In the Night

Swiping to the next image, Jemma sat gazing at her phone in the hospital's break room. It was a picture of her and her father, grinning, arms clutched around each others' waists as they stood before a railing that separated them from a massive water fall. It was a few years old, but she distinctly remembered the day. It was during the summer, and they had huffed and puffed their way up a winding trail to reach their destination. Their conversation hadn't ceased the entire way, switching between humorous stories and world issues. It was a good day. She'd give anything to relive it.

It had been almost three days since her father's death. She knew she'd have to deal with the arrangements for his funeral soon, but she just couldn't bring herself to do it. She didn't think she'd be able to make arrangements for his body without falling into a depressed slump. It was too much to handle. She didn't want to believe that he was actually dead.

Jemma kept expecting to receive a phone call from him. She kept thinking that she would be able to go visit him and find him tinkering with something in the garage or whipping up a meal in the kitchen. She kept thinking everything would go back to being normal, that it would be happy and safe.

It wasn't, though, and it never would be again.

The next few hours poured by in a blur. She trailed along behind her training group, trying hard to focus on the explanations and examples Dr. Jacobs was giving, but it proved to be difficult. Brett hovered beside her, occasionally trying to help her stay on topic, knowing that she was distracted by many other things. She knew that she should probably be at home, grieving and stitching her life back together. Her apartment was no longer her safe haven, though. It wasn't just the fact that Azrael was always hanging around her, but that she couldn't allow herself to remain idle. If she spent too much time thinking about the entire situation she was in, with her father's death and The Reaper's presence, she'd curl up in a ball and never face the light of day again.



Around midnight, Jemma gathered her things to leave. With a deep sigh, she stepped out into the cool night air, pulling her black jacket tighter around her shoulders. She'd walked that morning, and she was actually grateful. The fresh night air cleared her head, allowed her to really think. Besides, who could be lurking in the shadows that was worse than Azrael?

She was proud of herself. She'd made it through the shift. She'd managed to keep herself together despite the pitying looks and sympathetic words she received all day. She didn't want their condolences; she wanted her father back.

Her thoughts were swimming, dulling her outer senses. It didn't even register in her mind that a second set of footfalls had joined hers, so she was taken by complete surprise when a hand wove into her hair and yanked her into the bleak alleyway she was passing. The hand was rough, practically ripping her curly locks from her scalp and causing the roots to burn. A strangled cry of surprise escaped her throat as she swatted at the offending limb.

Her attacker quickly silenced her, though, slamming her head back against the wall, a sickening thud coming from the connection of her skull against the brick. Black dots immediately fizzled across her vision, vaguely reminiscent of a static television station. Her only utterance was a low groan as pain flared across the back of her head and spread down her neck.

"So you're The Reaper's whore," came a putrid, gravelly voice. The man used his grip on her hair to twist her head to face him. The dull light from the street lamp cut into the dark shadows of the alley, allowing Jemma a glimpse of her attacker. He looked to be a normal man, with short brown hair and a lanky frame. His eyes were solid black, though, like the ebony of his pupils had flooded into the whites of his eyes.

Jemma's throat suddenly felt dry, her voice sealed up in her chest, locking away her words of protest. Fear squeezed its hateful fingers around her heart, and she felt paralyzed, her legs leaden and her eyes wide.

The man's head was cocked threateningly to the side, his free hand brandishing a kitchen knife like he had casually meandered into the street with the utensil.

"I suppose if I kill you, The Reaper can always find another bitch to fuck and bear his wretched spawn," he said sourly, his face utterly expressionless. "But he seems pretty infatuated with you, so your death may actually serve a purpose."

Jemma trembled, life suddenly springing to her from the tips of her fingers and spreading through the rest of her body. She lurched to the right, trying to jerk out of the man's grasp. She struggled, kicking out and clawing at the hand so deeply knotted in her hair. Her movements came to a sudden halt as the man sank the blade into her abdomen, to the far left between her ribs.

The pain wasn't immediate, but slow to come and dulled by adrenaline. The feeling of her skin being forcibly separated by the sharp object made her stomach heave. A stuttering breath left her lips as she raised her eyes to the man, her hands coming up to grip around her wound. Warm, wet blood slicked her hands. She gave a sharp cry as the man twisted the blade and the finely serrated edge shaved across her fingers. He shoved her back against the wall, savagely yanking the knife from her body.

That's when the pain really hit her. An aching throb spread across her stomach, centering around the wound in a pulsating burn. She pressed her palms against it, trying to stop the torrent of blood that soaked her scrub shirt. She tried to stumble away, her legs wobbling beneath her. The man cackled behind her and jerked her back to him. He raised the knife again, her own blood dripping from the point to splatter onto the dirty ground below. He was preparing to deal his final blow through her neck just as a third party entered the fray.

Jemma watched in stunned silence as Azrael appeared behind her attacker. He placed his large hands on either side of the man's head, his fingers digging into his eyes and skin as he savagely forced his head to the side, snapping his spine. The harsh crack of his neck rang in the confined alleyway, followed by the dull thud of his body piling to the ground as Azrael released him. The Reaper bent over him, pressing his hand to the top of his skull and drawing something wicked from his body.

In her disoriented mind, a sudden realization dawned upon her: Azrael was coming to collect her soul. The sick bastard had been screwing with her all along. That's why he was here. He didn't care that she wanted to live. He hadn't even bothered to warn her of her scheduled end date. He was planning on letting her bleed out. She refused to let him have the satisfaction. The hospital was less than a half mile away. She could make it. She could live.

Her eyes darted from the dead man heaped on the dirty asphalt to Azrael. Still clutching her seeping wound, she tried to turn and run. Maybe she could actually escape Death. Before she reached the street, her feet betrayed her. They tangled beneath her and she shoved out her arms to cushion her fall, the bits of dirt and gravel on the ground mixing with the warm blood on her hands to create a sticky paste.

"Jemma, stop," Azrael said softly behind her, his polished shoes tapping quickly on the ground as he approached her. Jemma rolled onto her back, panting from the exertion and letting out an agonized sound to express her pain. She tried to stand, her slick hands pushing at the ground and her legs shuffling weakly in front of her.

"Stay away from me! I don't want to die!" she sobbed, unable to get to her feet, her abdomen fiercely protesting the movement.

Suddenly, warm hands were cradling her face and a hot body was straddling her legs. Azrael crouched before her, careful not to disturb her injuries.

"Your time has not expired," he said forcefully, restrainedly, trying to get her to focus on him.

"You killed that man. Y-Y-You just snapped his neck," she whispered, shaking from both the cold air breezing past them and the shock her body was going into. She'd never be able to get the image of the fatal crack of his neck out of her head.

"He was going to kill you, Jemma," he hissed desperately, pressing his forehead to hers and peering into her wild eyes. "He wasn't living, anyway. He was already dead, a deceased soul come back to this realm." He pushed her disheveled hair out of her face, her locks dampened with sweat. "You need to go back to the hospital."

Jemma clutched at his pristine black shirt with bloodied hands, her head dropping to his shoulder as he lifted her into his arms. He didn't seem to mind as her blood soaked into his clothing, much more concerned with the injured woman he cradled.

"I'm sorry I was too late," he breathed against her forehead as he strode down the side walk, surprising her. He'd never apologized to her for the pain he'd inflicted. She curled against his muscular chest, ignoring the harsh twinge that flared in her side.

Before she could register the darkness, she was floating somewhere far away, a fogginess spreading in her aching skull.

"Dammit, Jemma, stay with me!"

Azrael's voice was distant, separated from her by a warm sea of nothingness. She slipped into the wonderful abyss moments before they reached the hospital, the darkness cloaking her mind.



A steady beeping reached Jemma's ears, dragging her to consciousness from beneath her thick blanket of sleep. She struggled to open her eyes, met by a dull light coming from somewhere in the room. It took her a moment to get her bearings, her vision hazy at first.

She was lying in a hospital bed, wearing a thin cotton gown with a thick, pale blue blanket tucked around her. The rhythmic sound was coming from the monitor beside her bed, and her eyes traveled up the wires that connected her to the machine.

Her blue irises landed on a muscled figure sitting in a chair by her bedside. Azrael's forehead was resting on his arm atop the bed, his broad shoulders slumped forward, his tall body looking slightly awkward hunched the way he was.

Jemma stared at the back of his head, fixated on his thick black hair.

She didn't know what to think or feel. She'd been stabbed. He'd saved her, but the horrific image of him snapping her attacker's neck played in her mind like it was on an endless loop. Should she take into account what he had told her? That the man was already dead? He had even apologized. Could she trust him, though? Could she believe him? She wasn't so sure.

Even so, she tentatively reached out, lightly touching his hair. Emboldened, she gently combed her fingers through his tresses, surprised that his ebony locks were so soft. Azrael tilted his head slightly to press his scalp more firmly against her palm, making a soft sound of enjoyment in the back of his throat. Startled by his movement, Jemma hastily drew her hand away. Of course he was awake.

She pressed her hand into the mattress, attempting to sit up only to wince as a sharp pain coiled up her side. Azreal pushed a large hand against her chest, gently forcing her to lie back down.

"They had to remove your spleen. The knife pierced it and you were bleeding out. Take it easy," he murmured, sitting up and lacing his fingers through hers. Jemma stared up into vibrant hazel eyes, surprised at the change in color. Azreal smiled, looking far less threatening than he normally did, "I can't very well take you into the hospital with red eyes. They'd all think I was a vampire," he chuckled.

She liked the sound of his laugh. She liked the way he smiled. He seemed almost human for a moment.

"Please don't tell me vampires are real, too," she groaned softly, her voice cracking under the strain of speaking.

"Don't be absurd. Of course they aren't."

"Really? That's where fantasy draws the line?" she croaked.

His grin widened at her words as he stroked the side of her cheek with his free hand. His features fell into something more serious, his eyes tender.

"I wanted so much to enjoy your pain," he whispered, sounding almost ashamed of his natural instinct.

Jemma swallowed the lump in her throat, shifting slightly under his touch.

"But I didn't. I couldn't. I couldn't lose you. I helped you instead, Jemma." He spoke softly, gazing at her with childlike expectancy, like he was waiting for her to speak her approval of his actions.

Jemma blinked at the black-clad creature before her. He seemed to be filled with surprises.

"I...I know. Thank you," she murmured, tentatively giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

"I can be kind, Jemma. Does this prove it?"

The injured woman stared up at him, uncertain of his sudden behavior. "It's...a good first step," she offered.

Jemma wasn't expecting to be met with the sad look of pure rejection that Azrael gave her. His handsome face was contorted with confusion and hurt, and he blinked several times, as though trying to process that she wasn't satisfied with him yet, even though he was trying so hard. For the first time since she had met him, he looked utterly defeated. His whole being seemed to deflate with disappointment.

She felt a pang of guilt in her chest, trying to sit up once more, only to have him press her back into the mattress again.

"Azrael, you've hurt me," she stated simply, wishing that her heart wasn't taking so much pity on The Reaper. "It's going to take time to undo everything."

He nodded, his brow furrowed as he started to lean back in his chair. He stopped suddenly, though, as she wove her fingers through his hair, gently tugging him back to her.

"Thank you for saving me," she murmured, gazing up at him.

She knotted her other hand in his dark hair and pulled him closer, bringing her lips to his. Azrael was caught off guard, hovering halfway between sitting and standing, his hands propping himself up on either side of her torso so that he didn't crush her. It was the first time she had ever initiated any physical contact. It wasn't like all the other kisses they had shared. It was mutual and tender. One party wasn't fighting the other. They were both willing.

She stroked his scalp, her lips moving in time with his, amazed at the gentleness he was demonstrating. She still partially expected him to jab at her wound and cause her pain, but he didn't.

Someone cleared their throat from the doorway, causing the pair to separate in surprise. They both looked up at the intruder.

Brett was staring at the pair, his expression blank.