The Blessing Hand

He had a face that they painted in churches, and he was in a cardigan and tweed and pushing a five year old boy on a swing. The boy was shrieking and laughing, making him smile and push a little harder.

"Higher, Mr. Arthur!" the boy cried, pumping his legs on the downfall. He smiled a little sadly and caught the chains, holding the boy's swing still. The boy groaned and turned pleading eyes up to him. "Don't stop now, it was just getting fun!"

Arthur leaned over him, holding onto the chains, and chuckled down at him. "I'm sorry, Alfred, but it's time for you to go home."

That just made the boy groan harder and slump down, still staring directly up at him. "Already? Do I really hafta?" Arthur leaned back and nudged his shoulder so he jumped off the swing to his feet, then led him out of the small city playground towards a clutch of apartment buildings.

"Yes, you do," Arthur said firmly. "I'm sure your mother is home by now and probably worried sick about you."

"Yeah. Probably." Arthur glanced down at the boy's sullen face, too sullen for such a young age, and only flinched a little when a small hand wormed into his. "You'll stay with me if she's not, right?"

"Of course, of course, just like always, love," Arthur assured him, squeezing his hand and smiling.

It was never really explained how Arthur got into the apartment building, much less Alfred's apartment. He'd shown up one day when Alfred was even younger, when his father was still around sometimes, and they were too busy arguing in the bedroom to hear the door open and their young son slip out to cry in the hallway.

He'd barely been there five minutes before soft steps approached him and a stranger knelt down beside him, called him love, asked if he was okay. Alfred clutched onto him and sobbed, nose and eyes streaming. The stranger shushed him, soothed him, rocked him a little.

When he'd settled down some, Alfred looked up into a pale face with green eyes and a smile - it was a kind smile, but he hadn't seen a smile in such a long time that he didn't even notice, just smiled back and hugged him.

He'd asked the stranger his name; it was Arthur. He said his name was Alfred, and Arthur didn't tell him he already knew that. Instead, he asked if he wanted to go get some ice cream from the stall across the street.

From then on, Arthur showed up whenever Alfred was alone and hiding and scared, pushed him on the swings, told him stories, got him sweets, let him cry in caring arms. He was too young to ask questions, wonder where he came from, how he knew he loved chocolate and hated cherry. He was there, he was nice, and he didn't ignore him or yell at him like his parents, then just his mom, so he didn't care.

That day, though, when they got to the apartment and could hear the midday soap operas his mom liked to watch, though, Arthur knelt down, held Alfred's skinny shoulders, and gave him the serious look that always made Alfred's chattering stop.

"Alfred, I'm sorry, love, but I'm not going to be able to see you again after today."

Alfred gasped. "What? Why, Mr. Arthur?"

Arthur smiled and brushed the gold hair from blue eyes, eyes he could glance into and see the whole future of, for now and for ever. "I'm afraid you'd going somewhere where you don't need me anymore." He bent down a little more and kissed his forehead. "It's okay, you'll be better there, I promise."

"But how can I be better without you?" Alfred's eyes started to glisten. "I love you."

"Oh, Alfred, I love you, too." Arthur brushed away his tears with his thumb. "I'll miss you, love, but you're going to be fine." Alfred bit his lip, nodded, then fell into Arthur's chest, wool arms holding him close. He felt feather touches along his back, his arms, and he felt safe. "Promise me something," Arthur whispered.'

"Yeah?"

"Don't give up easily, and hold fast to the good things," he murmured, a little desperately, a little magic. "Someone loves you always, because I'll love you forever." He let him go and held his hands, holding his eye contact. "Remember that."

Alfred nodded. "I'll try."

Arthur smiled. "That's my boy." He stood and opened the door to an obnoxiously loud laugh track. "Goodbye, Alfred."

"Bye, Mr. Arthur." He hugged him one last time. "Thank you."

Arthur patted his head. "Of course, love."

That night, he dreamed he was flying.

It wasn't really weird for him. He liked to think he was a fighter pilot, an astronaut, a bird. This time, though, he wasn't the one doing the flying.

Arthur, dressed like an angel with a halo, was holding him close, sitting on a cloud and giant wings spread wide behind him. Alfred tried to touch them, ran a hand over four feathers.

"Be careful," Arthur said softly, moving him around in his lap so he could reach better. "Don't fall."

"Can you really sit on clouds?" Alfred asked, plunging a hand into the fluff. It felt like nothing, and Arthur chuckled as he kept him from losing his balance.

"Only angels can, sadly." Arthur stood, cradling Alfred like he weighed nothing. "Want to see what it feels like to fly?"

"Only duh." Arthur smiled and took off, and Alfred laughed like he never had before and clutched Arthur's neck tightly.

They didn't fly over his apartment. Instead, Arthur took him over water, mountains, deserts painted every orange. They swirled a hurricane, then flew the other direction to break it up again. It was a dream that lasted forever, they saw the world, and Arthur never dropped him.

Finally, they found their cloud again, although it was a little different. Arthur glided down, sat down cross-legged, Alfred in the cradle of his gown.

"That was awesome!" Alfred exclaimed. Arthur laughed, as carefree as he got, and kissed his forehead again.

"What did I tell you to remember?" he asked.

"Never give up and hold fast to the good things, and someone always loves me because you'll love me forever." Alfred didn't even have to think as it rolled off his tongue.

"Good boy." He enveloped him in that hug again, although this time Alfred could see his wings and they bent around and double-hugged him. "Remember that."

The next day, social services came and took him away.

And then, eleven years, two foster homes, an adoption, and five pairs of glasses later, he went on a field trip to the local art museum to see a traveling exhibit of Russian Orthodox icons.

He told himself that one of the angels' faces wasn't familiar, couldn't be familiar, because angels weren't real and he'd never looked at Christian icons before in his life.

(Besides, his angel had a British accent, not a Russian one, and he smiled more.)

{A/N: Wrote this months ago for dunya01 on the plane back from Russia, put it on tumblr, and promptly forgot about putting it up here. Oh well, it's here now.}