#Aziraphale is now a man with nothing to loose and everything to prove

[ineffectualbookseller]

there is something to be said for how much the Metatrons' offer of restoring Crowley to an angel changed things for Aziraphale, even beyond the face value of the offer

Azirphale eventually (and reluctantly) accepts the promotion under the presumption that he will be able to change heaven - "if I'm in charge, I can make a difference."

and obviously, Muriel and Jim/Gabriel are two key narrative players to show us why Aziraphale would think heaven can still be reformed - Muriel who was unbelievably lonely in heaven and, despite all their ineptitude, is so excited to experience earth for the first time (the fondness in Aziraphale's face during their scene together in the bookshop is so touching) - and Jim/Gabriel who Aziraphle once knew to be cold, unsympathetic, and remorseless but after having the memories and influences of heaven stripped away turns out to be helpful, curious, and self-sacrificing (we see Aziraphale come to terms with this change over the season, telling Jim in e2 that he's really not sure if he's still terrible but when Crowley is questioning Jim in e5, Aziraphale's sure he's just being silly)

but even after witnessing this, Azirphale isn't jumping at the offer to run heaven. He says so point blank, "I don't want to go back to heaven," but everything changes when he gets the offer to restore Crowley as an angel

and clearly, Aziraphale is so excited by the face-value offer, he and Crowley would be safe and they'd be together, and Crowley would never be punished for doing good again. Just look at his happy little hands when he's asking Crowley to pause his confession so he can share his own great news. He's beyond thrilled to be able to offer this to Crowley, to live this life with Crowley (before he realizes it's not a life that Crowley wants - those happy hands are devastating in hindsight)

so if bringing Crowley to heaven with him was the selling point, why is he still going after Crowley says no? Because in Aziraphale's eyes, the power to restore Crowley is the power to correct heaven's mistakes. So heaven can make mistakes - Aziraphale thinks the Metatron just admitted that heaven is fallible

that is HUGE

(this is also not what the Metatron was saying - but in this context what Metatron said doesn't matter, only what Aziraphale heard)

and this isn't just coming from some angel - the Metatron is the voice of God. The closest thing to speaking to God we have witnessed since 2500 BCE in the Job minisode (the most recent evidence of God speaking directly to a character). Regardless of where God actually is during this story, Azirphale would be taking the Metatron's word as the word of God

Aziraphale has been acting against what heaven says God wants since the beginning: giving away his sword in Eden to protect Adam and Eve from their punishment (which he then lies to God about but is still allowed to stay on Earth), lying to save Job's children and openly question God's role in the plan ("I… I don’t think… that is what God wants"), and of course stopping Armageddon with his Great Plan vs Ineffible Plan pedantry (and before this, his plan for most of s1 is to get in contact with someone higher than Gabriel because of course, God wouldn't actually want this) - and when he is finally found out, Gabriel and Michael cut his ties with heaven

but now might-as-well-be-God is walking into his bookshop and scolding the middle managers and saying they've been fucking up. And he tells Aziraphale that they were wrong about him and they were wrong about Crowley and Aziraphale's the one that's been in the right

(keep in mind that Aziraphale does not know that the Metatron has been on the same subcommittees as the archangels - after Michael and Uriel don't recognize him, he's probably assuming they have very little contact)

if Corwley falling was a mistake maybe everything else Aziraphale has been internally questioning is too. If heaven can make mistakes than something has been going wrong in heaven - a fault in operations not in design - there must something to fix

Aziraphale is a being of faith and he carries such guilt for questioning that faith. The idea that the Metraton is acknowledging a mistake must be such a balm to him

It's really no wonder he thinks he can change heaven after that offer

[pearlll09]

@whumptober2019 Day 9 is shackled!

Ineffable husbands, and fic is under cut!

Salem, Massachusetts, 1692

It was cold and dark in the cell. The small, barred window on the other side of the room prohibited any moonlight from helping to make the miserable space just a touch better. It let in everything else, though. The cold seeping into his bones. The dew settling on the stone walls, making them slick and lowering the temperature of the room even more. It let in the bugs as well, but they knew better than to bother him.

Aziraphale shifts in his sitting position against the wall, his wrists scraping against the cold iron shackles above his head, keeping him chained to the wall. Time was running out, ever so slowly in its path against him. He knew, come dawn, there was no escape. He’d be done for. 

A miracle could easily get him out of the shackles, but he’d need a lot more to get out of the seemingly restless village. And miracles were what got him into this mess in the first place.

The soft yellow glow suddenly peaking through the barred door and the rattle of keys draws his attention. It’s too late.

A minister steps inside the cell – at least, he assumes the man is a minister from the outfit he’s wearing. Aziraphale doesn’t understand why humans insist on separating the ministers by their clothing. He doesn’t understand why they separate the ministers at all, when most of them are just as bad as the others. If not worse.

He comes to a stop in front of Aziraphale, looking down upon him and gripping his bible, relying on it as a shield. “Are you ready to repent?”

Aziraphale barely resists rolling his eyes. As if repenting would even work if Hell claimed your soul. “I don’t need to repent. I’m honestly not a witch!” He’s probably the furthest thing from a witch.

“Denial won’t help you. If you repent for your sins now, God will show pity on you, and you will be able to enter the pearly gates of Heaven.”

Aziraphale has seen the gates personally. They aren’t that grand. “What’s the point of repenting if you’re going to kill those you think are witches either way?”

The priest sighs, having the audacity to look sad. “If that is how you feel, then there is nothing else I can do.” He turns to leave, but the doors stay open behind him. Filtered chatter comes to him from a low conversation outside. “He’s still denying. Mmhmm. The pyre’s almost ready.”

He shakes his head. He traveled all the way over here to perform a few miracles at Heaven’s request. Because he helped heal that boy in this ‘New World,’ everyone assumed he was a witch. Normal witches can’t even do that. Their ‘magic’ is herbs and other plants that help make people feel better. Everyone here is just stirred up in a riot, pushing blame and getting rid of those they don’t like. Hopefully Heaven understands this when he has to fill out the paperwork for a new body.

Another man comes in; a large hat resting upon his head and the keys dangling loosely in his hand. The witchfinder. He unlocks the manacles on the wall, and he grips Aziraphale’s arm tightly, wrenching it up. “Get up.”

Aziraphale has no choice in the matter, following the man as he drags him out. In the middle of the village green stands the stake, and the pile of brush to burn surrounding it. The whole village seems to have shown, taunting and jeering as Aziraphale is led to his doom. He is forced against the pillar; his wrists tied painfully tight behind him. The village watches as the witchfinder steps back, and they light the very end of the brush around him in the soft morning light. The flame overtakes the dry twigs quickly, looming closer and closer to Aziraphale as the village cheers. He turns his head as the heat of the flame dances across his skin, bracing himself for the feel of the flame licking up his legs. It doesn’t come, however, as the cheering quickly turns to shrill screams.

“Demon!”

“Run!”

He opens his eyes to see a tall figure stalking through the flames towards him as the village turns to chaos. He’s alarmed for a few brief seconds until the figure gets close enough that he can see the sunglasses slipping to reveal his yellow, serpentine eyes. “Crowley?”

“Damn angel,” he mutters, his large, black wings blocking the fire from spreading to him. “I leave for how long, and you have to go and almost discorporate yourself?” He unties Aziraphale quickly, glancing back at the crowd. “Now might be a good time to pull your wings out; we can fly away before they regain their composure.”

Aziraphale nods, white feathers quickly unfurling before they jump into the sky, quickly winging their way away from the village. 

“What were you doing in America, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks, the rushing wind proving no difficulty for talking with a quick miracle.

“I was down south, in a region they’re thinking of naming Georgia. Hell wants souls and thought the New World would make for easy pickings. Gonna tell them it’s not worth it. The Americans can damn themselves to Hell well enough. I’m not losing another fiddle contest.”

Aziraphale furrows his brow, deciding not to ask. “I suppose I should thank you for the rescue, then; for even being able to find me, too.”

“Don’t mention it. As long as it doesn’t become a habit.”

If you want to see the rest of the month, click here!

[chalabrun]

dance to forget, sareth

Word Count: 1,840 Pairing: Jareth/Sarah Williams Rating: G Warnings: None Summary: Sarah and Jareth never did get to make up for that dance her university was hosting. Here, they get to make up for it in relative peace. A/N: If it isn't obvious enough, I only ship Sareth as they exist in Pika la Cynique's Girls Next Door and the manga sequel, Return to Labyrinth. I don't ship them as they appear in the original movie for personal, probably obvious reasons.

( READ ON AO3 ] 

Sometimes, it wasn’t unreasonable to feel as though Sarah Williams’ life deserved a season recap. After all, how did she describe the last few years? Going from childhood antagonist with the Goblin King and then his girlfriend several years later probably felt too quick to them. What was it, a year and a half? Two?

Regardless, there’d always be critics. People outside of the loop who’d criticize and say she forgave the man who was supposed to be her mortal enemy far, far too quickly.

Looking at you, Harry Dresden, Erik, Norrington, Raoul, and so on! Even if their fears weren’t totally unfounded if not completely coming from people used to the egotistical, pervy, stalker-y, immortal and magical—sometimes not—who comprised a unique kind of peanut gallery.

AKA, friends she was grateful for. The kind of conscience on her shoulder Jiminy Cricket could be jealous of. No one turned to wood here, no sir!

“Ow, careful, Chris,” Sarah hissed when Christina Daae gave an excited twist to her chocolate brown locks, having been brought into a casual up-do. Nothing that would give the impression of being a try-hard. Not easy to pull off given her somewhat recent history of rises made by a certain smug blond fae who enjoyed those kinds of reactions from her. “Not that it doesn’t look good, just…ow.”

Christine smiled sheepishly as she let fall the rest of the loose ends at Sarah’s nape, curling that which couldn’t be brought into the loose bun Sarah now sported. “Sorry, Sar! At least you look good enough for GK, huh?” the blonde prodded while admiring her own handiwork for her roommate. With good cause, too.

“Not that I owe it to that ass to look my best or anything,” Sarah groused beneath her breath, intensely scrutinizing her own reflection with a pout. It always was a game of tug of war with Jareth, and in this case, she’d earned major, major concessions this time around when Jareth had overtly announced their nascent romantic relationship to everyone and their mother in their apartment complex and beyond—via a highly publicized snogging, no less! Meaning, this date to make up for Dresden’s sudden interruption of their last one per questioning Jareth what had happened between Christine and Jareth after the masque wasn’t like it was a strike to her benefit in the tallies between them.

Just that he owed her a dance. Lucky her the dance seminar hosted by the drama club she was part of wasn’t a single night affair.

“Alright, all done! Promise me you’ll give me and Lizzy a total play-by, Sarah? Pleeeease,” the prima donna pleaded, all sweet-eyed and innocent. Easy to see through. Even if Erik was still completely weak to it despite dating Mags nowadays.

Sarah managed to crack an amused smile. “Alright, but you guys are paying for the booze, regardless of whether or not Lizzy’s swashbuckling friends decide to come gatecrashing or not.” That was fair. Jack Sparrow was one hell of a sneaky guy where reserves or rum were reserved.

The doorbell rang. Sarah felt her heart leap in anticipation and excitement alike.

“Why hello, Miss Daae. Might Sarah be around?” came Jareth’s usual flowery greeting. Not that it wasn’t a comfort to her these days. Not that she’d admit it, so forget that! He was still paying even for the pervy bubble-spy-crystals and Erik’s ingenious but equally perverted rats with mounted cameras.

“She’s right here, Your Majesty,” Christine chirped as she shepherded Sarah into the apartment foyer, pleased to show off her handiwork. “Have fun, you two! I’m going to be spending the night with Raoul, so bon voyage!” Small reason for her excitement. Ever since Jareth had granted her the crystal passage between one of the apartment closets and Raoul’s Paris residence as concession for the ballroom mishaps, of course she’d been over the moon. Anything if it meant being closer to her fiancé.

“Ah, merci Miss Daae. Happy travels, and all that.” It was an attempt at French, but points for trying. When her roommate finally vacated the premises, the hallway closet awash in an aftermath of glitter, it left Sarah leaning against the door’s threshold thoughtfully.

“So…” she began, glancing at Jareth speculatively, “I don’t suppose you’ll have any magical engagements keeping us from tonight’s date, or anything, do you?” It didn’t hurt to ask. Sarah’s arms were folded, studying Jareth inquiringly.

Jareth, in all his modern, understated aesthetics, seemed to internally flinch at the implications she was addressing. More of a deep sigh and pinching of the bridge of his nose, than anything. “Oh, of course, precious. I don’t suppose any of your friends have anything in mind? As much as I deeply tire with their interference…”

“To be fair, you’re not out of the limelight just yet, GK. Keep proving yourself, and maybe people’ll relent.”

This caused Jareth’s enthusiasm to sag somewhat. “And is it truly their business at all, Sarah? I understand…past events have embroiled them, true, but some affairs I might wish to keep between us. Is that truly so difficult to ask?”

Sarah gazed at him quizzically. Was she dreaming? Did the resident exhibitionist fae really want to keep things between them private? “Y’know, people would be more inclined to honor your wishes if you didn’t turn almost every little thing between us into a publicity stunt, Jareth.”

“I am aware, Sarah, however—aren’t your ilk the sort to have a…certain amount of publicity during dates? Such as our tango to come. Surely you won’t think of that as something exhibitionist.” Steps, baby steps. In mediating between differences between the fae and human, there had to be bits and pieces, she knew that now. Even if Sarah felt endlessly frustrated by concepts that should’ve been easily grasped, it was a start. Well, not a start, but somewhere far along the road they’d been traversing together.

“No, so long as you try and keep it that way. And Jareth? Try not to be too handsy. The last thing we need is people staring and me screeching indignantly, as I have every right to.”

Things had become unfairly tense between them, she knew. With everything going on, the ball having been an epoch of it all, what they had felt lazy and easy. Compared to what was, what could come, she didn’t want to think that far ahead in fear of jinxing them somehow.

Them. It was a powerful realization, but—Jareth loved her. How could she just turn her back to him and what was between them so readily? Regardless of all those past jealousies and the hell he’d put her through.

Forgiveness was hard. The guilty admitting to such was harder.

When they finally arrived on campus, an easier air settled over them. Members alike of the Wibsy and KISS clubs were congregated near a punch bowl and table saddled with many refreshments while the university orchestra was noisily tuning their instruments. Javert hawkishly watched from one of the gymnasium corners while Aziraphale and Crowley occupied their own shadowy corner, the demon inclining his sunglasses in a smug form of greeting.

Jareth and Sarah were still the hottest new item amid the complex, after all. Of course, the others would still hold a vested interest in their day-to-day.

God knew Christine was the leader of that pack.

As the announcer addressed the gathered crowd, Jareth turned to Sarah, taking one of her hands and gracing it with a delicate kiss. “Sarah, might you honor with me this dance? To make up for our last date, and all that rot.”

She had to admit, he was a peerless gentleman when he wanted to be. “I’d be honored to, Jareth,” Sarah simpered, feeling like her younger self. Feeling like that girl still enamored with fantasy and acting and escapism much like her own mother, Linda, was.

“Oh, Sarah,” Jareth said with a wolfish grin, “surely you cannot conceive of my being content with blending in as you like. If this is tango, we shall treat it as such.” A shiver trailed her spine, and by his smirk, the brunette could swear his satisfaction only grew.

“You’d better not get too handsy, Jareth,” Sarah hissed under her breath with a furious fluster, trying to swallow it down. “Like I said before we came.”

As true to his word as a pervy and possessive Goblin King could be, he kept his hands where it was somewhat socially acceptable—as could be where tango was concerned. Truth be told, Sarah soon forgot her inhibitions she was sure to browbeat herself for later in a way that she was swept into his ministrations and intense, mismatched gaze in a form and fashion.

Was this what it’d be like, she idly wondered. The sudden remembrance of his dire threat and fringing, villainous instincts harked to what Christine had gone through welled within her mind. Sure, he wasn’t crowding her space or snarling at any male attention directed her way, but that was because there wasn’t anyone else.

My will is as strong as yours, my kingdom just as great.

Those words beat in her mind like as a second heartbeat as Jareth dipped her dramatically, recalling all those Celtic fairytales her Irish grandmother used to tell her through her mother, Linda. How the fairies could use gratitude and those foolish enough to step into fairy rings against you.

Was this what it was like? To be taken by that legendary Unseelie Court as Jareth had both threatened and promised time and time again.

When the first set was finally concluded, Sarah had to blink away whatever bedazzlement she’d been capsized under and felt herself hauled back up after a dance number she should’ve had no business knowing, but the ineffable trickle of fairy magic seemed to diffuse from her bones like the passing of midnight.

Was this it? Had her glass slipper already shattered?

“…Whoa,” was all she could bring herself to say, blinking and breathing hard. “Did we really do that piecemeal?”

“Denying your natural talent as always, beloved,” Jareth said with a growing smile, “as much as you deny your natural latency for magic.”

Sarah scoffed and extricated herself from Jareth’s arms, huffing softly. “Admit it: I have two left feet and you used magic to make me more coordinated. You don’t have to flatter me, Jareth.”

Jareth’s pointed, dark brows bounced up in surprise. “Do you really think that’s what it is, precious? Just something of my doing? Why, I’m hurt,” he said with a faint smile, enigmatic. Sarah couldn’t tell if it was some admission of truth or not.

Part of her wasn’t sure if she wanted to find out.

“…I’m going to go get us some punch. Wait here.”

“But of course, Sarah. I shan’t move a muscle,” he said with that same smile, she unwilling to look at it. From fear? Uncertainty.

For once, even she wasn’t really sure. As conflicted as her feelings for him always were.