Chapter Text
(Azazel)
When he accepts Lehnsherr's hand on that beach, it's because he is practical. It's the expedient choice. In order to save his remaining allies and learn more of the man who could best Shaw, Azazel accepts. But he is agreeing only to listen. He offers no allegiance and makes no promises.
Short minutes and a safe distance from the disastrous shore of Shaw's defeat, Azazel steps away intending to ask what comes next. Lehnsherr seems a man with impressive intentions. Expansive aspirations. Such men don't always know what to do with the minutia of their dreams.
But Azazel has no chance to ask his questions before Lehnsherr turns to him with desperate eyes.
"Will you go back?" Lehnsherr asks. "Charles is—" A catch in his voice, an unmistakable hesitation. "I fear for him."
"You would have me take him to safety?" Azazel's eyebrows rise with surprise.
"He needs a hospital. Doctors. And he needs them quickly."
Azazel doesn't try to mask his confusion as he asks, "Why would you wish me to do this? He is not your ally. At best he is a liability, at worst a potential enemy."
"He is my friend." Erik's voice is bright and sharp with anger. "And even were he not, Charles Xavier would still be one of us."
This, perhaps, is the moment Azazel changes his mind about Erik Lehnsherr. This is the moment pragmatic curiosity gives way to an unexpected spark of loyalty. It ignites in his chest, surprising him with certainty. This is the moment he realizes that whatever battles Lehnsherr chooses to fight, Azazel will stand beside him.
He does not linger to argue further; now isn't the time for debate. Azazel nods, and in a flash of shimmering red, he obeys.
- — - — - — - — - — -
"I want to see him."
Azazel nods at the man who is no longer Lehnsherr, but Magneto. The helmet, awkward and constant and the strangest reminder of Shaw, makes it difficult to read Magneto's expression. The metal glints a brazen crimson, goading and rebellious, and Azazel ruminates that a man who would wear such a thing must be looking for a fight.
"He has been moved to a surgical facility in New Hampshire," Azazel says, because he's been paying attention. Part of his value as an ally—though perhaps a part that few have properly appreciated—is his determination to foresee future demands, to be prepared and informed for all contingencies.
"I know."
Of course Magneto knows. In the past two weeks, Azazel has come to realize that Charles Xavier is more important to the man than anyone, even Magneto—perhaps especially Magneto—will say.
When one has been always alone, true friends must be precious indeed—or so Azazel suspects. Charles Xavier was Magneto's truest friend. Azazel wonders if even the schism that divides the two now can really have changed that.
"Come." Azazel extends his hand. "It will be quite late there now. The middle of the night, I think. The perfect time to make an appearance without drawing unwanted attention." He doesn't suggest Magneto don less conspicuous attire. Even if they're discovered, it will make little enough difference what Magneto is wearing. Sight of Azazel will lead anyone who sees them to sound the alarm.
Magneto takes his hand, palm cool and dry against Azazel's fingers. He presents the illusion of steady confidence. Azazel isn't fooled; Magneto's eyes are far too expressive.
It's not a short distance—Magneto and his Brotherhood have taken temporary shelter in a stronghold just off the eastern coast of Greenland—but still they make the journey in under half an hour.
The hospital is dark, Xavier's private room claustrophobic and oppressive. Azazel would not stay here thirty seconds, given a choice. His senses, already on high alert, heighten when he sees that the squat, uncomfortable chair beside the bed is occupied. The government agent from the beach sleeps in an unrestful position, curled in on herself like a child.
His raised hackles calm at the steady rise and fall of her breathing, the deeply shadowed circles under her eyes. Exhaustion has clearly wrung her dry. She won't wake for anything short of gunfire, and violence is not why they are here.
Only belatedly, after assessing and dismissing the more immediate danger, do Azazel's eyes reach the bed that takes up the vast majority of the small room. Xavier is nearly motionless in sleep. His body has been restrained to prevent aggravation of his injuries, and his chest rises and falls with shallow breaths. He looks pallid and unwell, worse for the indifferent moonlight creeping in at the window. Azazel briefly entertains an uncharitable thought: perhaps it would have been kinder not to interfere.
Naturally, with that thought Azazel's gaze shifts from Xavier to Magneto. Even with so much of his expression hidden behind the severe contours of the helmet, Magneto's grief is evident. It hangs clogging the air of the small room, a tangible force bearing even Azazel down.
Azazel doesn't speak. He is not here to witness this moment, and he will not intrude where he can't possibly be wanted. Magneto has eyes only for his injured friend, and Azazel won't insult him with pointless platitudes.
"He may never walk again," Magneto says softly.
Azazel, looking at Charles Xavier and giving Magneto the thin illusion of privacy, does not respond.
- — - — - — - — - — -
He works closely with Mystique at first, and finds her efficiently cold. What warmth she has she spends sparingly, and Azazel doesn't try to draw her out. They will never be friends, a fact of which both are comfortably aware.
They work less and less together, as Magneto's efforts expand to broader and more ambitious horizons. Looking to the future requires the laying of meticulous groundwork, and only trusted allies can oversee the more difficult details. Mystique is almost constantly away, using her talents to undertake covert operations in the human world—operations of which even Azazel knows only the barest details, and doesn't need to know more.
Azazel is likewise busy. Traveling as he does, he is the quickest mode of communication between distant enclaves, until alternate methods can be laid down. He carries orders where bidden, returning always to Magneto's side.
Azazel doesn't ask after Charles Xavier. The telepath has not entirely slipped his mind—Azazel is too much the strategist not to consider future threats along with present necessities—but he has more pressing concerns now. He wastes no more time wondering after Xavier's uncertain health. He knows Xavier lives—his contacts would inform him otherwise—but beyond that he is only idly curious.
He is surprised, then, when Erik tells him, "Charles could make a full recovery. The doctors are optimistic."
They are alone on a brambled, rocky slope—an innocuous hillside that shields and disguises a deep labyrinth of corridors beneath. The structure is mostly empty for now, the time-consuming process of tunneling and reinforcing only just complete. But the fast-flowing river on the far side of the hill is already being tapped for the power they will need, equipping the facility for its intended purpose. Scientific research, dangerous but vital.
There are half a dozen mutants at work far beneath them in the earth. On this hillside above, the two men stand quietly side-by-side. Azazel stares for a long moment, trying to decipher Magneto's reasons for imparting this information.
Magneto must take Azazel's silence for further prompting, because he speaks again. "Thank you."
Azazel blinks, as surprised by these words as by the ones that came before. "Why are you thanking me?" he asks, when Magneto doesn't explain.
"Because it was you," Magneto says, expression cryptic beneath the grim crimson helmet. "Without your help, the doctors would have been too late. Even if they could have saved him, he would never have walked again."
Azazel hesitates only a moment before answering, "You are welcome, of course."
Magneto again falls silent, though he doesn't retreat. The tension in his stance tells Azazel his companion has more to say, but obvious reluctance holds him back. Magneto's hands clench into idle fists at his sides, and when at last he speaks his voice is thick with indecipherable emotion.
"Charles Xavier is a thousand times the better man. The world needs him. Far more than it needs the likes of me."
"But you think he is wrong." Azazel's eyebrows are high, his tail restless in the crisp air.
"His methods will never succeed," Magneto says in the same weighty tone. "But the future cannot be built in fire. We will fight this war our way, but it will take a different sort of man to rebuild when we are through."
"And you think Xavier will be that man."
"I know he will."
Hours later, when the sun has set and the bare facility has been locked down for the night, Azazel finds Magneto in the sparse bunk he has claimed for his own. Azazel has had time to mull through the words they exchanged on the hillside, and has reached his own conclusions.
"If Charles Xavier is everything you seem to think, then I am glad you bade me save him. Our cause would be diminished without him."
Magneto exhibits obvious surprise at Azazel's words. He doesn't smile, but some small weight seems to lift from his shoulders, and when he nods there is gratitude in the gesture.
- — - — - — - — - — -
It will be a quiet war at first, but a war just the same. There is a great deal of work to be done.
Eventually, Azazel receives word that Xavier has indeed made a full recovery. The doctors aren't quite calling it a miracle, but Azazel can read between the lines. He knows the odds were not good, and that whatever Azazel's own part, Xavier is still a very lucky man.
It's not long after this news that he has the opportunity to observe Xavier's miracle with his own eyes. It seems Xavier shares Magneto's reluctance to stay away from the front lines. When the Brotherhood and Xavier's team—the X-Men as they call themselves, though Azazel can't help sneering at the ridiculous epithet—follow the same intel to a Human research facility off the coast of Florida, there is Xavier himself leading his people.
Magneto's sources claim some two dozen mutants are confined within the facility. It's no surprise that the Brotherhood is not alone in attempting this rescue.
The facility is well defended, and the fight quickly devolves to chaos. Azazel's skills are an asset in this frenzy of violence, and he moves with all his vicious speed, flashing from spot to spot, stabbing and slashing and drawing enemy fire towards the wrong targets. He is careful of the other mutants—perhaps in another lifetime he would not have cared to protect them, but he has no desire to see the X-Men hurt. More, he knows Magneto would not approve of carelessness.
Mutants must look after their own. There is no one else to do it.
Azazel is paying little attention to specific players in the chaos of battle. His attention is split between the ground and the air as helicopters full of well-armed humans take to the sky. But he is close by when he hears Magneto cry out in furious despair.
"Charles!"
The cry draws Azazel's attention, and he sees the danger. One of the helicopters has been reduced to flaming wreckage, and it is falling straight at Xavier, too fast for escape.
Azazel reacts with inhuman speed, and in a flash of red he is at Xavier's side, knocking him down with all the weight and speed of instinct. Another flash and they hit the ground at a distance, safely away from the surge of battle. They're near enough to hear the cries, the impacts, the fiery explosions.
Xavier is breathing heavily, holding cautiously still beneath Azazel's pinning weight. Azazel doesn't remember wrapping his fingers around Xavier's wrists, but he holds them pinned to the dirt now, and Xavier stares up at him with startled blue eyes.
The sounds of battle are already dying away nearby. Magneto's orders carry strong on the wind, calling for his forces to fall back with those they have saved. There are still sporadic explosions deeper within the facility, and shouts of voices Azazel doesn't recognize. Xavier's people are trying to save the humans that the Brotherhood left to die.
"Please get off of me," Xavier says, surprisingly politely. That he asks at all is likely as close as he will come to thanking Azazel for saving his life. He could easily voice the command in an imperative Azazel would be helpless to ignore. He's not struggling beneath Azazel's body; he is waiting with a forced, tense patience.
Azazel is not entirely certain what delays him. He knows only that he is reluctant to release Xavier, even now that the danger has passed. It's nearly a full minute before Azazel releases the fragile wrists and pushes himself onto his knees. He hesitates again, still kneeling over him as Xavier pushes up onto his elbows.
"Charles!" comes Magneto's voice, rushing to join them as the last of the fighting dwindles. Azazel stands quickly now, reaches out to offer Charles a hand. Charles accepts, and Azazel tugs him to his feet.
Azazel steps aside as Magneto closes in, and watches in silence as the two men face off. He may as well not be here, for all the notice either takes of him now. He is not party to this conversation.
They argue for what seems an eternity. Voices rise in raw anger, Xavier's an indignant rage, Magneto's a protective fury. It's a ridiculous fight, born of too much feeling, and Azazel is fascinated. These two men could so easily destroy each other, if they had a mind to.
They may destroy each other anyway. Theirs is not a simple friendship.
The argument ends not because it is over, but because Xavier's allies come to collect him in the hovering jet that brought them. Xavier boards with a single glance over his shoulder, and the expression on his face is an anguish that Azazel will never admit to seeing. He doesn't know what expression is on Magneto's face—he doesn't have a chance to look before the Blackbird disappears into the sky.
- — - — - — - — - — -
Neither does Azazel need whatever explanation Magneto has prepared; he already knows what this assignment will be. It's barely been a week since Azazel saved Charles Xavier from a fiery battlefield demise, and today there is a particular glint in Magneto's eye. It's a look that, even through the narrow visibility of the crimson helmet, tells Azazel exactly who this is about.
"You want me to babysit your reckless telepath," Azazel observes with dry amusement.
Magneto seems taken aback, but he quickly recovers.
"Not constantly," he says, stepping closer and dropping his voice, despite the fact that they are very much alone. "But if left to his own devices he will inevitably martyr himself in some idiotic gesture of heroism."
"Likely," Azazel agrees.
"But perhaps if someone were to keep an eye on him..." Magneto's gaze is piercing. "Someone who could travel great distances in very little time. Someone I could trust to guard him against his own foolishness, if only some of the time."
What Magneto is asking would not be difficult, though it would divide Azazel's attention, divert him often from the Brotherhood's needs. But Magneto is clearly not oblivious to this fact. He knows what he's asking. He knows the scope of the favor he demands.
From the stiff line of his shoulders, it's obvious he expects Azazel to refuse.
"When do you want me to begin?"
Again Magneto seems taken aback, and Azazel wonders if the man will ever stop underestimating him. They've been working together for well over a year; it shouldn't still be so easy to catch Magneto off his guard. It makes Azazel feel as though he still has something to prove.
"As soon as possible," Magneto answers at last. "Obviously there's only so much you can do. I would not have you neglect your other duties to satisfy my own selfish concerns."
"No, of course."
A pause, a bare hesitation, the considering weight of Magneto's stare. Azazel is not discomfited by the heavy scrutiny. He waits silently.
"Is it really that easy?" Magneto finally asks. "You'll do it?"
"If you feel Charles Xavier needs protecting, I will gladly offer my services." Azazel's lip curls at one corner, not quite a smile, and he adds, "Though I suspect he will not be happy to see me."