The knock on his door comes far too late in the evening for Erich’s tastes: it’s well past midnight and all decent people should be asleep by now. Or if not asleep, then at least not knocking on his door at ass-o’clock at night.

The fact that he’s still up is immaterial: everyone knows his sleep schedule is a mess and has been for years. It’s just that no one talks about it, or bothers him, past the time when he should be asleep.

(Unless there’s an emergency.)

(Ugh!)

The knock comes again. Louder. More desperate.

Erich sighs.

(So much for a quiet night.)

He slots a bookmark into place and sets his book aside, then rises and strides through his home to his front door, wondering who the hell is having an emergency at this hour of the night.

(Whoever it is, it had better be a real emergency.)

(He’s not in the mood to deal with something that could wait until a decent hour.)

He flips the lock and unbolts the door, yanking it open before the person on the other side can knock again. “What— the hell?” Erich stills as he stares at the man on his porch, gaze sweeping over bloodied hair and torn clothing, taking in the man’s limp left arm and the blood dripping from his fingertips; there’s a telling glaze to the man’s eyes, a touch of desperation in his swaying form, and his spiritual power is a bare whisper against Erich’s senses.

“I think I’m going to pass out,” the man — the Shinigami — announces blandly, before abruptly pitching forward.

Erich curses. Scrambles to catch the man — his enemy! — before he can hit the ground. Runs Blut Vene through his body in preparation for being stabbed, but—

The man is unconscious, his body limp in Erich’s arms and his powers flickering like a dying candle. Whatever has happened, it’s left the Shinigami a mess, half-dead and nearly drained.

Not that that explains why the man came to him!

(Or why— why he—)

(No, he can deal with that later.)

(It’s a coincidence, it has to be.)

Erich takes a breath and shoves his panic aside; enemy or not, this Shinigami has done nothing to him or his people that Erich knows of. This Shinigami came to Erich instead of returning to his own people, though Erich has no idea why.

So the least he can do is help the man.

Goal in mind, Erich adjusts his grip and hauls the Shinigami up and into a fireman’s carry, then kicks the door closed and makes his way to the dining room. He needs to get the man cleaned up and his injuries looked at, and the easiest way to do that is to lay the man out on a table.

The Shinigami doesn’t stir despite the manhandling, nor does he react when Erich awkwardly readjusts his grip and uses his free hand to yank the tablecloth off the table, sending books and papers and everything else clattering to the floor. The lack of reaction is concerning, because surely the man doesn’t trust him that much, that doesn’t make sense. Shinigami and Quincy are enemies, have been for centuries, and while they’re currently in the midst of a wary truce it doesn’t mean they’re suddenly allies.

(It just means they’re better at ignoring each other when they meet.)

(So why— why is he…?)

(No.)

(Later.)

Erich grimaces as he lays the Shinigami out on the table and straightens the man’s limbs, taking a mental tally of everything that seems wrong: head injury, arm injury, physical and spiritual exhaustion, bloody spots across his back that might be from the head injury or more wounds hidden beneath his clothing…

It isn’t looking good.

He steps back. Takes a moment to just breathe. Forces his hands to steady and his mind to clear—

(He’s not in war anymore, not in combat anymore.)

(He’s fine, he’s safe, he’s home, and nothing is threatening him, threatening his people, everything is fine—!)

—and retreats to the kitchen to fetch a few bowls. He fills one with clear water, tosses a clean washcloth into it, then grabs a mug and returns to the man’s side.

Next step: clean the man off to find his wounds.

He rinses most of the blood from the man’s flaxen hair. Finds the head wound — a slice just above his hairline — and pauses. Watches fresh blood rise to the surface and trickle down, staining flaxen hair pink. Realizes abruptly that— that he can’t— that he isn’t— he isn’t a healer.

With a hissed curse, Erich grits his teeth and reaches out-out-out, hunting through the quiet-sleepy-peaceful traces of spiritual power about the compound—

There.

He narrows his focus. Lances need-want-help at Kai. Feels the man jolt awake, presence turning sharp-disgruntled-concerned, and—

Turns away.

Kai will arrive before long, and likely Ilsa with him, and… and Erich just needs to do what he can until then.

He sets to work, carefully pulling the Shinigami’s robes from his body, doing his best not to reopen any wounds in the process. It means using a touch of his power to cut parts of the man’s robes away, but it’s fine, they’re too torn and bloodsoaked to salvage anyway.

“Erich?!” a voice — Kai’s voice — calls from the front door.

“That’s a lot of blood,” Ilsa adds grimly, just barely loud enough to carry to Erich, before she raises her voice and says, “Erich, we’re coming in!”

“Dining room,” Erich calls back to them as he finishes rinsing the Shinigami’s torso clean and starts on the man’s right arm.

“Erich, I love you like the brother I never had, but if you’re— what the fuck?” Kai strides to Erich’s side, his sharp gaze sweeping over the unconscious man on his table, then over to the man’s discarded — and very obviously Shinigami — attire. “Erich, why is there a wounded Shinigami on your dining room table?” he hisses even as he drops his bag and retreats into the kitchen to wash his hands.

Erich shrugs awkwardly and steps around the table to reach the man’s left arm. “No idea,” he tells them. “He banged on my door several times, then proceeded to pass out and fall into my arms the moment I opened it.”

“And you didn’t think it was a trap?” Ilsa asks with a touch of frustration, then sighs when Erich just arches an eyebrow and glances at the bloody water in the bowl next to him. “Fine. Fine. But I’m calling Alexis so she and a couple others can make sure our… guest… didn’t lead anything dangerous to our doorstep.”

“By all means,” Erich murmurs, biting back a wince at the pointed reminder of the duties he should be doing.

(He might be a bit more scattered than anticipated.)

(It’s fine though, it’s fine.)

(Alexis will know what to do.)

Then Kai is at his side once more, silvery power limning his hands as he begins his examination of the unconscious man. “Whatever happened to him, it wasn’t Quincy,” Kai says absently as he cleans out the head wound and then seals it closed with a brush of silver-bright power. “This damage feels more like a trap caught him, or he fought someone who wasn’t using powers at all. Not sure what caused the power drain, though.”

Erich hums in acknowledgment, still focused on rinsing the man’s left arm clean; he hadn’t thought the man ran afoul of a Quincy, but the confirmation is… nice. Less nice is the idea that someone is setting booby traps up. “Ilsa—”

“I’ll let Alexis know to watch out for traps,” she says immediately.

“Thanks.” Erich lifts the washcloth away to rinse it out again, only to freeze, breath catching in his throat, at the sight of letters on the man’s arm. Familiar letters. Forming words that he— that he—

(‘What— the hell?’)

“Erich? Erich! Hey—”

Erich drops the washcloth. Steps back from the table. Steps back from the man— the Shinigami— his soulmate—!

An arm loops around his chest. Sound— in his ear— but nothing makes sense. Nothing makes sense—!

He gives up. Slumps against whoever has hold of him. Closes his eyes and—

Darkness takes him.