Only I would write a fic about a show I haven't seen in years. I suppose I could have waited until my boxset got here, but oh well! I blame Zaedah. Mostly cuz I can lol.

Note: this is a death fic (unless someone demands I continue this then.. who knows), so don't be flaming me about that. Also, I'm very intrigued by the religious based concepts I used here. I won't be shoving my beliefs down your throat with it, but I just thought I should warn you.

BTW, I don't own this show anymore than I own ANY of the shows I've written fanfiction for. Just get used to it!

It was when the fourth patient breathed his last that the young woman knew without a doubt that she was going to die. Of all those who had fallen sick, perhaps a third had done so as quietly the shy, now deceased, math major. Yes, they'd been able to answer the brief questions the young doctor had asked, but after that, those few had barely spoken. And now three of those few were dead.

She might not have been a rocket scientist or the doctor her mother had hoped for, but after years as an English buff and freelance reviewer, she definitely knew how to pick out the doomed characters in any tragic story. In some other more hopeful story, she might have been the miracle patient that the ridiculously handsome doctor fought so bravely for, but it seemed unlikely considering his personal heroine had arrived with him.

No, the reality of the matter was simply that her time was slipping away with most of the words comprising her rather impressive vocabulary. She didn't really know how much longer she'd be able to speak at all, frankly. As the doctors slid a pale cloth over the other victim's face, she decided she had to do something… say anything to let them know what it was she'd realized about the death around her.

"Hey!" She forced herself to shout, pushing past the fatigue she hadn't noticed creeping up on her. "Please, I…" She cursed silently as her words failed her. She tried again. "Here!" On of the out-of-towners, the older woman, turned from the math major's body, moving through the beds in her direction.

The patient's agile mind dragged the memory of the woman's introduction forward. She was a pathologist, apparently. Her mind dissected the word quickly: pathology, study of pathos, death, autopsies. Shit. "No, not you. Please-… you-" The words were a struggle already; she'd officially lost every toddler's favorite two letter one. She didn't know how easy this was going to be without it. She tried again. "Someone else. Please, someone else." As the woman halted where she stood, the patient was silently blessing her decision to follow literature instead of medicine. As of this moment, her gift for finding thousands of ways to say the same thing would definitely help her. "Keep farther from me," she managed, wincing in her head that the atrocious grammar usage.

The woman retreated back a step, still staring at her in worry. "Who do you need?" Her voice carried to reach the young patient, catching the attention of those around them. The young woman looked away to study the other doctors in the room.

A shock of pale hair shone over dark clothing. Might as well call in the hero, now. She tried to raise a hand to point to him. "I need-" She grimaced, of course his name would be a problem. She decided to supply one from a subject she'd been studying not so long ago. Hopefully someone would catch the reference; if not, well her book would have definitely been doomed to die a lonely death just as she apparently was. "Michael. I need Michael." The doctors' eyes narrowed and she just knew what was going through their minds. She sighed; no, the patient did not suffer from delusions. "I'm… I just… Michael, please!" she pled. Still, no one moved and she felt herself scream. "Now!"

Her panic seemed to get their attention. The blonde doctor finally turned, hurrying to her side as the younger man reached for a syringe. She batted the syringe away, reaching out to catch the leader's wrist with as much strength as she could. His startlingly blue eyes rose to meet her face. In a tone used to quiet children and lunatics, he spoke his name again slowly, and she almost wailed her frustration.

"I know your-" And there went the word 'name' right when she needed it. "I know who you are… Where I… I just-" She faltered, mind racing to find replacement terms. Where was a damned thesaurus when she needed one? "I … articulate." On her other side, the young doctor edged nearer with the drugs, sedatives she guessed. "Wait, please wait. Just… pause." She stared at man she'd named a warrior, pleadingly. She forced out a solid sentence, wishing it felt like a triumph instead of just exhausting. "I need you to comprehend."

Slowly, intense blue eyes still on her face, the pale man nodded. He glanced away from her, meeting the eyes of the woman his patient had shooed off so deliberately. After a silent conversation the young woman itched to write, she left the room with the body of the dead student. The blonde then shook his head at his syringe wielding colleague, and the young woman finally sighed in relief.

He chose to speak, offering a respite to her halting words. Voice soft and patient, he started with easy questions requiring only yes or no answers. "Can you understand what I'm saying?" She nodded fiercely. Oh, yes, she did. She wasn't stupid, just impaired. "You're just finding it hard to speak, I take it?" She nodded again and then gestured to the other end of the room where the boy had lain. He followed her gaze. "He did, too?" At her affirmation, he went on. "Has it been hard to speak all along or just now?" She opened her mouth to answer but closed it again. He furrowed his brow and simplified. "All along? She shook her head, and this time pointed to some of the other patients. They were all still bemoaning their pain quite loudly. She didn't blame them, early on, she'd hurt like hell too. Too bad she'd thought it just a migraine or she might have been in the hospital in time to save herself. She shook off the thought as 'Michael' raised an eyebrow to study the other patients. "So, that's the early stages?" She nodded again, grateful the man seemed to be as brilliant as the nurses had claimed he was. He cursed under his breath, before squeezing her hand. "I'll be back."

That seemed unlikely considering the sheer number of patients lining the ward, but she still thought it kind of him to say so. She eves-dropped rather blatantly as he conferred with the young doctor and the black man who'd joined them. Gone was the patient tone as he barked out information and orders. She vaguely recognized some of the terms: 'Broca's area' was, she thought, the language center of the brain (who knew she'd actually have a need for non-major's biology), and temazapam was one of the medicines her neurologist had advertised in his office. 'Aphasia,' however, was not a term she knew, though she supposed it had something to do with speech. And lord only knew what the hell 'flunitrazepam' was. She drew herself out of her musings as young Raphael darted out the room in response to one of the orders she'd over heard. After a moment, she closed her eyes and chuckled weakly at the mental reference. Apparently, wings would be her mode of reference for the day.

"Glad someone's amused." She opened her eyes, surprised he was back at her bed side. Surely he had somewhere more important to be. He ignored her quizzical look and asked, "What was so funny?"

She bit her lip, wondering if she'd actually be able to answer. It was worth a try at least. She gestured toward the door that the younger man had left through. "Raphael… needs… heal." That hadn't been as bad as she expected, but it was still only just this side of coherent.

The blonde blinked in surprise. "Raphael and Michael? Are you talking angels or turtles?" His lips twitched, and she grinned despite the situation.

She opened her mouth to answer and frowned. Six letters should not be that difficult. She'd try another. "Seraphs. Healer, Raphael." She laid her hand over his. "Warrior, Michael." To her infinite amusement, the man actually blushed. Score one for the invalid.

He changed the subject with an embarrassed grin. "So, you seem rather chatty." She rolled her eyes at the quip. "Why didn't you want to speak to her?" She knew who he was talking about, but how to answer such a loaded question?

"Anael loves." Pain flickered in his eyes so quickly she wondered if she'd actually seen it. She chose to clarify further. "I'm… Dying is heartbreak." It was only relatively clear, but he seemed to understand. His jaw tightened and he looked away briefly as if her words had confirmed something he already knew.

He changed the subject again. "Is there any pain" he asked quietly. She realized there was and nodded a little. He turned and reached for a small syringe, inserting it into the I.V. hanging by her bed. "This should help." He leaned back in the chair, relaxing just a fraction. "Michael, Anael, and Raphael. Why angels?"

"I write. Fiction. Researched lore." She smiled tiredly; that had actually made some sort of sense. He gripped her hand again, sharing her pride.

"Who would the others be?" he asked in a mildly teasing tone. By now, she thought she knew he was likely comforting the dying with his company. She wondered when he'd realized it. Shaking off the thought, she turned to indicate the young reporter type who was hovering near the door to ward, jotting down notes onto a pad. "Gabriel. Messenger. Sounds the trumpet."

He raised an eyebrow at her female distinction. "Huh. Wouldn't have thought of that one, myself. And-?" He spoke the last name as if she could actually repeat it. She contemplated the dark man she'd seen only briefly before he'd left to search out their current menace.

"Uriel. Finds causes. Knowledge."

He took that answer, obviously mulling it over in his mind. "You're good at that… reading people at a glance." She smiled sadly; it wasn't a skill she'd be likely to use again. He studied her face carefully, likely noting the exhaustion that was settling upon her like a cloak. She wondered idly if she should be worried about the fact that she'd fallen silent again. Her archangel slumped his shoulders forward and asked a final question, voice soft. "So, who would you be according to that research of yours?"

There was only one name left in her mind, that of the 'muse' that had started her on her feather kick in the first place. It was oddly appropriate now. "Lucifer." She saw his open-mouthed shock and sought speech one last time. A man like him would want, no need, an explanation for her affirming herself as the so-called devil. She took a breath, searching for strength and finding it in his steady gaze. "Already fallen. Can't be saved." As those words left her lips, she knew they'd be her last. The weariness was weighing on her chest, and it was getting harder to breathe now, let alone speak. Without leaving her side, he turned his face away to speak to someone she couldn't quite see. Lights began to flash casting a halo about his blonde hair, and the loud beeping that was pounding in her ears seemed strangely out of place.

She barely heard him whisper, "You know, Lucifer was also heaven's brightest light." She was smiling, her hand still cradled in hiss, as she slipped away into light.

Welp, I hope you all enjoyed this! It was random, but when the Neal-bunny bounces into my head, I just can't argue. Thus, the 2 Tin Man fics, 1 Boomtown WIP, and now this. shrugs

Reviews make me a happy child!