Pathos

Rating: PG-13/T

Genre: Drama/Hurt/Comfort/Friendship/Romance
Summary: He wasn't really going to do it. He still owed her, and whatever else he did, he never reneged on his debts. Bits of Balthazar/Atropos.

Author's Note: Sudden urge to write Balthazar/Atropos… Yup.

'Pathos' is Greek for 'suffering', and in rhetoric is a technique used for appealing to emotion (an audience's).

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. It belongs to Eric Kripke.

()()

In the wake of the clash between the forces of heaven and hell, Atropos and her sisters walked the battlefield to see what there was to be seen.

"I think heaven won," Lachesis said, eyeing the carnage critically.

There was blood everywhere- naturally- but they barely noticed it. Humanity would advance a great deal before the apocalypse, some two thousand years away, but for now they were consumed with primitive violence. What was even more disappointing was that Atropos knew and would know even if she were not an agent of fate, was that they would always be this way; their weapons would just get bigger, shinier and more dangerous as the years went on.

"I count five dead angels," Clotho said, gaze sweeping the field, "And fourteen dead demons. But the question is, how many angels did they send to fight in the first place? If they only sent five and there were twenty demons, then hell won."

"Mm," Atropos agreed. "I suppose we'll have to-"

She stopped.

On reflex, she too had counted the angels lying dead in the field, taking in each of their faces and recalling their names to mind. Each of the angels had been possessing humans, using vessels; and when an angel died while possessing a vessel, their grace exploded and their wings turned to ash that burned into whatever surface the angel happened to be lying on.

However, when she got to the fifth fallen warrior, alarm bells went off in her head. All of the angels were surrounded by the ashes of their burnt wings; but on the fifth angel, his wings were still in tact, the steel blue feathers coated with dark red glinting in the midday sun. If he were dead, those wings would be gone.

Atropos thought she recognized the wings, but moved beside him and knelt down to be sure. And yes; She recognized Balthazar through the vessel's human mask. He was silent, motionless, probably near death; he had been stabbed at least four times, the blood coating his armor, skin, the ground beneath him.

Atropos felt something about this tug at her heart, which was surprising. She had, for the majority of her existence, been the one most responsible (of her three sisters) for extinguishing life. The three of them, as a whole, had a certain immunity to empathy and sympathy, simply because if they empathized with every person they encountered, every person who had a fate, one that might not be so nice, they would go insane from the agony of their job.

However, Balthazar was not a typical case. He was an angel, and he would live for a long, long time. They weren't responsible for him just yet. He was a wily, fun-loving angel that had a tendency to tease the sisters whenever they dropped by heaven for a visit or for work-related business.

To Lachesis, Balthazar had always been pleasant and gentle in his ribbing because she had always been kind to him and, of the Moirae, was the one with the greatest capacity for empathy. He did his best not to make her angry.

To Clotho, Balthazar was usually snarky and brutal with his taunting because Clotho and he seemed to share a sort of animosity between them that, to a degree, perplexed Atropos and Lachesis because they didn't quite know what had started it in the first place (and honestly, Balthazar and Clotho didn't seem to know either).

And to Atropos, the oldest, Balthazar was always finding new ways to tax her patience, which was legendary. He teased her just as much as he did Clotho, if not more, but seemed to take a deeper pleasure in making her angry than he did her sister. If he had a choice between Clotho and Atropos, it was the latter that he would start prodding at, pushing her temper in ways most sane people would never dare. He would drive her crazy before being called away to duty or dragged away by Castiel, who didn't want to see his brother mangled.

"I think he likes you," Lachesis teased lightly. Atropos had scowled at her sister.

"All he does is upset me."

"But he seems to enjoy the attention you give him." Atropos couldn't deny that. Balthazar always pushed until he got some sort of reaction from her, be it good or, as was normal, bad.

When not finding new ways to get under her skin, though, she couldn't deny that he was a generally pleasant person to be around. He was unquestionably never a bore, and though his sense of humor left much to be desired, Atropos would- privately- admit that sometimes she may have giggled a little under her breath at his jokes.

And however much he annoyed her, she most certainly didn't want him dead.

Atropos reached over and brushed his forehead with her fingers. The wind had picked up, and the sleeve of her dress flapped in his face before she could stop it. Maybe it was the touch, maybe the wind on the dress, but something caused Balthazar to stir ever, ever so slightly. "Balthazar?" But that was all. He didn't seem to have the strength to open his eyes, never mind move.

Atropos sighed and climbed to her feet. "Clotho, Lachesis, come here; I'll need help getting him up."

()()

The room in their home that they situated the injured angel in had only one window. As it was summer, the trees were in full bloom, and unfortunately that meant that the window was blocked a good deal, leaving the room much darker than they would have liked. Most of the work would have to be done by candlelight.

Removing the armor was easy enough. Atropos tallied some seventeen wounds on Balthazar's chest, stomach, arms, legs and, most importantly, his wings. An angels wings were generally pretty sturdy, but became as delicate as glass if injured in just the right way. Three of the wounds- One on the left wing, one on the chest, one on the stomach, were serious. Four of them were moderate. The other ten were mild, and summarily ignored.

There was a hole right through the center of his wing, the size and shape consistent with that of a spear or something similar. There was cartilage and muscle and major blood vessels running through that part of the wing, and it was Lachesis, with her sharp eyes and keen powers of estimation that was tasked with healing those many little things as neatly as she could.

The next wound was on his chest. Thankfully angels didn't need lungs to breathe or Balthazar would be dead already, because the lung the weapon- likely a sword- had punctured was now completely deflated. Healing it was unnecessary at the moment, and so they ignored it. But the wound that led into the lung couldn't be ignored, as it was bleeding profusely and now, with the armor off, they could see his grace shining through brighter than any fire.

"Do you suppose they were using some kind of angelic weapons?" Lachesis inquired as she knit the muscle in Balthazar's wing back together. "I don't know how else they would have done so much damage."

"They do have the fallen on their side," Clotho muttered. "Azazel and Sariel and Samiel and the like, never mind Eisheth, Agrat and Naamah. If they don't have weapons, they probably know spells that would make normal weapons just as effective." She was busy patching the chest wound.

Atropos was concerned with the worst of the injuries, and for the moment her only action was to stem the blood flow and keep it from getting worse as her sisters worked. On his stomach, it seemed that Balthazar had been pierced with a weapon that had then broken, and was now wedged under the skin. Unfortunately, it also seemed to be a barbed weapon of some kind, and Clotho's theory about enhanced weapons was looking more and more plausible, because it was looking like it was made to break off into an enemy's body.

Point being, there was no way this was getting out without a lot of tugging and most likely some cutting. It was best to take care of any and all other injuries so they wouldn't be made worse by the possible- likely- thrashing that would ensue when they did. When she was satisfied that there was no more to do with the wound until her sisters were finished, Atropos set to work on the other, smaller injuries, sealing the cuts and setting the bones that would eventually knit together themselves.

Balthazar had taken a lot of abuse and had nearly died in that battle. And Atropos was not entirely confident that the day belonged to heaven, because if any angels had survived the row and been strong enough to return to heaven, surely they would have noticed a comrade that was still alive nearby. Whatever else, she hoped that the point of the battle had been accomplished and that he could return to the Host with a modicum of pride in tact.

Clotho straightened up. "Done."

Lachesis followed soon after, hands falling to her sides. "I'm finished."
"How well were you able to fix them?" Atropos inquired. Her sisters were competent and skilled, but sometimes there was only so much to be done.

"It will be fine for now," Lachesis said in regards to the wing, "But he probably shouldn't fly for a day or so, just to be sure."

"It's delicate, and he shouldn't move." Clotho said flatly in regards to the chest wound. "But given who we're dealing with, he'll probably try anyway."

"Right," Atropos agreed dryly. "Then we'll move on to this… Troublesome one." She observed the wound critically, trying to think of a way to do this with as little invasiveness as possible. "I suppose… Lachesis, you should probably keep a hold on his wings. Clotho, his arms. I'll try to remove it as is, and if I can't, I'll cut it out. Hopefully he'll stay asleep during this."

She should have kept that last bit to herself, because as if on cue, Balthazar started to stir. He'd always been good at bouncing back somewhat quickly from injury, and for once that was more of a hindrance than a help. Clotho glared at Atropos.

"You've cursed us, sister." She muttered, putting up her hands and backing away from the rousing angel.

His eyes opened, and in the dim, flickering candlelight Atropos had trouble seeing exactly what color they were. They moved slowly back and forth, and she imagined his vision was blurred. Balthazar managed to turn his head just a bit, to roll back and see Clotho and Lachesis standing near his head, before looking back down and really focusing on Atropos, who was at his side.

"Balthazar?" She asked. "Can you hear me?"

He opened his mouth to speak, winced (perhaps his throat was painfully dry), and then breathed deeply and tried again. "Atro…pos. A vis… A vision… Of loveliness… As always." He managed a shaky grin at her, and Atropos felt that slight tug at her heart again. She tried to shake it off as Clotho snorted.

"Yes, he'll be fine." She said, tone dripping with sarcasm. Balthazar's lips twitched.

"And Clotho… An… Ugly c-crone, also… as per usual." She scowled at him, and he might have smirked, but it was laced with pain. "As-s-ssuming… Lachesis is here… as well… Hello, dear." Lachesis smiled.

"Hello Balthazar." Her eyes flickered up to Atropos', a silent question of What do you want to do now?

"Balthazar," Atropos said. "There's still one injury we need to take care of. It's... Deep. And involved. And will be painful to remove." Balthazar's hand twitched and began to move, lifting up and moving in the direction of his stomach. She didn't know if the pain there was greater than anywhere else or if there was a blanket of pain and he was just taking a guess, but all the same she grabbed his hand and pulled it back. "Don't." She glanced at her sisters. "Clotho's going to hold your arms. Lachesis your wings."

"F-Fine."

"Would you like something to bite on?" Atropos wasn't joking, and she made sure her gaze and tone conveyed her seriousness. Balthazar blinked hazily.

"Just do it." He shut his eyes and laid back, bracing himself. Once Clotho and Lachesis were in position, Atropos took a deep, deep breath and then slid her fingers into the wound, feeling the muscles of Balthazar's stomach tense and hearing him grunt sharply. She encountered the metal piece immediately, feeling a barb poke her index finger as she probed, trying to find a solid grasp on it, mindful of the pained noises Balthazar was making that were getting more intense with every moment.

His right wing flapped wildly, as Lachesis' bigger concern was keeping the healing one still. Clotho was having a somewhat easier time with the arms, as they were smaller and easier to hold. Atropos managed to move the shrapnel a bit; Balthazar barked in pain, and then followed it up with a particularly nasty Enochian swearword.

"Just cut it out!" He snarled. Atropos looked up.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes!"

Without a second thought, Atropos picked up the dagger she'd had laying nearby for just such an instance and did a swift slice into the skin over the piece. Balthazar thrashed twice as hard and really set into the cursing now, but she could see the wisdom in wanting it over painfully and fast rather than less painfully and terribly slow. Atropos reached in, removed the jagged metal and set it aside, quickly probing for anymore shrapnel before quickly withdrawing. Now free of obstruction, his grace was hot enough and close enough to burn.

Atropos stitched him together as quickly and efficiently as possible, every brush her fingers made with his grace felt like touching a piece of heated steel left out in the morning sunlight. When she was finished and examined her hand, she found that the fingertips were red, and not from blood. Lachesis looked up. "Finished?"

"Finished." Atropos confirmed. Clotho and Lachesis both let go, and Balthazar seemed to go limp, though his chest rose and fell rapidly. He was sweating, most likely from the sheer intensity of the pain and maybe a bit from the heat of the room.

Lachesis tapped Clotho's arm and motioned towards the door. "We'll be going. Feel better, Balthazar." They shuffled out of the room quickly, and Atropos found herself alone with the angel that Lachesis seemed to believe had feelings for her sister. For a moment, they stood/laid in silence, and the Balthazar spoke.

"What happened… To the others? The angels?"

Atropos' gaze flickered to the obscured window. He would take to this information as kindly as she would take to news of her sisters being killed. "You were the only one we found alive out of five." Balthazar's eyes slipped shut, and he exhaled deeply as the information set in.

"How many demons?"

"Fourteen dead. We found no more. How many were there?"

"…Fifteen."

"Not a bad count."

"We weren't… Supposed… To leave any survivors." He coughed a bit.

"There will be time to be concerned with your orders and your commanders once you can move again." Atropos said flatly, idly reaching out a finger and running it along the edge of his injured wing, the steely-blue feathers that glinted silver in the light feeling silky to the touch. It must have been pleasant, because it trembled and Balthazar's eyes slid shut again in a way that did not necessarily communicate pain.

"I should go," Atropos said quietly, thinking of her duties and the likelihood that she should inform heaven that she had one of its angels. As her hand moved down and away from the wing, though, it passed within range of his hand, and he caught her wrist in a weak and loose grip that grew firmer after a moment.

"Atropos," He croaked. "Thank you."

()()

A day and a half or so later, Balthazar was fit to return to heaven unassisted.

He unfurled his wings, standing in the open space outside the entrance to their house, and let them stretch. "Gah. There we go. A little cramped, but otherwise fine. Lovely work you did there, Lachesis." Standing at full height and letting the wings go their full span, Balthazar looked pretty impressive. Not that Atropos would say that out loud.

"Well," He said, folding his arms behind his back, "Thank you, ladies, for your very much appreciated aid. I'm glad that if I had to be broken, bleeding and near death, it was you that found me."

"Next time you won't be so glad." Clotho grumbled. For the better part of the previous evening Balthazar had been having a grand old time testing her temper, the surest sign of all that he was better.

"The point being," Balthazar said with a little smirk, "I suppose I owe you a rather large debt now. Don't be afraid to call in on it when you might need it." Atropos cocked an eyebrow at that.

"We'll see," She said evenly, even though to the best of her imagination, and she had a pretty good one, she could not imagine a situation in which she would need the likes of Balthazar's help with something.

()()

"I wasn't going to do it, you know."

Atropos cocked her eyebrow, unconsciously mirroring the same expression she'd directed at Balthazar over two thousand years ago.

"Do what?"

"Kill you."

He was leaning against the brick wall of the alley they were in. They'd just returned from sinking the Titanic; Castiel had returned to heaven a moment ago, leaving the two of them alone together (against his better judgment, if the expression on his face was anything to go by).

"Oh really? Because that was the impression I was under when I saw you standing behind me with the dagger raised." Balthazar snorted, as though assassination attempts were no big deal.

"I saw the direction the conversation was going. And believe me, Aisa, I know Cas as well as you know Clotho and Lachesis." He then reached under his jacket, pulled out the golden dagger- one of the few ways anyone could kill her- looked at it for a moment, and then, to her surprise, tossed it to her. Tossing a dagger of all things wasn't the wisest way to go, but she caught it just fine.

"What's this for?" Atropos asked, holding it up.

"You," Balthazar responded easily.

"Why?"

"I owe you, don't I? Something about you… Saving my life or something like that?" He twirled his hand vaguely as he spoke. She had to think for a moment, really think about that before she could summon to her conscience mind the memory of that day when she, Lachesis and Clotho had pulled Balthazar off the blood-covered field and brought him to their home to heal him.

Atropos had almost forgotten about that. She had been right; she hadn't needed Balthazar's help for anything, and so his debt to her (and by all rights her sisters as well) had slipped to the back of her mind. It never even occurred to her to call on the favor when getting Castiel to change history back.

All the same, though, this was welcome. Atropos would not say this out loud, not in front of Balthazar, but she was starting to have some concerns about Castiel and his state of mind, and she wasn't certain she wanted him to have access to one of the few things that could kill her or her sisters.

"Thank you, Balthazar." Atropos tucked the knife into her belt and wondered where in their house she might be able to hide it (It wouldn't do for someone to just be able to stroll in and pick it up). Balthazar smiled at her, and it held a surprising lack of impishness.

"Not a problem, darling. So now that we're even, how about a date?"

Atropos rolled her eyes, but her lips may have twitched slightly. "No."

"Your mouth says no, your eyes say yes."

Some things never changed.

-End