Archangel

Beep.

"Uh... hi. It's Ceri. Ceridwen. Um... I just wanted to... um... oh bollocks, this is ridiculous. Thanks for getting me home safe. I hope you made your rehearsal. Um... see ya."

"Smooth," I muttered to myself. "Great poise. Stellar achievement."

Bronwyn stuck her head around the door. "You sounded like a randy spastic sixteen year old, just so you know."

I stuck my tongue out at her. "Eavesdropper."

"I'm bored and single, your love life is showing signs of getting amusing, I'm a nosy parker, quod erat demonstrandum."

"What love life," I snorted, tossing my phone aside. "I just wanted to thank him again."

"Uh huh. Ceri Jones, I've seen that look on your face before. You want him."

"Oh fuck off, Bron. It's been a shitty day. I don't need more abuse."

"Mm." She leaned in, planting a gentle kiss on my forehead. "Listen, Ceri, I'm heading out to meet some mates. Are you going to be OK here by yourself?"

"Yeah, I'm sore, not crippled. I'll be OK."

"Call me if you need me, OK?"

"Yeah, I will."

I leaned back against the sofa and listened as Bron got ready. She blew me a kiss and pulled the door closed behind her; I doubted I'd see her again till the next morning; she was dressed in a skintight black dress and fuck me heels and looked like she was on the hunt.

"Good luck," I murmured with a fond smile. Bronwyn didn't get much time to let her hair down; when she did go out the end result was always a hangover on the order of a natural disaster for all involved. I momentarily wondered which of her collection of booty calls she'd leave with claw marks down his back the next day. Then I shook my head, winced as I levered myself up and made my way through to the bathroom.

The damage was worse than I'd expected, and I took a shuddering breath as I dropped my jersey and bloody vest to the floor and evaluated myself in our tarnished bathroom mirror.

Purple and red abrasions on my back and ribs; my left hip looked like it was going to be blue before morning. My wrist throbbed, but I struggled out of my sling and let it fall to the floor, then wriggled out of my jeans and nudged them out of the way. I stared at myself. Scrawny, pale-skinned, disheveled black hair and eyes that didn't look as alive as they should.

I glanced down. My knee was were scraped and going blue as well, and the gash on my thigh had bled again into the adhesive dressing.

"You really did a number on me, you bastard," I murmured, meeting my eyes again.

My phone rang, and I answered without looking. "Hello, Ceri speaking."

"Hi, it's me, Connor."

I jerked, then swore as I nearly dropped the phone. "Jesus, sorry, you must think I'm spastic. Hi Connor. You caught me at a bad moment."

"I guessed as much, from the reaction. Um... Thanks for the message; it made me smile."

"Yeah, well, clearly I'm a retard over the phone," I muttered. "Sorry, I'm just busy taking stock of my injuries."

"They bad?"

I breathed out. "Yeah. Pretty bad. They bury better looking people every day."

"They don't bury people who are still breathing, except in certain extremely tragic cases... how's the wrist and the head?" he added softly.

"Sore and more sore. How was rehearsal?"

"I could tell you but I'd end up swearing and likely not stop, so I shan't tell you."

"Hah, sounds like a lovely end to the day."

"Oh, it was. However, on the plus side, I get to chat to you to chase it out of my mind."

"Uh huh," I drawled, turning to admire the abrasions on my shoulder blade. "Yeah, if chatting to a crippled Welsh crybaby who looks like she starves herself and is into self-harm is the highlight of your day then you've got issues of your own."

"I don't remember meeting a scrawny self-harming crybaby today; just a slender, hurt young woman who needed a friend."

I took a breath. "Thank you for that, again. I mean it. You really didn't have to."

"You'd have never found a bus to get you home, and taxis are exorbitant. It was the least I could do."

"The least you could have done was to do the London thing and not see me. You didn't. You saw me, you helped me. You're a very special type of person to give your time to a stranger like that."

"My time is mine to give, and I gave it gladly."

"White knight."

"Guilty as charged. Ceri, listen... I can't talk much longer. I'm at St Thomas and I have to go into the lifts. I'm probably going to lose reception pretty soon."

"Why are you back there? Is something wrong? Are you OK, Connor?"

"No, I'm fine, it's not me. I just need to say... goodbye to someone."

"You sound so... sad... when you say that."

"It's a long story... listen, thanks for the call. It really made my evening. Are you going to be OK tonight? Is there someone to look after you?"

"No, my roommate is out, but I'll be fine."

"Sure?"

"Yeah. I'm going to lurk on the couch with my kindle. Chat later, I guess."

"Sleep well then, Ceri. See you soon."

I stared at the phone, wondering. Then I glanced up at my reflection. "Not your business," I told myself. "You just met him."

But still, I worried about him.

.:.

The shower water burned my skin, and I leaned my head against the cubicle wall, bracing myself with my good arm as I blinked back the burning in my eyes.

I ached, and the pain of my bruises combined with my loneliness and despair over my instrument.

I wished Bron hadn't left. But I was a big girl, and I had to put on my big girl panties and deal with it. So I did the best job I could do at washing myself with my one hand, dealing with the pain in the best way I could - quiet, suppressed sobs. Once I'd calmed down I dried myself off as well as I could manage. I arranged some sort of tatty sling for my arm, and cooked a delicious meal of bread, more bread with a side of bread. I washed it and my sadness down with more wine, and curled up on the sofa. I phoned my mum, and cried again over being sore and alone and now without my music. As always, though, talking to her calmed me; and her promise to make a voodoo doll of the guy who'd knocked me over made me smile through my runny nose and tears. Afterwards, I felt calmer, and I tried to read while ITV ran as white noise in the background. But my mind kept returning to him.

I wondered what Connor was doing. I wondered who he was. I wondered what he did when he wasn't playing hero for lost girls. He seemed gentle; I had met and dated my fair share of weirdos in my time and he didn't seem to be one.

"Maybe he's gay. That would be hilarious, wouldn't it? Mad Welsh Bint Conceives Crush on Unattainable Man." I shook my head at myself. "Get a grip, Ceridwen. Stop fixating on guys to fix you."

Eventually I gave up any attempt to read and just lay back, thinking about him.

I wondered what impulse had driven him to sit with me. London breeds a hard kind of person; we drift past one another here; you may see the same person on your train every day for three years but never once will you say hello or reach out to ask them about themselves.

Something had made him reach out to me; some strange flight of fancy. Maybe he just had a personal need to help people, and I was his latest broken bird.

I snorted, amused at myself. "Drama queen," I murmured. "Stop wallowing."

My phone rang, and I reached for it without looking.

"Hello, Ceri speaking."

"You have a lovely phone voice, has anyone ever told you that?"

"Connor," I breathed. "Hullo, you're a pleasant surprise. I wasn't expecting you to call again tonight."

"I was planning to leave you in peace but something waved a paw in my conscience and I thought I'd better check on how you were, given that you're home alone."

"Hah, he has a conscience," I said, unreasonably pleased.

His laughter made me grin. "Are you home?"

"Don't tell me you're standing outside in the cold."

"Guilty as charged, I'm afraid. I'm hoping ice cream will win me entry."

"I'm a cheap date," I laughed. "Hang on, I need to hobble to the door."

I tried to stop grinning, but I don't think I was successful.

.:.

He brushed his hair back out of his face and smiled tiredly up at me as the hallway light lit him.

"Hi", he said. "I come bearing gifts."

"Somebody mentioned icecream," I declared, as he climbed the three stairs to the door.

He lifted the Waitrose bag. "As promised."

"Oh all right, I suppose you can come in." I moved aside and let him squeeze past into the narrow hallway. "Follow the sound of the TV; I'll get the door."

"Where can I find bowls and spoons?" he asked as he loped into the flat.

"Spoons right of the sink, bowls right of the hob. If you don't mind I'll resume my position on the couch."

"Knock yourself out; I'll play waiter. How is the arm, Ceridwen?"

"Fucking sore if I move it or think about it, hence the excellent sling and red wine."

"Mm. Well, this should hopefully help then." Connor put a bowl containing healthy dose of vanilla icecream down in my lap, and handed me a spoon.

"How'd you know I liked vanilla?"

"Everybody likes vanilla," he answered, as he watched me swear in frustration as the bowl continually shifted on my lap.

"Christ, I'm like an invalid."

"You are the textbook definition of an invalid," he murmured. "Come, I'll help."

"Um..."

"I know, I know, the weird guy you met today is now in your flat, feeding you. Yeah, lets take the strangeness of today as it comes and add some pragmatism on top of it to mask it, eh?"

I stared up at him.

"Time is a precious resource, trust me on this. You should spend as much of it as you can having fun." He sighed. "And right now, fun means eating ice cream with me. So, do you want my help? Or would you rather watch me eat ice cream by myself."

"You are never to tell anybody of this. I will kill you until you're sorry if you do."

"Cross my heart."

The icecream was delicious, and Connor was the very definition of a gentleman. He even redid my awful sling, setting the length correctly so that my arm hung at a relaxed angle. And all the while he worked he talked of nothing of consequence, and I listened to it all, and watched him, and basked in his nearness and the strange lightness of breath it brought.

.:.

"And once again I find myself saying thank you," I observed as I leaned against my front door.

Connor's smile was white in the glow of the exterior light. "Again? For what?"

"For being such an extraordinarily kind man. For getting me home, and then for this, for now. I was on a first class express train straight into a night of loneliness and and self-pity, and you showed up like the Archangel Michael and dragged me out of it."

"Kicking and screaming a bit, it should be noted, but still successfully, I guess," he answered, eyes crinkling in amusement.

"This is a stupid question, and I feel a little bit like a schoolgirl for asking it... but am I going to see you again?" I stared down at him, strangely nervous, strangely cold, strangely hopeful.

"I would like that a lot," he answered softly, after a short silence. "But I don't want you to think I'm a serial white knight do-gooder, you know."

"Uh huh. Butter wouldn't melt in your mouth." I smiled, giddy.

"God's own truth. I saw you there at St Thomas', and something, I don't know what, made me introduce myself. I don't normally do that. Too wrapped up in my own head."

"Aren't we all. Well, whatever spirit of serendipity it was, thank you, Connor. You've taken the worst day of my life and made it one of my best."

"I'll take that," he said, softly.

"Connor?"

"Ceri?"

"Come up here."

He climbed up a step, then another.

"Close your eyes," I whispered.

He complied, mouth curling into a small smile.

I leaned in to him, rested my cheek against his, wrapped my one good arm around him and held him to me. "You're my guardian angel," I breathed into his ear. Then I pulled back slightly, darted in, totally messed up the coquettish kiss I'd planned, gasped a flustered "Good night!" and closed the door, leaning back against it. I could feel myself blushing furiously and I cursed myself under my breath as I listened to his footsteps fading.

"You idiot," I berated myself. "What a way to mess that up."

My phone vibrated.

- You're cute when you're flustered. Goodnight Ceri -

"Arsehole," I murmured, stupidly pleased.

.:.

"So did you shag him?"

"Bronwyn!" I protested, laughing. "I just met him."

"That hasn't stopped you in the past," she observed around a mouthful of muesli.

"Ugh, for God's sake, don't talk with your mouth full," I muttered.

She snorted, gesticulated with her spoon and waggled her head. Then she swallowed, theatrically.

"Are you done?" I asked.

"Almost," she grinned. "So... are you going to see him again?"

"I hope so."

"When?"

"He invited me out on Friday; some post-rehearsal social event."

"You going to be well enough by then?"

"I'll probably still be purple if that's what you mean, but I feel a bit better today. Just sore and stiff."

"Take it easy today, yeah?"

"No choice," I muttered.

"You going to take your violin for repairs?"

"Nah, too sore. I'll take it past Ballards on Friday and see what they say. Guess I'd better get the Vaseline ready."

"I can get you a ward-size tub if you need," Bron observed, deadpan.

"Thanks, I guess," I answered, then stuck out my tongue at her.

Bron left before me, and I dallied away a minute or two before I picked up my handbag and slung it, wincing, over my shoulder. I'd chosen ski-pants and a mid-length skirt, with a soft jersey over a black cotton vest; all carefully selected so that I'd experience the minimum of discomfort from my bruises. It was a slightly warmer day, with no wind, and I was grateful for that.

The bus was quiet, for once. I sat, staring out the window, watching cyclists playing kamikaze chicken with pedestrians as we wound our way through the West End and from there into Barbican. I limped my way up to the office, and dealt with the horror and sympathy of the girls with what good grace I could muster. Ally and Sam made me tea and looked after me, and I flushed from the attention.

The morning seemed to pass by like glacial drift. But, like glaciers sometimes do, it suddenly jolted forward.

My phone beeped.

- How's the wing? -

I snorted at Connor's silliness, then, grinning slightly, replied.

- Somebody plucked my feathers out. -

I stared at my computer screen, internally counting the seconds as I waited. I had reached thirty one when my phone beeped again. I muted it, then snuck a glance.

- We'll have to glue them back on then. -

- Have we got to tar and feathers already? -

- Witches are witches - came his response, and I smiled to myself. I liked his sense of humour; slightly dark like mine; quick like a trout in a stream. I let him stew a bit, then, unable to help myself, I picked up my phone again.

- I knew my warts gave me away -

- They are kind of a pretty big telltale ;) - came his response, followed shortly by - Seriously, I hope that, despite being crippled, your day is shaping up alright -

- It is now ;) -

I smiled to myself. "Much smoother," I murmured. Then I tried to concentrate on work for a while while I waited for my lunch break.

.:.

"I thought I'd just phone you and save my fingers."

He laughed. "That makes sense; you're typing one handed after all."

"Hardly in the usual sense of the phrase, but yes, I'm struggling through my day."

"Now there's an image."

"Oh stop it, you filthy man." I grinned to myself.

"Guilty as charged. So how are you feeling, Ceri?"

"Still really sore. Wrist is still fucked. My back and thighs, oh my god, you have no idea."

He hissed in sympathy. "I hope the guy who tripped you has at least some twinge of conscience."

"I hope he has haemorrhoids," I cut in. "I hope his haemorrhoids have haemorrhoids and they marry and have incestuous haemorrhoid children."

He laughed again, and despite myself I joined in.

"You're a vengeful little thing," he observed.

"Only when somebody crosses me. And I'm not that little," I protested.

"Nah, you're the perfect height."

A spark; a little zing of electricity, and I shivered as the goosebumps crawled along my arms.

"How is your day going?" I asked by way of diversion.

"Shockingly, as do most Wednesdays here."

"I never asked what you do."

"Would you believe me if I told you I was a professional pirate, cruising the Thames looking for victims?"

"No."

"Then I shan't. I guess I'll have to tell you my day job."

"I thought your day job was picking up broken girls and fixing them, and selling them into slavery?"

"Nah, that's just a hobby I have on the side," he returned. "I'm collecting a set, and you were the last one I needed."

"Uh huh."

"Honestly, my work's not that interesting. I'm a system administrator for a small clothing chain."

"I can see why being a pirate would be more interesting."

"Indeed," he murmured.

"So, you're a geek who sings in choirs. I guess I've heard of stranger things."

"Guilty as charged."

"Where are you based?" I asked.

"Near Old Street. You?"

"Near Barbican. So, not that far away from you."

"Damn. If I'd known that I'd have abducted you for lunch."

"Promises, promises," I murmured. "I'm a terrible date."

"I had a nice time last night, so that's patently false."

"You took advantage of me and fed me ice cream. The horror."

"And I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

I smiled. "Do you flirt with all your rescue cases like this, Connor?"

He was silent a moment. "Given that I have a sum total of one, that being you, I guess I have to say 'yes'. Though I guess you have no call to believe me on that; London being what it is."

"Mm. So why me?"

"Because you have the most heart-stoppingly beautiful smile of any woman I've ever met, when you choose to show it."

It was my turn to pause.

"You have low standards," I managed, eventually.

"Never. My standards are impeccable." He sighed. "Ugh, damnit. Ceri, I've got to go. Stuff's kicking off here and I can't in good faith ignore it for any longer, as much as I want to keep talking to you."

"Are you going to be anywhere in my neck of the woods later?"

"Town or South Bank?"

"The latter."

"I can be."

"I'll be home."

"Maybe I'll see you there. Chat later, Ceri."

"Have a good afternoon. Mwa. " I mouthed, and hung up. Then I sat for a few breathless moments, feeling strangely warm, almost alive.

.:.

I struggled out of my work clothes and sling, and unclipped my severe grey bra, opting instead for a baby-blue floral-print Victoria's Secret push-up. Then I struggled into on a tight cream cotton Lycra shirt and mid-lengh gym pants. My assets weren't amazing but they were still solid B's, and I knew I could augment their effectiveness in something tight that played to my petite build.

I snuck a glance at myself in the mirror and blessed my mum's fast metabolism. I felt skinny but I had to admit that in tight clothes I still looked good, and that made me feel better about myself. I thought a moment, and raided Bron's overly-dramatic home first aid kit for a wide crepe bandage which I wrapped tightly around my wrist, allowing me to leave my hated sling crumpled on the floor, out of the way.

I kicked my clothing and shoes under my bed to hide them, and stepped through to our small tv room come kitchenette and dimmed the lights. I was shamelessly slutting it up, and I knew it. It had been a long, long time since a man had touched me as gently as Connor had; it had been even longer since I had felt my own desire for a man so clearly, so unambiguously. Jason and our long, drawn out, bloody denouement had left me functionally asexual, not even noticing men except maybe in extreme cases. And as for self-pleasure... well, there were likely cobwebs down there by now.