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Homesick

Chapter 1 - A forgotten arrangement.

Summary: It’s been two years since you and the Horseman ended your journey together by resurrecting the souls of your fellow humans. Since then, you’ve returned to Earth to build a new life from the ashes of a broken, old house in the city. Death has been to see you there many times, but today is the first day that one of your newer, but no less dear friend, Azrael is accompanying the Horseman for a visit. Together, the two of them arrive at your front door... They aren’t at all prepared for what they find.

Warning: Assault, bruising, religion, whump,

Tags: Azrael, Death, Reader, hurt/comfort, angst, parental Azrael, parental Death, protective characters, angels learning about human culture

---

“Death! Over here!”

No sooner has the Horseman stepped out of his swirling portal and emerged onto a busy, city street than he immediately hears a familiar voice calling his name.

Humans of every shape and size skirt around him as they make their way to and fro along the concrete path, some eyeing him suspiciously while others stop and openly gawk. He ignores them all, instead scanning the waves of people breaking around him until finds his quarry.

Azrael, a tall and stately Archangel and Guardian to the Well of Souls, sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the throng of humans, not least because he towers impressively over the heads of every one that passes him by. Feathery wings of blinding white gleam under the midday sun and sway like sail boats on a gentle sea, the tips of his primary feathers sweeping just millimetres above the ground. He lifts one hand to beckon the Horseman over and a long sleeve of teal silk falls down and gathers around his elbow.

Exhaling softly, Death makes his way towards the angel and tries his best not to notice the humans that scurry out of his way as if he'll strike them down should they venture too close. He notes that none of them shy away from Azrael in the same manner. Then again, he can't be too surprised. Azrael is, after all, everything that Death is not.

Charming. Amicable. Incessantly polite... Not to mention his distinct lack of a terrifying bone mask.

It's a wonder he and Death are even on speaking terms, given their differences.

Still, though the Horseman is still loathe to admit it, at least they have a few things in common – one of whom is their reason for meeting here, in the centre of a human city that had once been overrun with demons.

He finally reaches the archangel, who nods in greeting, a smile pushing at his pale cheeks. “There you are, old friend.”

“Azrael.” Death returns the gesture of mutual respect, dipping his head low. The angel may be among the only beings in Creation who'd be privy to such a cordial greeting from the eldest Nephilim. Death tends to be extremely miserly with his respect.

Sweeping a lock of long, white hair over his shoulder, Azrael chuckles and says, “ I was beginning to worry that I'd have to make the journey without you.”

“Have you missed my company that much?” Death teases.

And Azrael - all too accustomed to the Horseman's nature through millennia of practice – replies with a soft, “But of course.”

'...Oh...' Death blinks, taken aback for a moment until he notices the sly grin twitching at Azrael's lips. 'Oh, damn you.'

Even now, after so many years, the archangel knows that he'll always flounder under the same ruse. Hit him with a dose of heartfelt sincerity and the Horseman's tongue sticks straight to the roof of his mouth, every time. It's one of Azrael's favoured ways of throwing him off balance.

Letting out a rough grunt, Death points himself east and begins to march down the street, trusting that the angel will be close on his heels. Naturally, it's only a few seconds before he hears the telltale swish of Azrael's vast wings and a flash of teal sneaks into the corner of his eye.

“You know, I hate it when you do that,” Death grumbles, though he does appreciate that the angel elects to walk, rather than fly. It reminds him of a day, thousands of years ago, when he'd been in the White City on official, Charred Council business. Azrael was the only angel who had lowered himself to the ground, choosing to walk beside Death as an equal. The small yet simple action spoke volumes.

“Oh, I'm well aware,” the archangel hums casually as he follows his companion down a narrow side street that's still quite obviously in the midst of reparations. It may have been almost two years since humanity's resurrection, but there are still little pockets of the city that haven't yet been reached by construction efforts.

The fact that you're living in one such, dilapidated area doesn't sit well with the Horseman.

You were the human who stayed by his side all the way through his journey to clear War's name and bring humanity back from extinction. Hell, you were a large part of the reason why Death had even made it to the Well of Souls in the first place. And you were the one who reconciled him with Azrael, one of his oldest frie-... allies.

You deserved a better home than the ramshackle, old house you'd settled down in. Although oddly enough, it had been your choice, for reasons unbeknownst to the Horseman. Oh, he tried to convince you to stay somewhere less... built up. Somewhere in the countryside, perhaps. Alya and Valus would have been more than happy to build you a house - all you had to do was ask...

But, you didn't ask.

And now, whenever Death visits you on Earth – an occurrence that seems to be happening more and more frequently of late – he has to pretend not to notice the gaping holes in the walls of your home, the locked door that sits ominously at the end of the first floor landing, the one you never open, no matter how often he came around for a visit. So, he doesn't bring it up, and you don't mentioned it. That's just the way it is.

Across the road, an enormous Phantom Guard perches awkwardly on a too-small bench, chatting away with a human as if the two were old friends. It takes everything in the Horseman to refrain from lurching over there and impaling the demon on Harvester's hungry blade.

Gritting his teeth, Death forces his hand up and off the weapon's handle.

On his other side, Azrael is graciously trying to wave at every human that passes him by. To their credit, most of them flash him a quick grin in return before continuing on their way, casting backwards glances over a shoulder as if to make certain their eyes aren't deceiving them. While it is commonplace nowadays to see angels amongst the crowds of Earth, it's still exceptionally rare to see one accompanied by a fabled Horseman.

Death can't blame them for staring.

“You know, I must confess,” Azrael pipes up, smiling kindly down at an awestruck child who totters past and gapes up at him whilst her mother drags her along, “The humans have made impressive headway these past few years. Even I was not certain they'd bounce back so well, and in such a short space of time. This metropolis is unrecognisable!”

“It isn't as though they didn't have help,” Death puts and nods pointedly across the street where a woman in a yellow hardhat sits upon the shoulder of her young, maker companion. The odd couple appear to be debating the necessity of adding cement flaunching to a chimney.

“True enough,” Azrael replies, “However, you know as well as I do that their adaptability is unparalleled.”

The Horseman's lips purse and he raises his dark eyebrows, silently concurring with the angel.

He's seen firsthand how swiftly you'd acclimatised to the various realms. Any other species would take at least a century to learn how to live on a different world.

Humans have almost entirely reclaimed their broken, little planet in just two years.

But then, they don't have the luxury of time.

Death quickly shakes his head to clear it and picks up his pace.

Each time he ponders the mortality of humans, he starts to think about you and how you don't even have a century left. Admittedly, he... doesn't like to muse on that.

The Nephilim leads Azrael further down the now barren street until they come to a wall of crumbling brick, stretched around the perimeter of a building and broken up by a small, wooden gate.

“Well, I must admit, Azrael, you're right about their adaptability,” he mutters, drawing to a halt and staring up at the house that lays beyond the barrier, “Some humans will learn to live just about anywhere, if they have to.”

The angel drifts up next to him and follows his gaze, eyes growing large. “Is this-?”

“-Y/n's home.”

Azrael hesitates for several, long seconds whilst he inspects the place. Then, he utters a small, soft, “Oh.”

“Disappointed?”

“No, no. Not in the least. It's just...” Azrael trails off.

Snorting, Death risks a pat on the angel's silken sleeve. “It isn't what you expected.”

“...No. It isn't.”

Pulling his lips into a thin line, the Horseman allows his hand to slide off Azrael's arm and murmurs, “Join the club.”

Ahead of them sits an old, two storey house in a sorry state of disrepair. Shingles on the roof have come loose and fallen down into the overgrown lawn. An entire section of wall is missing from the upper floor and a large, blue tarp has been nailed haphazardly to the rafters and stretched down so that it covers up the hole. The white, exterior paint is stained nearly black with soot and a pair of window shutters creak ominously in the gentle breeze.

All in all, the whole place is utterly wretched, even by Death's standards.

He pushes at the garden gate and it swings open with a hideous screech as the hinges protest against years of rust.

“Y/n told me that'd be fixed the next time I came around,” he grumbles to himself, slinking through and stalking towards your door whilst Azrael glides slowly up the path behind him.

“Horseman?” he calls in a hushed tone as Death reaches the front steps, “You're quite certain this is the right house?”

“Given that I've found our young friend lurking within each time I've visited in the past,” the old Nephilim snaps, “Yes, I'm quite certain this is the right house.”

Azrael's jaw clenches but he doesn't admonish Death for the decidedly curt response. “Apologies. I would never think to judge your sense of direction, old friend,” he says instead and notices that the Horseman's shoulders relax a fraction, “This just isn't what I had pictured.”

'Of course it isn't,' Death wants to scoff.

Like Azrael, he'd been picturing something different as well upon his first arrival to your home.

---

Tiny, spring flowers grow stubbornly through cracks in the pavement and refuse to wilt even as Death's shadow passes over them. He stalks up to the wooden gate, certain that he's got it wrong, that you've given him false directions on purpose as a practical joke. You can't live here - in this old house without windows that remind him of a dead thing that's had it's eyes pecked out, with foundations only held upright by a lifetime of memories that refuse to let it collapse into ruin.

Despite everything the Universe threw your way, you - a feeble, fragile human with no real talent for survival - managed to wade through it all and come out the other side to save your species and help Death clear his brother's name.

You are a hero, deserving of a kinder, prettier ending than this.

He half turns, ready to stride back through the gate and out in search of your real home.

Then, a voice calls his name from the shoddy, white door that opens inwards to reveal a familiar face.

You're smiling down at him through red-tinted eyes. “Welcome to my humble abode!” you chirp.

Death doesn't smile back.

---

The Horseman's shaggy, black hair falls over his eyes as he lowers his head, frowning at the memory and avoiding his companion's curious gaze. If even he thinks your home is tragic, then he can only guess as to what the archangel must think. Azrael, while not at all ostentatious like many of his fellow angels, is at least used to a certain degree of grandeur.

Twisting his neck around to level a strict glare at the Old One again, Death says, “The human has been looking forward to your visit ever since arranging it last month. So, try not to let your disdain show, hmm?”

At that, the angel actually bristles and Death is satisfied to see that he can still get under Azrael's skin. “I'll have you know that I too have eagerly awaited seeing my young friend again,” he says coolly, “And I would never look upon anything of Y/n's with contempt.”

The insinuation that he would ever cause you insult or injury is an abhorrent idea to him. It had been you who stood before your own people and spoke in the archangel's defense after he was tried by the Council of Angels, who reasoned that his fate ought to be decided by the human race. They were, after all, the wounded party thanks to his involvement with the Destroyer. Death had never seen your tongue shine as silver as it had in that moment. 'Compulsory community service,' you said was an apt punishment. Even War was on board. Azrael was to help rebuild that which Abaddon had torn asunder.

The Council of Angels agreed, albeit begrudgingly, and humanity took a vote.

Thanks to you, the archangel was spared from Oblivion and Death was spared the grim duty of dragging him there himself.

Azrael has been besotted with you ever since.

Behind his mask, the Horseman's sharp, golden eyes soften around their edges. “I'm glad to hear it,” he murmurs, voice low and quiet.

Azrael is taken aback, realising that the grim and ornery Nephilim is apparently even trying to protect you from hurt feelings. Slowly, his eyebrows lift and his lips give an enigmatic quirk.

Seeing the angel's expression turn smug, Death's eyes snap back to their prior ferocity and he grumbles under his breath, earning a bright laugh from his angelic ally.

Deciding that they've wasted enough time dawdling on your front step, the Horseman reaches out and touches a few of his finger tips to the brass doorknob.

“Hold on. Aren't you going to knock first?”

Death pauses with his fist halfway closed around the knob and glances sideways at Azrael, a brow quirked underneath his bone mask. In as deadpan a tone as he can muster, he asks, “What?”

A moment later, he finds himself wishing he'd ignored his companion and just strolled on into your home.

Now, Azrael has that look on his face. The look that always serves as a prelude to some kind of lecture, or lesson. “Oh, here we go,” the Horseman mutters to himself.

“If I am not mistaken,” Azrael begins, “It is customary among humans that, before one crosses the threshold of a home, one must first announce one's arrival by knocking... or ringing, as I heard it.”

Death's eyes roll up towards the sky and he expels a rough breath. “It's Y/n,” he says deliberately, as if Azrael is missing a vital point, “We can just... go in.”

“But...” The archangel's frosty eyebrows draw together and Death just knows he's perturbed at the very idea of disrespecting you by failing to follow an 'Earth custom.' It's yet another quirk of the angel's that Death has never quite understood, but always admired - that unparalleled need to be polite.

Letting out a resigned sigh, the Horseman steps away from your door and gestures towards it with a flippant wave of his hand. “Fine. Would one care to do the honours?”

If Azrael notices he's being mocked, he doesn't show it. In an instant, the angel perks up, his pale eyes shining and the feathers on his wings lifting slightly off the bone. Death suddenly has the sneaking suspicion he'd been waiting for that question since they arrived.

“Oh, may I?”

Despite himself, the Horseman's lips try to quirk up at the corners.

Ever since his pardoning, Azrael's avid fascination with humans and their culture had flourished. After it was decreed that other species would be allowed to interact with them, the archangel had begun to inhale information at a frankly alarming rate. There wasn't a human alive who was safe from his persistent questions.

'Reading about them is one thing,' he told the Horseman once, 'But first hand experience is quite another!'

It has been.... a long time since Death last saw Azrael so happy.

With an amused shake of his head, the Horseman juts his chin at your door and Heaven's greatest scholar wastes no time moving in and lifting a slender finger towards the button you've helpfully labelled 'bell.'

For a few seconds, he merely stands there, cocking his head at the doorbell as if he were trying to work out an intricate puzzle before eventually, he glances back at the Horseman and asks, “How long do you suppose I should press it for?”

Death's face falls flat. “Azrael-”

“I've heard about these, of course. But I've never actually... What if I break it?”

“I'm sure it'll be fine,” the Nephilim huffs noisily, “However, if you hesitate much longer, Y/n will think we aren't coming at all.”

At the mention of tardiness, Azrael blinks widely and presses his fingertip to the bell at once, jolting backwards when a long, tuneful chime rings out from somewhere beyond the door.

“What a remarkable contraption!” he exclaims, casting his eyes over to check whether Death is as impressed as he is.

Death is not.

Just then, the pair of them lift their heads up at the sound of hurried footsteps approaching from the other side of your home's entrance and a muffled “Sorry, sorry! I'll be right there!”

As soon as he hears your familiar voice, Death subconsciously unclenches his jaw and some of the rigidity drains out of his shoulders. Hardly any time at all has passed since he last saw you and yet, much to his own surprise and frustration, he finds he's actually missed you.

Saving the Earth and Humanity presented an outcome that he'd fully expected, but in the end, had never really wanted. You… left. You returned to the Earth to help your people, and although Death knew it had to happen eventually, he couldn't seem to shake away the melancholy fog that draped itself over his shoulders once you were gone. He should have felt relief, really. The ordeal was over. His brother was safe and the Charred Council destroyed.

Yet at the furthest corner of his mind, a gentle grief existed, bearing your name.

The Horseman hadn't ever missed anyone before you, and thus the feeling was as foreign as it was unsettling. He even thought he must have surely come down with some, strange affliction and ended up taking the matter to Azrael, not least for the fact that he trusted the archangel enough to keep tight-lipped about it. What he hadn't expected, however, was for the angel to let out an uncharacteristically sharp bark of laughter, spend a moment composing himself before finally smiling down at Death and informing him, 'It's not an affliction that can be cured. You simply miss your friend.'

Evidently so, given that he'd actually – dare he say – looked forward to this visit ever since you arranged it over a month ago.

'Creator,' he smirks wryly to himself as your door handle begins to turn, 'I'm far too old to be getting so soft...'

Beside him, Azrael watches the door with a smile blooming across his angular features. Unlike his grim companion, the angel isn't sheepish about his eagerness to see you again.

The door begins to swing open and for just a second, they're treated to a brief glimpse of you, half cloaked in the shadow cast by your door.

Then, without warning, your eyes bulge from their sockets and you let out a yelp of alarm, slamming the door shut once again before either of them can open their mouths and offer you a greeting. Several, long instances trickle by in which Death and the archangel merely blink at the entrance, neither entirely sure how they ought to proceed.

After wallowing in silence for a while more, the Horseman asks, “Did you read anything about human customs that might have mentioned that?”

When he garners no response, he tips his head up to peer at Azrael. Something in his stomach twists when he catches the angel's expression.

“Horseman,” he mutters carefully, turning an uneasy look onto Death, “Did you see Y/n's face?”

A shadow falls over the Nephilim's eyes but before he can reply, a tiny voice slips underneath the threshold.

“Shit! I didn't realise it was you! I wouldn't have opened -... What are you guys doing here!?”

Now, Death's timekeeping skills may not be anything to brag about. However, he's fairly certain that Azrael's are impeccably reliable. The angel wouldn't – couldn't! - have gotten the day wrong.

“Perhaps it's my old age,” Death hums sardonically, “But I could have sworn you were the one who asked us here.”

“...Was... that today?” There's a pause. Then, they hear a muffled, “Dammit...”

Azrael can't help himself. He moves closer to the door and places his palm delicately against the wood. “Y/n?” he calls, “Please, I must insist you let us in.”

Death doesn't possess a working pulse, but there's something under his skin that starts to throb with agitation at the worry in Azrael's tone.

“What's wrong?” he hisses at the angel.

Your stammered, 'N-nothing's wrong!” is lost beneath Azrael's urgent reply.

“I think Y/n's been hurt.”

Be it by intuition or sheer luck, you at least had the wit to back away from your front door, because not a second after you heard Azrael's frustratingly on point assumption, the entire thing buckles and explodes inwards with an almighty crash. It ricochets off the wall and would have probably swung shut again if Death hadn't suddenly come storming through it with Azrael keeping close to his heels.

You stand shocked in your cramped little hallway, feet glued to the carpet as the Horseman turns a raging glare on you.

The moment he sees you however, he freezes in his tracks.

Quick as a flash, one of your hands flies up to cover the left side of your face in a last ditch attempt to hide what Death has, unfortunately, already seen.

Even beneath your trembling fingers, it's hard to miss the vivid, purpling bruise that sits like an incriminating badge upon your eye. The delicate skin around it is swollen and puffed up, sealing your eyelids almost all the way shut, though a tiny sliver of iris still manages to poke stubbornly through the mess. And it really is a mess. The very edges of your bruise have begun to turn green, though the area directly over your eye remains an angry red, akin to the colour of War's cape.

You must have realised that trying to cover the damage is pointless because you defeatedly lower your hands and wring them nervously into your shirt, just to give them something to do.

The two, immortal beings in front of you remain still as statues, one with his mouth hanging open slightly, aghast, whereas the other's face is hidden by a mask of bone. You can still see his eyes though – see the storm swirling inside that golden and orange glare.

Nervously wetting your lips, you manage to draw in a breath and shakily release it. “H-Hello, Death. Azrael.”

The sound of your voice snaps the angel from his stupor first and he takes a glance at the expression on your face, rather than the bruise.

Round eyes – eye. Mouth hanging ajar and moving around words that refuse to come. Fingers twisting knots into your clothes.

You look absolutely terrified.

Covering his mouth with a hand, Azrael shakes his head slowly from side to side, looking concernedly like he's seconds away from throwing up, were that even possible given his species. The Horseman shares his companion's mounting horror, a horror that is fast turning into burning, boiling rage.

Death can't blink, he can barely even speak.

The swiftly-building, cold wave of anger crashes into his chest, yet it battles valiantly with another emotion for total dominion and Death isn't so dim that he doesn't recognise fear when he feels it so suddenly, and with no time to try and suppress it.

Not a sound betrays his movements as he steps towards you, hand outstretched and a heavy weight settling like lead in his chest because, Creator, that's – that's Y/n! That's his human, that's his friend!

He must have moved too quickly, for your good eye zeroes in on his approaching hand and you gulp loudly enough to be heard over the gentle swishing of Azrael's wings on the carpet. You don't mean to – it isn't Death you're really afraid of – but you still flinch, and that little motion hits the Horseman harder than any physical blow you could have dealt him. He doesn't stop though, instead he chases you backwards until he's near enough to slide his fingers around your wrist, preventing you from backing up even further. With no other choice, you stop and peer up at the Horseman through damp, glistening eyelashes.

Azrael is at your side a second later, although he at least isn't remaining eerily silent like Death, who exudes the same, ominous energy as the calm before a thunderstorm.

“Y/n! What in Heaven's name happened to you!?” he demands, his composure slipping away to reveal the frantic angel underneath, “Does it hurt!? Are you in pain !?”

His questions come far too rapidly and you flounder for a few seconds, opening and closing your mouth in the world's best impression of a helpless goldfish before Death abruptly hisses out a single word. Only one, but it's icy and sinister enough to silence Azrael and send a shudder through your soul.

“Who?”

All around you, the house seems to tremble with the tumultuous power behind his voice.

The grip on your wrist remains gentle yet sturdy and you know him well enough by now to understand that you won't be released until he gets an answer.

Resigned to your fate, you breath out a long, tired sigh and let your wrist go floppy in his grasp.

“It's.... a long story. Come on, I'll... I guess I'll fill you in while I get an ice pack.”

It's clear that Death's ire isn't going to recede, even with your acquiescence, but Azrael rests a gentle hand on his shoulder and after glaring at your black eye for a moment longer, the Horseman reluctantly peels his fingers away from your wrist.

Heaving a second, wearier sigh, you turn around and beckon for them to follow you down the hallway and into your kitchen.

It's a strange feeling, to have both a Nephilim and an archangel at your back, the two of them far too large to get through your doorways without having to turn slightly to one side, or fold vast, white wings nearly in half. You'd grown used to walking at Death's side, and even later, at Azrael's, following him around the White City like a starstruck toddler as he showed you all the things your species had never been privy to before.

You've never had both of them in your home, not together.

The kitchen is small and nondescript, the walls a simple, faded yellow with a small window sitting above the sink and an island dominating the centre of the room. In one corner stands a cream-coloured fridge, and it, unlike the rest of the room, has been plastered from top to bottom with polaroids and photographs, each placed with a degree of care that indicates their sentimental value. Ambling over to the fridge, you flap a hand and the stools that have been placed haphazardly around your granite island. “Have a seat,” you offer, hardly surprised when you don't hear a scrape of metal on the stone floor. Glancing back over a shoulder, you find they're both standing rigidly behind you, neither removing their gazes from the bruise on your eye.

It's a shame.

You know how badly Azrael had been looking forward to getting a real, hands-on tour of a human home. But now it seems he can't look at anything if it isn't you. The guilt sits heavy in your chest and with it, an ounce of embarrassment, not only for being caught by your two, otherworldly friends in this condition, but also for the state of your home.

You can't believe you'd forgotten they were coming today. If you'd only remembered, you could have snuck out the back door and hidden in the garden and you certainly wouldn't have a pair of slightly overdramatic immortals hovering in your kitchen right now like tightly-coiled springs, impatient to hear the tale of your injury.

As if on cue, Death, always the more restless of the duo, clears his throat rather sharply, causing you to snap out of your thoughts. Rolling your eyes, you grab the fridge door and yank it open, bending to dig around in the freezer space for a bag of peas.

“Okay,” you say at last, standing to bump the door closed with a hip before slapping the cold vegetables against your bad eye, “First of all – this isn't as bad as it looks, all right?”

It surprises you that Azrael beats Death to a skeptical snort, though the Horseman's is soon to follow.

Ignoring their doubt, you shuffle over to the island and use your free hand to drag a stool out, hopping up onto it and draping yourself heavily over the cool granite, giving a little sigh when the bag of peas finally begins to numb the pain of your black eye. “Secondly,” you add, shooting a look at the Horseman, “I don't know the people who did this and probably couldn't even recognise them now, so don't bother.” You don't even need to elaborate on what he shouldn't bother with. You know full well why the only word he's said to you so far has been 'who?'

Meanwhile, Azrael's slender fingers have curled into fists on top of the island, bone showing clear through the thinner skin of his knuckles. Aggression doesn't suit him, you note.

“Might you be able to tell us why this happened to you, then?” he implores.

From the corner of your good eye, you see Death stand a little straighter.

Exhaling softly, you lower your gaze to study the grey surface of the island, incapable of meeting their stares.

“So, you know how some humans are... let's say, more religious than others?”

The angel nods and you continue, “Well, some people didn't like the idea that what they believed in was being challenged by... you know, the truth. Anyway, a couple of zealots must have recognised me outside that park up near Tenth Street and came over, started shouting. They seemed to think the Apocalypse was 'God's plan,' and in helping Death bring humanity back from the Well of Souls, I essentially cheated them out of an eternity in Heaven.”

“But-” Azrael looks appalled. “- But surely they understand it doesn't work like that? They must have seen the... the...” Pausing, he places a finger on his chin, frowning thoughtfully. “Oh dear. What did you call it again?”

“Broadcast,” you can't help but smile.

Watching Azrael and Jamaerah try to fathom the intricacies of live television was a day you won't soon forget. Azrael kept getting far too close to the camera to try and see the 'audience' inside it and Jamaerah couldn't grasp how every single human on Earth could possibly hear the same message at the same time. The poor news producer had her work cut out for her that day. Still, the message had eventually gotten out, and those who didn't yet have a working television heard it quickly through word of mouth.

Soon, the whole world knew the story of the End War, of the Horsemen, of Heaven and Hell and the realms in between. And, they learned of you and your involvement. The news had, of course, sparked some vicious debate amongst the masses. But in the end, everyone came to accept the truth. It was hard not to, with undeniable evidence of Heaven's existence speaking directly to them. Everyone remembered too, the initial awakening, when the world gasped for breath at the exact same time as soul and body fused back together and people were wracked for just a moment by the phantom memory of unimaginable pain.

The world descended into chaos all over again. It had taken the better part of a year to reestablish global communications and get word out, helped along by Earth's new neighbours.

However, there were still those who would not – or perhaps could not – accept the truth of what had happened. Some such people are the very reason you're sitting at your kitchen island with a frozen bag of vegetables pressed over one eye.

Grimacing, you remove the peas, setting them down in front of you and glancing up to find that Azrael's pale eyes are still regarding you expectantly.

“Everybody got the message,” you shrug, “but then, some people believe in their ideas so strongly, not even solid proof will change their minds.”

“So. What. Happened?” The question comes from Death, his voice is pulled taut and strained as if he's deliberately trying to fight the urge to shout.

Snorting, you reply, “What? It isn't obvious? I tried to walk away, one of them grabbed me from behind and the other one took a swing.”

From across the island, Azrael's wings seem to double in size as the stark, white feathers rustle and distend outwards, giving him a dishevelled appearance not at all in keeping with his neat and tidy demeanour. Similarly, Death spits something in Nephilim that you don't need a translation for. Something tells you it isn't polite. Sucking in a calming breath, he bites out, “And.. When did this happen, exactly?”

“Um... earlier today. They only got the one hit in before they were chased off,” you assure him before leaning forwards and resting an elbow on the island, sending the Horseman a secretive smirk. “And you'll never guess who by.”

That, at least, distracts them both from their seething.

“Y/n,” Death sneers, “I am in no mood for guessing games. Who do I have to thank for saving the majority of my charge's face?”

“I'm not your charge anymore, Death,” you remind him, though you can't deny the warm feeling settling in your stomach at the thought that he still sees you as such, “and you're probably not gonna like who you have to thank.” You pause for nothing more than dramatic effect and you can practically see the vein in Death's neck bulge. He hates it when you do that.

Still, you suppose you've garnered enough intrigue, so you sit back, reapply the frozen peas to your face and simply tell them, “Vulgrim.”

A sudden chill sweeps down the back of your neck as Death's hands clench into tight fists at his sides. “Vulgrim,” he growls, “What is that little wretch doing so close to your home?”

“The awful merchant?” Azrael asks, a hand flying to his chest.

“The very same.”

You lift your shoulders in a shrug, arguing, “He's not so bad.”

“Y/n,” the Horseman replies, deadpan, “He's one of the most insidious, conniving little snakes in all Nine Circles of Hell. He's never known to do anyone a favour.” He spits the word like it's dirty.

It isn't as if you don't already know of Vulgrim's unsavoury practices. Which is why you find it odd that you're even bothering to defend him at all, but the fact remains, he did help you.

“Well, he certainly just did me a favour,” you declare, “Came shooting out of one of his serpent holes and threatened to eat those people's souls. They didn't stick around for long after that.”

Both angel and Horseman exchange a look.

Rolling your eyes, you add, “Look, I'm not denying it was weird. I almost thought he was a completely different demon at first. But don't worry, I'm totally fine.”

No response.

You can tell there's some kind of unspoken conversation going on between the pair of them and that you aren't really being listened to at all.

Huh. Vexing.

At last, Azrael's eyes flicker over to you and he spots the furrow of your brows. Clearing his throat, he puts on one of those gentle smiles that, in your humble opinion, fits him far better than the worried expression he's been wearing since his arrival. “With all due respect, my dear,” he says, “I'm not sure that 'fine' is how I'd put it. But, the important thing is that you're safe now.”

“Yes,” Death hums softly, “Now.”

You instantly catch the emphasis he puts on the word and let out a groan. “Oh, don't start using that tone.”

“What tone?”

“That tone!” You flap a hand at the Horseman's mask. “You had the same one when I said I was going back to Earth the first time! Listen, I'm – Azrael, don't give me that look, I just said not to worry.”

The angel jerks his gaze to the side again.

Turning back to Death, you press your lips together and inhale deeply through your nose. “I'm going to be fine. This was just one of those things. Besides, I went through way worse when I travelled with you!”

The Horseman's insides twist up at the reminder. You certainly have been through worse than a black eye, that much is true. Somehow though, that doesn't make him feel any less perturbed by this new attack on his youngest friend.

All three of you lapse into silence then,

“Sorry, Azrael,” you sigh, peering up through your lashes at the tall archangel, “This isn't how I hoped your first visit to my home would go...”

“It isn't your home that I was most eager to see,” he murmurs in that Azrael sort of way that makes your stomach buzz with warmth, “I came here to see you, Y/n.”

Biting back an 'aaw,' you hide your smile behind a hand and groan exaggeratedly, “Oh wow, has he always been this cheesy, Death?”

“For the sake of his pride, I'm going to tell you 'no.'”

Bewildered, the angel glances between the two of you, aware that he's being made fun of, but uncertain as to how. “I'm afraid I don't understand,” he says above your snickering, “How can one share the attributes of a human food item?”

His confusion only makes you laugh harder until the cheek beneath your black eye begins to throb and you're forced to quiet down. “Wow, I still have so much to teach you about humans.”

“Well,” he beams, eyes shining, “I am very keen to learn.”

As the amusement fades and your chuckles taper off into silence once more, you breathe a long sigh, smile gradually diminishing when you realise they're both staring at you again. Azrael's lips may be tilted in the corners, yet palpable concern still manages to shine through the facade. You can't bear having them look at you like that. Death is subtler, but you can tell from the way his fingernails dig cruelly into the palms of his hands that the Horseman is just barely staving off his temper. You need a distraction, and you need it now.

“In that case...” You slide off the stool and let your peas fall back down onto the island with a wet 'smack!' “What are we waiting for? I haven't lost a leg, have I? I can still show you around.”

“Are you sure you're up to that?” the angel asks, furrowing his snowy brows even further, “I believe it would be better if you rested.”

“What? Because of this?” You point at your black eye and try to grin up at him reassuringly despite how it makes the left side of your face throb, “Eh, it's just superficial damage. Now, come on! I promised you a tour, and I'm gonna give you one! I tidied my room and everything!”

The angel is about to protest, about to insist that you sit quietly and keep your head still. Then, you're smiling up at him with a face full of hope and youthful excitement and suddenly, he can't find it in him to say no.

“Very well,” he concedes with a delicate bow of his head and extends his arm, sweeping it out towards you, “Lead on, my friend.”

He doesn't expect you to reach out and grab a hold of his hand with your own and tug him out of the kitchen, chirping, “Let's go! I have like, a million things to show you! Death's already seen the whole house but I've got some more stuff done since he came here last....”

Back in the kitchen, Death's arms lay folded across his chest and he gazes after you and Azrael with a smile on his lips that threatens to turn fond if he doesn't keep it in check. He knows the angel well and if he could hazard a guess, he'd say Azrael is still getting used to human mannerisms. Other angels don't typically go around grabbing hands, after all. But judging by the delighted smile the archangel tosses at him over a shoulder, Death imagines he doesn't mind a single bit.

He still remembers the first time you'd taken his hand.

You'd been so afraid, deep in the bowels of the Psychameron, faced by an all-consuming darkness and Basileus's monstrous pet, Achidna. The darkness wasn't an old friend to you, as it was to Death. Your tiny hand had slipped into his and you wrapped it as far as you could around the length of his palm and fingers, never minding the chill that swept through your bones as it did every time you came into contact with him. There is some truth to the rumours of Death's pernicious touch, after all. Contrarily, your fingers against his skin were warm and small and he twisted his head around to look at you. Your complexion had been turned a pasty green in the light cast by the souls residing upon his chest.

Creator, you had looked so much like a frightened child.

Then, you had given Death's hand a squeeze and sent him toppling over a precipice.

For so long, he'd walked a delicate line between showing that he cares and keeping you at arms length. It, may not have been the first time he cared for another, but there in Achidna's dark cave was the first time the eldest Nephilim wasn't afraid of caring.

He wondered briefly is that was the reason humans were so feared by the Charred Council and by a lot of Creation. If a single human could humble even the most depraved being in existence with the tender warmth of friendship, then what chance did the rest of Creation have?

If Death knows Azrael half as well as he thinks he does, the angel is probably being hit by a similar tenderness right now.

As your voice retreats further down the hallway, Death shoves himself up and off the island with a grunt and traipses lazily after you. Each step he takes, he battles the urge to storm out into the city beyond and reap vengeance from every last human who's hands are still slick with your blood.

#protective death

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