Free Sentinel of Heaven by Mera Trishos Lee

course
not.  Maybe someday, when you've earned it again... if you can.
    She shuffled
into the bathroom and showered as quick and chaste as a nun, then dried off
with the towels from yesterday.
    No t-shirts
were ever worn on Laundry Day, not even under a jacket.  She got out the armor:
white cotton sports bra, built like a breastplate; long-sleeve sweater with a
high neckline; long jeans in good repair, fastened with a thick black leather
belt that couldn't be quickly opened.  She slipped her folding knife into her
pocket, clipped to the hem of the opening so it was easily accessible.
    She laid out
her socks and heavy black boots but couldn't put them on yet – that much
bending would be forced to wait until after the first meds; her spine was
already twanging a warning.
    Don't worry,
Moira – you can have them right after your big ol' breakfast of crow.
    She clenched
her jaw and opened the door.  The kitchen was dark and vacant.
    Moira turned
and limped down the hall.  Leo's red sweatpants were folded neatly on top of
the clothes pile.  He had changed into the black ones at some point, she saw
momentarily.
    The angel sat
in the center of his nest, his broad back to her and his wings trailing out
behind him.  His head was bent over something in his hands.  He made no move to
turn and look at her, although she knew he sensed her presence.
    “Don't you
sleep?” she blurted out, then wanted to slap herself.
    He shrugged
slightly.  In the silence she could hear the turn of a page.
    “Did you find
a good book?” Moira asked, trying to keep her tone soft and friendly.
    A slow nod.
    She stepped
closer, gradually gaining the courage to come up behind him as close as
possible without touching him.  Over his shoulder she could see he had her
leather-bound “Collected Works of Edgar Allan Poe”; a thrift-store find two
years before she’d left home and still one of her proudest purchases.
    Leo had read
all the way through the short stories to the poetry section.  Right above his
left thumb she could see the words:
    “I gazed
awhile
    On her cold
smile;
    Too cold – too
cold for me–”
    “That's one of
my favorites,” she whispered.
    He shut the
book with a snap and laid it to one side.  She backed away so he could stand
and face her.
    He wasn't
particularly haggard.  He showed no evidence of the long white night through
which he'd obviously kept a vigil.  Still, his face was impassive and his deep
blue eyes were distressed.
    He let the
silence stretch out, unmoving.
    “Please
forgive me,” she said at last.
    He tilted his
head.
    “You were only
trying to help me... and I misread things.  I took it too far.  I'm sorry.  It
won't happen again.”
    That quiet
troubled gaze remained, offering nothing.
    “Please – you
don't have to talk.  I won't ask for that.  But please somehow let me know what
I should do to make this right.”
    She
straightened her shoulders despite her growing physical pain, determined not to
break down again no matter his answer.
    He stepped
forward to stand just within arm's reach, then went down on his knees again. 
She was struck by the fact that, with him kneeling and her standing, they were
almost exactly the same height.
    Leo reached
out and took her right hand, extending her index finger  He stretched out his
own and wrapped them around each other until the two of them stood there
together, holding each other's hand by only the one finger.  He gazed at her
expectantly.
    She wondered
what he meant.
    He tapped the
back of his hand, then the center of her chest.  He tapped her knuckles, then
his own flesh.  He smiled faintly.
    We are
together?  We are joined?  We are entwined?
    “I'm sorry.  I
don't understand...”
    He sliced his
free hand away, then tapped the side of her forehead.  Doesn't matter.  Just
remember.
    “I will.  I
promise.”
    Moira touched
his arm tentatively – with the dirt and blood cleared away she was now able to
see that his right hand and