#dorata

They aren’t supposed to be doing this.

He feints an attack, then swings a haymaker at her. She deflects with the sword.

Her muscles ache. She’s built for deskwork, not for this.

Then again, technically she isn’t here.

She’s not here, in this dusty arena, sparring with a man twice her size, deep in Riveteer territory.

Of course, technicality is the air she breathes. She’s not here to anyone unimportant. She’s here because he is important.

They circle each other, waiting for an opening. This is the part of fighting Maeve lives for, the dance portion, the elegance.

They exchange more blows. His get more and more wild, hers more and more reserved, focusing on defense. The sword she’s using is probably going to get dented. Unimportant.

The fight ebbs and flows, like all fights do. They both get in some good hits. Luckily, he’s got enough sense to hold back.

She wonders if she can outlast the anger. The hurt… the hurt she can’t outlast. But she can get through the anger. Help with the release.

She had had to convince him that it was even a good idea to start this fight. Both this sparring match, and what caused it.

Dueling in a political sense is her domain. Writing up her cases, presenting airtight evidence, dominating the competition with the pen not the sword.

It’s not where he likes to fight. But that was the point, of course. The point was to get a fight ring for people with prosthetics. And that was certainly important enough to fight for.

Of course, the powers that be have a lot of sway. And you can be right, you can have all the reasons and the money all lined up.

And they can still fuck you over, and you can still be back to square one, except this time all your hopes are crushed, and all you can feel is anger.

The fight has devolved by this point, Dorata hitting the wall just as much as he aims a swing at her. This is the part of physical fighting she dislikes, the deconstruction. The shattering of an intricate, twirling thing into base violence and rage.

She puts down her weapon. Fully drops it. It’s not useful to her anymore.

He stares at her, blankly, brow furrowed.

She flops onto the floor on her back, looking up at the high arched ceiling. He follows suit a moment after. There’s a moment of silence, there. Just the two of them, breathing hard, staring up at an unfeeling, cold hard ceiling.

She expects the silence to hold, for them to lay there, exhausted, letting the emotions drain into fatigue.

It… does not.

He crumples, turns onto his side, shaking with silent, tearless sobs. She turns to curl up next to him, to run a hand through his hair, providing wordless comfort.

The real comfort will come later, of course. Once they win. They’ve lost the battle, for sure, but the real fight is yet to begin.

When you are a being who requires a stable and steady amount of fresh blood to keep yourself alive, logically you should have a plan in place to keep that stream flowing. Unfortunately for Azrael he had found himself in the less than desirable position where all his usual consorts were so bogged down in official family obligations he couldn’t even enter their offices. Sorting out contracts and deal meetings that had lasted for days behind closed doors and he had “no business being a part of”. Whatever bullshit reason that was.

So Azrael left the apartment to get himself a meal. But that was yesterday morning. He had found himself distracted by the twinkling jewels of a locked down jewelry shop that was practically begging to be painted a new shade of arsonist’s ash. As fun as it is stealing trinkets and burning down buildings it does however take its toll. And 24 hours later in the wee hours of the morning Azrael was running on fumes.

In all their time spent together Rumor’s scheduling habits had rubbed off on Az just enough to instill on him a simple four step backup plan for whenever he managed to get himself into a pickle like this one.

Step One: Selection.

Busy of a city as New Capena was, the warlock of the biggest crime leader in the city was not allowed to simply swoop down upon the streets and snatch up someone like an eagle. That was undignified. Azreal had to be more stealthy in his hunt. So he flew his way down the criss crossing roads of buggy lines until he spotted an opening between two buildings, an alley way perfect for an ambush.

But Azrael was the one who was surprised as he was not met with an empty alleyway like he had hoped, but about 20 feet down was a large golden horned demon dumping a beat up body of someone who didn’t pay their gambling fees in the trash bin beside his bar.

“Dorata was it?” the angel asked through grinning teeth, his wings casting shadows down the alleyway. “I’ve heard all about you through a dear friend of ours,” he paused, “Candy.”

Dorata’s head popped up and a growl grew in his throat, “if you fucking hurt her I swear”.

“Oh no! I’d never lay a finger on her adorable little head darling. In fact, I came here for you” Azrael grinned as he saw the giant relax his clenched fist.

Step Two: Trust.

“In fact” he began again, “I’ve known about you for quite a time Dorata. Even saw you fighting in your prime before your… incident". He glanced down at Dorata’s prosthetic arm decked out in the familiar candy colored paint of his partner. It could almost certainly pack one hell of a punch and he was not in the mood to try and figure that one out. “You run your establishment quite well. I’ve even debated joining in myself for the sheer fun of it, Xander would absolutely have my head for it though.”

Dorata grumbled, “And your point of all this is?”

Az pushed back from his place on the wall and let his wings carry him in a gentle drift around the other. “My point is, I’m a simple man with simple needs. Us Maestros have not only a reputation to uphold but ourselves as well. We have our own needs and means of survival. Things that we must do in order to keep on living our luxurious lives”.

He could feel Dorata’s icy eyes staring daggers into him as he responded “The vampire curse you mean”.

Step Three: Persuasion.

“See you’re getting it!” He nearly completed his circle around Dorata. Delicately pacing in the air oen hand outstretched before him to catch himself should his wings give out on him.

“I come to you with a simple request. Just this once- shit.”

He faltered on the dismount. As he tried to land the blood flooded from his head and Azrael had to brace and catch himself on the wall or risk the iron deficiency getting to him. Dorata cocked his head in surprise. He didn’t move, unsure whether or not to try and help Az to his feet.

What a shitty performance. He laughed it off in an attempt to maintain some of his dignity through humor. “Normally I’d offer to buy you dinner or something first but I can’t really do that If I’m lying passed out on the floor.”

Azrael looked up at the other through his eyelashes like a wounded dog. But with that he saw something in Dorata flinch. Pity perhaps? Not the angle he was hoping for but at this point he was desperate. “I promise it won’t hurt”.

Dorata grumbled out a resigned sigh and pulled back his shirt, “Fine. Just make it quick.”

Step Four: Profit

Azrael kept good on his word. Just a little pinprick and it was over before either of them really realized what had happened. Seemingly in an instant the life returned to Azrael as he stepped away licking the blood from along his teeth. His eyes still locked on the spot of red on his neck.

Fuck.

This is purely a necessity.