Archangel

"It was my fault." There's not a single thought behind it, the sentiment, the admission, it's practically blurted out. It's washed down with the last of his beer and he should have brought more. It's not like they don't know where the liquor cabinet is, knows that it's mostly for show than anything. Suddenly Nate wished they were at the bar, he would rather be staring at a shelf full of bottles than at a fridge that has little magnets made of rocks he'd found as a kind on fishing trips. They'd give anything to pack themselves up and head down to their room in the basement. To curl into bed and turn on Toonami or Adult Swim in the background and just forget any of this ever happened. They didn't move out, they didn't start living with Atlas, they didn't start going out more and wearing less. "I knew it had to be a trap but I was so scared." It's accompanied by a slight sniffle and it's then that they realize they're crying there at the kitchen table. "And then there was all that time without you, without anyone." No Atlas, no Akara, no Kayce, no Zagreus. They hadn't been able to really face Vivianne, not after that. The record store crew, Aelia, regulars at Killjoy's, Wolfgang. All gone. "I should have known."

Behind them the maker hummed with life, the smell of the storebought grinds filtered through the air as it spewed life and hot water into the glass pot beneath it. Between the two of them Michael and Nathaniel were trapped blaming themselves for what had transpired but this responsibility should never have fallen on Nathaniel's shoulders. It wasn't the nephilim's duty to save the world, it wasn't on them to make up for the litany of mistakes that went back to Michael's creation.

Nate rises to their feet and for just a second they want to stab a finger to their father's chest and tell him that he doesn't get to do that. That he doesn't get to coddle him now after everything. But it's not right and they can't say that they don't kind of want the attention, the attempt at comfort. Because they'd always just bottled everything up, it was easier, their talks about feelings brief. He's old enough to know now that Michael wants to talk about these things but there's just no capacity for it. Neither of them know how to get there. They open their mouth to protest, brows furrowed and vitriol right there but it doesn't come out. It never really has, even when they'd been a kid. So Nate nods, fingers still curled around a half full bottle of beer and goes into the house without further prompting. The place is the same as they'd left it and yet different at the same time. There's little things on the way to the kitchen that let him know that Vivianne has to be staying there now. Little trinkets, some artwork that make the house feel more homey and he wishes he were there with them. Not now maybe, but another time, when he'd been growing up. Would both of them had been better off with her around? "Do you remember any of it?" There's no filter, they're parked at the breakfast nook and taking another sip from the bottle in their hand and looking straight ahead. It just plays over and over. The voice of the Old One or whatever the fuck it'd been coming out of Assan, someone they thought they could trust. Laying amongst the makeshift graves for everyone he'd lost. It's all right there over and over again late at night like this.

A better man wouldn't have left Nate to pick up the pieces, but that was exactly what Michael had done. In The End, it hadn't been the strongest that had survived, save perhaps for Titania, but instead, it was those who knew how to do whatever it took to survive and those who had just been lucky. Michael was indebted to his son, to a ragtag bunch of a few, to Six, who'd given everything so that he could have a second chance, and to a sorcerer who'd threatened a god.

Threatening Michael's family, the woman he hoped to build a future with a child, a home, a life, and the son he'd raised as a hunter from birth, was a line the archangel could not abide by. Lilith had made her bed, had her victories, and Michael had stood idly for too long. She could be a warning to the others. The blades plunged into the aspect's body and the energy from the Blessed's weapons purged Lilith entirely of the magic her patron had bestowed upon her. Immortality, dream walking, and her association with the Abyss. She could have left, but instead, she'd chosen to further threaten the only things keeping him from standing between the archfiends' and their ambitions. Michael had no interest in interfering; even for what Lilith had already done to him, he was prepared to look the other way.

Perhaps once upon a time, Lilith had feared Michael. The seraphim that responded so easily to the whims of his Father. That had killed without qualm because his Father had ordered such a thing. Fear no longer took root within her heart, no longer seized her limbs when the seraphim drew near. "So I've been told before," words slipped from her tongue as her gaze shifted to the created weapons. Her hand lifted to draw a finger against the nearest one, blade sharpened as it sliced a thin wound. He afforded himself too much credit if he believed he could kill her so easily. "We've decided to be generous," a seemingly mild statement, though the wickedness in her smirk did not falter, "and offer you a chance to stay out of our way." Her gaze shifted once more to him, to the face that had been her ultimate downfall. Michael should have chosen better.

"I wasn't afraid of them thousands of years ago, I'm not afraid of them now." Lilith had forgiven those who'd once cast her aside easily; the former seraphim she saddled herself up to now had all watched as she'd run screaming from the garden. Not that it mattered now, the force bore down between them as the blood she drew hit the ground beneath her finger immediately, more pressure and the rest of the self-proclaimed first demon was flattened against the ground. "You're not in any position to make threats, but you've suffered, and for my part in that, we're past any point in attempting amends. Even still, you've ensured you do not deserve them even if we weren't. But I'll ask you this instead: do you have any last words?"

He sees the shoes first, comfortable work boots, the weather worn in with use. Stuff like that they attribute to their father, well worn but reliable, nothing too fancy. He looks up and he hates that his eyes feel kind of wet because while feelings and talking hadn't ever been a thing either of them were good at, Nate had done a lot of crying. It wasn't something they'd ever done too much of before the war. It was a weakness, something you couldn't show an enemy and yet he remembered it. Remembered being a kid and hiding tears of frustration while training alone when they just couldn't get something right. Or at night when he thought about how different he was from all the other kids, how he truly believed he wasn't able to be understood. He can't bring himself to answer because he can't explain. So instead they get right into it, take a sip of liquid courage and turn their gaze to the seraphim who raised them. "I told myself I would be ready for it. You told me months before it happened. And I still wasn't ready." To lose him. To lose everyone.

There was a mark on Nate's neck, but Michael had seen enough people bitten by vampires to see that the margins were clean and there wasn't any sort of struggle attached to it. The seraphim wasn't sure if he knew the person that was sitting in front of him anymore; Nate had quietly been transforming into an individual that Michael didn't quite recognize. Stripped down to the hunter's core, he was still the person that Michael had raised, but everything else they were draping themselves in was foreign in a sense.

Person: @seraphimichael Location: front porch It is perhaps the worst thing he could do. Nate's never been around Michael after drinking aside from the awkward shuffle from Sunday brunch down to their room. This though, this was a lot for him considering he'd been drinking on his own at Atlas's place and had decided he needed to see Michael. Since their last conversation, they hadn't really talked aside from pleasantries, stuff relating to the bar and that was their fault, they'd become even more skittish. Skittish but ever watchful, like he almost didn't believe Michael was even really there. But they sit there now on the front porch as the truck pulls up the driveway under the warm light above the door. Elbows on his knees and hair nearly in his face, Nate's eyes are wet, rimmed red, and there's a bottle of beer in his hand. They don't know why they're there, not really, but they do know they just have to see him.

It was late, Michael finished closing the bar and then headed home. Things were changing, but Michael was moving away from them to focus on what mattered. His family: Nate, Vivianne, and the children he and she hoped to have together. Things were still fragile between them, but when Nate was ready they would broach the subject. Michael wanted them to be together, and more than anything, the last thing that the seraphim wanted was for Nate to be left alone again. If anything ever happened to Michael or Vivianne, he didn't want that to be the last of Nate's family.

where. dealer's choice, hehe who. @seraphimichael

Force bore down on the aspect as Michael looked towards the demon that had revealed herself. When last they spoke, he'd abstained from striking her down in public for fear of causing a scene; Lilith had proven that it was better to kill her when the opportunity was presented than to continue to let her live. Brought low, Michael looked down at the aspect as one after another blades glinted into creation around her; conjured from nothing as they pointed inward towards her.

While the archangel wasn't one to fret, there'd been a mild worry that maybe Vivianne wouldn't want to have kids. Not just with him, but in general, this wasn't really something they'd ever talked about but admittedly was something that had been on his mind for a few months. Before it had been a question of what if, if Michael was not doomed to die, then maybe they could have truly had a shot together. A life. If Vivianne was not mortal, then maybe a day wouldn't come where the two of them would need to be parted. Ulthar had devastated his family but Michael was too old and too worn to be vengeful, he'd hold a measure of contempt in his heart for the rest of his days. Regret as well for following the will of someone so blindly for so long, but he couldn't change the past, and he couldn't challenge a God without putting those closest to him in Danger.

Vivianne wasn't so sure she thought she'd ever be capable of the amount of heart-wrenching joy that seized her heart in that moment, making it almost painful to breath. The air in her throat stuttered as she sighed and smiled with a spark of hope that brightened those hazel eyes as she looked up at him. It was both thrilling and terrifying to think that maybe there was a future here, one she thought she had to give up for so many reasons. But he was here. She was here. They would be here for a while. Hope sung in her chest as she smiled into the kiss, pulse stammering wildly as she tried to withhold the little laughter that bubbled in her chest. Apparently it was possible to feel so much excited joy that it was difficult to contain.

This was the part where the father was supposed to hug their kid and tell them that it was alright, that everything was going to be okay. Ulthar hadn't been that sort of father, but that was what it meant to be created by a God. Michael, the precious soldier, the greatest of his kind was ranked as either disposable or not worth fetching in Ulthar's great consumption. Michael had no framework for what a father was meant to do or how he ought to be. Instead he'd raised Nate the way that he'd been raised, as a warrior, soldier, and as someone who could survive anything that this realm threw at him.

Nate had never really envied vampires but right then and there, enveloped against their father's side, they can't help but wish they didn't have to breath. Solely so they could hide the way it hitches and nearly doesn't even out right. It's shaky, labored even and his tear ducts are actually stronger than any dam because they can't cry over this again. "I know." He manages, voice barely above a whisper and an arm around the seraphim. "I know you do." Now more than ever, probably. That's as far as they're willing to let the train of thought go before they're nodding and stepping away, awkwardly running a hand through their hair. His phone buzzes, it saves him from the awkwardness of excusing himself a little. They pull the device out of their pocket enough to peek that the notification is Atlas. That's a get out of feelings jail free card if he's ever seen one. "I um, I have a thing. But we'll talk soon. Or I'll try to at least. Soon." And they stand there as if they hadn't nearly just had a whole breakdown seconds ago, looking to the man who'd raised them alive and well.

Nothing could ever replace a child. She'd seen it enough; witches were mortal and especially witches, even the Dahlia, were prone to accidents and tragedies. Each coven member had been family and she'd had years to watch mothers and fathers lose their children once or twice - how they tried to move on but were never truly the same again. Miscarriages, stillborns, illness or horrible accidents . "No one could ever replace what you once had. Oracle or not, I will never be Damkina and I don't believe that any other child could ever fill in the gap that Omarosa left behind. They are a part of you... and I want to honor that part too."

While the archangel wasn't one to fret, there'd been a mild worry that maybe Vivianne wouldn't want to have kids. Not just with him, but in general, this wasn't really something they'd ever talked about but admittedly was something that had been on his mind for a few months. Before it had been a question of what if, if Michael was not doomed to die, then maybe they could have truly had a shot together. A life. If Vivianne was not mortal, then maybe a day wouldn't come where the two of them would need to be parted. Ulthar had devastated his family but Michael was too old and too worn to be vengeful, he'd hold a measure of contempt in his heart for the rest of his days. Regret as well for following the will of someone so blindly for so long, but he couldn't change the past, and he couldn't challenge a God without putting those closest to him in Danger.

They can't. They keep wanting to and yet when they go to put words to it all, they just can't do it. It's like they open their mouth and they think about how they'd curled up in that little graveyard. It feels lifetimes away, none of it was real, Michael is standing there before him, he is touching his shoulder, he is real and solid and closing up the bar like usual. Then why is it still terrifying? Why does it still hurt? It was better to just go on as if it hadn't happened. Or just wait. They weren't good at this part, the two of them. They were hunters, they were survivors. But at the end, it'd just been him. "I can't. I don't know if I ever will." Nate admits, feeling so small there in the bar after hours. "I love you, I know I don't say it enough, we don't say it enough, but I do."

This was the part where the father was supposed to hug their kid and tell them that it was alright, that everything was going to be okay. Ulthar hadn't been that sort of father, but that was what it meant to be created by a God. Michael, the precious soldier, the greatest of his kind was ranked as either disposable or not worth fetching in Ulthar's great consumption. Michael had no framework for what a father was meant to do or how he ought to be. Instead he'd raised Nate the way that he'd been raised, as a warrior, soldier, and as someone who could survive anything that this realm threw at him.

"I don't know." They'd known it was coming, they'd known it was coming the day everything fell back into place. Michael and Nate was Nate and they didn't talk like normal people did. Better, they were getting better over time and Nate will die on the hill that it's Vivianne's influence. It wasn't a matter of if they were going to talk or not, it was a matter of when and he had mentally given it a week and it'd been close. It's been close and he can feel the concern and uncertainty rolling off of his father and it's not something he wants to deal with. So they don't, they stop sweeping in front of the bar and look over at their father and purse their lips before sighing and reaching to run a hand through the front of their hair. "It's a lot." Maybe it was as simple as that right now, he doesn't have to have all the answers, the words. Right now they're still stuck on feelings. Their feelings, other people's feelings. The empathy thing, it's been an ability he often thought was rather useless in the grand scheme of things, but now he thinks it's easier to just feel what was up with someone instead of asking. There wasn't much a point, they knew mostly everyone was still processing. "I don't even want to think about it." It's said so quietly in the open space of the empty bar that it almost makes him uncomfortable. "It's like I can't."

"You don't have to." Michael said it all maybe too quickly, a flurry of words as if to put a stop to the conversation entirely; his calloused hand moved to rub at the back of his head as the archangel sighed. The archangel started to make his way towards the nephilim, all wiry limbs and nervous eyes, it wasn't Nathaniel's fault that they were kinda weird, that had to be Michael's doing. "Because you can though," he said that quickly too, "talk, I mean. To me. If you want to." Michael hadn't exactly been accepting about the other's friends, he hadn't ever been accepting about anything as far as Nathaniel was concerned. Not unless it had to do with hunting. He was close enough now and he didn't know how to initiate a hug with someone so Michael just reached forward and put a hand on his shoulder. "When you're ready I'm-" he squeezed and nodded. "I'm here for you."

Vivianne let Michael peek the depressing mental healing search she was doing for August on a spanish website but then sheepishly tabbed out, back to Zillow as she looked over her shoulder to give the seraphim a smile as if to say: See? I'm doing happy things too. And she was, for the most part, that: happy. At the very least, she was completely hopeful. She didn't let negativity get to her this early in her victory; the break was necessary. August was young and strong; he would recover. Michael hadn't died. It was strange that the Necronomicon was destroyed without being scattered into the cosmos. But as someone who had been so used to looking for metaphysical answers all her life, Vivianne didn't stop to think and suspect more just yet when nothing dark and ominous was given to her. She held on to the gift of peace from war that she was given and, for the first time in ages, Vivianne wanted to simply indulge in it.

Michael wanted a dozen if Vivianne was willing, and that was the truth. He wanted the house big enough for them, he wanted the sort of table that could sit them all comfortably and the spouses they'd bring around after. Michael wanted them to have the sort of childhood that he hadn't, the one that he'd stolen from Nathaniel. It wasn't fair but nothing ever really seemed to be these days, they just were, and Michael was resolved to make the most of what he'd could. The archangel had been a sword for so long that he'd forgotten it was possible to take on another shape. Nathaniel had been the beginning, Vivianne another piece, but he carried this last part entirely on his own.