A/N: Ayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy~ *waves around word document* Hot off the press, and chok full of angst and angel guilt. WOOO~

Also, warning – if you're not big on blood, wounds, and hurt/comfort stuff, beware of this chapter. And sad stuff too. IT'S EVERYWHERE. OOoooOoohhhh. I promise this has a happy ending, though. I wouldn't end this fic in sorrow!

11. The First Time

Stocking could not remember ever hearing Chuck whine before. At least, not in her recent memory. For a dog thing that endured more abuse in a day than most creatures feel in a lifetime, Chuck was a tolerant motherfucker. So that meant if Chuck was whining, it was worse than they thought. Much worse.

Both girls picked their way across the rubble, climbing and sliding as the angles demanded and trying their best not to cause anything to shift. They could not yet determine where the whining was coming from, and neither of them wanted to accidently step on something warm and alive. It took maybe a minute of teetering and tip-toeing, but Stocking finally ran into evidence she had wished she hadn't found.

Ducking under the lip of a wood slab, she found a ghostly-white hand peeking out from under a pile of rubble. It was streaked with blood, fingers gently curled in a naturally unnatural position. Chuck was a foot away, standing vigil at the tuft of orange hair visible through cracks in the wood and debris. Stocking began clearing the area immediately, hefting away the huge pieces and throwing them as far as she could, panting, shaking.

Panty had to dodge a few of the projectiles, but didn't dare complain. She could smell the blood, sense the pain of this fragile human being, from where she stood just yards away. Slowly, she approached. Stocking was frenzied, digging as though the world depended on it. Part of her world did. Panty felt like she was interrupting at first, but seeing the patches of emerging flesh, flayed and dirty, her hands moved without thought.

Together, they dug him out. They shouldn't have.

The final attack from the ghosts – a killing blow meant for Panty – had torn him apart. Bones snapped, organs bruised and likely burst, skin split, body arranged in an awkward spread-eagle of defeat. A blade of wood the length of a child's arm had impaled him straight through the chest, pinning him down. The areas around his temples, his jaw, his wrists were all beginning to purple and swell. He had a slick of sweat along his forehead, his body cold and in shock from the injuries. His breath sounded wet as he sucked quick, gasping little pants. And the blood-… there was a steady leak from behind his head, his ears, from the many wounds spattered along his body. One of the lenses in his mirrored goggles had broke, revealing one green eye. It was open, and it was alive with pain.

Panty stared, her mind unable to connect the wounds to Brief's body. After enduring so much at their hands, she saw him just short of invincible. To see him like this-… the images did not reach her. She scrambled a few steps back, inexplicably frightened. Why her heart was beating so hard and fast, she could not say.

Stocking, on the other hand, was trying to smile. A shaky expression, but genuine. Tentatively, she took that blood-white hand in hers, trying to rub a little warmth into the cold, sticky fingers. Slowly, with an unfocused glaze, Brief's visible eye drifted to her. It took a few tries before he could steadily watch her face.

"Hey, hero," she said, voice whisper soft. The words unlatched the rest of her control, tears beginning to swell at the edges of her eyes. "You did so well."

Brief continued to watch her, and looking into his eyes, she could see he was fighting the agony. Adrenaline and shock had numbed some of it, though it was too much to hope he couldn't feel anything at all. He opened his mouth, and a glob of blood slipped over his lips and down the side of his pale face.

"St-… ock.." A breath snagged the wrong way, and he began to cough, sending white-hot bolts of pain all through him. Blood began surging all over, agitated by his movements. Stocking didn't know much about human anatomy, but it sounded like his chest was caving in. She cupped a hand over his mouth, just shy of touching.

"Shh, shh," she said. Still she smiled, even as tears broke the surface and slid down her face, warm and cold all at once. Any fool could see it was over. He had maybe minutes, if he was lucky. She would send him off with her bravery, with her smile. He deserved so much more, but there wasn't time.

Panty had removed herself from the scene, breathing hard and fast as she dialed Garterbelt's number. He would know what to do. He always knew what to do.

Brief's eye was getting fuzzy, so Stocking brushed soft fingers against his forehead to rouse him again. A sluggish blink. A dry tongue across his lips. ".. P.. Pan-.. ty?.." he asked.

At first, Stocking wasn't sure what he wanted. Would he prefer Panty sitting here with him, and not her? For his last moments, it was her sister he needed? Something must have crossed her face, because Brief squeezed her hand with a grimace and spoke again.

"…h-..hu-.. hurt?... y-.. yo.. both-.. oh-…" He carried off, the pain choking him off with another few shallow breaths. Stocking ran a feather-light thumb across his eyebrow, cupping his face. The smile was just barely there; it was too sad to keep it up, as hard as she was trying.

"No," she said. How he could ask about them here and now, inches from what had to be one of the more painful deaths to face, moved her to sob. "W-We're n.. not hurt, Brief."

Brief's eye observed her, trying to catch her in a lie. When it detected none, it closed in what must have been a distant, cool relief. And Stocking did not like the way his body gently sagged, tension leaving him. She rubbed her thumb over his eyebrow again.

"Brief?"

His eye opened again, just a little. Even though she could only see slivers of his face through all the dirt, debris, and blood, Stocking could see how very tired Brief was. For her, he roused himself and spoke once more, clearly and slowly, like this was the single most important thing he had ever told her.

"I… kept.. you safe…"

And that, more than anything else, washed him in a peace that only the dying can feel. Stocking shook her head, cradling his hand with both of hers and raising her voice. As an angel, she knew when a soul was moving on. There was a shift in the air – a sweet, soft tone that would ring like a tuning fork. Her eyes darted to Panty, who was looking at them with huge blue eyes. She could feel it too.

"Brief, stay awake," Stocking said, still keeping eye contact with Panty. His hand was shaking a little, pumped with adrenaline and stretched to its limit. His whole body was that way. When she looked back to his face, she noted the bleary cast to his eye again. "Don't fall asleep!"

Brief didn't speak again, his lips just barely parted as blood continued to trickle out in spurts when he breathed. It was getting slower, less regular, as if he had to remind himself to do it every so often. His eyelashes fluttered as he swallowed.

".. m' tired, Stocking.." The words were wet with blood, mumbled around pain. There was nothing anyone could do for him, and Stocking had never felt so useless. So young. Brief's hand twitched in hers, and she softened her grip as she watched him carefully, with effort and energy he didn't have, reach toward her face. She read his actions and leaned close, pressing his palm to her cheek. He could feel her tears.

Brief held her gaze, and then he smiled. It hurt her to see it. For a flashing second, he started to sit up and tighten the hand against her, but found he didn't have the strength to muscle through the pain of doing so. Stocking bent over him, trying to get closer. Is that what he wanted? What did he want?

It was abrupt.

The light in his eye blinked out, the air in his body growing stagnant as it left him. His lips grew lax, carrying only the barest hint of his sick, exhausted smirk. Stocking waited, frozen. Panty had finally gotten through to Garterbelt and was talking fast and quiet to him over the phone. It was already too late. There was nothing anyone could do, and there never had been.

Brief was dead.

Her tears just kept coming, pittering onto Brief's face and streaking through the stains of blood drying there. Stocking had forgotten all about the orb of purity Brief had given her, and its white bolts still arched around her. The electricity fizzled, sparking, casting light and shadow off Brief's body. It was the only light in this dark place; even the sky visible through the ceiling wasn't as bright as what Brief had built them.

He had been the brightest of them all, the purest. Stocking closed her eyes, and with her thumb, she eased his eye shut as well. She felt Panty's hand at her back, patting it, assuring everyone that Garterbelt was coming. He said to call 911, so that's what Panty had done. No one here had thought to contact an ambulance, Stocking thought, until they didn't need it.

In the darkness, Stocking could only shake her head, beginning to sob aloud. And her sobs grew only louder, broken, earnest, like a child's. Panty's hand grew still on Stocking's back, and she could feel the moment her sister realized Brief was no longer there. If anything, Garterbelt had likely run into him in heaven by now.

Panty fisted the material of Stocking's ripped, dirty blouse, sinking to her knees beside her. Chuck, who had never left, laid by Brief's head in silence. How long the three of them sat there, they did not know. Long enough for the glowing beams of electricity to flicker and die from lack of battery. Long enough for the jumbled, echoing confusion of paramedics and sirens to sweep through the disaster. Long enough to see Brief's body lifted and carried away. Long enough.

Stocking's hand slipped limply away from him as he was gathered, and only after she lost contact with him did she feel the energy to stand.

"No!" she yelled, lunging forward. "NO!"

Panty was shouting too, but Stocking wasn't listening enough to hear it. All she could hear was the rush of blood in her ears and the weak sound of his voice. I kept you safe, he said. And they couldn't say the same to him.

Strong arms held her back, and she struggled as hard as she could to get away. Brief was getting loaded into the back of an ambulance, and he would be carted far away. They would likely never see him again. Not before he was burned or in the ground. Stocking's knees gave out, but she didn't fall. Garterbelt's voice boomed through the wreckage the church.

"Calm the fuck down! Calm the fuck down!" he was saying. Stocking couldn't seem to catch her breath, eyes stinging and nose running. She looked to her left at Panty who had stilled, head down, fists clenched. He held them steady with his strong grip until the sirens faded, then pushed them forward.

"You two are the shittiest angels, I swear…" His voice was a growl, but there wasn't a lot of momentum behind it. Garterbelt knew the passage of time better than most. People came and went, lives fleeting and delicate. But to die young and full of hope was a despairing death indeed. Garterbelt cupped his hands together behind his back.

"What happened here ain't nobody's fault," he said, and he seemed to mean it. "He died with memories in his head and a damn strong heart in his chest. The purity of our church took him home, you two. Nothin' to cry about."

Stocking stared down at the patches of blood where Brief's body had been. The day she and her sister returned to heaven, maybe they would see him again; there was always that possibility. Heaven was, after all, just another plane of existence. She blinked once, feeling fresh tears still slip down. It seemed silly to cry now, but she couldn't stop. Panty let out a trembling breath.

Garterbelt looked between the two of them and heaved a sigh. "Don't you tell me you're gonna cry crocodile tears about this, you hookers. He's an elevator ride away, for shit's sake! If you two would get off your asses and do your fucking jobs, you'd see him in no time."

Both the sisters stiffened, feeling a haze of shame for being so affected by a mortal life. An angel was not supposed to grow fond of humans, especially not while on leave for probation. It was disrespectful, irresponsible-… The Anarchy sisters usually were those things, but they didn't fuck around when it came down to the wire.

They had bonded too closely with a human being, and it cost him his life. Images of Brief – happy, curious, determined, nervous, from the moment they met to the last – passed over Stocking. She put a hand over her forehead.

"He was a fucking idiot," Panty muttered beside her. The tone was indecipherable. "Even at the end."

They all fell into a silence, the four of them. Garterbelt was the first to leave, and said no more on the subject as he did so. As much as he was chastising the sisters for making a fuss, Stocking would bet her swords he was just as upset. Panty, who had never been emotionally competent, drifted away with a swagger meant to be more confident than it was. Chuck stayed, patient and quiet. Stocking did too.

Was it so wrong, to have wanted time with him? Hell, they were on a date just hours ago. Only hours ago. It didn't seem real. This was a day far away from all the others, isolated by impossibility and anguish. It was a day she wouldn't forget, and she still wasn't sure why.

She shouldn't be haunted by the fading light in his eyes, the faint grip of his cold hand. The ghost of his smile. People change, she had told him so many months ago. Angels are people. His reply had not stirred her then, but now?

She'd be a fool to say she was the same. Stocking sat down on a mound of wreckage and hugged her knees to her chest, looking out over the wood, furniture, and scrap. While she was finished crying, she couldn't say she was "over it." Was this grief? Was this fondness? Whatever it was, she never wanted to feel it again, even though she knew she would be feeling it for a long, long time yet.

Brief woke up.

His eyes opened, and suddenly he was very alert. The cling of sleep did not follow him, and there was almost nothing to suggest he had fallen asleep in the first place. In fact, it felt more like he had closed his eyes for a little while and then opened them again. Weird. He was laying on his back, staring up at a clear view of a dove-grey sky, without any clear recognition of how he had gotten there.

He remembered the date with Stocking, the battle in the church, and final stand-off that led him to block for Panty... but the rest wasn't forthcoming. What was more alarming was that Brief could not find it in himself to be alarmed. An unnatural calm had settled over him, warm like a blanket, and he did not question its presence. As Brief pushed himself up by his elbows and looked around, he noted that he wasn't even by the church anymore. He was laying in fresh snow at the top of a hill overlooking a sturdy cabin in sparse woods. It felt straight out of poetry, and with a rush of joy, Brief realized that the cabin was his.

When he was very young, his father would take him hiking out in the mountains. Rich as his family was, there was a such thing as simple pleasures; cuddling up in their humble cabin happened to be one of them. Back then, he would read books by the fire, or play very old tapes on the cassette player while his parents cooked. He was happier then. This was before Mom died... when he could still sit on her lap and finger her shirtsleeves while she ran her hands through his hair. She had been the one who wanted the cabin in the first place. Brief did not think to question why he was here, or why he could not feel the cold.

He began to walk, then jog, and then sprint down the hill. His bare feet kicked up white, powdery snow high in the air, his breath coming out in opaque wisps. His momentum caught up to him halfway and he tripped, tumbling and rolling, laughing, remembering when Mom would push him unannounced down tiny slopes as a child and follow him soon after. After coming to a stop on his stomach, he lay in the snow panting for a long while. Usually these memories were painful, but now they came fast and soft, light in his heart.

He wasn't even surprised when she called to him.

"Briefers!"

On impulse, he turned his head. There she was. Mom. He had taken after his father in physical appearance, but his gentle spirit, creativity, and dogged enthusiasm came from her. She was slender, her dark red hair braided to one side in a hurry, resting on her shoulder. Her freckles stood out against her skin, pale from the cold, though her lips were as dark as they always were. Those green eyes - kind, curious - creasing in a smile that showed just slivers of her white teeth. She was in her favorite outfit: a baggy, lilac sweater, tight sweatpants, and legwarmers. She always did like 80s American fashion, for whatever reason.

"Mommy!" Brief called. It felt so natural, even though it shouldn't have been. Scrambling, he ran for her and crashed straight into her legs on the small wooden porch. It didn't occur to him until just this moment that he had shrunk in size. The last time he had hugged his mom, he was six years old. It felt right with her towering above, her arms deceptively strong and tight around his back, a single hand carding through his hair. He felt safe.

"You stayed out late, little man," she said. Brief kept his face buried in her skirts, smelling the cinnamon and pencil-led fragrance that followed her everywhere. He sighed.

"I missed you," he said, and didn't resist when she bent down with a grunt and hefted him up into her arms. Automatically his arms winded around her neck as if they belonged there, face pressed into her warm neck.

"And I, you, my darling." As much of an oddball his mother could be, she was raised an heiress and tended to speak that way, even in the most ridiculous of times. She was a woman of class, no matter the price of her home or how she was dressed. It was what his father fell in love with, Brief was sure.

There was a lapse in time, and Brief found himself sitting at the familiar, round table in the cabin's kitchenette. He could trace the divots and marks of his childhood on its surface, places where he had chipped a plate or bled paint through paper. Mom sat a bowl of miso soup in front of him (extra tofu, triangle-shaped, just like he liked it), and then sat down across from him. The soup tasted so much better than anything he had ever eaten.

He kicked his feet in the air under the table, slurping because his father wasn't around to snap at him for being sloppy. Brief could not seem to pull himself out of the moment, unable to feel baffled or worried or amazed. Just like a dream, it was impossible for it to feel strange. That kind of clarity only happened upon waking.

Mom was probably going to eat later, as she rarely ate at the same time Brief did. So instead, she busied herself in the den area, organizing some books on the expansive bookshelf. It took up almost an entire wall of the cabin. She was always reading something or another, and if Brief was lucky, she'd read it to him too.

"Where's Papa?" Brief asked, digging his spoon into his soup and trying to hook his feet on the chair across from him. He liked to pretend invisible people, like ghosts, sat in them and enjoyed moving them around with his legs.

"Papa's off to fight dragons," she said. Her voice was a little faint because she had her back to Brief while she organized the books, slotting them by color, not title. Brief shot up in his seat, getting his legs under him in a kneeling position.

"Where? Where is that? Why can't I go?"

"He had to leave while you were asleep last night. I'm surprised the clattering of his armor did not wake you, my dear." Here she paused to considered a bizarre shade of yellow, and set the novel aside for later evaluation.

"Can I go?" Brief asked, rising up on his knees and putting his palms on the table top. "I wanna go. I'm good at sword sp-.. spaear.. sp.." He struggled with the word, his little mouth working to pronounce it, and then just settled on something easier. "Sword fighting."

"You're not old enough, sweet," she said. Brief stood up in his chair because he could hear the shifting tone in her voice. The one that meant something really fun was about to happen. "But someday you will be. You will be tall and strong, just like Papa, and you will smite the wicked and save the innocent. You will find the power in yourself and in others. Your valor will shine so bright, even the darkest corners of the world will glow."

"Will I fly?" Brief asked desperately, jumping up and down on his chair and shaking the table meanwhile. Soup was sloshing all over the place. "I wanna fly!"

"Oh, you'll fly to the moon and back!" She twirled around, baggy sweater flapping, and then rushed into the kitchen just as Brief flung himself off the chair with arms outstretched. He fell into her arms, and she hugged him close so he could feel her laughter as much as hear it. "You'll assist the angels, my prince."

Angels.

Brief tensed with a sudden jolt of pain, as if an arrow had struck him right between the eyes. Given his new youth, he burst into tears on principle. Mom cradled him close, shushing him as she cupped the back of his head and quickly sat down on the loveseat, the books and dragons forgotten.

Angels. The flash of blonde hair against rubble. The smell of chocolate wafting from dark clothes. The crash and crack of wood, the heavy bong of a church bell. It hurt so bad to think about it, each image or memory or whatever it was sending spikes of hot fury through every inch of him. Brief sobbed harder, clenching his teeth to keep the agony at bay.

"Wh-.. What's happening?" he demanded. He gasped a moment afterward because he realized how deep his voice had suddenly become, which in turn caused him to sense how small his mother now seemed. Leaning back, trembling with ebbing pain, Brief felt a flash of panic. He was almost as big as his mom now... he was-.. was.. He was the age he should have been to begin with.

His mother did not seem at all surprised by this turn of events and instead reached to pet a soft hand down his cheek, smearing tears away. She looked so hopelessly sad.

"You're remembering, my dear," she said. Brief, still panting, still refusing to let go of her no matter how quickly everything was breaking apart. His perfect world, shattered.

"Remembering what?"

"Your death."