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Misplaced Lens Cap
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PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
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Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
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@shortstackiel
Dreams
It’s never wrong to dream. However, Iahhel has never had the luxury of experiencing one. Sure, he's seen his charges' dreams, but that's not the same. Entertaining as they may be (he has seen some weird ones over the years), they're not his. He can close his eyes, curl up under a blanket, but he's never truly asleep. He's never tired. He doesn't ever need to sleep. But, he so desperately wants to. While people dream, Iahhel dreams about dreaming.
Burns
"Once upon a time... the end." Iahhel said, briefly. His wings were folded tightly against his back and he clearly didn't want to talk at all. He's pressed against the arm of the couch. "Oh, come now. Your story can't be that bad. Tell me about all the other people you guarded... Please?" Rachel pressed, taking a seat next to the angel. She brushes a hand against his back gently, and Iahhel's wings suddenly jerk and the angel grits his teeth. "Ow." Iahhel says instead of a yelp, and Rachel's hand quickly retreats. "Sorry- What did I touch?" Rachel asked tentatively, nervously combing her fingers through her black hair. "A burn- I was burned, a while back. Several times. Over and over." Iahhel explains, although he’s talking about much more than physical wounds. In a way, he answered Rachel’s inquiry. However, it seems she doesn’t understand it. Not yet. Disappointed, Rachel sighs. They sit in silence for a long time.
Snowball
Carol enjoyed playing practical jokes. What was even better was that Iahhel loved helping her. Playing pranks with an angel on your side is much easier (and so much funnier) than going solo. Playing pranks again reminds Iahhel of when he'd horse around with Gabriel and Balthazar. He feels ancient when he realizes both of them are dead. He feels sorrow when he realizes both were killed by a brother's hand. Iahhel dismisses his thoughts of the past and focuses on building a giant snow ball that’s quickly building in height. They'll need this to show up all of Carol's friends at a snowball fight that had been scheduled at the park. Building a ball of snow is a good distraction. Thoughts of his brothers can wait.
Names
The lights appeared out of the darkness. The lightning bugs with their flickering lights were like stars among the clumps of the flowering bushes that were darkened by the dusk. Iahhel had to admit, his charge's garden was beautiful, even when the smell of flowers was overpowering. "So, do you like your name? What would you change it to if you could?" Iahhel's charge suddenly asks, taking a sip from an icy glass of sweet lemonade as she leaned against a young oak tree. Its pale green leaves rustle gently in the evening breeze. Iahhel tilts his head at the question. "I guess I like it? I've never really debated that before. I don't know what I'd change it to." he answers, wondering why she'd ask such a thing. "Wait, wait. You've lived for three-hundred-seventy million years and you've never debated changing your name. Ever." the woman asks, her facial expression showing that she thought this was something that was totally incredulous, something completely inconceivable. She does have a tiny grin on her face, like this fact is something a little comical. "Yeah...?" Iahhel says, slowly, wondering why it's so strange that he's never thought about changing his name. After a moment, he asks her a question. "Well, do you like your name?" Iahhel retorts, looking over at her as she coyly takes another sip of her lemonade before answering. "Rachel? Mmhm. I like it." she responds, swirling her straw in the glass and watching the tiny particles of lemon in the drink swirl around. The ice cubes clink against the side of the glass before settling. "You do realize that Rachel means sheep, right?" Iahhel asks, smiling widely. "Hmph. Baaaa, I guess." Rachel says, jokingly imitating her namesake. They both laugh as the fireflies glow and the crickets chirp.
Books
I was fascinated by the history in my house (technically it's not my house, but my deceased charge's). The dusty books in the overall dank and dirty attic are absolutely thrilling to read. There's Common Sense, The Wealth of Nations, The Age of Reason, and even The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire. I do find a few facts in the final book incorrect (I was there, after all), but I don't have time to dwell on one book when there are hundreds more up here for me to read.
There are books from the eighteenth century and beyond. I find myself sometimes spending entire days up in the dusty attic, reading endlessly. My charge did take the time to collect all these books; I find it only fitting that I should read every single one before moving on.
As I close yet another one of Thomas Paine's books, The Rights of Man, I recline against the attic wall and pick up an unread book lying beside me.
“Only one-hundred and two more books to go.” I mutter to myself.
Hope
The footprints in the snow suddenly ended. Barbara cursed under her breath, staring at the final footprint as if that could help her pick up a new trail. Finding this angel was becoming an obsession of hers.
However, she was beginning to think that maybe she should get back to real life. She'd gotten no results at all besides her own eyewitness accounts, and those were worth practically nothing in the public eye. She folds her arms with the loud, squeaky sound of her puffy jacket sleeves rubbing together. It looks like this is a loss, too.
Snowflakes collect in her light brown hair as she gazes around at the thin belt of trees. The ground is completely white, and the only things tainting the blanket of snow are the two sets of footprints. Actually, maybe there's something more.
Barbara squints at a bright flare of orange that stood in stark contrast to the pure white snow. She plods through the thick snow drifts to get to it, and when she stoops down to pick it up she realizes it's a feather.
The feather is a blazing, glossy orange and is as long as her hand. The woman holds it reverently, as if she's scared she's imagining the object. There's a bronze, solid looking tip to the feather, which confuses Barbara. It looks metallic. She runs her finger along the edge of the metal tip and hisses when it cuts her.
Barbara sticks her finger in her mouth, sucking on the slight cut. She's finally found something concrete. Maybe she should put off going back to real life.
This is much more interesting.
Lavender
The scent of lavender was overpowering. Iahhel wrinkles his nose at the smell. The purple flowers are everywhere in the woman’s garden, and it smells like a perfume bomb went off. Maybe there really is such a thing as too many flowers. The young gardener laughs. Her laugh is a tinkling sound, like bell chimes.
“I thought angels would like flowers. I would say something about harps too, but I know how much you hate it when people mention those.” she said, lifting a plant out of a terracotta pot and placing it in the ground. She pats the rich, dark soil down and then sprinkles a bit of water over the lush plant. She really does have a way with flowers.
“I like flowers, but it seems you have a knack for collecting… a whole lot of them.” Iahhel said, looking around at the field of healthy flowers, which had bees flying in and out of them from time to time.
“They like it here. What’s the harm in having something when it’s healthy and happy?” she replies. Iahhel doesn’t have an answer to that.
Headliner
He didn't look anything like she expected. All the angels in paintings looked the same, with fluffy white wings and cool halos sometimes. But this, a redhead with blazing orange wings, was so much better and yet so much more shocking.
Wait til' the news community got a hold of this. All those people who called her crazy for trying to hunt down an angel, saying it was comparable to running around in the woods looking for Bigfoot, were so, so wrong.
She can just see the headline now: Barbara Hendrickson Discovers Angels!
But, just before she takes the unaware angel's picture, he vanishes. She feels like crying.
Tiptoe
They turned and hurried down the stairs. Their steps, although rapid, were as silent as possible.
"I really don't think this is a good idea!" Iahhel hissed. The teenage girl in front of him rolled her eyes.
"Quiet, Buzzkill-iel. You'll wake up my parents." she hissed back, silently opening the front door and looking back to make sure the coast was clear before jogging out to her friend's car. Iahhel sighed and closed the door, locked it, then walked after her.
She was heading to a late night heavy metal concert that her parents forbade her from attending. Better yet, she was going with her boyfriend, the typical goth type with inky black everything. Iahhel really thought this was a bad idea, but he supposed he'd just have to keep her safe.
Ugh, teenagers.
Condolences
The ringing phone filled her with dread. She stared at it, almost not wanting to pick it up. Maybe if she didn’t hear the bad news, it wouldn’t exist. She could just go on, living like nothing happened and everything was just peachy.
But, the condolence calls from her friends and family about the death of her husband never seemed to stop. Her hand hovers over the incessantly ringing phone for a second before picking it up.
A strained, choked conversation ensues in which she convinces herself she’s definitely not sobbing into the phone and everything’s going to be okay.
Green eyes watch her solemnly, and invisibly, from across the kitchen counter. Iahhel doesn’t know how much longer he’ll be able to take seeing his charge like this.
Liar
I couldn't see any other way out of this mess. So, I lied. I lied for the first time.
It seemed deplorable, absolutely unforgivable, back then. Angels were supposed to be pure, superior, and here I was, lying like there was no tomorrow.
"Why, yes, Michael. I looked everywhere for Paschar and couldn't find him at all." I said, in my best-est attempt to seem sincere. Of course, when you're a little itty bitty Ministackiel lying your itty bitty ass off in front of the Archangel Michael, you tend to get scared.
I'm still not absolutely sure if Michael actually bought my story. I'm almost certain, however, that I wasn't a very good liar.
"Don't tell anyone where I am, okay little brother?" Paschar had said to me, when I stumbled upon him on Earth shortly after he deserted. He bent over, knelt down, ruffled my little messy head of orange hair; the whole big brother works.
At least I kept my promise to my brother, but I'm not certain that I did a very good job of it.
Oh, well. It's the thought that counts, right?
Common Misconceptions
This wasn't where he wanted to be. He tenses whenever a demon walks past his cell. They all seem to be deliberately getting a little too close to the bars for comfort.
Iahhel was a young angel, barely out of the fledgling stage, and of course he had to have been picked to be a delegate at one of the (attempted to be) peaceful meetings between Heaven and the Crossroads. Someone said something, the other side retaliated, and it was a scrap before you knew it. It’s safe to say that these don’t happen anymore. Nobody thought they’d work, anyways.
Of course, the angels retreated. They would definitely be outnumbered. And, of course, they forgot that they had a slower, younger angel with them.
Iahhel's just thankful the demons didn't kill him on the spot. This is a lot better than being dead, definitely.
A little demon's pitter-pattering footsteps can be heard echoing through the halls. Iahhel cranes his neck to catch a glimpse of the demon. He knew demons could inhabit any kind of vessel, even children, but this demon is also a child himself. The demon pauses at Iahhel's cell, obviously curious.
"Hi!" he says, cheerfully. Iahhel would not have expected such a cheery greeting from a demon to an angel.
"Hello..." he says, wary. This demon has to have an ulterior motive; he has to be cooking up some sinister, devious plot.
"My name's Sydoran." he said, standing on his tiptoes in order to catch a glimpse of the angel. "I've never seen an angel before."
"My name's Iahhel. I've seen lots of demons before." he replies, shifting so he's not cloaked in shadow.
"My mom tells me that angels are scary monsters that kill demons like me." Sydoran said. "But you're not like that, right?"
"My brothers say that demons are murderers." Iahhel replied.
"Aw, your brothers aren't right. I'm not a murderer. See?" he said, hopping up and down as if that was a sign that he was not, in fact, a murderer.
Iahhel couldn't help but smile at the young demon. Maybe all demons weren't deserving of death, after all.
Adventurer
Her foot slipped and she started to fall. It was no biggie, she was a professional mountain climber. Of course she always used her gear, and her gear always had her back.
Not today, apparently. Her safety ropes fail. Nothing can describe the pure, untainted fear of potentially hurtling thousands of feet to the ground.
She doesn’t want to be a bloody pile of mush at the foot of the mountain.
However, something, or rather, someone, grabs her hand before she truly falls. Impossible, she was solo climbing! Nobody was up here with her. Well, she wasn’t going to complain.
“You’re alright?” her savior asks as he sets her down on a stable outcrop of rock on the mountain’s face.
“Yeah, I think so… But- Who are you?” she asks. The young redhead in front of her is literally in nothing but a flannel shirt and jeans. It’s snowing out here.
He doesn’t respond with a name, he merely touches two fingers to her forehead and she’s immediately lying in her bed in Colorado, still in all her layers of jackets. She sits up in confusion, unzipping one of her jackets and pausing for a moment to take in the situation.
What the hell just happened?
Birds
The birds swoop low. The little boy who's still got some of his baby fat giggles.
"I like birds." he says, still giggling as the birds land and stare at him from far off with their heads tilted.
"I can see that." Iahhel replies, looking up at two swallows that observe them from farther up in the sky. They're sitting in a verdant park on a bright, sunny day, and nothing is amiss at all.
"Are you a bird?" the little boy asks, frowning slightly with contemplation. "You have pretty wings. I've never seen a bird like you before." Iahhel laughs at the child's reasoning.
"I'm not a bird." Iahhel says after his brief chuckle.
"Oh." the kid replies, looking disappointed for a moment. "Do you ever want to be one? I do." he muses, playing with a blade of grass he had between his fingers.
His mother watches from far off. She figures he's just speaking to his imaginary friend again.
"Sometimes I do, kid." Iahhel replies, sighing. "Sometimes, I do."
Hello, Goodbye
The old woman turned and smiled. It took Iahhel a moment to realize she was actually smiling at him, and his wings fluttered uncomfortably.
"Hello." she said, in that old, raspy voice of hers. Iahhel still remembers how it sounded when she was young and vibrant. He hates being here, in a hospital. Her soul is so dull, having nearly lost the will to live.
Then, Iahhel realizes something. He's still invisible.
"How long have you known I was here?" he asks, tilting his head. He's still not visible.
"I've always known you were there, all the days of my life. You always insisted on hiding." she says. Iahhel wished she'd told him sooner.
Iahhel can tell that their time is nearly up without even having to look at her soul. She has one last question.
"What is your name?" she asks, her voice quiet. Iahhel gets up and stands over her, a small but grim smile on his face. He doesn't know why he doesn't reveal himself, even then.
"Iahhel. That's my name." he finally replies. She returns the smile and then she's gone.
Opposite
(A Marvel crossover)
I remember the day. The memories are like fresh ink on a clean page, even today.
It was a calm day in 1920, and I was following a very short, four year old James Barnes. He's holding on to the hand of his mother, but it looks like he doesn't want to.
Don't grow up too fast, I remember thinking, pleading.
And then his mother introduced him to Steve Rogers. Steve was a beanpole of a kid, the polar opposite of Bucky. But, he had a good heart, I could feel it.
Although Bucky was clearly the stronger of the two, the protector, I could sense a role reversal in the future.
Two guardians for Bucky is a lot better than one, I thought.
Fire
It had to be done. Iahhel convinces himself of that fact as he sets fire to a village, hears the people scream. He walks away with the crunch of snow under his feet and the glowing flames illuminating the night.
It had to be done.
He races back, covering the short distance to the home of his charge. The leader of the village he just burned was a savage warlord, and the dwindling hours left until his charge's death may be averted if he takes out this threat.
The date is still the same when he returns to find his charge asleep, oblivious to the atrocity his guardian had just committed.
Iahhel hears the sound of pounding horses' hooves. They're getting closer.
What has he done?