Christine felt Uriel's weight leaning on her.
God, he is heavy, she thought.
He had his eyes closed.
She wondered what had happened.
He groaned again . . . she had to hurry.
Christine helped him, slowly making her way to her apartment and pushed the door open.
He was swaying now - she couldn't hold his weight, "Uriel, you have to help me to get you to the couch."
She didn't know if he heard her, but she felt the pressure lifting slightly, and finally, she got him to the couch.
She laid him down, and that was when she noticed the blood-stained shirt; she saw the pain reflect on his face. . . she was about to turn around when he grabbed her arm, "Please. . ."
She paused, "Uriel, you need to let me get something to treat you with - or you will not make it."
Uriel wanted to tell her that a wound from an angelic blade would not be able to heal with mortal medicine, and his hand fell back, and he grimaced at the pain.
She took this as an invitation to get some supplies; she wasn't prepared for an injury. . . She got to the kitchen and opened drawers - she found a scissor, bandages, a towel and her handy bottle of brandy.
She hurried to his side, kneeling down, and noticed how heavy his breathing got. . . She gulped - she couldn't remember the last time she had a man on her couch.
Well, apart from meeting the man that saved her from the car accident she had a few days ago, she blushed.
Christine placed her hand on his forehead - he had a fever, probably from the pain.
She took his hand from the wound he had it on, and she let out a gasp. . . Uriel's wound was deep and still gushing with blood - she had to be quick, taking the scissors and cutting his shirt open; her eyes dwelled on his abs.
My God, he is hot!
She scolded herself at her thoughts.
Uriel needs help, and here you are . . . admiring his body!
"Uriel, I am going to clean your wound."
She didn't think he heard her, so she opened the bottle of brandy, dabbing the towel inside the mouth of the bottle - she pressed it against his wound.
He let out a scream and opened his eyes. . . His eyes found hers, and he gritted his teeth to hide the pain, "Are you trying to kill me?"
She rolled her eyes, "If I do not clean your wound, you'll die from blood loss - so stop being a baby and take it like a - man."
She drew back the towel, dabbing it with brandy again, then placing it back on the wound, and he grabbed her wrist.
Christine widened her eyes at him, her hand hanging a few inches from the wound.
He parted his lips, "Thank you."
He let go of her wrist, and she placed the towel on the wound once more. . . he sat upright with a snarl escaping his lips.
Christine kept the towel down on his wound, "You have to keep still, or it will hurt more."
His body convulsed, and he placed his hand on hers, "Have you ever dabbed pure alcohol on your wounds?"
She shook her head . . . her voice would betray her if she answered.
His hand was smooth against hers - it sent goosebumps down her spine.
He placed his left hand under her chin and forced her face to look at him, "Cat caught your tongue?"
She saw her reflection in his eyes . . . she felt that she was drowning in them, "No, I just didn't think you wanted an answer."
He chuckled, "So - she has a voice."
She averted her gaze, "Can you lift your hand? I need to see if the bleeding stopped."
He gave her one last look and removed his hand from hers and his other hand from her chin.
Christine took the towel from his wound -thankfully - the bleeding stopped; at least it was a good sign, but she had to check his shoulder.
"I see the bleeding stopped. Do you mind if I check your shoulder?" He leaned back on the couch, "Go ahead."
She took the scissors to cut his shirt further open to his shoulder. It was clotted with dried blood, "I'll have to clean this one thoroughly."
She stood up, and he grabbed her arm again, "Really, thank you."
She bit her lip shyly, "Don't worry about it. I am sure you'd do the same to anyone else."
He drew his hand back and averted his gaze. . . would he really? If it was her. . . yes, he would - but anyone else, not a chance.
Christine walked to the kitchen in search of some water. . . maybe she should have fed him the brandy to dim the pain. She returned and saw he was fast asleep; he looked more peaceful than the pain that contorted his face a while ago.
She knelt down once again and dipped a clean towel in the water, and threw a bit of brandy on the wound as well. . . Uriel opened his eyes again.
She placed her hand on his arm, "Relax, it is almost over."
Uriel couldn't relax. He couldn't grasp that only hours before, Christine was on top of him, making him feel alive for the first time in centuries . . . but here she was, healing his wounds. He regretted wiping her memories only a few hours before, but he had to.
He nodded his head slowly at her. . . his voice would betray him - staring into her face only brought him sorrow.
She deep cleaned his wound, "Uriel, I need you to sit up, so I may put on bandages."
She hooked her hand under his arm to help him sit up, and he placed his feet on the ground and hunched over - his bangs were hanging on his face.
Christine took the bandage in her hands and placed one strand on his shoulder.
Uriel watched - silently - while she rolled it down and over his shoulder, going around his back to his midsection, and she paused at his back, "What are these scars?"
He cringed inwardly, Shit. . . Those are the markings of my wings - What. . . what am I going to tell Christine?
He parted his lips, "I had them as long as I remember."
Christine trailed over them lightly, he trembled at her touch, and she blinked a few times and continued wrapping the bandage around his shoulder.
Christine checked that the wound was covered, and then she dared to ask, "What happened?"
He didn't lift his head, "I was mugged."
"My God!" She placed her hand on his knee, "How did he-"
Uriel was trying his best not to think about her touch on his knee or the way she lightly trailed her fingers on his markings where his wings were. . . Christine had no idea. . . how close Uriel was to take her then and there.
That was one of his sweet spots.
"I do not know, " he stood up abruptly, taking her by surprise, and Christine let out a surprised gasp, "I am sorry, I-"
She started laughing.
"No, I am sorry - I am a little jumpy since my accident."
"You were in an accident?" He knew of the accident - of course, but he took her memories, so he was a complete stranger to her.
"Yeah, a car ran me over." She stood up from the ground, "A man saved me. . . if he hadn't - I would not have been alive right now."
His hands formed fists . . . Lucian, it always came back to fucking Lucian, "I am grateful you are okay - I should be going."
Christine looked at him in confusion. . . Had she done something wrong?
"I understand. . . you probably want to forget about this night."
She walked with him to the door, and he turned to her and smiled, "I can not tell you thank you enough."
He opened the door and left, Christine watched his retreating back, and she felt sad. She closed the door and leaned against it.
Uriel isn't so bad. . . So, why haven't I ever talked to him before?
She shrugged, cleaned up her couch, and went to bed; she still had the interview tomorrow.
Uriel walked to his apartment - when he entered - he ripped the remaining strand of his shirt from him and threw it on the ground.
"Was this what you truly wanted!" He screamed in frustration, "To start over like her?"
He turned and hit his fist against the wall - his fist went right through, leaving a hole.
Well, the good news is . . . Gadrial is talking to you.
He closed his eyes, maybe Gabriel was right, and he had acted out of selfishness. If Uriel had a choice . . . he would do it all over again because Gadrial was worth it, no matter how many lives she had lived. . . He was in love with every version of her.