FicWad

"Here we are." Claude set Joan down for a moment and punched in the keycode at the front door of his apartment complex. He guided her into the elevator, sneering at the doorman when he gave the pair a strange look, and hit the seventh-floor button.

Cheerful elevator music bubbled out of the speakers. The contrast with Claude's dark aura would have been comical if he wasn't so frightening. Beautiful as he was, Joan couldn't help but shrink away from him in the claustrophobic space.

"Here." He nearly shoved her out of the elevator the moment the doors slid open, then dragged her down the hall to his flat. He unlocked and opened the door, then gave Joan another unfriendly shove. "In."

Apparently he had taken to speaking in monosyllables, as though speaking at length to her caused him physical pain. He grabbed her shoulders and plopped her into a chair, then rummaged through the closets until he found a lonely roll of toilet paper.

"You . . . you don't have a first aid kit?" she asked uncertainly, wincing as he pressed a wad of tissue against her bleeding head.

It's not like I'd ever need one, he thought dryly. However, he settled for a caustic answer rather than a truthful one. "Well, see, I don't stand around in front of oncoming traffic, gaping like an idiot . . . so there's really no need, right?"

"Oh . . ." Joan bit her lip, staring down at her knees. "Thank you, by the way. For saving my life, I mean." It sounded cheesy when she said it out loud.

"Well, you know I wish I hadn't," Claude muttered. "Hold this." He grabbed her hand and pressed it over the bundle of toilet paper, then stormed over to the kitchenette and began piling ice cubes in a washcloth. "What were you doing out in the rain, anyway?"

"Um . . ." She clenched her free hand into a small fist, gnawing anxiously at her bottom lip. "I . . . well, I got kicked out," she admitted quietly.

There was a clatter as Claude suddenly dropped the ice cubes on the ground. He swore under his breath and knelt down to pick them up. "Kicked . . . kicked out?" he repeated shakily. Me too, he almost said, but he stopped himself. "Your parents?"

"My boyfriend." Joan's voice was barely a whisper.

Claude laughed dryly as he toweled his hands off. "Aren't you a little young to be living with somebody already?"

"Well, I - he said we would get married when . . . when I was old enough," she said defensively. Claude snorted again. "That's what he said!" she cried, anger flaring for the first time.

"Right. And that's why you were stumbling around in the rain, right?" Claude came over with the ice pack and slipped it under her fingers, over the wad of toilet paper that was sopping up the blood. "Listen, kid, people lie."

"I'm not a kid!" Joan protested. "I'll be seventeen in three months!" She looked him over and sighed. "How old are you?"

Claude's mouth twisted slightly. Six-hundred-and-fifty-seven, he recited to himself. "Twenty-three," he lied. "My birthday . . . my birthday is in three months, too. The . . . nineteenth." January 19th. It sounded good, so he went with it. He had never really thought of having a human birthday before, but it would probably be useful. Usually he just BSed any forms he had to sign.

Joan smiled slightly, turning her big, sad eyes on him. "Mine, too. Maybe . . . maybe we can celebrate it together."

Claude snorted again and pulled the icepack away, checking her head. "You've got a hell of a lump. Must be messing with your brain."

After instructing Joan to keep applying steady pressure with the ice pack, Claude stalked back over to the kitchen. While he really didn't need any food, he kept some around just for the hell of it. If he was going to be forced to live as a human, he might as well enjoy all the human experiences he could. Besides, it would raise inconvenient questions if anyone ever found out he didn't have any food in his apartment.

"What do you like to eat, Joan?" he asked, sticking his sleek black head into the refrigerator.

Slightly startled that he had remembered her name, she glanced up at him and smiled shyly. "Um, it doesn't really matter. You don't need to get me anything."

Claude turned and gave her a dubious look. "Cut the 'cute and innocent' crap and tell me what you like to eat. There has to be something that's your favorite."

"Well, I . . . I like . . . sweets," she mumbled. Before she could say anything else, a small bag of hard candies smacked into the side of her face.

"Catch," Claude said about a half-minute late, smirking. "You can have the whole thing, I don't like them."

"O-Okay. Thank you . . ." Joan tugged the ribbon on the bag open one-handed and fished out a candy, popping it into her mouth. "It's good," she said softly. "Why don't you like them?"

"Too sweet," Claude grunted. "I don't like too much sug-"

Before he could finish, another knock sounded on his door. "Oh, great. If it's that twiggy little landlord again, I swear I'm gonna snap his skinny neck," he snarled. He glanced over at Joan, who was still thoughtfully savoring the first candy. "Stay put, okay?"

She nodded silently, giving him a look of pure, unconditional adoration. He chose to pretend he hadn't seen it and walked over to his door. Sighing, the Fallen angel unlocked the door and opened it, expecting to see the anxious face of his landlord.

Instead, he saw the face of an angel.