It's slightly after eight when Abigail finally returns home from work that day. As far as their routine normally goes, she's late.

The dinner that Sofiel has painstakingly put together despite her ailing condition, has long since ran cold. All while as Sofiel sits, her fingers drumming against the bar counter in a mindless rhythm, waiting.

It's not unusual for Abigail to be home late. The thing about jobs and responsibilities are that they usually stretch on beyond their allotted time — is what Sofiel has observed in her time living with Abigail.

No rest for the wicked, Abigail would so often say with a shrug and an airy smile. An odd turn of phrase that Sofiel doesn't quite get. Considering Abigail is by far the least wicked mortal Sofiel has ever had the chance of knowing. Though, when she had voiced that thought out loud, Abigail only laughed.

"Sorry I'm late," Abigail rushes out in a jumble of words the second she jostles through the door of her apartment.

She's a flurry of movements. Dropping her keys here, kicking off her shoes there and tossing her coat over the hanger stand with a precision that Sofiel would have found suspicious before.

"Miss Grant held me back a little longer than usual, and the traffic home was so bad."

She slides into the seat beside Sofiel by the bar counter with a huff, sagging bonelessly. But as soon as her gaze falls onto the small spread laid out before her, she perks up almost immediately.

Her face lights up with a sunny grin and a quiet gasp, blue eyes sparkling as she reaches out. "Is that dinner?"

Only to have her hand swatted away like a child who has just been caught rummaging through the cookie jar red-handed.

Abigail looks up at Sofiel, affronted.

"Yes, but it's cold now," Sofiel sniffs, albeit with just the slightest tilt to her lips in amusement. She deftly swipes the plate out from under Abigail's grasp as the mortal makes for a quick lunge once more. "Let me heat it up for you."

"But Sofiel," Abigail pouts, dragging out the last syllable of her name in a petulant whine. "It's your spaghetti bolognaise. I know for a fact that it'll still be delicious even when it's cold."

Unwilling to be sweet-talked into giving in to her whims as per usual, Sofiel stalks over to the microwave without another word. For whatever reason that is beyond Sofiel, Abigail seems particularly fond of this dish. Granted, the recipe is simple enough to follow, it's still nothing out of the ordinary. Just your regular plate of spaghetti bolognaise.

And yet...

Leaning up against the counter while waiting for the microwave to chime, Sofiel's gaze inevitably flickers over to Abigail. She watches as the blessed mortal fiddles, straightening out her skewed glasses that she only ever wears for work. It makes her look professional, or so Abigail claims, but Sofiel thinks she looks silly with it (and maybe just a tad endearing.)

Not that she'll ever have the heart to tell her.

Her eyes follow after the way Abigail smooths at her dishevelled hair, before patting down her creased button-down shirt.

And then.

She catches the barest hint of a wince twisting at her features.

Sofiel stops short immediately.

A cold, sobering thought cuts right through her mind then, and it lingers on all-consumingly.

She stands a little taller, brows furrowing. Her attention is now pinned, fully fixed on Abigail. There's something very off about this picture here. Because for the first time since she's blustered through the door, Sofiel notices that she looks oddly breathless. Winded. As if she's been running laps all night.

"You mentioned something earlier about the traffic," Sofiel leads off with airily, making sure to keep her tone light — conversational.

She kicks off away from the counter she's been lounging against to take a ginger step forward. A beat against the kitchen tiles that is further accentuated by the microwave droning on away in the background.

"Yeah, what about?" Abigail hums, blissfully blithe and unaware about the storm brewing behind Sofiel's watchful gaze.

She regards the mortal carefully, noting the slight lean in her frame — the way she almost seems to favour her right side more than her left. How she has an arm draped across her abdomen, almost supportively.

"You took the car today, didn't you?" Sofiel asks, as she advances on slowly.

Deliberately.

She's standing across from Abigail at the bar counter now. And up close like this, she can see that her pupils are blown wide, and there's a faint smear of grime across her left cheek. As Sofiel is searching her face, all she can hears is Leah's voice, cycling through her head like a broken recorder.

The part on the Chosen's scions having a permanent target on their back.

The constant demon attacks.

Given the nature of Abigail's work — the way she had explained the hazards and risks involved with being a journalist — Sofiel hadn't batted an eye when she would occasionally return home all dishevelled and roughened up.

It was natural, or so she had thought.

But in hindsight, she should have probably known better.

Abigail eyes her warily. "Yes, I did...?" she trails off hesitantly.

As soon as the words are out of Abigail's mouth, Sofiel jumps into action.

She forges down a fiery path to Abigail, roughly spinning her barstool over such that they are face to face. A surprised squeak escapes Abigail, her eyes widening and brows drawing up to her hairline in sheer surprise. But Sofiel ignores it all. Instead, she boldly trudges into her personal space with a ferocity that downright burns.

"So-Sofiel, my dinner—"

Somewhere in the vague distance, the microwave goes off. But that's honestly the least of Sofiel's concerns at the moment. Her trembling fingers make quick work down the buttons of Abigail's shirt. And as soon as the last button pops free, she forcefully pries her shirt apart and very nearly rips it in her haste — if it weren't for her impressive coordination and control of her divine strength.

In another place, in another time; if the circumstances had been different, the implications of her actions would have probably struck Sofiel dumb then. Being this up close to Abigail, their faces only inches apart. Her breath against her face. The smooth expanse of toned skin laid bare through a half-opened shirt and bra. It would have no doubt been the very basis of some solid temptation.

But for now.

Sofiel's eyes are drawn to the ugly blotch of a bruise that has just begun to span across the left side of Abigail's ribs, just below the band of her bra. There are a couple of other smaller ones scattered across her body too, albeit nothing as bad as the one along her lower ribs. Though, they're all fresh. Sofiel knows this from its alarmingly red, almost purplish hue.

The only consolation is that Abigail has thankfully not broken any skin, nor is she bleeding as far as Sofiel can see. But deep down inside, something in her chest still twinges at the sight, nonetheless.

Unable to hold herself back, she traces after the welt, making sure to keep her touch inexplicably light. She ghosts over the stretch of exposed skin. But despite her efforts at being gentle, Abigail still bites back on a wince that Sofiel feels so intensely — almost like a truck to her chest.

"Who— what..." Sofiel begins, tightly. Her voice trembles with a surge of unbidden emotions that surprises even herself. She glances up at Abigail, eyes crazed and frantic.

"I, uh... got trampled on at a protest while trying to cover a story today," Abigail mumbles, shrugging lopsidedly. "You know how it's like for me. It happens all the time, just part and parcel of being a journalist. Accidents happen, Sofiel."

Abigail manages a placating smile. One that doesn't quite reach her eyes. And it's a rarity that almost never happens.

But when it does...

It's a dead giveaway for a lie.

Sofiel's hands find their way over to Abigail's shoulders. A safe spot. She grips at Abigail tight, blunt nails digging into her flesh, squeezing her so. Hoping to convey the gravity of this entire situation that is unfolding between them.

"If there's one thing I hate the most — it's liars," she says tersely, watching as Abigail withers slowly under her steely gaze.

A match has been struck and lit aflame. It burns, simmering just beneath her seemingly cool façade of calm.

Because Sofiel is angry.

Very angry.

And she's burning, scorching hot with a fierce protectiveness for the mortal sitting right in across from her. As debilitated and weak as Sofiel is right now, some part of her still desires to seek out and destroy the entity that had inevitably harmed Abigail.

Sweet, sweet Abigail who is every part mortal and so very fragile.

Vengeance, Sofiel knows, is not a good look on a celestial. And she can feel the stigma stir in restless anticipation, seeking out the vaguest hints of temptation — corruption.

But it's not vengeance if it's justice, she argues back.

The stigma stills.

Sighing, Sofiel allows her hands to crawl, slipping over to cup Abigail's cheeks ever so delicately — as if she's holding something precious between her palms. Because she is. "But do you know what I hate more than liars?" Her gaze softens as she thumbs the skin just under Abigail's ear.

"What?" whispers Abigail shakily.

She lets her gaze rove over Abigail's face once. Twice. Thrice for better measure.

"Seeing you hurt." A tight, watery frown tugs at Sofiel's lips.

"I'm sorry," Abigail murmurs, her shoulders drooping in shame. "I—I was attacked by a lesser demon on my way back. It's nothing major, I swear! I got rid of it just fine. Just that, it got me in the ribs before I finished the job."

Her hands fly over to curl around Sofiel's on her cheeks, blue eyes wide, shiny with desperation.

"I swear, Sofiel, I didn't mean to lie. I just..." Abigail breath hitches painfully in her throat, faltering. "I just didn't want to worry you, is all." She wilts, deflating in defeat.

In light of everything, Sofiel honestly can't find it in herself to be angry at Abigail for long.

Concerned and troubled, more like it. But angry? Never.

How could she, anyway.

Gingerly, she sweeps over the apple of Abigail's cheek with a quiet sigh. "You're only going to worry me more by not telling me things."

The talk she had with Leah earlier in the day circles over in her head. And she can't help herself. Can't help the slow twist in her chest that's starting to feel a lot like heartache. Can't help the curdling of her stomach that has not settled since her gaze had landed upon Abigail's tarnished flesh.

Before she knows it, her arms have slipped over to wind around Abigail's shoulders, careful to avoid the areas of bruising. She pulls her in close — in her selfish need to keep Abigail all to herself.

To shelter her from everything that is bad and nasty in the mortal realm.

"You don't have to shoulder everything by yourself," Sofiel tells Abigail softly.

Tentatively, she can feel the mortal reaching around her back, holding her in careful reciprocation. Abigail sighs. Her shuddery breath is hot against her skin. And just like that, the dam break as she sinks deeper into Sofiel's embrace with a quiet, almost muffled sniffle.

"Okay." Nodding meekly, Abigail burrows her face into the slant of Sofiel's neck and nuzzles up against her fondly.

"Next time, you tell me everything, and we'll work things through together. No more secrets."

"No more secrets," echoes back Abigail, albeit wetly.

Some part of Sofiel inadvertently warms as Abigail clutches at her tight — tighter — and draws in impossibly close.