In the Night

Three days passed.

Jemma sat on the floor of the shower after Azrael had left for a solid hour until a nurse finally came searching for the missing patient. The night passed slowly, but The Reaper never returned and she was released the next day. Dr. Jacobs made her promise to stay home for the rest of the week. She reluctantly agreed.

On Thursday, she finally gathered up every ounce of strength she had and called to make arrangements for her father's funeral. He said that he wanted to be cremated when he died, always muttering something about how he refused to have his coffin go sliding down a hillside if they were to have a flash flood, usually topping off the statement by expressing his dislike toward worms. The memory made a smile grace her lips, the action feeling almost foreign to her. It felt like an eternity had passed between her and the last time she had displayed any happiness, and the muscles in her cheeks were out of shape.

She set a date. She ordered flowers. She called his friends and requested their presence. She planned a funeral.

It was a bit surreal to her, knowing that he father wouldn't be calling her, or cooking for her, or helping her work on her car anymore. It made her heart twinge with a painful ache. It felt like her mind couldn't quite catch up to the new reality, like the pattern of her life and his presence in it had worn a heavy trail that wouldn't be fading any time soon.

On Friday, as rain plummeted to the ground outside, she lounged about, tending to her wound and catching up on television series' that had backed up on her recorded list. It felt strained though, like she was trying to fit the oddly shaped piece of normalcy into the strange new puzzle that was her life. It just didn't work; one corner stuck up too far.

Azrael never reappeared. Jemma had been looking over her shoulder constantly, but he never showed up. He had simply used her and vanished, leaving her naked, injured, and trembling in the hospital.

She tried not to think about their encounter in the shower because the warm shiver that coiled up her spine made her feel guilty. She shouldn't have liked it. He was The Reaper, Death. He had taken everything away from her, everyone she loved. She should hate him, but she didn't. He was fighting his nature to be with her. He was trying and she could see that, even if his violence usually won out. She couldn't hate him for what he was.

Some time around midnight, she finally heaved a sigh, her eyes stinging against the harsh light blaring from the television. She flicked a button on the remote to turn off the set before she climbed to her feet, dropping the throw blanket on her lap over the back of the couch. Rain pattered against her windows as she made her way quietly down the hall, her back stiff so that she didn't bend over on her stab wound. After changing into a pair of short royal blue cotton shorts and a plain black t-shirt, she flipped off her bedroom light and climbed into her bed. The thick, warm comforter was a welcome feeling over her body and she promptly shut her eyes, intending to fall asleep to the steady thrum of rain outside.

She was in an odd state of half-consciousness, as though she were drifting on the hazy edge of dreamscape and reality, when a warm hand wrapped around hers under the blanket and near the edge of the bed. Her eyes snapped open with immediate alertness and her heart instantly began hammering in her chest. She sucked in a sharp breath between her teeth as she slowly turned her head to face the side of her bed, staring directly into a pair of red eyes.

Her chest tightened painfully as fear coursed through her. Memories flooded back, washing over her and pulling her under to suffocate her with what they held. Something akin to panic welled in her gut and she was frozen in place for a moment. Was he going to hurt her? Frighten her? Force himself on her? She couldn't handle that.

This was the first time that she had felt such extreme, true anxiety around him. She hadn't cried in a while, her tear ducts stitching closed and refusing to leak any emotion. The sheer panic that floated through her veins caused her to sit up suddenly, breathing fast and hard. Her chest constricted, feeling like her ribs would crack under the pressure. She yanked her hand out of Azrael's and clambered over to the other side of the bed, hunching forward and gulping deep breaths of air.

She half expected him to appear beside her and laugh, or comfort her, depending of what kind of mood he was in, but he didn't. For that, she was grateful. As she sucked air into her lungs, the darkness around her stopped shrinking inward and slowly started to recede back. A few minutes ticked by before she regained control over herself, smoothing out her dark curls with a shaky hand. Azrael was silent behind her.

Jemma got to her feet, perhaps a bit to quickly as the blood rushed to the rest of her body and she saw dancing flecks dotting her vision. The rain poured down harder outside as she quickly flipped on her light, spinning to face Azrael. She wanted him to cringe away from the brightness, to cower into the shadows and beg her to turn it off.

The Reaper was slumped on the floor, leaning against her bed. His legs were stretched out in front of him and his black slacks were tattered, several gashes marring his skin below. His hands were piled on his lap, his fingers and knuckles bloody and slightly swollen. Her eyes traveled up his chest, his ebony button-up torn and revealing his tanned, muscular torso beneath riddled with cuts. The shirt looked darker in spots and seemed to cling to his skin with blood.

When her blue gaze landed on his face, she couldn't help but let out a slight gasp. There was a vicious bruise on the edge of his jaw and his bottom lip was split open, leaking blood down his chin. His nose was an angry red and slightly distended. A long cut extended from beneath his eye and diagonally down over his cheek, similarly oozing blood. He had a cut above his eyebrow that was surrounded by a raised bruise.

She took a small step back as something black flickered across his forehead before disappearing. A defeated look crossed Azrael's face and he dropped his eyes to the floor at her feet, the strange facade fading away all together.

The same tall man was sitting in front of her, with the same ebony hair and scarlet irises, but his left eye now had a hazy film over it, dulling its vibrancy, and a long, rough black scar ran from his temple to his jaw. He raised his arms stiffly, his hands shaking slightly as he unbuttoned his ripped shirt to reveal his torso and chest riddled with similar jagged black lines, zigzagging between his injuries.

"It...it takes its toll," he whispered, his voice wavering.

Jemma stared at him, hating herself for wanting nothing more than to run over and pull him into her arms. She forced her heart to harden as she crossed her arms tightly over her chest.

"You're pathetic," she spat, nearly cringing at the sharp edge to her words. "How's it feel? To be the weak one? To be the one lying on the floor, hurt?" She cocked her head to the side, opening and shutting her jaw awkwardly.

Azrael continued to stare at the ground, his entire body trembling faintly. She felt a sick sense of pleasure at his sign of weakness. It disgusted her. She didn't want to be like him.

She needed this, though. He had hurt her, and she needed to get in a few digs.

Jemma stalked toward him, crouching down at his feet. "Do they hurt?" she hissed.

Azrael slowly lifted his eyes to hers, a weakness in them that she had never seen before. Warmth radiated from him, and when she looked closely, she could see the tiny heat waves his body gave off.

"Yes," he coughed.

"You bleed like a pig." The muscle in her jaw jumped slightly, "Can Death die?"

Azrael flinched slightly, dropping his eyes back to her feet, "I'm sorry for what I have done, Jemma."

"Your word means nothing to me."

Azrael was silent in response, his sore hands balling into fists. Jemma frowned, her gentle nature and guilty conscience finally winning out. She pushed his legs apart and moved toward him, situating herself between his thighs. The Reaper looked up at her when she placed a hand on his hot chest, blatant confusion marring his injured face. Despite all his bloody injuries, he was still strikingly handsome, and the memories of their intimate time together sent her heart racing faster than it already was.

It was his turn to surprise her as he wrapped his arms loosely around her waist, his head bobbing forward slightly to rest on her shoulder. His arms tightened around her, holding her firmly against his bloody chest. She tentatively wrapped her arms around his torso in response, resting her head against his collar bone.

They sat like that for a long while, the only thing breaking the silence being the rain hitting her bedroom window. Jemma gently pulled away to tug aside the collar of her shirt from beneath his lips, using her other hand to lightly stroke his hair.

"You're injured," Azrael murmured against her skin, understanding what she was subtly hinting at and placing a light hand to where her bandaging was.

"That didn't stop you last time," she retorted.

Azrael cringed slightly, "I apolog--"

"Just do it and stop your sniveling," she growled, pressing his lips against her shoulder. After a moment of hesitation, he pulled away slightly, her soul vying free of her skin to travel after him. Jemma could feel his body cooling as he drew on her spirit. He broke off a moment later, placing a light kiss on her collar bone.

Weakened, Jemma leaned heavily against his chest, her fingers trailing through his hair.

"Don't I scare you?" The Reaper whispered, splaying his fingers over her back.

"Yes."

"Why are you allowing me to be near you after what I did to you the other night?" he murmured.

"Because I want to help you. Because I don't want to be like you."

She felt Azrael tense against her.

"Because I'm kind and I have seen the same kindness in you," she said softly.

"Perhaps you don't understand the naivety of your words."

Jemma pulled back to gaze at him, her eyes roaming over his gashes. "I guess this is right about the time when you hurt me," she sighed, accepting her fate, "Right after we almost have a touching moment."

To her surprise, Azrael lightly cupped her chin, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to her lips. Jemma hesitated momentarily before returning the sign of affection, resting her hands lightly against his bare chest as his blood transferred to her lips. He pulled his mouth from hers after a moment, resting his forehead against hers. He didn't seem to mind that his cuts were pressed to her skin.

"You're a peculiar mortal," he murmured, his thumb brushing across her cheek.

"One that you care about," she said with a slight smile, repeating his words from their previous encounter. He stiffened and she instantly recoiled, starting to back away. Azrael quickly caught her by the waist, pulling her back against his chest. She pressed her hands against his shoulders, trying to escape.

"Azrael, please. I'm sorry. Please, let me go," she said quickly, realizing her mistake. Her breathing rate spiked and she felt that pressure squeezing her chest again. "Please, I can't breathe," she whimpered, choking on the last syllable. Azrael fought her squirming, struggling to his feet with her in his arms. He set her on the edge of the bed and stood between her knees, stroking her hair out of her face.

"Jemma, calm down. I'm not going to hurt you," he cooed. He gently patted her knee before pacing out of the room. He reappeared with a wet washcloth, returning to his spot between her legs. With a light touch, he wiped his blood from her lips and forehead before pressing the cool material to her cheek. Jemma slowly relaxed when she realized that he wouldn't hurt her, catching his wrist and taking the washcloth from him.

"Sit," instructed gently, slowly climbing to her feet. He balked slightly before doing as she said and resting on the edge of the bed. She began to tend to his wounds like she had a few days ago, tenderly dabbing at the gashes across his face.

"Why are they doing this to you?" she murmured, her brow furrowed.

"They're...unhappy," he offered tentatively.

"And why is that?"

"My realm isn't a pleasant place. They're trying to escape back to this world. The man who attacked you was possessed by a fugitive soul."

Jemma nodded slightly, carefully hiding her amazement that he was telling her about his world. She decided not to push it any further and fell silent, moving on to the cuts across his torso. She pulled her lip between her teeth as his abdominal muscles jumped under her touch.

By the time she was done cleaning his wounds, he was left only in his boxers, his tattered clothes piled on the floor. He was also trembling again, his teeth clenched. Jemma moved to her closet to change out of her clothes covered in his blood, pulling on a pair of gray shorts and a navy blue t-shirt.

She was exhausted now, turning back toward The Reaper. Azrael glanced over at her, climbing stiffly to his feet.

"Goodnight, Jemma," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead when she neared him.

She still wasn't used to his touch, still wary of him after the hospital, but she didn't tense up this time. "Are you leaving?"

Azrael faltered, "Would you like me to stay?"

"You're injured..."

"I'll be alright."

"Okay," she breathed, gazing up at him. She hesitantly reached up to trace the black scar along his face, "Will I see you soon?"

Azrael split a grin, reminiscent of the lively, gruesome Reaper Jemma had first met. "Why? Would you like me to share your bed again?" he murmured cockily.

Jemma dropped her eyes, a heat creeping across her cheeks and she felt her chest tightening again. Her hands shook as she backed away from him. "Goodnight, Azrael," she whispered hastily.

The Reaper frowned, grasping her chin to tilt her head up. He had been gaining back her trust, but know he feared he may have shattered it again. "Jemma, I didn't intend to take you that way." The woman felt an uncomfortably tight heat spread through her chest.

"Was it not enjoyable?" he murmured, trying to catch her gaze.

Jemma let out a shaky breath, trying to place distance between them, but he held her in place. "You forced me to," she mumbled, still trying to pull away. Instead of allowing her to move back, he stepped closer.

"I'd like to do it again. I'd like it if you wanted to do it again."

Jemma stiffened, her lips agape. "Azrael --"

He drowned the rest of her sentence with his lips, pulling her close. Jemma went limp in his arms, not even bothering to fight him anymore. He didn't seem to understand her discomfort.

Azrael pulled back abruptly when she didn't respond, tilting his head. He frowned, suddenly seeming to realize her hesitation. He gave a silent nod and lightly pushed her back toward the bed before flipping off the light.

"Goodnight, Jemma," he said softly.

She let out a soft breath, relief flooding through her as she scrambled under the blankets. When she looked up, he was across the room, perched in her armchair. He smiled at her, his dull eyes piercing the darkness. Rain pelted the window above his head.

Perhaps she would never understand him.