Better Angels (Azazeal x OC)
Just a mildly angsty and also fluffy idea that came to me, since no one writes for Azazeal (anymore...that I know of...is anyone still writing for Azazeal? Tell me!)
(((Hex is available for streaming for free in it’s entirety on youtube if you’re interested in watching here - not my playlist, but it has all the episodes)))
I might write some more for him in the future, because lets be honest...Azazeal is fucking hot, and very aware of that fact. And pushy...Azazeal, why are you so pushy?
He likes to watch her sleep. She always looks so calm like this, so serene and...so much less angry with him. She won't even acknowledge him anymore, slams the door in his face when he knocks on it. She doesn't trust him, and he knows she has no reason to. She has seen his real face, and his false one no longer seems to hold any sway over her, not with his revolting true form lingering in the back of her mind. He may technically be an angel, but all she sees is a demon.
Azazeal rubs unconsciously at the angelic symbols branded into the side of his neck as he stares from his uncomfortable seat on the window ledge, half in and half out. Only partially breaking the rules, so she can only partially be angry with him if she wakes up. He'd love to touch her, but she's such a light sleeper, he likely couldn't get away with it. Just a little closer, he thinks, stepping down as quietly as possible from the open window, making silent strides, ever watchful for signs of wakefulness. When he reaches the edge of the bed, he squats down parallel to her face, fingers gently grasping the comforter she's cocooned herself in. She looks...flushed? He's only seen her cheeks this heated while mid-flirt, or at least that used to be the case, before he displayed his true face in a moment of true cruelty with a human, unaware that he'd had her as an audience until it was too late. He doesn't want to think about that, it's not a memory he's happy to recall. The fallen angel closes his eyes and shakes his head slightly, as if to clear his thoughts away, and looks back to the human's face. There is a faint sheen of sweat over her skin, even in the cool autumn air, and now he understands the warmth radiating from her cheeks.
With unsure fingers, he slowly reaches out to brush damp strands of hair from her face and is confronted by a weak whimper. Her skin is warmer than it should be, and she looks so uncomfortable. When he moves to run his long fingers through her hair in an attempt to comfort, her eyes flutter open and she looks so confused and drowsy, gazing at him directly but not fully registering his face yet in the dark. “Darling,” comes his whispered voice, and her confusion instantly shifts to irritation.
“What do you think you are doing in my home? You are not welco-” she's cut off by her own sudden bout of coughing, and Azazeal's hand draws back to give her space.
“You're sick, my love,” he answers matter-of-factly, and she's almost too exhausted to glare at him.
“I'm very aware of that, demon. Leave me alone,” her angry voice ends in a whine, and she grips the blankets closer, a few rogue tears falling down her cheeks. “I'm already miserable, I don't need you making it wor-” she starts coughing again, and if she could see through the darkness of the room, she would see how visibly upset the angel looks. Not from her irritated words, she's called him demon, monster, murderer, so many other unwelcoming terms before in an attempt to make him leave her alone, but he can't bring himself to stay away. He doesn't like to see her like this, weak and helpless for all the wrong reasons, shuddering in discomfort from a cough instead of in pleasure from his touch.
“Have you seen a doctor?” he persists, and after a few moments of stillness, he sees the blankets she's dragged over her head
move in a nodding motion.
“I'm on antivirals, but I just started them today. They're not working yet,” she mumbles, and he digs his fingers into the edge of the fluffy comforter and drags it back down. Azazeal glances to the nightstand beside him and grasps a tissue, carefully
pressing it to her nose.
“Blow,” he insists, but she grabs the tissue from him and carefully pushes herself into a sitting position, glaring at the arm that encircles her in a helpful motion, and blowing her nose noisily.
“I'm not a child, Azazeal, I can manage this much,” she grumbles, eyes closed and head swimming with dizziness, missing the glimmer of hope that washes over the angel's face at the mention of his name. She hasn't called him by his real name since before the unfortunate incident that drove her away from him.
“Would it be so terrible to let me help you?” he questions carefully, not taking his eyes off her. If he can remind her that he's capable of kindness and not so monstrous, maybe...
“...Soup,” she finally proclaims. His brows furrow, and she finally looks back at him, the miserable look on her face breaking him just a little. When he opens his mouth to voice a question, she cuts him off. “When someone is sick, you're supposed to make them soup.” Finally adjusted to the low light coming in from the open window, she watches as his lips curl into a half smile, but pretends to ignore it. She doesn't sense malevolence, this almost feels like an attempt at kindness. Before he can inquire, she cuts him off again, “Chicken Noodle. Read the instructions, you have to add a can of water to it before you heat it up.” Without another word, the angel rises to his full height, stepping around the bed and away from her, grazing his fingertips over the edge of the blankets before leaving the room the proper way, and the human listens to his footsteps as he descends the stairs toward the kitchen.
* * *
“This is nice,” Azazeal mumbles, running his fingers up and down the human's back in a comforting motion as she leans into him, too weak to argue or swat his hand away. The young woman glances around, at the empty bowl, the disgusting bottle of cough syrup, and the used tissues threatening to escape her wastebasket.
“You really are a masochist if this is your idea of 'nice',” she retorts, but he only smiles and pulls her closer to himself, not minding the excess heat her illness-weakened body gives off.
“Being here with you, needing me,-”
“I never said I needed you-”
“-is nice.” His crystal blue eyes look down to her fever-flushed face, and he notes her small hand clinging to his button-down even as she acts as if she doesn't want him here with her. “I'm not so terrible, darling. You seemed rather fond of me before you decided I was the devil.” She grumbles something about never using the word devil against his chest, and he pulls her closer to him until she is practically laying on top of him. “I would never have let you get this sick if I'd known.”
“I've been taking care of myself since I first moved out on my own, including when I'm sick.”
“But isn't it easier to get through with me around,” he answered, voice full of confidence, internally anxious. She's quiet for a few minutes before he starts to whisper her name, but her voice finally comes again, a soft 'yes'. He's silent for several moments before he finally continues, choosing his words carefully, “Would it be upsetting to you if I, uh...stayed the night?” Her answer is not accompanied by words, she simply wraps her arms more tightly around him, nuzzling into him when he begins to run his fingers up and down her back again. She doesn't pull away when he presses a gentle kiss against her hair, to her forehead, her nose. He pauses to look into her eyes, reading her response. For the first time in months, he sees no anger, no disgust. He doesn't see love either, she seems something closer to neutral, but when he finally moves to press his lips very carefully to hers, she doesn't pull away. She tastes salty from the soup, but he doesn't mind. He kisses her again, lips parting a little, but she pulls away at the touch of his tongue.
“I'm not there yet,” she finally whispers after a prolonged silence, and his brows lift a little at the 'yet'. His pale eyes stare into her tired ones, and he runs his hand over her cheek, guiding her to rest her head against his chest again.
“I can live with 'yet'.”
No idea who to tag for this, Hex is a very underappreciated series (at least the portion Fassy was present for) so I’ll tag @tradigitalhollow @hotmessfassy @taxodium-distichum @fassymioamor (if you want to, no pressure) @pro-procrassie @fassyownsmyassy @cirunia @sprinklesofsunshine @filling-the-darkness-with no pressure to anyone to read, I know Azazeal isn’t the most well known or popular character. Notes/reblogs/comments are always appreciated :)