Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It wasn't even a particularly weird antique store. No weird owner talking about how the wares came with a price, no sudden appearance, no feeling of being watched when you stepped inside on a whim.

Well except for one thing. One thing in that dusty old store made you feel watched: A ventriloquist's dummy, a puppet, with a backwards hat, a gold tooth, and a snazzy little bowtie. He looked like he was made for you. His shirt read ‘Cal’, which you correctly assumed was his name, and his eyes- you made the mistake of looking into his eyes.

You saw… you saw...

An eternal, burning stage, an infinite cast all speaking at once, their strings rising up past the blinding lights. You didn't look at any of them. You were one of them, and you looked past them, to someone sitting, watching. Dark green like rot and decay, he noticed you.The puppet is- was the fourth wall. You didn't realize there were consequences for locking eyes with the audience. Your strings snapped somewhere high above you, and fell directly into that waiting hand in the seats.

You paid for Cal, and when he walked you out of the store, you were not yourself. You doubted you ever really would be.

Your days became whirlwinds of stumbling through the same, tired routines again, and again. You don’t know why or for what purpose, but what little you make out through the cacophonous laughter that fills your mind is that he has a plan, and you are going to help with that.

So you worked, you exercised, you ate and slept and silently screamed in your own unmoving body as the days passed you by. You were never a social butterfly, but what few relationships you had withered in a month when you stopped engaging. Almost no one bothered to check in. Probably for their best.

Because someone did.

She was an old friend from uni, she texted to see how you’ve been one day, half a year after you lost yourself, and… Cal let you respond. You didn’t get to say anything about him, but the smallest bit of autonomy was so intoxicating that you dropped your guard, enjoying the few hours a week where you got to feel your fingers move across the keyboard of your own volition again.

You should’ve known better. You remembered that she had a thing for you, nothing major, and you didn’t feel the same. She wasn’t your type. Cal didn’t care. When she offered to meet up in person, he made you say yes. It was a date. No one noticed anything wrong with you, least of all her, no matter how much you screeched in your head. Just a boy and a girl at a cafe. Could he make it any more obvious?

She only needs to be strung along for a few weeks before you wind up in bed together, and by then, you already know why you’re there.

It hurts for her, it hurts for you, no one ends up happy it happened. Except Cal. You convince her to keep it, because you don't want to have to do it again. You make her stop drinking, because you don't know what that might do to the baby. Your relationship dies, because she's right to kill it, and she doesn't deserve to deal with either of you.

By the time it’s over she’s gone, the shattered glass from her thrown bottles still on the floor and the echoes of her hatred still reverberating through the halls. And you’re left sitting on the couch, holding the baby.

He's got a fuzz of pale blond hair on his head, and he's disconcertingly quiet for a newborn. She named him Dave, and you aren't sure if she understood the biblical implications of what had happened, or if she just couldn't be bothered to come up with something unique. He's swaddled in your arms, and when he finally opens his eyes, they are bright, burning red.

The Antichrist has been born. He's your son. You already know you're not going to be allowed to raise him right.

Dave’s flashstepping around like you at the age of three. Objects burn to ash when he’s upset by four. He starts talking to the crows outside the apartment when he's five. It's silent, but it's talking. He stares at them out of an open window, and they'll fly to rest in his palm or on his head, and the windowsill is always covered in little trinkets: small toys Cal doesn't let you buy him, silver jewelry that helps you cover expenses. That sort of thing.

It's good that he gets to be a kid like that at least, he might as well have no parents at all with how much you're allowed to interact. Other than sitting him in front of the TV to learn to read and speak, you're a shadow with a plush face on your shoulder who stares at him from the hallway when he wakes up, or from the door when you come home from a gig.

He's scared of you. You can tell even though he knows better than to show it. You wonder if a shit upbringing is required to bring about the end times. Or if that's even what the kid’s for. Either way, he's nervous just being near you. Even when Cal lets up, allows you to be around him, to talk or eat or watch TV whatever it is as long as you don't touch. Dave still fidgets imperceptibly, he stutters, dust in the air burns filling the room with the smell of brimstone… he's never burned you, even though he'd be right to.

He's too kind for this, for his nature.

Poor little Dave.

It's his seventh birthday when Cal is unusually, uncomfortably clear with you. This is the last day you'll ever get as yourself. Dave is going to be learning the blade from your body from now on. Whatever kindness you've given him, whatever you give him now, will turn to misery in his brain once you make him draw blood.

Figures it would be something like that.

You still try. You gift him your old mixer, a new set of drawing paper, and a little trilobite you managed to nab. You get him a cupcake, a fresh jug of his favorite apple juice, and let him pick what you watch until it's night.

You lead him onto the roof to stare at the sky in silence, waiting for the day to tick over into the next. You let your legs dangle over the edge and pretend you don't notice Dave fidgeting closer, and closer, until your knees are mere inches apart.

It's quiet. So quiet. Even with the cars honking below and the birds that love to flock around your apartment, as you stare up at the cosmos you feel your ears ring until you hear nothing but silence.

They're pretty, the stars. You're going to miss seeing them. You're going to miss a lot of things.

One of them streaks across the sky, brilliant and shining gold, and you take a risk: you nudge Dave's leg with yours. He flinches at the touch, and your body feels warm where it connects.

“Make a wish kid, it's your birthday after all.” You grunt at him.

“Why?” Dave asks slowly, like you're trying to trick him.

“Shooting stars are for wishing. Everyone knows that.” You snort. “You're supposed to do one when you blow out your birthday candle, but I couldn't get one. Just don't do it outloud, if your wish isn't a secret it won't come true.”

Dave looks away, watching the star as it trails through the sky. He closes his eyes behind his own pair of shades, and brings his small hands up, clasped in front of his chest. He's wishing, praying maybe.

To who? Who would answer him? You lazily trail your sightline behind the trail of the comet, and you feel when midnight hits, your body slumping over and your eyes locking just as you see the star falling… falling… it almost looks… like it hits the park…

And then you're gone.

Chapter Text

Dave is missing the first day of the rest of your nonexistence. Cal is furious. Your arms turn the apartment upside down looking for him, until he finally turns your head out the window, and sees that the crows are gone too.

Dave left.

You hope the kid was smart enough to see the signs. You hope he's gone for good. Hoping is all you get to do while Cal walks you around wherever Dave might have run off to: the grocery store, the alleyways behind the apartment, the clothes place with the cashier who called Dave adorable that one time. Cal gets increasingly frustrated when the tyke fails to show, your innards burning with pain as Cal steers you towards the park.

It's there you finally get a clue: a crater hidden among the trees, like a soccer ball was carved out of the earth, and the wrapper from the birthday cupcake left on the ground. But it might be too little, too late. The sun is bathing the sky in orange and red as it sets, and your body turns around to trudge back the apartment.

The birds are back, sitting on the powerlines and staring at you as you climb the stairs. The door is unlocked when you open it, and Dave is sitting on the couch. Fuck. He hops off when he spots you, running over nervously with something in his hands, your eyes narrow behind your shades. It’s a… four-leaf clover.

“It’s your present.” Dave explains as he holds it out. “I was looking for something for you.”

Your hand plucks the plant from his grip as he stares through his own shades up at you, and watches as your fingers rip the leaves off, one by one, before letting the whole thing drop to the floor. You could’ve used the luck.

“Grab a sword from the fridge. Roof. Now.” Bubbles up from your throat, before you flash out of the doorway, and up the stairs. Then you wait in the dark of the roof.

You don’t have to wait long, but longer than you should, for Dave to push the door dragging a sword that’s far too big for him. Yours is quickly unsheathed.

“What took you so long, little man?” Comes out of your mouth.

“Had to pick one.” Dave responds stoically.

“Draw it.” The tip of the blade points at him.

“...Bro what are we doi-” Dave starts.

“DRAW. IT.” Escapes from between your teeth.

Dave doesn’t get another warning before both strife and the birds take wing, scared off by the shrill roar of clashing metal. The kid does well enough for his first time, with no experience and fighting a body which has infinitely more muscle memory. The floor still gets wiped with him, your body not letting up the assault until his body tumbles weakly across the roof and his sword smacks the air conditioner.

“Not good enough.” Your tongue lilts before your sword is sheathed. You get to wait, to make sure Dave stumbles down the stairs, tripping down the last few steps and just barely adjusting to fall on his shoulder instead of his face.

Your feet flashstep past him and into the apartment, your body flopping limply on the futon in the main room as you are suddenly hit with the full weight of your physical activity today. Guess Cal needs some energy to get you moving, his hold on you is limpas he slithers across your shoulders before Dave reenters the apartment, rustling around in the pantry before going into his room and closing the door.

You want to scream, you want to rage, to choke all the actors and set fire to the fucking stage. But you're stuck. You're stuck on the futon, you're stuck in your body. You will be doing none of that. You are not at peace.

It's been several months now, and Dave is getting better, slowly. He's been strifing daily and every day he lasts a little longer, everyday you feel more uncertain about if those glints on his blade are reflections of sunlight, or small bursts of flame, threatening to burst free.

He's gotten surprisingly better at keeping that down otherwise, nothing has gotten burned in weeks now. You've been waiting for it, for him to snap from the violence, for the flames you've seen so many times to consume you too.

It hasn't happened. Dave hasn't even come close.

He's getting better at taking care of things himself in general. You spend a lot of tired, sleepless nights and groggy, restless mornings listening to Dave get his own food, take laundry down to the washing machines, and clean up all by himself. He does that… a lot actually.

You don't have the brainspace for calorie calculations with your shared new, more active lifestyle, but it feels like the apartment is going through food faster than it should. And maybe it's because of the sweat and blood, but Dave is taking big loads of laundry down, and when he's taking them…

Before his birthday, he tried to spend what little free time Cal allowed him out of the apartment, and now he tries not to leave you alone in the apartment if he can help it.

Cal hasn't been oblivious to your suspicions. You can't hide shit from him, after all. You're starting to worry about what his response is going to be, because he is going to respond, you can feel it. You are extremely familiar with the feeling of his scheming.

Your schedule becomes more erratic, and Dave has a hard time hiding how scared he gets whenever he sees you in the main room when he isn't expecting it. Things are tense. Between Cal's unending laughter, Dave related worries, and your own caged consciousness, it's getting crowded in your head, which is probably why you've been getting persistent headaches. The burning, aching pains, like you stared into a bright light, are screwing with your thoughts.

Cal has been trying to force you to figure out what Dave's up to but you just CAN'T. You can't figure it out! Nothing smells like burning, he never hides whatever shit the birds are up to, and you can't think through the PAIN!

It finally comes to a head six months after Dave's birthday, on the twelfth of June. You come back home early, and the little dumbass gets caught carting a ton of food to his room from the kitchen. His tendency to squirrel away food is already an open secret, but his arms are full of chip bags and drinks and half a loaf of bread. He shouldn't be going through food that fast.

“Whatcha need all that for little man?” Comes out of your mouth like a slowly rolling boulder as Dave locks your eyes behind twin pairs of shades.

“Cleaning the cabinets.” He lies immediately. Good on him for having one prepared, even if it sucks.

“You're doing something in your room.” Your eyes squint, and you move one step towards the hallway.

Dave drops what he’s holding and flashsteps in front of the door to his room, spreading his hands out like he thinks that can stop you- Cal-? You. It won’t stop you from entering. Dave blinks, and Cal is draped over your shoulder when he opens your eyes. You think you can see his heart skip a beat. Your arm winds back slightly as the only warning Dave gets before a sword flies through the door, the hilt sticking out as the whole thing falls away from the frame, the hinges snapped clean off.

“No! Bro- stop!” Dave panics, waving his arms around while he tries in vain to unsheathe his blade, your body flashsteps past him easily and pries the sword from the floor as your head swivels to look around.

The bed is unusually neat, and the pillows are laid out side by side, food wrappers are all over the desk and floor, and cinderblocks are stacked next to the chair like a second seat. Cal senses what you can already tell, someone has been here, IS here, and the only place they could be is in the close-

Your train of thought is interrupted by Dave trying to stab you. Your arm blocks the strike with your own sword, but it’s a good enough distraction.

“RUN!” Dave shouts over the sound of clashing metal, and the closet door is flung upon as a kid, a boy who can’t be much older or younger than Dave himself, runs past you to the open door frame.

He’s wearing one of Dave’s dark tees and a pair of jeans, but that’s where the similarities end. He’s got a mess of dark curls on his head that go down to his neck, and his hands are fisted in it as he ducks and runs, his shining bronze skin just dodging the steel of your blade as Dave blocks your sword’s strike.

You’re proud of how much better he's doing. He's pushed out of the room by the assault of blows, but he's not getting hit. The mystery kid is hiding behind the futon as your form stalks down the hall as Dave backs up. Cal is talking. He's talking so MUCH. Telling you to keep your eyes on the intruder, to shut him up, to run him through and paint the walls with his blood.

Oh. Oh, he's scared. He's scared of the kid. He’s in control but he’s still trying to put thoughts in your head. The kid is a threat to him.

That thought gets him screaming, he’s screaming so loudly at you to kill the kid even as he puppeteers your limbs to do so, it’s all you can hear, he’s all you can see, and the closer your body gets to the kid as Dave fails to slow you down the more your head hurts. You’re going to kill a fucking kid who’s in your apartment for some reason because of Cal, who won’t stop screaming and you just wish he would-

“SHUT UP AND GO AWAY!”

It’s like a gunshot. You stop moving, everything stops moving, it’s all so quiet suddenly. Pure, blissful silence, you don’t hear Cal anymore, you don’t feel him in your mind. You’re back on stage, and your strings are still snapped, but the being holding them… has moved up to the balcony seats, glaring at you. You kneel in your mind’s eye and start spooling the strings back to you.

In reality, you collapse to your knees as Dave and the kid shout, the ash on your shoulders scattering in the air, and you smile as you pass out and hit the floor.

Chapter Text

You have such a nice dream.

You're not doing anything but drawing in your strings and spooling over your arms, but you're ecstatic in a way you've never felt before in your life. When the broken ends, the tears you made when you poked around where you shouldn't have nearly a decade ago, finally comes back on stage, and you're able to hold them in your hands… you feel so-

Awake. You're awake again and your head feels like someone smashed a violin over your head. Again.

You can feel you're on the futon- did Dave and that kid move yo- right that mystery kid. Who you're pretty sure Dave was hiding in his room for… half a damn year? Jeez. You slowly put a hand on your head (your hat and shades aren't there, must have fallen off) and you try to sit up.

It- it's hard. It's so hard, and not even because of the headache. You're just.

You're just not used to controlling your own body anymore. Cal might've only taken absolute control for six months or so, but going from ninety-five percent to a hundred isn't that big of a difference. He's gone now, and you're not sure how to deal with it.

It takes a couple minutes of pushing weakly with your arms, having to stop to take in deep breaths -and what an experience that is, breathing!- before you finally manage to push yourself up into a sitting position.

There's a sharp breath from the kitchen, and you're able to force your eyelids open, squinting in the early morning light, to see Dave standing stiffly as he watches you, sword in hand.

“...Dave?” You ask carefully, your tongue heavy in your mouth without Cal to push it around.

“Bro?” Dave replies, bravely. He's being so brave. You're sure he's scared shitless, both in general and of you, but he's still here and he's talking to you.

…Now what do you say? ‘Sorry for losing my shit and being a terrible guardian because a demonic puppet was in control of all my actions including making you exist?’ ‘Hey is your mystery friend who I almost murdered still around here by any chance?’

“You okay kid?” You rasp out eventually.

Dave responds with silence, taking small, cautious steps towards you, his hand white-knuckling the hilt of his sword. Well. If he decides to kill you, you can't exactly blame him. Even if this would be the worst fucking timing, getting run through right after finally getting yourself back.

When Dave is just a few steps in front of you, you can see he's trembling slightly as he looks at you, and you stare back. There must be something in your expression that gets him to take a deep breath.

“Can I have a hug?” He finally asks, his teeth gritted as you blink in surprise.

He'd asked once before, when he was younger after seeing it happen on TV. And Cal had you tell him no. You've never been allowed to touch him more than absolutely necessary to ensure he survived. But… those rules don't matter anymore. You spread out your arms, and don't have to wait long.

Dave drops his sword and rushes you, slamming into your chest hard enough to tip you back, his small arms wrapping around you as your big arms snap around him in surprise. He sobs into your shirt, babbling about you being here, about how he was so scared, about how he never liked Cal's whispering anyways. You lie there and let him cling to you until he's all sobbed out, it feels like you've been thrown into a bonfire as he hangs onto you like you'll vanish if he doesn't. All of the heat but none of the pain.

“So.” You start, trying to calm down the situation. “I have no clue what the fuck happened. Do you wanna tell me about that other kid who was here?”

Dave freezes in your hold, going silent immediately.

“I don't want to kill him.” You snort, and Dave looks up from your shirt, tears trailing down his cheeks and his shades pushed out of the way. His eyes are red rimmed from crying, and red-irised as always, staring straight into your eyes in a way that makes your skin crawl.

He turns to face the hallway.

“KARKAT GET OUT HERE!” He shouts. Well, that's a name.

“IS HE GONE?” The same voice from last night calls from… the bathroom.

“No! He's acting normal!” Dave quiets when you put a hand over your ear. You barely heard from him and now he's really making up for that.

“I THOUGHT YOU SAID HE WAS NORMALLY WEIRD!”

“He's acting normal by normal standards now!” Ouch, but fair.

The bathroom door creaks open, and the kid- Karkat, peeks out, stepping into the hallway and walking towards you as Dave slides off of you so you can sit up. Karkat's face is not remotely guarded, he's a second from bolting, but being so much closer makes it much clearer that he's not an average kid. If him… banishing? Exorcising? Cal didn't make that abundantly clear. He looks unkempt and unclean, but his skin is still glowing, almost literally, like he's being lit up from the inside.

You have a bad feeling you know what he is.

“What are you?” You ask. Because it'd be really nice if you were wrong. Karkat steps back, or stumbles really, falling to the floor.

“He's a star.” Dave helpfully supplies. “You were right about the wish thing.”

“Really?” You mutter in disbelief.

“Yeah! He crashed in the park!” Dave hops off the futon to help Karkat up.

“Where are your parents, kid?” You sigh, getting a huff and crossed arms in response.

“In the sky.” Karkat tells you.

“Then where's your guardian?”

“He was taking me somewhere else and I thought that was dumb and I wanted to come here cause Dave was really really loud.” He answers, and dang he has no volume control, he's barely not shouting. “Are you going to try to stab me again?”

“You got rid of the guy who wanted me to stab you.” You groan, it's still hard to believe that Cal is just gone. That the light grey ash the kids are stepping on is all that's left.

“Good, he was really loud. And annoying.” Karkat huffs and shuffles, suddenly looking uncomfortable with the peaceful resolution, and Dave shuffles too, biting his lip before he looks at you.

“Karkat doesn’t live anywhere. Because he fell out of the sky.” He states very directly as his thumbs fiddle with the edge of his shirt. “And he’s really cool, Strider cool-”

Damn, he’s not subtle. You think it over while he babbles away, you’ve got a lot to make up to him. If he wants a friend around the house, to finally have someone around who doesn’t scare him… well you can’t really deny him that. And when it’s the kid who got rid of Cal, you owe him too. …And if he’s what he seems to be…

“He can stick around if he wants to.” You interrupt Dave, and both boys perk up, Dave more guarded, Karkat surprised. “But if so, we’ve got some errands to run. Need to buy you some staples.”

“But I can just use Dave’s?” Karkat looks to your son for confirmation, and gets a nod. You shake your head, and pat his- cold. He feels very, very cold. Like lonely steel. The exact opposite of Dave. Hm.

“You can't just borrow all of Dave's shit forever.” You stand up, going over to grab your shoes. “Get ready, we're headed to the thrift store.”

Dave hops up to get ready, already familiar with the plan for going out, dragging Karkat to the door so the kid can borrow his shoes. You lead the pair down the stairs and to the street. Dave is still holding Karkat’s hand, and his other burning fingers grip your own once you reach the sidewalk. You hang on tight as you lead the pair to the shop where you get most of your clothes.

When you arrive, you let the kids explore the thrift store on their own after you check Karkat's size, snagging him a pair of shoes and some pants while they check out the shirts. You take your picks to the counter, and notice… the cashier.

You didn't notice it on anyone on your way here, but you can see impressions on her neck, and wrists, like rope. Or strings. And when you squint, you can see them, the wires that raise up to the sky. You glance down at your wrists, the strings are there, wrapped around your wrists loosely. Of course they are. They're snapped. You look back at the kids under the pretense of checking up on them. No strings at all.

Karkat found a sweater that's too big for him though, and Dave seems to have found him some shirts. So this trip at least achieved its goal. You pay for the clothes and walk back the same way as you came, but now you're paying attention to the people around you instead of listening to the kids blab. There's so many strings, on absolutely everyone.

The only ones without ropes straining up to the sky… are the three of you.

Chapter Text

You decide a lot of things very quickly: Karkat is staying with you because his actual guardian is out of the country for a while, he has all the important documents that you definitely didn’t forge, he apparently likes the last name Vantas best, and you don’t have to move into the crawlspace yet. The only time in the first month that you thought either of them might have a full on tantrum was when you asked if they wanted different beds. Sharing is fine by you, even if they never seem to want to be apart for anything.

They ask to pause the TV when the other has to go to the bathroom, and watch the hall wistfully until they get back. You should probably do something about what looks like codependency, but you can’t exactly tell them to talk to other kids their age who aren't here. You can't really bring yourself to tell them much of anything.

The only thing you do require, this early on, is that they need to go to school. School is the sort of thing kids are supposed to do. Karkat doesn't seem hyped about it exactly, but Dave has been itching to get out of the house for long enough to start shaking with joy. And Karkat can't say no to the smile on his face anymore than you can. Plus, being apart for eight hours would be, pardon the phrase, hell for him.

School supplies are gonna be expensive, but the crows’ trinkets are still helping, and you don’t have anything else to do but work really, seriously, what exactly are you going to do while the kids are at school? You’re fresh out of friends, you’re not comfortable toying with smuppets (even snuffing them), and just fucking around with anything else feels. Vulnerable.

Hobbies and naps and long showers give you too much time to think. Or not think. You don’t have a lot of thoughts that aren’t about Dave, or Karkat, or making enough money. When you do, you think about yourself.

And that’s worse than nothing.

Whereas before your being was caged in by Cal, now? There’s nothing saving you from being subsumed by your self. What are you now? Who are you now? With how long you weren’t holding the controller, you aren’t the same person as before Cal, and you fucking refuse to BE Cal. So now you’re… who exactly?

You spend a long time in the shower, letting the water drip down your body and staring emptily at the tiled wall as you repeat that question: Who are you? WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU?

The best answer you can give yourself is… You’re the guy raising both The Second Coming AND The Antichrist. That’s all.

Hasn’t been difficult so far, just be as nice as possible, make sure they're fed and healthy, and do the opposite of whatever Cal would. That last part means a lot of talking, and touching. You're not great at the first one, but both of the boys are yappers of the highest degree. They're good at filling the air with discussion about… anything, using more words than they really need to.

Touching is easier, affectionate hair ruffles and high fives are at least. Anything more than that they have to initiate. And they do so with great ease. You get very used to their extreme temperatures with how much the kids come in for hugs or press up against your side on the couch.

They're more nervous than you are when school starts, you have to spin some bullshit about Karkat being a transfer, and Dave being homeschooled because of poor health to get away with enrolling them so late. But they're smart kids, you have no doubt they'll handle things fine. And they do.

For a few weeks.

“So.” You sit them down at the dinner table. “I got a call from the principal today.”

“It was an accident!” Dave whines.

“We were right!” Karkat insists, simultaneously.

They both look uncomfortable as you sigh.

“What I was told, is that you started a massive fight during recess by screaming at other kids.” You explain, this is the part that is absolutely not in contention. “And some of the kids involved claim you tried to set them on fire, but the administration found no evidence of you being able to do that. No matches or lighters or anything.”

“They were being BULLIES!” Karkat snarls, like that’s the worst thing someone can be, which for him might be true. “If they didn’t want to be screamed at they should’ve been nicer.”

“You called them ‘A COLLECTION OF THE SADDEST, MOST PATHETIC FUCKWADS I’VE EVER HAD THE MISFORTUNE TO ENCOUNTER’.” You use your best imitation of Karkat’s voice, if not the volume.

“And I wasn’t wrong!” He insists, throwing his hands up. Now how do you explain the issue without saying he is, you rarely need to scold them and that’s good because you hate the idea of doing it. They don’t deserve that, usually.

“Just because you weren’t wrong doesn’t mean you should SAY that.” You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Bullies suck ass but screaming swears and punching them causes problems.”

“But I didn’t even punch anyone!” Karkat groans.

“Inspiring other people to do the punching still counts ‘Kat.” You continue before turning to Dave. “And the fire?”

“You said they didn’t have any proof we could’ve set any fires.” Dave squirms in his seat without looking at you. You just raise an eyebrow and he whines.

“I SAID it was an accident! Well I wasn’t going to leave Karkat unsupported, so I said ‘ohhhhh sick burn! get rekt!’ an-” Dave cuts himself off as the carpet under your feet catches with unnatural, black fire.

“Fuck!” You hiss as you jump back, pushing the chair over as you try to stomp out the hellish flames.

“I got it!” Karkat yelps and runs over to the sink as Dave tries to help you stamp out the fire. He comes back with a cup of water that shimmers in the light, and when he splashes it over the fire it hisses and sparks as the two collide.

“That what you did on the playground too?” You huff, checking the bottom of your shoe to see it charred but not melted. Yeesh.

“Yup.” Dave answers for Karkat, sounding small. Great, so your kid makes hellfire on command and the other one makes holy water.

“Okay, no more of that.” You suck in a breath through your teeth before letting it out slowly. “From either of you- yes Karkat, even if you’re right for it.”

You drop to one knee and put a hand on both of their shoulders, giving your best parental look at them through your shades. You’re pretty sure Karkat only buys it because of how infrequently you bring it out. It works every time on Dave. You have the full attention of them both.

“You’re both smart kids, so you know you’re not normal kids.” You state, watching their mouths twitch. You can almost hear them thinking ‘Are we finally going to talk about it?’, to which the answer is ‘No.’. “You haven’t been blabbing about it to everyone, but let me make it clear: You shouldn’t go throwing that shit around and letting everyone know.”

“Why not?” Karkat frowns. You like that he wants reasons for things, he still doesn’t completely trust you, you guess. Dave doesn’t either probably, but he’s much more content to do what you ask him.

“Because doing crazy shit, draws bad attention. No matter how well hidden you think you are. You’ll get noticed.” You tell him sternly.

“Like ET.” Dave nods, getting a weird look from Karkat. But you think he gets it.

They both promise to keep a low profile, and after pulling out your best Karen impression at the school about handling bullying better, the kids mostly stick to it. You still get occasional calls, and bad looks at the PTA meetings and parent-teacher conferences.

The next few years fall into a comfortable rhythm. Holidays and birthdays and breaks. Karkat likes getting books and movies, Dave still prefers art supplies and music shit, but with sharing a room, they’re at least familiar with each other's hobbies. You learn how to cook a few basic recipes, even if you’re out late often enough for frozen to be the norm. Unless one of them pulls a new miracle out of their ass to duplicate a meal. Karkat’s a fan of seafood as it turns out, and Dave can turn water into apple juice, or anything else probably. You don’t enforce bedtimes, or force them to make other friends, and you try to ignore how Dave sometimes drags Karkat up to the roof with a pair of swords. You don’t offer to strife with them, and they never have serious injuries.

You keep casual relationships with your coworkers, and try to fall asleep quickly most nights. Staring at the ceiling in the dark is an invitation for introspection, and you still can’t handle that.

Otherwise, everything goes smoothly. Even when they turn eleven, and shit goes slightly sideways.

“Broooo we're going to be late!” Dave complains at you.

“They're going to care more about the soot in your hair than being tardy. Go brush it all out.” You grunt at him, carefully picking through Karkat's hair.

He's sitting grumpily in front of you, glaring at the wall ahead as you yank small pin feathers from his scalp. He can maybe get away with it for longer than Dave, but the gray shoots turn into pure white feathers fast, sticking out like a sore thumb even in his thick mane, and hurting more to tug out at that point. Karkat learned that the hard way when he needed Dave to help him pick them out one day during recess, and you had to get called over because the poor tyke was in tears.

You're worried that the next supernatural changes are going to be harder to hide. You don't know what you'll do if Karkat spawns a halo, or Dave’s blood starts showing through his skin. They’re in better control of their powers outside of the apartment (when you’re looking at least), but you still know what they are, and even if you never talk about it, they probably do too.

How long before they’re called to the stage? Will they have a choice? What choice will they make?

…Are you doing a good job? Or fucking them up?

Chapter Text

Your trash fills with more feathers and soot, you eat dishes duplicated by Karkat, and sell trinkets from Dave’s birds. It’s summer break, a few weeks after Karkat’s birthday, the day he destroyed Cal, and the boys are both teenagers now.

That, and their continued habit of holding hands at all times, and sleeping in the same bed, and the giggles you hear from the hallway when they think you aren't home, makes you wonder when you should give them The Talk. Or if you should be allowing this, is reality going to implode if Heaven and Hell swap spit?

That’s what you’re pondering one lazy Sunday, resting on the futon as the kids eat sandwiches in the kitchen. It's a normal summer day, you don't have a gig tonight so you might take them to the skatepark, or the pool maybe, if they don't insist on staying home. The day is free.

And then there’s a knock at the door.

Every head in the apartment swivels to the entrance. You never have visitors, the other people in the complex never talk to you, and you spare the expense of having things delivered when you can help it. Knocking comes from the TV more than the door.

You put a finger to your lips as you slide over to peek through the peephole of the door. There’s a man outside. He’s waiting patiently, dressed in plain clothes- a nice buttoned shirt and dress pants, with neck-length curly hair combed nicely, and skin just a shade darker than Karkat’s. Might be a building manager or something?

You open the door after adjusting your shades and picking your hat off the rack to place on your head, and he turns his ruddy brown eyes on you-

No strings.

No strings on his wrists, no wires around his neck, he’s got a blinding smile turned on you, and you are certain this is not a human.

You slam the door shut, and turn to the kitchen, mouthing ‘hide’ before Karkat can speak, and Dave grabs his arm and flashsteps them into their room, the door closing carefully.

The man has an eyebrow raised as you reopen the door.

“What do you want?” You ask like nothing happened.

“Well, hello Mr…?”

“Ambrose.” You give him, that should be fine. Although you hear a confused ‘what?’ from the boys’ room. “You?”

“Kankri. I’m looking for someone.” He answers. Suspicious. “Quite rude, to slam a door in someone’s face.”

“Wasn’t expecting someone tall.” You lie. He’s maybe an inch or two taller. “Whoever you’re looking for, I doubt they’re ‘round here.”

“It’s my son, he looks quite a bit like me-” He means Karkat, you realize, your muscles tensing unwillingly as you realize this man is a threat. “A young teenager, very loud mouthed, strong sense of justice-”

“What’s he wearing?” You ask.

“He took his suitcase with him, so I’m not sure what he could be wearing.” Kankri smiles tiredly. “He wanted to explore the city on his own and ran off.”

“Name?” You squint at him behind the shades, make him think he’s being suspicious. He’s less likely to stick around if he thinks you’ll call the cops.

He stares at you, unmoving. “Last name Vantas.”

“Don’t know your kid’s first name?” You ask, and you both stare at each other as he leans in.

“Please.” Kankri whispers gently, and it almost looks like his eyes shine in the light. “If you know something, you should tell me. It is a matter of life and death.”

“Get out. Don’t even stick around the building.” You growl, glaring at him.

His words didn’t have the effect he wanted it seems, because he looks confused as he nods at you, and walks back to the stairwell. You listen to make sure he’s all the way down, and when you’re sure he’s gone, you close and lock the door, letting out a breath you didn’t know you were holding in.

You sit in a dining chair, and try to think: What is he? He doesn’t have strings, but he’s not a human, his presence feels more like Karkat’s metallic cold, he entered the stage from above rather than through a trapdoor. But he isn’t… the same as Karkat. He seems… more in control. Or more controlling. Or… controllable? He should be behind the scenes, but here he is before you. Maybe you’re thinking about ‘him’ wrong. He’s not used to acting because that’s not what he’s for. He’s not the one doing things, he’s how things get done.

You’re not looking at a stagehand, you’re dealing with the catwalk.

The hallway door squeaks open, you must have been thinking for a while, and the boys creep out towards you.

“Your real name isn’t Bro?” Karkat asks.

“You don’t just call yourself that because you’re my brother?” Dave asks right after.

Not remotely what you were expecting, but easier to deal with.

“No- of course not, did none of your teachers bring it up?” You squint at them.

“They just called you ‘Mr. Strider’ usually.” Karkat shrugs. “Or ‘your guardian’ to us.”

“I just thought Ambrose was some other guy whenever they said it.” Dave mumbles like you rocked his world.

You sigh, and tell them about Kankri, to not let him in, to tell you if they see him, and just be careful. You talk to the neighbors for once, and while they agree to warn you, none of them seem bothered by a strange man coming around asking about kids. Odd. The guy doesn’t show for the next few weeks, and you think you’re fine, you’re safe.

You’re closing up for a gig one night, it’s past midnight, the kids are probably asleep, so you slip out the back after a complimentary drink, and he’s standing there. Same crisp outfit, same placid smile when he spots you.

“Ambrose Strider-” He starts, but you’re already grimacing and pulling a pocket knife from your back pocket. Swords aren’t open carry even in Texas, but a knife is almost as good in your hands. He holds his hands up peacefully. “Please, don’t be afraid.”

“Fuck are you doing here.” You hiss.

“I needed to talk to you.” He explains. “Karkat-”

“How’d you learn his name?” Whichever one of your neighbors… okay, you can’t do much. Well. Legally.

“What matters is he isn’t what you think, he’s not a normal child.” Kankri tells you. “He’s-”

“The second coming?” You tilt your head. “Yeah no shit. And who are you?”

Kankri’s face can best be described as ‘flabbergasted’, you’re pretty sure you know what he is at this point.

“You… knew.” Kankri blinks before squinting at you. “I see. Well, I suppose I can show you then.”

Kankri cracks his neck, and then his body… unfolds into a twisting mass of steel rings dotted with red eyes, stiff, white feathered wings circling along with them all, and a single mote of light in the center, that more than anything is looking at you. The smooth spinning of the rings reminds you of winches and pulleys, while the clunky intermittent shifting of the wings is like… gears maybe, and you sense… confusion, from the angel as he looks at you.

“Great, you're a fidget toy with delusions of grandeur.” You spit. “Now stay away from my kids.”

“You're… fine?” Kankri's voice echoes in your mind.

“Expecting me to fall to my knees and start praying?” You don’t take your eyes off of him.

“Well, not start praying.” The voice in your head sounds curious. “More… scream as your eyes boil out of your head, and your mind shatters into pieces.”

“You are not that bright.” You snort. “In any meaning of the word.”

Kankri’s voice quiets, and the rings slowly fold back in on themselves, until the same normal looking man is staring at you, with an expression like… pity?

“What happened to you…?” His voice is uncomfortably earnest, and you don’t trust this guy. But you want him to leave.

… And maybe you want to talk with someone.

“Got possessed by The Devil™ via puppet, and then sired The Antichrist.” You fire off.

He’s staring at you again.

“And… The Antichrist isn’t trademarked…?” For a guy made of rings and wings he’s sure taking in some deep breaths.

“I raised ‘em better than to care about copyright law.” You smirk at him, you don’t put the knife away, but you do lower it slightly.

“You’re raising them BOTH?” Damn straight to hyperventilating. “Oh. Oh this is bad- time is limited and-”

“Been fine for the last seven-or-so years.” You tell him and he stops hyperventilating, but stares harder somehow. “Something wro-”

“There is something wrong with you.” He blurts out, all heavenly composure gone.

“Yeah but not for the reasons you think, I bet.” You take a step out of the alleyway, and point your knife up. “Now take a trip back upstairs and tell the rest he’s doing just fine.”

“No!” He shouts after you. “Oh no no no- I can’t do that. You are going to let me help, I am not going back up there to say I failed.”

“No, don’t trust you.” You look back at him, he looks annoyed, his brow furrowed and corners of his lips twitching. You keep walking.

“Pleaseeee.” He hisses out, “You’re just one man, you could use some help, surely! Or… someone you could talk to? About… All of this?”

“Yeah, and I bet you need that too? We’ll both get something out of it other than you getting access to my kids? Very convenient.” You scoff, then flinch as he grabs your wrist. You didn’t notice him moving. You slam your knife into his arm, and it… sinks in. Like he’s made of clay.

“Okay, I can admit I deserved that.” He’s not even cringing, but the arm you stabbed holds a slip of paper. “Just. Take my number at least? Think about it.”

Kankri looks earnest, and wanting, and kind of pathetic. … And stabbing him was unsuccessful.

“Fine.” You snap, ripping the paper from his hand. “But if I see you around without permission you’ll fucking regret it.”

“I look forward to having it then.” He smiles, and lets go of your wrist, and hands your knife back to you. He doesn’t bleed.

Chapter Text

Angels are made of strong stuff. In multiple ways.

It takes you a year to ring him up after saving his digits. You don’t see him once the whole time. The boys are getting into high school though, and that… that lets you know you might need the extra help. The apartment is dirty more often, you’ve got less time to pick up gigs, because the boys finally get into hobbies and need to go places; photography, art, writing clubs (even if they still schedule them so they’re both participating), and your cooking skills are atrophying from lack of care.

You wish he cursed you, or something, but you think you just reached your limit. Seven years is what it took for you to burn out, to remember you’re human.

To almost pray for someone to know everything.

So you call him up, and he manages to not sound overexcited when you ask for some help with the apartment while the kids are away. He shows up in minutes and even proudly makes meaningless small talk with you while helping vacuum the place. He cooks a mean stew as well.

He’s made of strong stuff to act like you didn’t blow him off for a year, and even stronger stuff when he’s still around when the kids come home. Because you, unfortunately for him, are cleaning the bathroom. You hear the door open, Karkat yells ‘FREEZE!’, Dave shouts ‘Get burnt!’, and you might not know the language Kankri uses, but you recognize the cadence of cursing when he slams into something.

You have to run out to stop Dave from further impaling the angel with a flaming sword, while Kankri, bless- no fuck his heart actually, assures you all that his arm will definitely grow back, and the writhing scrap of ring with eyes darting in pain is nothing to be concerned about.

You explain Kankri’s… probationary period to the boys, and ask them not to dismember him again. Unless he deserves it. The angel in question grumbles in the corner about not deserving it in the first place, but if there is one thing you’ve earned in the last fourteen years it is the trust of your boys.

You learn a lot about the angel when he becomes a feature of your life. He’s good at smoothing things over, making people calm, or redirecting unwanted attention. Whenever he speaks to someone, their strings vibrate like harps’. It’s just something he can do as an angel, he tells you later. That makes it more disconcerting.

You learn his real name eventually too, a few months in when he sticks around to watch Supernatural with you. He raises an eyebrow like you picked it to offend him personally. You were hoping it might, but he mostly seems curious about it.

“‘Castiel’,” He snorts at one point. “That name is ridiculous.”

“Because ‘Kankri’ is normal.” You point out, and he turns to stare at you.

“That’s not my actual name.” He rolls his eyes at you before turning back to the screen. You don’t ask the question, you just wait.

“It’s ‘Signless’.” He finally says. “An angel’s name is their purpose. And mine is to blend in, to serve as Karkat’s guide and caretaker, without any indication that I’m not human. That there isn’t a ‘sign’ that I’m anything else.”

“The wheels don’t count?”

“No one sees those unless I let them.” Kankri -or should you call him Signless now?- scowls. “You also don’t count, before you say it.”

“You got a preference?” You ask instead, he tilts his head.

“Not particularly.” Signless shrugs. “They’re equally accurate.”

You also learn exactly how much you needed him, needed anyone.

He’s been in and out of the apartment, at least once a week, for six months now. You’re out on the fire escape for a smoke, the one vice you allow yourself. When the kids aren’t with you, you always snag a pack or two with groceries. Signless comes out to join you just as you light up, the two of you lean over the railing.

“Why’d it take you so long? To find us.” You bet he’s used to your questions, he tries to avoid the big picture ones usually. You’ve been wondering about this one for a while too.

“Hmm?” He turns his head to you like he wasn’t paying attention. He’s always paying attention.

“Why’d it take you so long to find Karkat?”

“Well, that’s… not much of a story really.” He remarks evasively, his hand coming up to scratch his neck.

“You want one? You seem as wound up as usual.” You tease. You aren’t expecting him to take it, but he reaches out to pluck a cig from the box, sliding it into his mouth just like you do.

You don’t even get the chance to pull out your lighter. He just leans into your space and lights it off yours, holding his unused cig against your currently burning one for a few seconds before pulling away when it’s lit. He takes a few deep breaths, letting the smoke out slowly trough his mouth while you try to compose yourself because what the fuck? Signless isn’t naive, he knows what he was doing there. Asshole.

He takes another hit, blowing it out in a smoke ring that twists unnaturally through the air. Show-off.

“I dropped him.” He mumbles, and you squint behind your shades.

“What?”

“I SAID I dropped him!” Signless hangs his head and whines. “Or he squirmed off of me. We were supposed to land across the ocean, and he must have heard Dave partway through and left to land here.”

“And you didn’t realize until you landed?” You bite your lip. Because it’s very tragic for him, and not remotely funny.

“Un-FORTUNATELY.” He groans. “It took me seven years reaching and checking the eastern side of this continent before I found you. All I had to go on was a small pulse when he performed a miracle.”

Hmm. Maybe you should’ve been stricter with them for overdoing it with the blessings and curses.

“Didn’t think about going on vacation while he was missing?” You take in a breath of smoke.

“I don’t see you going on vacation lately and looking after The Second Coming isn’t even your purpose!” He scowls around his own cancer-stick

“Yes it is.” You answer without thinking.

“What- No.” He turns to face you fully, his brow furrowed. “You’re human. You don’t have to worry about ‘having a purpose’, you can do whatever you please.”

“No.” You insist, and don’t know why. “My purpose is keeping those kids happy and safe.”

“That’s what you’re doing. That doesn’t mean it’s your purpose.” Signless tells you.

“It is.” You correct him.

“Ambrose, you’re being overdramatic.” Signless sighs, taking the cigarette from his lips and resting his hand on the railing. “Just because you’ve chosen that as your purpose.”

“I didn’t choose it technically, I kind of just fell into it.” You take a few more drags of your own cig.

“How you wound up choosing to stick with it doesn’t matter! The point is it isn’t your entire existence. You weren’t chosen from creation for this, it doesn’t entirely define you. Humans get lucky, having a sense of self and all.”

“I don’t.” You don’t need to clarify any further.

“What do you mean you don’t have a sense of self?” He sounds so exasperated. Maybe this is why you talk to him so easily, it seems like whenever you give him an answer he gets wound up more than usual. Hmm. If he was in his true form, you wonder if he would be literally wound up right now.

“I mean… I don’t have one.” You raise an eyebrow at him, like you didn’t just realize how odd what you said was.

“You didn’t explain, you just repeated what I said back to me!” Kankri facepalms. “Okay. Why do you think you don’t have one?”

“I was a puppet of The Devil™ for over eight years, which caused me to lose all of my relationships and hobbies.” You rattle off, tapping cigarette ash down to the street below. “I haven’t done anything that wasn’t for the kids since getting out, because I don’t know what I would do for myself. Happy?”

“No, because The Second Coming and The Antichrist have been raised by an idiot.” He groans. “The ONE, SINGULAR human free of divine influence, in full control of his fate and decision making, and he decides to just give up on his own personhood. How are you even alive?”

“Wow, how very angelic of you.” You respond lamely. You didn’t know that. Or. You did. But you didn’t exactly accept it, you think.

“I can’t even say ‘how very human of YOU’ in response because your whole species has made defying expectations a global pastime.” Kankri glares at you.

“Just a consequence of being born into sin.” You smirk back.

“You aren’t born into sin.” He takes the bait. “Sins are intentional and I doubt there are any that can’t be forgiven.”

“Well can angels forgive sins? Or am i shit out of luck having to listen to you judge me?” You flick the last ashes of your cigarette off the edge of the railing.

“No. That’s not up to me.” Signless sighs. “Although I don’t think you did anything to necessitate forgiveness in the first place. And certainly nothing that your self loathing hasn’t repented to excess already.”

“Well, sounds like I’m not doing anything wrong then.” You fight to keep your grin from growing as the angel scowls at you. “You got any real suggestions?

“Since you need permission: Just do something you want that isn’t related to the boys.” He rolls his eyes at you. “Try thinking about what you might want for yourself, for a second time in fifteen years!”

Well. You’ve tried a lot more than twice, and you haven’t come up with anything. Nothing you’ve tried stuck, and… ugh, what do you want? If you say ‘I buy orange soda even if I’m the only one here who drinks it’, you’re pretty sure you’re going to get choked by an angel, and as educational of an experience that might be, you’re running out of shit to say with regards to ‘I’m a tool whose utility is the betterment of my kids’. You’d rather he be the one to shut up.

Actually. That’s a decent solution.

You toss your cigarette over the railing, grab his shirt, pull him in, and lock lips. He doesn’t even make a sound, he just goes with it. Not the reaction you were expecting, but you don’t have the mind to complain, because GOD it feels good.

You haven’t kissed anyone in… almost fifteen years now. Even if Signless is acting like he’s been blue-lipped for at least as long (or has he ever?) it’s one of the best kisses in your life. He was right about the whole not noticeably inhuman thing, his mouth is colder than it should be, and that’s the only weird thing. Other than the fact that you’re kissing someone at all. Initiating physical intimacy for once, experiencing some good body on body action, that isn’t the kids coming up to give you a hug, or lean against you on the couch, or giving them ruffled hair and patted backs.

You almost don’t want to pull away.

“That good enough for ya?” You ask when you do.

Signless breathes slowly, his tongue darting out to make a full circle as he licks his lips.

“I knew you had it in you. Was that so hard?” He tilts his head as he asks. You get the feeling that affected him more than he’ll admit.

“Did ya like it?” You ask, self-destructively, because why not.

“I like that you did something for yourself.” He begins, before reaching a hand out to gently push your shades up as you flinch back. “The experience itself was novel.”

“... You interested in more novel experiences?” You ask after a beat.

“Like?”

“Futon has room for two if we don’t leave any space for- The First Coming. Physically speaking.” You catch yourself, not too fast. Keep things casual Ambrose.

“How blasphemous of you to suggest.” Signless snorts, raising an eyebrow at you expectantly. Not a no then. “Oh dear I’m about to be corrupted by a human who wants to cuddle.”

“Can it.” You scoff, pulling him inside with you to flop onto the futon. It feels good in his arms. He feels good in yours.

Chapter Text

You only have to deal with two sets of raised eyebrows the morning after, when Signless is still in the apartment and joins you all for breakfast, which is the total number of eyebrows available to be raised, which is besides the point. The point is that Dave’s neck has a bite mark that wasn’t there last night, and you’re keeping that observation to yourself, so everyone else can shut it. Plus, your favorite angel can make french toast while you can sometimes manage pancakes.

You like this. You… You’d like more mornings like this. It feels like a drastic change, but it isn’t really is it? No more Cal was a drastic change, every day since has just been catching up to ‘normal’.

Well, as normal as you can get when one ‘achoo’ sets your napkins on fire and the answering ‘bless you’ refills all your plates and the maple syrup with it. Karkat does put the fire out too at least, that’s become instinctive whenever he performs a miracle. Dave doesn’t set fires anymore from something as simple as sneezing either. … It was Kankri’s napkin that burst into flames.

You are going to have to have a talk with him. (It is a very short talk.)

The days pass… hectically now. You let Kankri come and go as he pleases, he shows up more often than he leaves though, and with the kids getting into the meat of high school their time is always stressful. You feel less sure of what each day will bring than ever, but it’s almost always good.

Sometimes Dave’s crows start growing eyes, or Karkat leaves with a water bottle and they come home tipsy, and by junior year you’re being called in to speak to the principal once a month to stare at each other while he prays, truly prays he gets his hands clasped and everything, for you to incriminate your kids for whatever bullshit they got up to this time. Because the one thing your strictness on hiding their nature wrought was teaching them how to be extremely fucking stealthy.

Your pair of unstoppable troublemakers… You’ve always had trouble with discipline, but instead of trying to make up for Cal, now you have a hard time figuring out what to actually admonish them for. They hide their tracks well and it isn’t like miracles and calamities are easy for people to track. …Maybe you just wish they would stop trying to grow up so much. Especially given what they are. You think it’s better for them more than anyone else if they don’t claim their ‘birthright’s until they absolutely have to.

By the time they’re sixteen Signless stops sleeping outside the apartment, around the same time as Karkat stops passive aggressively picking movies with evil step-parents (And Dave stops being very loud about how cool single parents are). Well, Kankri tells you that angels don’t technically need sleep, but he does need shelter, and he prefers the apartment to resting under bridges. You’re sharing your bed with a proud hobo and you do not let go of the fact that he slept under bridges when he could ask any stranger to couchsurf with no chance of being refused.

“After it didn’t work on you I lost faith in that.” He tells you as you’re settling down to sleep one night.

“Bullshit. You didn’t do that before we met either, did you?” You tell him back, because you’ve learned for such a forthcoming guy he hates to rely on someone else’s charity.

Most of your conversations with Signless are had with the lights off. You get some use out of your philosophy backgrounds. He whispers questions about God, about what he knows about her, about what’s normal up there. You discuss a lot of theology with the angel, and somehow it has even lower stakes than with normal humans. He tells you other things too, that you’re infuriating, that you’re inspiring, that you’re strong.

You ask your own questions in the dark: if Signless knows when they’re supposed to end the world. He tells you he didn’t know that in the first place, and he certainly doesn’t know now after you fucked it all up by having free will² or whatever. He tells you quietly that he doesn’t even know what the end of the world is supposed to look like. He doesn’t know if it’s literal, or a metaphor, and you both huddle closer in mutual fear of losing your lives. Literal, and metaphorical. You tell him you’re glad he’s here, that you’ve never really had anyone else to talk to. That he’s pompous, and stubborn, and just, and you try not to think of him getting called back upstairs.

And then… there’s you. You. There is a you. You’re still getting used to being you. You’re spending more time alone, sticking around after work and getting to know the regulars, just for kicks. It’s good for business, sure, but it’s also just… nice to talk to people. You’re usually not alone for long. Sometimes you’ll be taking a late night walk and your angel will land behind you, locking arms as you both walk home. Other times you find your kids out well past their bedtime on a date that involves either eating out, feeding the homeless, or engaging in enough vigilante justice to force you to drag them home. But usually, you’re by yourself. You get to walk on the sidewalk, or leap between rooftops, and simply exist.

Your name is AMBROSE STRIDER, and you are alive.