Your wholesome sleep paralysis demon

And you know who ELSE detonated himself in a heroic self-sacrifice?

ANGUS. ANGUS MATE YOUR ROBOT BOYFRIEND MIGHT BE OKAY AFTER ALL.

Heck, Ango might even have to pull a Marcille and put him back together part by part, piece by piece, screw by screw in a parallel to their second meeting in that tomb thingy. He might not even know if it'll work, or why he's doing it in the first place - perhaps out of denial, grief, to have a body to bury - but he reassembles him nonetheless. Once every little wire and screw and the smallest golden feather are in place, picked up from the ashes and rubble with trembling hands, he simply kneels there in silence, vision blurred with tears, and brings his fingertips to the Prince's forehead in one final farewell.

zzt~

A twitch, a shiver, a flash of blue.

Little Angus seeing a winged, luminous figure reaching out to him through the smoke and thinking about the eagle-winged warriors from the stained glass windows of Dundee's chapel.

Years later, in that forgotten crypt, the pieces don't all assemble automatically. Angus coaxes them where they should be, carefully, with hushed reverence, and murmurs "c'mon angel, work with me here" without even realising.

A nickname, casual and affectionate where "Prince" feels too formal. Angus doesn't even remember how it came to him, but it sticks in his brain and refuses to be shaken off.

A question, followed by hesitation and then a sheepish chuckle. "Yeah, I remember when you saved me at Cowdenbeath. I was really little back then, so you looked like an angel. Sorry, I- I don't know why it came back to me just now. I can stop calling you that if you- No? Oh... Okay then."

A new title unrelated to dominion and destiny. Definition: Something beautiful. Something powerful. Something pure, benevolent. A messenger of light and justice wreathed in golden feathers. A gift rather than a designation.

Fond, warmed by gratitude like summer sunlight. "Thanks, angel."

Breathless, thrumming with adrenaline from the battle they just won. "That was a close one. You alright, angel?"

Confused, tinged with alarm, before mellowing into relief. "Angel? Where- ah, there you are."

Hushed, breathy, far away from his companions and the destiny hounding their steps, flushed skin and elevated heartbeat. "Ah- angel, please..."

Not a Prince. Not a pawn. Not a cog in the machine. Something precious. Something unique. Something separate from the identity of the immortal Robot Prince of Auchtertool.

And then...

A Knife. A curse. A crimson tide eating away his code. A ceaseless flow of alien commands to kill, to destroy, to-

Shrill, frantic, reaching out towards him like a child lost amidst smoke and ashes. "Angel! Angel, listen to me, this isn't you! This isn't who you are!"

An identity gifted and accepted as his own, one which not even the Knife of Evil could take away from him.

Angel. Definition: Messenger of light and justice. Powerful. Beautiful. Pure. Benevolent. Loving and beloved in return. A beam of sunlight in the darkness guiding lost souls to safety.

A protector.

3...

2...

1...

A flash. An explosion. An wave of force capable of reducing any evil to dust.

Silence.

And then...

A pair of hands clutching a single golden feather. A rain of tears falling on the cursed soil. A voice, soft and shattered, uttering a name like a prayer which he knows will not be granted to him ever again: