Author's notes: This fic contains exactly 67 uses of the word 'fuck'. Yes, I'm currently outdoing Cyber City OEDO, and am proud of it. But as Hoyden says, "You kiss your mother with that mouth? But leave it. It's Azrael and Cherior, which means the forecast for polite language has gone down to -273 Celsius, or 0 degrees Kelvin."
Dude. My polite language forecast is at Absolute Zero.
Normally, Gabriel just assigned them on a mission by sliding the Book of the Dead over to them, not even looking up from his paperwork. Today, though, he was standing in front of his desk, the Book open in his hands, watching the names shift and change.
Azrael shared a glance with Suriel. It wasn't a good sign.
"I have for you," Gabriel murmured, "a variation on an old theme." He passed the Book over.
With the ease of long practice, Azrael's eyes found the next starred entry. Only a few were starred -- most souls could find their own way, after all. Not all people were incapable of adapting to the shock of death. But this starred entry had another star under it -- an unnamed person, indented.
Suspecting already, he checked the details of how the named woman would die.
Her lover had found out she was pregnant and left. In despair, she was going to kill herself.
He'd seen enough, and passed the Book to Suriel.
"Shitty situation," Azrael said. "But, Gabriel, normally Suri just takes these assignments. Not that I mind helping him, but what gives?"
"Well," Gabriel harrumphed. "She knew her lover was cheating and prayed so fervently for a child -- to bind them together -- that Ardouisur heard her prayer and answered it. That automatically makes this a special circumstance. And..." he hesitated, then said firmly, "I want you to take Cherior to observe."
Azrael shook his head at once. "The kid's not ready."
"Do you know what he's been saying to his friends, Azrael? That your Scythe is the 'coolest' thing in existence. That he'd do anything to have its power in his hands. That he can't wait to graduate and get his own Scythe." Ancient blue eyes pinned Azrael. "You are taking your protégé on this mission. That is an order."
Cherior would rather have bit his own tongue off than admit that cuddling with Devecia was almost as good as the sex itself, except in a different manner.
There was something... wonderful about this, about just laying tangled together, the scent of Devecia mixed with the scent of the flowers they'd crushed in a spectacular manner not too long before. Ardouisur would have their hides, but at the moment, Cherior could care less.
It was so wonderful that sometimes, he couldn't believe that it was meant for him. That this boy, long limbs and tangled green hair -- was his.
"You are so fucking beautiful," he whispered, and Devecia's hazel eyes opened. "So beautiful."
And then Devecia's beaming smile froze and his gorgeous leaf-toned eyes focused behind Cherior and there was a look on his face that Cherior usually associated with highway-bound rabbits.
Irritated, Cherior turned over, ready to give the person interrupting a piece of his mind.
Azrael's eyebrow raised and black eyes made a slow travel up both their bodies. "Devecia, isn't it?" the Angel of Death asked mildly and Devecia nodded, quickly. Cherior could feel him swallow.
"Azrael...sama," Cherior growled, almost forgetting to add the 'sama'. Not quite that suicidal.
"We're borrowing Cherior for a bit," Azrael said frankly, still addressing Devecia. "We'll bring him back sometime tonight."
Devecia nodded again, and said nothing. Azrael grinned, and Cherior just KNEW that the dark-haired angel was approving of Devecia's 'respect'. Or, Cherior thought angrily, terror. "Azrael-sama, I'm BUS--"
"Get your pants on, kid," Azrael said, a touch of irritation showing. "I don't have all day."
Fuck it all. Cherior snatched his pants, growling at everything.
Devecia hid a smile, and Azrael grinned at that, too.
It was just NOT his fucking day.
Azrael KNEW what the kid's response would be when they got to where they were meeting Suriel. He just KNEW it and had prepared himself and had even warned Suri about what would happen when Cherior's eyes fell on the picnic basket clutched in Suri's beautiful long fingers--
"THE FUCK?! You took me away to... to go on a PICNIC?!"
Azrael marked a point on an invisible scoreboard where Cherior couldn't see, drawing a smile from Suriel.
"It's Suri's food," Azrael said mildly as Cherior spun to look at him. "You trying to tell me that it isn't worth it for Suriel's cooking?"
"The food could be cooked by the Morning Star as far as I--"
One step, and Azrael was close enough to cuff the kid upside the head, which he did, being careful to pull his blow so the red-haired boy only stumbled a little. "Don't talk about Suriel's cooking like that. Besides, it's not exactly a picnic."
"What--"
He put his hands on Cherior's shoulders, firmly, not hard enough to hurt but not letting the kid go, either. "Hold on, kid. We're heading to Earth."
Cherior's head gurgled and his stomach swam. It took him a moment to find the ground, clutching at his nearest support -- Azrael, of course, who surprisingly didn't shake him off. "Wha--"
"It's because you're just a student," Suriel explained cheerfully, spreading out a blanket on the hillside. "You don't have your own key so you have to ride on our power. Have something to eat, that's supposed to help."
Although the last thing on Cherior's mind at that moment was food, the scent kicked straight to his stomach and the nausea vanished, at any rate.
And it was laid out and THERE, so Cherior began to eat.
"Slow down," Azrael muttered. "Or you'll puke."
Cherior glared over his sandwich, then took a huge bite, just to spite them both. It would have been a more effective gesture if the sandwich weren't so good.
Finally full, Cherior let himself fall back, let the Earth's sun shine down on him. He couldn't feel the warmth. He couldn't smell the sweet scent of the grass he knew he should be smelling. It seemed like sight was really the only sense left to him, where this world was concerned.
That hurt, a little. "So, honestly, Azrael-sama. What AM I doing here, anyway?"
"You're joining us on a mission," Suriel said, softly.
"And we don't have much time." Azrael's voice was sharp, very sharp in comparison. "So you'd better digest quickly because we have to get going in five."
Cherior flexed, flipped to his feet. Showing off, and he knew it, and it STILL didn't seem fair when neither of them seemed to notice. "I'm ready now," he muttered.
They still weren't paying attention. "Azrael," Suriel was murmuring. "Be kind, considering..."
Considering what? It didn't matter. "So if we're on a mission, then why the picnic thing in the first place?" He had to be heard. He was here. He wasn't invisible, or--
Azrael spun, gripped Cherior's chin between two fingers. "Because this world should be beautiful. No matter what else you see, you have to see the beauty."
The startlement/anger/hurt in Cherior's gaze was burning and Azrael jerked away, reaching instead for the kid's hand. "Now come ON. We have to get there in time." He set off quickly, Suriel ghosting along beside them. The kid was cursing as they went and Azrael realized he might be leaving bruises on the kid's wrist.
He didn't loosen his grip until they were at the house, walking through the front door, in. Suriel was giving him a LOOK, but he could taste the blood in the air already, taste it, and the kid was whining. He wanted to smack the boy, tell him to LOOK: This is what it is. This is what my Scythe will do. But they weren't there yet and it wasn't enough yet. It wouldn't get the point across.
And they were closer now, and they could hear her moaning, because she'd fucked the act up, she'd fucked it up and then they were there and she was lying there in an expanding, sickly thin pool of red, her large belly dragging in it.
She was gasping for air.
And that's when the kid stopped whining, thankfully, because Azrael couldn't have taken that then, and he let himself drop Cherior's hand, summoned his Scythe, closed a bruising grip on that instead.
Bruising. Breaking.
Suriel was already by the woman, not completely ignoring her, but holding his hands over her belly, searching for the best way to remove the child. Waiting for the moment it actually died.
"Who--" she was gasping. "Who are--" Of course she could see him, she was that close now. He was probably all she could see.
Azrael stepped forward, feet squelching into the blood, as physically there as he'd ever be as the blood bubbled between his toes, caught in the grainy carpet, caught in this world.
"Make it... end," she whispered, reaching towards him. "Please..."
And he sat to wait for her heart to slowly stop. She couldn't touch him. He was untouchable.
"Please." And then, weakly, "It wasn't my fault. It was his fault."
He shrugged, indicated the woman. "Whatever. You're still dying."
"It wasn't my fault," she insisted, light fading from her eyes "My... only fault... was... that he ... didn't love me enough..."
And she died, so he swung down hard and ripped her free, tore her apart, let it all come home as he gathered the broken remains to him, tucked it away to send off later to wherever it would go. Ignoring it otherwise, because it wasn't important enough to pay attention to past the point it was ripped away.
And his focus expanded again, finally, and he realized Cherior was screaming.
Was somewhere in the room, screaming, and he turned and saw Suriel, unborn child cradled in one arm as he tried to soothe Cherior, touching the boy's face and chest with his own bloodied hands. "Shh," Suriel was saying. "Hush, child, it's okay, I've got you."
But Cherior wasn't listening, Cherior was screaming. And screaming. And screaming.
And Azrael let his Scythe fall, vanish, and then he was over there too, unsure of what to do, even when Suriel looked up at him and mouthed, "Hold him."
And even then, he was unable to do anything but touch the vibrant red hair and say. "It's over. It's all right. It's over."
But it wasn't over. He was there again.
And it hurt. He was hurting so much, in so many ways.
It wasn't fair it wasn't fair itwasn'tfair.
He hadn't DONE anything. If it were punishment, he could accept it. But.
And God, it had been like the fucking movies, hadn't it? Staying late after school, late enough to smoke three cigarettes before he'd gone home, taking his time even then because they'd told him to be home early so they could spend time as a family, but, fuck, why was he supposed to want to be home when they were there? They wouldn't even be there if it hadn't been a government holiday so their jobs were cancelled for the day and they couldn't avoid each other. Why did he have to be forced to listen to their arguments and their accusations and be pulled into the middle of it like he always was? He wanted to stay away forever, forever, but that was futile too, it was all totally hopeless.
And the door had swung open and that was the movie part, his schoolbag falling from numb fingers as he saw all that fucking blood. So much blood, a human body shouldn't be able to hold that much blood but it hadn't, had it? Two bodies had, and they were still alive but they didn't seem to see that he was there as he screamed, a stupidly girlish sound and then the bullet hit him in the chest and he fell back against the couch, in too much pain to scream.
He'd felt his bone shatter when the bullet had hit his chest and even breathing was like being stabbed again and again and he couldn't move, death lay that way, though he was gonna die anyway wasn't he? He was gonna die and his parents could see him, they were still alive, but they were just mumbling at themselves "Oh God, oh God" or more incoherent things and so he tried, voice thin with pain, "Mom?" but she didn't answer, just said "Oh God oh God."
"Dad?" But they were too turned inward and so he shuddered and tried to breathe or stop breathing, he wasn't sure which.
"Cherior?" someone was calling, but that wasn't right, his name was Charles, wasn't it, fucking parents had to give him a name like 'Charles' and now he was dying and they were dying and they'd have to write 'Charles' on his gravestone, oh God...
Azrael shook his head as the girl bent over Cherior again, her red hair mingling with his. "Cherior? Cherior?"
No change, of course. Cherior's eyes continued to track on things that weren't there, crying, and shaking, occasionally mumbling something that made no sense and was probably considered horrifying by most people.
He listened.
"Please mom, look at me, look at me, it hurts..."
No. No, that's not true. It was horrifying.
Afriel put her head down on the pillow beside Cherior and cried. Azrael had seen the friendship develop between them -- both kids who had lost everything, unlike Devecia whose death had been relatively peaceful, after all. It was no wonder that, however much the kid loved Devecia, he still needed someone like Afriel as well.
Devecia looked up, pale-faced, from where he was sitting on a hard chair, they'd had to drag another in to accommodate Suriel and Azrael and the two kids. "Can't you do something?" Devecia said, voice cracking as he looked at Azrael.
"Don't ask them," Afriel sobbed. "Don't ask them, this is their fault."
Their fault.
Azrael rose and, ignoring the inquiring noise from Suriel, strode out of the room.
"Do you have an appointment?" one of the secretaries was stupid enough to ask and was flung into a wall. Not hard, of course, but he'd definitely be feeling it later.
"Azrael," Gabriel began before Azrael's fist impacted with his cheek.
Gabriel picked himself off the floor in shock. "Azrael, have you gone insane?!"
He seemed to be having a little trouble standing. Azrael helped by lifting Gabriel by his shirt front and slamming him back against the fucking new bay windows. "Damn you, Gabriel," he growled. "My conscience was guilty enough before your fucking clever plan."
"I don't--"
"Then SEE."
Azrael dragged Gabriel past his shocked secretaries by his tie, hooking two fingers under it so the Administrator wouldn't be strangled. He counted rooms, ignoring Gabriel's cursing and threats, until he found the right hospital room and shoved Gabriel into it.
Everybody looked up. Suriel wisely held the children out of Azrael's range.
Gabriel dug his feet in and Azrael gave him a hard shove, taking him closer to the bed.
Cherior's eyes still weren't tracking yet, apparently fascinated with something on the ceiling, following a swaying motion. "can taste... my blood...mom... please... I need..."
Azrael watched Gabriel stare down at the kid, then snap his fingers in front of Cherior's face.
Cherior sat bolt upright, staring around at everyone, panting as if he'd just had a long nightmare.
Gabriel brushed past Azrael on the way out. Azrael ignored him.
The kid stared and stared until, hopeful, Devecia took a step towards him. "Cherior?"
Without warning, Cherior buried his face in his hands and sobbed.
It had seemed like such a good idea. However much it'd hurt, Azrael had saved him. What better return than to do the same for other people?
And god, the prestige and power. Better than a new motorcycle, better than smoking pot out back with his friends, or at least the people who followed him. Better than fucking Jenny in the backseat of the car. Azrael's scythe had seemed so much better and yet, somehow, the same.
He'd been wrong, he'd been wrong. There was no salvation there. No salvation in the blood, the puke, or Jenny's fucking back seat. It was all the same, nothing actions that just lead to more pain.
To death, even when he'd died he hadn't understood death so much.
"Cherior?" Devecia asked again and he opened eyes that were blurry with tears, dammit, tears where anybody could see, and Devecia was there, and Afriel.
"I can't do this," he said, voice thick. "I just can't do this.
Azrael paced up and down the halls, up and down. Some of the walls had chips in them from where he kicked them with his steel-toed boots.
Every so often -- hours, days, who knew? -- Afriel would stand outside the door and watch him. Most people were avoiding this part of the hospital now. Sometimes Suriel would bring him food.
He was waiting.
Afriel ducked out of the hospital room and waited until he stopped in front of her. "Well?"
She shook her head, pale and with dark circles under her eyes -- so sharply lined, like most redheads, they showed bruises well. "He won't get out of bed."
"Fuck," Azrael pronounced clearly, and kicked another chunk out of the walls.
Her eyes narrowed. "You might not want to do that."
"Oh?" Azrael felt his lips twist in a sneer and tried to control the response.
"Yes. He thinks you're angry at him."
Azrael cursed eloquently, realized that that probably wasn't helping either, and with his wings safely tucked away, he slid down the wall to sit with his knees bent.
He hadn't quite lost enough dignity to ask her, just some student, what to do.
At least he knew up to a certain point what he wanted to do, but he had to wait. If he waited long enough and Gabriel didn't show up again, there was going to be blood shed.
"You have to do something!" Afriel said, voice breaking. "He's just not moving! Devecia's almost passing out, and--"
Azrael didn't move, and Afriel cursed. "I'm going to get Mikael," she informed Azrael.
He felt a laugh rising like a bubble from the depths. "Mikael, Mikael," he mocked. "And what can the kid do here, huh? Oh, go, run to safety, run."
She stared at him, he could feel it burning through his hair.
He sighed, and relented, unable to hold his mockery of her for long. "Oh, if you're to run to anyone, run to Gabriel. It's his fault."
"Not yours?" She asked, tongue sharp.
Azrael had hissed at her before he could stop himself, and watched her retreating back.
He sighed, squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. He pushed himself up with three fingers and stood for a moment, uncertain, before shouldering his way into the room, thumbs stuck in his pockets, nonchalant.
Cherior watched Devecia jerk awake, his head rising from his chest as he turned to look at the door.
Unlike his lover, Cherior didn't turn, but lay still on his side, considering closing his eyes until the visitor went away.
"Hey," Azrael said gruffly, somewhere over and to his left. Cherior closed his eyes.
"Azrael-sama," he heard Devecia stumble. "Cherior isn't feeling too good right now, so maybe--"
"Fuck that," Azrael said.
A hand came down on Cherior's shoulder and he shrugged if off angrily.
"Look, Cherior..."
He rolled over and yes, there was his mentor, sitting on the bed with a dark expression, hair falling over his shoulders. There was no blood on the hand that had lifted from Cherior's shoulder.
"What are you going to tell me, Azrael?" Cherior asked, dropping the suffix purposefully, amazed to find his voice present if not steady. "Are you going to tell me that it gets better with time?"
He tracked Azrael's face, watched emotions travel across it, but only a little. Surface thoughts. Deeper, was there anything deeper? Or is Azrael entirely shallow?
"Well, actually," Azrael said, "it does--"
Shit, he was tensing up, he could feel himself tense up. "Then may I never have to do that again. Being okay with that is more of a fucking murder than the actual act."
Startlement, fleeting. "It's not murder. It's Most Holy's will..."
Cherior laughed. He didn't want to but it rose hysterically, sore, throat-wrenching noises. "Get the fuck out of my room, Azrael."
"Cherior--" Azrael was angry now, and Cherior felt his own anger rise.
"I said get the FUCK out of my ROOM!"
A swirl of black and Azrael was gone. Cherior panted and sank back into the cushions.
Another hand on his shoulder, small, long fingered. Cherior grabbed it and pulled Devecia close, burying his face in Devecia's shoulder so that he could pretend he wasn't crying again.
Azrael kicked a whole brick out of the wall, watched it sail down the hall before hitting ground and shattering. "Fuck it," he hissed aloud. "He just doesn't understand. Fuck."
"Doesn't understand what, Az?"
Raphael, down the hall. He looked up, and the fucking girl had gone and got her precious Mikael. Raphael was trailing behind them like the lovesick puppy he was. Fuck them ALL.
Mikael opened his mouth, then looked as if he didn't know what to say. An awkward silence hung in the air.
"Yes?" Azrael said, pointedly.
The young teacher snapped his mouth closed and headed into the hospital room. Fuck HIM too.
Raphael lingered, leaned against the wall across from Azrael. "Well, someone's in a bad mood."
"Fuck off, Raphael," he warned. "You need at least one to fly."
Eyebrows shot up and Raphael tucked his wing behind him. "Easy, I'm not your enemy. What's all this about Gabriel?"
"It's all his fault," Azrael groused. "I told him the kid wasn't ready for a mission."
"Oh, I see." Raphael looked sympathetic, and it was about time someone was. "And he insisted you take the kid anyway."
Azrael nodded tersely. "Exactly. And now apparently I'm evil."
"Of course you aren't," Raphael soothed. "You were just following orders."
Azrael tensed again, tossing a smouldering glare Raphael's way. "If you dare compare me to the Nazis--"
He shuddered. He could still remember it. They'd lost too many angels of death during World War II. Sure, there'd been concentration camps before. There'd been war before. But not in this magnitude. No atomic bombs so that so many died all at once and the souls clamoured round, drowning them in reaching arms, desperate to go from this place, now, from their own shadows burned on walls.
Many of the angels of death couldn't handle it, went insane. Most of those were now in the city.
He could remember the stench, the humans too lost to cry. He never had to wait long, but he could never leave. Not because he'd wanted not to, but because there was always someone else who needed to be taken.
The Plague had been easier, really. At least there weren't so many all at once.
After the camps had finally been released, after the cleanup at Hiroshima and Nagasaki was nearly complete, he and Suriel had just held each other for hours, before going around to find what was left of the other angels of death.
He could understand how they'd broken, but he hadn't been able to prevent revulsion. It was just escape, really, forgetting where their duty lay. Like soldiers who injured themselves to be sent home. And then people like himself and Suriel, poor Suri who woke screaming in nightmares for years after, oh, then people like himself and Suri were hated.
"Just don't," he finished, voice low. "Don't."
"I wasn't," Raphael said, voice thick.
He bared his teeth. "Don't you DARE pity me, Raphael."
"I wouldn't."
Azrael closed his eyes, tilted his head back against the cold of the brick, forcing himself to breathe steadily. "Sorry," he muttered eventually, dragging up regret. "About the wing thing."
"Forgotten already."
DAMN it. Why did Raphael always have to be so loving? Azrael squeezed his eyes shut until the threat had passed, the burning had stopped and his chest had loosened again.
"And this is going to be my fucking fault again," Azrael said, finding refuge in bitterness. "And Gabriel will be absolved, again."
He closed his eyes, and after a moment, Raphael murmured, "Not your fault."
"Fuck," Azrael said, and for a moment was horrified at the thought that Raphael was going to hug him.
But no, he'd just leaned over to clasp Azrael's upper arm, and that was okay.
Cherior sighed as Afriel came back with Mikael, pushing away from Devecia and flopping over into the blankets to surreptitiously wipe his tears.
Devecia murmured a few words to Mikael that Cherior couldn't make out, and, he decided, didn't care about.
Eyes clean, he rolled over, saw both Devecia and Afriel look relieved. He just prevented himself from rolling his eyes. They both loved the fucking new teacher. He couldn't understand, himself, but sucking up to Mikael was something he could always count on them for.
After a moment, Mikael took the seat by the bed.
"What?" Cherior said, wishing the angel out of the room. I want to be alone, damn it.
"How are you feeling?" It was asked calmly, professionally, different from the Mikael he was used to in class who was still professional but a little overwhelmed up there, and Cherior's smart retort died on his lips.
Cherior stammered for a moment and then just said the truth. "Like shit."
Mikael nodded thoughtfully. "Then don't do it anymore."
He'd sat up before he'd realized he'd done so. He stared at the perfectly calm expression at Mikael's face and tried to dredge up a laugh that wouldn't come. "You're joking, right, Mikael-sama?"
The teacher shook his head, then pushed the mass of aqua hair out of his eyes. "I'm entirely serious. Most of the teachers here can't remember their time as students, but as you have clearly kept in mind, I'm a new teacher." Mikael smiled, and Cherior remembered, discomfited, the number of times he'd made fun of Mikael for that very reason. "I remember. And just because you've had a suggested lifestyle doesn't mean that you have to follow it. Particularly now that you've shown a new talent."
It took a moment of thought and Devecia sitting on the bed beside him to remind him what that talent was. "Healing? No fucking chance, man, I don't have bedside manners. Anyway, everyone's always telling me how desperately new angels of death are needed."
Mikael shrugged. "I don't know about that. I just know that if you're miserable, it's not the career for you."
Cherior's mind whirled. Blood and death? Or, well, he'd only ever healed once, but then there was a peace and contentment there, relief in what he'd done, though whether that was because of it being Devecia...
"Just a thought," Mikael murmured. "Can I get you anything?"
If Azrael had expected anything when Cherior showed up, it hadn't been a request for another chance.
"No fucking way," Azrael said.
Cherior scowled. "What if I want to?"
"You a fucking masochist? I said no fucking WAY, kid."
Cherior was glaring now. "Listen, last time it was just a phrase, you know? Pushed a button. I have to see if I can do this."
Azrael grabbed the kid by his shirt, careful not to damage anything. "Something's wrong with your mind, kid, not your ears. I said NO."
Cherior shoved and it was all that Azrael could do to not shove back and seriously injure him.
"There is NOTHING wrong with my mind, you ass," Cherior growled.
Fucking impertinence, Azrael thought, pissed off. Should box his fucking ears.
Cherior had planted his hands on his hips, legs spread for balance, and didn't look like he was moving any time soon. "How the hell can I know if I can become an angel of death if I can't handle this? And, hello, how many angels of death do you have here right now? Can you fucking afford for me not to know this early on?"
"He's got a point," Suriel murmured from where he was sitting and tatting, pulling a knot tight in his lace.
"On your head be it," Azrael growled. "And if you have problems while we're out there, fuck you. If you get sick again, at least you can be sure you're not a fucking murderer, huh?"
From the blankness of the kid's face, he didn't recognize his own words.
Fuck, Azrael thought, succinctly.
But really, he knew, what else could he do? There was only so long that the few of them could handle all the souls that needed to be collected. If it were too many more years without more angels of death, they were going to start losing souls.
And what other choice did he have? He knew what would happen, knew that it'd be the same response as before because it had been a classic case. Even if Cherior graduated to be an angel of death, he wouldn't last.
Better that the kid learn it now, even if it meant he'd fail. At least he'd be in the city with his mind mostly intact.
"All right, all right," Azrael said. "I'll talk with Gabriel about getting you sent with us again."
Cherior could NOT eat the lunch that Suriel had packed, because he knew he'd lose it later if he did.
Well, he hoped he didn't. Really, he'd spent years with this as his only hope. He had to try one more time.
Just one more time.
It wouldn't all be as bad as the last one. It couldn't be.
Suriel had gone with them, despite it only being a mission for Azrael, in case somebody needed to get Cherior out. Cherior knew that was why Suriel was there, but couldn't bring himself to resent it.
Not today, he couldn't resent, today.
"Now, listen," Azrael said, firm. "Gabriel informed us that the person we're dealing with is a trained psychic."
Cherior couldn't bite back a laugh. "And you listened to that shit?"
He stopped laughing under their cool gazes.
"Well, Cherior," Suriel said in the tone of one attempting tact and not quite reaching it, "do you believe in angels? Are psychics that much of a stretch?"
He nodded and looked down. He told himself to just drop the subject.
Azrael continued as if he hadn't been interrupted. "And I need you to stay out of the fucking way. Keep back, behind Suriel. Usually, psychics come calmly, but sometimes they don't want to, and they're one of the few who can fight back. So stay out of the fucking way, okay? I don't want to have to carry you home in two pieces."
He nodded again, sullen, but refusing to snap back I heard you the first time. The last thing he needed today was a fight with Azrael.
Suriel was packing up the lunch.
"Let's go," Azrael said, and Cherior swallows the lump of sandwich that was threatening to come back up, and nodded.
The house was dark when they entered it, and Suriel stepped in front of Cherior as they descended the stairs to the basement. Blond hair floated back, a bit loose from the braid, to brush Cherior's cheeks.
A young man sat at a desk, coughing blood. Some kind of illness, Cherior thought, then wondered how he'd known.
The man glanced over, then stared at them. "Fuck," the man said.
Suriel murmured to Cherior, "He can see us. That's usually how you can tell if they're psychic, if you don't know earlier."
"I'm not ready to go," the man said firmly.
Azrael shrugged. "Tough shit."
"You don't understand." the man was rising, shakily brushing blood from his lips. "I'm not ready to--" He raised his hand and something came from it.
Cherior couldn't tell what it was, blue and rolling like gel in the air, but crackling. Azrael cursed and got out of the way, but he and Suriel hadn't had time to get out of the stairwell yet.
Suriel's going to dive, Cherior thought analytically, tensing. I'll have half a second to get down before--
But Suriel didn't move, spread his arms and took the blast for Cherior.
Azrael flipped back onto his feet, not looking back at the stairs. Suriel would protect the kid, he knew, and if he hesitated now, the fucking psychic might have a chance to get another blast off.
He slid on one knee as he reaped, tearing the soul out of the body, which crumpled.
Quickly, he dropped the scythe and lunged, grabbing the soul and pinioning it, because the man still wasn't helpless.
This is why I fucking HATE psychics, Azrael thought as the soul struggled. He turned and saw Suri on the stairs and bending over him, apparently kissing him, was Cherior.
He almost lost his grip on the psychic's soul, and then he saw the blood.
"FUCK." He dragged the struggling soul with him as he went over, saw the burns and the blood, and Cherior -- no, not kissing, breathing healing.
Cherior raised his head and Suriel tried to sit up. Cherior pushed Suri back down. "Shit, Suriel-sama, don't move yet."
"I'm all right," Suriel murmured. "Thanks."
"You shit!" Cherior shouted at Suriel. "Were you trying to get yourself killed?!"
Suriel's lips quirked painfully. "It would take more than that to kill me..."
"Just don't move, don't fucking MOVE until I've healed you more!"
Azrael smiled a little at the kid, though his brows were tight at the pain Suriel was clearly in. "I agree with the kid, you're not moving yet."
Suriel sighed and lay back again as Cherior worked a little more healing, concentrating until he sweated.
Azrael's smile slowly faded. Suriel had been hurt for nothing. Cherior hadn't even been able to observe the taking of the soul.
He felt tired, so tired, at the thought that they'd have to do this again.
Eventually, Suriel pushed Cherior lightly away. "Enough, Cherior. Sleep will take care of the rest, and you're hurting yourself."
The kid did look tired and drawn, breath coming quickly as if he'd taken some of the pain for his own.
"Let's go home," Suriel said.
Cherior hurt.
What the hell did Suriel have to go and do that for?
He didn't even like Suriel. Certainly hadn't expected...
Hadn't expected...
Fuck. He decided he must still be tired from his little episode earlier, because there was no other way he'd be so near tears.
He didn't notice the keying back the way he usually did, was too busy trying not to cry. I'm no fucking kid, whatever Azrael says. Only a kid would cry at something as stupid as that. Fucking Suriel...
They were back. Afriel was waiting, ran out to meet them, and he took a few steps forward to meet her.
Suriel faltered, apparently tired from keying two people back, and he heard Azrael curse.
He turned, saw the psychic's soul sprinting for what it must hope was freedom.
He saw Azrael hesitate, torn between taking care of Suriel and chasing the soul down and, exhausted, Cherior tensed, started to run because somebody had to get the soul.
Afriel sped past him, running.
"SHIT," Azrael said. "He'll kill her."
Suriel said, "Go."
All that and then Cherior tripped, hit the dirt, saw Azrael as well head past. He cursed, tried to struggle to his feet, so tired his legs were shaking. All Suriel's fault, he decided, pissed. If Afriel dies, it's Suriel's fault.
Azrael pushed off the ground, spreading his wings, because he'd move faster that way, if he wasn't too late.
What a fucking STUPID girl.
He'd been sick of her back when she'd been tormenting Suriel, and she didn't seem to be improving much now. Impulsive, headstrong, heading to her own death without even giving a fuck.
He still couldn't let her soul get torn up, let her truly die. Not if he had a choice.
SHIT. She was going to get there before him anyway, because of her head start. Fuck it, what does she think she's--
Afriel dropped, kicked up.
The soul tangled, hit the metaphorical dirt.
Okay, Az thought. So the girl can fight. Nice, but psychically--
And as expected, the psychic twisted as Afriel scrambled to pin him, and raised his arms.
They were too close, Azrael couldn't use his scythe without hitting the girl too. He had to land and wade in, and by then it might be too late.
Afriel grabbed the soul's hands in her own.
FUCK, she's doing things all wrong. Azrael could see it now. Before there was a chance of dodging, but now the blast the psychic would unleash would be channeled into her body.
He landed, moved towards them purposefully. There might be something left of the girl that could be salvaged.
The psychic had paused for a moment, startled. Azrael knew he had to act then, but--
Afriel leaned back, overextending the psychic, and then kicked up, quite methodically breaking both the soul's arms.
A scream, and the soul went limp.
Azrael stared. Huh?
"He's yours," Afriel said, and smiled.
Cherior waited nervously outside Gabriel's office. Afriel sat beside him ("Because Dev has classes, and he'll kill me if you're left alone.").
So this was it.
He swallowed, throat dry all the way down to his stomach, while Afriel filed a nail she'd broken.
One of Gabriel's secretaries cast them a sympathetic glance. Cherior scowled back.
"I'm doing the wrong fucking thing," he muttered.
"Ow!" Afriel pulled a strip of nail free and made a face. "My nails are ruined. Fuckit."
He waited, and finally, "Gabriel will see you now."
Cherior rose, and Afriel rose too. "You can't go with me," Cherior muttered at her. "You dumb fuck?"
"You think you can stop me?"
"Fuck you."
"You wish."
He couldn't bite back a grin, and nodded. "Well, just this once I'll LET you."
She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, like you said, fuck you."
Feeling a bit more relaxed, he headed in and tensed up again. As expected, both the Administrator and the Professor were there, as well as Azrael.
"I bet changing majors in university isn't this hard," Afriel muttered beside him.
The angels waited for Cherior to talk, gazes heavy and distant.
"I can't be an angel of death," Cherior said.
Gabriel sighed. "Are you sure?"
He managed, barely, to resist rolling his eyes. "Yes, I'm sure. I couldn't do it."
Gabriel mouthed what was probably a swear word, but one Cherior didn't know. Cherior was impressed.
Raphael was nodding thoughtfully. "Do you have any other plans?"
His palms were sweating. He wiped them on his pants. "I can heal."
"We are looking," Gabriel said, biting each word, "for more than a few words. Keep talking."
Shit. That was a scary man. "Uh. I might not be able to do the angel of death thing, but I could, when I graduate as a healer, uh, go with them or, I guess, wherever I'm needed, in case someone gets hurt."
That, he thought, was probably the fucking stupidest sounding thing I've ever said in my life.
"WHEN you graduate?" A single of Gabriel's white eyebrows winged sardonically.
Cherior winced but held firm. "Yeah. WHEN I graduate."
Still sardonic, Gabriel glanced at Raphael. "What do you think, Professor? Ready to take on a student again?"
Cherior felt himself gape, saw them notice, and decided to talk. "Can Raphael-sama heal, then?"
"I'm the school healer," Raphael said, smiling. "Not in precisely the same way you are, but I could help. Though I have taken my necessary quota of students..."
Cherior winced.
"I imagine that in healing, Cherior will be less, ah, 'hands on' then he was when in training as an angel of death. So sure, I'll mentor him."
For a moment, Cherior wasn't sure his legs would hold him. He put an arm around Afriel in a show of celebration, until he got his legs back. She rolled her eyes.
SUCH a relief. He'd thought it was over.
"Of course," Raphael said, "You need to know that you'll still be dealing with blood, and sometimes death."
"Yeah," Cherior said. "But this time maybe I can help."
"Well," Gabriel said, sour-faced. "That's all very well and good, but you should know, Cherior, how much you are setting us back. We have very few angels of death. We have just lost more hope."
He lowered his gaze, fighting an explosion of curses. What an ass, he thought.
Afriel spoke up, startling him. "Well, that's what I'm actually here for. I mean, moral support is good and all, but this guy doesn't really need any."
Cherior stared at her. The fuck she's on about?
"I want to be an angel of death," she said.
"I see," Gabriel said, and glanced at Azrael, who nodded.
Azrael made a face. "Yeah, she's got the capability, but she doesn't think before she acts, she risks herself unnecessarily, and she's rude."
Gabriel gave a terse smile. "Sounds familiar. Azrael, you'll mentor her."
Azrael nodded. "Yes."
Cherior stared. Was that an order, or an agreement? Fuck, I can't tell.
Gabriel nodded at the students. "It's agreed. You may go."
They both bowed, Afriel refusing to curtsey, and headed out.
"Well?" Afriel said, and posed, much to the amusement of the same secretary.
"Fuck," he said. "THANK you."
She laughed. "Oh, don't thank ME, Cherbaby. It's you the students are gonna be teasing for being a wuss, you know."
He rolled his eyes. "Well, if I can't say thank you, then I guess all I have to say is... fuck you."
"You fuck Dev with that mouth, Cherior? Dirty boy."
Azrael headed out of Gabriel's office and watched the kids walk off.
He'd stopped walking, and Raphael took his elbow and steered him away from the secretaries.
"Fuck," Azrael said, and squeezed his eyes shut, stopping again.
"Az?"
Overwhelmed, Azrael turned and punched a wall.
"Easy, Az, you're going to take the school down if you keep hitting support walls."
"Fuck OFF, Raphael."
Silence for a moment as Azrael fought to calm his breathing, trying not to think, a litany of swearwords going through his mind.
Finally, Raphael put his hand on Azrael's shoulder. "Want to talk about it?"
He leaned against the wall and decided yeah, he did.
"It's not fair," he said.
Raphael laughed, but not mockingly, just a little startled noise. "Odd words, coming from you. Why's it not fair?"
Azrael gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, breathed. "He gets to choose what he wants."
Raphael was quiet a long moment, so long that Azrael opened his eyes to see if the other angel was still there.
And now, Azrael thought, almost clinically, Raphael is going to say something sweet and sad and explanatory which should make me feel better but will piss me off.
He waited.
"Can I buy you a drink?" Raphael asked.
Relief. Azrael managed not to smile, but just barely. "Yeah," he said. "I think you can."
Raphael preened, running a hand through his hair in a remarkable Uriel impression. "Oh yeah? You want it?"
"Fuck you," Azrael said, gave up resisting, and laughed.