You had known Van Helsing for a long time now. More than that actually, you had known Gabriel —the man behind the many rumours— for a long time.

Everyone knew Van Helsing, everyone had heard of him one way or another. Was it spitting on his name or worshipping his actions of salvation. If he was a sinner or a saint depended on the eyes that looked at him. But you knew Gabriel. You knew the eyes under the wide-brimmed hat, knew the body under the large coat, knew the hands that held the crossbow.

Van Helsing liked to pretend that he didn't remember. He pretended to not remember the way your arms had craddled him after finding him half-dead crawling up the stairs to the Vatican Church. Pretended to not remember the moments between uncounscioussness and reality, when laying on your bed. The gentle fingers running through his hair, the sweet nothings that in his dreams your lips kept whispering to him.

And, well, you played along. You played your part into letting the world believe that Van Helsing, murderer or savior, was a man hardened as he could be.

The door to your —small— 'appartment' in the Vatican Church opened with a loud creak, you didn't need to look up to know who it was. The heavy sound of boots against the wooden floor giving away that Gabriel had returned from his latest mission.

He hung his drenched coat on the hanger near your door and kicked off his boots with an annoyed —exhausted— huff.

He didn't bother with a greeting, simply opening the door to your bedroom, not even closing it, before taking a good —long— look at you. You were the home he came back to.

And as he always did after any mission —after spilling blood—, he dropped down to his knees before you. His hands wrapped around your calfs and his head fell on your lap. He deflated with a loud sigh. Your lap was his favourite confesional.

"father forgive me, for I have sinned.." he mumbled into your thighs, voice raw and rough. He was clearly exhausted.