Simeon Ayers

“I have nothing to atone for,”

Uriel scoffed, finding such words to be insulting. Not only to him, but to their own God, the very same God that they had vowed loyalty to ( the one that Zadkiel had betrayed ). Actions like these were not be taken so lightly, nor could they have been forgiven. Uriel’s fingers reached forward, cupping the disgraced angel’s face ( almost disgusted by how familiar they felt, how THIS felt ). 

“Oh? Is that so? I hadn’t realized how selfish you were, Zadkiel.” 

Uriel glared at them, his fingers soon letting go of the traitor, almost pushing them back slightly. They definitely weren’t in heaven anymore, which meant affection and playful banter weren’t to be exchanged ( Zadkiel had LOST that privilege years ago ). Instead, a stranger stood in front of him, a person that he didn’t even recognize anymore.

Didn’t want to recognize  — because why waste such time on the disgraced?

“I’m not in heaven because of you.” 

“I’m not selfish, Uriel, you are — you and all the angels that are coming to the mortal plane,” Simeon’s words were shaky at best, but they continued — fear going cold through them when Uriel held their face in his hands, “I was disgraced because I believed in humans, I didn’t want to be selfish and let them die without a murmur of protest for their own.”

Simeon looked away ( down to the ground ) as soon as Uriel roughly let go of their face — it was nothing like the affectionate touches that they used to get in heaven, but it did nothing to stop the surge of memories of them to resurface.

“You’re not in heaven because God decided to become apathetic.” Simeon had tears glossing their eyes, but refused to let them fall. “You are not in heaven because you are nothing anymore but a- a soldier. You’re not a beacon of hope, you’re nothing but a bringer of the apocalypse.” They swallowed hard. “Y- you’re not any better than the Princes of Hell.” Simeon hated that they couldn’t keep the confidence in their voice.

They knew that Uriel would inevitably throw it back in their face.

It was Sloane’s turn to be silently grateful when Simeon allowed her to gloss over her momentary distraction, not pushing for answers she couldn’t give. Only where they were lying to spare her worrying, she was doing it – for what? So they won’t shoot you like you shot your dad. No. It wasn’t going to come to that. Sloane wasn’t going to let it.

So cute, Sloaney. 

Simeon’s laugh, familiar and warm and just barely too loud in a way Sloane had learned to love, grounded her again. She met their gaze with a defiant quirk of her eyebrow, putting down her fork to reach for another sugar packet, tear it open with her teeth – unwilling to let go of their hand to free up her other one – and dump it into her coffee. Then she picked up her mug and took a big sip. “Mmm, best coffee in town.” It was lukewarm now and tasted like shit, but that wasn’t point. She smiled, as sweetly as she could manage.

She rolled her eyes lightly as they pulled a face at her pancakes, the gesture more affectionate than anything else, and nodded her agreement. “All the more reason I never wanted to go to college. Angels and nephilim and frat bros.” She wrinkled her nose at the thought; higher education had never been on the table for her, nor did she mind. 

“I don’t know why you insist on trying them at each diner, since you always say that,” she teased back, picking her fork back up and taking a bite for herself. “I think they’re good. Plus – it’s what my dad and I would always get, when were on a hunt,” she admitted, the kind of thing she wouldn’t dare say to anybody else. But Simeon already knew so much more than that, the confession came without thought or regret. “Can’t let the tradition die.” Not until you die, too. Her brows pulled together and she stabbed at the pancakes, taking another bite.

Simeon couldn’t help the smile that spread over their features as Sloane made a show of adding more sugar to her coffee ( and also taking note that she didn’t let go of their hand while she did so ) and having a drink of it. They thought that Sloane was…

…They didn’t want to say.

They didn’t ever want to name what the sort of sentimentality they got themselves into. They had become disgraced because they felt that humans should be given a fighting chance, not that they had fallen in love with one.

— And yet what were they and Sloane, then?

Was this not love? Was this not the acid reflux burning of feelings that Simeon didn’t know where to even begin to explore? Simeon’s happy expression faltered, their tongue darting out and their eyes dropping to the plate of pancakes again.

“Um, yeah, that’s about the same for me too,” they agreed. It was a lie, and it wasn’t one that they could remember if they’d told that version or another to Sloane before. Angels didn’t go to human’s version of higher education, they were created as perfect soldiers of God and meant for nothing else. Perhaps the disgraced were in a class of angelic higher education; perhaps learning the ways of humans was the only way an angel could evolve from their original purpose.

God had given him a nicely wrapped present; a disgraced angel stepping into the very same church, at an equally odd hour. Uriel merely smirked, finishing his prayers before greeting a long lost ( ex ) friend.  Zadkiel had always been too … nice, to warm-hearted towards humans. It was no surprise that divinity had been ripped out of them. 

Uriel merely wished they had listened.

Then again, these were the consequences of going against God. The angel stepped forward, getting a good look at this new face. Zadkiel could’ve easily escaped him had they not entered the Church. Perhaps these disgraced angels were getting too comfortable with their freedoms. The thought made him even MORE malicious, more intent to reign justice on those who committed crimes against their own God.

“Atoning for your sins, Zadkiel?” 

“Fortunately, your opinion on the Holy War doesn’t matter anymore.” 

Another step forward, an unwarranted reunion, the silent church. Uriel couldn’t resist adding salt to the wounds, taunting, “ — missed me, did you? I’m finally here.” The messenger ready to push forth the agenda. 

Simeon flinched at the use of their former name — of the name that they’d cast aside when their divinity was ripped from them — the automatic lowering of their head when the other archangel ( the only archangel ) spoke. Words begging for forgiveness on their tongue burned in their mouth. “I have nothing to atone for,” their words were a lot less confident than they intended; they were spoken so softly that it was scarcely a whisper.

They didn’t take any steps toward or away from Uriel, mortal fear keeping their feet glued in place. But their eyes met with Uriel’s own. “My opinion matters more than yours. At least I don’t what is the right one; at least I’m not just parroting some sort of propaganda fed to me.” Their eyes stuttered down and away from staring at Uriel.

Their mouth opened to speak, “I—”

They couldn’t force anything out from their throat. They had missed Uriel — once knowing a camaraderie so strong that it’d made Zadkiel believe in something other than love for God — and they didn’t want to admit that to Uriel. Simeon didn’t want to admit it to Uriel because they knew that Uriel would simply laugh, or call them foolish, or lost.

location: church open: anyone that wants to deal with him

It had been late – or getting late. The sun had set, the wind was picking up, and winter finally filled into the crevices of the town. Most people ( humans ) were probably cozy at home, relaxingnafter a busy day of work. However, angels didn’t have that alleged privilege - they were always working, always sacrificing for God. 

And why wouldn’t they? His word had been the only one that mattered.

And right now, their job had been WAR. Slowly, but surely, churches like these would be filled with fanatics. All of them demanding for the holy war, practically begging for it. The world had been plagued with sins for too long ( and it was time to set it ablaze ). 

Stepping forth, he approached the votive candles, all while hearing someone else enter the empty church. It would be silly to think he was the ONLY one praying ( no, no they would soon have an entire army praying ). 

“They say you light candles with the thought of someone in mind, praying for their soul.”

“So, here’s to those who shall lose the war.” The holy war, disgraced angels and fickle minded humans alike. 

“They say that you can feel angels in churches at night, too,” Simeon said, “Am I not right, Uriel?” There was never any mistaking the words that Uriel himself used. All that pro-war agenda, all those pretty words with a pretty voice ( one that Simeon had once hung onto each word for — and there was still a part of them hoping for the day that Uriel would know that Zadkiel was lost long before they were disgraced ) and a pretty face.

But now Uriel made Simeon feel ill. The sharp twist of their stomach ached and burned in the presence of the archangel. All they wanted to do was leave — they wanted to run and go back to Sloane ( who was no doubt poring over more newspapers, or articles, or perhaps she’d even finally fallen asleep ) but that wasn’t where their feet took them. Instead they walked further into the church, into a place that they felt nothing but forsaken. Simeon believed in God still, perhaps, but they didn’t believe in His angels anymore. They were all nothing but apathetic — they were all nothing but agents of destruction when they should have been bringers of hope.

Thea took a deep breath in; her stomach churned as the other approached: a feeling that she ascribed to the unfortunate aftermath of a hard shift in her ER residency. Azrael laughed again, crueler than she knew it, adding to her discomfit. She panicked mildly, fist crumpling her napkin further in addition to her own embarrassment at being caught daydreaming.

She ignored the queasy feeling; she had experienced it enough all throughout her unfortunate and confusing stay in Kansas. She’d never experienced such spells throughout her whole life, being of a heartier build than her own sister.

“It’s nothing,” she said hastily. “Honestly just the production of a lack of sleep and inattention on my own part,” she added on, unwilling to show them the likeness of themselves and admit to anyone the attention she’d been paying.

It wasn’t discomfort per se that discouraged her: they seemed friendly enough, taking a seat across from her, wide smile in place, a hallmark southern kindness. She returned it out of a sense of duty and not out of desire, bedside manner kicking in instinctively. “I’m Thea,” she said, as if it answered any of the questions they’d posed.

“It’s nice to meet you, Simeon,” she offered, although distinctly aware she felt nothing of the sort.

“Nice to meet you too, Thea,” they said, pausing before adding, “but you didn’t answer anything I asked.” There was something wrong here. Thea didn’t seem to be a puppet for Azrael to speak through — in fact, it didn’t seem like Azrael had any control over this prophet… was she a prophet? What was she.

What are you? that’s what Simeon wanted to ask, what are you and why do you feel like a prophet.

The nauseous feeling only got worse, and they couldn’t stop the uncomfortable twist of their mouth when a particularly bad pang of it shot up their throat, the acidic taste of bile burning it.

“You’re so weird.” There was nothing but fondness in her voice as she teased their odd taste preferences. It was dangerous, how much comfort Sloane took in her fingers intertwined with Simeon’s, their thumb brushing over the back of her hand. Only maybe it was more dangerous for them. Who would look after them if…–no. Sloane couldn’t afford to think like that. 

But Simeon needed looking after, capable as they were. Concern worked its way across her features as Sloane studied them carefully. Acid reflux, they said, like that was a normal issue for them. Sloane knew better, and Simeon would know she did. And they seemed better for now, so there was no sense calling them on it when they were likely just sparing her feelings.

“How soft they’ve made you.”

She looked down at her pancakes and bit the inside of her cheek, hard. Act normal, act normal, act fucking normal, she told herself. Simeon had asked a question. “I can tell you what they asked.” Sloane went rigid, forcing her face still, forcing herself to take a long, slow breath, her fingers tightening around Simeon’s. “Um…yeah…” she mumbled at her pancakes, hopeful the vague answer was enough to ease any suspicion for now. 

The change in topic was a welcome distraction; she looked up at them with a smile, hoping they wouldn’t notice the cracks. “Don’t know how you taste it with all that cream.” As if Sloane could talk, her own drink sweetened with two sugar packets though she had yet to take a sip. “That is so not a fair trade.” Her smile came easier now. “The pancakes are cold and you’re gonna think they’re way too sweet, but have at it.” Sloane pushed her plate toward them, taking advantage of the space cleared in front of her to move the newspaper, turning it around so it was facing Simeon. 

“Anyways, I think I’ve found us some decent leads. There’s a university here, you know how the angles love an impressionable audience. And there’s some journalist coming to town? Or she might already be here. I didn’t check the date on the paper but I doubt this is a weekly publication.”

Simeon had a breath of relief wash over them when Sloane accepted the flimsy excuse for why they’d gotten sick — she probably knew better, but was just humouring them, but they weren’t going to call her out on it either. They just wanted to soothe some of her worries and, unfortunately sometimes that means that you have to lie sometimes.

They breathed out a laugh at her calling them weird. “Yeah, maybe a little bit,” they agreed.

But Simeon didn’t miss that Sloane glided over their question, didn’t miss that her fingers tightened in theirs. Something was wrong — but what was wrong? Simeon didn’t want to jump to conclusions ( they didn’t want to jump to the likely conclusions ) and so they ignored the signs. Maybe they were getting soft, but they also had never been anything else.

A laugh, bright and just that little bit too loud, popped out of Simeon at comment about how they take their coffee. “At least I don’t put sugar in mine,” they said, smile on their face, “I don’t know how you drink something hot and sweet.” Simeon grabbed their fork, popping it in their mouth to get the rest of the tabasco off of it before they got to sample Sloane’s pancakes. “Iced coffee can be sweet but not hot coffee, y’know?”

Simeon stabbed a few cut up pieces of pancake thoroughly drenched in syrup until their fork was loaded, and shoved them into their mouth as Sloane spoke. They made a face at the sickly sweet taste of the syrup on their tongue, but still chewed the soggy pieces and swallowed. “Universities are always a safe bet to investigate,” they agreed. “There’s probably a few nephilim fucking shit up there too — those things like the university scene too.” Simeon forked another piece of pancake. “I think it’s because those uni years for people are just wild.” Not that Simeon themself would know from experience, but they could make an educated guess just from having watched humans for years.

“These are disgusting, Sloane,” Simeon said with a smile, and took another bite of her pancakes, “I don’t know how you get these at each diner.”

location: general coffee shop time: is a societal construct availability: everyone x

It wasn’t late per se; it was just late for her, considering the number of hours she’d slept in the last 24 hours – at least less than 3 hours, by her own estimation – after the 12 hour shift she’d just gotten off of. The coffee shop was buzzing with people gearing up for a full day; she caffeinated for the sake of routine, daydreaming idly as people brushed by her table by the window. She should’ve been sleeping, to be perfectly honest, but the sun was shining, and energy was too high for her to manage it: Azrael was leaving to her own devices.

Hand guided by precision borne of anatomical charts, she watched as the coffee crowd inched forward towards the register, doodling on the napkin next to her, likenesses of everyone popping up in every form on her napkin. The crowd swelled; her hand did not: noticing suddenly the object of her focus wandering closer (either on purpose or by chance she did not know), she crumpled the napkin in her fist, blood rushing to her face.

“Sorry,” she murmured softly, laying her head down on her arm, simultaneously embarrassed and tired, low enough to be dismissed; loud enough to be counted as a reasonable apology. “If I was staring,” she clarified.

Simeon didn’t usually look for prophets when they were just running in to get coffee for Sloane and them, usually on the way to a more important epicentre for angelic activity than the shithole they decided to stop in — but this was different, this was somewhere that had a concentration of angels. This was somewhere that Simeon wanted to know why they ere was such a grand amount of angels — wanted to know why there was such a large number of any sort of holy being ( though an angel would never call an nephilim ‘holy’ they certainly fit the bill for normal humans ).

There was the queasy feeling in their stomach — the unmistakeable tang of Azrael in the back part of Simeon’s throat — and that is what had them drawn to the lady drawing in her own little part of the shop. They had ordered and quickly turned to her. Had quickly walked to her and, having plastered a soft and warm smile on their face said the words, “No, no, it’s okay.” Simeon motioned to the now-crumpled napkin. “What are you drawing? Will you show me? I’ve always had an interest in art.”

It wasn’t a lie, as Zadkiel, Simeon had found it so fascinating what the humans interpreted the angels to be — had found humanity and its art so fascinating that they had considered disgracement hundreds of years before it happened to them.

“Please, don’t be embarrassed. Just show me, then we’re even.” Simeon took the seat opposite the lady. “You may call me Simeon, by the way,” they said, smile never leaving their face as the nauseous feeling got worse — this was a prophet, but not a traditional one ( what was she if not a prophet in the proper sense? ), “Who are you?”

The thought stuck in Simeon’s mind — what are you?

That low, easy laugh was a check to Sloane’s frayed nerves, the kind only Simeon could have offered. She couldn’t give into the voice in her head, she wouldn’t, because it wasn’t just herself she was hanging on for. “Says the one with an entire pepper shaker on their eggs,” she grumbled back, though she put down her knife and stabbed a fork into the mess she’d made with slightly less force. She answered their question with a nod as she chewed, the sweetness of the syrup turning bland at their addition. Ask them why they have a feeling. 

Simeon’s fingers brushed against hers, anchoring her in her own thoughts, and she laced her fingers through theirs without thinking about – for her own comfort this time, though she couldn’t admit why. She couldn’t even look at them as she nodded her agreement. “I have the same feeling.” There were always angels around her, or at least there was always angel around her. “Are you feeling better?” She asked abruptly, turning her focus to Simeon for a moment in the hopes of chasing the angel away before they got down to business. I’m never gone, Sloaney, not even when you don’t hear me.

Simeon laughed again, smiling wide at the comment about their own food. “I just really like pepper.” The threading of their fingers with hers made Simeon’s shoulders relax — releasing the tension that had been sitting in them unknown to themself. There was just something about her that made them relax.

Attachment, they thought, so human.

They pet Sloane’s hand with their thumb, swallowing when she steered the conversation to how they were feeling. “I— yeah, I, uh,” they stuttered out, shoving another forkful of heavily peppered egg into their mouth; giving themself a moment to gather their thoughts. “I think I just didn’t eat soon enough. Acid reflux, y’know? And you combine that with the shit ride we have right now? No wonder I threw up.”

Simeon paused.

“Do you think that we’ll find the angels that are jockeying the prophets in this town soon?” There was something about this town ( or was it Sloane herself? No, it couldn’t be her ) that was putting Simeon on edge and it wouldn’t do well to have both of them agitated or not thinking straight.

Keep your mind focused, Simeon, they’d tell themself, Your duty is to humanity first and individual humans second.

But they didn’t believe that. They wanted nothing more than to know that Sloane would live a long and happy life. They didn’t care if that included them or not, but they knew that they wanted her to live life to the fullest — to have love and happiness and contentment. To not have to worry about the angels or the holy war or anything of the sort.

They swallowed a gulp of coffee. “Can say that this ‘best in town’ coffee is shit though.” They laughed, but took another drink of the coffee ( four cream; no sugar ) and pulled a face when they got a bit of grounds in their mouth. They continued to pet Sloane’s hand with their thumb, not once moving to pull apart their threaded hands. “How’s your pancakes? Can I try a bite? I’ll give you some… uh.” They looked down at their mostly eaten and thoroughly picked apart breakfast — having tabasco sauce spread over everything on top of the too much pepper. “…Toast?” They motioned to the single piece of bitten, blackberry jam-covered toast, then gave Sloane a grin. “Please? It’s a fair trade.”

Sloane: what little things matter the most to you?

“Steady breathing in the backseat of the car while I drive; the pages turning through a good book; the taste of mint?” Simeon laughed. “Some of those are kinda specific, but those are what matter to me.”

Eydie: do you consider yourself an optimist?

Uriel: who or what deserves your utmost dedication?

Ramiel: describe a moment when you felt all was lost.

Zadkiel dropped to their knees, tears in their prophet’s eyes — in their eyes — the hollow ache in their chest was maddening. There was almost nothing that they would not do to get back into God’s good graces; almost nothing they wouldn’t do to get their grace back.

But their prayers weren’t answered.

The whispered pleas were ignored, and it was the first time that Zadkiel felt the emptiness that their shredded remnants of grace had left them with. God wouldn’t be saving them. God didn’t care.

They had chosen humanity, and for that God turned His back on His creation.

Levi: what line can never be uncrossed?

Simeon frowned, their mouth pinching together. They searched their coffee cup for the right answer and came up wanting. “I don’t know,” they said, shaking their head, “at least… nothing that I want to tell you.”

A line that can never be uncrossed is when you choose humanity over divinity, Simeon thought, you will never be holy again after that.

Starry Night: Do you enjoy watching the sky and daydreaming?

“I do.” Simeon kept the words simple, knowing that they were on thin ice with saying the wrong thing. With letting their previous life be known — letting the other bounty hunters know that they used to be the very thing that they were hunting; that they were no better than any other angel, having stolen the body of a prophet to use as their own.

“How about yourself?” they asked the other hunter talking to them, “What makes you dream?”

The Creation of Adam: What is your favourite story from Mythology? Do you have any favourite Fables or Fairytales?

The Scream: How easy/hard is it for someone to startle or make you lose focus?

Simeon flicked their eyes up from where they were staring at the yellowed countertop of the diner Sloane and them had stopped at. She was in the washroom, and this stranger was asking questions that Simeon didn’t quite want to answer. They swallowed, mouth feeling dry. They reached for the coffee that was cooling in front of them and took a sip. “I mean, in this profession, you have to have a good resolve.” It wasn’t an answer.

The answer was that it was easier than it should be. That Simeon could lose focus of the grand scheme of things easily ( and wasn’t their grace being nothing but shreds be proof of that enough? ) and that they would fight and die for something that might not even be the original cause.

They thought of Sloane. They thought of how they would kill for her to keep her safe. They thought of how much of a distraction that was.

They drank more of their coffee.

Pietà: Name something that tugs at your heartstrings.

There was a flash of a sad expression on their face. A bite of their bottom lip. “You really ask the hard questions, don’t you?” they said to the stranger, “I have to say… I’m not sure.”

Bullshit.

If Simeon were to be truthful, it would be the moment that their fellow angels turned against them and clawed their grace out. The betrayal in their own voice as they screamed, and the cold words from their brethren was something that still stabbed them in the chest when they thought about it.

“Yeah, I’m not sure.”

Christina’s World: Is there anything you long for?

Simeon thought first of their grace returning — never happened before, why would it happen to them? — and then they thought of Sloane, and they thought of human things; thought of family and camaraderie and other things with such fondness that they couldn’t form words.

Where: Nondescript local diner Who: All ya’ll 

If Sloane had learned anything in her time on the move, it was that nearly every random town in the Midwest looked the same. And if she’d learned anything else, it was that once you looked closer they were all distinctly different. They had their own history, their own charm, their own magic, their own angels. Every town had them these days, or it felt like it. Every town we’re in has one, Sloaney, the angel in her own head taunted. Sloane’s jaw tightened, her fingers gripping the dinner knife on the countertop before her and driving it into her pancakes with more force than necessary. 

She’d been reading over a local newspaper, food and coffee (the best in town, according to the flickering neon sign in the window) getting cold as she pored over the pages for any sign of angelic activity until the voice needled at her again. Now, she was taking her anger out on her pancakes, slicing them to shreds until her plate looked like a murder scene coated in maple syrup. It was only when she heard the soft sound of someone’s throat clearing that she looked up with a scowl. “What?”

Simeon tucked into their breakfast as Sloane pored over the local newspaper — having ordered the special with medium poached eggs and multigrain toast to go with the greasy sausage, bacon, and soggy hashbrowns that came with it — it was one of the things that they both liked and disliked about being disgraced — having to eat. But they couldn’t ignore that Sloane was slicing up her pancakes in the way that screamed ‘DISTRACTED’ and ‘STRESSED’.

So they cleared their throat to get her attention.

The rough reply that they got from it didn’t deter them, having dealt with Sloane in a far worse mood before. “You should eat your pancakes before they get cold,” Simeon said, the words quiet, “I still don’t know how you can eat them with so much syrup.” A laugh, low and easy, before speaking again, “Find anything?” They nodded toward the newspaper as they reached across the scuffed tabletop to gently brush their hand against hers — showing that they wouldn’t mind holding her hand if she needed the comfort ( or more that they needed the comfort, who knew? ). “There has to be some here,” they said, “I just have a feeling about it.”

Because I used to be an angel, Simeon added in their head, I know because I know the feeling of another angel being around.

But Simeon couldn’t shake that they’d had the feeling of an angel being around for the last hundred miles — the queasy gut feeling had hit them hard enough that they had made Sloane pull over so they could be sick on the side of the road. They couldn’t tell her why that had happened. She’d hate them, that was something made clear by how much she hated the angels.

How much she hated their previous brothers- and sisters-in-arms.

A bite of the cooling hashbrowns, the pepper haphazardly shaken onto it burning on the tip of their tongue, and they let out a small sigh. “There’s always angels around anymore.”

Venus De Milo: Do you believe that everyone deserves a second chance, no matter what they’ve been through in the past?

Simeon: what is a belief you would fight for?

Uriel: who or what deserves your utmost dedication?

Sloane: what little things matter the most to you?

Tucker: what does "living your best life" mean to you?

Eydie: do you consider yourself an optimist?

Juliette: how far would you go for love?

Logan: what's worse: the ugly truth, or a pretty lie?

Irene: what do you think makes you who you are?

Amalthea: how do you cope with loss?

Laviah: if you could spend a day in the life of anyone, who would it be?

Ramiel: describe a moment when you felt all was lost.

Valentina: what would you sacrifice for love? what wouldn't you sacrifice for love?

Levi: what line can never be uncrossed?