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Bright, blinding light engulfs him. Shines through him. No longer the warming and comforting glow he had so long ago come to know. The heat continuously rises, outside pressure compressing against his very fiber of existence. Pain, he realizes; unlike any other he’s ever experienced.
It hurts; divine punishment.
It drains everything from him. His power, his energy. Everything aches, down to his very fingertips, nerves screaming in agony. Or maybe that’s him screaming. It sears his mind, ripping away coherency, steals his strength.
Suffering, he realizes; that is the intent. A lesson must be learned, and suffering would be his teacher. That suffering, that pain, that miserable consuming light grows impossibly brighter. Shakes the heavens and displaces the stars.
The thunder booms through the sky unexpectedly. Just a few moments ago, the night had been clear, and the stars twinkling. Now, as you rush inside to prevent getting soaked in a sudden rainstorm, clouds blot out the moonlight; hanging low and thick, looking scary.
You kick the door closed behind you, swinging your elbow at the light switch to flick it on and light the way to the kitchen to put away the groceries. Thunder rumbles again, as if urging you to hurry before the power gives way to the storm. Warned before to not abuse your powers for menial things, your gaze flickers to the Ring of Light on your hand, so very tempted to reinforce your home with magic to prevent an outage. Instead, you sigh the thought away, not wanting a lecture from Solomon should he somehow find out—and you have no doubts he would, some way or another.
If nothing else, at least you had him to keep life in the human world from dragging on too dully. Despite being touted as a sorcerer on par with the likes of Solomon, you had yet to live even a fraction of his lifetime; roots still firmly interwoven into your life here. It would be still quite some time yet before you could truly break away to decide if his was the type of life you wanted to lead as well. There was, of course, always the possibility of permanently relocating to the Devildom, should it be conceivable in your lifetime. And there were those in the Celestial Realm you’d love to spend more of your time with, if actually permitted.
The thunder grows louder, dragging you out of your thoughts, and for a moment find it a bit odd that there hasn’t been a single drop of rain yet. Peering out the window proves useless. Dark clouds have already swallowed up every sliver of skyward light, even the street lamps outside seem to do a pretty poor job at combating the darkness, leaving the sidewalks dimly lit at best. A chill races up your spine, reminding you of the sudden temperature drop outside. A nice, warm cup of tea would be really good right now—
As if on cue, as if in some cliche horror film, the lights outside flicker violently in the same strobing pattern as the lights inside and, predictably, thereafter go out.
You sigh just a moment before another explosion of thunder shakes the very floor beneath your feet that is immediately coupled by the brightest flash of lightning you’ve ever witnessed. So bright, it whites out your vision for a moment, even through all those angry-looking clouds. Along with the blinding burst, the whole house rattles too violently to have just been caused by the aftershocks. Did the lightning actually strike your house!?
To add to it, the sky then opens up, releasing the pent up deluge that beats down the outside world, drenching everything almost instantly. From upstairs, you hear the downpour more clearly than you’d like, and after realizing you might have left your window open, rush up to save your room from the rain. Another flash of lightning helpfully illuminates the room, and sure enough, wide open is your bedroom window.
However, it’s not the open window nor the billowing curtains that draws your attention. In the shadows, barely visible, you stare in momentarily frozen fear as that white-clad figure struggles to push himself up off the floor, fighting to choke back strangled noises of pain. The acrid smell of burning assaults your senses before you can actually register what you’re seeing. His normally expansive wingspan is withered, one looking only half its usual length despite how it’s shakily outstretched; you note how each wing seems to be somehow disintegrating right before your very eyes. Singed feathers drift to the floor like they’re molting, only to immediately turn to ash. The wings shudder before finally drooping, unable to find the strength to stay aloft.
It hits you—the smell is burning feathers.
Your name is a garbled mess of a sob, and that’s all it takes to snap you out of the stupefied terror; legs just barely able to carry you without stumbling across the room. “Oh my g—Simeon!?” The moment your knees hit the floor, Simeon’s hands find you, gripping painfully wherever he can manage to hold on; fingertips digging in, but you don’t even feel it right now. “What happened!?” You wrap your arms under his shoulders as carefully as you can, dragging him up the length of your body to support his; immediately heavy and feverish against you, even through your clothes. “What happened!?”
There’s a sharp noise, something approximate to the sound of his voice, something frightful and unearthly that resonates out of him as Simeon’s arms and chin hook around your back and shoulder. Even through the layers, you can feel his gloved-nails scrape against your spine, catching in the folds of your clothes; feeling as though the angel is trying to claw his way inside of you to escape the abject torment of his own body.
Fear and adrenaline keeps your mind racing, unable to focus on anything other than how to help him as Simeon cries out with distorted sounds that you don’t think are at all comprehensible outside of the Celestial Realm. His wings try to beat weakly, seemingly out of reflex, and that causes him even more pain—he actually presses his teeth against your shoulder and bears down against it. It hurts, obviously, but you know it must be nothing compared to what he’s feeling if an entity as gentle and usually-composed as Simeon can’t withhold venting his suffering.
Pleading for him to tell you what’s wrong is useless; all he can manage are loud bellows and gasps of pain, but you have to do something. Simeon is in literal agony, and you can only guess he thought you could help somehow—why else would he have dared showing up in such a raw, vulnerable crisis? With having no clue what could cause, or what was powerful enough to impose, such affliction on an angel, you resolve to try the only thing you know. Lifting one hand from cradling him, you angle your palm towards his back—after all, it’s his wings that seem to be in the most dire condition—and focus. “Hear me and heed my call!” you fight to be heard over Simeon’s volume and the storm still raging just outside, “In my name, I draw upon the power of the Ring of Light!” Your hand begins tingling, a faint glow beginning to emit from it, casting enough light against his back to see the blood and ash smeared there and do your best to not let it distract you. “Let this curse that afflicts this angel before me be undone!” The magic rushes from you, washes over him, and doesn’t seem to have any effect whatsoever—okay, so not a curse. Simeon still grips you, voice hoarse and breaking in intervals; you think you hear traces of earthly dialects in the mix of the inhuman sounds he makes, begging for reprieve. The cracks of his voice tear at your heart as equally as the sight of his once beautiful wings burning away with no clear answer to salvage them. You stretch your fingers, reposition your hand, and try again, “In my name, by the power of the Ring of Light, may the vestiges of pain that linger within be eliminated!” You find yourself shouting too, screaming probably, desperate to find a spell that would help in any way at all. The gold light shimmers out from your hand again, and once again spreads out over Simeon’s body, enveloping him in its gentle glow before thereafter fading into him.
Gradually, his groans lessen, his voice lowers, until all that is left are his harsh, ragged gasps and pitched whimpers as he uses his remaining strength to cling to you despite the trembling of his arms. His wings, unfortunately, still smolder and fall away bit by burnt bit.
“Simeon,” you whisper, gently cradling the backs of his shoulders, pressing the side of your face to his wet hair, “what happened..?”
With a sharp breath, he tries speaking, the rasp of his exhausted voice cracking on the attempt of your name. “I…I—” Simeon is then suddenly slumping bodily against you, leaving you to support his full weight.
It rightfully scares the hell out of you, but thanks to his rough, wheezing breaths, you know he has merely lost consciousness. A mercy, in your opinion, given the utter horror he had been experiencing only moments ago.
Using magic to levitate him as carefully as possible, you rest his limp body on your bed; nevermind the rainwater and blood and soot. And nevermind Solomon—to hell with him and his warnings right now! You hold out your hand, utilizing the Ring of Light to remedy the lack of electricity, to close the window, to dissipate the water and the blood and ash from the floor. Simeon is your priority, and like hell you’ll waste time on something like mopping the floor when his breathing is as shallow as that.
It’s somehow quite fitting that the storm that had heralded the angel’s sudden appearance had yet to stop since that night. Four whole days now, the downpour hadn’t ceased, as if heaven itself wept and raged for his suffering. And still, Simeon slept, moveless and comatose the entire time—not that you blamed him. You’re not sure if angels’ rate of healing is anything like demons’, but unwilling to take chances.
Once the last remnants of his wings had disappeared, leaving behind angry, red track and burn marks against his back, you made sure to clean and bandage them as carefully as possible. Human world salves probably have very little bearing on a celestial being’s wounds, but it makes you feel somewhat better knowing you’re doing more than just monitoring his rest; especially when healing spells didn’t appear to absolve his normally flawless back of the blemishes.
You try talking to him, brushing his hair from his face when it falls over his eyes, but nothing rouses the angel aside from unconscious twitches when your hands touch his back to check his wounds. You don’t want to admit being worried that they’re taking longer to heal than you suspect a supernatural entity would normally, so you try to push it from your mind. After all, whatever in the three worlds was powerful enough to do that to Simeon would have to be significant. You shouldn’t be surprised it’s taking a toll to recuperate from it.
The next morning, you wake to sunlight actually beaming through the windows. The turbulence of the storm seems to have finally subsided, leaving just a somehow simultaneously cloudy and sunny morning drizzle. After waking up enough to move around (and maybe you should finally consider investing in a place that has a guest room, since that couch multiple nights in a row is not being quite so kind to your spine) you start your newly acquired routine by heading upstairs and taking a peek into your bedroom to check on Simeon.
Yep, still in bed right where you left him and—wait—his head is facing away from the door now! Just in case he still might be asleep, you call to him, just barely above a whisper. There’s no movement or acknowledgement, but seeing that he’s even slightly turned in his sleep somehow relieves you. As if it’s some bizarre sign of progress for his healing. You can’t imagine he’ll move from his stomach, however, and after giving it a few more moments to determine if he’s awake or not, you silently leave the room, closing the door almost all the way to try and muffle at least some of the noise you’re bound to make throughout the day.
His ‘progress’ has lifted your mood considerably. Unfortunately, with your fluctuating bad luck, who else should turn up but the Witty Sorcerer himself to admonish you for the arbitrary use of magic—though you suspect this is more about using the Ring of Light to do something as selfish as power the electricity of your home during the worst of the storm than anything else.
“I didn’t know you were such a stickler for rules like that…you’ve been hanging around Lucifer too much,” you huff.
Solomon musses his hair for a moment, knocking off droplets of rain clinging on to the silver strands. “There are certain things even we should not tempt,” he sighs, eying the look on your face. He can tell you’re holding back something, hiding (poorly, he might add) something you must view as a viable excuse. Not that he came to punish, or even question you, only to merely warn you from becoming reliant on magic for the wrong reasons, he can’t help but grow curious about that expression. So he tilts his head, putting on his best This-Is-My-Serious-Mentor-face to test if that is enough to break your silence.
It, unfortunately, bears some results. Solomon so very rarely pulls this card that you’re not quite sure if he’s just messing with you, or if he’s actually serious. “Look, I…” You sigh, looking away so it won’t be as easy to read your eyes, “I’m sorry, okay? I won’t do it again.”
His hand raises to his chin, fingers curled at it as he hums quietly, as he often does when in thought. You find it a peculiar reaction to being apologized to, but then note from your periphery his head is turning. Solomon’s dark gaze is angled up; up the stairs; trained up on your slightly ajar bedroom door. An odd gravity settles over him, as if he senses something amiss. “Don’t you normally like keeping your doors closed?”
Your head whips around, up at the offending door as if just now noticing, then back around to face Solomon. “Well,” you wave your hand—no big deal, so drop it—“usually, yeah, must’ve just not closed all the way…”
Though he still hasn’t looked away, Solomon nods, “No worries, I’ll just—”
Quickly jerking into his path to cut off his ascent of the stairs before it could even begin, you wave both hands this time, “No, it’s fine..!”
“I do distinctly remember you telling me it bothers you, though. I don’t mind taking care of my student’s worries, you know.”
There’s your hint. The offer for help with whatever he suspects you’re hiding, without calling your competence into question. And for a moment, it’s quite a tempting offer; who knows, maybe Solomon had experience with whatever the hell had been going on with Simeon. Maybe he’s even seen it before. But you get the distinct feeling you shouldn’t say anything; that Simeon would much rather you kept your mouth shut on this. After all, it was you he’d come to, not Solomon.
“No, it’s fine,” you said more assuredly this time. “The truth is…I have a friend over, and they’re not feeling so well…so I left the door cracked in case they call for me.” The explanation wasn’t a total lie, at least. Only lacking in a few minor details…
Solomon takes a step back to ease your worry he still might try to convince you otherwise, and looks actually surprised. “Oh? I didn’t know you had other human world friends close enough for that…”
“Gee, thanks…”
“Only joking,” He laughs, shoulders shaking with mirth. “That does make more sense, though.”
“‘More’ sense?”
Solomon hums again, that infuriatingly knowing smile settling on his lips, “For a moment there I was worried you might’ve done something irreparably silly like smuggled a demon out of the Devildom without permission.” He watches your eyes flit back and forth between his, smile widening, “Or an angel.”
“Yeah, well,” you quickly interrupt with a shrug, “I’m not as reckless as everyone thinks I am…at least…not all the time…”
With another laugh in agreement, he lifts a hand to pet your head—as if he just finds you too impossibly adorable not to do so; continuing to chuckle when you reach up to knock his hand away.
As luck would have it, you’re able to finally ward your mentor off without divulging your secret. You’re more than certain he’s got some idea that you were only telling him half-truths for the sake of not wanting him to interfere, but you’ll just have to cross that bridge if it comes up again. For now, it’s way past time to check in on your ‘ill friend.’
Carrying supplies in one arm, you quietly push open the door and observe his posture. Unmoved from this morning, you call out anyway, just to be sure, “Simeon..?” No response. While it is a little disappointing, due to letting your hopes get up that he’d be responsive the next time you check in, you quietly move into the room to take a closer look.
His back rises and falls with each breath, which you note is much softer and clearer than before. Another good sign, in your opinion.
Thanks to the open back of his shirt, treating the injuries there has been easy enough; a simple matter of pulling the bandages and soft tape away to exchange for clean ones. You press a palm just below his neck, gingerly pulling at a strip of tape with your free hand, and Simeon flinches, sucking in a sharp breath.
Your hands jerk away from him quickly, startled. “Oh, sorry, I—” Wait, so he was awake? “..Simeon?”
He doesn’t respond in any way that acknowledges you, or even your presence. Just slowly exhales that intake of breath he’d been holding.
A million things to say buzz around in your mind all at once, and a million more to ask. Instead, you reach back down, forgoing the bandages for now, and brush his hair out of his face. Simeon’s eyes squeeze shut as he makes an earnest effort to hide beneath a broad shoulder, but the motion seems to put too much strain on his back; leaving him no choice but to allow you the view of the fresh tears on his face.
That sight alone is enough to shatter you, but you steel yourself, for his sake. Simeon needs you right now, needs you to be strong and supportive, like hell you’ll allow yourself to be weak when he needs you the most. You take the cloth you were originally going to use to wipe down his back, carefully reaching past his shoulder and dab at the tears on his cheek and nose.
There’s the tiniest of hurt sounds as Simeon turns away, face down against the pillow to fully hide his face.
You feel like it’s justified, honestly, especially after everything you witnessed him going through. And who knows how bad it was before showing up unannounced like that. The whole situation is actually terrifying.
“Simeon,” you brush your fingers down the length of his arm, relieved he doesn’t flinch or pull away, “I’m gonna change these bandages on your back, is that okay?” Watching him like a hawk, you don’t even dare breathe until you notice the slightest of motions from his head. His nod is barely noticeable, and if you hadn’t been staring, watching for it, you likely would have thought he was just ignoring you. “Okay…” Wanting to do as much as you can to help, you position your hands, palms hovering over his back before chanting a spell that would hopefully dull any pain, since all attempts to rid the angel of these wounds had yet to succeed. You reposition your hands yet again, pressing a palm—GENTLY—against the base of his neck to keep his skin taut. “Just let me know if it hurts too much…” It feels like a really bizarre thing to ask of him. You’ve seen him and the brothers performing great feats of strength and even walk off injuries that would have taken any normal person out for good countless of times. Again, you’re almost afraid to find out what in the three worlds could cause this much damage to an angel; but that’s not what you should be focusing on right now. You can’t afford your mind to wander, not when he’s as sensitive as this.
It’s impossible not to notice how he tenses up, his fingers curling into the blankets beneath his hands in his very real effort to stay silent. Still, you keep at it, moving with great care to make it as manageable as possible for him. Once the bandages have all been peeled away, you stare down at his back. The bruising and marks are still rather inflamed looking and for one horrifying moment, you find yourself thinking how seeing Simeon sporting such injuries makes him seem rather human in this vulnerable state. Naturally, you push the ridiculous notion out of your mind, knowing it’s just your own apprehension making you worry too much. After all, he’s well enough to be awake now, so that must count for something.
You dip the rag in the basin of warm water you’d brought up, wring it out, and take another quick survey of Simeon. He’s relaxed a bit again, though still refusing to remove his face from the pillow. “Tell me if it’s too much,” you remind him as warning that you’re about to touch him again. Unsurprisingly there’s no response, and you don’t wait too long before beginning to clean his back as daintily as you can.
When the cloth strays too close to one of the longest marks at his shoulder blade, Simeon tenses again, and you can hear the hiss of his breath despite being muffled. Unfortunately it looks like your spell can cast out existing pain, but doesn’t prevent it.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur, switching to patting the area. It doesn’t seem as effective to clean away the dead skin, but you note it’s immediately easier for him to handle right now. The whole process takes a little bit longer than usual, but you’re not willing to force him to endure any more trauma just to be done more quickly. You take your time over each part of his back, over each mark that’s beginning to already scab and scar, and over each one that’s still raw; repeating the gentleness of your hands with ointment, and then eventually the new bandages. Silently reveling in the fact there’s much less blood on the old bandages, you keep it to yourself, doubting that is something he’d be interested in right now. Instead, you kneel down next to the bed, watching the way he heaves his breaths into the pillow. “Simeon. Do you want anything?” You forgo asking what he ‘needs’ because rest is the obvious answer to that question. He shakes his head. At least he’s answering now. “Just want to go back to sleep?” Again, with barely any motion at all, he nods.
The next few days are mostly like that. You leave him glasses of water and easy to swallow snacks that you’re happy to see gone whenever you come back to check on him. Sometimes he’d be actually asleep again, other times it was that same tense silence, like he was afraid to use his voice at all.
This evening, he flinches a lot less, even as you carefully run the warm cloth over the trails of red etching themselves into the plains of his back, hopeful it was due to finding a spell that actually helped with the pain. You’d even gotten used to the new development of Simeon exercising the newfound strength to roll onto his side once you were done; back to you and face hidden, of course.
Brushing your knuckles against his arm, you stifle a sigh. It’s still scary, if you’re being honest. To see Simeon of all people behaving so broken and debilitated was quite the jagged pill to swallow. As long as you’ve known him, he’s always been so strong and self-reliant, going so far as to hide everything actually troubling him that didn’t have to do with the learning curve of technology. He’s always been so resilient to everything thrown his way, now to see him struggling is difficult to weather. But you do so, silently, in an attempt to be the source of strength he so obviously needs these days. You can only hope it’s working.
Unsure when the habit developed over the course of nursing him back to health, you find yourself bracing a knee on the bed; leaning over him and gently brushing Simeon’s hair away from his temple before pressing a little kiss there. If you really thought about it, the pattern must have formed during the times he remained totally unconscious. It only comes to the forefront of your mind now because, with Simeon still being very much awake at the moment, he turns his head just slightly, glancing back as you nearly fall over yourself to back away. “Ah, I’m sorry!” Looking exhausted still, Simeon’s head rests fully against the pillow again, seemingly dismissing the whole moment entirely. And while you know you should count your blessings he didn’t get mad about the unsolicited affection, you can’t help but explain yourself while he’s still cognizant. “Sorry,” you try again, “I, uh, apparently started doing that when checking on you right before I go to sleep…to, uh, make myself feel better…” You don't know if you imagine it, but you think you see him nod, then make sure the glass of water is full and there’s enough snacks to satiate any hunger pains he may need to soothe during the night. Sighing quietly again, you pull up a blanket over him. Simeon’s eyes are closed now, and you leave it at that, turning off the lamp and whispering a quick, “Goodnight,” before heading downstairs.
Stretched out on the couch, you quietly recount how much he’s moving now; eating and drinking in front of you, even though you sometimes need to assist by feeding him. His gaze still remains very distant, and he always just looks ahead with a thousand yard stare, you think Simeon may be finally in the ending stretches of physically healing. Like this, he sort of reminds you of a less combative Lucifer, who usually vents his frustrations of being able to be injured on those just trying to help him, while Simeon seemed to take an overly-reserved and guarded stance. He probably feels just as frayed at the nerve to have been put in such a state as you feel seeing him that way. That makes it easier to not take the uncharacteristically harsh silences and near-glares personally. After all, even you find yourself being more snappy than usual when not feeling your best.
A hard rumble of distant thunder jolts you upright before realizing you’d fallen asleep somewhere between all your inner ramblings. You fight back a shudder, immediately brought back to that night of finding Simeon crumpled on your floor, surrounded by ash and blood. It rushes you with the overwhelming need to check on him, despite it probably having been only a few hours since going to bed. Nevertheless, you throw the blanket off your body and head upstairs; careful not to make unnecessary noise in case it wakes up Simeon. No matter how happy you were at his daily progress, he still needed more sleep than usual to help.
Lights from the outside world cast enough illumination inside to forgo the need to turn any additional lights on. You push on your bedroom door with a careful motion, grateful it doesn’t creak or squeal. But that relief is quickly replaced by the stab of panic that tightens your chest when you lean in to find your bed devoid of Simeon. Your blood is frigid in your veins, eyes drawn to the window when a flash of lightning perfectly outlines a tall silhouette. “Simeon,” you gasp, hand over your heart, willing it to stop pounding so hard now that you’ve located him. “Wh-what are you doing out of bed? You should be resting…”
He doesn’t move and doesn’t respond—not that you’re really too shocked. Though…it is a little creepy how he’s just looming there, staring out of the window into the night, as if there are things his supernatural eyes can see that humans cannot; tense under your touch when you place a hand against his arm to gently urge him back to bed. Surprisingly, he’s easier to maneuver than expected, arm moving along with you first before the rest of him finally follows suit. His movements are mechanical as he sits on the edge of the bed, eyes harrowed and expression weary.
You wonder if he’s reliving that night as well.
Not wanting to upset him anymore than he already seems, you don’t push any further. Just having him off his feet and not putting strain on his back is good enough for now. When you move to brush his bangs away from his face, Simeon’s head dips down a bit; a silent declination. “Does it…still hurt?” You can see his hands tighten into fists, head bobbing in a small nod. That’s not so shocking either, but at least it doesn’t seem to be unbearable for him as it had been. Even though he can’t see it, you nod too. “Right, let me just go grab the ring and—”
The moment you make the motion to turn away, Simeon’s hand seizes your wrist. It stops you in your tracks, obviously, and would have even if he hadn’t begun tugging you closer by it. His hand guides yours up slowly, grip dropping away only once he’s placed your hand on the crown of his head. Without needing further instruction, you begin carding through his hair; alternating between lightly dragging your nails across his scalp and more or less playing with his hair, twirling the ends around your fingers before letting them slip away to start the process all over again.
Simeon takes a halting breath, trembling, forehead eventually coming to rest against you.
While you’re glad he’s starting to shed that hardened shell he’d built up to cover his feelings of vulnerability, you’re still worried that he’s pushing himself too fast. Physically, he’s finally doing okay, but you know it’s time to focus on his mental state. “Simeon,” you whisper, not daring to stop the soothing motions of your fingers in his hair, “you need to be resting.”
“D-don’t…” The sound of his voice, rough and rasping from going unused all this time, shocks you, but not as much as his arms suddenly hooking around your waist. Strength severely lacking still, he clings on regardless. “Don’t go…”
Your heart breaks along with the break in his tone. Physically resisting the urge to wrap your arms around him, you nod, even though he can’t see it.
“..stay here.”
Swallowing down the choked noise in your throat, you tilt your head back a bit to ease the heat of tears in your eyes. “Of course.”
Situated in bed, you’re glad Simeon has opted not to turn his back to you. It’s easier to reach out and brush his hair away from his face, gives you the opportunity to focus on something other than fretting over the bandages on his back for a brief time. Like this, even for the tiniest of moments, you can pretend this is anything other than the terrifying reality you find yourself in.
Napping together on a lazy morning.
Resting after a long day of showing Simeon around your favorite parts of the human world.
Finally working up the courage to let Simeon know just how much you’ve adored him all this time, and thereafter just simply basking in each other’s company.
Anything other than the reality of your friend being so badly hurt, he’d felt actually incapable of recovering alone.
You don’t know how long you’ve been laying there, just watching him finally drift back to sleep; fingers smoothing through his hair and every now and then, brushing down his cheek. Small comforts. You know such tiny gestures won’t make the pain disappear, or magically bring his mind out of its impending struggle, but you do know it is something you can reliably provide him. Something that Simeon apparently appreciates in secret. After all, he’d been the one to bring your hand to his hair first, and had no qualms about letting you continue to pet him; as if it had been what lulled him back to sleep. Even though you’re pretty sure it’s the exhaustion that had pulled him back into slumber, it still makes you feel better to think of yourself as being able to provide him such comfort, the angel was helpless against succumbing to a peaceful rest.
In said rest, Simeon shifts; a faint noise seeming to reveal some degree of pain. Briefly, his expression scrunches at it.
“Hey…” You’re not sure if he even hears you, still reaching up to push the hair that had fallen in his face away. “It’s okay…”
His eyes flutter open just for a moment, seemingly unable to drag himself completely out of sleep despite unconsciously registering your voice.
You’d give anything to be able to purge everything troubling him, down to the tiniest, ignorable inconvenience. Instead, you settle for what you can do; fitting your hand against his cheek and lifting his face just enough to keep him somewhat aware. “Simeon?”
He hums, clearly still too tired.
“Come here.”
His eyes flutter again, this time able to open more than just a sliver. He doesn’t even seem like he realizes this isn’t part of a dream, shifting closer at your request despite the fact that you’re already moving in.
It’s not all that surprising to find him being so pliant, given how exhausted he is. Simeon allows, and sleepily participates in, repositioning the sleeping arrangement; finally coming to rest his head against your chest and shoulder. Your arm is going to be staticy and stiff in the morning, but you don’t care about that right now.
In the morning, you’ll assure him as much as necessary in order to convince Simeon to concede to letting you continue comforting him. In the morning, you’ll hopefully be able to finally get him talking about what had happened, and help him work through that too. But all that is tomorrow’s problem.
Right now, all you care about is Simeon’s comfort, and the ease of threading your fingers through his dark hair in this position; waiting until he’s settled and breathing evenly again before whispering an incantation to hopefully relieve any pain moving around might have caused him. And hopefully he won’t mind that this particular spell ends with your lips pressing to his forehead a gentle kiss.