#also using this as an excuse to say my favourite track on pulse demon is ultra marine blues

[toskarin]

thots on Japannoise (please ignore the GeroGeriGegege album that I'm listening to right now)?

I'm not as knowledgeable about gerogerigegege as I'd like to be, which is kind of funny given how familiar I am with boris, and through boris, merzbow

as someone who's into black metal, a lot of japannoise winds up in my playlists, even if I'm a fairly casual fan. I can't help loving fucked up frequencies, unique sounds, and aggressive noisemaking

so I wouldn't really consider myself a "noise fan" or even a "noise listener" by most standards -- I couldn't really hold a conversation on the topic -- but I've always enjoyed japannoise when I set aside time for it

[amuseoffyre]

Crossing Paths - 1846-1859 - London & Rome

You know that satisfied sigh that ‘Aziraphale’ gives while he cricks his neck from side to side in the Hellfire? That’s me right now :) I needed this chapter.

1846 – Whitechapel

Crowley hated prophets.

Always had, always would.

They were like the idiot who thinks it’s a good idea to kick a beehive, then acted surprised and offended when people complained about being stung. Most of them were frauds – which he could excuse – but some of them made work a lot harder than it needed to be. And what was worse was when they were right.

Most of them weren’t, but some of them got close enough that it was starting to make Crowley’s skin creep and the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

They were talking about Armageddon.

Not just one or two anymore. Every week, someone new popped up and their deadline was suddenly a lot shorter.

The volcano that turned the world icy three decades ago was the start of it all. His favourite comet hadn’t helped. The year after it appeared in the sky, Albrecht and Wesley started putting the fear of God into people. And now, a bunch of loonies were quoting Revelation and shouting from the rooftops about the End of Days and the coming of the Antichrist.

All fine and dandy for the humans who laughed at them and called them charlatans, but not so good when you go into Head Office and they’re just as excited as some of the nutters upstairs. Not long now, they were saying. It’s coming soon.

He’d grinned along with them, then fled back to his house and dug out the ancient battered copy of the Bible he kept locked up in his safe. It was like carrying a grenade around, that thing, but sometimes, it helped to know what everyone was thinking. Also, for coming up with better arguments to throw at the angel. He always got so offended by them.

Crowley put on his heavy alchemist’s gloves and lifted the book down onto his desk, turning the thick vellum pages all the way to the back. The book of Revelations might have been the ramblings of a sun-stroke addled madman on a mushroom high, but he’d got enough right that it was worth keeping an eye on.

Crowley adjusted his glasses to keep his eyes from burning as he read through it, his heart sinking with every word. The four horsemen were legends down below. Everyone had heard of them. If they were involved, then it wasn’t good. Combined with some of the Jewish theories about the timeline – bloody sacred numbers were always annoying – and all the other evidence, it didn’t sound promising.

He sank back in his seat, his hands trembling.

Shit, shit, shit.

They were right. It was coming. It was coming soon. A world that would last six thousand years. They were in the home stretch now. Hundred years left. Maybe two at a push. And then…

And then war.

The Fallen against the Heavens.

Demons against Angels.

The world didn’t matter to them. They didn’t care. It was just a convenient battlefield. It would be left in ash and ruin and no one upstairs or downstairs would even notice. They never had and they never would and everything would be gone and he would be expected to take up arms and stand with them and–

“Shit,” he whispered again.

He remembered the last battle. He remembered the fire in his wings and the pain and worse than anything else, feeling Her Grace being stripped away. It had been like the air in his lungs, as natural as breathing, and then it was gone and all he had done was ask. Was it so wrong to ask? Was it so wrong to wonder? Was he so wrong?

When She had let him Fall, when the only world he had known was ripped from him, he had screamed and raged and wept, everything raw and painful and broken. He had been so sure he was ready to hate Her – hate them – hate everything about the world that had led to their undoing until he was allowed to seek daylight again and felt grass and stone beneath his feet…

And then an angel smiled at him.

Oh God.

Aziraphale.

Lucifer, Beelzebub, the others – they wouldn’t show mercy. The only good angel, they often said, was a dead angel. And Aziraphale – the bloody stupid idiot – had given away his divine weapon. He wouldn’t be able to defend himself against them, not even if he wanted to.

Crowley felt sick, brutal, bloody images slithering unwanted across his vision.

And it wasn’t like he could stand against them, not all of them, if they came after the angel. They would as well. Everyone knew Aziraphale was the Heavenly beacon on earth. He would be a prime target for them, a symbolic kill, head on a pike to show that earth was their domain and battleground now.

“No, no, no…” Crowley keened, his whole body coiling in on itself in horror at the thought.

What the Heaven was he meant to do against the full might of the armies of Hell?

The only advantage he had was that they had no idea that he was sitting on the fence. It wasn’t much of a trump card, but it was better than nothing. They wouldn’t expect trouble from him, especially not for the sake of a Heavenly Principality.

Right.

Okay.

Element of surprise. That was something to use. Something they wouldn’t see coming. Enough to get him and Aziraphale safely out of the way if it came down to it. Anything beyond that, they could worry about when the time came, but now…

He pushed back from his desk. The low-level hum of the Bible’s power was making his skin itch and his head ache. He needed to be away, to think. Holiness was always so…

He froze, halfway out of the seat.

Holiness.

Well… no demon would ever see a holy attack coming from behind them.

He stared down at the Bible, until his face was aching from the prickling of the power. Couldn’t just use a bible. Running around whacking people on the head with a book was a solid mode of attack – Aziraphale had proved that one evening when Crowley had surprised him – but the Bible was more of a slow-burn on contact, not exactly the kind of thing to keep a powerful demon down for long.

Crucifixes?

Nah. Needed to get too close for them to be useful.

He swung out of the chair, pacing back and forward across the room. Relics fired out of a cannon, maybe? Saints could be pretty holy, but then there was the problem of sifting the real bones from the false ones. If he remembered right, the Habsburgs had three left thighs of John the Baptist last time he passed through. He was pretty sure one of those was a cow bone as well.

Also, a cannon wasn’t exactly the most subtle stab-someone-in-the-back weapon.

He went over to the window, looking out on the gloom of the city. Rain was rattling against the windows and he stared at the glass, putting out a finger to track a single from the middle of the pane to the bottom, where it merged with its brethren and flowed down into the gutters below.

“Oh…” he breathed.

Yes.

That–

It wouldn’t just hurt anyone who came after Aziraphale. It would stop them dead. Okay, yes, technically, if he managed to splash himself with it, he would be out of the equation as well, but that was the advantage of not being a complete moron. Precautions could be taken.

But killing…

He sank to sit against the edge of the window, pressing his shaking hands to the frame. It wasn’t as if he wanted to harm anyone, but given a choice of someone like Hastur or the angel. Hell, given the choice of Hastur or himself, it was an easy answer. He was a demon. What were they expecting? Self-interest came with the territory.

“Shit,” he whispered again, knocking his head back against the glass. He pulled off his glasses and tugged off one glove with his teeth, so he could rub at his eyes.

It–

They had time. They had decades. That was plenty, wasn’t it? There had to be options. Some other way that didn’t mean killing one of his own. But if worst came to worst…

He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to remember how to breathe and trying desperately not to think of what the worst could be, of the fire and brimstone and blood and bodies and Aziraphale gone, burned away by the wrath of Hell because Crowley wasn’t there, wasn’t fast enough, couldn’t – wouldn’t – didn’t stop them.

“Shut up,” he whispered. “Shut, up, shut up, shut up.”

 1859 – Rome

Crowley couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept.

It was after that volcano incident, but not much. That when things started going a bit squiffy. And definitely before some fancy wanker had decided to stick his name on the comet that the demon had considered his since time immemorial. Saw it first, Crowley had grumbled. Should be my name on it.  

Hell was still buzzing with excitement. Portents and doom were in the air. Prophets were still popping out of the woodwork. The proverbial clock was definitely ticking now. Everyone knew it, even if they didn’t know exactly when it was meant to chime.

The demon was crouched on his toes on the edge of the rooftop, staring out across Rome.

The Vatican pulsed with the power of faith, throbbing against his aching eyes. Everything about it made him want to scratch at his skin. If there was anywhere to steal a weapon, this was the place. Trouble was getting inside. Grabbing one of the Pope’s staffs or something blessed by him… not exactly a divine sword, but almost close enough?

The wind made Crowley’s coat flap around him. He shuddered and straightened up, stepping into the air and emerging on the street below.

Every step he took closer to the Basilica and the centre of the church’s power felt like tar was wrapping around his legs, slowing him down and forcing him back. Every step was harder and the closer he got, the tighter his skin felt, until he had to stop, staggering, gasping against a wall. Not even within a mile of the place and he could barely move.

No chance of getting there.

He swore furiously, miserably under his breath. What kind of demon was he if he couldn’t even find a way to steal a weapon of God?

Once he finally managed to gather the energy to retreat to a safe distance, he huddled in the shade of a building overlooking the Trevi fountain, drowning his frustrations in a pricy bottle of wine. Over the bustle of the city, he could hear the constant rush of the water on stone.

Crowley looked out of the window at the fountain, gleaming in the afternoon light.

Back to that, then.

Holy Water. The only substance that could truly kill a demon. Even crosses were only an inconvenience by comparison, but Holy Water…

“Shit,” he breathed against the rim of the glass.

Only place to get the stuff was in a church. Only way to get to it was to step on consecrated ground. If he couldn’t even walk up to the exterior wall of a bloody basilica, how was he even meant to get anywhere near their… well? Plumbing? Spring? Hell only knew where they kept it.

Could kidnap a Priest, he supposed. But a blessing over water under duress probably wouldn’t work anyway. And if he let a priest make some water holy for him, he’d probably find it being thrown in his face a second and a half later.

But he had to get it. No choice anymore. If things went tits up – and all the signs said that they would some time in the not-too-distant-future – it was better to be ready for every eventuality.

Not from a priest. Impossible from a church. Maybe the angel could give him some advice…

Crowley lowered his glass, staring into space.

The angel.

Bloody hellfire.

All this time worrying about how to get the most fatal liquid known to his kind and all the while, he was friends with one of the only creatures in the world who could make it with nothing more than a gesture.

But he wouldn’t. He’d never. Not one of the most powerful weapons in Heaven’s arsenal. It had taken enough to persuade him to do temptations in the beginning. Several centuries of convincing him was all when and good when they had time, but they didn’t. Not anymore.

Crowley prodded at his glass, distracted. Other options first, he decided, and if there was no other way, that was the only time the angel needed to know. Better not to get him worried about what might be coming. He had enough pressure from above. He didn’t need any more.

“Right,” Crowley murmured. “How do I break into a church?”