When he slept, there was two types of nights he could have; one being where he would sleep peacefully, curled up on his side as he did when he was just a little fledgling, blissfully unaware of the world around him, or their was the other sort, where he would be haunted by deeds of the past, pains that weren't really being afflicted, when old scars ached more then usual, and his mind was too fast to slow down enough to sleep more then a few hours.

And beside him, his sentry would watch over him, ready to intervene when the need arose, as was the reason he had made it so he was to stay with him. Healing was aided by overcoming, and that's what he was doing, and sometimes it required the help of others and there was plenty who were more then happy to help.

He knew immediately what sort of night it would be.

Seated at his desk, sifting through the page on the ones who had decided to be sorted into his flock, the Prince looked up at the sound of rustling fabric. It caught him by surprise for a moment, so immersed into the task at hand, and the silence that had settled over his room had been like a warm blanket around his shoulders, the other having long since settled into sleep.

But there he was, fingers curled tightly into the blanket that lay across his scarred body, his face scrunched up as a child's does when in the midst of something horrifying that none others can witness with them.

He stands from behind his desk when the hand curled tight in the blanket jerks, and steps around his desk quickly when a low moan escapes his lips, sitting on the edge of the bed he manages to catch the fist before it can jerk again too harshly.

Pulling it up, he presses his lips to the smooth skin of the back, and calls to him in as gentle a tone he can manage "'Reel, wake up, you're having a bad dream, it is not real." He looks up over the hand, still bowed with it pressed to his mouth, and attempts to rouse him gently with words instead of action, shaking him would only lead to more panic, and that was the last thing either of them needed, "Follow my voice, little warrior, come back to me."

A solid minute passes before his eyes, and he watches those features with careful detail, waiting for him to respond as he always does.

His eyes shoot open, wide and terrified, darting around as though overtaken by the sudden change of environment and the Archangel knows where his mind takes him, he knows with only one guess, and it breaks his heart to know that the only one to blame for such terror is he, himself. After what seems like a lifetime, those eyes stop looking around his room for others to jump from the shadows to return to enacting whatever evil they had been committing.

His voice helps to settle him into the reality around him.

"Are you with me?"

His eyes finally meet his, and he gives him a gentle smile, finally pulling the hand away from his lips. The younger angel nods slowly, as though exhausted from the exertion, and he wouldn't be surprised if that rang more true then could be imagined.

"I am…I am free."

"That you are, and have been for some time, were you trapped again?"

He nods, fingers curling around to grip the elders, and he allows his grip, returning it in kind. Talking through it is not to be meant as a way to force him into reliving his terror, but it serves something greater, talking through it allows them to break it down again.

"I was….I was in a cell….I could hear them coming."

"Their footsteps echoing?"

The younger nods, "I was curled in my corner. I saw the whip. The reflection of the whip." His eyes glistened with unshed tears "It hurts! I don't want it. Please."

"Look about you, my little one, look closely."

The archangel holds his hands up, his free hand spread wide, and his hand that holds the others curled slightly as to not break the grip.

"What do you see?"

His eyes turned, looking over his shoulders "Books.", his elder nods, "And?" he looks in another direction "And papers. A lamp." He nods again "Look closer, now." His eyes turn to his hands "Hands."

"Very good, no whip?"

The retired sentry shakes his head, "No, no whip."

"What else happened, little one?"

Fingers curl tighter around his and he pressed the back of his hand to his lips again. It takes him a moment to collect his thoughts and his elder waits patiently.

"It hurt. It hurt. It bit into me, he laughed when I cried out, his laugh…I always hear it…It never leaves me. I begged him to stop and he only laughed."

Michael tugs on his hand "Gadreel, come back to me." He waited until their eyes met again "Does your back hurt?"

Gadreel nods, the ache is deep, and it radiates through him like a wave does, and sometimes he needs someone to rub the ache away. He never has to ask though, something that brings him much happiness, as his older brother always asks for him.

"Turn over them, gentle now," he stands as he helps his younger brother turn to lay on his stomach, "Over with you." As he turned, the archangel resisted the urge to inhale sharply, as he always did when he rubbed the ache out of his younger brothers ruined back.

The scars covered his back like hundreds of silvery pink snakes. It was a brutal reminder of a mistake that had cost so much, a reminder of all the pain he had caused, the pain that one being had to submit themselves to because of his temporary blindness. The skin was jagged and bumpy, skin having healed oddly over strips that should have been stitched closed, a large spider web covering every inch. He traced a finger over a particularly long one, smooth and finely done, from the edge of a blade carving a rune that had since been lost by the weaving of the spiders web.

Gadreel shivered when his finger strayed too close to his side, and he smiled to himself, it was heartwarming to know that even under all the blemishes and the horrid past, there was still one gentle way to bring him to brighter times.

He pressed the palms of his hands on either side of his spine, and dug in lightly, feeling the muscles under his fingers relax from their tension. He kneaded his hands down to his lower back, pressing away the ache where it hid under the skin, and he heard the other give the tiniest sigh of relief. He leans forward, pressing his hands into his shoulders, where the scars overlap, an attempt to get him to reveal his wings that went without success, and he feels him fall limp under his touch.

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" he falls still for a moment, looking up to the back of his brothers head, "For what?"

"Interrupting you."

"Nonsense. I'm tired of reading through those files anyway. Honestly," he leans back into his massage, pressing the heels of his hands into the shoulders, "There is far too much paper work around here."

"I am broken."

He shakes his head as he leans into his hands again "You are cracked, but not broken, healing comes with time."

"I don't deserve your kindness."

Michael falls still again "You did not deserve my cruelty." He smiled when the younger shifted into him, pressing closer to his hands, and he began his administrations again.

They fall into silence for a moment.

"You treat me like I am your charge."

"You are too old to have a guardian."

He nods, curling into his pillow, his eyes fluttering closed as the warm hands rub the ache from his beaten back.

"But yes, you are my charge, unofficially of course."

"Again?"

"Always."