fic: run fast (if you want to survive)
run fast (if you want to survive); ~1500 words, Angel backstory, implied Angel/Raven + Erik/Charles, rated R. warnings for allusions to abuse and attempted sexual violence. Once the customer charade has been dropped, he meets her eyes head on and looks at her like she matters, and it's not such a tough sell after all.
It first happens when she's fourteen. Fourteen and failing math and utterly unprepared for the change that she's about to undergo. Completely unaware of all of the ways that her body is about to betray her. It's a Wednesday, like any other day of the week, just as boring and terrible as school always is but today, there's an itching on her back that gets worse as the day goes on. It doesn't take much of a struggle to give up on the day and skip out on the rest of her classes, the process of dodging all of the right faculty and taking all of the right exits already a well-worn and practiced path.
Angélica creeps into the house, her father thankfully still at work, and locks herself into her room. She undresses with shaking hands, a white hot panic settling in her stomach as fingers brush against raised, bumpy skin. The itching has become more than she can bear and she knows, she knows that they don't have enough money for a doctor and even if they did, her father would just as soon spend it on a bottle of Jack Daniels as he would on her well-being. She's too young to die, too young to never leave this crappy neighborhood behind, and in that moment before she turns to face the mirror, her every worst fear flashes before her eyes.
It's nothing like she could have ever imagined. Wings unfold from her back, stretching out clumsily like a baby first learning how to walk, and she rises into the air for all of thirty seconds before collapsing to the floor in a dead faint.
When she wakes up twenty minutes later, a crick in her neck and shit-scared, the wings have folded themselves away, but she can still see the outline of them, and she rushes to get dressed, rushes to cover them up. She grabs a pack of cigarettes and a lighter that she had stashed away at the bottom of her underwear drawer and takes off to the park, speed walking down the street with her head down.
She huddles behind a huge tree where no passersby could see her and lights a cigarette, letting the smoke fill her lungs and the burn at the back of her throat distract her from her thoughts. It would be easier, she thinks, if it were some disease. If she really were dying at least she could tell someone, let out this terror that's threatening to overtake her and thrust it upon another. The reality is something she couldn’t even begin to explain if she tried. Hello, my name is Angélica Salvadore and I have wings, what the fuck.
Belatedly, she thinks of their old neighbor Tom, who moved away a few years ago - rather, as soon as he had the money to get the hell out. He had a saying, something that him and his buddies used to repeat to each other during the war.
She repeats it to herself a thousand times over as she sits there at the base of that old tree, smoking her way through an entire pack of cigarettes.
How fucked are you now.
+
When her father finds out, it’s such a stupid accident, such a thoughtless mistake, that she could kick herself.
Swinging the door to her room closed and the latch shut, locking herself in and locking herself away, has become such force of habit that she thought she'd never slip up. Never idly leave the door half open as she shrugs off her grandpa's old leather jacket and lets the wings slowly unfurl themselves from her back, relieving the itching that had been bothering her all day.
He doesn't even bother to hit her, and isn't that a small mercy. He just reaches for the shotgun kept in the cabinet and levels it at her coolly, ordering her to leave. There's a look in his eyes that makes her skin crawl - he has always looked at her with hate but today, it's something less than that. It's not even disgust, it's as if she's not even human enough to warrant such an emotion.
As she slams her way out of that house for the last time, she vows that she won't ever let anyone look at her like that again.
+
Angélica Salvadore becomes Angel, just Angel, and there are better livings to be made but she'll work with what she's got.
If she wanted to be forced into learning how to control her wings, she couldn't have picked a better job. Not when her livelihood depends upon blending in with the other girls, depends upon her being desired but not different.
By the time she's sixteen, Angel thinks she has it all figured out.
+
Spitting an explosive projectile is a surprise. It would have been an ugly one if it weren't for the timing. Three in the fucking morning on a rainy night and a persistent customer follows her into the alley behind the club, shoving her against the cold brick wall. Angel panics and instinct takes over and flames consume the man's face as he screams hoarsely into the dark night.
She runs and runs and doesn't stop until she gets back to her ramshackle apartment. It's two years ago all over again and she smokes a whole other pack to herself. She figures if it worked once, might as well make it a tradition.
(The second time it happens, she walks calmly away, leaving her would-be assaulter behind, slowly consumed by a fire that stings like an acid burn).
+
Charles tells her about discovering others like her, about how she can find a place where she truly belongs. Blue eyes wide and voice raised in excitement, he has all of the careless enthusiasm that she'd imagine a vaunted university professor to have. Once the customer charade has been dropped, he meets her eyes head on and looks at her like she matters, and it's not such a tough sell after all. His optimism grates but the other one looks like he's a little rough around the edges, like he might just know how fucked this world really is, and it's not like she has any better options coming along.
Angel’s lived enough of her life to know that she might never find a place where she really belongs, to know that shit just doesn’t work out that way, not for everyone. At least she doesn't think she'll ever find someone that she'll belong to so completely as these two men obviously do to each other. She watches them as they banter while helping her load up her stuff into their banged up rental car and wonders if they think they’re being subtle. You can’t fool someone in her line of work, not when the intricacies of attraction have become like second nature, a language that she had to learn in order to survive. She sees how Erik, cynical though he may be, is perhaps more caught up in Charles’s idealistic vision than he’d like to admit.
It all sounds a little wishy-washy, a little too good to be true, but she’ll give it a shot.
At least she gets to keep her clothes on.
+
The CIA compound is all strict lines and sterile features and nothing like a place that she'd like to call home. Then she meets the others. Misfits and fuck ups all of them, in their own ways. She's been on her own for so long that she'd forgotten what it was like to want to be around others, to sit and feel comfortable in her own skin in a room full of people. She meets Raven - all bright innocence with an easy smile that reaches her eyes, who says "you can fly!" completely without guile, and Angel starts to think that maybe she will find her place after all.
+
Those goddamn agents look at her and it's her father standing there on the other side of that glass, leveling a shotgun at her. It's that same look and it leaves her feeling utterly wretched, as Angel realizes she was right all along.
She doesn't belong here.
+
Shaw reaches out.
Angel grits her teeth and ignores Raven's outcry. She's gotten along this far by trusting her instincts and she's not about to stop now, not when the cries of "let us normal people go!" are still ringing in her ears, taking on her father's voice.
She takes his hand.
+ I fused comic canon and movie canon here in terms of Angel’s background, e.g. her relationship with her father and getting kicked out of her house. there’s also the fact that the film made it seem as if Angel wasn’t her real name and that she had adopted it so I sort of decided to roll with that.
+ much thanks to staraflur for beta-ing.
+ title is a bastardized version of florence + the machine lyrics
It first happens when she's fourteen. Fourteen and failing math and utterly unprepared for the change that she's about to undergo. Completely unaware of all of the ways that her body is about to betray her. It's a Wednesday, like any other day of the week, just as boring and terrible as school always is but today, there's an itching on her back that gets worse as the day goes on. It doesn't take much of a struggle to give up on the day and skip out on the rest of her classes, the process of dodging all of the right faculty and taking all of the right exits already a well-worn and practiced path.
Angélica creeps into the house, her father thankfully still at work, and locks herself into her room. She undresses with shaking hands, a white hot panic settling in her stomach as fingers brush against raised, bumpy skin. The itching has become more than she can bear and she knows, she knows that they don't have enough money for a doctor and even if they did, her father would just as soon spend it on a bottle of Jack Daniels as he would on her well-being. She's too young to die, too young to never leave this crappy neighborhood behind, and in that moment before she turns to face the mirror, her every worst fear flashes before her eyes.
It's nothing like she could have ever imagined. Wings unfold from her back, stretching out clumsily like a baby first learning how to walk, and she rises into the air for all of thirty seconds before collapsing to the floor in a dead faint.
When she wakes up twenty minutes later, a crick in her neck and shit-scared, the wings have folded themselves away, but she can still see the outline of them, and she rushes to get dressed, rushes to cover them up. She grabs a pack of cigarettes and a lighter that she had stashed away at the bottom of her underwear drawer and takes off to the park, speed walking down the street with her head down.
She huddles behind a huge tree where no passersby could see her and lights a cigarette, letting the smoke fill her lungs and the burn at the back of her throat distract her from her thoughts. It would be easier, she thinks, if it were some disease. If she really were dying at least she could tell someone, let out this terror that's threatening to overtake her and thrust it upon another. The reality is something she couldn’t even begin to explain if she tried. Hello, my name is Angélica Salvadore and I have wings, what the fuck.
Belatedly, she thinks of their old neighbor Tom, who moved away a few years ago - rather, as soon as he had the money to get the hell out. He had a saying, something that him and his buddies used to repeat to each other during the war.
She repeats it to herself a thousand times over as she sits there at the base of that old tree, smoking her way through an entire pack of cigarettes.
How fucked are you now.
+
When her father finds out, it’s such a stupid accident, such a thoughtless mistake, that she could kick herself.
Swinging the door to her room closed and the latch shut, locking herself in and locking herself away, has become such force of habit that she thought she'd never slip up. Never idly leave the door half open as she shrugs off her grandpa's old leather jacket and lets the wings slowly unfurl themselves from her back, relieving the itching that had been bothering her all day.
He doesn't even bother to hit her, and isn't that a small mercy. He just reaches for the shotgun kept in the cabinet and levels it at her coolly, ordering her to leave. There's a look in his eyes that makes her skin crawl - he has always looked at her with hate but today, it's something less than that. It's not even disgust, it's as if she's not even human enough to warrant such an emotion.
As she slams her way out of that house for the last time, she vows that she won't ever let anyone look at her like that again.
+
Angélica Salvadore becomes Angel, just Angel, and there are better livings to be made but she'll work with what she's got.
If she wanted to be forced into learning how to control her wings, she couldn't have picked a better job. Not when her livelihood depends upon blending in with the other girls, depends upon her being desired but not different.
By the time she's sixteen, Angel thinks she has it all figured out.
+
Spitting an explosive projectile is a surprise. It would have been an ugly one if it weren't for the timing. Three in the fucking morning on a rainy night and a persistent customer follows her into the alley behind the club, shoving her against the cold brick wall. Angel panics and instinct takes over and flames consume the man's face as he screams hoarsely into the dark night.
She runs and runs and doesn't stop until she gets back to her ramshackle apartment. It's two years ago all over again and she smokes a whole other pack to herself. She figures if it worked once, might as well make it a tradition.
(The second time it happens, she walks calmly away, leaving her would-be assaulter behind, slowly consumed by a fire that stings like an acid burn).
+
Charles tells her about discovering others like her, about how she can find a place where she truly belongs. Blue eyes wide and voice raised in excitement, he has all of the careless enthusiasm that she'd imagine a vaunted university professor to have. Once the customer charade has been dropped, he meets her eyes head on and looks at her like she matters, and it's not such a tough sell after all. His optimism grates but the other one looks like he's a little rough around the edges, like he might just know how fucked this world really is, and it's not like she has any better options coming along.
Angel’s lived enough of her life to know that she might never find a place where she really belongs, to know that shit just doesn’t work out that way, not for everyone. At least she doesn't think she'll ever find someone that she'll belong to so completely as these two men obviously do to each other. She watches them as they banter while helping her load up her stuff into their banged up rental car and wonders if they think they’re being subtle. You can’t fool someone in her line of work, not when the intricacies of attraction have become like second nature, a language that she had to learn in order to survive. She sees how Erik, cynical though he may be, is perhaps more caught up in Charles’s idealistic vision than he’d like to admit.
It all sounds a little wishy-washy, a little too good to be true, but she’ll give it a shot.
At least she gets to keep her clothes on.
+
The CIA compound is all strict lines and sterile features and nothing like a place that she'd like to call home. Then she meets the others. Misfits and fuck ups all of them, in their own ways. She's been on her own for so long that she'd forgotten what it was like to want to be around others, to sit and feel comfortable in her own skin in a room full of people. She meets Raven - all bright innocence with an easy smile that reaches her eyes, who says "you can fly!" completely without guile, and Angel starts to think that maybe she will find her place after all.
+
Those goddamn agents look at her and it's her father standing there on the other side of that glass, leveling a shotgun at her. It's that same look and it leaves her feeling utterly wretched, as Angel realizes she was right all along.
She doesn't belong here.
+
Shaw reaches out.
Angel grits her teeth and ignores Raven's outcry. She's gotten along this far by trusting her instincts and she's not about to stop now, not when the cries of "let us normal people go!" are still ringing in her ears, taking on her father's voice.
She takes his hand.
+ I fused comic canon and movie canon here in terms of Angel’s background, e.g. her relationship with her father and getting kicked out of her house. there’s also the fact that the film made it seem as if Angel wasn’t her real name and that she had adopted it so I sort of decided to roll with that.
+ much thanks to staraflur for beta-ing.
+ title is a bastardized version of florence + the machine lyrics