FicWad

One Hell of an Angel
Chapter I, Part i: Ennui

If not for the threatened consequence of eternal damnation, I would've thought that telling stories of my previous occupation would have been a satisfying way to entertain company.
Really, I know that fear of damnation isn't the real reason. I know I'm going to Hell anyway. Really, it's primarily because I have no one to talk to - no one I want to talk to, anyway - and because stories of my past life aren't what I want to revisit. I have enough problems here and now.

For one thing, keeping it all secret. People are annoying, really annoying, and it's all I can do to stop myself from going all "divine wrath" all over their fat asses. If I pulled a stunt like that, the Boss's personal SWAT team would take me down before you could say "hallelujah."

It's not like my old job was that great anyway. Jobs, that is, because technically I got booted out of two departments before the Big Guy Himself decided I wasn't cut out for His service. So, bam, I'm Fallen.

I can't help but cheat, though. I mean, are humans naturally drawn to death or something? They're so stupid that I can't help "accidentally" slowing down traffic so the idiot with the iPod doesn't get pancaked, or give some old lady's heart a few hundred borrowed beats so she can get to a hospital before it gives out on her. I barely have a fraction of the power I used to, but it's enough to save the odd mortal here and there.

Maybe I'm kidding myself. Maybe I should just live like I'm supposed to - the unworthy screw-up, the loser who couldn't keep up with the rest of the pack.

Then again, I've always been a rebel.


Claude set down his pen and snapped the journal shut, nearly trapping his slender fingers in the hardbound booklet.

I'm keeping a journal, he thought sourly. How stupid is that? He leaned back in his chair, stretching out his thin, ragged wings. they used to be glorious - exquisite, majestic things sculpted out of foot-long, snow-white feathers, huge and powerful. Now they were nothing but baggage, a mere inconvenience.

A sudden knock on the door caused the Fallen angel to jump, nearly knocking his chair over. Cursing under his breath, he allowed his wings to melt into his shoulderblades, fading like a dream upon waking. His face lost some of its luminous beauty, but even in his imitation of human form he was breathtaking. The knock sounded again, this time with irritable urgency.

"I'm coming, already!" Claude yelled. He pulled his glossy, ink-black hair into a messy ponytail at the nape of his neck and stormed over to his door, yanking it open without even bothering to check through the peephole. "What the hell are you bothering me for?"

The young, fair-haired landlord let out a little gasp of surprise, taking an instinctive step back. Claude glowered at him, tall and imposing, with one long arm stretched across the doorframe to prop up his lean body.

"M-Mr. Cordon, you haven't paid your rent," the landlord stammered timidly. "If . . . if you don't pay for your room, you can't st-stay." He puffed his chest out slightly and shoved his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose, trying to look businesslike. He failed miserably.

"Aw, come on," Claude groaned, rolling his eyes. "I'm always late, okay? You know that. I'll get the money in sooner or later."

"B-But that's just it!" the landlord insisted. "You're always late, and - and I can't keep letting it slide anymore! I n-need you to pay for your room!" He seemed to have gained a little confidence, but he still stayed at a safe distance away from Claude. "If y-you don't pay your rent, I'll . . . I'll e-evict you!"

Claude narrowed his eyes. They were black - so black that it was impossible to tell his irises from his pupils - and absolutely chilling. "Giving ultimatums, are we?"

The landlord was clearly terrified, but he swallowed loudly and stuck to his guns. "Y-Yes. I need p-payment, Mr. Cordon."

Claude glared at him for another agonizing minute, then slammed the door in his face. Once he was sure he was gone, the little landlord let out a tiny sigh of relief and mopped his brow nervously. "I need to screen the tenants a little more thoroughly next time . . ."

"Stupid mortals, with their stupid currency and their stupid goddamned rents!" Claude hissed, stomping angrily around his apartment. Pale, midmorning light streamed through the small windows, painting everything in watery shades of grey. "Stupid stupid stupid stupid -"

The truth was, he could easily get any kind of job he wanted. With the last vestiges of angelic power that he still possessed, he could surpass any human on Earth with ease. Even without that, his face alone could land him a job as the most celebrated male model in history.

As if I'd put myself on display like that, he snorted silently. As if I'd actually put any effort into anything.

It seemed strange that laziness plagued him now, as it was overenthusiasm for his job that had condemned him to life on Earth. Claude had begun his afterlife as an avenging angel, and he was exceedingly good at his job. too good, as it turned out. It became clear that his methods were troublingly "Old Testament;" he had an unfortunate habit of wreaking vengeance on those who didn't really deserve it.

His twin brother, a guardian angel, had been able to save Claude from banishment by convincing the Boss to simply reassign him. However, he didn't make the transition well. As a guardian angel, none of his charges were ever harmed - but those who the overly paranoid Claude considered "threatening" were mercilessly slaughtered. He also became unprofessionally attached to many of those he was assigned to protect, which led him to raise hell (figuratively) when the time came for his charges to die. Finally, his Master had had enough, and this time his brother could not overturn the ruling. Claude had Fallen.

And so it came to pass that Claude Cordon sulked in a drab apartment centuries later, somewhat unimpressive and decidedly unangelic.

Claude suddenly got up and grabbed his coat, pulling it on in one fluid motion. It was an old-fashioned black trenchcoat, covered in buckles and straps and silver zippers, with the hem falling at mid-shin. He caught a glimpse of the city out his window, weary and bleak under a cold grey drizzle. He didn't bother grabbing an umbrella on the way out the door. The rain will feel good, he thought listlessly. If anything was to be gained from his human form, it was that physical sensations - taste and smell and especially touch, things angels didn't need - were greatly magnified, though he felt trapped within the solid body of flesh and blood, as though his barely-existent soul was caught in a cage of bones.

The ice-cold rain on his face snapped him out of his reverie. It was more than a drizzle now. The rain came down in sheets, a soft whisper against the pavement, running down his face and catching in his long eyelashes like drops of liquid crystal. Walking through the downpour, shoulders straight and head tilted back to welcome the rain, he looked almost unreal - more like a character out of a modern French novel or old black-and-white film noir than a real person. And so it was that he caught the attention of a young artist.

She was caught out in the rain, her short blonde hair sodden and plastered across her forehead and cheeks. Rather than using her sketchbook to shield her head from the rain, she had it bundled up under her shirt to protect her work. She had been dashing across the street, wincing as icy water splashed up against her bare legs and soaked her shoes and socks, but she stopped short when she saw Claude.

Beautiful. So beautiful she thought, at first, that he was a woman . . . her pale blue eyes widened at the sight of him, seeming to throw off a faint white glow, like a halo of rain . . . like an angel . . .

A sudden blare of noise jolted the artist out of her gaping disbelief. All she could see were the car's headlights bearing down on her, and she knew it was too late to get out of the way. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned her face away, hoping it would be quick -

Impact. All the breath was forced violently out of her narrow chest, and she hit the pavement hard, crying out as her head cracked loudly against the ground. She wondered briefly why there wasn't warm blood everywhere, why it was so cold . . . and for one delirious second, she felt disappointed. How beautifully artistic it would have been, like a painting, her crimson blood streaked along the cold, black slicks of rainwater on the dark street . . .

Before the young woman could continue her mental rambling, she realized she couldn't breathe. A heavy weight was pressing on her body, making it impossible to draw breath. Am I under the wheels? she wondered vaguely. But that should hurt, it should hurt terribly . . .

"Jesus Christ!" A voice hissing in her ear suddenly jerked her back to reality. "What the hell do you think you were doing?! Standing out in the middle of the goddamned street like some kind of - ugh!" The voice, though rough with anger, was mesmerizing, even as it launched off into a furious stream of nearly incoherent swear words.

Then it became clear. The pavement she had hit her head on was the sidewalk, not the street . . . the weight was that of a person's body. The beautiful person she had been staring at across the street. Even with their face only inches from hers, the young artist still couldn't tell if they were a man or a woman. Rainwater dripped off of their delicate features onto her face.

"Are you even listening to me?!" Claude grabbed her shoulders and shook her slightly - not hard, but enough to get her attention. "What the hell were you doing out there? You almost got both of us killed! You're lucky I actually bothered to push you out of the way!"

She was fairly certain by now that the beautiful someone was a man, but it seemed impossible. He had the longest eyelashes she'd ever seen, and he was so slender and delicate . . .

"Um . . . I'm sorry, I . . . I wasn't paying attention," she murmured dazedly.

"Yeah, I got that much, princess!" Claude snapped petulantly. "God. If you had taken one second to get your head out of your ass -" He suddenly seemed to realize something, and his tone softened slightly. "You hit your head. Is it okay?"

"I . . . yeah, I think so," she lied. In truth, it was throbbing horribly, and she could feel a thin trickle of blood on her neck. She hadn't noticed until just now, seeing as she had been far too engrossed by the unbearably handsome man pinning her to the sidewalk.

"Liar," Claude snorted. It didn't take much effort to see when a human was trying to hide pain. "You probably have a concussion." He stood effortlessly, dragging the girl up none too gently by her elbow. "Come on, let's get you to a hospital."

"No!" she shrieked. Surprised, Claude dropped her arm, staring at her in bewilderment. "I - I don't need a doctor!" she insisted. "I'm fine, I'm perfectly -" She swayed on the spot, one thin hand pressed against her forehead, and Claude caught her arms again just before she hit the ground.

"Fine, no hospital. God, you're nuts." He rolled his eyes, scratching the base of his ponytail wearily. "Listen, I'll let you come back to my place so you can at least dry off . . . and I'll look at your head." He turned on his heel and strode off, not bothering to look behind him to see if the young blonde was following.

"Wait!" She hurried to keep up with his long-legged stride, nearly tripping twice. he gave a frustrated sigh and slowed down, even allowing her to hook one thin arm around his shoulders for support. He had to crouch down so she could reach.

"My name's Joan," she informed him breathlessly.

"Huh. Well, I don't give a damn," Claude replied flatly. "I'm not trying to be your friend, okay? I just can't leave you lying on the street." His expression made it clear that leaving her on the street was a highly desirable alternative to his current situation.

Joan bit her lip and redirected her gaze to the sidewalk. She could tell it frustrated him how slow she was walking, but she couldn't help it. The throbbing of her head was only getting worse, and the cooling rain seemed to aggravate rather than ease the burning ache.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Claude finally growled. "I'll just carry you." Before she had any time to react, the Fallen angel knocked her legs out from under her and caught her head, cradling her in his arms. "Stupid. You hit your head . . . it's not like you broke an ankle or something."

"I-I'm sorry," she stammered, still a little shocked. His arms were warm . . . and his face was so close . . .

"Oh, and don't apologize!" he spat, his tone dripping with disgust. "That's so pathetic. Why are you such a loser?"

Joan panicked. "I - I'm sorry that I'm a loser! Really, I . . . I just don't think I can help it!"

Claude sighed and glared at her, causing her to cringe. She was unbelievably light - it felt like he was carrying a bag of groceries, not a young woman. "Claude," he muttered suddenly.

"What?"

"That's my name. Claude."

"Claude . . ." the artist murmured, listening to the bell-like sound of it. "It's very unusual . . . old-fashioned, sort of."

"Yeah, well, my dad's really old school," he laughed darkly.