Michael thought about heading directly into town after speaking with Mother Constance but in the end he went next door. He still considered that property his home too and let himself in without announcement. He needed none; Jeremiah was sitting on the stairs, a tumbler of scotch on the step next to his hip. He was dressed in a black high-collar shirt with long sleeves, and a pair of black pants. His feet were bare despite the fact that the house wasn't heated at the moment.

"I didn't expect to see you so soon," Jeremiah admitted. He lifted his glass for a slow sip. He didn't blink.

"I was in the neighborhood," responded Michael lightly. He pushed the door shut with his mind. It clicked softly behind him.

The older man lowered his glass, keeping it in his hand for the time being. The silence between them stretched thin before he finally said: "Why did you bring me back?"

Michael tipped his head slightly, caught between amusement and irritation at the question. "Why? What a thing to ask."

Jeremiah's brows went up.

Michael looked him up and down. In the dark house, his skin looked blue. Frozen. His aura was a shadow. "It wasn't your time yet. You still have work to do."

The ex-priest shut his eyes. Michael could sense pain radiating out from him. It was strange to have such power over a person. People were so frail, physically and mentally, it was almost impossible not to injure them. It was fascinating, if inconvenient.

"Why does that hurt you?" he prodded, moving to the foot of the stairs. Jeremiah was seated five up from the bottom, putting him just a little higher than Michael.

Jeremiah opened his eyes and looked at his former charge. "Why does it matter?"

Michael gave an exaggerated sigh. "I hate when you do that: Answer questions with questions."

"Answer my question and I'll answer yours."

After brief consideration, Michael said: "It matters because I don't understand why having a purpose causes you pain. Would you rather be dead?"

Jeremiah had to check his knee-jerk reaction. "I've had a purpose my whole existence. That won't change whether I'm dead or alive."

"That doesn't answer my question. Either of them."

"Fine," Jeremiah said, beginning to feel the scotch kick in and his patience slip at once. "It hurts, Michael, because after everything, I would have thought I meant more to you than just another one of your pawns. The jury's still out on whether I'd rather be dead or not."

He downed the last of his drink and set the glass down hard enough to crack the edge. Michael looked at it then at him. After a moment's hesitation, he moved to sit beside him on the stairs.

"You're not a pawn," he said sincerely. "A piece, maybe."

Jeremiah side-eyed him but Michael's expression was inscrutable.

"I shouldn't have let you die," the younger man went on. "That was a mistake."

Jeremiah could hear the apology implicit in the statement, even if it was missing from the actual words. "All things for a reason," he said, which was more or less his acceptance of the unspoken apology. He had learned a lot that he didn't regret from his stint in the Underworld.

"Will you come to the mansion?" Michael asked.

"We'll see."

"Evangelina will need someone living to look after her."

"Won't you be there?"

Michael shrugged and lit a clove cigarette. The black paper and oil-soaked tobacco perfumed the air. "When I can be. There are a lot of things I need to do and some people I need to…collect. People who are doing things they shouldn't be. Some have stolen from me. Others are going to. It's very disappointing." His tone was bland; he wasn't actually upset about any of it. The bad people were easy enough to take care of. They were just another inconvenient little chore. "Tate will help you."

Jeremiah looked less than thrilled. "I really don't need his assistance."

"It'll make things easier," Michael assured.

"That I doubt."

"He's not a child, you know. He just appeared as one to spend time with me when I was a child myself."

"I liked him better that way." Normally Jeremiah wouldn't share such a blunt opinion, but his self-imposed barriers were at an all-time low. "The older he appears, the more trouble he causes."

Michael tipped his head and smiled. "All right. I'll tell him to be a child around you."

That wasn't what Jeremiah had been driving at and almost said as much but he hesitated. If he was going to have Tate as an unwanted assistant, having him in his least destructive form would be best. "We'll see if that works."

…

"He wants us to fix up the nursery for him," Chad repeated slowly.

He, Pat, and Constance were all in the kitchen, positioned in a triangle about the central island. Constance had her hands braced on the marble counter top, arms spread like a tripod to help her dominate the conversation. Chad ignored the posturing; Patrick was likewise unimpressed.

"God knows why," the blonde woman dismissed. "After what you tried to do to the room when he was a baby…Red cribs? Jesus H. Christ."

"Red was very en vogue that year," Chad said starchily. "Neutral naturals would be a far better choice today, of course. Timeless."

Pat caught the glance Chad threw his way and nodded in agreement. "Nothing says Apocalypse: Now parenting like a pastel military pallet."

Constance rolled her eyes. She knew when she was being mocked. "You homos do whatever you want. It's out of my hands."

She put those hands up in the air at that and quit the kitchen, and the conversation. She had no interest in hearing whatever real ideas they had for perverting future generations with their ideas of style and family values. Why her grandson even tolerated them would forever be beyond her understanding. She resented the influence they'd had on her son and she didn't intend to let them near her great-grandchildren.

Finding Tate was simple enough: He wasn't hiding from her, for once. He was in the downstairs bathroom with the door wide open, staring into the mirror. As she came up behind him, he shrank down, de-aging until he looked roughly eight years old. The sight hurt her heart. He was so beautiful and perfect at that age, so full of vitality and promises not yet broken.

His eyes were still haunted when he lifted them, shifting his attention from himself to the reflection of the woman standing in the shadows behind him. No matter how much time passed, there was always a little darkness in his eyes; the scar of several lifetimes of horrors witnessed. He was about the age he currently appeared, back when they had to move out of the mansion when he was a child.

"It'll be nice to have a baby in the house again," she commented, mostly because she couldn't say what she really wanted to. She stepped closer to him and smoothed his hair back from his face. "It's been too long since these walls held new life."

"I hope it doesn't scream like Dr. Harmon's baby," Tate opined.

"Don't say such things," Constance admonished sternly. "Don't forget who helped put that baby in that state."

Tate pouted in the mirror, stung by the indirect jab. "I just meant I hope it doesn't cry all the time."

"There'll be two of them," his mother said, attempting again to smooth his unruly hair. "Twice the effort, twice the reward."

"Twice the noise," added Tate. "I don't know why you and Mrs. Nora like babies so much. They're noisy shit-factories."

"Babies are sweet and innocent. Nothin' is as pure as the trust and love of an infant." Constance draped her arms over his shoulders from behind and drew him close, even though he made a face that was supposed to let her know he didn't want to be touched. "And nothin' is as strong as a mother's love for her child—or as dangerous."

The little boy in the mirror looked up at his mother's reflection. The shadows of the room crept in around the edges, blacking out the rest of the world. With the darkness came a whispering rustle of spectral voices only the two of them could hear. Tate's expression relaxed into a blank-eyed stare as he listened to the whispers, whispers that told them both what to do.

…

Hazy sunlight filtered in through the bare window onto the floor, showing about ten years of accumulated dust. A large cobweb hung over an equally dust-coated dresser. Despite the room's condition, being back in the old nursery brought on a case of nostalgia for both of the Warwicks. It was one of the rooms that had sold them on the old mansion back when they were alive. The room, and the promise of a family together. Back when they foolishly believed they could live happily ever after.

"Where the hell are we going to get new cribs?" Chad marveled in disgust, breaking the moody silence at last. He refused to let this turn into another reason to weep uncontrollably. "Do you think someone at the market makes them? Maybe there are still some at the custom oak shop down in the art district..? Or would looters have gotten them all?"

Pat favored him a funny look. "I could be wrong but I'm going to guess there has never been a run on hand-crafted oak nursery sets."

"We should start there," Chad decided. Then: "Shit! We'll need a truck since there's no God-damned delivery. You know, Michael really should lend us some minions if he wants this done right."

"Let's just use the old ones," Patrick suggested. He didn't relish the idea of hauling furniture much more than Chad did. And he had no interest in searching through a dusty, dark shop for two cribs that would fit his partner's fussy standards.

Chad sighed and made a martyred face. "We'll have to put them back together."

The charred pieces of the cribs were still in the furnace downstairs, where he had left them after destroying them when things went to hell with the Harmons and their twins.

"Beats dragging new stuff here," Pat pointed out sensibly. "We'll give them a fresh coat of paint afterward. It'll be fun."

"All right," Chad conceded. "I'll get the spindle one. You get the other one."

They both focused and the broken, burned cribs appeared in the nursery, whole and in the state they'd been in when the men had first found them stored up in the attic. Reset. Unfortunately, that meant they were covered in dust and in sore need of a sanding.

"Well, let's grab the tools," said Chad. "And I know you were just joking but I'm starting to like the idea of military pastels…"

...

((Song: Close to You – The Carpenters))

The house was ready when Michael brought Evangelina to stay. Despite the chilly weather, the rosebushes were in full bloom, white blossoms showing brilliant against dark green leaves in the hazy mist. The front door opened smoothly on well-oiled hinges when they stepped into the shade of the porch. They were met in the front hall by Jeremiah; Moyra was waiting at hand as well, to receive the lady's coat and luggage. In the kitchen, a steaming pot of herbal tea was nestled under a crocheted cozy, paired with a plate of fresh sugar cookies.

Tate was minding the snacks in his child guise, assuring the quality of the treats through sampling. He was finishing a third cookie when the trio entered the room. He had decided to humor them by appearing in the form Michael had requested, mostly because it gave him a nice excuse to not have to mind his manners. When they arrived, he swallowed the bite in his mouth and dusted his fingers off on the hem of his dad's sweater. It fit especially loose when he was the size of an eight-year-old, but he didn't care about his appearance. He was much more interested in how the living people looked.

Michael was dressed all in black, in the fancy pieces he preferred that made him look to Tate like an exclusive, well-paid mortician. Evangelina was his polar opposite dressed all in ivory and white. She had her hair braided like a Greek goddess, with the long end trailing down over one shoulder. Jeremiah just looked like Father Jeremiah, in the basic black pants, shirt, and coat he usually wore. He always looked the same to Tate.

"Hi," he said to the adults.

"Hello," Evangelina smiled. She had a gentle smile.

"Hello, Tate," Jeremiah greeted, the same way he always did.

Michael just stared at him. It was the first time he'd seen Tate so young in years. It was like seeing someone else entirely—not his childhood companion, Ethan, but some other child. He saw a part of himself that was stuck here, unable to grow or adapt, perpetually vulnerable. He saw in Tate a mentally and emotionally frail version of the same thing Michael himself was striving to be. One that had no hope of improving his lot due to his weaknesses. A rogue tear ran down Michael's cheek. He ignored it.

"Despite appearances," he told Evangelina, taking her hand. "Tate is one of the strongest spirits in the house. If you need anything, call on him."

The unexpected praise made the boy squirm. To hide the awkward feelings of pride and social discomfort, Tate grabbed another cookie. He bit off too much, but it spared him having to say anything to anyone.

"He looks like—" Evangelina started.

"He's Constance's son," Michael explained. Then, to Tate: "If she needs anything, make sure she has it. Keep her safe."

The instructions were more than just mere words: Michael laced a direct command into the statement that insured the ghost boy would be compelled to do as he was told. Tate natively had an impulse to do whatever the woman of the house wanted him to do anyway; Michael's added geas reinforced it.

"I will," Tate assured in a tone that managed to be compliant and impatient at once.

He had already heard the 'keep her safe' speech before. Michael had said that when he told Tate about the infant twins, and how one was Michael's to keep and the other one was for Mrs. Nora. Of course Tate was going to keep the woman safe.

—

When Michael left that evening, Tate expected Jeremiah to go with him, but he didn't. He and Evangelina prepared supper together, and all the while there was this awkwardness between them that had the boy fascinated. The source finally became clear when Jeremiah insisted on carrying the woman's plate to the island for her.

"I'm pregnant," she said in a dry manner. "I'm not helpless. I've never needed a man to do chores for me that I can do myself."

He set the plate of lightly seared, mostly-raw meat down on the marble surface of the island for her anyway. "I know I'm the last person you want around right now, because of our history, but it's what Michael wants."

"He wants you to check up on me now and then," Evangelina said, settling herself on a bar stool. She took up her fork and delicately skewered a bloody chunk. "I'm pretty sure he didn't tell you to be a helicopter." She poked the meat into her mouth, then said around it: "I wish you'd stop bringing up our 'history'. We were together a few days because our elders made us. That's not history. That's child abuse."

"We weren't children."

"May as well have been," she shrugged and scooped another meat chunk into her mouth. She was picking up speed, eating ravenously as the twins became aware of the fresh sustenance. "The point is: You don't owe me anything and I don't owe you anything. If the sect ever comes around again, we'll have Michael crucify the lot of them."

Jeremiah arched a brow in surprise. "You're serious."

"Damned right, I am," the woman said. She dropped the fork and resorted to eating the meat with her fingers because the utensil was slowing her down. "We should wipe that sect off the face of the earth. They're dangerous."

—

Tate followed her to the nursery after Evangelina finished eating, leaving Jeremiah to fend for himself against Moyra, who insisted on doing the dishes while flaunting her sexy form at the ex-priest. The pregnant woman was far more interesting to Tate. He watched invisible while she acquainted herself with the room.

It was cleaned up and quaint in its way, with drab pastels and antique lace adorning the mismatched cribs that dominated the center of the room. The changing table, dresser, and rocking chair were all stained a faded charcoal, with fresh ivory cushions and bedding contrasting nicely. Evangelina went over to the chair and settled in it, relieved to get her rapidly-increasing weight off her swollen feet. She ran a hand over her belly and then realized she wasn't alone.

Tate was standing a few paces away from her, watching her with open curiosity. She smiled at him.

"Hi there," she said.

"Hi," he answered. He cocked his head. "What's it like? Having a baby inside you?"

She ran her hand over her belly again. "It's strange. Especially with two. When one moves, the other one will. Sometimes, one stretches and pushes his brother. Sometimes, it feels like they're both trying to kick their way out."

Tate found the answer absolutely fascinating. Intrigued, he moved closer to the seated woman. "Can I feel?"

She moved her hand and made a motion that invited him to do just that. He hesitated then placed a hand on her round middle. She repositioned it over the area she had felt the most activity recently. Naturally, the baby didn't move immediately. It was several seconds before he shifted under Tate's palm. They baby was big enough now that when he rolled over in the womb, it could clearly be felt on the outside.

"Holy shit!" Tate chirped. "That's creepy!"

He grinned when the baby moved again, finding it bizarre and amusing at once. It was the best thing he'd discovered in decades. Evangelina found his reaction just as amusing, partly because it mirrored her own feelings when she first started to feel the twins move.

"When they first started to move," she said. "It felt like there were moths fluttering in my guts."

"Cooool," Tate breathed. He wanted the lady to tell him more stories about being pregnant, so he said: "What's it like now?"

"Crowded," she smiled. "I have to use the bathroom a lot and my stomach's upset a lot, especially when the babies kick it. My lower back's been stiff the past couple of days. Michael said I should start to feel better now that I'm here. I do feel less…I don't know. Anxious, I guess? My appetite's definitely improved."

Tate felt the baby under his hand give a strong kick. "You should name them Remus and Romulus. After the Roman guys who were raised by a wolf."

"They already have names," said Evangelina. "Gabriel and Zachariel."

Tate wrinkled his nose. "Gross," he said, since he couldn't think of a more polite way to express himself.

His blunt honesty prompted a short laugh from the pregnant woman. The baby under Tate's hand wriggled mightily.

"You could call them…Gabe and Zach. How's that?" she offered.

Tate thought about it then nodded. "Yeah. That's okay, I guess. Gabe and Zach."

He wondered which one was the one Michael was going to keep.

…

Author's Note:

Thanks for the reviews and kind words! Because of my vacation, I got extra writing done so I figured I'd thank you more by posting another big chungus of a chapter. It could probably stand a little more editing but it's getting late and I wanna get this out tonight so...please pardon any grammar or spelling errors.

So, yeah. Michael's maturity is still in short supply. He thinks he's being super mature but he's really just being a bossy, entitled rich kid. Biggest balls around, he seriously thinks he can outwit the Devil himself. Not that he'd be the first person to think such a thing. He's certainly more qualified than most. But pride tends to go before the fall in most stories. And next time, the Antichrist's pride reaches an all-time high during winter festival time. When people make sacrifices in his name, it feeds his ego.