In the Night

Two weeks passed. Two weeks of wonderful solitude. Jemma woke up in the morning alone, she left for the hospital undisturbed during the day, and she came home to an empty, quiet apartment. Azrael stayed away and she couldn't be happier. Granted, she was still wary and she shied away from the shadows, but she was glad nonetheless.

It was Saturday once again. She had another date that evening with Brett. Their first date had gone off without a hitch. They had gone to see a movie; a comedy. She had requested something lighthearted. Tonight, they were going out for a nice meal at a small, local steakhouse.

Jemma also planned to visit her father the next day. She was trying to make more of a point to go see him so that he didn't worry about her. Their encounter a couple weekends ago hadn't been on the most uplifting terms, but she was determined to change that. He was all she had left, after all, and she wouldn't have him stressing about how she was faring in life.

Now, Jemma was standing in front of her bathroom mirror, getting ready for her night out. She was intent on having a fun evening and not worrying about the various pressures she had weighing her down. She had tamed her curls so that they cascaded in delicate spirals down her back. With a light hand, she applied a neutral eyeshadow to her lid and swept on a thin coat of mascara.

Halfway through spreading a pink tint across her lips, a tall figure shrouded in black appeared behind her in the mirror. Jemma grit her teeth, glaring at the shadow in the glass. How strange; Azrael had a reflection, but it only showed him as a black mass. Her hand fell from her lips as she settled an angry glare on what she assumed was his face. He had impeccable timing and a flare for ruining her mood.

"Are you kidding me? You're just going to have to wait to suck up my soul, you prick. I have a date, so screw off," she hissed vehemently. As the days passed, she was growing braver.

The black form raised an arm to silence her, the move sharp with annoyance. "I'm not here for that - yet," Azrael murmured behind her, "I came to tell you that I just collected your father's soul." Jemma froze, the lipstick tube falling from her fingers and clattering to the floor, smearing a sticky pink streak across the tile. Her eyes were locked on the form reflected in her mirror as she stood there, mouth agape.

Moments ticked by as she tried to wrap her mind around what he was insinuating.

"Where?" she breathed, shattering the tense silence like fragile glass.

"His home."

In a blur, Jemma spun around, dashing out of the bathroom and stumbling down the hallway. Her bare feet pounded the carpet as she grabbed her car keys and cell phone and then bolted for the door.

"You're in no shape to be driving," Azrael stated simply, appearing beside the entryway. Rage licked Jemma's stomach at The Reaper's comment as she tossed open the door and ran down the hall to the elevator. She hardly noticed the looks a few patrons gave her as she raced across the lobby and out the front doors. With her lipstick half on, wearing only a thin black tank top, a pair of loose green silk shorts, and no shoes on her feet, she was sure she looked a mess. She didn't care, though. Her father needed her.

She haphazardly pulled open her truck door, throwing the gearshift in drive and peeling out of the parking lot as soon as the key was in the ignition.

She knew her father was dead but she couldn't fathom it. She was struggling to accept the abrupt news. Jemma's heart squeezed painfully with guilt as tears stung the backs of her eyes like venomous bees. What if she had visited him today instead? What if she had been there for him to get him to the hospital? She weaved in her lane as she fumbled to call 911. Her foot was dangerously close to flattening the pedal into the floor to make the hour-long drive shorter.

As the operator answered her call, she told her as quickly and concisely as she could that her father needed help before relaying his address. Once the woman acknowledged the situation, Jemma ended the call and turned her full focus back to the road. She was going twenty miles an hour over the speed limit. Miraculously, there were no cops around and she hit every green light. It was a cruel stroke of luck in light of what was happening and she briefly wondered if Azrael had anything to do with it. The son of a bitch probably did.

She fought to keep her tears at bay, sucking in air to fill her lungs. Her hands were strangling the wheel just above ten and two. She could feel herself coming undone at the edges, like a grand entity was ruthlessly taking a seam ripper to her life.

Jemma was greeted with silent, flashing sirens on both a police car and an ambulance when she arrived. A van with "Coroner" spelled across the side was parked in front of the house as well, and upon seeing this, burning, angry tears began to fall from her eyes. With a choked sob, she parked erratically and clambered out of her vehicle, leaving the door wide open as she ran toward the house. A police officer caught her just before she could reach the door, wrapping a restraining arm around her torso.

"This is my father's house!" she screeched, struggling against the man.

"Let us do our job, ma'am," the man said gently, fighting to subdue the frantic woman.

A gurney was wheeled out of the front door a moment later, a black body bag resting on top. Jemma's face twisted and contorted, her mouth hanging open and her lips curling back with a silent sob. Tears cascaded down her cheeks as she stopped struggling, now gripping the officer's arm for support as her knees buckled beneath her.

"Daddy," she scarcely breathed, her wide eyes tracking his body as he was pushed to the Coroner's vehicle. Her lower jaw quivered and she squeezed her eyes shut, her shoulders wracked with painful sobs. The police officer helped ease the woman to the ground, giving her her space and stepping away. She brought her hands to her face, leaning over to press her forehead into the grass as she wept.

He had been alone, all alone. That's what weighed the most on her. He had probably been frightened, too. Frightened and entirely alone. She hadn't been there when he needed her most. After all he had done for her, after all the years of raising her on his own, after all the support he had given her, how could she do this to him? How could she not be at his side when he took his dying breath? The thought felt like a knife through her heart, like someone reached into her chest and simply buried the blade to the hilt.

It seemed like everything was sinking and melting and tilting around her, like she was in some twisted expressionist painting. Numbness crept into her limbs and she hardly registered it as someone helped her off of the ground. She was brought to her father's body, and she positively identified him as, in fact, being Henry Knight. For the final time, she leaned down and placed a kiss on his cool cheek.

As she stepped back, she gnawed on her lower lip, trying to suppress the sobs bubbling in her throat. Her tears were relentless. An officer presented her with various questions, but she was torpid to respond. Finally, everyone packed up and disbanded, leaving Jemma alone in front of her father's home.

With vacant eyes drifting over the front of the house, she slowly approached it. Timidly, she walked inside, quietly shutting the door behind her. A few silent tears trickled down her cheeks as she moved languidly into the home, a surge of sorrow twisting her heart. After a few minutes, she found herself in her father's room.

Jemma lightly ran her fingers over the worn blanket draped across his bed. She picked up the soft material, lowering herself to the ground beside the bed as she inhaled the familiar scent of his aftershave. She hugged the cloth fiercely, a muffled wail ripping from her throat. He couldn't be gone. She couldn't be alone in this world.

Loneliness seemed to be a key theme in her life.

She was exhausted and her date with Brett had completely escaped her mind. She wasn't sure when she had fallen asleep or how long she had been out, but she awoke to a hot hand gently shaking her.

"Jemma, it's late. You should be at home," a canorous voice murmured beside her. The woman lifted her head, her neck sore from the awkward angle at which she had been resting. She narrowed her reddened eyes at Azrael, climbing to her feet.

"What do you care?" she hissed in a a tone bordering on murderous. She twisted the blanket she had been clinging to into a ball and stormed out of the room, heading into the living area. The Reaper was fast on her heels. He reached out and snatched her arm, yanking her around to face him.

"I care that my impudent little mortal be at home where she belongs."

Jemma wrenched herself out of his grasp, backing away from him, her fists clenched tightly at her side. "My father just died," she whispered in a tight, small voice, "Sorry that I'd like to spend a little time here."

"He's dead and you need to get over it. I have more pressing matters to deal with. I only care that my pet is where she belongs so that I can easily find her when I need her."

Jemma stared at him, absolutely incredulous at his selfishness. "I'm right here, and I'm not yours. You don't own me." Anger rolled in her stomach at the cruel white smile he gave her.

"Oh, but I do, Jemma."

She snapped then. Turning slightly, she yanked a hard-bound book off of the shelf she was standing by and hurled the object at the tall man's head, watching with frustration as he deftly reached up to catch it. Irate, she spun and snatched up another helpless novel, flinging it at him. Again, he caught it, his face stony as he glared at her. She just wanted to cave in his skull, but he was making it rather difficult.

Jemma was breathing hard, tears prickling her eyes once more. With obvious restraint, Azrael set the two books down onto the coffee table. "Jemma," he ground out, his eyes locked with hers, "Cease this nonsense."

"Don't you fucking tell me how to behave," she said evenly, holding her ground as he stalked toward her. "I want you to leave me alone. I don't ever want to see your face again."

"That's not up to you," he snapped in a strained voice.

"I should have a say in this! I don't want to be around you! I never did! You killed my father, you sick bastard!"

"That is my job, Jemma. It is my sole purpose. Now, I'm--"

"You don't have to like it so much," she spat, her voice drenched with acidity.

"Liking it is all I can do. How else am I supposed to deal with it? You're being irrational. You need to go home and rest before you make yourself sick."

"Don't act like you care!" she screamed, meeting his angry red gaze with defiant, wild blue eyes. "You don't! All you care about is your pathetic excuse of an existence! You're the only sick one here!"

Azrael suddenly closed the scant space between them so that his polished shoes were on either side of her naked feet and her back was flush against the wall. "You need to calm down. You're hurt and upset. There is no need to lash out at me," he whispered venomously.

Jemma began shoving and pounding against his solid chest, trying to get the overheated creature to back away. The Reaper finally grasped her flailing wrists, and with a soft sigh, pinned her hands up beside her head. He stared her down, challenging her to defy him again. Pained tears welled in her eyes.

"Let me go," she pleaded softly, unsettled by the tight smile he gave her.

"No. I quite like you vulnerable like this. You're much more agreeable and much less irrational."

Jemma clenched her jaw, a short breath flaring her nostrils. "My father just died. I just want some time alone," she muttered, saying each word carefully. She closed her eyes, waiting for him to let her go. She just wanted to mourn the loss of her father.

Azrael's mouth was on hers a moment later, melding his soft, warm lips against hers as he released her wrists to cradle her head. Jemma stiffened, caught off guard, but her conflicted mind allowed her body to melt against his. She willingly parted her lips to allow his gentle tongue access, her hands lifting to curl her fingers in his thick hair. Azrael kissed her more forcefully, unintentionally bruising her full lips.

She found a strange sense of comfort in him, but how could she? He was the enemy. The Reaper. Death. He had killed her father, who she was betraying at that very moment by willingly letting his murderer violate her.

Jemma shoved mightily against Azrael's chest, grateful that he allowed her to push him away. He didn't move far, though, and his masculine scent invaded her senses. He smelled like a mixture of rich, damp earth, leather, and embers. She turned her head away ashamedly, pulling her arms against her chest.

Azrael sighed at the pink embarrassment displayed on her cheeks, his temper calming. He had wanted, oddly enough, to comfort her, but now he was certain she was more upset and flustered than she had been before. Perhaps he'd never truly understand humans and their peculiar ways. He extended a finger to trace the line of her jaw, frowning at the uncomfortable shiver that shook her. With a sharp breath, he abruptly shoved the straps of her bra and tank top off of her shoulder, gently pinning her against the wall when she began to writhe and struggle.

"Azrael, stop!" she whimpered, tensing as his hot lips unnecessarily traced her collarbone. She kicked at him, but it was futile. He lifted his head slightly, and she felt a sharp sting as something probed it's way out of her skin. Confused, angry tears slipped down her cheeks as she silently accepted her fate, her eyes dull. She could only wait for the emotional roller coaster she was on to end. It was all to much to take in in one night.

Azrael easily supported Jemma's weight as she began to slump forward. He broke the connection to her soul moments later, simultaneously hoisting the exhausted woman into his arms.

Something coiled in the pit of his stomach. Guilt. He didn't have a conscience; it had fallen into disrepair when he had been created. So why did he feel guilty? For the first time, he felt remorseful for scarring the woman so deeply. He actually wished that he could take it back. It couldn't be helped, though. He had to do his job, to keep everything in a very precarious balance.

He cradled the nearly immobilized girl in his arms. The only way to quell her violence was to pull on her soul and weaken her, so he had done just that.

Her gaze was vacant, settled on the wall before her. Pressing his lips together, Azrael ducked down to grab her father's blanket, which had fallen to the floor sometime during their altercation. He knew it consoled her to some degree, so he carefully balanced her with one arm and used the other to drape the material over her shoulder. Jemma didn't bother to look up at him, but he could see a storminess in the depths of her eyes.

She was pissed off and sad and his sudden kindness wasn't helping anything. In fact, if he had been his typical heartless self, she could have dealt with it. Besides, she needed a punching bag. As soon as she regained her strength, she planned on terrorizing him as much as he did her. She was alone in the world now. She needed to stiffen her backbone and stand up against the demented freak holding her. She wasn't going to let him walk all over her. She wasn't going to let him intimidate or frighten her anymore.

Or, at least, she hoped.

Neither of them spoke as Azrael carried her out of the home and to her abandoned truck still parked haphazardly in the middle of the road. He set her down in the passenger seat, buckling her in before he caressed her hair, tucking a few wild strands behind her ear. Jemma jerked her head away, setting him with a haughty glare. His red eyes were emotionless and blank in response.

Getting in the driver's seat, he twisted the key in the ignition and popped the gearshift into drive.