Meteora
Title: If You Can
Word Count: 1318
Summary: Follow-up to Trust Me.
Only three seconds passed from the moment Sketch told Azazel to jump and when his friend actually threw himself out into the open air over the wasteland, but in those three seconds a horrible dread had risen in Sketch's chest. What if he'd made the call too late? What if the Deviants had already taken Azazel into custody? It had been such a struggle to pull their ragtag group back together after the devastating attack at the lab, and Sketch wasn't prepared to lose another, not so soon.
But then he'd seen it, a flash of movement just ten feet beneath him as he hovered on the blasting wind that crashed into Medius and swept up its side. He reacted without thinking, folding his wings to his body and plummeting after the figure that tumbled through the darkness.
He hadn't accounted for some things. The wind was atrocious, swirling sand and grit hundreds of feet in the air, the Deviants were shooting like madmen, and at this height, he had approximately three seconds to catch his best friend before Azazel ended up an unsightly smear on the dirt.
Just the little things, really.
One hundred feet. Seventy-five. Fifty. He hooked his arms around Azazel's waist and spread his wings to rapidly slow their fall, feeling the ache and pressure across his back and shoulders as his muscles strained to support the weight of a second person. The ground skimmed in a blur beneath them and -
Pain rippled up his back as a rapid series of gunshots peppered his body armor, punching deep craters in the sturdy nanotech material that jammed into pressure points and forced a tingling numbness into his arms. He knotted his fingers into Azazel's shirt as he struggled to keep his grip, cursing violently under his breath as a lucky shot tore through the feathers of his wings and into the meat of his upper arm, the one immediately following it trenching through his scalp across the top of his ear - darkness rippled across his vision as one arm went entirely numb, the pain a searing heat that surged into his shoulder, and suddenly Azazel was gone from his grasp. He pivoted and twisted in mid-air, his head spinning, until a bullet directly impacted the joint of one wing and he tumbled to the dirt.
Seconds passed, or maybe hours - it was hard to tell with the ringing in his ears and the horrible, trembling sting that raced through his muscles with every heartbeat. By the time he managed the motor control to dig the blackfire crystal out of his pocket, the ringing had turned to a roar and the deep gash across the side of his skull stung bitterly as the wind blasted it with the loose dirt of the wasteland. The crystal hadn't been at all damaged in the fall, though, and as soon as he wrapped his fingers around it he felt the beautifully soothing heat blast through his body, like the enveloping warmth of a fire. Bruises and scrapes vanished almost instantly, and as the wounds in his wing and shoulder slowly closed he gained his feet and started moving, shrugging out of his shirt and the battered armor vest beneath it. As he moved to pull the shirt back on, he felt a wide wet patch across the front of it - a fresh bloodstain across the stomach.
"Shit," he hissed, and started jogging back the way he'd come - or, at least, the way he hoped he'd come. With every step it felt like the storm grew in intensity, until he could barely pick out the ground at his feet. It was a relief, then, when he tripped over Azazel's leg and stumbled several feet in an awkward bid to keep his balance. The blackfire crystal fell from his hand and he spent a precious few seconds scrabbling for it in the dirt before returning to Azazel's side, dropping to his knees and flaring his wings in an effort to shield both of them from the worst of the wind and blowing sand. Azazel simply looked up at him from where he lay on the dirt, dazed and clearly concussed, his head resting on his arm.
Holding the crystal by the points, Sketch gave it a quick shake and watched the red vapor as it swirled and then settled. About a third full. It would have to be enough.
"Take this," he said as he pressed the crystal into the palm of Azazel's hand and curled his fingers around it. The wind whipped his words away, but the subtle twitch of Azazel's ears indicated he'd been heard. He leaned over his friend's body and checked his back, finding the large wound under his ribs. It was already starting to close - the heat caused by the crystal's energies was enough to make the air twist and ripple above Azazel's skin - but Sketch wasn't convinced the stone had enough power left in it to heal the wound completely. Settling back on his knees, he took one of his knives and started cutting his shirt apart, wishing he hadn't given his backpack, and the emergency kit inside it, to X before they'd hit the wall.
He looked down as he worked, and when he saw Azazel's eyes were closed he reached down and slapped the hybrid's cheek - first lightly, then with considerably more force.
"Open your eyes," he ordered, his voice taking an edge that sounded oddly panicked. "Come on, Mutt, you can nap later. I need you here, okay?" It took some more convincing, but Azazel finally sighed and opened his eyes, staring blankly at the ground. Sketch went back to work, and as he finished with the shirt he heard the telltale crunch of the crystal depleting itself. He checked Azazel's back again, and was surprised at how well the wound had closed - it was still bleeding lightly, but nowhere near as severe as Sketch thought it would have been. It was the first thing he'd felt reason to smile about in hours. "Okay," he said. "You need to get up. We have to get this bandaged before we start moving." When Azazel just sighed heavily, Sketch felt his fingers knot at the strips of fabric he held in irritation. "Seriously, Az, we don't have time for -"
"Just stop," Azazel said quietly. Sketch blinked, momentarily taken aback, then gritted his teeth and rose into a half-crouch, jamming his talons into the dirt for balance as he grabbed Azazel and tried to simply haul him off the ground. By the time he locked his arms around Azazel's chest, however, he heard a low, ugly growl and felt the pinch of talons against his bare ribs. "Leave me alone," Azazel snarled, his voice a hiss.
"You punch holes in me," Sketch said in a low voice as he wrestled Azazel to his knees, "and I guarantee I'll make you regret it. But hey, if it makes you feel better, go for it. Either way, I'm getting you wrapped up." For a moment he was certain he would have a punctured lung for his efforts, but after a few seconds Azazel leaned against Sketch's shoulder and was quiet. The wind howled around them, slightly quieter now as the storm began to make its way around the city.
"They're going to come looking," Azazel said quietly.
"I'll worry about that later," Sketch told him, knotting the strips of material so tightly he felt Azazel flinch. "Are you going to be okay to move?"
"It's only a flesh wound," Azazel quipped weakly.
"I'm serious, Az."
"You should have just left me."
"Hey." Sketch took Azazel by the shoulders and pushed him back, held him at arm's length. "Don't fucking say that, alright? I told you I would catch you."
"And you did."
"No," Sketch told him. "No, I don't think I have, yet."
Word Count: 1318
Summary: Follow-up to Trust Me.
Only three seconds passed from the moment Sketch told Azazel to jump and when his friend actually threw himself out into the open air over the wasteland, but in those three seconds a horrible dread had risen in Sketch's chest. What if he'd made the call too late? What if the Deviants had already taken Azazel into custody? It had been such a struggle to pull their ragtag group back together after the devastating attack at the lab, and Sketch wasn't prepared to lose another, not so soon.
But then he'd seen it, a flash of movement just ten feet beneath him as he hovered on the blasting wind that crashed into Medius and swept up its side. He reacted without thinking, folding his wings to his body and plummeting after the figure that tumbled through the darkness.
He hadn't accounted for some things. The wind was atrocious, swirling sand and grit hundreds of feet in the air, the Deviants were shooting like madmen, and at this height, he had approximately three seconds to catch his best friend before Azazel ended up an unsightly smear on the dirt.
Just the little things, really.
One hundred feet. Seventy-five. Fifty. He hooked his arms around Azazel's waist and spread his wings to rapidly slow their fall, feeling the ache and pressure across his back and shoulders as his muscles strained to support the weight of a second person. The ground skimmed in a blur beneath them and -
Pain rippled up his back as a rapid series of gunshots peppered his body armor, punching deep craters in the sturdy nanotech material that jammed into pressure points and forced a tingling numbness into his arms. He knotted his fingers into Azazel's shirt as he struggled to keep his grip, cursing violently under his breath as a lucky shot tore through the feathers of his wings and into the meat of his upper arm, the one immediately following it trenching through his scalp across the top of his ear - darkness rippled across his vision as one arm went entirely numb, the pain a searing heat that surged into his shoulder, and suddenly Azazel was gone from his grasp. He pivoted and twisted in mid-air, his head spinning, until a bullet directly impacted the joint of one wing and he tumbled to the dirt.
Seconds passed, or maybe hours - it was hard to tell with the ringing in his ears and the horrible, trembling sting that raced through his muscles with every heartbeat. By the time he managed the motor control to dig the blackfire crystal out of his pocket, the ringing had turned to a roar and the deep gash across the side of his skull stung bitterly as the wind blasted it with the loose dirt of the wasteland. The crystal hadn't been at all damaged in the fall, though, and as soon as he wrapped his fingers around it he felt the beautifully soothing heat blast through his body, like the enveloping warmth of a fire. Bruises and scrapes vanished almost instantly, and as the wounds in his wing and shoulder slowly closed he gained his feet and started moving, shrugging out of his shirt and the battered armor vest beneath it. As he moved to pull the shirt back on, he felt a wide wet patch across the front of it - a fresh bloodstain across the stomach.
"Shit," he hissed, and started jogging back the way he'd come - or, at least, the way he hoped he'd come. With every step it felt like the storm grew in intensity, until he could barely pick out the ground at his feet. It was a relief, then, when he tripped over Azazel's leg and stumbled several feet in an awkward bid to keep his balance. The blackfire crystal fell from his hand and he spent a precious few seconds scrabbling for it in the dirt before returning to Azazel's side, dropping to his knees and flaring his wings in an effort to shield both of them from the worst of the wind and blowing sand. Azazel simply looked up at him from where he lay on the dirt, dazed and clearly concussed, his head resting on his arm.
Holding the crystal by the points, Sketch gave it a quick shake and watched the red vapor as it swirled and then settled. About a third full. It would have to be enough.
"Take this," he said as he pressed the crystal into the palm of Azazel's hand and curled his fingers around it. The wind whipped his words away, but the subtle twitch of Azazel's ears indicated he'd been heard. He leaned over his friend's body and checked his back, finding the large wound under his ribs. It was already starting to close - the heat caused by the crystal's energies was enough to make the air twist and ripple above Azazel's skin - but Sketch wasn't convinced the stone had enough power left in it to heal the wound completely. Settling back on his knees, he took one of his knives and started cutting his shirt apart, wishing he hadn't given his backpack, and the emergency kit inside it, to X before they'd hit the wall.
He looked down as he worked, and when he saw Azazel's eyes were closed he reached down and slapped the hybrid's cheek - first lightly, then with considerably more force.
"Open your eyes," he ordered, his voice taking an edge that sounded oddly panicked. "Come on, Mutt, you can nap later. I need you here, okay?" It took some more convincing, but Azazel finally sighed and opened his eyes, staring blankly at the ground. Sketch went back to work, and as he finished with the shirt he heard the telltale crunch of the crystal depleting itself. He checked Azazel's back again, and was surprised at how well the wound had closed - it was still bleeding lightly, but nowhere near as severe as Sketch thought it would have been. It was the first thing he'd felt reason to smile about in hours. "Okay," he said. "You need to get up. We have to get this bandaged before we start moving." When Azazel just sighed heavily, Sketch felt his fingers knot at the strips of fabric he held in irritation. "Seriously, Az, we don't have time for -"
"Just stop," Azazel said quietly. Sketch blinked, momentarily taken aback, then gritted his teeth and rose into a half-crouch, jamming his talons into the dirt for balance as he grabbed Azazel and tried to simply haul him off the ground. By the time he locked his arms around Azazel's chest, however, he heard a low, ugly growl and felt the pinch of talons against his bare ribs. "Leave me alone," Azazel snarled, his voice a hiss.
"You punch holes in me," Sketch said in a low voice as he wrestled Azazel to his knees, "and I guarantee I'll make you regret it. But hey, if it makes you feel better, go for it. Either way, I'm getting you wrapped up." For a moment he was certain he would have a punctured lung for his efforts, but after a few seconds Azazel leaned against Sketch's shoulder and was quiet. The wind howled around them, slightly quieter now as the storm began to make its way around the city.
"They're going to come looking," Azazel said quietly.
"I'll worry about that later," Sketch told him, knotting the strips of material so tightly he felt Azazel flinch. "Are you going to be okay to move?"
"It's only a flesh wound," Azazel quipped weakly.
"I'm serious, Az."
"You should have just left me."
"Hey." Sketch took Azazel by the shoulders and pushed him back, held him at arm's length. "Don't fucking say that, alright? I told you I would catch you."
"And you did."
"No," Sketch told him. "No, I don't think I have, yet."