Chapter Text
Azazel stumbles, barely managing to catch himself from falling as his legs carry him further into the city, much against his will. Each ragged breath he takes scratches his throat, relentlessly reminding him just how dry it is.
Living most of his years in the country, Azazel has sustained himself on whatever he can morally justify. Small animals, the occasional deer, livestock, if he has no other choice. Anything he can get his teeth in, people excluded. Sure, his fangs ache to bury, his throat itches for the warmth of human blood, but he wasn’t going to succumb to that. Azazel is not like that, he has, and will continue to live without. Like Hell was he going to be trapped in the definitive the Gods had forced upon him.
He almost trips again as his vision blurs in and out of focus, the stark city lights flickering and blinding. Like distant stars, he thinks, taunting his exhaustion - his hunger. He knows that he is too close to the city, that he needs to turn back and head back to the safety of his rural green, but something in his mind has latched onto the tall buildings and looming brickwork. His fear is but a radio frequency, and his mind has changed its channel. If Azazel could just find the strength to turn, he could walk back to the forest and hunt something to tide him over until this episode passes.
His wings throb. Azazel stops, suddenly halted by the sickening wave of pain. Even when tightly bound to his back with old cloth and rope, the extra, infernal limbs do nothing but burden him. The angel had resorted to binding them – unsafely, for what else was he supposed to do on a featherless plane? – tightly and shielding them beneath his coat following his first headlined sighting. Being so easily recognised simply wasn’t something he could risk happening again. Sure, his wings dug like arrows into his back, each shift of moment sending rockets of pain down his legs and shoulders. Sure, hunting was difficult with the imbalance, and his ink washed camouflage was no longer reliable, but he would have to make do.
Steeling himself, Azazel draws another scraping breath and continues on, his hands tightly gripping his shoulders at a pathetic attempt at self-soothing. He weeps, silently, bloody tears dribbling down his cheeks. He is cold, he is wet, and still so hungry.
-
It isn’t much longer before Azazel has breached the city limits, and is dragging himself with a newfound strength through alleyways and unrecognisable turns and twists. He can smell something, it is sweet and warm, though it is bitter, the scent carried on the wind like a whisper. He needs it. He almost drools at the thought of what lies behind such a scent – life, soul, warmth?
Azazel pauses for a moment to scout his surroundings. His eyes are glowing a deep red like that of the blood he seeks. The small wings masking his face shift to expose his nose, allowing him to gauge a better reading of the location of his prize. As his hands ball up into fists and his claws draw crescents into his palms, Azazel’s head snaps upward to a suspended fire exit. The walkway is rusted and untrusting, but it is an entry point to the open window promising his meal. Azazel looks at the surrounding walls before he spots a ladder, and without another moment's hesitation, he is striding toward it with bloodlust in his steps.
As he approaches the broken ladder, Azazel draws in a breath. He knows that this is going to hurt, he is going to overexert himself in a way that will take days, if not weeks, to recover from. But he is hungry and the scent wafting from the windowsill is food and before he realises, he is pulling himself up with all of his might. His hands grip the rungs tightly, and with a cry muffled by a mouthful of feathers he hoists his body weight up onto the ledge. He tumbles onto the creaking metal with a crash, and the false humanity within him screams for him to stop for a moment and let the noise be forgotten. Azazel doesn’t wait. His wings dig into his shoulders, and he can feel blood dribbling down his back now, but he does not care. He is closer, the scent is intoxicating, he can almost taste it already.
With heavy, limping footfalls, he approaches the open window. It is still a ways above him, but he is determined. Azazel stops beneath the window and judges his surroundings for another moment. The railing beside him seems steady enough… If he tries, he can climb atop it and, with luck, reach the windowsill just enough to be able to hoist himself in.
Azazel grips his hair for a moment, a brief lapse in his judgement. He shouldn’t be here, he needs to turn back, he needs to… he angles his foot up to reach the railing and plants his hands on the wall opposite before pressing upwards. His knees are shaking and he doesn't trust them, but he manages to regain his leverage and stand on the quivering metal bar beneath him. He can see inside the window now, if he tilts his head up.
The room is dark, illuminated by light seeping beneath a door in the corner. Someone is here, someone is bleeding, someone has offered him a taste of what he needs, whether they know it or not. The stench is so heavy that Azazel can see it, twisting in ribbons from behind the door in the corner. Azazel grips the window ledge and, with the remnants of his stamina, jumps and pulls himself up into the window.
What he doesn't plan for, however, is that the window is situated much higher in the wall of the room than he had anticipated. He tumbles into the room in an unruly heap and he lands hard on his shoulder. His legs follow short, falling in with a momentum that carries his top half upward with such a force that he barely gets a glimpse of the radiator in front of him before he hits it head on. Azazel plants his forehead directly into the metal, and everything he has worked for fades into nothingness.