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94. Learning

Beep, beep, every morning and Davey still tries to hit the alarm clock with his left hand. His brain blanks before memory kicks in. His right fist smashes down and he hears a crack, but this isn't one of the mornings where he has to lodge a request for a new clock. There's a scowl on his face before he makes it out of bed. Just another day.

Fifty-fifty chance of commentary from the peanut gallery, but Azrael's quiet today. In the corner of Davey's mind where Azrael makes himself known, Davey gets the impression of something rolling over, making a show of sleeping in when Davey can't. Davey does his best not to get mad at Azrael these days, or he'd never be anything but.

He makes the bed on autopilot, mood not improved by the lack of precision to his military corners. Clothes are grabbed at random, whatever's on top. There's not much variety in his wardrobe, not that he cares either way. Half his mind is drifting in the past, in barracks or a tent and dressing just as automatically in barely-there light, only here it takes longer. He can't help but compare, and find himself lacking, never realising that a better comparison - a fairer one - would be to his first days as a Hunter when dressing took the better part of thirty minutes. But Davey doesn't notice how his fingers fly across buttons these days, how it's the matter of moments to grip the back lip of boots and stamp into them, how zippers breeze closed.

Something pretending to be asleep does, though. Azrael watches and takes note, saying nothing when he know he won't be believed and it would unintentionally antagonise Davey. Azrael prefers to rile his Hunter up on purpose. Even so, he knows to tread carefully around Davey's biggest trigger point. It's slow going, but they're both learning.

22. Family

He's nine when the news comes. In two weeks and three days he'll be ten - he knows because at this point he's counting every day aloud (and the hours in his head) and making his wishes for everything from presents to cake to which friends to invite very loud and very clear. He's in the middle of one such list when the doorbell rings, and even at ten he knows that's relief for the interruption flashing across his mum's face. He remembers following her with the scowl of a thwarted child, ready to begin again at louder volume the moment she sends the visitor packing.

Davey doesn't get a birthday that year.

What he gets is a hole in his world in the form of a uniformed man bearing 'condolences' while he clings to his mother's side and she breaks down. What he gets is a closed casket shipped home a week later and a funeral two days before his birthday. What he gets is a folded flag and his father's medals because his mother can't stop sobbing long enough to stand up and receive them.

He doesn't mind that there's no party this year, no cake. He doesn't want to see his friends, who don't understand, and everything tastes like ash anyways.

What Davey gets is a mother who cries and cries and cries and a parade of army men who tell him he has to be the man of the house now. He used to beam with pride when his father said that, every time before he left to fight. Now it's a weight around his neck. He's ten, but he doesn't understand. When is it his turn to cry? Why is he looking after his mum, rather than the other way around? Sarah makes his lunches now, and cheesy pasta when mum burns dinner. With the wisdom of an elder sibling, she tells him he'll understand when he's older. What does she know, Davey asks himself, she's only thirteen. She might be right, though - mum slowly gets better.

When Davey's twelve and he brings home a report with the highest grade in the class about his hero - he chose his father, of course - and how Davey wants to enlist when he's old enough, Davey doesn't understand why his mum starts crying again.