This is the last fanfic I wrote and has been sitting around on my hard drive for about half a year. About the time I started watching Supernatural... Why not let it loose? It's already done, with fifteen chapters total. I'll try and post one a day.
Reviews are loved but not required.
Reaper
Chapter One
Arthur Rosenthal scrabbled weakly against the other man's clothing, shock slowing his thoughts to a bare drip.
The knife was slipped smoothly out the way it came, and was dropped effortlessly back into a trench coat pocket. He clung to the man's lapels until his hands were gently shrugged away. Footsteps echoed calmly in the opposite direction growing fainter, fainter, gone. He stood there, blood hidden by his coat, trembling ever so slightly, limbs refusing to respond to his brain's panicked demands.
Colors exploded like planetary nebulas before his eyes, and the ground tilted under his feet.
The world tipped down before his eyes. The street. Someone vanishing into the bustle. Crowd. Building roofs. And then, sky.
It looked like rain.
Someone gasped.
Him? No.
"Are you alright?"
Do I look alright? The colors that were so vivid before seemed washed out now.
People stared at him. A small crowd started forming. Nameless faces, frozen. Why don't they help him? Can't they see he's hurt?
A pair of eyes watched him. Eyes. In italics. Eyes that cut through time and space, fazed through them. Existed outside of such silly little boundaries. Eyes with the brightest, flickering green light deep in them.
The owner of these eyes passed effortlessly through the crowd, movements smoother than any earthly, or heavenly, substance. It was as if it was made of absolutely nothing. A dead space. A gaping hole in the world that nothing could ever fill, but unnoticeable to the average eye. The being approached and stood above him, emotionless, regal, formal. Time slowed to a crawl, the colors fading, the light gaining a gray tint, sounds muffled. The crowd swayed like seaweed deep at the bottom of the ocean, a gentle current caressing them.
The world seemed to bend toward the figure, distorting ever so slightly at the edges, as if wanting to embrace it. Touch it to assure that it was real.
Stand.
The command came from nowhere and everywhere. It permeated every atom, every soul. One by one, each person in the crowd uncomfortably fidgeted on the spot, as if someone had just run a cold finger down the length of their spine. They just kept staring, as if stuck in slow motion. There were the muted sounds of sirens in the distance.
Stand.
There it was again. Arthur rose without effort, glanced back at himself upon the ground, and then looked at the figure.
"What now?" He asked in a detached manner, the gravity of his situation lagging far behind him.
The figure gave him a long look, as if expecting something different, but then a response was born into the space between realities.
Come with me. Your time is over.
"Is it?"
Yes.
"Can I-" Arthur's words halted, his face twisted for a moment in overwhelming pain. The metaphorical bus hit him head on, going ten miles per hour over the speed limit, the metaphorical bus driver grinning gleefully, hanging half out the window. "Can I say goodbye to anyone? Can I change anything?" He swallowed hard.
The figure paused. There was a sound akin to a breath being drawn in, but magnified in volume and depth, both horrible and fascinating at the same time. (One would have felt the urge to throw oneself off a bridge at hearing this noise. Fortunately, practically all who hear it are already dead, so no harm no foul.) Arthur felt the breath seep into him, through him, beyond him, and then drawn back to the figure. He was being inspected, his date of expiration evaluated by the keenest of eyes.
No. There isn't anything you can change. You're done.
The eyes, sad, stony and green, deep in impenetrable darkness, pierced through his being. The figure turned from him and began to flow away.
"We just had a baby. A little girl." Arthur said listlessly to no one in particular.
The figure halted, and everything flickered. The light brightened, the world focused, sound flared up. And for a tenth of a second, a man stood in the place of the figure, just a man, tall and lean, shoulders slumped, tension in every line.
It was over before Arthur could register it.
Come with me. I have a schedule. I need to keep it.
A pause.
I…I apologize about your daughter.
"It's fine. I just wish…" He didn't bother finishing this sentence. Arthur Rosenthal gathered himself and straightened his posture into something more formal. More controlled. He pinned his arms tightly against his sides. "Okay." He held his head high. "Where to next, Sir?"
You come with me, and I guide you to what's next.
The two beings walked side by side and vanished.
The world snapped back with a soft hiss that wasn't meant for the ears of the living, and the ambulance arrived.
o-o
"You're slipping." The voice confronted the figure just as the door to the apartment was opened. The figure entered and shut the door. The actions were truly unnecessary, the being didn't need to ever open any barricade to enter, but it was a routine. He liked routine.
Oh no.
No, I'm not.
The figure contracted in on itself for a moment, arms squeezing towards its sides, and then there was a man suddenly filling the spot that the being always left gaping. Robes of excess time melted off the man in, unseen to normal eyes, almost translucent waves tinted a glowing silver, and dissipated upon touching the floor.
I'm fine. I'm- "-just tired." The words that just existed before were transmuted into sound waves, into a weary voice. The man known as Timothy McGee turned to face his guest with knowing eyes.
"And that's it right there." The guest leaned against the counter in the kitchen, arms folded casually. He clearly belonged there. But he was the kind of man who looked like he belonged wherever you could possibly put him.
He was…average, in every sense of the word. Once you lost sight of him, you'd forget he was ever there at all, though you felt filled with an odd brotherly feeling about your fellow man. The only thing that stepped away from the ordinary about his appearance was a necklace dangling from around his neck; in the low light two pendants, a detailed scale and a wicked-looking sword, twinkled unnaturally on the gold chain. A sort of pureness inked out of him, like golden light under a locked door.
"You don't get tired. You can't. Or at least-" The man gave a small half smile, understanding in the worst way, on the verge of being condescending. Tim crushed the urge to punch the smile off his face at its inception. "-you shouldn't."
"That's why I'm doing this experiment. To learn about them. They fatigue, they get tired." Tim said without a fluctuation in tone, swallowing the sarcasm he oh so dearly wanted to coat his words with. Tim then smiled. "Doesn't anyone, below or above, read my reports?"
"You always were a bit too curious for your own good, eh? A bit too fascinated with your work." The man came closer, giving him a penetrating look. "Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?" The man looked mildly concerned. Tim shut his eyes, then opened them, drawing himself up. Though they were about the same height, Tim suddenly seemed to tower over him.
Careful.
The one word filled the small space between the two, existing in a way that could only be called impossible, firmer than tempered steel, more real than any piece of furniture in the next room. Tim's eyes were the eyes of an ancient immortal being, like two black holes.
The man stopped in his tracks, a line appeared between his eyebrows as they contracted. He took a breath and stared Tim down, auras clashed mutely.
"I'm worried. If you lose yourself…" He trailed off and turned his head to look further into the apartment. In the faint light, one could almost be tricked into seeing a flash of a golden haze, encircling his head, just for the briefest of seconds. "Even He will not be able to help us." He turned back and stared at Tim, immortal eyes matching immortal eyes.
I won't lose myself.
"Be sure that you don't."
You are not my caretaker, Michael.
"No, I'm not. You shouldn't need one. But I think you do."
No, I do not. Leave Michael.
Michael's calm exterior warped for a moment, a slice of shock and unquiet showing through. "Azrael-"
This is not of your concern, Michael.
"It's of all our concern, Azrael!" Michael said, pure, pale cheeks gaining a slight stain of red. Tim got the distinct feeling that whatever manipulation tactics that usually worked for Michael had failed, as well as any attempt to remain cool and detached.
Leave.
He maneuvered around Tim and opened the door. Michael then turned, and looked back at Tim, frustration and uncertainty on his face and his cheeks stained pink; it would have made any normal person weep without hesitation. "You walk a fine line. Please, don't slip." A pause that waited to be filled. "Goodbye, Azrael." The door shut with a dull thunk behind him.
The ancient, immortal haze that had embedded itself in Tim, faded away, leaving behind a very tired man. Or something as close to a man as it could get.