When Angels Fall [GXG]

Chapter 23

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.