Chapter 19 #2
Waypoints were considered to be completely neutral spaces.
Located over natural ley lines and protected by powerful enchantments, they were meant to be a haven for any Divine being regardless of affiliation, and for mortals who possessed power.
Typically, they were operated by a Coven and blended into normal society in the guise of businesses and other inconspicuous buildings.
“That explains a lot.”
“So, Michael,” Sachiel leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and steepling his fingers. “Bold of you to send another message after Judas got the last one.”
“What choice do I have? I must return to Hell, and I don’t know the way.”
Sachiel fixed him with a look. “If you were wanted there, you would know.”
Michael said nothing, looking out the window instead of meeting the Fallen’s emerald gaze, trying to pretend his hopes weren’t sinking into his gut.
“That being said,” Sachiel sighed, sitting back with a mischievous gleam in his eyes, “I am a sucker for a star-crossed love story.”
Michael’s head whipped back around, eyes wide as his cheeks reddened. “This is not—”
Sachiel lifted his hand to stop him. “Don’t bother, I can tell.”
The angel rolled his eyes. “But you’ll take me? To appeal to…him?”
“On two conditions.” The other man held up his fingers to demonstrate. “One, only you. Tell Uriel he’s gotta keep loitering in that alley. And two, if anyone catches you, I will deny my involvement until I’m blue in the face.”
“I can respect those terms,” Michael agreed, making a mental note to lecture Uriel about the stealth factor of a stakeout.
“Perfect,” Sachi flashed an easy grin, lounging in his seat and draping an arm over the back of the chair. “Hey, how are the pastries here?”
Click. Click. Click. Click.
Foster was going to go mad watching the clock, but counting the steady tick of each passing second was all he felt capable of right now.
Well, that and worrying himself sick, but that was becoming as second nature as breathing.
Every second the damn doctors didn’t come give him an update was another second that he spiraled deeper into guilt and grief and fear.
Click. Click. Click.
The rhythm blurred with his pulse. He nearly shook with barely contained energy, his leg bouncing a frantic beat against the floor tiles that pulled an occasional squeak from his sneaker in complement to the clock.
Click. Click. Squeak. Click. Squeak. Click. Click.
A low growl built in his throat and Foster raked his hands through his hair, tugging hard.
He wanted to scream, to rip that damned clock off the wall, to start throwing chairs around the room until someone came to stop him.
At least then there would be another living being in this tiny, impersonal waiting room.
The half dead ficus in the corner did not count—he wasn’t even a hundred percent sure it wasn’t made of plastic.
Click. Squeak. Click. Click. Click. Squeak squeak.
With a frustrated groan, he pushed up from the uncomfortable plastic chair. He wasn’t sure if he was planning to track down the doctor or maybe just a vending machine. Anything to occupy his mind and body for even a few moments was going to be a welcome diversion, at this point.
Then there was a firm knock against the doorframe, and a middle-aged man with silver hair stepped around it to enter the room. He was stocky and stern-looking, life worn hard into the lines on his face, but there was a kindness in his weary eyes. “Mister… Morningstar?”
“Yes!” His frazzled nerves tensed, and he cleared his throat. “That’s me.”
“My name is Doctor Kontogeorgos. I’m the primary physician that’s been attending to your grandmother.” He paused, and the hesitation ramped Foster’s anxiety up another level. “Why don’t you have a seat, young man?”
“All due respect,” Foster swallowed hard, “I’ve been sitting too long. Just tell me, how—how bad—”
The doctor adjusted his glasses as he watched him struggle. It felt like he was sizing him up and seeing how much Foster could handle. He laid a consoling hand on his shoulder. “She’s alive, but it's touch and go at the moment. I won’t sugarcoat this for you, son. Are you sure you won’t sit?”
“No,” he croaked, throat tightening until he thought he would choke. “Please.”
“Alright,” the older man sighed. “She’s in bad shape. I have no idea how she’s holding on, but for the grace of God.”
If it wasn’t such a tense situation, Foster might have laughed at that. The doctor had no idea just how close to the truth he was.
“Of course,” Dr. Kontogeorgos was saying, “we’re doing everything we can to keep her comfortable, but with third degree burns over thirty percent of her body, that’s no easy feat. We’re lucky to be maintaining stability, let alone comfort.”
“And… third degree burns are really bad?”
“It doesn’t get much worse. First degree involves blisters and pain. A really bad sunburn can get to that point. Third degree is one step shy of melting down to bone.”
His knees wavered, and Foster locked them. He would not fall apart here, when she needed him to be strong. “Fuck.”
“I’m so sorry,” the doctor squeezed his shoulder gently. “I’m afraid to say there’s… not much we can do for her, son. She’s heavily sedated, but… well, I recommend that you see her while you can.”
The words rocked through him so hard that it took a moment for his brain to process them. “What—what are you trying to say, Doc?”
A long pause. The doctor swept his gaze around the room, taking in the utter stillness, the empty chairs. “I’m saying it’s very good of you to be here with her, especially since it won’t be easy to see her in this state. But I suggest you take this time before it’s too late.”
He didn’t remember following Dr. Kontogeorgos down the long, sterile corridors, but he must have. He must have, because he was standing before a closed wooden door in a busy hallway, raising and lowering his hand in an endless cycle of almost turning the handle.
The doctor had deposited him here and vanished again, off to save other lives, and left Foster standing alone to face down his demons. Actually, demons would have been preferable to the horror that was mounting within him.
“I can’t,” he murmured, a nervous shiver rolling down his spine. “I can’t bear it.”
A familiar presence appeared behind him, and warm hands settled on his shoulders.
“But you must,” Gabe spoke gently, punctuating his words with a light squeeze. “If not you, then who?”
“You’re right.”
“I often am.”
Foster huffed. “Prick.”
“I am also this,” Gabe agreed easily, releasing him to saunter around and lean into the doorframe. “But you love me for it, Foster Flake.”
“What I don’t love is that stupid nickname. I’m not five anymore.”
“You’ll always be a baby to me,” Gabe’s eyes twinkled, and Foster rolled his.
“Ridiculous.” He lifted his hand back to the doorknob; gripped it tight. “Ridiculous.”
Gabe softened. “It is not an exclusively mortal concept, you know. Anxiety…fear.”
Foster said nothing, just turned the knob and swung the door inward. Gabe touched his shoulder again before drifting ahead of him into the room, drawing him along like a boat caught in a wake. He stepped slowly in Gabe’s footsteps, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the floor ahead of him.
The sound of slow, steady beeping reassured him, but it was drowned out by the mechanical hiss of the machine breathing for his neighbor.
He reached the side of the bed, staying tucked behind Gabe like maybe he was still five.
Part of him was ashamed of the way he cowered, but dignity be damned, his heart was breaking at the simple thought of how Sra.
Delgado must look. The actual sight was liable to kill him.
“Fossie,” Gabe said solemnly, stepping aside and resting his hand on Foster’s back. “I’m so sorry.”
“Me too.” He finally jerked his gaze up from the crisp white bedsheet, like ripping off a bandage.
There was a moment of disconnect, where his eyes hadn’t yet told his brain what he was seeing.
This wasn’t Sra. Delgado. This was a pile of old rags someone had left on the bed while cleaning up.
He was in the wrong room. His mind supplied any explanation but the truth.
Slowly, horribly, it sunk in. Those were bandages, not rags. That was blood starting to seep and stain them. The greyish bits peeking through, the spots that looked like paper with charred edges… that was skin.
“?Abuela!” His chest tightened, his stomach twisted, his heart tried to hammer out of his chest through his ribs.
The last vestiges of beer and bar nachos rolled in his gut and he retched, dry heaving for a moment to fight the urge to vomit.
Slender hands gripped his upper arms with surprising strength, hauling him up against a warm chest. Gabe folded him into a tight embrace, pulling him into the chair by the bedside so he could sit.
“Shh,” he crooned, stroking long fingers through dark waves, soothing and shushing him just like he had fifteen years ago. “The first step is to breathe. In and out.”
He tried and failed, shuddering on each breath as hot tears poured down his cheeks.
“Again, Foster.”
He took another shaky breath, focusing on Gabe and the steady, grounded cadence of his voice. Once again, a woman he loved lay dying and Gabe was his only lifeline. Once again, his father was nowhere to be found. The irony was like salt in the wound.
A few long moments of stilted breathing in response to gentle murmuring, and Foster had calmed enough to regain his composure. He scrubbed at his damp eyes with frustration, hating the display of weakness but hating the situation more.
"Foster," Gabriel said, and the subtle trace of steel in his voice had Foster bracing himself before the other man could even continue. "The time has come to do what needs to be done. I’m sorry to be so direct, but you must stop being stubborn."
Foster could almost feel his eyes bugging out as he opened his mouth to protest, but Gabriel kept on. "You are the closest thing I've ever had to a son. You may feel weak right now, but I know your true strength. And you are strong enough to give this woman the release she needs.”
Silence stretched. Foster refused to speak, turning over those words that were like so many knives in his heart and whatever was left of his soul. How could Gabe be suggesting that, of all things, right now?
"Look at her, Foster. She's in unfathomable pain. Nearly half of her body has been melted off. Her wounds are oozing blood and Jehovah knows what else. The agony must be excruciating.” He paused, studying the young demigod.
“Surely you can’t be cruel enough to let her endure for the sake of your selfish desires. You're not your father, after all."
Foster fought back another heave at the sucker punch statement.
“Fuck you,” he finally managed to croak, but there was no heat behind it. Gabe was right, and it fucking sucked. “I don’t want to kill her, Gabe.”
“Foster,” the response was sad. “She’s beyond saving.”
No. She couldn’t be, she wasn’t allowed to die. He would fight all of Heaven himself to prevent it.
“What would she want, Foster? To suffer in pain for hours until she’s eventually called home in the end? Or to go peacefully through your mercy right now, and give you something back in exchange?”
His frantically beating heart stilled at this, stuttered, skipped a beat, and kicked back in harder.
To trade one life for another…it made him feel dirty to consider it.
He flashed back in his memories, to a tiny body laid ever so gently on a ritual pentagram, to the sticky, wet slide of her blood against his fingertips.
He could feel the echo of those tears in the trails of damp salt on his cheeks now. Mercy… it was a concept dependent on perspective. Sra. Delgado’s ventilator whirred and clicked, breathing for her while she lay unconscious.
It sent him back to another bedside he had cried beside, fifteen years ago. The woman in that bed had been pale, not charred, covered in a sheen of feverish sweat instead of bandages. But once again, he was about to lose a woman he cared deeply for.
Carmen was old, and she lived alone. She always tried to take care of him despite her bad hip and dwindling health. Is this what she would want? To be... set free? To help him one last time?
Gabe’s hand closed on his shoulder again. “You know what you should do, son.”
Foster hung his head, tears redoubling. He had no idea what he should do, but he knew, deep down, the choice he had already made.