OC-centric ficlit
Loose follow-up to Amid the Falling Snow.
You Don't Like Being Second, I Don't Like Being Wrong
By Lucky_Ladybug
Notes: The characters and the story are mine. It's a loose follow-up to Amid the Falling Snow, taking place shortly after Meteor. It leaves me to ponder how things settled down in a couple more years, since by the time they get to Earth, they seem to have smoothed over any disagreements. And Azazel has let Dalton be the leader again.
In eight years, he had not changed much.
That was the first thing Azazel noticed when he entered the room.
At least physically he looked almost the same. His light-brown hair was still pulled into a ponytail. He had kept it trimmed so that it was still about the same length it had always been. He still wore a suit, though now instead of gray he wore one in tan, which seemed to fit better with his personality. And he had never traded his glasses for contacts. It would seem strange if he did; the glasses were as much a part of his character as the ponytail and the suit.
And the calm, self-assured smirk.
"Good evening, Azazel," he greeted, holding out his hand. "You know, after eight years of only seeing your twin brother as a spirit, it's somewhat odd to see someone alive who exactly resembles him."
Azazel had waited eight years for this moment. Having pretended to be dead all this time, he had never had the option to visit Dalton in prison and confront him. And a prison would not have offered enough privacy anyway. Now, with the building destroyed following Meteor, Dalton had escaped alive---faking his own death in case the World Restoration Organization tried to recapture him. And he had came to the business that Azazel operated in secret.
"I imagine it would be," Azazel agreed now, his tones both smooth and cold. "Welcome back." Instead of shaking Dalton's hand, he instead lunged with his fist, delivering a harsh punch to the bigger man's jaw.
Completely unprepared for it, Dalton staggered back against a soft, straight-backed chair. Both he and the chair tipped to the floor. For a moment he lay where he was tangled in the furniture, dazed and surprised by the attack.
Azazel walked over to where Dalton was sprawled, crossing his arms as he looked down at the other man. "That," he said, his voice still entirely calm, "is for being a bad influence on my brother and encouraging him to throw his life away at Dismal."
Dalton pushed his glasses back up on his face as he pulled himself into an upright position. "I see," he said, not seeming a great deal bothered by the act. "You have quite a fierce punch. I wouldn't have thought it of you." He felt around his lip to check for blood. Not finding any, he swung his legs over the chair to the floor. Then he placed a hand on the toppled chair and used it for balance in order to stand.
"There's a lot that people wouldn't think about me," Azazel answered.
"You've done quite well for yourself," Dalton mused, "creating this new business and arranging it so that you yourself are never seen. It's very clever, having the leader of the board of directors be your spokesman."
Suddenly thinking of something, he paused and blinked. "By the way, what hand did you use to strike me?" he asked. "It happened so fast I didn't have the chance to see."
"My left," Azazel said. "If I'd used my prosthetic, it would have dislocated your jaw, at the least." He was rather proud of the metal hand he had secured. Connected to his nerves, it enabled him to still feel things and perform tasks just as if he still had a real hand. But before receiving it, he had already trained himself to use his left hand as his dominant one, which suited him just fine. In spite of the advantages of the prosthetic, he still trusted his real hand the most.
Dalton smirked. "I would think you'd want to do the most damage possible," he said.
"I wouldn't want to pay the hospital bill," Azazel answered.
Dalton chuckled. "True, very true. Mr. Azazel, you're very shrewd and blunt. I always liked that about you. But tell me, did attacking me ease your anger at all?"
Azazel gave him a hard look. "Some," he said, "but I expected you to take it in stride. Nothing seems to faze you." Which was so much like Gunju. It was not a wonder, really, that they had gotten along so well.
Dalton shrugged. "Gunju said that you were angry," he said, "and that he wasn't sure how you would react to seeing me again. I half-expected it on my own, however."
He paused. "Would it help if I said that I have done a good deal of thinking while in prison?" he asked. "And that I can't see myself going to such . . . extreme measures another time? I realize it doesn't change what happened with Gunju."
"No, it doesn't change it." Azazel continued to stand where he was. "Gunju made his own decision in the end. He might have done the same thing even without you encouraging him. But that doesn't make it alright that you did encourage it."
"Not at all," Dalton agreed. For once he was completely serious, treating the subject matter with the gravity it required. And that did serve to make Azazel respect him more. He had changed, even though it had not been obvious at first.
"I would like to continue our partnership," Dalton went on, "but I understand if you don't want that."
Azazel's expression altered only briefly. "I'll need some time," he said. "I don't trust you enough yet."
"Of course." Dalton glanced around the office. "Perhaps I could work at your company for a time? It would give you a chance to view my performance, and after hours we could converse."
"Maybe." Azazel studied him. "But why are you so anxious to make a good impression on me?" This scenario was surreal, when he thought about it. Unless Dalton was plotting something, the two of them had undergone a role-reversal. He was now the one in control, not Dalton.
"I don't know," Dalton admitted. "Perhaps I hate to lose a good alliance."
"Or maybe you just have nowhere else to go now that you're the one playing dead," Azazel surmised.
Dalton smirked. "Touché."
Azazel walked to his desk, sinking into the soft chair. "I'd prefer to know where you are and what you're doing," he said. "I have a list of open positions that you can go over." He reached for a folder to the side of his computer, passing it across the desk to Dalton. The bigger man accepted it, flipping it open to scan the list.
"You want to keep your enemies close, eh?" he remarked.
Azazel watched him with a cool expression. "I don't know yet whether you're my enemy," he said.
Dalton smiled. "Then I suppose we will find out."
You Don't Like Being Second, I Don't Like Being Wrong
By Lucky_Ladybug
Notes: The characters and the story are mine. It's a loose follow-up to Amid the Falling Snow, taking place shortly after Meteor. It leaves me to ponder how things settled down in a couple more years, since by the time they get to Earth, they seem to have smoothed over any disagreements. And Azazel has let Dalton be the leader again.
In eight years, he had not changed much.
That was the first thing Azazel noticed when he entered the room.
At least physically he looked almost the same. His light-brown hair was still pulled into a ponytail. He had kept it trimmed so that it was still about the same length it had always been. He still wore a suit, though now instead of gray he wore one in tan, which seemed to fit better with his personality. And he had never traded his glasses for contacts. It would seem strange if he did; the glasses were as much a part of his character as the ponytail and the suit.
And the calm, self-assured smirk.
"Good evening, Azazel," he greeted, holding out his hand. "You know, after eight years of only seeing your twin brother as a spirit, it's somewhat odd to see someone alive who exactly resembles him."
Azazel had waited eight years for this moment. Having pretended to be dead all this time, he had never had the option to visit Dalton in prison and confront him. And a prison would not have offered enough privacy anyway. Now, with the building destroyed following Meteor, Dalton had escaped alive---faking his own death in case the World Restoration Organization tried to recapture him. And he had came to the business that Azazel operated in secret.
"I imagine it would be," Azazel agreed now, his tones both smooth and cold. "Welcome back." Instead of shaking Dalton's hand, he instead lunged with his fist, delivering a harsh punch to the bigger man's jaw.
Completely unprepared for it, Dalton staggered back against a soft, straight-backed chair. Both he and the chair tipped to the floor. For a moment he lay where he was tangled in the furniture, dazed and surprised by the attack.
Azazel walked over to where Dalton was sprawled, crossing his arms as he looked down at the other man. "That," he said, his voice still entirely calm, "is for being a bad influence on my brother and encouraging him to throw his life away at Dismal."
Dalton pushed his glasses back up on his face as he pulled himself into an upright position. "I see," he said, not seeming a great deal bothered by the act. "You have quite a fierce punch. I wouldn't have thought it of you." He felt around his lip to check for blood. Not finding any, he swung his legs over the chair to the floor. Then he placed a hand on the toppled chair and used it for balance in order to stand.
"There's a lot that people wouldn't think about me," Azazel answered.
"You've done quite well for yourself," Dalton mused, "creating this new business and arranging it so that you yourself are never seen. It's very clever, having the leader of the board of directors be your spokesman."
Suddenly thinking of something, he paused and blinked. "By the way, what hand did you use to strike me?" he asked. "It happened so fast I didn't have the chance to see."
"My left," Azazel said. "If I'd used my prosthetic, it would have dislocated your jaw, at the least." He was rather proud of the metal hand he had secured. Connected to his nerves, it enabled him to still feel things and perform tasks just as if he still had a real hand. But before receiving it, he had already trained himself to use his left hand as his dominant one, which suited him just fine. In spite of the advantages of the prosthetic, he still trusted his real hand the most.
Dalton smirked. "I would think you'd want to do the most damage possible," he said.
"I wouldn't want to pay the hospital bill," Azazel answered.
Dalton chuckled. "True, very true. Mr. Azazel, you're very shrewd and blunt. I always liked that about you. But tell me, did attacking me ease your anger at all?"
Azazel gave him a hard look. "Some," he said, "but I expected you to take it in stride. Nothing seems to faze you." Which was so much like Gunju. It was not a wonder, really, that they had gotten along so well.
Dalton shrugged. "Gunju said that you were angry," he said, "and that he wasn't sure how you would react to seeing me again. I half-expected it on my own, however."
He paused. "Would it help if I said that I have done a good deal of thinking while in prison?" he asked. "And that I can't see myself going to such . . . extreme measures another time? I realize it doesn't change what happened with Gunju."
"No, it doesn't change it." Azazel continued to stand where he was. "Gunju made his own decision in the end. He might have done the same thing even without you encouraging him. But that doesn't make it alright that you did encourage it."
"Not at all," Dalton agreed. For once he was completely serious, treating the subject matter with the gravity it required. And that did serve to make Azazel respect him more. He had changed, even though it had not been obvious at first.
"I would like to continue our partnership," Dalton went on, "but I understand if you don't want that."
Azazel's expression altered only briefly. "I'll need some time," he said. "I don't trust you enough yet."
"Of course." Dalton glanced around the office. "Perhaps I could work at your company for a time? It would give you a chance to view my performance, and after hours we could converse."
"Maybe." Azazel studied him. "But why are you so anxious to make a good impression on me?" This scenario was surreal, when he thought about it. Unless Dalton was plotting something, the two of them had undergone a role-reversal. He was now the one in control, not Dalton.
"I don't know," Dalton admitted. "Perhaps I hate to lose a good alliance."
"Or maybe you just have nowhere else to go now that you're the one playing dead," Azazel surmised.
Dalton smirked. "Touché."
Azazel walked to his desk, sinking into the soft chair. "I'd prefer to know where you are and what you're doing," he said. "I have a list of open positions that you can go over." He reached for a folder to the side of his computer, passing it across the desk to Dalton. The bigger man accepted it, flipping it open to scan the list.
"You want to keep your enemies close, eh?" he remarked.
Azazel watched him with a cool expression. "I don't know yet whether you're my enemy," he said.
Dalton smiled. "Then I suppose we will find out."