lonelyorchidman @lonelyorchidman - Tumblr Blog

Miles To Go Before I Sleep

(Lewis Ford x Angel!Miles Miller)

Summary: That godforsaken bunker in France was supposed to be Lewis Ford's grave. Yet here he was, on one sunny summer morning years away from the sound of gunfire, wondering if he was insane or if his mind really wasn't playing tricks on him. If he really did hear a voice that day. Saw what the horrors thought he saw. And if an angel really did save him. Twice.

Content warnings: canon-typical violence, but it is stronger than my usual work. Allusions to torture, injury detail, PTSD, and medical experimentation. Smut in next chapter!

A/N: This piece is inspired by @disterra amazing Miles art based on the 'Kidnapped Angel' sculptures. This work does kind of assume you have seen or know the plot of Overlord, so if you've not seen it and are interested, it may be worth reading the wiki so this thing ain't even longer than it already is. Otherwise, please accept this humble offering to the sentryagent AU fandom🙏 part 2, after the next chapter or two of TAIM.

Word count: 9.5K

Available on AO3.

11:40 am.

Lewis Ford, formerly Corporal Lewis Ford, now shift supervisor Lewis Ford, would, at some point today, get up off the sofa. Maybe even some point soon… But he doubted it. The ratty, cramped sofa was no place for a man whose back had suffered falling hundreds of feet from a plane, being thrown into reinforced concrete, and being blown to kingdom come. Nor, for that matter, the harsh realities of growing older.

He shouldn’t have done that. Lewis Ford had spent the war diligently planning for every eventuality, but not that one.

He wasn’t supposed to come back from France. He should be dead. And as the TV flashed before his eyes, like the final deathbed montage of some asshole’s life that the gods created just to torture and amuse them, he certainly felt like he was.

But that was supposedly just another symptom. Shell-shocked, the upper brass declared, although not until after he had fought on to see the German surrender. Cracked in the head, his sergeant father concluded when he returned home with nothing but a sneer on his face at the slightest mention of the glory of war. Only his mother hadn’t diagnosed him, or said anything at all- at least to his face. Her look of abject grief, as though she was sharing her dining table with a ghost, hurt more than his father’s disapproving, if barely hidden, pride that he hadn’t managed to outrank him, even in wartime.

However, Lewis understood. In fact, he wholeheartedly (if begrudgingly) agreed with everyone’s assessment, because what other explanation was there for being completely and utterly certain that in a small province of France, he had, in fact, been saved by an angel?

Not just once. But twice.

5th June 1944.

If the only sighting of the angel was as their plane blew up over what would soon become the turning point of the war, then maybe Lewis Ford could have convinced himself it had all been in his head.

No matter how hard he tried to square it all up in his mind, every image and thought shifted through his fingers like sand, never falling in the same place, bending to unseen forces. There were, however, some constants. Ones he’d never forget, and the ones he wished he could.

It was a routine, if vital, mission to a radio-jamming tower behind enemy lines. If the Allies' charge into Europe was to succeed, their tiny squadron had to be exemplary. Knowing what he did about these kids, he would have to be nothing short of perfect.

The plane ride over had been too boisterous to concentrate. He never thought he’d miss the deathly, unending silences he’d endured in Italy, but at least there, fighting for their homeland, people knew what was at stake. Or so he thought. Now, he wondered if those boys had been all too aware.

Rosenfeld certainly was. The way he hollered and screamed at the slightest provocation from the moment they took off, whipping the others into a frenzy, until Sergeant Rensin stepped forward and suddenly, Rosenfeld just… stopped. And one at a time, so did the others. The man Ford instantly clocked as the team’s wise ass, Private Lyle Tibbett, gave Private Edward Boyce his charm back, despite how clearly they disliked each other, allowing Ford a modicum of peace while the rest of the squad sarcastically jeered and called the Sergeant a miracle worker. Ford just rolled his eyes and deemed it basic respect for a CO. Still, he couldn’t worry about them. Experience had taught him better than that. There was work to be done.

So Cpl. Ford studied. Planned. And every time his mind tried to distract him with thoughts of home, he stubbornly pushed them aside as he always did. Yet they returned, again and again, far more rapidly and with a vividness they lacked at any other point in the war. Maybe even his life. He could practically smell his mother’s delicious cooking, hear his sister jovially tease him as only she could, and ‌feel‌ his former lieutenant’s clammy, hot skin. Quivering and moaning under his hands as he took him apart with the same single-minded determination he showed every task. However, each time those thoughts threatened to draw him away, he bit the inside of his cheek to ground himself and returned to his orders: he carried on.

Ford couldn’t explain it, but amid all the horrors on that trip, the one image his mind could always conjure was of Private Dawson. He didn’t know a fact about the man; he still didn't. Yet there, with his brown leather-bound book, he sat reciting poetry, extolling the virtues of Robert Frost to anyone who would listen. When he had no converts, he read quietly to himself, as though he was simply passing the time on the commute to work before the bullets started. At the time, Ford thought nothing of him. Now, it was all he could think about.

Ford hoped his death had been quick. What should have been his own certainly wasn’t.

If he thought his memories on the plane were vivid, it was nothing compared to the lingering heat that burned his face whenever he relived the moment the fire consumed the cabin. Everything became a blur once the obliterated breach brutally sucked the first man through, and then the next, and the next. Private- no, it was Corporal now- Boyce had to remind him that it had been Ford who stayed behind to see the few survivors off the plane. Funny, he thought, he’d forgotten that. Because all he could remember was how much of a stupid, fucking asshole he was, when at the last second, he leapt from the inferno and pulled at the rip cord once, twice, three hopeless, desperate times - and… nothing.

For the first time since he suited up, Ford had allowed himself to get distracted after all. He hadn’t checked his parachute.

And yet he survived a 400ft freefall without a scratch on him. Despite how much Ford detested that word, what else could it have been but a bona fide, goddamn miracle?

Later, once his feet were firmly planted on French soil, Private Chase tried to tell him about the shooting star he caught on camera, that shone with a brilliant silver and blinding whites, straight through the carnage and bloodshed that landed… God knows where. With a shrug, Ford told him it didn’t matter. With a hefty hurl of his camera, he showed him how little childish, unimportant stuff like that mattered. But Ford knew, deep down, far below his shivering skin and in his thunderous, still beating heart- he knew where it fell, because it must have been him.

If he could lie on his sofa, half-asleep and hungover as fuck, and still picture a stupid book of poetry, then why, after nearly ten long years, couldn’t he grasp what happened between plane and ground?

Blindly he fumbled on the table before him, smacking his half-empty box of smokes on his path to the three Polaroids he'd been staring at the night before. Just a couple of months ago, Boyce and Rosenfeld stopped by the shop, having hunted him down for an impromptu, if long overdue, reunion. Not that he was hiding; that was just how things were after the war. You fought together, saw the talking corpse of your friend together, and killed a mutant Nazi- well, no, as far as his squad mates were concerned, he did that bit alone.

Despite his gruff, nonsyllabic greeting and beleaguered roll of the head when he welcomed them into their home, he had been happy to see them. Not annoyed, anyway. “Just a drink” turned into two, then three. An offer of snacks turned into Chinese take-out, and a catch-up slowly divested itself of all pretence until the three men sat around the deceased Private Chase’s recently rediscovered camera. There had been a few happy, if strained, photos from before they left the runway, and more than a few friendly jabs at Ford’s sullen face hidden in each one, becoming the group's favourite Easter egg hunt. But once the table vanished under empty beer glasses, they’d hesitated at the last ones. Clearly they’d been building up towards them, but ever tactful, Rosenfield blurted it out. “Chase wasn’t fuckin’ with us. He really did see a UFO.”

The pair looked so excited and hopeful that their CO could shed some light on their discovery. What happened at the base stayed buried under all that rubble, but this? This they could safely talk about.

Through gritted teeth, Ford took the first photograph. Really studied it, and then gave it back. “Looks like a busted Spitfire engine - that unnatural white? It’s hard to tell for sure, but it looks like how magnesium burns. My bet, some sucker combusted like we did.”

Boyce looked him over carefully. The good cop in an irritatingly effective good cop-good cop routine that Ford hadn’t seen coming until he was well and truly trapped in it. “Magnesium leave a trail like this?”

He pushed a second picture across the table, as though he’d studied the detective shows that lulled Ford to sleep when the contracting wheeze of the old house sounded too close to a death rattle. Judging by the movement of planes and the rising smoke, Ford reckoned the Polaroid had captured the moment at least 5 or, even 10 seconds later than the first, and sure enough that… thing… was still there. While whole planes and lives had been brutally destroyed in that tiny, lost snapshot between pictures, down through the sky, a searing white blade of light remained. Cleaving the horizon and the picture in half. Ford thought it looked as though God himself had witnessed the horror they endured and taken a knife to the heavens in a futile attempt to rip it from creation rather than raise a finger to help.

Definitely not magnesium then.

“Could have been magnesium,” Ford said with a sigh. “Shit, Boyce. I fix cars now. Barely know jack shit about planes.”

Or the supernatural…

Looking at those photos now, he heard Boyce’s response as clearly as if he was still sitting opposite him, deflating into the cushions. “Sure, Ford. Whatever you think.”

Ford had just smirked; he rather liked the new Boyce who could snark at him now they were both civvies. But they both knew it wasn’t magnesium. Because as he fell, with bullets whizzing past his head and his vision closing in, he’d seen a man plummet straight into him. No military garb. Just golden, auburn locks, the likes of which not even Dawson could put into words, and eyes that contained entire galaxies of stars reflected in a vast ocean blue. Yet he didn’t remember feeling them collide. Likely it was just his mind trying to comfort him again with a final pretty face to see him off, because in an instant he was gone. Replaced by a hyperawareness of his deployment bag’s straps around his chest, making it difficult to breathe. It felt like two arms hugging him tight, but it must have been whatever survival instinct he had left, urging him to try the parachute again, because while he didn’t remember pulling the cord, he felt the telltale gust of air behind his back. His descent slowing down. And everything going white.

That’s what he thought happened.

But what he knew happened? Was that he saw pristine, snow-white wings surrounding him.

He’d blacked out long before he hit the ground. The wet, foul-smelling mud greeted him as he made to roll but was stopped instantly by a body lying behind him and a hand clamped over his mouth. Shushing him, the stranger didn’t speak. Still dazed, Ford quickly snapped out of it when a stampede of boots passed them by through the undergrowth. Nazis.

Refusing to let fear close his eyes, he tracked every foot, mentally counting them all in case they were spotted. 10… 11… 12…

The Germans got nearer with each man, but just as his fingers inched to his holster, the heavy slosh of footsteps died down. It was only as the hand crept away from his face that Ford realised he’d stopped breathing.

“I’m gonna distract ‘em”, came the hushed voice from behind. It was too low to make out any features, but it made him shiver. “Wait five seconds, and then run straight on into that there clearin’. Your men are waitin’ for you there.”

The entire operation depended on them. Ford didn’t have the luxury of questioning how he knew, let alone refusing his saviour's bravery. He didn’t even trust a quick ‘thank you’ in case someone heard them. Before he knew it, the stranger shifted, and true to his word, he rose quietly to his feet. “Godspeed, Cpl Ford”.

He ran after the Nazi squadron without Lewis ever seeing his face. And on the count of five, Ford did as commanded and ran the other way, never looking back as he ignored the barrage of gunfire that erupted behind him.

The ringing of MP40s never bothered Ford as much as the doorbell on a Saturday morning. He tried to ignore it in the hope that it would go away, but the postman was nothing if not persistent. So were the Mormon missionaries and Jehovah's Witnesses - but Ford figured if seeing an actual angel wasn't enough to get him to step foot in a church again after what went down at the Radio Tower, then two pimple-faced 18-year-olds didn’t stand a chance.

With a hard sigh and an even harder push-up off the sofa, he put down the photos and finally rose. Now one bum leg older, he was half as elegant as he had been in that muddy field before D-Day, and yet he moved with something approaching purpose. His heart skipped a beat, like the first time he wore his insignia, or when he raced to meet the rival high school's QB to hook up in the back of his truck.

He felt… anticipation. Excitement.

All for the fucking mailman.

It was just one of those things. A sudden, incongruent emotion. A comforting thought, far too sappy to originate from him. Too naive, free… hopeful to ever be Lewis Ford at any age. That was the weirdest symptom, even if it was the one he rather looked forward to.

But sometimes, just sometimes, it sounded like a voice. The same one that first reverberated in his ears back in that dusty attic where Private Chase had died twice.

“He’s scared, Ford. It's his time.”

Yeah, no fucking kidding.

2 bullets to the chest would do that to you.

Of course he should have sent an extra person to bring that slimy Nazi bastard down. It would be so easy to blame him instead, but it didn’t matter the how or the why, just that Cpl Ford had fucked up. And because of him, Private Chase Dawson now lay on the floor, begging for the last few seconds of his life.

Whatever could he say to that?

“You don’t have to say anythin’. You’re helpin’, even if it feels like nothin’, it’s not nothin’.”

God, there was that voice again. Ford had never been one to talk to himself, and it definitely wasn’t his voice he could hear. The stress must be getting to him, yet he heard it as clear as day. A soft southern twang, a boyish lilt spread out over a deep burr that made aging it near impossible. It felt as though if he just turned around, someone would be right there with a gentle, calming smile on his face and a soft hand on his back. But of course there was no one else, just all his men losing their heads while one of their own lay dying.

“Don’t let me die, Ed”, Chase wheezed, his eyes scanning the room for anyone who could help. As calmly as possible, Boyce placed his camera in his hands and squeezed. From behind them, Ford could hear their prisoner shouting, fighting - their only ace in very real, and very mortal peril.

Good. Fuck him.

Let them gut him like a pig for all he cared, because for some reason, Chase was looking right at him, of all people.

Ford didn’t hide from his gaze, and Chase didn’t look like he blamed him. He was just… scared. “Look at me, Chase, look at me.”

Ford didn’t tell him it would be alright. He tried. That’s what you were supposed to say, right? But the words caught in his throat, behind the rage, bile, and shame that coated his tongue, weighing it down like lead. Yet Chase, for once, did as he was told, and kept his eyes fixed on him, not on the bullet holes that pierced his chest or the alien house in the middle of nowhere. Almost imperceptibly, he relaxed. Just a bit. Slowly, his breathing slowed, scraping through his lungs with every ounce of strength left, until eventually there was nothing left to give. He passed, clutching his camera to his chest and Ford’s bloodied pant leg.

It couldn’t have been for more than a second that the entire room turned silent. A shiver overtook them all as the realisation set in. He should move. They were wasting time. No way all the Nazis stationed outside didn’t hear the gunfire, but his body wouldn’t even twitch. The only sound was ‌SS Wafner’s barely stifled laugh, and Tibbet’s harsh, punched-out, furious growl as he swung at him again.

“You did all you could, Ford. Now your men need you, they hurtin’ too.”

Right… Right, of course. That’s what he was good at. Taking control and getting them focused. After all, distracted soldiers were as good as Chase, and hurting soldiers did stupid shit, like-

Ford’s body responded to his command and turned, just before the nozzle of Tibbet’s gun met Wafner’s skull. “No! No, we still need him.”

The gutting could come later. Because that was the moment everything changed. Boyce, in an act of desperation, injected the serum into Chase’s chest and he rose again, seemingly unharmed... Before his veins darkened and popped along his skin, his neck turned violently back, and his bones cracked and mutated under his flesh. The screaming - God, fuck that screaming.

Not even an entire machine-gun clip was enough to stop him. It fell to Boyce, who Ford had thought far too soft for his own good, to bludgeon him again and again until there was nothing left of his skull. Somehow, Lewis got them all back on track before the entire town swarmed them, taking Boyce’s trembling body by the shoulder and hauling him to move ass.

That time, Ford did look back. Just once, at Chase’s body.

Even the voice was silent at the sight. The next time he heard it was when they prepared for their attack on the base. It screamed so loudly that he couldn’t hear the gunfire. And as Ford pried open the sewer cover to make their way to blow up the bunker and tower, he swore he heard praying.

Ever since, he had heard what he thought were echoes of that voice; however, after the D-Day landings, it didn’t speak to him directly again. He caught snippets, normally when he was tired, in bed, or in the flow at work, keeping his hands busy and his mind quiet.

“‘Bless her, she was nice. ‘Tryin’ her best to be, anyway.”

“Hey, psstpsstpstt. Hi. You’re a sweet ‘lil mouse, ain't ya? Y’hungry?”

“Well, heck, ain't that just about the best coffee this week. Let me see if I got enough for another tip.”

Despite the strange reassurance of hearing his one constant since the war, he had to admit it annoyed him sometimes. Who the fuck still said, ‘heck’?

The answer was an easy one. Probably the same… person or thing he saw in that godforsaken bunker. Who screamed and flailed, and yet never cursed. Not even at the scumbags who just hurt him more. Only at Ford to please, please leave.

Didn’t he?

He remembered hearing him, loud and clear, but then again… He also remembered the other person’s mouth being taped shut.

But Lewis didn’t think about things like that anymore. It was better that way; it made it easier to keep it a secret. Unsure why he was wasting his day off dredging up the past, the postman provided a welcome break from his thoughts. Ford thumbed through his latest haul.

Bills - keep (unfortunately).

Adverts - trash.

New take-out menu - definitely keep.

A letter from his sister, and judging from the heft of the envelope, some photos of his niece starting school. He’d drive out to see her before Thanksgiving. He never let the war take away watching her grow up.

Finally, there was a postcard from Lyle Tibbet. On the back was a picture of the Eiffel Tower, where he wrote, ‘Wish you were here, ya stuck up asshole’. He promised to join the next reunion/jerk off session/whatever they got up to when he was stateside again.

After the war, Tibbet had stayed in France to help with the restoration. Settled down, got married, had a family, the whole shebang. Good for him, Ford thought. It must have helped that he hadn’t seen what was in that bunker. Shamefully, when the nightmares were at their worst, Lewis begrudged him for it- even hated him. If nothing else, it would have been nice to have someone who saw what he did. Someone who could confirm, once and for all, that he was just crazy.

Wouldn’t that be nice. But what in Ford’s life was ever easy?

The siege of the underground bunker, turned secret laboratory, turned literal hellscape, wasn’t Ford’s best plan. It was, however, the only one now that severed talking heads, mangled mutant corpses, and soulless husks of meat and superhuman muscle were hunting them down.

There wasn’t time to gawk or feel sorry for them. Each unspeakable horror was another bomb stuck to the wall as the explosives expert made sure that his final act would be his magnum opus.

Ford had fallen into the speciality thanks to his meticulous commitment to detail - he prided himself on a perfect record of no accidents or allied deaths by his charges. Now, all that mattered was that everything, and everyone involved, burned to ash. Guided by what little Boyce could remember of the layout, he moved from room to room, facing those Nazis not currently raining hellfire on the town and the rest of his squad. Having seen firsthand what they were capable of, it was easy to pull the trigger. Even easier was knowing where to go next, because as he got closer to the centre of the base, that voice from the attic returned.

“Please, keep going- now left- there. That’s the archive. You have to destroy everything they wrote about the serum.”

It didn’t need to tell Ford twice. He figured the voice must be some poor bastard that they’d injected who could now… what, talk telepathically? Fucked if Ford knew. It didn’t matter how the serum worked or where it came from, just how to destroy it.

So long as the information was good, he cautiously let the voice lead him, but something felt off. It sounded tired. With each step, it lost its strength, getting quieter and quieter until Ford had to strain to hear at all. It took longer for it to recognise which room Ford was in so that he could tell him where to go next. Meanwhile, Lewis plowed on, setting the charges throughout yet another everyday, mundane office that just happened to be filled with wall to wall pictures of inhuman experiments. As he was about to reach the large reinforced door at the end of the room to smash it open, the voice abruptly changed its tune.

“No! Not through there. There’s too many of… them. You won’t make it. There’s another way back through the halls-”

There was a panic in its voice that wasn’t there before. Ford couldn’t abide not knowing what was behind a closed door, especially when someone dared to tell him otherwise. Putting his ear to the wall, he listened. There was a low hum of energy, the creaking of metal, but that was it. Silence. That is, until the voice screamed at him when he jiggled the lock.

“No! No, Ford, you have to listen- please. Please, I’m beggin’-”

Holding his gaze steady, Lewis looked straight at the door, as though he could see through steel. “Is that where you are?”

The voice was quiet, but a foreign feeling of fear ran through his veins, telling him all he needed to know. He.. It was there, and for it to be locked away when literal monsters were allowed to roam around? There was no way he could walk away.

“Just what are you? Why are you in my head?”

“It don’t matter. You thought it yourself; all that matters is this godforsaken place bein’ gone. Please, Ford, they’re comin’. We don’t have time to fight-”

A cruel smile twisted his lips. “A fight? Call this a fight?” he chewed out. “You better talk right now - or I'll come in there and show you a fight.”

An inhuman, agonised scream came from the opposite direction, getting closer, but Ford refused to budge.

When no response came, Ford huffed, “Fine then”. Without hesitating, he grabbed his gun and rammed it against the lock, causing it to groan under his brute strength. “Come on, you son of a bitch. Why me?” Another hit. “Who are you!?”

The voice went dead again, almost as if he had hung up the phone, which was just fine with Ford. His interest piqued, the mission now amended, he didn’t let up, smashing into it even harder. The whole door wheezed as though in pain, and while the lock was stubborn, he was worse.

Just before the handle broke off, the voice came roaring back in one desperate plea. “Miles! My… My name is… M-Miles.”

Ford stopped, his gun suspended above the lock. He was about as convinced that was really its name as the quivering voice sounded. “Well, Miles, you’re going to have to do better than that. What do you want?”

“I ain't lyin’.” It sounded indignant at the idea, to which Ford just laughed. Altar boy. “This place is evil. E-Everythin’ it touches is evil. It ain’t right. A good person like you shouldn’t be here...”

When Ford just laughed, the voice softened. A thought meant just for itself sobbed through their connection. “I only wanted to help…”

Pitiful was normally anathema to the corporal, but there, just under his eyelids, his skin pricked, his throat ached, and his lower lip had to be sucked between his teeth to keep still. He had all the telltale sensations of crying, but his eyes were completely dry. Whatever he was communicating with, it was growing stronger. Closer. Until Ford wasn’t sure what thoughts were his own, but its ability to transfer physical feeling, not just the emotional, only served to make Ford more suspicious. If he had no idea what this… thing was capable of, then he had to treat it as though it were capable of anything - even faking its emotions onto him. Little did it know, it chose the wrong target if it wanted to try for sympathy.

Whatever it was, it must have sensed his realisation because, to Ford’s surprise, he felt it just… give up. Testing it, Ford hit the lock again. A wince, and then something else. Another emotion, one which very much felt like his own, but magnified now that it was faced with its own reflection. The voice resigning itself to its fate.

As soon as Boyce first spoke of it, Ford knew his grave lay at the bottom ring of this hell. The detonator weighing heavily in his pocket, he asked steadily, “Am I taking you out with it?”

To his surprise, the response was instant. “Yes. But it’s better this way.”

Having just tried to inundate him with a cheap trick, Ford now sensed nothing. Perhaps it was changing tactics, recalculating, planning out its next manoeuvre. At least when it was screaming, Ford thought he had the measure of it; now he had no idea what it was doing, but the pause made the base quiet enough to hear a thud. And then another.

Footsteps, right beyond the door.

Teeth bared like a cornered wolf, Ford grinned at the sound. The voice’s intentions or allegiance didn’t matter. So long as it had a body, that meant he could blow it up.

The voice piped up, but Ford’s plan didn’t seem to worry it. “... I’m sorry. For earlier”

“For what?” Ford snapped. Short, as sharp as the crack of the door as he hit it again with renewed strength. He tried to block Miles out, but he was nearly there now.

“That you had to hear that.”

The corporal ignored its games, but the voice didn’t need Ford to talk to feel his confusion.

“The s-screamin’. I’m sorry, I tried to keep quiet, I did- but I’m not brave like you. I didn’t mean for you to have to hear that-”

“Miles.”

“No, no- it wasn’t fair of me. I - they tried to make me do awful things. And I couldn’t-”

The voice was spiralling. Ford could feel his heart drum against his ribs, sweat lacing its way down his back- and then his whole body seized - pain shot up his arms like they were being torn from their socket, his stomach flashed liquid fire straight at his core, and his head… god, his head. A dozen fresh, hot, stabbing pains like razor blades exploded along the expanse of the left side of his face- That fucking bastard-!

“I’m sorry! It was an accident- Oh God, God, I’m so sorry, Corporal-!”

Ford’s vision blurred; he thought he was going to be sick. And then, as quickly as it came, it stopped. Recoiling, Ford threw his back against the wall for support, struggling to catch his breath, but all the pain left his body as if it had never so much as ghosted over a nerve. Except, that is, for the old scar across his cheek.

Much to his annoyance, it had been one of the most valuable sweepstakes amongst the squad: just how had o’l stick-up-the-ass Cpl. Ford gained that scar? Every guess, from a fight over a girl to Ford’s supposed ‘shadowy criminal past’ in a robbery gone wrong, raised the stakes. And, in a cruel twist of fate, which was becoming too commonplace these days, the man who won it all lay dead in a field a few miles west: Sergeant Rensin. He’d taken one look at his new second-in-command, sat alone as he scoured weather reports, and as the guys traded wild theories in the mess hall, he dropped a crisp $10 bill into the pot. “Guy like that didn’t squeal.”

Damn right he hadn’t. Suspended by his wrists in a derelict farmhouse, after a rat gave away his old squad’s ambush, he took whatever the Nazis dished out in stoic silence, right until the end. Spite was a hell of an anesthetic. It was worth every agonizing second, if only to play dead long enough to draw their leader close- and spit blood right into his eye. He earned his scar for that, and a few more hidden under his clothes. While he didn’t talk, the fact that he gave them the satisfaction of hearing him scream pissed him off for months; however, rolling up his sleeves and paying it forward to the sadistic SS Officer Wafner, helped. When he knocked the bastard out, he didn't care that his own grin grew wider than his tormentor's ever had.

Quietly, Ford lowered his weapon. God, this was reckless. He didn’t have time, but after years of dogged commitment to the war, if this was it, then he wanted to see if maybe, just maybe, that nagging doubt beneath his suspicion was right. The soft-hearted Boyce must have rubbed off on him after all.

Lewis closed his eyes and did everything he could to relax. Not a lot, but just enough for him to let Miles see what he remembered. A cold draft wafting through the broken rafters, the Nazi’s raucous, shrill laugh as he delighted in making the American pig squeal, and the impartial look on his men’s faces as they watched on, as though the blood running down his face was as interesting as watching spilt paint dry. But amongst them, just for a second, he saw a new man’s face in the crowd. Same honeyed curls, same soft features. Looking mortified. Heartbroken.

“Is that what they did to you, too?” Ford asked.

The voice didn’t respond, but a soft, phantom hand pressed to his shoulder felt like an affirmative.

“... Not something to apologise for then.”

A gentle kind of joy bubbled up inside. It felt… nice. However, he really was out of time now. Cpl Ford had only allowed himself to get distracted once since the war; this was the second. He needed to see Miles face to face before he made any hasty decisions, so he raised his gun and-

Bang.

The lock trembled. He’d grown so accustomed to the sound that it took him a moment to realise: it wasn’t him hitting it. For the first time in years, he was sure it was his own fear he felt.

Bang! bang! bang!

“I’m so sorry, Ford. This is all my fault.”

Heavy, stampeding footsteps returned from the other side, picking up the pace like a steam train, not stopping until whoever was on the other side rammed itself into the door. The resulting crash boomed across what felt like the entire base. And as the last echo rang in Ford’s ears, the lock fell off.

Then the whole door went with it.

With a screeching, ear-piercing wail, it was ripped from its hinges and thrown against the wall, missing Ford by the hair of his beard. Two meaty hands grabbed him by the throat and waist, tendons and bone straining under their grasp, and flung him through what remained of the bent door frame and straight onto the hard floor. The detonator fell from his pocket, but he barely noticed as pain seared along the back of his skull, everything going black until quick blinks dragged the image before him back to life. The room was a giant dome, like the top of an abandoned, derelict cathedral. A strong smell struck him second: burnt flesh and rotting meat, and then blood filled his mouth, making him gag. He rolled onto his side to spit and then he was confronted with, it.

No, him.

One piercing blue eye, as serenely radiant and torrential as the storm-bound heavens themselves, stared back at him from on high. Ford ignored the growling laugh stalking closer, because there he was. An angel.

Or the twisted, inhuman version of one.

No sweet praise escaped his lips- not with a mouthguard jammed between his teeth and black tape slapped tight over his mouth. The cherub curls, identical to the figures which littered the blown-out church windows Ford found ransacked in Italy, were now matted with blood and sweat across his brow. These gave way to a dense plethora of buckshot wounds that formed the same chaotic pattern of shrapnel that had nearly brought Ford to his knees. One pelt must have caught his eye as the swelling forced it shut. To Ford, it looked like his sister had taken some of his home-cooked strawberry jam and lathered it all over the left side of his face. The absurdity of it should have made him laugh, but he was struck dumb like the prophet Zachariah before the angel Gabriel for not heeding his warnings.

Or perhaps, Miles just didn’t want him to see him like this.

Coming from the prisoner’s shoulders and stringing his arms out was a tangled weave of wires, IV lines, and metal chains that kept him suspended over a pit in the centre of the room. They rose towards the sky and opened up along the high ceiling beams. Greys, blacks, and rusted browns mottled a monstrous, industrial mockery of wings. But the dark trails didn’t end there. Across his veins, which bulged like unhealed scar tissue, the inky black tar of the serum pulsed through them with each fluttering heartbeat, speeding up while Ford could do nothing but stare in horror. If one jab of that shit turned Chase into that… thing. Then how did he still look human attached to all those IVs?

Trying to process what he was seeing over the ringing in his ears, Ford knew. It was him- wasn’t it? Maybe he was just a soldier Ford had seen at the base, that his subconscious had pulled from the deepest corner of his memory, but sure as shit, he was the person Ford recognised from the fall. The one that now muffled a futile cry from behind the mouthguard.

Ford heard it loud and clear.

“Run!”

But it was too late. Something dragged Lewis off the floor and into the air, tearing his 'angel' from view. Before him truly was a monster - Wafner, his face now half caved in, teeth, sinew, and spit-soaked muscle all on show, gargled a laugh that howled like a storm through the hole in his cheek. “He’s marvellous, isn’t he? Even the gods are on our side. And what chance does a mortal like you have against fate?”

He lashed out at the SS officer who didn’t do so much as flinch. The panic he felt from Miles drove him to kick harder. The slimy grin, obscenely pulling Wafner’s taut flesh, made him punch quicker. As he was moved around the circular room, he vanished from Miles' sight, and with a turn of his head, he saw Wafner’s plan. He held his breath, desperately trying to brace himself, but there was no escaping the brutal agony as he was hauled upward as though he weighed nothing at all, only to be impaled, slammed down directly onto a meat hook.

The pain consumed him. Barely holding himself up by the chain, Ford couldn’t register where it had pierced him - only that it hurt everywhere, overwhelming every nerve in his body until they all fired at once. His grip faltered, his hands twitching as it all became too much. He couldn’t even feel Wafner’s hot, wet breath on his face as he delighted in Ford writhing like a worm, waiting to be put out of its misery.

Ford refused to give another Nazi the pleasure of his screams, but his stubbornness just made Wafner more determined.

Ever so slowly- drawing out the moment just to savor the realization dawning on Ford’s face- Wafner stroked his thumbs over the sharp angles of the man's cheekbones. He framed his face as it twitched with every fevered breath. Then, with a soft, cooing shush, the officer trailed his thumbs up and brought them dangerously close to his eyes. “Pigs like you don’t deserve to see the glory of our new empire-”

A shot. Followed by a dozen more sent Wafner careening backwards. It was Private Boyce, drawing his attention away- the idiot. The fucking idiot. Ford had to get him the detonator.

With what little he could see through the pain, Ford could just about make out vials of the serum a few feet away. It didn’t matter. He didn’t matter, Lewis kept telling himself. The war mattered. So with sweating hands he tried to pry himself off the hook, but he couldn’t do it. His mind was everywhere - old flashbacks to that farmhouse in Italy flooded his vision. Ford didn’t panic, but feeling his life slip through his fingers as surely as the chain, his body did.

“Stay with me, Ford. Breathe. In… Out… In…”

Without thinking, the soldier did as he was ordered.

“That’s it. Good. I think I can get you out, but you have to trust me. Can you do that?”

What other option did he have? It felt like someone knocking on the door in his mind. Not forcing itself in, just waiting for him to open it. And when he did, a feeling of total serenity breezed through him, making its home inside ‌the space between his cells. Filling that emptiness with his parents' log-fireplace at Christmas, and a beer while watching the game with the boys back home. It felt like someone was right behind him, lifting him up off the hook even as he did it all himself with one swing and a giant heave. He gritted his teeth, and thought of his sister.

The floor was much colder than the energy that took over his body. Through sheer grit, Ford crawled to the table and grabbed at the serum. He could hear the bullet shells clanging against the ground as Boyce reloaded in the distance. Ford had to be quick. Unable to talk over the blood rising in his throat he thought, “You not about to lecture me on this, boy scout?”

In response, Miles returned simply, “There’s no other way, is there?” They both knew the answer to that, so solemnly he promised, “Then I’ll help as best I can, sir. I’ll be right with you to the end. ‘Promise.”

Ford jammed the serum right into his chest.

Even years later, he could feel the needle pierce his sternum.

After that, Ford had no idea what was real. He’d tried marijuana in high school like most kids he knew, got drunk a bit more than was strictly healthy, but nothing came close to the feeling of that toxic shit fighting him tooth and nail for control of his mind and flesh. Thankfully, he had a helping hand.

Wafner had Boyce cornered; he remembered that much. Anger wasn’t a stranger to Ford, but this was something else. It made him feel euphoric, addicted, even as he felt his very DNA rearrange itself. He saw red as Wafner flung anything and everything at the private, but before he could recklessly charge in, there were those arms around his chest again, not holding him back. Just… There. Ford had flashes of throwing Wafner aside, shouting at Boyce to finish planting the charges as he kept him distracted. It was so disorienting, having the serum tear him up from the inside out, but Miles was true to his word.

When the burning, white-hot primal rage threatened to take over, the ghost of a hug kept his insides together. When all he saw was meat and flesh, begging to be torn apart, the vision of his coach, urging him to ‘step the fuck up, boy’ urged him on. Blood and decay filled his nostrils, replaced by the scent of his first crush's overbearing deodorant and the oil of the car he repaired with his own two hands. And when the voice, doing everything it could to stay calm, urged him back towards his line of sight, Miles guided him through it. “Left. Now get behind that console. Ford he’s coming up behind you, take cover- now!”

And Ford dodged and fought while Boyce worked. But Ford had figured he had been too good. Knowing there was no way Ford should still be standing, Wafner changed course. Looking at the man hanging above the pit of tar, he saw his one remaining eye dart around the room, scanning for every advantage.

He slammed a trolley of oxygen tanks into Ford, pinning him to the wall just long enough to bolt for the console. Ford realised his mistake before he could even stumble to his feet. Across the walkway, the officer’s fist raised over the button; they held each other’s feral gaze in a standoff, but there was nothing he could do. Miles closed his eye and breathed in.

“It was an honour, Lewis. Thank you.”

Wafner slammed the button, and an alarm instantly blared. Hunks of metal and wiring wheezed into life, the beams keeping Miles aloft lowered down, and with a final press, every piece of suspension just… fell away.

Miles plunged.

Ford didn’t hear the moment he hit the tar. If these sick cunts wanted to hear him scream, let them. Snarling like a wild animal, Ford charged. Nothing was holding him together now. Fuck his humanity; what was that worth when faced with something so inhuman? Distantly, he heard Boyce fix the last of the charges and men- monsters, rising from the pit where Miles fell. Crawling like spiders up the walls while others tore at the doors, trying to get in.

Let them. Let them drag Ford from Wafner’s corpse, Boyce would see the job done. Taking Wafner by the lapels of his shirt, he couldn’t feel his hands slap across his chest anymore as he crushed him against the wall and took a swing straight to his jaw. Then another.

It was the face of the Nazi who strung him up all those months ago.

He swung again.

Now the faces of the bastards who killed Rensin. Chase. The Lieutenant he once dared to believe he could settle down with.

He was losing it. The only thought left in his head was revenge for what they did to Miles.

Miles, Miles, Miles.

He slammed his fist against Wafner’s skull. Miles, Miles, Miles. Again and again, until there was barely a face left at all. Yet still- still that bastard laughed, his tongue flailing against the open air.

“How does it feel to have the blood of eternity flowing through your veins?”

Barring that one name, words had little meaning now, but he gritted out whichever ones he could find. It was his voice, but it wasn’t his thoughts. “Don’t you dare speak of eternity when you’ll never see it.”

Miles?

With a final burst of energy, he took what remained of Wafner and buried him under the concrete and debris, throwing him straight into a generator. The steel caved in under his weight, making it leak oil like a pool of sickly, black blood. It wouldn’t stop him for long, but it was enough. Boyce finished placing the explosives and grabbed the detonator. They did it. They were actually going to do it.

Even under all the haze, the cracks of his bones starting to transform, and the corruption of his very mind, Ford felt proud of them. God, but Wafner had a point. This serum? It made him feel incredible. Powerful. As Boyce made it out of the door, back towards the exit, Ford slammed the gate shut behind him. It was the only way.

“I was never getting back - it all has to stay buried with me. Blow this whole fucking place up.” Boyce probably tried to convince him otherwise, but he couldn’t hear him. “The tower, private, Boyce”.

And to his unending relief and gratitude, Boyce did as he was ordered, but not before throwing his lighter back at him as a parting gift. Ford was never going to have a peaceful death- he had long ago come to terms with that, but seeing SS Officer Wafner come back for one more round? If going down meant wiping that bastard off the face of the earth, then Ford accepted his fate gladly. In fact, he felt… hopeful. Determined.

What?

That moment of doubt was silenced in an instant as the serum bombarded his mind again. But Lewis didn’t need to see memories of home to keep him present. Not when he got to see that Nazi bastard scream for once.

He flung the lighter at the patch of oil at Wafner’s feet, and it detonated on the spot. And in quick succession, so did all the TNT, starting in this godforsaken hell and expanding out across the entire base, one bang at a time. There was no better serenade to see Ford off, and no more glorious a sight than Wafner, as the fire climbed up his pants and consumed him whole. He flailed and screamed, cursing perhaps, but it was impossible to tell when his skin peeled away from his protruding jawbone before the final explosion silenced him for good.

Ford closed his eyes and let the flames take him before he lost himself completely. However, nothing happened. Unless that is, one tiny snapshot that was only reachable in the thin line between wakefulness and sleep, was real. Falling to his knees, waiting for everything to stop, Ford opened his eyes long enough to see those wings one last time. They were heavy and sticky, clumping together like the feathers of that dove he’d saved from an oil barrel as a kid. Yet it soared, suspended over that tar pit once again, far above the monsters below. Broken and battered, but not beaten. Whether real or not, Ford spent weeks in waiting anticipation for the nights he saw that majestic image again.

He wondered over the years if he hadn’t conflated the image with that of Miles, hanging by the machines. However, that would also mean the feeling of being scooped up into his arms was wrong. The grounding sensation of a chin resting in his hair, begging him to let him heal him. A soft “that’s an order, corporal” that made him relax, that brushed past his ears and not his mind. And the sound of hundreds of pounds of TNT going off all around him. Echoed. Softened by whatever was protecting him, which wrapped around his body like a cocoon, allowing nothing but a couple of droplets to fall on his head. If it were real, Ford wished he’d opened his eyes for just a second- if only to spare himself long years of uncertainty. But he knew why he didn’t. It felt too nice to be held like that.

They found him a mile south of the tower, with no memory of how he ever got out. His mind was clear, his body aching, but most importantly, it was still his. And surrounded by a lush patch of grass and wildflowers, the earth cradled him gently, lulling him back to reality to the tune of a skylark. Lying there, he watched the clouds roll past. Planes on their way to the distant frontline, and a flock of birds making their way home through the smoke. It was peaceful. He was at peace. Searching his mind for any remnant of Miles, he found it was just him now. Maybe it always was. Either way, he allowed himself a minute to enjoy the beautiful view.

When he heard Boyce shout his name triumphantly, Ford struggled to his feet and picked a large grey and white feather from his hair.

The doorbell rang again.

Shit, Ford was just about to make something of his day and get some gardening done to clear his head. It had been one of his favourite things to do after the war - it was a simple space, not overly designed or expensive like some of the neighbours'. Instead, Ford encouraged and cherished the grasses and wildflowers, like those he had learnt to appreciate in France after that fateful night. Here he whittled away the hours surrounded by the insects and birds it attracted, and the feeling of nature on his skin that brought him back to that moment of peace.

The mailman must have forgotten to drop off his boss’s package of tools he needed for the motorcycle that he was rebuilding in his spare time. Ford put the post onto the table, next to the photos from Boyce and Rosenfeld. The two that had sparked his memories lay face down now, but there was still the third one they had brought. He ran his finger over the figure in the corner, the one that had tormented him for years.

There it was, all of a sudden. That alien feeling again. Anticipation this time and… fear? Anxiety?

Huh. The postman never waited this long for Ford to come to the door; he would have pressed it five more times by now.

The emotions gained traction. He couldn’t make out who was on the other side, only that with each step, more and more feelings and sensations tingled across his body, words ricocheting around his skull. Previously, the voice he had heard since the war had been faint enough that he could sometimes convince himself it wasn’t the one from the bunker. But now it rang between his ears, loud and clear. Ford ran.

“Um, hi, Lewis. I don’t know if you remember me- no, no. That won’t work…. Cpl Ford, sir… Too formal, what if he hates that? Lord help me, he’s gonna think I’m dumb. Goodness, what if he hates me? No, no, can’t think like that. Try again. Mr Ford it’s-”

“-it’s you.”

“It’s you.”

Standing right before the visitor was the soldier he remembered. Just as tall, defiant. Just as… him. Weathered, yes. But there was that sly, knowing twinkle that hadn’t quite faded from those steely blue eyes he remembered. He held himself like a soldier still, his hair cut as though an inspection were due any minute, even if his clothes were hardly up to regulation standard. Seeing him now, compared to the Ford he got only glimpses of back then… He was speechless.

“Miles?” Ford breathed.

He nodded like a timid rabbit, his foot making holes in the garden path as he twisted the toe of his shoe into the gravel. “It’s good to see you again, Cpl. Ford.”

With a tug of the arm, Miles flew through the door, which was slammed shut behind him before anyone saw. The veteran held him by the arms, pinning them to his sides as he feverishly examined him up and down, searching for any signs that this was a trick. Wordlessly, Miles stood there, letting him do what he needed but drinking him in the whole time. The shift of his expression - excitement, suspicion, doubt, and anger- all passing through like a coin-operated motion picture camera, cycled through too slowly to smooth the image together. Miles had loved those when he discovered them, although they didn’t always work very well with just his one eye. But Ford seemed amused by his homemade eyepatch, from a kind family he met in his travels who had lovingly felted him his tiny collection. Today was the big day, so he wore his favourite one with a dove drawn on it.

It helped to conceal some of the wound Ford now traced. Though still discoloured and rigid, the scar tissue had healed with time. Healthier skin now softened the once inky-black network of veins into something like a sun-burnt, faded tattoo. It had taken ages for Miles to accept how he looked, but judging from how Ford reverently and carefully touched them, it took him only a matter of seconds.

Fingers digging a bit too hard for comfort, Ford tried and failed to keep himself under control. “Are… Am I insane?”

Miles shook his head and cupped Ford’s cheek. “Ask me again.”

Confused, and just a bit irritated, Ford opened his mouth. “No”, Miles interrupted. “Ask me.”

He took a deep breath. Miles could see him internally weighing it up, and then he felt it, without Ford needing to move his mouth.

“Are you really an angel?”

The flutter of Miles’ heart echoed across their connection and reverberated back to him. He couldn’t keep his face still, trying to keep cool and neutral, while a small smile kept escaping, making his face twitch. Ford assumed he looked like an idiot right now; Miles just couldn’t believe he was really here. That Ford knew, deep down, and wasn’t afraid or disgusted.

Quietly, he stepped out from under Ford’s trembling hands and took off his burnt-orange cardigan and folded it onto the table, next to the photos. There were the men of the squad, all together in a stick on that plane into France. Chase had taken it not long after take-off, the men chatting away while Ford sat by himself in the corner, planning out the mission. And there, right next to him, was a ghostly outline. A man. Same height, same build as the man before Ford now, with his head seemingly resting on his shoulder. And a pair of wings.

However, Miles didn’t notice it. Not when Ford’s eyes burned into him. Stretching his neck, he wriggled his shoulders from side to side, and then, there they were. Peeking out over the sharp line of his clavicle, just as shy as their owner. Ashen grey, not the white ones of Ford’s first memories, but a darker hue than even the feather he found after the bunker. They unfurled slowly, mindful not to knock anything over in his host’s modest abode, but eventually they spread out before him, wider than an eagle.

Bashfully, Miles brushed a loose curl away from his eyes and buried his face into their soft hiding place. If it wasn’t for their connection, Miles would have thought they horrified Lewis. But his heart sped up, and a warmth splashed his cheeks. To his surprise, and his joy, Ford didn’t question him anymore. The fact that he was an angel was suddenly secondary to the true, great miracle. Ford simply muttered, “You’re alive. You… Miles, you survived.”

His teeth were whiter than any angel’s wings as Miles beamed.

“It really is good to make your acquaintance, Cpl. Ford.”

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