There’s the slightest hint of bite in Rafael’s tone, disgust curling at the edges towards the situation they find themselves in, and Kitty is almost relieved. At his best, her cousin is bright and playful and loving. He lights up every room he walks into, whether he means to or not, faces turning towards him like flowers in the sunlight. But as the weight of duty continues to pile higher, as clouds gather across azure skies, she worries that he’ll blind himself to what sees in him: a golden leader capable of turning love into action and action into victory. “There are things we can do,” she insists, uncomfortable with a game plan of simply waiting. Hoping. “Beyond choosing a wedding cake, which I know is important to you because it’s important to him, but— you could literally order one of every fucking flavour if you wanted to.” All but itching for something to do, needing to sink her teeth in and taste progress rather than vanilla or chocolate or strawberry, she tries desperately hard not to counter his desire to focus on buttercream icing and sugar decorations yet cannot keep her earnest persistence trapped behind her teeth. “If an Angel doesn’t work, I’ll find someone higher up the ranks. I’ll even make a Seraphim talk, you know I will. I’ll do whatever you need me to do until we find something useful.”
His question doesn’t require an answer. She watches him, dark eyes fixed on his own, sitting up a fraction straighter as if to prove she can take whatever ugliness he wants to pour out from his chest. It’ll find a worthy home in her own — and it does, settling in amongst every other word he’s ever uttered to her in confidence. “I get it,” Kitty responds, sympathy twitching at the corners of her lips only to turn into something more serious as Rafael’s mind twists towards hopelessness. He’s not dead, she would have insisted, once. Not even that long ago, in fact. But times have changed and her stubborn desire to ignore the worst of their fates has worn thin. She thinks of Saint, suspended in time while waiting for news of his sister, only to have his heart shattered by the truth. “Then— I think we should plan to carry on as if he is. And when he walks through that front door, smoking one of his disgusting smelling cigars, we can be proved fucking wrong and for once we won’t be mad about it.” She moves to perch on the very edge of his chair, quick to wrap her arms around him, fingers digging into the material of his shirt. Quiet, it takes a moment of consulting her heart to figure out a way to try and soothe his. “You know, the best goodbye I could give him is to promise to take care of you.” Leaning back, she meets his gaze. “And the best goodbye you could give him is to promise to take care of Famine.”
It’s with fond, somber eyes that he stares back at Kitty’s trademark petulance. A color of mirth on his pink cheeks, that contrasts the otherwise dour mood. Historically, it’s what they both have in common; thinking fast, acting even faster. A distinct opposition from the likes of Marcus and Jessica, who were far more methodical than the fiery pair. Except this time, there’s something dour that keeps him stead. A son’s intuition, perhaps. What if he digs further, and finds a reality he isn’t prepared to accept? “Why do I bother trying to stop you?” He asks, a color of mirth in his eyes. Nothing but fondness, for the person that redirects Rafael’s worse ideas. “You have a point.” Rafael considers, though there’s an after thought to the other impacts of it. No cake selection, would make the coordination of the other pastries harder. Whatever, he resolves, lowering the fork against the fine China. With a patient chuckle, he forces himself to tune in. Even if the desire to mill around mindlessly fights to prevail. “You know what egotistical, pompous shit-bags Seraphim’s can be.” Present company included. “If they did this, they would have made a bloody announcement of it.” Literally and figuratively. In a lengthy pause, he cannot escape the demons that prompt a next question. “If it’s Death - there’s a chance. It took them weeks after kidnapping to...” He doesn’t say the word kill, he doesn’t have to.
He falls into the comfort of Kitty’s arms, inhaling that childhood scent that never quite leaves her. The hurt in his heart is too painful to conquer. A breathlessness is there - but it’s not from the blasted lung, still wary on its recovery since the coma. It’s from the pragmatic truth Kitty shares with him, holding him closely in her arms. He rests his head on her shoulder, as he has many times over. An opening and prompt closing of his mouth, the struggle for words without tears ever-present. He coughs, attempting to stifle it. Not for her sake, but for his. “You already promised him that. Many, many times...” He mumbles with certainty. Would Rafael Senior really let his son rise, without Kitty to catch him when he falls? “And if I can’t? Look at what’s come of us. We’re fucking falling behind, and it’s not just because of what’s out there. But what’s within our own ranks.” It’s a confession meant for someone like Marcus, his fellow Seraphim. And yet, he cannot say it, without speaking to Marcus’ own missteps. “If they aren’t putting the knife in our fucking backs, they are talking shit to our faces. Or, they are failing us.” His thoughts drift to Omer, Wren, and Nana. A endless cycle, it seems. He pulls up his chin, sighing against Kitty with a bout of uncertainty. “Maybe there’s something good in Marcus stepping up...”
