FukuMori Week Day 2
Prompt: Angel/Demon AU + Confession
A/N: This is a scene from a larger fic that's still in progress. I wanted to get something posted on time, hence the unfinished scene, but I'm probably going to expand this into a bigger AU.
“This is familiar,” says Mori. He’s on his knees, sitting back on his heels, and staring up at Fukuzawa with a terrible sort of peace in his face. He reminds him of those men in the slums—the ones who haven’t had food in days, the ones who’ve even given up on sleeping because they know it won’t do them any good. The ones who know they’re about to die. He finds it ironic that Mori looks the most human at the end of his blade.
“Do you have any last words?” Fukuzawa asks, because he has a job to do and he’ll see it done, even if it means driving his sword through Mori’s heart and letting his blood splash against the ground. He wonders, briefly, if angels even bleed. He’s never thought to ask.
Mori seems to consider this. His eyes, that bright, inhuman violet, aren’t looking at his sword at all. He holds Fukuzawa’s gaze with a steady, resolute determination. Fukuzawa had expected nothing less.
Finally, Mori moves—but not to speak. He smiles instead, slow and deliberate. And he begins to get to his feet.
“Don’t move,” Fukuzawa says harshly, and commands the katana floating in front of him forward an inch as emphasis.
“You won’t kill me,” says Mori, and Fukuzawa can hear the laughter in his voice. He gets his feet under him and brushes his hands over the front of his pants. When he faces Fukuzawa again, he looks smug. “You won’t kill me. You need me.”
Fukuzawa forces the katana forward, willing his hand not to shake, until the tip of the blade rests just under Mori’s chin. Steady, he tells himself. Steady.
Mori looks utterly unconcerned. “Am I wrong?” he asks, and tilts his head slightly. His skin catches on the metal and a dark red bead wells up on the surface of it.
Angels bleed, Fukuzawa thinks with some astonishment. Angels bleed like humans do.
“I don’t need you,” he says roughly. He should, by all rights, send the sword tearing forward and rip through Mori’s neck. As things stand, he’s behind schedule. He has more angels to duel, harder fights than the ones that led him here. He has a god to cast down from the highest seat of heaven. But something stays his hand.
Mori laughs then, low and dark. “You’ve always needed me,” he says, almost affectionate. Before Fukuzawa can protest, he’s already continuing on. “But you won’t get in through the gates by yourself. Not in your condition.” He nods at Fukuzawa’s wounds, dripping black blood onto the ground.
He can feel the slash on his upper arm burning, but the tear in his side is far worse. It can’t compare to being drop-kicked out of heaven after having everything torn out of him, but it’s still bad. Perhaps not crippling. But in a fight, certainly a liability.
“A condition,” Fukuzawa grits out, “you caused.” The image of Mori’s needle-like knives, small and flashing in the light of the dawn, is firmly fixed in his head. Dodging them had been hell, and even he hadn’t been fast enough.
Mori shrugs. “Your point? You won’t make it through without me. And…” he lifts a hand, conjures a tiny ball of light, and has it meander over and under his fingers. “You forget, Fukuzawa. I can fix the injuries I cause.”
Fukuzawa doesn’t drop his hand, even as his wounds protest. “And why would you help me?” he asks harshly, because if Mori’s going to turn traitor, he needs to be sure. He can’t just run into this head on. And something about the idea of Mori deciding on the spur of the moment to help him out of the goodness of his heart just doesn’t sit right with him.
Mori’s smile looks almost deranged. “You think I can stand working for someone else? You have the best chance of succeeding in deposing him. And besides, if you lose, I chalk my involvement up to your demonic charms.”
Not out of the goodness of his heart, then. Fukuzawa has to laugh. It hurts his side and causes the black blood to flow out faster, but he can’t care anymore. He still has a job to do. And apparently, he won’t have to do it alone.
“So?” asks Mori, looking unbearably smug. “Still planning on killing me?”
Fukuzawa drops his hand and lets the katana dissipate into wisps of shadow, melting away into the growing darkness of the twilight. “Answer enough?” he asks, and drops into a sitting position. “Go on then. Fix me up.”
Mori walks a step closer, still holding out his hand with its glowing orb of light.
“Not going to make your attendant stitch me up?” Fukuzawa asks, because he really does know when he’s lost—but he may as well get in a jab somewhere. It galls him to know that Mori has him dead to rights even when he’d effectively lost.
Mori shakes his head. “Elise is good at many things, but she’s a creature of light. If she tried to heal you, it’s more likely that her touch would burn rather than help.”
“And I assume you’re much more practiced,” Fukuzawa mutters.
Mori lays his hand flat on Fukzuawa’s shoulder wound, but even as he flinches instinctively back, it doesn’t hurt. It feels cold, like the northern winds that came through the slums in the winter. The freezing feeling spreads through the injury like a balm. “Of course I am,” says Mori, his face twisted in concentration. “I’m a doctor first, aren’t I?”
Fukuzawa makes an aggrieved noise. Mori’s right—just in a sideways sort of manner, as he is with most things.
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