[FIC] Punishment
Title: Punishment (1/1, complete)
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Rating: PG-13...ish? Mild cursing and implications of sexual activities.
Summary: Azazel adjusts from a life of teleport-kill-teleport-kill-teleport-kill to something much more... domestic. Like my other fic, The Divorce doesn't happen, Shaw's still dead anyhow, and all the merry mutants live under the same roof. Cleaned up, slightly revised fill for this prompt over at 1stclass_kink.
A/N: I've exceeded the day's limits of my ability to Come Up With Clever Titles. I also want to acknowledge that this OP was really the one who came up with the "one big mutant family" AU that I love so much and I hope they don't really mind that I abuse it so much.
Punishment. That's what this is. Azazel is sure of it.
Well, it was also the handy-dandy rotation system the blue furball (what was his name? Harry? Hank?) came up with to balance household chores. There are almost ten of them in Xavier mansion now; things would get chaotic without it, and no one wants a repeat of the first week back after the beach incident. Azazel shudders. He gets tired just thinking about it.
Up until today, he'd been mostly tasked with laundry and babysitting--er, supervising training sessions. Deep down he knew he'd have to face this eventually, he just found it... odd that it should land a mere three days after That Friday Night.
(That Friday Night being the night he'd discovered that Charles and Erik's "chess night" actually had nothing to do with chess at all. At. All.)
(It wasn't even his fault. Not really. Okay, he could've knocked, instead of directly teleporting, but Charles had told him never to hesitate should he have a question, and he'd had a question.)
(Well, now he had Erik glaring daggers at him all the time.)
(And anyway, if Azazel hadn't walked in on them, the kids surely would have figured. They were surprisingly clever, getting their hands on the liquor stash that Azazel himself had helped to hide in no amount of time at all.)
(This also happened to be the same Friday night he'd walked into his room to discover Raven lounging in his bed. Naked.)
Obviously--it's punishment.
Something in the back of his head urges him to get to work--a small, nagging feeling that is most likely Charles. Sometimes Azazel misses Emma as team telepath. She was a suck-up and a tattletale, but at least she wasn't such a... such a parent.
He stands in the doorway, arms crossed, tail swinging slowly and deliberately. He glares, as if glaring at an enemy--and in a way, the kitchen is his enemy. But Azazel isn't one to back down from a fight. He steels himself, shuts his brain up, and gets to business.
It's been half an hour, maybe (fifteen to familiarize with where utensils were kept and fifteen of actual cooking), when Janos casually walks in with a book and sits at the table.
"What?" he asks innocently under Azazel's withering stare. "I like reading in here."
You like the kitchen as opposed to your room with the enormous window and the beautiful view, Azazel wants to say, but he has more pressing matters to attend to. (Is the pasta burning? He can't tell. How on earth did humans do this on a daily basis?)
He had saved the pasta and was getting started on the chicken when he realizes Janos is right behind him, peering over his shoulder. Azazel growls, swatting at him with his tail.
"What are you making?" Janos asks, unperturbed.
"Chicken. But I am thinking we should have roasted Riptide instead, yes?"
Janos laughs but he also sits back down.
It isn't too long after that when he spills marinara sauce on his shirt and Janos invading his personal space again. It catches Azazel completely by surprise. He'd turned around to get a napkin or something and bam! Janos six inches from his face. Sometimes he's pretty damn sure his comrade's true mutant power was being ridiculously silent when he wanted to. And for all the wrong reasons. Damn kids, rubbing off on him.
Janos frowns at the stain. "You know, there is an apron."
There is an apron, a frilly abomination with the words KISS THE COOK in glittery pink letters, and for some reason the only one in the mansion. According to Alex, it had been "the only apron in the store"--a lie, obviously. Everyone had said it had "a certain charm," but after finding a place for it to hang in the kitchen, no one ever touched it again.
Azazel's eye twitches. "Over my dead body," he grumbles, finding some napkins.
Janos shrugs, still the picture of innocence (well, as innocent as a former henchman of Sebastian Shaw can be). "That could be arranged," he says. "I'm sure you would look really good in it." He grinned.
Next thing Janos knew--whoosh--he's on the roof.
It takes... twenty minutes, maybe. Twenty minutes and one completed chicken dish later, Janos is back, with a little dirt on his clothes and Sean in tow. Azazel groans. Janos is in the middle of thanking the redhead graciously, when he notices the platter. "Hey! Looks good!" he exclaims, sauntering over to the counter. Sean, who was initially gaping at the Chef of the Day in fear, followed his lead.
"It does look good," he agrees.
"Smells good, too."
"What is it?"
"Well, it's chicken."
"Well, what'd he put in it?"
"Azazel, what did you put in it?" Janos asks.
Azazel doesn't answer; he's busy thinking of a good place to strand them. (And cutting carrots. Azazel. Cutting carrots. One day he's going to wake up in the Caspartina, and Shaw would still be alive and running them all around the world, doing absurd tasks to ensure Shaw's precious World War Three and Azazel would be back to his nice routine of killing, having fancy drinks, wearing expensive suits, maybe all at the same time, and this past month will have been a strange, strange dream--)
"Holy shit, this is delicious! Dude, you should cook all the time."
Azazel pauses. Knife in hand, he turns to look at Sean.
"Or, y'know, maybe not," the teen nearly whimpers. "Um, I could--I could set the table."
Janos laughs and attempts to steal a piece of chicken for himself. The bright red tail pops up and smacks the back of his hand. "Ah!"
"Go wash hands first," Azazel orders, waving the knife at Janos.
The other mutant stares at him incredulously and snorts before going off on his way. (Is it just Azazel or are those shorts getting shorter and shorter?)
He hears approaching footsteps. A female voice asks, "Mmm, what smells so good?"
Oh shit, Raven--
"Azazel! I had no idea you could cook."
He really needs to wake up soon.
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Rating: PG-13...ish? Mild cursing and implications of sexual activities.
Summary: Azazel adjusts from a life of teleport-kill-teleport-kill-teleport-kill to something much more... domestic. Like my other fic, The Divorce doesn't happen, Shaw's still dead anyhow, and all the merry mutants live under the same roof. Cleaned up, slightly revised fill for this prompt over at 1stclass_kink.
A/N: I've exceeded the day's limits of my ability to Come Up With Clever Titles. I also want to acknowledge that this OP was really the one who came up with the "one big mutant family" AU that I love so much and I hope they don't really mind that I abuse it so much.
Punishment. That's what this is. Azazel is sure of it.
Well, it was also the handy-dandy rotation system the blue furball (what was his name? Harry? Hank?) came up with to balance household chores. There are almost ten of them in Xavier mansion now; things would get chaotic without it, and no one wants a repeat of the first week back after the beach incident. Azazel shudders. He gets tired just thinking about it.
Up until today, he'd been mostly tasked with laundry and babysitting--er, supervising training sessions. Deep down he knew he'd have to face this eventually, he just found it... odd that it should land a mere three days after That Friday Night.
(That Friday Night being the night he'd discovered that Charles and Erik's "chess night" actually had nothing to do with chess at all. At. All.)
(It wasn't even his fault. Not really. Okay, he could've knocked, instead of directly teleporting, but Charles had told him never to hesitate should he have a question, and he'd had a question.)
(Well, now he had Erik glaring daggers at him all the time.)
(And anyway, if Azazel hadn't walked in on them, the kids surely would have figured. They were surprisingly clever, getting their hands on the liquor stash that Azazel himself had helped to hide in no amount of time at all.)
(This also happened to be the same Friday night he'd walked into his room to discover Raven lounging in his bed. Naked.)
Obviously--it's punishment.
Something in the back of his head urges him to get to work--a small, nagging feeling that is most likely Charles. Sometimes Azazel misses Emma as team telepath. She was a suck-up and a tattletale, but at least she wasn't such a... such a parent.
He stands in the doorway, arms crossed, tail swinging slowly and deliberately. He glares, as if glaring at an enemy--and in a way, the kitchen is his enemy. But Azazel isn't one to back down from a fight. He steels himself, shuts his brain up, and gets to business.
It's been half an hour, maybe (fifteen to familiarize with where utensils were kept and fifteen of actual cooking), when Janos casually walks in with a book and sits at the table.
"What?" he asks innocently under Azazel's withering stare. "I like reading in here."
You like the kitchen as opposed to your room with the enormous window and the beautiful view, Azazel wants to say, but he has more pressing matters to attend to. (Is the pasta burning? He can't tell. How on earth did humans do this on a daily basis?)
He had saved the pasta and was getting started on the chicken when he realizes Janos is right behind him, peering over his shoulder. Azazel growls, swatting at him with his tail.
"What are you making?" Janos asks, unperturbed.
"Chicken. But I am thinking we should have roasted Riptide instead, yes?"
Janos laughs but he also sits back down.
It isn't too long after that when he spills marinara sauce on his shirt and Janos invading his personal space again. It catches Azazel completely by surprise. He'd turned around to get a napkin or something and bam! Janos six inches from his face. Sometimes he's pretty damn sure his comrade's true mutant power was being ridiculously silent when he wanted to. And for all the wrong reasons. Damn kids, rubbing off on him.
Janos frowns at the stain. "You know, there is an apron."
There is an apron, a frilly abomination with the words KISS THE COOK in glittery pink letters, and for some reason the only one in the mansion. According to Alex, it had been "the only apron in the store"--a lie, obviously. Everyone had said it had "a certain charm," but after finding a place for it to hang in the kitchen, no one ever touched it again.
Azazel's eye twitches. "Over my dead body," he grumbles, finding some napkins.
Janos shrugs, still the picture of innocence (well, as innocent as a former henchman of Sebastian Shaw can be). "That could be arranged," he says. "I'm sure you would look really good in it." He grinned.
Next thing Janos knew--whoosh--he's on the roof.
It takes... twenty minutes, maybe. Twenty minutes and one completed chicken dish later, Janos is back, with a little dirt on his clothes and Sean in tow. Azazel groans. Janos is in the middle of thanking the redhead graciously, when he notices the platter. "Hey! Looks good!" he exclaims, sauntering over to the counter. Sean, who was initially gaping at the Chef of the Day in fear, followed his lead.
"It does look good," he agrees.
"Smells good, too."
"What is it?"
"Well, it's chicken."
"Well, what'd he put in it?"
"Azazel, what did you put in it?" Janos asks.
Azazel doesn't answer; he's busy thinking of a good place to strand them. (And cutting carrots. Azazel. Cutting carrots. One day he's going to wake up in the Caspartina, and Shaw would still be alive and running them all around the world, doing absurd tasks to ensure Shaw's precious World War Three and Azazel would be back to his nice routine of killing, having fancy drinks, wearing expensive suits, maybe all at the same time, and this past month will have been a strange, strange dream--)
"Holy shit, this is delicious! Dude, you should cook all the time."
Azazel pauses. Knife in hand, he turns to look at Sean.
"Or, y'know, maybe not," the teen nearly whimpers. "Um, I could--I could set the table."
Janos laughs and attempts to steal a piece of chicken for himself. The bright red tail pops up and smacks the back of his hand. "Ah!"
"Go wash hands first," Azazel orders, waving the knife at Janos.
The other mutant stares at him incredulously and snorts before going off on his way. (Is it just Azazel or are those shorts getting shorter and shorter?)
He hears approaching footsteps. A female voice asks, "Mmm, what smells so good?"
Oh shit, Raven--
"Azazel! I had no idea you could cook."
He really needs to wake up soon.