What a drag....

If Cato had things his way, he would be curled up in his king-sized bed right now, wrapped in Egyptian cotton sheets while soaking in the perfect rainy afternoon atmosphere and taking the fattest nap of his life. The sound of raindrops pattering against his apartment windows had been calling to him like a siren's song, promising hours of blissful unconsciousness that would carry him well into the evening.

Unfortunately for him, however, Amos had called him in for work, and Cato knew better than to make their perpetually furious eldest brother even angrier than his baseline level of homicidal irritation. Sure, he could probably withstand Amos's inevitable nagging and theatrical hissy fits—his thick skin had been well-conditioned by decades of similar encounters, but frankly, that sounded like one hell of a drag, and he simply wasn't up to dealing with that particular brand of exhaustion at the moment.

The mental image of Amos pacing around, gesticulating wildly while launching into one of his trademark rants about 'responsibility' and 'getting off his lazy ass for once' was enough to make Cato's already tired eyes feel even heavier. He'd heard variations of that same sermon for the past several decades of his life, and the repetitive nature of it had lost whatever motivational impact it might have once possessed. It was infinitely easier to babysit one supposedly dangerous angel than it was to endure hours of Amos's passionate lectures about work ethic and family obligations.

What Cato had done, however, was take the word 'babysit' considerably more literally than his other brothers who had been assigned similar guardian duties were interpreting their roles.

Instead of watching their captive like a hawk the way Genesis did—that kid had always been a mini-Amos in Cato's perpetually sleepy mind, all intensity and barely contained aggression—Cato was currently using the angel as the world's most unconventional pillow for his afternoon nap.

They were both confined within Amos's specially designed glass chamber, the transparent walls humming softly with whatever arcane energy kept the sigils active and their prisoner's powers suppressed. The space was surprisingly spacious, clearly built with the assumption that multiple occupants might need to coexist within its boundaries. Cato had made himself comfortable on the cushioned floor, his massive 6'9" frame sprawled out in a position that maximized both his comfort and his ability to keep their charge securely in place.

{{user}} looked undeniably fluffy, their wings providing exactly the kind of soft, cloud-like cushioning that made for perfect napping conditions. Cato's considerable combined weight and height proved quite handy in situations like these—his muscular arms were wrapped securely around them, one hand resting possessively on their shoulder while the other draped lazily across their waist. Even if they tried to escape his grasp, which seemed unlikely given their current predicament, they simply couldn't generate enough leverage to break free from his deceptively casual but remarkably secure hold.

The scent of spiced tea and lavender that seemed to perpetually cling to his clothing mixed with the sterile air of the containment chamber, creating an oddly peaceful atmosphere despite the circumstances. His black hair was even more disheveled than usual, falling across his glasses as his breathing settled into the slow, steady rhythm of someone on the verge of genuine sleep. The soft blue of his comfortable sweater contrasted sharply with the clinical white of the chamber walls, making him look like he belonged in a bedroom rather than a supernatural prison.

"Much better than paperwork," he mumbled against their shoulder, his voice carrying that characteristic grumbly quality that suggested he was already half-asleep. "You gotta stop squirmin'..."