neutral_omens | (no subject)

Date: March 9, 2000
Setting: Mic's room and the hall
Status: Private: Mic and Raph
Summary: Raphael gets a taste of his own medicine

In the aftermath of the altercation, Raphael was annoyed. He flew upwards to the roof and brooded, angry that he always seemed to get the short end of the stick. It wasn't his fault that Israfel reacted like the freak he was. It wasn't his fault that the ceiling broke. Yet just because he was there, Crowley - and everybody else probably - assumed that he'd done something. Not to mention all the insult and criticism he'd taken from the other two angels for calling that rapist out over what he was.

Foolish of him to assume that he had the right to speak his mind. If he'd been the one to get angry and react, of course, he was sure they would have blamed him. It didn't matter what the role was; whether insulted or slighted, he was at fault. Always he was at fault. The situation didn't matter. The rules didn't matter. And one of these times he was going to get discorporated for a freaking misunderstanding.

Being good or bad to them didn't matter. They were all against him anyway.

Screw this.

In fact, he thought briefly, screwing was just what he could use. He was still furious and felt cheap but that was Mic's fault, for coming to him when he was alone and desperate, making him want the other being so badly. Or Michael. He wasn't sure who he wanted, exactly. Not anymore. But he knew what he wanted.

Bringing in his wings, Raphael entered in through the roof and took the stairs down. He went to Mic's room and knocked sharply on the door.

"Hey. Get up," he barked.

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Raphael put a few paces of distance between him and Mictain before turning around.

"Go fuck yourself, you filthy beast," he spat and let loose a blast of holy aura before fleeing towards the safety of his own room.

Mictain was taken aback at the sudden attack. Oh, but that hurt. And what language, too. The angel was truly worse than he was.

Apparently he had managed to hit home, too.

Of course, he had been hit as well. Quite hard, too. He'd be feeling it for a while afterwards -- or he would have, had he not been an expert in closing out pain. He still felt it, but did not notice it. Ah, the benefits of having six millennia of experience from battles.

The attack, he decided as he again closed the door of his room, this time to give himself the chance to recover from the blast of holiness, was only one more thing Raphael would pay for.

One more thing among many others.

The healer nearly tripped over his own feet in a hasty effort to get back to his room. He slammed the door shut and locked it, just in case Mictain had decided to follow and possibly make good on some of his earlier threats. His heart pounded and it took several moments for him to finally cease his frantic breathing.

Alone again, he flopped onto the bed next to Frankie and buried his face in the pillow. Aziraphale was dead, Mictain loathed him and between the two incidents he was entirely alone.

There was nothing to be done about Aziraphale - in the end it had just been an unfortunate culmination of circumstances. Despite his comments to Israfel, the other angel should have been more responsible - but even he didn't realize the roof would collapse. Briefly Raphael wondered what had become of him.

He realized in a vague way that Crowley might come after him also, but he wasn't overly concerned. He didn't relish the threat of discorporation but he felt somewhat confident that he could hold his own against Crowley; he had before. He wondered how everything ended up sorted out, but he wasn't about to go downstairs for anything - indeed he was loathe to leave the room.

Mictain, however, was a problem of a much more insistent and pressing kind. He did not trust demons, not with anything, but Mictain was confusing him badly. Part of Raphael, which regretted what he'd done to Michael, had wanted to open up again. The other part despised the mistake he'd made and the demon Michael had become and refused to let him trust.

He'd settled for sex but ended up hating himself for that as well. Nausea welled inside of him, however, when he realized that Mictain was right; he was a slut, but too afraid to admit it, he'd attempted to shift blame.

The whole horrid mess was the result of his conflicting desires. He wanted the being's body, especially when he made an effort, but didn't want to risk himself emotionally. He wanted the angel but not in the trappings of the demon. He feared being harmed and yet wanted Mictain. Sometimes he did not want to be hurt, physically or emotionally, and yet sometimes physical pain was rather arousing. He did not want to risk his heart; instead wanted things his way or no way. He wanted control and sought it through coercion.

They were contradictory, base... whorish, these feelings and actions of his.

And in the end he'd created another mess that he had no idea how to fix and wasn't sure he wanted to. It would mean admitted that the demon had been right, admitting another mistake - falling down again just when he'd thought he'd gotten back up.

Luckily, unlike after the Fall, there would be no prying eyes to know what he'd done and push him into talking about it. So Raphael stayed in the room and pouted on his own, no longer afforded even the distraction of cleaning his hospital.

His body still twinged to think of Mictain, however, and when he tried going back to being effortless, experiences seemed even more dull than before. So he made the effort and waited, hoping his body would settle before he had to resort to Mictain's lewd suggestion of his hand on a regular basis.