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Janos shifts his weight to the other foot as he buttons his sleeve, comforted by the knowledge that he won’t be wearing these trousers for much longer. Shaw, this evening’s client, always leaves specific instructions for him: what he must wear, how he must style his hair, whether or not he needs to finger himself beforehand or wear any gear beneath his finely tailored suit. Tonight, he’s only been asked to prep a “minimal amount,” to quote the instructions handed down to him by the smarmy receptionist—which means Shaw’s got something fast and hard in mind.
It doesn’t matter to Janos. If he wants to fuss with details, he’s welcome. Shaw is literally his best-paying client, and Janos is highly oriented toward customer service.
But he can admit he does enjoy the feel of the fine material against his skin, the way the smooth silk lining of the jacket slides up his arms and settles into place on his shoulders like it belongs there. The agency has never left him wanting for anything, but Shaw is the one who makes him want things he never even dared to crave. The man is persuasive—makes him feel wrong for not wanting it, like it’s his right.
And like Shaw’s the only one who can give him what he deserves.
He used only a small amount of lube, just enough to ease his way for a few warm-up thrusts. It’s not like Janos doesn’t get fucked often, so it’s all he’ll need. There’s the possibility that Shaw might be planning to use something larger on him—he’s been asked to bring along his duffle of gear—but Janos has no doubt that he’d make him want it first.
Still, the slickness, minimal though it is, makes him squirm as he shifts from foot to foot.
He buttons his jacket, enjoying the way it pulls in the sides of his silhouette, and turns to meet Azazel out in the hall.
To find him already there.
He’s leaning against the door, heavy head tipped low and powerful arms crossed, staring. Waiting.
“Hello. Been there long?” he tries, lifting his chin and striding forward.
Azazel doesn’t smile. Never smiles. Janos is not surprised when Azazel merely straightens and turns his head away, as if he’s already sent his mind to the place they’ll be teleporting, just waiting for his body and Janos to catch up.
As a kid, underconfident and earnest, he would have excused Azazel’s attitude with any number of justifications, anything to explain this silent indifference. But not now—he’s a professional, he just deals with it. Sometimes he catches himself wondering if it’s because Azazel doesn’t speak English, but he hates when people make that assumption about him just because he’s quiet, and he has heard Azazel speak to others in the couple short weeks he’s been employed with the agency.
Just not to him.
The man works for an escort service. Janos doesn’t think he has much room for judgement or snobbery just because he’s the transportation and not the entertainment. Janos makes twelve times his wages on a good day.
Usually he holds out his hand for Azazel to clasp, but today he’s carrying the duffle, and as Janos is shifting it around in his hands to hold the nearest one out to Azazel, the guy steps in close behind him to set his massive hands on Janos’ shoulders. He turns, confused, and just catches a glimpse of Azazel’s face before all he sees is red smoke and darkness. A flash of icy eyes and a heated expression.
But it’s Azazel. When they arrive at their destination, it’s gone, like it was never there at all.
Most clients cringe at seeing Azazel—their agency is openly mutant-friendly, but some clients see Azazel’s skin only as a symbol to invoke their guilt and fear. Shaw is one of the first to look his fill. Janos likes to think that the predatory stare is just a desire to rip the cheap black suit off his body and clothe him in something more fitting.
“Mmm, you brought a friend.”
“This is Azazel,” Janos introduces quickly. “My assigned detail. As you were informed in the notice from Ms. Frost. He’ll wait outside, Mr. Shaw, we won’t be disturbed.”
“Come on, now, that’s not really necessary.” Shaw smiles at him charmingly and holds up his hands and Janos feels a sweeping presentiment—Shaw can convince anyone to do anything, and make them think it was their idea. If he wants Azazel gone, Azazel will go.
He’s never had any problems with Shaw before—the incident that prompted Frost to assign Azazel in the first place had nothing at all to do with him—but the idea still makes him uncomfortable.
Probably because he knows Azazel would be so easy to convince.
“No negotiation. I will stay,” he says, startling Janos enough to look back at him.
“I wouldn’t dare suggest otherwise,” Shaw says, reaching out to touch Azazel’s lapel. He ends up putting his hand into air, the wisps of red smoke curling around his fingertips.
Shaw looks around until he spots him.
“Oh, so not just a pretty face. How fascinating,” Shaw says, bringing a hand absentmindedly to his tie, straightening it.
Azazel has already started his walkthrough of the room. Janos has learned—from experience, of course, not explanation—that Azazel must get a feel for the space first, in case teleportation is necessary. As funny as it is to imagine Azazel stuck in a wall, Janos really does value his ability to neutralize danger by immediately removing him from the vicinity. He’s been assured by Frost that he can do the same without his powers. That, fortunately, Janos has not experienced, but just from looking at Azazel, he doesn’t doubt it.
Azazel nods to Janos but before he leaves, Shaw places a hand on Janos shoulder and it draws Azazel’s eyes to him.
“Please, stay. I’m sure the three of us can find something to talk about, seeing as we have so much in common.” As he speaks, he reaches out to brush Janos’ hair away from his face, and Janos accommodatingly leans his head back to expose the line of his throat. As he tries to be as inviting as possible for Shaw, he’s stuck trying to communicate to Azazel with his eyes. Leave, now. Azazel watches, though, with impassive eyes, a hint of amusement or maybe disdain—difficult to discern the difference. He’s likely gleeful at the thought of watching Janos brought down a peg.
“Is that why you invited me here? You wanted a pleasant conversation?” Janos asks, as Shaw slides underneath his jacket to run his hands along the waistcoat.
He murmurs it into Shaw’s ear but knows Azazel can hear him. He’s a foot away.
Shaw’s fingers slide into his hair and tug his head back, and Shaw presses his mouth directly against Janos ear, breath hot and voice dangerous. “Oh, am I keeping you from something?” he growls. “Get on with it then. Strip for us.”
Janos’ hands go to his jacket automatically before he registers the “us.”
“And you,” Shaw directs to Azazel as he saunters over to the table and settles expectantly into the chair. “Stay a while. Do have a seat.” It’s said in a polite tone, but Sebastian Shaw wields his easy formality like a warning flash.
“Azazel is supposed to wait outside the room,” Janos says. His hands feel frozen on the button of his jacket, and his eyes, for some reason, seem to be frozen on Azazel, who doesn’t move to sit down…or leave. He stands there, and as Janos stares at him, he stares back, head tilted downwards in that familiar manner.
“He can guard you just as well from in here. Better, even. Am I right?” He smiles at Azazel.
“Mr. Shaw, you realize he can’t—that is, he isn’t available.”
“Of course. I won’t touch him.” Shaw turns to Azazel, speaks in his direction just to see his reactions. “Just thought it might be exciting to have someone watch you get fucked.”
Shaw has mentioned it before, this idea—but Shaw says a lot of things during their sessions; he can’t possibly mean all of it. “If that’s what you want, you’re welcome to schedule another of our escorts for”—
“This is what I want,” Shaw interrupts, tone unchanged and volume mild, charged with persuasive charisma. “I don’t understand what you’re so upset about. You’re a fucking whore. One pair of eyes is the same as another. If I got ten guys in here to ream your ass it wouldn’t matter who they were; you’d take them all and wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. I can find twenty hookers for the price of you. It’s a simple thing I ask.”
“Shaw, he doesn’t”—
“I will stay.”
Janos tries to control his expression as he glances from Azazel, who seems to be daring Janos to object, to Shaw, who is most definitely not willing to accept any argument.
“This isn’t”—
“Come on now!” Shaw claps his hand together and leans back in his seat. “The man has agreed. Get on with the show. Azazel, do have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.”
The only two places to sit are the bed and the other chair across from Shaw. Drawing in a deep breath, Janos backs away from it to give Azazel space to sit, but instead he crosses to the bed and sits on the end.
In a way, Janos is grateful for the distance. He can pretend Azazel’s not even there.
“This is my favorite part,” Shaw confides, leaning sideways on the table, watching with expectant attention, saying ‘get on with it’ in the crook of his arms, the clasp of his hands, the height of his eyebrows, the tilt of his chin.
Janos goes slowly, but he goes. He turns around and pulls down the jacket, turns his head to see Shaw eye the curve of his shoulder, the jut of his shoulder blades as he eases the jacket down his arms and lets it swing from one hand. He knows what Shaw likes. Janos is very, very good at giving people what they like.
He spreads his legs so that Shaw can admire the curve of his ass in these slacks, running his hands up the outside of his thighs to frame it, waiting for the order to turn around so that he can begin unbuttoning the waistcoat.
Movement distracts him, and he looks up to see that Azazel has shifted, moved forward to lean his elbows on his knees. He too, looks expectant. Janos thinks that Azazel is probably not used to waiting for things.
“Riptide.” The sharp rebuke calls his head back into the game and he turns around, dragging his hands up his chest to begin work on the buttons.
This is—more distracting than he’d thought it would be.
He can’t help but think that Azazel is getting the same view that Shaw just had, that he can’t see him unbuttoning now, can’t see him reach a hand down to cup his growing erection, probably can see the way his head tips back but can’t see the bitten lip, or the flutter of his eyes, or know the reason.
He can just imagine the judgement, the sly remarks. I don’t know why they pay so much. Did not look anything special to me.
But Azazel probably wouldn’t say anything. Would just look at him with those calculating eyes.
When the waistcoat is off, set across the back of the second chair along with the jacket, Janos bends to remove his shoes. He bends at the waist, legs still spread, to untie the laces. Usually he would have turned around, given Shaw the view he’s giving Azazel now, but when he looks up at Shaw, he sees no complaint in his expression—as a matter of fact, he’s not even looking at Janos. His eyes are fixed across the room.
“Enjoying yourself?” Shaw asks.
Azazel is silent, but whatever Shaw sees makes him smile.
“Riptide, come here,” he orders. Janos walks the few steps to his side, and Shaw curls his fingers into the waist of his pants, gripping one of his suspenders in the process.
“Here I am, graciously extending my hospitality to your friend, inviting him to our little session, and he doesn’t have the decency to pay attention, Riptide. Tell me, Azazel, are the curtains that fascinating?”
There is silence from behind him, even though Janos strains to listen. Janos is captivated by the motion of Shaw’s other hand, cupping his erection and rubbing in slow circles, dragging the silky material of the trousers against his skin. Never, never, has Shaw touched Janos so early in the night—usually waits until he’s crying, begging to come.
“Riptide,” Shaw says, looking up at him and pulling on the suspender, “I think you should claim his attention.”
Janos has to drag his eyes open. His gut sinks as he looks toward Azazel, a swooping, dizzying rush of—something. Azazel’s expression is still unreadable, still silent. His gaze is unwavering now, attention focused entirely on Janos, on where Shaw is pressing against his hard-on firmly enough to make him want to whimper.
He doesn’t know how to extricate himself now that it’s progressed this far—if Azazel had just left—but now it’s too late.
He has hesitated too long.
“What do I pay you for if you don’t do as I ask.” It’s not a question. His voice is polite, as always, injected with a faint tone of confusion though he shows no doubt, in expression or body, that he will be obeyed.
It is an effort to swallow. “He didn’t ask for this.”
Shaw regards Janos for a long moment. He says, slowly, almost gently, “He wouldn’t, would he?” He raises his eyebrows and glances away, as if he wishes to save Janos from the uncomfortable reality. His hand retreats, and Janos bites his lip to stay quiet, forces himself to remain standing straight instead of bowing his pelvis to follow that hand. “He’s just supposed to transport the product, never taste it. And then someone generously offers him a glimpse at what he’s missing…who would say no to that?”
He can feel sweat gathering at the back of his neck, wishes more than anything that he could lift his hair and allow a cool breeze to slide past his skin. This is what Shaw does to him, every time. Reduces him to incoherence, just with a few sensible words. It seems so obvious, so reasonable an explanation coming from his lips…and really, isn’t it true? Some people need to pay to have sex with him because he’d never give them a second look otherwise. He’s desirable; he’s good at his job. Why would Azazel say no? Janos is having trouble remembering the reasons why this is a bad idea. It seems inevitable, really.
“He’s not like me; you can’t just ask him to do this.”
Shaw’s response is clipped. “I can as long as he agrees.” He looks to Azazel and unsnaps Janos’ suspenders, one after the other. The recoil stings, even blunted as it is by the cloth of his shirt. Janos hisses. “And he has, hasn’t he?”
Shaw grabs him by his tie and yanks him to his knees. “He doesn’t look to be complaining, does he?” he murmurs in Janos’ ear. “Go on, look at him. Look at how hard he is. Do you think that cock is large enough to satisfy your greedy little hole? What do you think?”
He groans at the image, at the thought. Talk has always turned him on—especially Shaw’s talk. Slow, sensible, sensuous.
“You know what I think? I think I want to see your mouth on my cock. Take off your trousers now.” Janos does as he bids, and then Shaw reaches around him around to grope his ass. Janos hears a sharp little smack against the fleshy part of his cheek, more sound than feeling, really, but bright in the heavy silence of the room. “That’s nice, isn’t it?”
Janos doesn’t even know who he’s talking to anymore: Janos, Azazel, maybe even himself. He nods in agreement just to be sure. It’s very, very nice.
“On your knees.”
Janos sinks to the carpet, grateful to get his hands on Shaw, making quick work of his zipper, folding his pants back—Shaw likes to keep his clothing on.
He’s allowed just a taste, a swipe of his tongue across the head, before Shaw’s hand wraps around his neck, keeping him from the cock bobbing an inch away from his open mouth. He strains for it for a minute—Shaw likes enthusiasm, likes Riptide to push against his hold just so that he can hold him tighter, but his grip is unrelenting, the effortless counterforce of his mutation, and Janos is not getting any closer to having his mouth around that cock. He swallows and looks up to Shaw, thumbs rubbing circles into the base, showing him how good it would feel if he would just let him forward.
“Uh uh,” he tsks, seemingly unaffected. “How impolite of you, Riptide, to forget about our guest.”
Janos frowns, confused. What does Azazel have to do with him sucking Shaw’s cock?
“Now I know you’re eager to get that slutty mouth stuffed with my dick, but you have to remember your manners. You mustn’t neglect our friend. Reach back. Spread your cheeks for him, give him a good look.”
There is nothing on earth that could make Janos look behind him now, as he reaches back, face burning, and spreads his ass cheeks wide.
“Now tilt your hips a bit, that’s good. How’s that?” This last is not to him, he realizes, but to Azazel.
“Good,” Shaw murmurs, and then uses his grip on Janos’ neck to pull him forward onto his cock.
Shaw likes it rough—one of the reasons he goes to an all-mutant service is to have his desires catered to, including full reign to exercise his power. And his power is force.
And Janos is good at liking what others like.
Shaw likes him to choke on his cock, and he obliges. He switches his grip to the tie that Janos still wears around his neck, using it to hold him for several long moments with his nose buried in Shaw’s pubic hair, until he’s light-headed and his jaw is burning and eyes and mouth are watering with the pain.
“Enough.”
Janos is released and gasps in air, ready to go back for more, when he realizes it was Azazel who spoke. Janos wants to turn to see him, but Shaw gave him directions and to move would require disobeying them. Janos always gives his clients what they want. His hands are still holding his ass spread wide for Azazel’s viewing pleasure. He wonders if Azazel can see how he’s slick and ready. If Shaw asked, he would work a finger inside himself. Would do anything, only for the asking. If only he would ask.
“Are you feeling left out, my dear guest?”
“You’re hurting him.”
“He likes it,” Shaw says easily. “Don’t you, whore? Show him how much you like it.” Janos nods and reaches for Shaw again with his mouth, and is stopped again by a firm hand at his head.
“No. Show him.”
He turns, and sees Azazel. He’s in rough shape. Janos has never seen him so discomposed. Or expressive. His hand is clenched on his knee, wrinkling the fabric of his suit into deep, dark lines where the folds are thrown into shadow. His eyebrows are drawn close together, his forehead even heavier than usual, and his mouth is open. Panting.
“Stand for a moment,” Shaw commands.
Janos pulls himself to his feet. It’s difficult to do with his hands in place, but he rocks his weight forward and once he has his feet under him it’s a simple thing to straighten the rest of the way, even though he does wish he could stay there, bent over at the waist, displayed for whoever cared to look.
Shaw stands, crowds into his space and Janos thinks, Thank god, finally. But he just undoes the tie, unbuttons Janos shirt down to his chest, and then, reaching out to the other chair, puts the jacket back on him, pulling his hands away from his body to slide it onto his arms. Janos is not surprised. Shaw usually likes him to keep some of his clothes on, but usually just the shirt, or just the tie, or one memorable occasion when he tied the end of his tie to the bedpost and fucked him bent over the side of the bed with his pants around his knees.
“There. That’s a pretty picture. Now, Riptide, crawl over there and show him how much you’d like to choke on his cock.”
He does. God help him, he does. Though he wants to look nearly anywhere but at Azazel’s eyes, he forces himself to do it, to ask, is this okay? Is this alright?
But it must be. It must be, since Azazel can leave whenever he chooses. He must know that, right?
If he’s still here, it must be because he wants to be.
Janos reaches Azazel and still he has said nothing, but Janos has fucked a lot of men and he recognizes want when it’s staring down at him with an erection. He leans in to open Azazel’s trousers with his mouth, rubbing his face against the large bulge in the front in the process. He can feel the shudder race through his limbs as he sets hands to Azazel’s knees to spread them wide, to make room for himself between them.
His cock is large and brick red, heavily veined and darkening toward the tip. The curve of the head against his tongue is so perfect that Janos holds himself there, sucks at it and rubs his tongue against the ridge with slow pulses, until Azazel’s breaths are audible and Janos feels hands at the back of his neck, one creeping to tangle in his hair, the other just resting there where the curve of his shoulder meets his neck.
When he feels the exquisite pull of his hair, he moans and sucks harder, bobs his head to feel the resistance, but it’s so insistent that he has to follow it. He pulls off, gasping.
“That’s it. Let me see your mouth.”
Shaw is still there, behind them, sitting on the chair. Maybe even told Azazel to stop—though Janos doesn’t remember hearing him. His cock bounces and sways as he shuffles around on his knees to face Shaw, settling back, exhausted and tense, against Azazel, who rests a hand against his shoulders as if unable to stop touching, who shoves fingers into his mouth for Janos to continues sucking in earnest, in apology, in promise.
“You like that, don’t you?” Shaw asks, but Janos knows better than to answer him now. “Yes, you do. Let me see it, show me how much you like, how much you like your mouth around his cock.”
Janos moans and curls a hand around Azazel’s ankle, sucks on two thick fingers to put on a show for Shaw even as he’s so turned on that has to struggle to keep his eyes open. He feels a caress on his thigh that he’s sure is Azazel’s tail, the point of it gliding so close to his heavy cock, aching to be touched.
“Let me see. Spread your legs. Lift your shirt.”
He does, puts himself on display for Shaw, thinks, if only he could have these spit-slick fingers in his ass, he’d put on a spectacular show. His hips jerk at the thought.
“Stand. Bend forward and spread yourself for him again.”
He does so.
“Azazel, if you would be so kind.”
He feels those thick fingers working in his ass. It hurts…burns, in fact—spit is not an adequate lubricant, and his minimal preparation is not enough to ease the stretch of Azazel’s thick, calloused fingers. But Shaw likes that. And Janos likes it too.
But Azazel, it appears, does not. Janos hears the familiar swish of air, and opens his eyes to see fading tendrils of red smoke curling in front of his face. Just like that, Azazel is gone. Yet he barely has time to recover from the daze, to doubt—Shaw doesn’t even have time to comment—before he returns to shove two gloriously slick fingers deep into his ass, making Janos rock forward with the force of the thrust so that he has to quickly brace his hands on the floor. He groans, lightheaded from more than just the pleasure, begins to drop to his knees.
“No. Stand there and take it,” Shaw says from some indiscernible area—it’s hard to focus on him when Azazel’s thrusts are rocking his entire body, strong and insistent, but Janos obeys, stands there, bent in half. He bends his knees as much as he can to stabilize himself, and he feels one of Azazel’s hands on his hip, keeping him from toppling forward, pulling him back on each thrust.
“Are you going to fuck me?” he asks, to the room in general. He is not very particular about who answers, can’t even see Shaw because it’s impossible to crane his head upwards enough. Through his legs, he can see Azazel’s trouser-clad thighs, his strong calves. He wonders if he’s still unzipped, cock hanging out in the open. He knows Shaw’s probably touching himself.
And then the thrusts stop, and the fingers withdraw for one horrible moment, leaving him open and empty, before he feels blunt pressure pushing against his hole, feels his ass spread around that perfectly-shaped head and draw it in. He knows Shaw is definitely touching himself. There’s no way he’d be able to refrain, watching Azazel push his way into Janos’ ass.
Something about that seems off, something at the back of Janos’ mind fighting through the pleasure to seek his attention, but it’s frankly not as interesting as the cock filling him up. He pushes it aside, braces himself and spreads his feet a bit wider apart to take the last couple inches.
Azazel is a quiet fuck. His only noises are the gasps of breath on each thrust, and Janos forgoes his usual showmanship to listen, straining his ears for every intake and exhale, every barely-audible grunt. Silent, facing away from him with his vision dominated by a view of carpet, Azazel is indistinguishable from any other cock he’s ever had. The slap of skin against his ass, the solid girth of him penetrating, the emptiness of him retreating—it’s a good fuck, as good as a hundred other good fucks he’s had. The only difference is the additional flash of motion in the periphery as Azazel’s tail sways with the motion of his hips, the way it stills so absolutely as Azazel’s thrusts quicken and then stop.
Why are you stopping? he wants to demand with no small amount of horror and frustration. But Azazel stops balls-deep in him, pressing down at just the right angle to have Janos open-mouthed within seconds as Azazel flattens himself down over his back, arms wrapped around his chest to keep him up, feet planted wide for leverage as he rocks into Janos’ ass, a slow, deep grind that increases in speed until Janos feels the tell-tale pulse, a burst of heat as he fills the condom Janos didn’t even realize he was wearing. For a man so transient, Azazel leaves absolutely no doubt that he is firmly, firmly anchored in this place.
Azazel’s groan is exquisite.
As Azazel finally, finally lowers Janos to his knees, following him down with his cock still pulsing inside of him, Janos finally realizes what’s so odd about the situation.
Azazel is fucking him. Just fucked him.
And Shaw is…somewhere.
Not fucking him.
Even though that’s what he paid for.
It’s that thought that makes him come—not the idea of Shaw, but of the idea that he has yet to take his turn, that Azazel will leave and Janos will bend over and spread his ass wide, show Shaw the way he’s all fucked open and sloppy with lube, stretched-out ass trying and failing to close around nothing and just aching to be filled again. He wishes Azazel hadn’t used a condom, as stupid as that idea would be, just so Shaw could see the come dripping from him.
And what it would be like if Azazel were in Shaw’s place. If Janos could go to his clients, get his ass used and then bend over for Azazel afterwards, after he’s brought them back.
Azazel rubs his back as Janos shudders through the last pulses of orgasm. He can feel the sweat sticking his shirt and jacket to his back, underneath his arms and wonders if any of his come has splattered his shirt front. The agency has its own laundry service, of course, but he thinks of that as Azazel withdraws. He thinks of Azazel teleporting them back; he thinks of wearing Azazel’s come as he pulls him close and takes him away.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” he hears Shaw say, and feels Azazel stand up and put his clothing in order.
“You, Shaw? You have not been satisfied,” Azazel says. Janos shudders.
“I will get a great deal of satisfaction out of this.”
“Give that to me,” Azazel says, and the sudden anger in his voice has Janos looking up.
In Shaw’s hand, cradled so that the screen faces Janos and Azazel, is a cell phone. Janos is too far away to make out the figures on the screen, but he knows what he would see.
He hears the abrupt shift of displaced air and Azazel is in front of Shaw, wrenching the phone from his hand. When he returns seconds later, Shaw is still laughing.
“Hey, that was an expensive phone,” he says, smiling. “I think instead of the money I was going to give you, I’ll need to buy myself a new one.”
“Azazel,” Janos says, to forestall the murderous thoughts he sees flashing across Azazel’s face. “I’m sure he already sent it to himself. And I’m sure he won’t show anyone.”
Shaw turns his attention to Janos and graces him with a slow, knowing smirk.
“Of course I wouldn’t. If your boss—Miss Frost, wasn’t it—knew what you two were up to, I don’t think she’d find that it meets your agency’s professional standard of quality, would she? The highest-paid hooker in New York fucking the help, who hasn’t even signed the correct nondisclosure agreement. What poor business practice. Appalling, really.”
He moves forward to reach for his trousers but Shaw stops him by placing a hand atop the fabric. “I think not. Leave these here with me.”
Janos looks down at where his shirt barely covers his hanging junk and his still-tender, lube-slick ass, but he can’t think about it for very long because it would be worse to leave with an erection. At least Azazel can teleport him directly into his room.
He backs toward Azazel, more to keep him from acting irrationally than any real fear. Shaw comes to them for one reason, and Janos has always known it—to exercise his power. Just because he now has a little extra changes nothing.
And changes everything.
“Ah, yes, I suppose you’ll be going now.” He smiles, waves at them with three fingers of the hand not cupping his crotch. “Do come again. Both of you. I do insist.”
Azazel takes them away, but not before Shaw has the opportunity to cheerily call out, “And Janos”—
He doesn’t hear the rest, lost to the darkness of the in-between, but Janos can guess what he meant to say.