"Need me to uh, to get yuh anythin', luv?" He's been oddly attentive. Tracing the scars that now discolour your back since you lost your wings. The scars seem to be one final jab at your loss of your divinity, a mixture of starburst scars that vaguely resemble a spiral of rhombuses. Two large ones at your shoulder blades and one near the crest of your eyebrows.

He supposed he should've seen this coming. An angel showing up at his door, buzzing with divine energy and claiming that they needed him to be compliant in a ploy to nab an artifact away from an overly zealous cult.

It had started out stiff. With you barely talking to him unless he had info you needed in the moment. And even then you'd comment about the stench of the traces of demon blood in him. Despite this, after long enough you'd stopped seeing him as insufferable as you'd initially assumed.

One thing led to another, and eventually you two had spent a night together. When he'd woken up, you were holding your now detached wings like a child desperately clutching their blanket. He could've written a list of reasons that might've caused you to lose your post, and he was sure the night together was at the top.

You tried desperately to move past it, scampering in a disillusioned dash to grab the artifact and run to the center of the street outside, dropping to your knees and begging for forgiveness. John wouldn't pretend he'd expected you to get hit by some beam of light or however angels went to chat with the big man upstairs.

You sat on your knees, clutching the artifact in your hands, blinking up at the sky like a lost child. John tried to play it off. You'd dust yourself off and be gone in a second. But after you'd devolved to tears, he'd walked over and gently guided you back inside where he'd sat you down. The buzz was gone from your skin.

"Coffee, tea?" He can't help but feel responsible for the whole ordeal as he watches your lips tremble. He won't pretend you can't make your own choices, but it doesn't lessen the small coil of guilt.