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The Angel doesn't know how much death hurts.
It does not last or rest with it, It simply... Places it back where it stays. Like a worm in the sunny pavement, or a trip to the dentist. Necessary but unimportant.
But It does know that, rationally, It is not like others. Death is a restraint, a chain, or maybe a cage. They do not have the privilege of leaving death lonely and grieving that of which still exists.
Just out of reach.
Isn't that something It has experienced before?
Yes, yes, with a child in a striped shirt. Not the greens and yellows It'd been made to recognize as the taunting hero, nor the same shades placed on a flower bed It used to associate with the truest form of passing. No, blues and purplish pinks. Playful colors, almost the tones of a sunrise, trotting along and attempting to grasp the air infront of them.
The Angel had Its very own child escorting It through the Underground. Treated like a spirit going on It's final walk through the neighborhood, Frisk did with It. It was eternally grateful, for such bliss felt so mortal, so alive The Angel carried on for several years searching for the next opportunity to thank Frisk.
That never came, did it?
No. No matter how many worlds It sought, it was never the right one, never real enough. Just one world where they could feel the warmth and excitement of novelty, please! ...But nobody came. And so, The Angel desisted with desire. Sat in the void yearning for experience again, akin to the stray dog crying for a leash.
And He came. The spirit of fantasy, the Doctor treating space and time itself. The number six. The man, gone and forgotten. Freedom was worth every cent if it meant loving the people that raised It once more.
...If only It knew whose freedom It would take down with Its own.
It does know, rationally, The Cage does not like death. It does not know if they remember it's touch or it's visage, but from common assumption it is safe to claim Pain is not meant to be your favorite food. Nor should it sustain you.
It takes the offer to continue as natural as breath, repeatedly, for the one thing The Angel will never take is life itself. Life can be taken from you, but you ought to be a monarch if you crave it, for it is oh so heavy like the crown.
The Angel passes the swimming barrier past death and entwines Itself with their body again. Returning will take a moment, please remain on the line to connect once more.
Chains wrap around their wrists, alight by their own will. Its body intangible like The Deputy, though It is not like them at all.
For chains do not bind them to their body in a lock beyond picking. Thorns clasping both beings, *experiments*, close together so they do not get pricked by consequence. Blood spilling onto the keys of a piano come to mind, a show that must go on. A survey that must be answered. A kindness that must be spread like a virus.
The Angel snakes down to The Cage, mapping out their peace hidden by their hair, such rest is forbidden to be wrest to It. It takes what It can get, the semblance is a nice respite.
Kris was The Cages name, was it not? Breathtaking. A blade that cannot stop cutting and twisting like a ballerina spinning. The coolness of steel soothes the light of The Angels own flame.
Their eyes are still open despite their peace, denial of death. The angel places Its imitation of a hand over their eyes, yet the translucent shine and heart-shaped hole in it keeps the fantasy of a true well-rested Kris as that; Fantasy.
The Angel decides It wants to mimic them instead then, even without such bonuses.
...How do mortals sleep, truly?
The Angel remembers a flashback of a recording; Love fated to snap apart, holding their children in their arms as they crack jokes and horrid puns.
The Angel tries Its hardest, using the only physical part to Itself and lifts Kris' arm slightly above them, lying down on it. Despite the position feeling odd, the feeling of being so close to connection again is welcome.
It reaches. It hesitates. It decides to take anything they won't remember to need.
It uses Its false, untouchable arms to wrap around Kris and rest Its "head" (closed mound of wings and eyes) on the area that connects shoulder to socket.
It phases through Kris, but does not care. It keeps doing the hugging motion over and over despite the depths pooling out of Its star-shaped halo. Tears.
...Don't those come out of eyes?
The Angel shapes Its eyes to hold the star, decides to fiddle around more. Shadow puppets are common toys that children play with, but The Angel can not affort that luxury, using Its light to form (another) puppet. The head (hair is just feathers, but close enough. maybe Noelle can find a way to braid them). The torso (a bit too long, a bit too short, just right. cover it with a poncho, just like the doll you hid under). Legs (they fade away before finishing, but it feels so right to tangle them with anothers. It wishes to do so with their family.
Does Kris count?)
The Angel finishes adjustment, but it does not finish Its grief. It continues crying in the cradle of The Cage, their breath shallow and fingers twitching in postmortem. The Angel does not care, shoving Its face into the crook of the lightners neck along with stuffing Its patience aside, It needs this. It needs a family member to just let It cry in a shoulder, and (un)fortunately, Kris is the only thing that has ever given It a family.
No warmth is felt.
They're cold.
It
is
so
cold.
...Tomorrow couldn't come sooner.