"Stay away from the angels!" Gerard scolds Pete the second he shows his face in Hell again. Somehow, Gerard knew anything and everything without anyone actually telling him. Pete's wondering if he was stalking him the other day.

"He's new," Pete reasons. "the new ones are always curious about us and want to know the truth. They're being lied to up there."

"It's called boundaries. Without them, we'd be at each others throats twenty-four/seven. They stay away from us and we stay away from them. If making up lies helps them stay in their place, then so be it."

Pete isn't going to accept any of that shit. If Patrick wants to know about the demons and who they really are then he was going to show him. Pete knows that he himself isn't sick, twisted, or disgusting and won't be treated as such. And Patrick is curious, he could see it in his wondering eyes, how they examined Pete, how easily he spoke to him without a hateful expression. Patrick is his chance to set the record straight and he's hoping none of the other angels have brainwashed him yet.

***

Pete goes back to the same building he met Patrick and watches the sunset. He always liked it better than the sunrise, he liked the way the darkness appeared to flood the light and consume it. Once the sky darkens completely, he gets to his feet and prepares to lean forward when a vaguely familiar voice says, "Not bad," causing Pete to whip around and face the angel behind him.

"But I still like sunrise better." Patrick finishes.

Pete jumps down from the ledge and walks slowly toward Patrick, smiling at the fact that he doesn't look afraid of him or backs away as if he might be.

Patrick is beautiful in ways that Pete doesn't find himself to be. Pete is full of sins and cracked inside and out as Patrick is pure and flawless in every way. His skin is almost as white as his wings which both look soft and fragile. Pete wants to touch, but feels as though he might leave a stain if he does. So he settles for circling the young angel and taking everything in with his eyes.

"Didn't God ever tell you that demons will steal your purity?" Pete teases as he completed his round and faces Patrick again, his pointed tail swaying from side to side.

Patrick scoffs. "More along the lines of stealing mortal souls."

"Some demons do that," Pete says honestly. "But the angels like to over exaggerate our deeds. Half of us wouldn't do any of it unless Lucifer asked."

"You don't have a choice." It's more a statement than a question, an observation.

"Exactly. I don't torment or corrupt or possess, I'm just a demon, that's it. And because of that I'm called evil and us and the devil are blamed for everything bad that happens. Natural disasters, untimely deaths, mocking the innocent, being fat, we get blamed for it all when really it's just a matter of fate or coincidence."

Patrick doesn't respond, he just listens to Pete's words and looks away in thought. And he believes all of it. Maybe it's his young and curious mind that makes him believe it but he also sees the seriousness in Pete's face and body. Pete is obviously fed up with being hated for nothing and just wants someone to listen to him, understand him. Patrick looks back at Pete and his sharp wings. He reaches out cautiously, not taking his eyes off of the wing he's reaching for. Pete doesn't move and allows Patrick to touch. He gently rubs his fingertips against the leathery skin and as he does Pete slightly flexes his wing, causing Patrick to jerk his hand away. It wasn't Pete's intention. Pete resists the urge to press his fingers into Patrick's feathers then realizes something: Patrick doesn't have a halo.

"Where's your halo?" Pete asks automatically.

Patrick shrugs, he's wondered the same thing. He's seen some of the angels with halos gracefully floating above the tops of their heads, but he nor Joe have one of their own. But the next thing Patrick knows there's a hand ruffling his feathers (Pete could no longer resist).

Pete is gazing at Patrick's wings in awe like he's never touched angel wings before, but Patrick's were different. They were softer, whiter, bigger and better in every possible way. Or maybe it was just how Pete perceived them. He wanted to lay on them and press his face into them like a pillow.

"Mine were never like this." Pete distractedly mutters, though Patrick didn't hear him.

Pete eventually, but reluctantly, extracts his fingers and backs up a few inches to put space between them. "Beautiful." He whispers then turns around quickly, making a run for the ledge and jumping over in dive formation. It happens so fast that Patrick doesn't even get the chance to say "wait." before Pete disappears.

Patrick secretly hopes to see him again.