Chapter Two: This Business of Love

Author's Note: Since Chapter One was largely told from Azazel's perspective, this chapter will be mostly told from Riptide's.

The memories and imprints of Carlos Calderon's touches began to fade rapidly.

Riptide's three days with the high-ranking Spanish official – required by Shaw who wanted to curry Calderon's favor given some leads he possessed on chemical weapons sourcing – had not been entirely awful. Riptide briefly replayed in his mind a few of the better images from those 72 hours. The beach was first and foremost, as Riptide loved the picture-perfect blue water, the warmth from the sun, the feel of the sand against his bare feet. Meals had been another highlight; Riptide believed now that he currently preferred the Spanish cuisine to his native Mexican foods. He craved the refreshing gazpacho soup and that dish whose name he couldn't recall, the one with the potatoes and tomatoes. The third aspect he missed was the wide-open space of the house on the beach: windows, breezes, a living room/dining room illuminated by bright sunlight. For a few days he had nearly forgotten the cramped conditions of the submarine – only Shaw's office and bedroom were spacious, and Riptide had only glimpsed the former and been told by Emma about the dimensions of the latter.

But the 72 hours had also been interminable. Calderon was there constantly, spending no more than two or three hours each day on the phone performing business. The rest of the time, he was with Riptide. The man could not abide by silence and he chattered constantly, about everything: his children (Riptide had found this subject particularly trying), plays and operas (Riptide had been able to muster more enthusiasm for these subjects), the weather in Spain (Riptide had been dismayed at how quickly the conversation had turned to this), and Calderon's political accomplishments (just plain boring). Fortunately Calderon was the type who never asked Riptide about his own past or even about his own life currently, and had been satisfied with Riptide's occasional nods and interjections of 'How interesting', and the like.

There was no point in rehashing, Riptide told himself, Calderon's physical demands on him. It had meant nothing, and the only thrills it had provided had been along the lines of satisfaction that Riptide could easily drive a man to this state. Not that he really had needed reminding of that fact, given Azazel's attentions since they had met.

Azazel. Riptide had found, during the past three days, that his own imagination was not as vivid as he had wished: he had often attempted to pretend that Calderon was Azazel, but never succeeded in fooling himself. Azazel and Calderon smelled different (one smelled vaguely of alcohol and a hint of a thrilling scent that Riptide could only describe as musky and sexual; the other smelled mostly of expensive cologne and dry cleaning), touched differently (one sensual, the other mechanical and jerky), looked different, sounded different (Riptide may have shared Calderon's native language but was more drawn to Azazel's droll, deep tones), and engaged in the act differently (Riptide could write a book on the differences of that last part, but what would be the point?). During the three days with Calderon, Riptide had occasionally climaxed but it had all been an automatic response to certain physical stimuli and – again - that sensation of knowing that he could intoxicate this man and likely any other similarly-inclined man.

His time with Calderon – what he could remember of it – already felt so far away. First thing upon his return, Riptide had experienced something which had nearly obliterated any memories of Calderon whatsoever.

The gorgeousness of the Mediterranean island and languid beach were replaced now by the Hellfire Club's vessel. Riptide had always enjoyed spending time on the above-ground yacht portion, experiencing the wind rushing through his hair and thinking about how easily he could command the air and water. Shaw gave him free reign to use the amenities as he wished during the spare time Shaw doled out – Riptide could enjoy a drink at the bar or make use of the sailboat or canoe.

By all logic, though, Riptide should detest the submarine portion of the vessel. He spent long hours in the control room with its overwhelming number of panels and switches. The mess hall was large enough to comfortably allow only one person inside at a time. The engine room was smaller than the control room with the dank walls barely allowing slender Riptide enough space to move between them. Riptide's quarters were equally cramped, with the closet that barely held his suits and the shower whose dimensions resulted in him often mistakenly elbowing open the door during showering.

But there was something – or rather someone – who kept the bowels of the submarine comfortable and exciting at the same time. And Riptide's first conversation with Azazel upon his return from the Mediterranean had opened up a new era for them.

Of course, Riptide told himself, it hadn't really meant that much. For one thing, they had both known it already. Both men were strong, seasoned, tough; they hadn't needed to talk about their feelings for each other. Well, actually, they had needed it – but now that the words had been spoken, fortunately they would not need to be revisited ever again. Riptide and Azazel were not a pair of infatuated teenagers, they were not going to ever "go steady", one man was never going to introduce the other to his parents or present the other with a ring, and they were not going to buy a house in the suburbs to raise children. Riptide nearly smirked at the thought of any of these, trying to imagine the looks on his parents' faces had he ever had the opportunity to introduce Azazel to them.

He fleetingly felt proud, though, that he had concealed his secret from his parents before he ran away; his family never learned that Janos was attracted to men only, thus never suffered any disgrace. Nor did they ever learn of the special powers – gifts - Janos possessed.

Riptide marshaled his thoughts back to the topic at hand. The fact that Riptide and Azazel had admitted that they loved each other really should not have mattered or changed things at all. Yet Riptide felt something – a tingling in his belly, a current that pulsed through the air – something to indicate that a new chapter had begun.

Alone in his quarters, off duty at last, Riptide unzipped his duffle bag. Meticulous with his clothing and other belongings, Riptide remembered there were a few items from his three-day trip that remained in the duffle bag.

Calderon had given him gifts. A pair of wine-colored satin pajamas, and several pairs of underwear – mostly briefs but a few boxers – also made of silky soft material. Riptide ran his fingers along the pajamas. They were exquisite. From one of the most expensive designers, the garments were of the highest quality and thrilling to simply touch. He couldn't imagine what it would feel like to wear them. Riptide found the submarine cold and rarely slept naked. How he would have adored wrapping his body in these pajamas night after night!

Although he toyed with the idea of keeping them, Riptide knew he would have to dispose of all of Calderon's gifts. Even with his limited experience of romantic relationships, he understood perfectly well that wearing pajamas and undergarments given to him by another man would break all rules.

He would much prefer if Azazel would give him a gift, but maybe that truly wasn't an option. Azazel couldn't exactly show up at a department store and purchase something, and - despite the fact that both men were criminals - somehow a stolen gift wouldn't carry quite the same meaning, Riptide assumed.

A knock sounded at Riptide's door. Riptide hastily stuffed the gifts back into the duffle bag, and shoved the bag as if to move it under the bed. "Come in," he called. A corner of the bag still peaked out from under the bed.

He knew it had to be Azazel. When Shaw wanted him, he either used the intercom or – more often – simply had Emma invade his mind. What a duo those two were, Riptide mused during the span of a split second. Shaw and Emma didn't censor much, if any, of their conversations when the three of them were on the yacht or on a mission. They professed love for each other, and Riptide idly wondered about Shaw and Emma's love for each other. Was it similar to what he and Azazel experienced, then? Was it inherently different – because Shaw and Emma were a man and a woman, or maybe just because they were a different couple – or was it the same at its core? Riptide didn't know and didn't have much to compare it to; his parents certainly hadn't ever displayed much love for each other. No, whatever he and Azazel had – this thing which now could officially be termed love – just felt different than what he observed from their leader and his consort. So Riptide wouldn't be able to discern too many clues on how to behave from them. That really shouldn't have been a surprise. It was clear that Shaw and Emma were not equals; it was clear that Shaw felt he had no equal on the planet. In contrast, Riptide had felt from the first day that he and Azazel were truly equals in every sense of the word. Azazel may have possessed superior skills in battle, but Riptide was the one who controlled the wind and the sea.

So if Shaw and Emma's relationship was not a good comparison, what exactly was? There had not been much to learn from his parents, regarding the subject of romantic love. As far as he could tell, his parents had had an economic arrangement. They both had needed to have children; his father had needed someone to raise the children, keep his house, and have sex with him (Janos overheard the last one taking place several times); his mother had needed someone to financially provide for her and the children. Simple as that. He had never heard them say to each other that they loved each other, never seen them kiss, not even chastely.

So how would things with Azazel work now? Riptide momentarily was struck by the feeling of being lost at sea and unable to read the controls of the submarine.

Riptide's ruminations ended as Azazel stepped through the doorway. He tended to save teleportation for when he truly needed it. Their eyes met right away, and Riptide again knew that somehow everything really was different. What was it? Were Azazel's eyes softer now? Or somehow deeper? Maybe it was his shoulders – they appeared more relaxed. Every hair on Azazel's head was in place, Riptide silently noted with approval. That had not always been the case.

"Emma is finished with her mission in Moscow," Azazel began. Conversational niceties had never been part of Azazel's verbal repertoire, and Riptide was particularly glad of that after three days of Calderon's blathering. "I am going to go get her."

Riptide nodded. "Did she do what she was supposed to?"

Azazel shrugged. "Shaw didn't say otherwise, so I assume yes. He said he is okay if we leave the sub on auto for now. You want some dinner when I return?"

"You are a far better cook than I, so you know the answer," Riptide smirked. "Even though it means that if you're cooking, I'm stuck with the cleaning."

Azazel spread his hands open. "Fair is fair." He stepped closer to Riptide and pulled him into a quick kiss. "I will return soon."

Riptide stood outside the mess hall, watching his lover prepare dinner.

"You're so predictable," Riptide said, shaking his head. "Just tell me these ones don't have cabbage in them."

Azazel turned his head, frowned at Riptide, and returned to his work. "Nyet. Half filled with meat and half with egg. Sour cream on the side." He paused and then added, with sarcasm, "Is that acceptable to your delicate tastes, Sir?"

Riptide pretended to stroke his chin though the gesture was lost on Azazel, who had turned away and now continued to cover the varenyky with cooking oil.

"Hmmm, I believe it is, though you know I won't eat as much of the sour cream as you. My suits don't hide as much as that jacket of yours."

Riptide observed Azazel's back, wishing he could see enough to read his expression. Azazel did hastily move a dish into the sink to make more room in the tiny kitchen, and the dish loudly clinked as it hit the metal.

Never before would Riptide have worried that he was coming across as too much of a sarcastic bastard. He supposed his new prickly exterior was a shield against the vulnerability of yesterday's declaration. Riptide was still stunned at the way Azazel's words from yesterday had been like balm to his ears. No one else had ever called Riptide 'my love'. How could something be both terrifying and comforting at the same time?

Riptide took a breath and added, "Though I should admit that I really like what's under that jacket."

"Just jacket or you like what's under pants too?" Azazel asked, his tone brusque and businesslike, though Riptide knew that Azazel sometimes perversely adopted this overly serious tone when he was trying to be playful.

"I do. How about we take a look at what's under that uniform after dinner?" Riptide's derisive tone was now replaced with a sexy one, and he took a step closer to Azazel. The mess hall didn't allow much room but he placed a hand on Azazel's back.

Azazel put down the cooking oil and turned to face Riptide. "Well, if you are truly ready…" his eyebrows were higher than usual and the eagerness in his voice was only partially masked.

"I'm ready," Riptide responded, looking directly into Azazel's eyes. "As long as we take it easy and don't do anything too…elaborate."

Azazel smiled and started to say something when the door swished to the side and Emma Frost stepped inside. Riptide disengaged his hand from Azazel's back, though the gesture was pointless – Emma knew or could learn whatever she wanted to about them. She hovered near the doorway; there was not room for her to enter the kitchen. Emma craned her head to look at Azazel's work, and then groaned in disgust.

"No more of that Russian crap," Emma muttered. "I've been in Moscow for a week. You people don't consume anything other than dough, meat, and sour cream. And booze."

"That isn't true, Miss Frost," Riptide piped up, his voice light. "There's all the cabbage and beets you could ever want."

Emma rolled her eyes.

"If either of you – how do you say? - ingrates believes you can do better in the kitchen, be my guest," Azazel snapped, though he ended it with a forced laugh. One didn't snap at Emma no matter how exasperated one was; this would have to taken as friendly banter.

"That's okay," Emma said. "I've lost my appetite anyway." She turned to face the door and ordered, over her shoulder, "Clean this place up when you're done."

Azazel moved very slowly, touching Riptide with care and gentleness. Riptide certainly wasn't in a mental state that allowed him to keep track of time, but if he had he would have been fairly certain that the two men had never kissed for so long, never taken so long to remove all of their clothing. It was excruciating in a most delicious way. When the work of Azazel's hands and mouth finally brought him to a release, it was intense and bone-tingling good. Riptide murmured Azazel's name over and over again, leaving off the first "A", calling him "Zazel". The experience was pleasurably draining too, but Riptide always – like his lover – placed importance on pleasing the other man, and he set his own hands and mouth to work their magic on Azazel. He was careful to use the tight grip that Azazel liked.

Afterwards, tangled in the sheets together, there was no need for Riptide to mentally compare and contrast this with Calderon. It was so blatantly, diametrically different that Calderon was for all intents and purposes, forgotten. So instead, afterwards, Riptide surveyed Azazel's body and his own, leisurely noting the differences between himself and his lover. Azazel's tail was at rest now. His red-hued limbs were entwined with Riptide's own, which were currently shaded pale brown thanks to the warming of the sun during the past few days. The two colors, red and pale brown, looked achingly beautiful together. Azazel's blue eyes gazed at Riptide – again the piercing color contrasting to the rich dark brown of Riptide's eyes. Azazel's hair could best be described as coarse, no matter what products Riptide coaxed him to try; Riptide's soft locks felt quite different to the touch. Azazel was stockier and more muscular; Riptide lifted weights too but had a more slender build. Riptide reached a finger to Azazel's face and delicately traced it, feeling the grooves of the scars and observing the slight wrinkle lines. It was such a contrast to Riptide's smooth, unlined features.

Azazel grasped Riptide's probing finger, brought it to his mouth, and kissed it.

"Tell me – how did you first meet Calderon?" Azazel asked.

Riptide glanced at his lover. Azazel appeared relaxed – true, most people would be, given the circumstances. Azazel's breathing was slow and measured; he looked very pleased. Riptide believed that jealousy was not the reason for the question. Azazel seemed merely curious.

"We were at this very exclusive club in Madrid," Riptide began. "Shaw, Emma, and me. Of course the three of us were all impeccably dressed. I had a brand-new suit. Everyone had to have an invitation to get in, and we all certainly had them – but the doorman did not like my looks. He started talking to Mr. Shaw, saying that this was an exclusive club for people of 'European origin'. That is how he worded it," Riptide recounted, without bitterness. "He did not even look at me as he said this. Shaw started to say that I was Spanish and had simply been spending a lot of time tanning. I'm not sure that was the best thing to do; Emma could have entered this man's mind and fixed the situation, but she didn't. And I think that the doorman was just about to ask me to speak, and he would've recognized that my accent is Mexican, not Spanish. That is when we met Calderon. He had been standing in line behind us. He spoke up and said that he knew us, and that took care of the problem with the doorman. A moment later, he asked to spend time with the three of us, and we went off to a quiet room. It seems to me that he all but ignored his wife that evening. And even though Shaw and Emma did all the talking, he looked at me most of the time. He got in touch with Shaw a few days afterwards to ask about me."

Riptide had watched Azazel's face as he told the story. Azazel had seemed interested, though calm. His eyes had narrowed when Riptide had gotten to the part about the exclusive club not admitting anyone who was not of European origin. But Azazel did not comment, which didn't surprise Riptide. If he had nothing to say, Azazel generally remained quiet - this was another thing the two men had in common. Apparently this information satisfied Azazel's curiosity.

Riptide noticed the other man's eyes drifting towards the floor.

"You leave your bag on floor, half under bed?" Azazel observed. "That is not like you. Are you alright?"

Riptide had to give credit to Azazel; he was observant. In the second or two that he pondered his reply, Riptide decided that their newfound intimacy suggested that his best course of action would be to simply tell the truth.

"I wasn't sure what to do with this," Riptide admitted. "Calderon gave me some gifts. Satin pajamas and underwear. I'm going to throw it all out. I don't want you to get the wrong idea."

Azazel was still for a moment, and then shook his head. "I trust you, Janos." He said quietly. "Whatever you decide to do with them." Azazel's eyes, however, suggested an attitude that was slightly less nonchalant. They looked far away, and perhaps a bit confused.

For moment, Riptide was confused too. Why didn't Azazel understand his love for fine things; why did the two men diverge when it came to this? Both had grown up dirt poor. But Azazel was happy to wear identical versions of the same uniform and the identical copies of the same white boxers. He didn't need pajamas as he slept naked no matter how cold the submarine was.

Riptide had tried once, but he couldn't explain to Azazel his love for clothing. Why had a bore like Calderon been able to find him the perfect gift?

Was there another reason for the faraway look in Azazel's eyes? Could Azazel conceivably be jealous, despite the discussion they had right when Riptide had returned?

The rest of the day, and the next, passed without incident and the two men resumed their normal pattern. They coexisted well. Their space was small, but they navigated it together effortlessly and smoothly. Whether they were working in the control room together, checking on the functioning of the vessel in the engine room, or going to one or the other's personal quarters to retrieve something, they tended to move in harmony. No matter how tight the space, they didn't collide with each other. There was a rhythm to their days. They would teleport together to one of Shaw's other bases to do training. Azazel would cook in the sub's cramped mess hall, Riptide would clean up afterwards. Azazel did their laundry and Riptide kept their quarters clean. Both were good with silence. Neither felt compelled to make conversation if he didn't wish to. They were content to simply spend time together, playing cards during their endless shifts in the control room. They would arm-wrestle, Azazel not using his full strength due to his superior build in the upper body. Azazel would return from a supply-gathering expedition, and Riptide would wordlessly help him unload and put away his acquisitions. On the bridge, one would read a book as the other kept an eye on the controls. Azazel absentmindedly rubbed his own neck when he had developed soreness there, and without any words being exchanged Riptide would get behind him and massage the kinks out for him.

Perhaps it was their backgrounds that allowed this easy coexistence in such a cramped space. Azazel had spent much of his early years in a one-bedroom apartment with countless relatives, including an ornery grandmother and an alcoholic cousin. Janos had spent his early years in a house, one that had only two bedrooms and no running water – and one that he'd shared with his parents and six siblings. The confined conditions of the submarine, which might have driven many other mutants insane, were tolerable for them.

The next day, Azazel sat in the control room alone. It was morning on board the submarine; Riptide was showering, and who was to say when Shaw and Emma were up to? Azazel was just happy that Shaw was leaving them alone, though he was getting eager for some battle action. It had been too long since he had been dispatched on a mission, other than a typical teleport-and-steal excursion to acquire routine supplies.

The submarine communicated with the outside world via Very Low-Frequency radio. Part of the responsibilities of whoever was on the bridge included monitoring radio transmissions. This one was hard to miss as it was sent directly to the Hellfire Club's system, calling their submarine by the name it used in the outside world.

"Do you copy?" The voice on the other end of the radio asked.

Azazel's heart leapt just a little because the voice spoke English with a clearly Spanish accent.

"We copy. Go ahead," Azazel responded. He kept his voice low. The headset gripped his ears tightly, almost painfully.

"I have a message from Señor Carlos Calderon to Mr. Sebastian Shaw. Please transcribe this, and confirm with me that you have it down." The man spoke slowly, pausing at the end of each sentence. "Senor Calderon would like to make an offer to your employee, Janos Quested. It would be for a permanent position in Senor Calderon's office in Madrid. Senor Calderon understands that Senor Quested may be under contract to you but is confident that we can reach a mutually-agreeable solution for us to buy out his contract and provide you with handsome compensation, including additional leads for your enterprises."

The voice on the other end paused for a slightly longer amount of time. "Please read back my message to ensure that you have copied it correctly."

Azazel had not written anything down but remembered the message precisely. He took a breath, trying to steady his voice. Then he spoke in to the headset, expressionlessly rereading the message almost verbatim.

"Good," said the voice on the other end. "Please relay Mr. Shaw's response as soon as possible. Over and out."

Shaw was surprised at the knock on his door the door to his office, especially given the early hour. Emma was in the bedroom, and one thing that Shaw loved about his two henchmen was that they rarely, if ever, disturbed him. When he left them alone, they stayed out of his way. They completed their duties quietly, efficiently, and reliably.

"Come in," Shaw called.

Azazel stepped through the doorway. He tried to not be off-put by the opulence of his surroundings. Shaw's office with its rich maple desk, large screen television, pristine white carpet, and lush liquor cabinets was quite a contrast to the rest of the submarine.

"Azazel," Shaw began, with a smile. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?" He did not move from his position behind his desk.

"I want to see if we have everything we need from Calderon," Azazel stated flatly.

Shaw did not attempt to hide his surprise. His eyes were wide, and he turned his head slightly to the side, almost as if he were looking for Emma, to see if she could discern the reason for this unexpected question.

"Yes, for now. We are on our way right now to one of the leads he gave us on the chemical weapons. His research was useful too. Now why on earth are you asking this?" Shaw did not keep a bit of irritation out of his voice as he asked the question.

Azazel shrugged. "I just want to be sure that Riptide was successful in his mission."

Shaw was about to open his mouth; Azazel's question was not exactly inappropriate, but there had to be more to it than this. However, Sebastian Shaw instantly forgot all about questioning Azazel further. Emma emerged at that moment from the bedroom and entered the study. She was dressed in a new outfit – literally a few scraps of silk – and Shaw at that point wanted nothing more than to get Azazel out of his office. He curtly dismissed his henchman.

It may have been morning on board the Hellfire Club's submarine, but night had fallen in Madrid.

Calderon never knew what hit him. Azazel swiftly teleported in to the bedroom, strangled the man with his tail, and teleported out. The woman who was now Calderon's widow did not even wake from her slumber.

"Do you know what time we arrive at our destination?" Riptide asked, swiveling around in his chair on the bridge.

"I am not sure," Azazel said, keeping his eyes on his monitor.

Riptide took another glance at him. Azazel's wrinkles appeared, to Riptide, somehow more prominent today than usual.

"I was wondering if we have time to teleport to the training base beforehand," Riptide continued, referring to the remote location where members of the Hellfire Club sometimes went to practice using their powers and hone their battle skills.

Azazel didn't respond. Riptide assumed that his lover perhaps was not in the mood for training practice today. In fact, Azazel had seemed off-kilter ever since Riptide had stepped out of the shower.

"You hardly touched your coffee," Riptide observed. "Want me to heat it back up for you – or, better yet, make a fresh pot?"

Azazel turned around in his chair. Riptide nearly gasped at the look on his face. His red skin appeared far more pale today than usual, and his eyes contained a look that Riptide recognized, though he had rarely seen it from Azazel. Worry.

"I have something to tell you," Azazel began. His voice was deep and toneless. "I –"

At that moment, the door to the control room swung open, and Shaw and Emma entered. They strode up to Azazel and Riptide.

Without preamble, Shaw barked out orders, "Stand up, both of you. Now! Good. Can someone explain to me what just happened? Emma was doing a check-in with Calderon, she didn't pick up anything, and now his wife is apparently a widow - and is meeting with the police as we speak."

Riptide, now standing next to Azazel, barely managed to stifle a gasp but was controlled enough to hold it in. He turned to look at his lover, but Shaw continued.

"I assume you know my question is rhetorical, as Emma read your mind, Azazel, an instant ago." Shaw's eyes were hard as rock although he kept his voice in its usual even keel.

Emma coolly moved her gaze from one man to the other. "Riptide doesn't know," she reported. "Perhaps we can fill him in."

Azazel looked at Riptide, whose mouth was open, and said, "I was just about to tell you," at the same time that Shaw began to speak again.

Shaw told Riptide, "Apparently Calderon was going to make an offer for you to go work for him full-time. Azazel intercepted the message, and took it upon himself to strangle Señor Calderon last night."

Shaw took a deep breath, as if preparing himself to either speak or – worse – to act.

Riptide stood, his breakfast of oatmeal now feeling like a sodden lump in the pit of his stomach. It was not Azazel's act that worried him. He knew that he was in love with a man who was a killer. Azazel would kill, without remorse, if and when he thought it was warranted. Riptide would never think himself above that – his tornadoes had led to plenty of deaths, he knew. Less direct then Azazel's methods, but equally lethal. No, what worried him was Sebastian Shaw. He knew that his leader was capable of anything, and he had to be furious with Azazel for killing an ally and not obtaining permission.

"Such outrageous insubordination. What made you think you have the right to act on your own like this? What made you think you have the right to kill an associate of mine? And how did I hire such stupid members as the two of you? Did you really think, Azazel, that I would've agreed to Calderon's terms? And I really am shocked that you have turned out to be a lovesick sap."

Shaw paused. His remonstration had been delivered dispassionately. Riptide looked at his face. He had seen Shaw furious before, and today he didn't look it. Riptide could not say exactly why he felt this way; Shaw was a very difficult man to read. His facial expressions were typically masked more than anyone else's, even more than Emma's. Riptide would have to say it was a gut instinct, intuition of sorts, that made him believe that Shaw was not as angry as he wanted them to believe.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" Shaw asked Azazel.

Again, Riptide had the sense that Shaw was not truly furious. Why was he asking Azazel to explain himself?

"Mr. Shaw," Azazel began. As always he sounded calm. In fact his voice was much more steady, and his skin tone not quite so bloodless. "I apologize for this mistake. I let my anger overtake me. I promise I will not be this stupid again, and I will not again do something like this without asking you first."

Riptide noted that Azazel sounded contrite, and he hoped it would be enough to mollify Shaw. And given how calm Azazel appeared, Riptide sensed that Azazel also had reached the same conclusion regarding Shaw's true mental state.

"You had better see that this doesn't happen again," Shaw said. His voice then took on a menacing tone. "You know, unfortunately, that I cannot let something like this happen without consequences. I wish I didn't have to do this, but you have left me no choice." He turned to look at Emma and nodded.

Emma had been holding something, something of which Riptide previously had not taken notice. He briefly saw the glint of metal. Brass knuckles. Riptide's blood ran cold. He had been hit by them once before. Riptide had been hit a lot during his life; he had not had a coddled upbringing and during his early years as a criminal he had met with much danger, mishap, and injury. He knew first-hand that brass knuckles were especially effective in delivering a grotesquely-painful blow.

Azazel stiffened and sucked in his breath as Shaw slowly – very slowly - put on the brass knuckles. Shaw walked up to Azazel and swung his arm as if to strike – but in an instant he turned and struck Riptide instead.

Taken by surprise, Riptide yelped and doubled over in pain. Shaw's brass knuckles had hit him in the stomach.

"Janos!" Azazel exclaimed. He reacted without thinking, putting his arms around Riptide.

Shaw shook his head. "A pair of lovesick schoolgirls," he muttered, as he left the control room.

"You want me to teleport in here that doctor I know?" Azazel asked.

Riptide sat on one of the seats on the bridge, and Azazel knelt next to him.

Riptide shook his head. His forehead was sweaty and his breathing raspy.

"Can I bring you anything?"

"No," Riptide said. His voice came through surprisingly steady. "I have been hit with these once before. I survived." He paused, took a breath, and then slowly continued. "Hurts like hell but I will manage."

Azazel touched his hand to Riptide's forehead and used his fingers to wipe away some of the sweat. "You are strong," he murmured. "Maybe when I first see you, all I see is the expensive suits and your beautiful hair. But you are stronger than any man I know," he passionately declared his admiration in a low voice.

Riptide met his eyes and smiled. He reached for Azazel's hand and grasped it, and silently admitted to himself that he enjoyed Azazel's praise.

"I am sorry about this," Azazel continued. "I wish Shaw hit me instead."

"Me too," Riptide said, intending for it to be taken as a sarcastic joke. Mostly. But when Riptide laughed at his own remark, it caused more pain and he clutched his stomach with his free hand.

Azazel didn't laugh; he was too worried about Riptide's pain. He continued to hold Riptide's hand and did not move from his kneeling position.

"Would it be better for you to lie down?" Azazel asked.

Riptide shook his head. "One of us has to stay in the control room anyway. Sitting or lying, it doesn't matter." Riptide took a breath and steadied his voice. He then said, "Azazel, I'm serious now, you should have talked to me before you did that. Before you killed him."

"I had to act fast," Azazel responded. His jaw was set hard and eyes stony. "I could not risk that bastard 'buying' you. You are not piece of meat."

"I know. And I'm relieved he's dead. I had no idea he'd ever want me permanently." Riptide paused again. He was never much of a talker, and now talking required substantial effort. "But – I mean this – talk to me beforehand if…well, if – next time something like this happens."

The two looked at each other and this time both of them laughed.

"Yes," Azazel smiled. "Next time there is powerful government official who is also lover of men as we are, and he decides that he likes you – then I will talk to you first before I kill him."

"Good," Riptide said, giving a crisp nod with mock sincerity, his eyes twinkling now. "We're agreed then."

They chuckled again, but Riptide had to wince in pain once more. Azazel grasped at him again.

"I wish I could do something," Azazel murmured. His tail reached around and gently moved up and down one of Riptide's arms.

"This is good enough. The pain will pass." Riptide looked down and then met Azazel's gaze again. "He knows. Shaw. He knows how we feel about each other."

"It was just matter of time," Azazel shook his head. "There are no secrets with Emma around. She has probably told to him about what we discussed when you returned."

Riptide felt a chill in the air. "So we are stuck then. Completely stuck. We need to stay on Shaw's good side or he will use this against us."

Azazel again squeezed Riptide's hand. "No – we are not helpless. Shaw wants to take over world, and we are half his army. He needs us. And we are very, very powerful. We must think of way to remind him of this."

"Oh," Riptide mused, his eyes now far away, his mind reeling. "Yes. We need to subtly remind him of how much he needs us. You are so smart."

"I think he knows it already. This punishment could have been much, much worse." Azazel then rapidly added, "Not that it is not very bad already."

"I still think you did the right thing," Riptide breathed. He tried to will his muscles to relax but knew he'd be knotted in pain for some time. "Shaw might not have sold me to Calderon, but he might've found a way for me to spend a lot more time with him. I would rather be here."

"Of course!" exclaimed Azazel, taking his turn to be sarcastic. "Who would not prefer to be here in this tiny sub, working in damp engine room? Eating cabbage and beets? Spending half each day sitting in control room staring at same monitors until your eyes hurt?"

"When I could have been pool boy to a rich man, living on one of his beach resorts, spending half the day swimming and sunbathing," Riptide muttered, playing along. He paused. "Well – there is one halfway decent thing here," he gave a pointed look to Azazel.

"Only halfway?" Azazel asked, his voice taking on an uncharacteristically meek and chagrined tone.

Riptide took his fingers and moved some stray hairs on Azazel's head off of his forehead. "Maybe a little more than half way," he said, lopsided grin on his face.

Azazel returned the grin, but lost it a moment or two later. "I love you, Janos," he said passionately.

"I love you too."

It was painful, but it had to be done. The next day, when he felt well enough to climb, Riptide ascended the ladder to the yacht portion of the vessel. He opened the duffle bag and dumped its contents – wine-colored pajamas and silky underwear – overboard.

THE END

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