“He really hates me, doesn’t he?” I mumbled. I clung to the sleeve of Walter’s coat the entire walk home. I felt exposed, like we were being watched every second of the way. It was scary, knowing that an entire coven of people were after me, looking to cast me out and possibly tear me to shreds. I just wanted to be home already. Why did we walk here again?

“He really does.” Walter sighed, unfortunately confirming my suspicions. Was it even a suspicion to begin with, or just a known fact?

“You know, I thought for sure he was going to start some kind of supervillain monologue.” I somehow managed to joke.

“Angels and demons are just naturally born enemies, Barclay. They’re made to be moral opposites of one another. You should know that by now.”

I snapped. “This isn't some kind of wildlife documentary, Walt! And whatever happened to ‘love thy neighbour’, even if thy neighbour is thy natural enemy?!” I’m not sure what came over me. It was uncalled for, I knew, but the uneasy feeling that ate away at me made me irritable beyond belief.

Walter only sighed and pulled me closer against him. It wasn’t until now that I noticed just how tense he was. It made sense, I guessed. We only ever really had each other, we could only be friends with humans for so long until they aged too much or passed on, so the idea of somehow losing me must have given him quite a scare as well.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” I mumbled. “I guess I’m just on edge.”

“It’s okay. I understand. I shouldn’t have said that either.” Walter whispered. “Would you like to stop for ice cream or coffee along the way?”

I sniffled as I felt pressure building behind my eyes. Tears were starting to force their way out. “No. I just wanna go home.” I croaked around the lump in my throat.

“Then we’ll go home.”

***

I’m not actually sure how much sleep I got that night. I was constantly plagued by nightmares. Images. Hands. Grabbing me, pushing me to my knees, tearing me apart. I remember waking in a cold sweat, screaming my voice raw, crying. I remember Walter barging in not much later. Scooping me up, cradling me in his arms. I remember weeping into his shoulder until exhaustion lulled me back to sleep, and the cycle started over. And over. And over.

I woke again the next morning. I almost shrieked when I saw myself in the mirror. My face was white as a sheet, eyes red and puffy from crying, and the circles under them were darker than I’d ever seen them before. My skull felt like someone was hammering a chisel into it. Great. Migraine. Never had a better reason to wear my sunglasses inside the house. To this day, I’ll never know why I even bothered to dress up that morning. And yet, I did.

Wearing yesterday’s clothes, I shuffled down the stairs, and I realized I had made a grave mistake. I clung to the hand rail as my head spun and pounded, wincing every time the floorboards creaked under my feet, and somehow safely made my way to the ground floor. I managed to make my way to the kitchen unseen, and made my coffee as quietly as possible. However, the sound the coffee maker made on its own was enough to send me reeling before my fucked up equilibrium and, by extension, my fucked up stomach forced me to empty my stomach’s contents in the sink. I slowly turned around, wiping my mouth on a towel, when I locked eyes with Walter, who must have just come into the kitchen. And as if my head didn’t hurt enough on its own, the look on his face tore my heart to bits as well.

“You don’t look too good.” He whispered, careful to not make the pain worse.

“I don’t feel too good.” I mumbled in reply, fidgeting the filthy towel between my fingers.

Walter quickly made a move to draw the curtains on the kitchen window, darkening the room. A gesture I was more than grateful for. He also turned on the faucet, washing away the remnants of yesterday’s lunch and the smell of bile that emanated from it.

“Here, sit down.” He urged as he gently sat me down into a kitchen chair.

I leaned my head against the back of it, my eyes falling shut from exhaustion until I heard the gas stove flare up. Something only I did, usually. Walter was an agent of death, after all. The man was already dead; he didn’t need to eat. I cracked an eye open and saw Walter quietly place a cast iron skillet over the fire. Quietly but keenly, I watched his every move as he spread a generous lump of butter in the hot pan, cooking half inch thick slices of bacon and cracking a pair of eggs next to them. He’d better have made sure he didn’t unlearn to cook over the last few decades. Beans were poured into the pan, and bread was put in the toaster. This actually looked promising.

“Are we going to try and see if I can die of heart disease before the exorcists get me?” I joked, cracking a wry smile.

“No, I’m going to try and cure you from… Whatever this is.” Walter said as he vaguely gestured at my head. “I mean, it looks like a hangover.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s migraine.”

“And maybe I just wanted to cook my boy some breakfast before I send him back to bed. So, no coffee. You need to rest.”

“That’s sweet, but I’m not sure it will be of any use.” I mumbled, looking down at my hands, resting in my lap. Tears spilled from my eyes again, dripping to the lenses of my sunglasses, collecting in the hollow shapes. “I don’t think I’ve gotten an hour of decent sleep last night. I don’t wanna see that shit ever again… I just know that if I do fall asleep, I will.”

Walter sighed, squeezing my shoulder as he knelt down before me. “I know, but you can’t just stay awake forever.”

“I can try!” I winced as the raising of my voice only made my head pound harder.

I swore I heard Walter hum in disapproval, but he didn’t protest. Instead, he quietly placed a mug of coffee and a heavy-duty painkiller on the table in front of me before shaking the contents of the pan onto a plate that was carefully placed next to it. He quietly sat across from me, reading the newspaper, just like he used to when I was younger.

I smiled weakly, tears still not yielding, but I took the painkillers and started to shovel the breakfast into my mouth. It was good. Just like I remembered it. It helped, in a way. Just knowing that Walter, after all these years, remembered the way I liked my breakfast. It was comforting. Even more so than the words he spoke.

“It’s going to be okay, Barclay. We’ll get to the bottom of this. I promise.”