He waits for her the crime scene; a guardian angel of sorts, though
truthfully the most he can do is advise. He would advise her about the
human Rottweiler who sleeps beside her bed - or in it now, he amends. But
he knows that she wouldn't listen. She is stubborn, he thinks. This is
not a new revelation.
He smiles at her startled, annoyed reaction when she sees him standing insubstantially at her elbow. It is a small amusement, but he enjoys it anyway. He misses her scowls as much as he misses her laughter. He sees her often, but it isn't the same any more. Not really. Not at all. Being dead is a bitch, he thinks. This isn't exactly a revelation either.
He imparts what wisdom he can, passes along what information he is allowed. The rules are quirky, he thinks and wishes he could do more to help. There is so much he would tell her if he could. It hurts to see her feel so alone when he knows that she is not. He would tell her the truth. About the armored man-child. About the rookie with the federal pension plan. About the boy carrying an arcane library in his head. He thinks she'd like to know. He knows at least she's on the right track.
Evidence of that is standing in the shadows across the street. He gives in to the absurd urge to wave at the solemn assassin and nearly laughs aloud at the other man's expression. He is sure that a small grin flickers there for a moment, uncharacteristic and priceless. There is a wary understanding between them. They each watch over her in their own ways, though neither is allowed to do as much as they wish. He suspects that may change soon. Unless the lovelorn knight does something stupid. Which is entirely possible. It strikes him as tragically funny that the ancient young man can seem so casually collected in life-threatening situations but be so utterly inept when dealing with the woman he has loved across the ages. Perhaps a little advice in that corner might do a bit of good, he muses.
There is advice he'd like to give the pseudo-rookie too. Breaking from his contemplation of eon-spanning relationships, he finds himself at the transplanted Californian's side, peering down at the latest corpse. Despite his real credentials the kid still has a lot to learn. There is a bit of evidence that has settled between some nearby crates. He points it out although he knows he won't be heard. He feels a surge of almost paternal pride when the rookie turns to find it almost immediately though. Maybe walking daily beside the supernatural is rubbing off on him whether he realizes it or not. He watches the scene a while longer, missing the camaraderie, if not the gruesome job.
As his thoughts drift to other things he has lost he finds himself many miles away from the sad, filthy alley. He watches the mundane daily routine as school lunches are packed and make-up is applied. Shoes are lost and found, orange juice is spilled and mopped up. He wonders if he spent more time here if she would come to feel echoes of his chi as the rookie sometimes seems to. He cannot delude himself though, and he knows that this is not what she needs. She is starting to move on with her life. Although she might still long for his presence, she does not need his ghost.
He resists the temptation to follow them about the rest of their day. It would accomplish nothing and he has work to do. He returns to the cramped office where he seems to spend as much time in death as he did in life. The rookie is in his chair. Government property, he thinks ruefully. Waste not, want not. Their partner is glaring at the case board. He feels the subtle shift in her consciousness as the Witchblade draws her into a vision.
He knows that he is not linked to her like the warrior or the bard, but still he wonders. Now that their paths have crossed once, perhaps they will cross again. It would be an honor. Then he thinks of another dark haired woman. And a pair of laughing children. And even a scowling teenage girl. And he thinks that honor or not, there is still somewhere else he'd rather be.
He smiles at her startled, annoyed reaction when she sees him standing insubstantially at her elbow. It is a small amusement, but he enjoys it anyway. He misses her scowls as much as he misses her laughter. He sees her often, but it isn't the same any more. Not really. Not at all. Being dead is a bitch, he thinks. This isn't exactly a revelation either.
He imparts what wisdom he can, passes along what information he is allowed. The rules are quirky, he thinks and wishes he could do more to help. There is so much he would tell her if he could. It hurts to see her feel so alone when he knows that she is not. He would tell her the truth. About the armored man-child. About the rookie with the federal pension plan. About the boy carrying an arcane library in his head. He thinks she'd like to know. He knows at least she's on the right track.
Evidence of that is standing in the shadows across the street. He gives in to the absurd urge to wave at the solemn assassin and nearly laughs aloud at the other man's expression. He is sure that a small grin flickers there for a moment, uncharacteristic and priceless. There is a wary understanding between them. They each watch over her in their own ways, though neither is allowed to do as much as they wish. He suspects that may change soon. Unless the lovelorn knight does something stupid. Which is entirely possible. It strikes him as tragically funny that the ancient young man can seem so casually collected in life-threatening situations but be so utterly inept when dealing with the woman he has loved across the ages. Perhaps a little advice in that corner might do a bit of good, he muses.
There is advice he'd like to give the pseudo-rookie too. Breaking from his contemplation of eon-spanning relationships, he finds himself at the transplanted Californian's side, peering down at the latest corpse. Despite his real credentials the kid still has a lot to learn. There is a bit of evidence that has settled between some nearby crates. He points it out although he knows he won't be heard. He feels a surge of almost paternal pride when the rookie turns to find it almost immediately though. Maybe walking daily beside the supernatural is rubbing off on him whether he realizes it or not. He watches the scene a while longer, missing the camaraderie, if not the gruesome job.
As his thoughts drift to other things he has lost he finds himself many miles away from the sad, filthy alley. He watches the mundane daily routine as school lunches are packed and make-up is applied. Shoes are lost and found, orange juice is spilled and mopped up. He wonders if he spent more time here if she would come to feel echoes of his chi as the rookie sometimes seems to. He cannot delude himself though, and he knows that this is not what she needs. She is starting to move on with her life. Although she might still long for his presence, she does not need his ghost.
He resists the temptation to follow them about the rest of their day. It would accomplish nothing and he has work to do. He returns to the cramped office where he seems to spend as much time in death as he did in life. The rookie is in his chair. Government property, he thinks ruefully. Waste not, want not. Their partner is glaring at the case board. He feels the subtle shift in her consciousness as the Witchblade draws her into a vision.
He knows that he is not linked to her like the warrior or the bard, but still he wonders. Now that their paths have crossed once, perhaps they will cross again. It would be an honor. Then he thinks of another dark haired woman. And a pair of laughing children. And even a scowling teenage girl. And he thinks that honor or not, there is still somewhere else he'd rather be.