn't moving at all. He doesn't think it's breathing anymore. He's a little scared because he isn't sorry. There's still screaming going on but when he looks, it's not from that bastard. The girl is in the corner and she's curled herself in a ball and she's screaming and pleading and she thinks he's going to hurt her. She thinks he'll take over where that bastard started but he knows he won't. Of course, he knows she won't listen to him, either, because she's too scared and she's crying too hard to understand him. There are marks on her skin that make him angry all over again but he can't let it show now. He can't leave her to cool off this time because last time he did, she ended up with that fat fuck who he's pretty sure is dead.
She's still crying and he doesn't think she even knows who he is right now because she's so scared. He doesn't touch her, figures she'll freak out even more if he does, so he just takes off his jacket and drops it over her. She screams and jolts and then cries harder and is still begging him not to hurt her, but she clings to the jacket because it's warm and smells human and it makes her feel like there's a little bit of a barrier between them. He knows he can't leave her like this, even though she's terrified, so he sits down and sets his hands on his knees and starts singing. He doesn't sing any one song because he can't remember them all the way through, so he ends up singing bits and pieces and it really doesn't make any sense at all but that's okay because he realizes after a long time that she's not screaming anymore. He can hear her gulping down bigger breaths than she can really handle and she's sniffling because her nose is running from the crying and he's pretty sure she's still shaking, but at least she's not screaming and she's not begging him not to hurt her. He'd never hurt her. So he just keeps singing and eventually, she joins in when she knows what the hell he's singing about or just hums when she doesn't know the words. Then she starts singing other things and he sings with her and they just sing and sing and sing.
He knows it shouldn't be funny, but he has the oddest urge to start laughing. There's a dead body on the floor behind him, blood on his face, and a girl in his coat that still won't let her near him. He saw that fat fuck throw her down before he went after the bastard, but he can't tell if she's hurt because she won't let him near her. He thinks it might be because of the blood, but he's too fucked over to really figure it through. But at least she's singing with him and he thinks that might be good enough.
The sun will be up soon. There isn't a clock, but he can see a sliver of purple-blue-gray sky out the window between tattered brown curtains. The sun will be up soon and he'll have to call the cops to pick up the bastard he beat to death. He doesn't want to think about that, so he sings and then sees that she's gone still. He gets near and she doesn't move, so he pulls his jacket back to make sure she's breathing. She is and he can't see anything but bruises. He doesn't want to pull up her shirt to make sure of it when she's not awake because it makes him feel dirty and slimy even though he just wants to help her. So he covers her with his coat and then goes to the bed and pulls off the blankets and patched comforter and throws them over her too. He wants to get the pillow for her, but then he'd have to lift her head and she might wake up. He doesn't want to wake her because she looks like she needs the rest. Or those are black eyes he didn't notice before. He isn't sure and it's really not his place. The sun is coming up. He can feel it starting to warm the air outside even though it's freezing in here with the dead body and the beat up girl.
He wants to stay until she wakes up. He wants her to know she's safe and most of all, he wants her to know that he's real and watching over her. That someone is real and watching over her. She thinks she's alone and she thinks that fat fuck is the only thing she's worth having and she thinks she should just shot herself in the head already because nothing ever gets better. And he hates that for her. He hates that he can't be there when she really needs it, when the sun is up and she has to realize she's living in the slums and getting fucked by bastards who don't give a damn about her. She thinks its her fault and God is punishing her, but he knows it's not. It's really not.
The fat fuck really is dead. He checks it as he fights off the pull from sunlight. He doesn't feel anything about it but he knows it'll cause problems for her when she wakes up and she's sober. She'll think she did it and she might even confess to doing it. The cops won't bother noticing that the fat fuck was beaten to death by a man that had to be much, much bigger than her. Maybe that's why he scared her? He's losing time. The sun is pulling and his back burns. He kneels down next to her and pushes sweat and who-knew-what-else dampened hair out of her face. She could be pretty if she were sober. She could be pretty if she smiled. She could be pretty if she stopped getting involved with fat fucks like that and found someone who could love her like he did. God, his back hurts so much and he feels like his body is being ripped apart, but he can't help it. He kisses her cheek and forehead and nose and he doesn't kiss her lips because she's scared of him and it would feel like forcing himself. He wants to. He knows he can never be with her like he wants to, can never protect her like he wants to, provide for her like he wants to, save her like he wants to, but that hope still burns inside of him even as stupid and pointless as it is.
He starts feeling some of the sun's warmth through the window. He knows it's time to go, but he has one last gift to give her. She can't hear it because she stopped listening to him a long time ago, but he tells her that he loves her and that he'll always be there for her. It hurts so much, but he stays as long as he can, staring at her sleeping face which is almost calm and serene. At least she's warm.
And then his wings burst out of his back and it hurts so badly because he waited so long. He knows he was suppose to leave right at dawn and the pain penetrates his entire being, but he knows its worth it. He's just sorry she has to call the cops herself. He fights even as he's ripped back into the other plane. It will take so long to heal again and she'll probably have another bastard beating her again, but he knows as soon as he has the energy to be solid again, he'll come back and he'll kill the men who keep hitting her and throw out her drugs and smash the bottles and he'll tell her he loves her.
He hopes some day she'll stop screaming when she sees her guardian angel. He hopes someday she might tell him she loves him too.
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