Author's note: Thank you for your patience! This was a tough chapter to write, in part because I didn't want it to end. I hope you like it. The thoughts that Dad sends to Azrael are in bold.

By the time they reached the gates, Azrael had gone quiet. Why, after all the time in this body, did she suddenly feel so small?

"Ready?" Josh asked, and she nodded, nerves twisting her guts. She didn't say anything; she knew her words would come out faint and weak.

Azrael stood before the gates for long enough that Peter, eyeing the stuffed monkey and the knife that she still held, started to look uneasy. She smiled at him, but that only seemed to make it worse.

Josh clasped his former disciple's shoulder and spoke quietly to him; Peter, nodding, offered Azrael a smile and slipped away.

"Peter, leaving the gates?" Azrael asked, brows lifting.

"I'm pinch-hitting," Josh replied, with a shrug. "Thought you might prefer less of an audience."

Azrael nodded. "I… yes. Thank you." She took a deep breath and pushed the gates.

They opened at her touch, as they always had: one hurdle crossed. She exhaled a soft, relieved breath, then flicked a glance over her shoulder at Josh, who smiled.

"Take your time," he reassured.

So she did. Azrael wasn't sure how long it took her to take that first step into the Silver City, but it eventually happened.

She had expected… well, that she would be restored as soon as she stepped through the gates, but only her clothing changed. Garbed in a smaller version of the black robes that she usually eschewed, she found herself longing for jeans, even skinny fit. And, really, she had liked that red dress; it had reminded her of her mother, for reasons that she hadn't quite understood.

And they weren't even her favorite robes, which of course were the ones that had embroidered skulls on both the robes and the wide-legged pants she wore underneath. Gabriel had given them to her as something of a joke; she always said she wore them ironically, and would never admit to how much pleasure that one small detail brought her.

Azrael saw her father's hand in her clothing change. He always was a fan of the traditional. She, of course, was grimly, bitterly unsurprised. After all, he had changed her body; why not her clothing, too?

"What the hell, Josh?" Azrael protested, indicating her still-small self. "I look ridiculous. This body was not meant to wear robes."

Frowning a little as he cast a worried glance over his shoulder, Josh cautioned, "Language."

"Seriously? I'm still in this body, and you're objecting to my words?" Azrael clutched Trixie's toy a little closer, or perhaps it was the knife she clung to. Making an inarticulate noise of frustration, she muttered, "Why did I ever think that this would be easy?"

Josh studied Azrael, his gaze lingering on the toy. "You're acting like a child," he observed, sounding a little puzzled.

With a gesture that encompassed the entire length of her body, Azrael replied dryly, "I am as my father made me." Her voice cracking, she added, "The reason I came back here was to get my body back, my powers. Is he just f–messing with me?"

"Rae, no." Josh stepped closer, resting his hands on Azrael's shoulders. "Of course he isn't. He loves you. He does," he added firmly, seeing Azrael's skeptical look. "He just wants to talk to you first."

Azrael made a wry face. "What, did he think I'd get my body back and take off?" And if he thought that, Azrael reflected, he might not be entirely wrong.

Josh didn't say anything, but only squeezed Azrael's shoulder, his expression compassionate.

"Don't look at me like that," Azrael muttered. Feeling the worst of her black mood ease under Josh's touch, she added, "And don't do that. I want to feel what I feel."

"All right." Josh smiled, though Azrael's relative equanimity remained, and she couldn't find it in herself to regret that. Her brother continued, "Look, it's going to be okay."

Azrael shook her head. "What did you mean by telling Trixie that?" she demanded. "What if it isn't okay? Haven't we already messed with this kid enough? Linda already has plenty of clients, Josh," she concluded, without humor.

Josh's hands tightened on Azrael's shoulders once more, and she looked up to meet his gaze. "Rae, it's going to be okay," he repeated, his voice emphatic, and she felt the depth of his sincerity.

Azrael took a deep breath, unwilling to believe him. "Saying that over and over isn't going to make it true," she said bitterly. "Look, if you can't get specific, which, knowing our father, I'm sure you can't, then please just don't say anything. I can't… I can't get my hopes up."

"Okay, then," Josh replied gently, pulling Azrael close for a hug.

Azrael stiffened for a moment, then relaxed against her brother. "You're just enjoying being taller than me," she accused, and the vibration of his chuckle almost made her smile.

"Come on, let me have this," Josh said, sounding amused.

"Fine," Azrael muttered, but then she felt a gentle tug on her awareness: a summons. Pulling away from Josh, she said, with a sigh, "I have to go. He wants me."

Josh didn't ask who. "Good luck," he replied.

Azrael tucked the stuffed monkey in one pocket and the knife in another, for of course the robes of the Angel of Death had many pockets. Then she unfurled her wings and exhaled a soft sigh, relieved that she wouldn't need to go afoot like a penitent.

Turning back to Josh, she asked, "Do you know what he's going to say?"

Josh shook his head, and Azrael considered her brother, wondering if he would have told her, had he known. Before her trip, her answer would have been an unqualified yes, but now she wasn't so sure.

Shaking her head, she took to the air, singing under her breath, "You could beat the world. You could beat the war. You could talk to God, go banging on his door." She exhaled a soft, amused sound. "Like he'd put up with that."

Azrael didn't dawdle in finding her father, but neither did she rush. She allowed herself to enjoy the beauty of the Silver City, relaxing a little in the familiar surroundings even as she drew closer to where her father's presence felt the strongest.

Landing under the large tree where she had often hidden when she was small, she tried not to make too much of the fact that he had chosen this spot to meet. Was it to put her at ease, or was he claiming this place, somewhere she'd always thought of as hers?

She tucked away her wings and immediately felt a tendril of welcome.

Daughter, he greeted her, the feeling of his words appearing in her consciousness, and she braced her shoulders. Be easy, he added.

He hadn't chosen a physical form. Azrael wasn't surprised, but felt oddly disappointed.

"Father," she replied, inclining her head, though the tiny part of her brain that wasn't petrified noted her formal greeting and desperately wanted to call him 'dear old Dad,' just to see what he'd do.

The petrified part of her brain politely suggested that she keep her mouth shut, lest she get herself into trouble before she'd even been officially accepted back into the fold.

A breeze pushed Azrael's hair back and straightened her robes, and she tried not to feel like the small children at St. Brennan's whose parents licked a thumb to tidy their faces on the way into church.

So you have completed your tasks.

Tasks. Plural. She had suspected as much.

"I… suppose I have, since I'm here." She considered her words. Not too snarky? She had tried to keep her tone neutral, but the fact that she was still in her mortal body had her on edge.

You have spent time with humanity, and with Lucifer your brother.

Azrael inclined her head, not quite trusting herself to speak.

Well, daughter, what have you learned?

Ah. One of those meetings. Azrael felt a flicker of resentment stiffen her spine. Hadn't her father been paying attention? Did she now have to recap the whole experience? That tiny, inappropriate part of her brain heard Anthony Head intone, "Previously on Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and she struggled, just for a moment, to keep a straight face.

"Everything?" she queried, stalling, and she felt her father's wordless affirmative.

So. Everything.

Azrael took a breath.

She spoke for a long time.

She confessed her own shortcomings easily enough, certain that would please him: the drinking, and the disastrous first evening at Lucifer's that resulted, drew a flicker of amused exasperation and the sense that she should have known better, which she acknowledged. The loss of temper which led her to bloody Amenadiel's nose actually earned her a hint of pride that she had dared to stand up to her eldest brother, though she got the idea that her father preferred words to either fists or headbutts.

Words, Azrael decided, would have been far less satisfying. She chose to keep that thought to herself.

"You should forgive Amenadiel," she ventured. "He's good, Father. You know he is. He wants to please you, but sometimes you can be… hard to find."

There was a flash of acknowledgment, and her father said, Amenadiel has always judged himself more harshly than I ever would. He'll find his way.

Azrael started to reply, but then got the decided impression that she should continue with her report, rather than push the issue. She sighed.

She had nothing but good to say of the humans with whom she had spent most of her time. She spoke fondly of Linda's keen insight, Ella's good cheer and deep faith, Chloe's fierce protectiveness, Trixie's steadfast friendship.

"I'd like to talk about Trixie," Azrael said suddenly. She felt the weight of her father's regard and had her back pressed against the tree before she'd realized she had moved. She had forgotten how overwhelming he could be.

The presence eased somewhat; Azrael took a deep breath and stepped away from the tree, brushing bark from her robes.

**What about Trixie? **

Azrael hesitated, then said what she had been suspecting for some time. "Well, she's special, right? And Chloe is, too, for that matter."

All humans are special.

There was a certain finality to his tone, but Azrael persisted. "But they could see my wings, and they shouldn't have been able to do that." Her father didn't reply, and Azrael said, trying to keep her voice even despite her irritation, "Yes, yes, they're all special, but some of them are more special."

Because you care about them, her father replied, and he actually sounded pleased with her. Again. It was a little disconcerting. You'd lost that, these past millenia.

Azrael frowned a little. "Why in the world would I want to avoid getting close to the humans?" she muttered, some of that irritation creeping into her tone. She didn't want to think too hard about mortal lifespans. Taking a calming breath, she added more carefully, "And of course I care about them, but I care about Ella, too, and she's not the same." She frowned thoughtfully as the mention of Ella sparked a memory. "Is it a genetic thing? Something Trixie and Chloe share? She sure didn't get whatever it is from Dan," she added, though not without a trace of affection for the man.

Child, they're all special, her father repeated.

Azrael sighed. Dad forbid she get an actual straight answer from her father. She shoved her hands in her pockets, one hand curling around the stuffed monkey, the other gripping the knife. At least one of them, she reflected wryly, was an appropriate comfort object. "Which means you're not going to tell me," she said, keeping her voice light, her tone respectful. Polite. Careful.

Her father's attention sharpened. What do you have there?

Azrael pulled out the stuffed monkey, keeping her other hand tucked out of sight. "Trixie gave it to me. Cute, huh?"

There came a hint of exasperation from her father, suggesting that, really, Azrael should know better than to try such things.

Azrael sighed. She did know better. "You know what it is," she replied, frustrated. "Of course you do, but you're still making me tell you." She tucked away the monkey and pulled out the knife, though carefully, neither brandishing nor offering the blade. "Yes, it's Hell-forged, and, yes, Mazikeen gave it to me. As I'm sure you already know."

You could use it to harm your siblings. Her father's tone was implacable.

"But I wouldn't," Azrael said, not quite an outburst, but close. She took a deep breath, then added, tone mostly joking, "Except maybe Michael. I'd only stab him a little, and only if he really deserved it." No response came from her father and she added, with a sigh, "I carried my Blade for most of my life and never harmed anyone with it. It was a… a symbol."

That's not your Blade. Her father's unyielding tone brought to mind boulders and monoliths. The consequences are not as great with that knife, so it would be easier to contemplate using it.

Azrael curled her hand around the knife. "I suppose it would be," she agreed. "But I wouldn't use it against my siblings, not unless I was defending myself."

Azrael suddenly had an image in her mind of the knife-training she had done with Mazikeen. She knew, of course, that her father had put it there. Her jaw tightened and she took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. She did been doing that a lot during the conversation, she realized.

"Are you saying that Mazikeen taught me those techniques and then gave me the knife in the hopes that I'd stab one of my siblings?" Azrael queried, with perhaps a touch more amusement than she actually felt. While she didn't necessarily think that Maze would care enough to go to that much effort, she doubted that the demon would be upset to learn that the knife had ended up in an angel, particularly if said angel was Michael. And, really, Maze seemed more likely to act on impulse than to plan, to do the stabbing rather than manipulate someone else to stab.

No. Manipulation was more her father's game.

She's a demon. I don't think it's so far-fetched.

Azrael sighed. She likely would have thought the same, before her enforced trip to LA; her father had possibly not anticipated that her attitude about demons - well, one of them - had changed. Or maybe he had. "Father, in all the years that I carried my Blade, don't you think I would have already picked up knife skills? I never wanted to have to use it, but I wanted to be ready if the time came. I was training with Mazikeen because… it was something to do, to figure out this body." She was not about to admit that she'd enjoyed training with Maze, not to her father. She could barely admit it to herself. Her father didn't reply, and she added, with a hint of exasperation, "And even if she did intend that, it's not like I'm just going to do it. Don't you trust me, Father?"

I do. His response was immediate, and Azrael couldn't help but smile. She quashed that reaction, telling herself not to roll over for a pat on the head.

She deserved more.

"Thank you," she replied, her voice quiet. "That's good to hear." She hesitated, then asked, "My Blade… why did it make my eyes turn black?"

You shouldn't have held it while you were in that body. That little demon encouraged you to -

"Mazikeen," Azrael offered. "Father, it wasn't her fault. She didn't put the Blade there."

Mazikeen, her father agreed, drawing out the name in a way that Azrael did not like. She tried to kill you. She put a knife to your throat.

"Actually, she just threatened me," Azrael observed, with a small, reflective smile. "If she'd really wanted me dead, I would have died. She certainly had the opportunity. More than one, in fact."

Suddenly tired of standing, Azrael tucked the knife into her pocket and settled to a seat in seiza at the base of the tree, using two practiced strokes with her right hand to flick the wide legs of her pants out of the way. She folded her hands properly in her lap and inhaled a deep breath, carefully not mentioning that she could have easily defended herself from that knife at her throat if she had been in her usual form.

Well. Maybe not easily.

After a moment's thought, Azrael added, "She was doing what she thought was right for Lucifer, and I'm glad. He needs someone to have his back who really understands." She could feel her father's disapproval and added, trying to change the subject, "But my Blade. If… if I had held it more, would it have restored my powers?"

No, child. Her father's voice was gentle again, and Azrael relaxed, despite the niggling little question of how many millenia she would have to exist before her father finally stopped calling her a child.

Your eyes just reacted to the presence of your Blade, her father added. You've carried it for long enough in your usual form that holding it in your current body caused that reaction. It was a warning, of sorts.

Azrael nodded, agreeing quietly, "I've carried it for a very long time." She took a moment, then asked something that she had wondered for eons, "Why did you give it to me?"

Her father actually sounded a little puzzled as he replied, Well, it seemed appropriate that the Angel of Death carry it, all things considered.

That, Azrael reflected, didn't even come close to answering her question. For a purportedly omniscient entity, he was being awfully dense, though it was no doubt intentional. She decided to try again, to try and make him see. "But didn't you think about what it would be like for me to carry it? It didn't exactly make me popular with my siblings, being the bearer of the one thing that could destroy them."

The first millenia after Lucifer's exile had been the worst. Before, as one of the youngest of a very large family, she'd rarely even merited a second glance from many of her older brothers and sisters. Then Lucifer had been cast out, taking away one of the few siblings who had bothered to acknowledge her existence, and she'd been made Angel of Death not long after. Most of her siblings had started actively avoiding her at that point, either because she had earned their father's disapproval or because she carried the Blade. It was only much later, when she hadn't seemed inclined to use the weapon, that many of her siblings had become easy in her presence once more. By then, though, she spent much more time on Earth than in the Silver City.

She'd claimed it was the job, but it was easier on Earth. The humans didn't know, so they didn't judge. That hadn't really worked out for her in the long run, though.

Popularity wasn't really my concern, her father replied, though his voice seemed to hold some regret.

"Of course it wasn't," Azrael agreed quietly.

After a moment, her father said, And it's all going well now. Even Michael came to speak with me on your behalf while you were with the humans.

Azrael sighed, not particularly appreciating that point. After all, Michael being relatively civil hardly made up for his past behavior, about which their father had never batted an eye. "Yeah, Michael's great," she agreed, her voice flat. "But going back to my Blade, will it still make my eyes change color?" Because, really, it would be just the thing to increase that popularity, she thought sourly.

It will be fine for you to have it again when you have been restored, her father replied.

Azrael nodded thoughtfully. "So restoring me… that's still the plan, right?" She kept her eyes on her folded hands, despite the fact that her father was, well, everywhere.

Azrael felt a reassuring affirmative from her father, and exhaled a soft, relieved sigh. "Thank you." She didn't ask when, but of course her father knew her question.

Soon. When we have finished talking.

An image of Lucifer flickered in her mind, prompting, and she hesitated. She thought about her brother and the promises she had made to him, then shook her head. She'd had the strength to leave the penthouse on the night Maze had threatened to kill her, something neither she nor Lucifer wanted. She decided that she could be strong again. "No," she whispered.

The air temperature dropped suddenly, and Azrael hugged her robes a little closer, trying to fight back the thought of frost forming on a train window. Whatever else she'd thought of the Harry Potter movies, which she and Ella had binged over the course of a sugar-and-pizza fueled weekend that made her long for leafy greens, the Dementors had unnerved her. It was the mortal body, she had told herself; usually, she certainly wouldn't have been afraid of creatures in black robes, fictional or not.

Azrael repeated, her voice louder but holding a distinct quiver, "No. I'm not going to tell you about him. He wouldn't want me to do that, and I'm trying to be… better." She inhaled sharply, straightened her posture, and said firmly, "You can see whatever you like, Father. You don't need me to be your spy."

Her vision blurred for a moment, and then he was there. Well, no, he'd always been there, but now he had a physical form. He wore the same body he'd had at her house, even down to the battered sweater. The air warmed and he said gently, as he settled to a seat next to her, "Child, I'm just trying to find out what you learned."

Azrael tried very hard not to soften. Manipulation, she reminded herself. "Weren't you watching?" she demanded, her voice cracking. "Didn't you see?" Her father didn't answer, just regarding her steadily, and she snapped, "You don't care what I learned. You just care if I follow the rules, and I do, for the most part, even if I don't understand why." She met his gaze, just breathing for a moment, then said, "Here's something I've learned: not to betray my brother. Because that's what it would be if I reported on him to you." She finally lowered her gaze. "Please don't ask it of me, Dad."

He didn't speak right away, and it took all of Azrael's self-control to keep her eyes on her folded hands. When she didn't look at them, they trembled, so she kept watch, and they remained steady.

"Is this a rebellion, daughter?" His voice was very quiet, and held a slight edge. "I've looked the other way regarding your little indiscretions, but are you truly telling me no to my face?"

"I'm not!" Azrael looked up sharply, her eyes wide. Panic gripped her at the thought that she had gone too far, but, still, she didn't regret it. "Father, no. I'm not rebelling. I'm just asking you to reconsider your question. That's all."

Her father held her gaze for a long moment, unblinking, then inclined his head. "I withdraw the question." He hesitated, then added, "Your loyalty to your brother is commendable, if misguided."

Azrael's exhalation was quiet, but audible nonetheless. "Thank you, I think." She eyed her father, then asked tentatively, "You sent me there so that Chloe and everybody would learn the truth about Lucifer, right?"

"In part," her father agreed, and Azrael nearly lost her balance, partly due to the shock of getting a straight answer and also because her legs had gone numb. This body did not appreciate sitting seiza. Her father continued to speak as Azrael, wincing, stretched her legs. "Really, child, do you think he would ever give Chloe the proof that she needed?"

Azrael couldn't help but smile at that. "It would have taken something extreme to get him to do that," she agreed. "Will you tell me why, though? I mean, there wasn't anything wrong with them not knowing."

"Despite your brother's claims of never lying, he wasn't being truly honest with his friends." Seeing Azrael's raised eyebrows, he added, "They never would have believed without proof, which you gave them. And now his friends know the truth, and will be better able to support him in the times to come."

Azrael went hot and then cold, a hard knot settling in her stomach. "What's going to happen to him? Why does he need support, and from humans, so much that you sent me to do things that you said none of us should ever do?" He didn't answer, and Azrael struggled to her feet, one hand grasping the tree for balance. "Father, please!"

"It's not for you to know. But in the end, everything will be all right."

Azrael smacked the tree with the flat of her hand. "I'm so sick of you and Josh giving me that bullshit answer," she exploded.

"Your brother is acting on my instructions." Her father's tone was crisp, but also held a hint of warning. "It's better that you not know."

Azrael closed her eyes for a moment, trying not to be too obvious in her frustration. Her voice tight, she asked, "Will Lucifer be all right, in the end?"

Her father nodded, though his expression cautioned her not to push him. "He will."

Suddenly, Azrael wished that she had asked a more specific question, but she was reasonably certain she wouldn't get any more out of her father on that topic. She could ask Josh, though he probably wouldn't tell her if he knew anything. Taking a measured breath, she asked, looking anywhere but at her father, "How did Raziel do as Angel of Death? Will… will he be continuing in the job?"

She felt a hint of wry amusement from her father. "That task proved to be a little too much for your brother," he admitted. "I had to ask a few of your siblings to assist, and Metatron in particular to help with the record-keeping. The system you developed is… complicated."

Azrael didn't think so, but she'd also had millenia to create it. She took a deep breath and held it, trying to quiet the pounding of her heart. Could her father see how much she was shaking? She tucked her hands in the sleeves of her robes, the picture of devotion. At least the stupid clothing was good for something. "My siblings," she said, careful to keep her voice even. "Will they be continuing in their new roles?"

Her father didn't answer immediately, though a breeze rustled the branches over her head. She tipped her head back, trying to see the hiding spot Lucifer had showed her, and was seized with a brief surge of vertigo. "Some will, yes," he said finally.

Azrael felt oddly numb, though she guessed that some emotion would soon emerge from the fog, be it elation or despair. "I…" She swallowed hard, then asked softly, managing to pull a coherent thought from the whiteout that was her brain. "What will you have me do?"

"You'll be joining them, after you deal with a few things for me." His father's voice was even, smooth, and utterly devoid of anything that would help Azrael figure out what he meant. "When you're finished this task, you can resume your job, but with help. The job is too demanding for just you. You should have time to yourself."

Of course it had taken Raziel's ineptitude to show him that. He couldn't have gotten her help sooner. Still, this seemed like the perfect solution. But there had to be a catch; there always was. "What?" Azrael took a deep breath, her mind whirling, and tried again. "What things?"

"Your brother Remiel could use some help, and they know that you have Lucifer's favor."

"They know… in Hell? You mean the demons?" Azrael groped blindly for her tree, using it to ground herself to reality. "After all that I've done, you're sending me to Hell?" Her father reached for her and Azrael flinched away, lifting a hand in a warding gesture.

"Just to help him get a few things straightened out, child. Then you can come home." Her father turned away, adding, "This isn't a punishment. It's just that your mother's escape has caused some trouble."

Azrael made a sound that could have been a laugh. "How is it not a punishment? It's Hell. That's kind of the point, isn't it?"

Her father gave her a long look. "Daughter, do you want damned souls escaping Hell, or demons? They could be drawn to your brother, you know, and to his human friends."

Azrael pictured some of the more vile denizens of Hell, and what they might do. While she knew that Lucifer and Maze would protect their friends, she couldn't take the risk. Closing her eyes briefly, she said, "I assume you'll restore my body and my powers before I go."

"Of course." Her father considered her, adding, "That body is hardly intimidating." He extended his hand, and this time Azrael allowed him to touch her. He rested his hand on the top of her head and she closed her eyes, her throat tightening. It was a blessing, she knew, and her heart pounder at the thought of what could await her in Hell.

Her father lifted his hand and Azrael shifted back to her regular form.

All the little aches of her mortal body vanished - really, how did the humans bear it? - and she felt a surge of strength fill her. She took a breath and loosed her wings, relieved to see that they, too, had returned to their usual size.

Azrael felt… strange. Too large, and a little off-balance, and almost dizzy with strength and power. Had she grown so used to the limitations of her mortal body? Her hand brushed against the knife in her pocket, and she wondered just who would win, if she and Maze sparred.

She stretched and then inspected the dark curls that pooled past her ribs. Her hair was longer than she liked, but that was easily fixed. She braided it back, securing it with a hair tie that she found in another pocket.

Though she'd never been one for vanity, Azrael fought back the sudden desire to find a mirror, just to be sure she was really herself again. Everything felt right, if oddly unfamiliar, but she still wasn't sure what her father might have changed.

Azrael leaned against the tree, letting it support her as it had so many times in the past. She passed a hand across her face and then, straightening, turned back to her father. Now that she had her body back, she could say some of what was on her mind. "You manipulated me, Dad." She spoke slowly, trying to find the right words for thoughts she should have expressed ages ago. "Bad enough that you took away my body and my identity, but then you sent Michael to the church after Chloe and Trixie found out, because you knew I wouldn't leave without telling Lucifer what had happened. And then, after you pissed off Luci at my house, Josh could use that to convince him to take me back, so I could keep at my tasks, as if that's all that mattered."

"Child -" her father began.

"I was scared!" It was a cry of protest, of betrayal. "I thought I'd missed out on my one chance to get my body back. You made me choose between that and my brother. How could you do that to me? How could you hurt any of us like this? You pushed Luci away long before exiled him; you drove him to rebel. And Uriel would probably still be alive if he hadn't been so desperate to prove himself to you. You… do you even realize how much you've messed up your children, how damaged we are? Do you even care?"

Her father stepped toward Azrael, then took a closer look at his daughter's expression and stopped. "I do care, daughter," he replied, his voice gentle. "I care very much. But there are things that have been set into motion that you can't understand."

"Ah." Azrael nodded, not looking surprised by the lack of both explanation and apology. "So all our suffering, it's for the greater good, is that it?" Her father nodded, looking a little relieved, though that expression faded when Azrael said flatly, "Fuck the greater good. Sometimes you just need to step up and be a good parent, put your children first for a change."

She turned away, and her father asked, "Where are you going?"

"Hell," Azrael replied, her voice tight with pain. She wouldn't look at her father as she said, "Because even though I know you manipulated me into it, I still don't want my friends to come to harm."

"Azrael." She turned, startled by his use of her name, wryly thinking that it was nice to have proof that he remembered it. Her father regarded her steadily. "When you have finished helping your brother, come home."

Azrael inclined her head. "When I'm done," she agreed coolly, "I'll go home."

She unfurled her wings and took to the air, taking one last flight over the Silver City before she left for Hell.

She knew the way.

She had work to do.

Author's note: Thank you so much for reading this! Though I've written others since I started, this series was my first fanfic, and is very dear to my heart. Extra thanks to those of you who have left reviews and faves, and virtual baked goods of your choice if you've left multiple reviews.

I was really nervous about putting this out there, but Lucifer fans are the best. 3