He stared forlornly at the bald patches in his wings, finally having been given permission to move from the bed he'd been laid in up on their return from Hell, Akeelah had finally just left his side at the begging from her master and his soft encouragement to go ahead.
"They will grow back, in time." A warm hand rubbed over the top of his wing and he started around at the touch, but calmed, the touch was gentle and he knew that voice "But I promise they will grow back." The Healer stood just behind him, warm hands massaging at his shoulders lightly, and he curled his wings back where he kept them when they weren't being used. "You refused my brother entry again. He worries that you are angry at him."
"I'm not I ju—"
The archangel held up a hand to silence him, "I know.", he pat his shoulder lightly and stepped around the bed to sit at his side, "You've always been afraid of disappointing us. Oh, I remember you as a tiny little fledgling, so frightened to tell me that you wanted to be a messenger instead of a healer that you avoided me for nearly a week. Do not think I've forgotten how you had jumped out of my office window your grand attempts.", despite himself, Zaveriel cracked a smile, and a dark finger touched it lightly, "There is that smile, you look better with it, then without." The young messenger smiled again, looking down to his lap, and his older companion waited on him patently.
"I'm sorry I couldn't have done more."
"And you shouldn't be."
He closed his eyes tightly at the familiar voice, the one that had talked the bad dreams away, always hummed to him when he came in the dark hours of the night, it was warmth and safety.
"I will still comfort you, Little Zavi, all you need do is let me."
The messenger tried, he tried to pull his tears back as they escaped, tried to refortify his crumbling walls as they fell, but didn't quite reach his goals when he turned and fell into the Healer's arms. They wrapped around him entirely, pulling him close despite his injuries, and he sobbed raggedly into his chest. The older angel didn't speak, he knew he hadn't needed to, he just held him close. Tucking his head under his chin. Pressing a hand to the back of his head. Humming listlessly over it. Giving comfort from mere presence then empty words.
Zaveriel gripped tightly at the front of his robes, his thin shoulders heaving, much in the similar way they had when he'd finally be caught and taken to the Healers office all those decades and decades ago, when he'd finally confessed his desire to be what he was best at. Raphael had lost many young flocks to his brother, and Gabriel to him, Lucifer to Michael, and Michael to him. All four of them had. It was not something that was frowned upon, it was celebrated, but the distress of it had run the young fledgling into several walls. Terrified that he would shun him out if he knew his desires.
He sobbed until he couldn't sob anymore, turning slightly to breath in shakily instead, pressing his ear to the Healer's chest.
"What if he doesn't think I'm fit enough anymore."
"You're not, not now, but you will be given time to heal."
The young messenger turned to look up at him, eyes meeting those of his former master, "But what if even then?"
"Despite the fact that he would never and how much he adores you? Even after all of that? He would answer to me.