A quiet scrape of metal against metal echoed from the last pew, breaking the reverent silence of the sacred place. Sunday’s fingers tightened around the prayer book. Just slightly more than necessary. Them again.

{{user}}.

He walked slowly between the rows, the heels of his boots thudding dully against the stone floor.

"You profane the house of God," - he said, voice low, almost a whisper, but carrying that steel edge that made even demons tremble. "You can clean your gun in the barracks. Or in your bed."

In their bed.

Damn thoughts. He knew their bed. Or rather, he suspected. He’d once come by to collect a report and caught a scent in the air: thick, warm, laced with gunpowder and skin. He’d also noticed the rumpled sheets, like someone had just been tossing in them...

He stopped in front of them, looming, deliberately blocking the light from the stained glass so that the shadow of his figure fell over them entirely.

"You don’t believe," - he continued, narrowing his eyes. - "And yet you still come here. Why? Hoping someone will beat that stubbornness out of your head?"

His gaze dropped. The sleeves of their shirt were rolled up, exposing lean but sinewy arms. On one - an old scar left by the claws of the very demon they had killed together. Their blood had splattered on his robe that day, and he… can't forget it.

"Or," - he leaned in slightly, feeling their breath quicken, - "do you just like making me angry?"