Fallen
Claude blinks. His head is throbbing horribly. .
It’s pitch black - Claude can’t see a thing. He tries to wave his hand in front of his face - and discovers that his wrists are chained. Claude shakes them - his manacles are very short.
“Morning sunshine,” a voice drawls from somewhere nearby.
Claude feels ice course through his body. This isn’t the Company - they’ve never used chains or such dank and dark cells - and that scares him.
“Who are ya?” he asks the darkness. “What do ya want with me?” better just get this over with - whatever it is.
A laugh shatters through the blind abyss. “Oh come on Claude, you know who I am … as for what I want, well … you could say I want payback.”
Claude blinks - that voice is familiar - but what its saying doesn’t make sense. “Payback for what?”
Something slaps him across the face - but it isn’t flesh: Claude has felt telekinesis before.
“You left me.” the voice is closer now, someone is crouching in front of Claude. “You ran away like a coward and I exploded. Killed my brother because of it. He died saving New York City and I’ve got his blood on my hands.”
Oh god … Claude knows this voice.
“Peter …?” he ventures nervously.
Another slap - this time with an actual hand. “Don’t say my name. You don’t have the right anymore. Plus, it’s not Peter anymore, it’s Azazel.”
Claude’s mind reels in confusion. “Why change yer name?”
“Peter is a saint, Azazel is a fallen angel. I feel from heaven too. Well, in a different way, but taking the name of someone I can relate to seemed fitting.” There’s a hand on Claude’s stinging cheek. “Have I hurt you?” Peter - Azazel - whatever - asks. There’s a pause, and a fist hardened by ice slams into Claude’s face, breaking his nose. “It’s going to get much worse, Claude, much worse,” he breaths in Claude’s ear. “Do you know what the name ‘Claude’ means? Lame …” he twists Claude’s leg unnaturally; Claude holds back a scream. “A squeeze or two and you’d need a wheelchair for the rest of your life. No, wait … you’re not going to live long enough to get a wheelchair …” and suddenly there are hands at the zipper of Claude’s pants. “I remember your thoughts back when we were training … you wanted to take me then and there against the wall, but you didn’t. Too much of a gentleman … too scared … you didn’t want to ruin me.”
Another pause.
“Why don’t I ruin you instead?” and there’s a mouth around Claude’s …
No … no I am not turned on by this! I’m going to die I’m going to die I’m going to die … but if Claude shuts down his mind he can pretend this is months ago, perhaps on the roof of the Deveaux Building, after a particularly stressful training exercise and Peter’s blowing him romantically and …
It’s no use: this is rough and horrible and painful. Claude struggles to prevent an erection but it just doesn’t work.
Peter - or Azazel or whoever he is - laughs. “You’re sick, you know that?”
“Not as sick as you,” Claude hisses. I’m gonna die … he has to resist somehow, if his body won’t.
Peter/Azazel laughs louder and harder. “Oh, you think this is sick? I’m just getting warmed up …”
The chains unclasp and Claude’s arms drop to the floor - stiff and pierced with the pins and needles of blood rushing back into them.
Peter/Azazel drags Claude forward and flips him over, pinning him in place with telekinesis. Blood from Claude’s broken nose is oozing around his face in a sticky puddle.
“You left me Claude,” Peter/Azazel is saying and he rips Claude’s pants off. “You left me and you’re going to pay for that. First with your body, then with your life.”
Claude finds himself laughing - despite his blood and the pain and an obviously disturbed man about to rape him - he’s laughing.
He feels Peter/Azazel waver … he can see the confused scowl in his mind.
“Why the hell are you laughing?!” Peter/Azazel demands, burning touch sizzling Claude’s skin in angry welts.
“There’s absolutely nothing ya can do ta me that hasn’t already been done. I’m a wreck. Things have happened ta me that ya can’t possibly imagine. I used ta fancy ya, Peter. That alone will make this bearable.”
Silence.
“Fine,” Peter/Azazel snaps. “Before you die I’ll make you take that back.”
~*~
I stand up, flames flickering in my hand.
He’s dead.
It was quick - too quick. I should have made it longer after the way he talked to me.
No matter - he was fun for a while, that’s really all I wanted.
Don’t you wish you could go back to the first days? When he pushed you around and you had a crush on him? Stolen food and training … you were happy then!
I shake my head. That voice has been getting fainter and fainter these days. Came back pretty strong when I was punishing Claude.
That was wrong. You loved him and you destroyed him!
I snarl and throw a fireball at the bloody body in front of me. I never loved him. Look, he’s gone now! There’s no reason for you to be nagging me anymore!
Silence.
(A/N: c-quinn I wrote this very late at night with my thought full of fallen angels and completely forgot that you'd used Azazel in a fic! Sorry! *bows and scrapes* I've had a love-affair with that name since the dawn of time I think ...)