#aziraphale just needs time to process through his trauma and feelings

[filbertthefrog]

The internal homophobia stemming from catholic guilt is so real lmao

[densewentz]

I have a lot of feelings about season 2 obviously, mostly that it was brutally fantastic, but it really serves to highlight the main difference between Crowley and Aziraphale's understanding of loss. long angsty analysis under cut

Because Crowley already knows what it is to lose Aziraphale. I mean really lose him. He fell to the floor in the burning heart of the bookshop thinking Aziraphale was dead and gone. We get to see in fantastic living color how broken it leaves him. He's forced to spend time wallowing in the hopelessness of it before Aziraphale is miraculously back. Then cut to heaven during their ruse, where Crowley is standing there in the flames with Gabriel grinning maliciously in his face, telling the love Crowley just got back to shut up and die. If that scrap of prophecy hadnt found them, if they hadn't been quick enough, clever enough, Crowley would have lost him again. For Good. For Ever. That entire scene, from the cropped cut of Crowley twisting Aziraphale's wrists in their bonds all the way through to the end, Crowley is in a visibly barely contained rage. He's quiet, and still. These are the beings that have been tormenting his love for centuries, who tried to take him away once already and want to take him away from Crowley again. And it boils in him in the same combination that makes terrified dogs Bite. And we see the lasting effect that fear has on him throughout season 2. It drives almost every interaction Crowley has with other characters, particularly in his vehemence that Jim!Gabriel not be anywhere near Aziraphale. Crowley is able to word for word quote that moment back to Jim!Gabriel mostly unprompted because I guarantee its just been repeating in his head since the archangel showed up in the bookshop. He needs Aziraphale safe in that desperate and agonized way you can only feel if you already know what its like to lose them. And the entire season he's combating the fact that the biggest threat to Crowley's love is sitting in his livingroom and Aziraphale keeps handwaving Crowley's trauma away.

Which brings us to Aziraphale. Aziraphale who has never had to experience losing Crowley. His demon is always there just on time, always at his shoulder and on-call. Aziraphale has no concept of the depth of Crowley's grief during the time Crowley thought he'd died in the bookshop, and no idea the damage Crowley's incognito trip to heaven had on him. And then parallel Aziraphale's part in the ruse. Yes, he's playing at being cheeky Crowley, but I'd bet all my money most of that was just Aziraphale relishing in doing what he loves to do: Dramatizing. Watch his scene in hell compared to Crowley's in heaven. Aziraphale is having a blast. To him its a stage production, a clever trick he gets to play. Michael pours 'Crowley' a holy water death bath and it just makes Aziraphale grin because he knows it wont work. He plays it up, wings the water at the demons, makes silly demands, asks the angel who would have killed Crowley to bring him a towel. It's a joke to Aziraphale, because he never even seems to consider (as Crowley obviously does) the reality that if they hadn't swapped places Crowley would be dead. That Michael came grinning down to hell to destroy him. Forever destroy him. And Aziraphale even giggles about it to Crowley on the bench. Aziraphale has no reference or context of what it would be like to actually lose Crowley, it'd be unheard of, so he never processes what could have happened in the way Crowley does. And we continue to see that ignorance crop up in season 2. His dismissal of Crowley's fears as being silly, the way he never once seems to worry for Crowley's safety even with the other angels and hell minions in the room. Michael and Beelzebub are right there. The two who would have seen Crowley turned into nothing. But there's just not the awareness of the threat to Crowley (or himself, but thats another problem) that Crowley inversely possesses. And it all boils down to the simple fact that Aziraphale has never ever lost Crowley. Until now. And you can see it beginning to process post-kiss. You can see it in Aziraphale's face as Crowley dons his glasses and turns his back on Aziraphale for real. This is going to be the beginning of Aziraphale learning what it is to lose his love, and its going to be absolutely heartbreaking yes, but also completely necessary to his growth.

There's that wretched little saying "you don't know what you've got until its gone". Crowley's learned that lesson the hard way already. I guess now its Aziraphale's turn.

[aheavenofhell]

I feel like some may be deliberately ignoring the “but I don’t want to go back to Heaven” line and lemme explain why it’s important.

Aziraphale is offered this promotion to supreme archangel, right? By the Metatron himself. This is a VERY big deal, EXTREMELY serious. This is word directly from the Almighty.

And his first reaction is to refuse (something that doesn’t exactly align with the whole “Aziraphale is a manipulator” idea).

Aziraphale refuses the Metatron until the Metatron makes it explicitly clear that he can bring Crowley with him.

This is important, because Aziraphale chose to defy Heaven in S1 for Earth, for humans. While Crowley’s company may have had a part in it, really who’s to say they couldn’t just find another way to hang out when eternity started? His motivations in S1 didn’t revolve solely around Crowley.

The Aziraphale in S2, however, is ready to surrender life on Earth with just a singular condition. This is a big leap from where he was in S1, denying he and Crowley were even friends, to S2, where he is ready to admit that he needs him. That their relationship is more than a mutually beneficial arrangement or the result of having no other immortals to converse with.

So why the “rejection”?

Well, first off I think it’s a bit unfair to call it a rejection. For it to be a rejection, they would have to turn down the idea of their relationship. They didn’t, they just disagreed on the terms of that relationship.

Second, although Aziraphale has made these significant character developments, he is still Aziraphale. Naive, and under the impression that he can make things better for everyone—including Crowley. It could be just like old times, but even better. His motive here was not to fundamentally change who Crowley is, but to move them into a situation where they are safe to be together and he can feel like he has a purpose.

I don’t know if Crowley actually thinks Aziraphale wants to change him or not. I can definitely see that being a thing, but it’s not actually brought up. Instead, Crowley reminds him what Heaven is actually like—the reason he doesn’t want to be there. Not just because he can’t, but because he doesn’t want to.

The lack of compromise here ends up making sense from both sides. Aziraphale functions the way someone who grew up deeply religious and just can’t quite pry away from their faith does. Constantly ashamed, justifying the actions of an unjust God, unable to find meaning outside of what he’s been taught is the meaning. A recipe for self loathing, for always going back because it’s all you know, of course you still pray every night, long after you’ve stopped going to church. Ask a fundamentalist Christian if Abraham would’ve been justified in killing Isaac, and when they answer ask why. You will sample some of what I am talking about.

In contrast, Crowley has completely broken off from that illusion. His own moral code is more important to him than Heaven or Hells’. He has spent thousands of years trying to get Aziraphale to see through the manipulative tactics that keep him in check. He watches Aziraphale torment himself with this idea of goodness, what it is and how he has to represent it. And by the end of S2, he is still stuck in that same rut.

Neil utilized the metaphor of an abusive relationship (Nina/Lizzy, Aziraphale/Heaven) but whichever way you look at it, it’s the same. Psychological conditioning designed to break down the spirit into obedience.

And despite all this, despite the fact that Aziraphale is actively clawing his way through processing all of this trauma on his own, he still doesn’t give in to Heaven before he’s promised Crowley.

He goes back, yes. But there was no character regression. It was still development. He’s just not all the way there yet.

There would be no S3 if he was.

[actual-changeling]

ohhh yanno...I think sometimes why I get so uncomfortable with meta and theories with GO (specifically in defense of Aziraphale) is that it really starts to resemble pro Christianity rhetoric...and I totally believe that everyone should feel free to believe/not believe in any sort of religion they choose...but it starts to get real uncomfy real fast when I'm reminded of my own christian family and their condemnations of me and the experiences I went through growing up christian and then realizing I didn't believe in any of it...

and for some people maybe that IS why they so staunchly defend Aziraphale, but for me, it's why his actions made me so mad, and why the firm "aziraphale defenders no matter what" lowkey skeeve me out...like that post you said about knowing Aziraphale in real life...yeahhhh no I'd never be friends with him, and maybe that does make me too biased for Crowley, bc I'm imagining myself in his position, bc I HAVE BEEN in that position, but idk I just can't find it in me to defend angel characters or super pro christian type thinking ones when too much of irl has been negatively affected by those types of people. and yeah fiction is not reality but when the premise of GO is a satirical look on religion idk it's just iffy to be so pro angel/heaven imo (obviously this isn't about those who view it with nuance hahaha)

I know what you mean anon, I definitely feel the same.

Seeing people fall into angel good/demon bad without even noticing is... painful, to say the least. Defending all of Aziraphale's actions because he had "good intentions" or "still has faith" or "was traumatized by heaven" is harmful and unhealthy to say the least, and it 100% looks like pro-Christianity rhetoric at times.

We're supposed to look at Aziraphale and see somehow who yes, has good intentions, but has refused to deal with his trauma and problems and ends up making incredibly bad choices as a result. He is supposed to change, so defending his actions is counter-intuitive to the message Neil and Terry want us to receive.

Aziraphale is that kid who tells you sure, it's fine to no believe in God, but you will go to hell and suffer forever, who tells you everyone just needs to "try harder" and that "poor people have mor opportunities" (I still cannot process that he canonically says and believes that), who tells you that you can be gay, but don't be it in front of the children or any people.

Aziraphale is the guy who refuses to deal with his internalized homophobia and asks his queer friends to go back into the closet because he cannot deal with seeing queer people be happy while he is stuck in self-induced misery.

There are reasons why so many people are uncomfortable with his behaviour and ideologies—and you are supposed to be.

[exvangelical-christian-nerd]

TW Religion

Look I understand why religious people take offense to Good Omens, the Hellaverse, and that type of media (I've made posts on this before, about how the church kinda made their own bed, and I stand by that). I'm religious. I'm a practicing Christian. There are things in the shows that bother me a bit at times. There are parts of the fandom that I think go too far, but that happens in every single fandom. I think many of us who've been in any fandom for a bit can think of an example where someone just took something way to far. I mean there are multiple stories out there, to the point you sometimes see jokes about it, where someone went from fan to felon pretty dang quick. Or cases where a group of fans got more than a bit culty. The difference with the Hellaverse specifically, is, I believe, that if you take it to far you can start messing with very real demons, who are not the same as the ones in the show, and I don't want to touch that.

Now all that said, the fact that I am religious is a key contributor in why I love this kinda of media, and why I gravitate to it. I like things that bother me, at least things that bother me theologically. I really like things that make me question my faith, or components of it. Also, if I haven't made this crystal clear, the church has caused me a great deal of pain, and continues to do so. I have a lot of religious trauma to work through, and it can be really hard, because I often feel really alone. Most people with religious trauma leave the religion in question. I'm still here. I have to grapple, almost daily, with separating my hurt from my faith, and separating what I was taught from what I actually believe. I'm exvangelical, but I'm still a church going, bible believing Christian, and y'all that's a special kind of hell. It hurts, a lot. Sometimes to the point where it makes me physically ill. People I love and respect, continue to say things knowingly or unknowingly that cut like a knife. And How many times can you get stabbed? How long? How long must I hurt?

These shows help me process. They help me look at things from another perspective and go "do I believe that? And if I do, why?" Also sometimes they call me out, and that's never fun... but it can be important. But one of the big ones is that it gives me a chance to process my hurt with the symbolism of my childhood. It's healing.

I latched onto Emily, because I see myself in her. I see someone who believed, and had the rug pulled out from under them. I see someone, who still believes, but feels betrayed. Someone who now has to confront and question, because "if this was a lie what else is?" And "I trusted this person and this is what they did?" And possibly worst of all, "I helped enable this. I allowed this to happen. I might not have known, but I still helped. What have I done?" I know those feelings. I live them every single day.

I understand Aziraphale's choice to go running back to heaven (whether I like that choice or not, and I don't). It looked like they would accept him as he was, even accept those he loves. He sees an opportunity to change things for the better, in this system he knows, and cares about even. It's not going to go well. We know it's not, and I think even Aziraphale knows that, but that need to believe it can change, that you change it, yeah I get it. I really do.

I understand Sera's desperation to protect. I remember feeling St. Peter's aversion. The desperate bargaining we've seen from the cherubs trying to convince themselves what they're doing is right, or at least not wrong, I've done it. I see myself in Vaggie, trying to mend the damage she did. I was an armored gay. I know I too caused harm. Lucifer's abandonment issues and desire to just leave it all behind him or try to. It's all to real. And Crowley's disillusionment with everything? His belief that he is "on his own side", because where else could he possibly go? Yeah I get that too.

And I could go on

And on

And on

[lesbrarian]

My thoughts and feelings (mostly feelings) about the season 2 ending

Below the cut because I’m not a monster:

I’m angry. I’m so angry. As someone who identified incredibly strongly with Aziraphale all through season 1: how dare he.

(Disclaimer: this is just me venting my emotion. It was a well-done story! (...I guess.) And my feelings might change over time. But I gotta get them out somewhere, lol)

I love Aziraphale. My lil queer religious trauma baby. I loved his journey in season 1. I was so proud of him for escaping Heaven and ending up on his own side with Crowley.

And season 2 feels like it erased all of that.

Here’s where I’m coming from: I get religious trauma. As a queer person who was raised in the Southern Baptist church, I absolutely understand it. But that honestly makes the ending worse for me. Why would he go back? And not even to just game the system--why would he offer to change Crowley?

I’ve seen people mention that from his perspective, he’s offering Crowley safety and an opportunity to return to the joy he had as a starmaker. But even if that’s true and he doesn’t see why that would hurt Crowley, that’s still a problem. After everything in season 1, if he still thinks that Heaven is on the side of truth and light, that would be an explanation--but not an excuse, because how could he still think that? After everything?

What Aziraphale did would be like if a partner said they were joining my childhood church and said that I could join again. If that happened, I don’t know if I could forgive them. Or, to be a bit stronger, it felt like someone telling a trans person, “It’s okay! You can be cis again!” (We know that gender doesn’t work that way, but that’s what makes the “offer” even more hurtful.) Regardless of what he thought he was offering, how could he still misunderstand the situation--and misunderstand Crowley--that badly?

And honestly my anger is largely personal, because the idea of somehow being sucked back into religion terrifies me. Because of my experiences, this moment is borderline unforgivable (ha) for me. I don’t think any relationship of mine could recover from this. I have a hard time seeing how Aziraphale and Crowley’s relationship can recover from this. It is a fundamental betrayal. And after the comfort that Aziraphale’s arc gave me in season 1 (that season genuinely helped comfort me as I began the slow process of leaving my own religion),  I feel betrayed by Aziraphale and, honestly, by the show. (Though I acknowledge that that last one isn’t super strong and will likely change.)

Honestly, a lot of these emotions probably come from the fact that I am pretty similar to Aziraphale and that the idea that I could do something like that terrifies me. I would never, but only because I have learned and grown so much in the past couple of years. Aziraphale will probably go through that growth in the next season, but honestly, giving grace to ourselves is not easy for either of us. (Part of being an Aziraphale is not giving grace to Aziraphales.)

Anyway. I do feel a bit betrayed by the storyline/writing choice because the arc of season 1 meant so much to me. I’m not saying it’s a bad choice! I just needed to get this out there so I can have the space for all the metas and fix-its. I’m doing the venting-my-emotions-as-part-of-the-fandom-experience bit. Please don’t come at me for attacking the show, lol.

Just. How dare he.

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

The Ritual of Propagation - Chapter 6

"I Always Want..."

Crowley--having revealed his own trauma--takes Aziraphale through how the early days of their marriage brought all those memories back, but also helped him to move on...

WARNING: This fic has so many warnings, particularly: R*pe/non-con, Pr*gnancy/Mpr*g, Dubcon, Trauma, Ab*se, PTSD, Miscarriage, and (in one chapter) Graphic depictions of (s*xual) violence. PLEASE take a look at either the fic tags or the individual chapter warnings before reading. DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT.

For those who have been waiting: This chapter also contains Catharsis, and the beginning of the healing process. However, it also contains Dubcon between Aziraphale and Crowley; the situation is worked out in this chapter and further discussed in the next, but if you are sensitive to such things, see the end note for more information to see if you need to skip this one.

*Heavy breath*

Sorry. This is a very intense chapter, and while I *am* proud of it and the story so far, again, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT.

--

And now, a short and G-RATED excerpt showing the end of Aziraphale and Crowley's wedding.

--

“…and eternally yours,” Crowley finished, sliding the ring onto Aziraphale’s finger.

He leaned down into the kiss, and the warm sensation, the love that had lingered around Aziraphale as a barely-contained power since they’d left their sides, since they’d moved to the cottage, broke free. It washed over him in a wave, embracing him even as the angel’s arms did. When he straightened up again it clung to him, and he knew that he would always feel that warmth, forever.

“Well.” He ran a hand along his arm, marveling at the way the sensation flowed around his fingers, almost tangible. “Guess that makes it official.”

“Do you think…” Aziraphale studied his fingers, as if looking for the glow. “Do you think it’s… a blessing?”

“Do you need one?”

“Nooo…” Crowley watched the last bit of hesitation, of doubt, be pushed aside. “No. Everything I need is right here.” He reached up to brush the side of the demon’s face, fingers lingering on his sigil. “My… husband.”

“Shit.” The tears were almost instantaneous, filling his eyes before Crowley had even recognized the enormous, fizzing bubble of joy inside. “I’m not… I’m…” He swiped at them, knocking the brand-new black titanium wedding band against his nose as he did.

Aziraphale laughed. “Crowley.” He stepped closer, pressing against him. “My love.” Arms around him. “My strange, soft demon.” Face raised for another kiss. “My husband.”

The waterworks started again. “Sssssstop that!”

But this time Aziraphale held his hands. “Don’t wipe them away. You don’t have to hide anything from me. Not ever again.”

His angel was going to discorporate him. Kill him. Right here, on the spot. “Nnnnkay.” He shuffled closer, concentrating on just those lips for a few more minutes.

“Mmmmh,” Aziraphale sighed when they finished. “So. What are you in the mood for now?”

“I’ve got ideas. How about you?” He rubbed his nose against Aziraphale’s, mentally preparing for an eternity of nights curled up against his husband’s side, drifting off to sleep surrounded by love so strong it was tangible. A fool’s errand. Nothing would prepare him for that. Or for what Aziraphale said next.

Read the rest on AO3!

[lyricwritesprose]

Angels don’t lose their feathers.  They’re not birds.  An angel’s wings are not just wings, they’re a physical manifestation of their nature, and that doesn’t change.  Does it?

Demons have lost their feathers once.  After the Fall, when they were remade for their new role in the universe.  But that’s over and done with.  Demons can’t Fall again, and they certainly can’t Rise.  They can’t even fly.

Despite this, Aziraphale and Crowley are losing feathers.  Maybe they’re dying.  Maybe something altogether more ineffable is going on.

“Feathers” is a hurt-comfort story of about 11,500 words, coming on July 28.  It is written by me (lyricwritesprose) and features art from @mies-reveriesart and @kerkusa.  It features wings, wing grooming, angst, softness, questions of how magic works, Aziraphale rescuing Crowley, two marriage proposals, and a happily eternally after.

Excerpt under cut

Crowley called three times before he came to the bookshop, once from home, twice while he wove through the streets of London, smashing traffic laws.  He came closer than he would have liked to smashing himself.  His usual technique of assuming that traffic and pedestrians would get out of his way felt heavy, like trying to lift something against too much gravity.  He didn’t care.  The memory of the last time Aziraphale hadn't answered—the memory of not being able to find him at all—added an edge of panic to Crowley's already roiling emotions.  And he could feel Aziraphale, he knew he was there, but—

He pulled up across from the bookshop, lunged out of the Bentley, caused a fender-bender on his way across the street, and burst into the bookshop.  "Angel?  Angel, I have to—"  He swallowed.  "Have to tell you something."

Aziraphale was sitting very still.  Statue-like.  For a moment, Crowley didn't know if he was even going to react to his presence.

Then, without looking up from his folded hands, Aziraphale said quietly, "I don't think that's appropriate anymore."

It hit like a slap to the face.  Crowley recoiled.  We're not friends.  I don't even like you.

It's over, Crowley.  Aziraphale didn't need Crowley anymore, did he?  No more need for the Arrangement.

Well, that was convenient.  He very likely wouldn't have Crowley for much longer.  "It's not an endearment," Crowley lied, "it's your species, for Hell's sake.  Like calling a human, ‘human.’  Look, I—" More lies.  "Don't actually care what you think of me.  If you don't like me, that's—that's good, actually.  Makes things easier.  Although you do a blessed good imitation of someone who does care, which can be—could be blessed cruel under the right circumstances, so—" No, that was a distraction.  It was all distraction.  "I need to tell you—"

"That's just it," Aziraphale said, looking up.  "Species."

His face was very calm.

"What're you talking about?"

"My species." He paused for a long moment, so long that Crowley opened his mouth to ask him what the Heaven he was on about.  "I'm all right," Aziraphale went on finally.  "I think I really am actually all right.  So I don't want you to start panicking over it, my dear."

Crowley bared his teeth.  "If I don't get to call you 'angel,' you don't get to drop 'my dear' into the conversation as if you mean it.  Aziraphale, what—"

"I'm not," Aziraphale said.

Crowley looked at him.

Aziraphale was miserable.  Still, calm, and absolutely devastated.  Crowley moved forward instinctively.  "Angel, what's wrong?  Talk to me.  Actually talk to me."

A white feather popped out of nowhere and drifted slowly downwards.  Aziraphale watched it.  "I'm not an angel," he said.  "Anymore."

The feather drifted sideways, spinning as it fell, finally coming to rest near Aziraphale's shoe.

Crowley stared at it.  Angels didn't lose their feathers.  Demons didn't lose their feathers.  They weren't birds.  They didn't molt.  Feathers grew back in when they were damaged—sometimes—but demons and angels didn’t lose feathers without massive trauma.  Wings were—they were less wings, the way the material world understood them, and more a tangible manifestation of what an angel or a demon was.

But angels did lose their feathers when they Fell.  Crowley remembered.  Remembered, vividly, the crushing weakness, the dread of being unmade, and then the rage, as the feathers came in black, of knowing he had been remade.

"In a way," Aziraphale said, "it's just as well.  I have had—many thoughts.  About Heaven.  About God.  Thoughts that I don't think are—entirely appropriate for my former position."

"Sod that!" It burst out of Crowley before he even realized he was going to speak.  "If God is willing to condemn Their best angel for thoughts, then God is—" He couldn't think of a sufficiently strong epithet.

"The one who decides," Aziraphale said, with a mournful flicker of a smile..  “Crowley, please.  Don’t worry about it.”  He tried to force a more cheerful expression onto his face.  It didn’t work.  He still looked desperately unhappy.  “I’ve made my peace with it.”

“Don’t.  Don’t tell me that.  Aziraphale—”

“I won’t lie to you and tell you that I’m not frightened.  I am, of—a great many things.  I’ve never tried living without Grace, and, of course, Hell having a claim on me—but it doesn’t matter, don’t you see.”

“It matters more than anything!  Aziraphale—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Aziraphale went on, with maddening calm, “because I know for a fact that being a demon doesn’t turn someone into a monster.  I—will change, I assume, and I’m frightened of changing, but at the end of it, I am not going to be a ravening beast, and I know that, because—well, because I’ve seen you.  I’ve known you.  Down through the centuries, I’ve known you, and you have never been less than—not to put too fine a point on it, you’ve never been less than me.  So—I am not going to rage against a change that puts me closer to what you are, Crowley.  I think perhaps I’m supposed to.  Curse my fate, hate it, plead with an unfeeling sky and despair.  I won’t.  I refuse.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale looked at him, and then looked at what was in his hand.  “What . . .”

He processed it, and his eyes widened.

“I’m losing feathers too,” Crowley said, twitching the long black primary feather between his fingers.

@do-it-with-style-events

[forineffablereasons]

It's the anon who sees her PTSD-self in Crowley! (my name's Nick by the way) There's so many layers to this and I'm not very eloquent so sorry if this goes over into several asks. My story is that something Very Bad happened to me, and to be able to start healing I had to leave home ASAP and on my own terms. Partly so I could have the space to start healing/re-building myself but also so that my brain wouldn't associate my home with Bad things and it could still be a place of love and (1/?)

(2/?) and of family. My own h/c is that something happened to Crowley (or he saw something terrible) and he started asking questions and getting himself into trouble so that he could leave Heaven. I've got terrible gaps in my memory from where my brain has desperately tried to separate my trauma from the things that have gotten me through it, so maybe Crowley doesn't even remember that something terrible happened to him in Heaven, and that's why he's in such anquish and holds such resentment

(3/3) for being kicked out. I also have sort of decided that something happened in the fourtheenth century which reminded him of the trauma he faced and unlocked something awful inside him and that's why he's been trying to escape it through time. Anyway I feel like Crowley loves the Earth so much because he found salvation there - a second home where he could start to escape the trauma he experienced in falling (sauntering vaguley downwards) and from whatever happened to him in Heaven.

(I'm really sorry it's Nick again) Just wanted to add quickly that there's lots of little behaviours he exhibits, (as well as the way he very quickly falls for Aziraphale, the first person he meets in his new salvation home who shows him kindness) which, to me, are signs/symptoms of a person trying to cope with repressed trauma and yeah anyway that's why I love this story and specifically this character.

---------

no need to apologize nick, these ask box limits are pretty low, i get it lol, you are Good. anyway i’m so sorry that bad things have happened to you, but i’m also glad that you are looking at these characters and seeing yourself and finding hope in their stories. i definitely see where you’re coming from, and i think that’s definitely part of the amazing thing about a story like good omens is that we’re able to slot ourselves in so neatly and yet we still have these characters who do find a home and who do start to heal from their traumas and who do take control over their own narrative. they get a happy ending! but even in that happy ending, there’s no magic solution to what they’ve gone through; it’s just love and working hard to be the kind of person they want to be despite the odds and working to find that safe home and working through their personal traumas. there’s something really honest about it, even though they’re an angel and a demon who live forever and do miracles. there’s so much hope in it, you know? bad things happen to us, and working through those bad things is hard, but not hopeless. stories, telling stories, consuming stories, help us process. putting ourselves in crowley’s shoes, or aziraphale’s, puts us in the shoes of someone who is going to be okay. this is a good and beautiful thing, you know? because some days it doesn’t feel like it that’s true for us, but that just means the story isn’t over yet. you gotta turn the page, you gotta see what happens tomorrow. there’s more. hang onto it. 

[thinkingisadangerouspastime]

killer queen

(in which the author is self-indulgent, aziraphale presents as female, and crowley is torn between holding on and letting go)

note: i definitely wrote this while blasting killer queen, but that was probably obvious

this fic was loosely based off this request by @olivianeesan! i really went wild with it but it was fun so hopefully all's well that ends well

i'd like to apologize in advance because my 1920s nerd had a field day writing this lmao

~*~

Go to America, they said. It's the perfect place to plant the seeds of evil, they said.

Well, they'd been right. But that didn't mean Crowley had to like it.

Of course, his dislike wasn't inherent to America, at least not necessarily. Though he'd never admit it, he'd been in a seemingly perpetual bad mood following his falling out with Aziraphale in 1862.

They hadn't spoken since. And 60 years had already passed.

What was worse was that they didn't usually leave off on such a bad note. And even if they did, they would reconcile within a week or two. But this time, they hadn't.

Maybe that was what irked Crowley so much. The lack of reconciliation. Not to mention he wasn't particularly interested in digging through his emotions to figure out what else might be sparking his frustration.

(It was possible, even, that a part of him was afraid to find out.)

That being said, Crowley ended up being pretty successful in America. He was successful everywhere, of course, but Jazz Age America truly was the perfect feeding ground for evil. Americans were always looking for a little sin. Speakeasies, bootlegging, the stock market - corruption flowed through the veins of this country.

Currently, it was the middle of the night, but the speakeasy Crowley resided in was thriving. Men were drinking, flappers were dancing, music echoed around the room - in about a hundred years, he was sure this scene would be quite picturesque.

"Hey," a drunken man slurred, sliding into the seat across from Crowley. "Is it true?"

"Is what true?" Crowley muttered, taking a sip of his wine and moving his chair slightly away from the stranger.

"That Killer Queen is coming here tonight."

Crowley paused, processing the news. Interesting. Then he shrugged, not bothering to answer directly. The man appeared to take the hint and left, which was surprising, seeing as he'd smelled like he'd bathed in whiskey.

However, despite the lack of care that he presented, Crowley had to admit his interest was piqued by the man's question. The so-called Killer Queen was an infamous flapper that women hired to "test" their husbands' loyalty. She presumably seduced them to see if they were willing to cheat. It was only a thing among the elite, really.

(No one knew what Killer Queen's day job was, either, but a few rumors were floating around that she worked as a psychiatrist who focused on the trauma of abused women.)

Killer Queen was loved by half of the male population and hated by the rest. Despite this, no one could deny their attraction to her, including or perhaps especially other women.

If she did show up, Crowley had to admit that he'd be interested in meeting her.

"Oh my God!" a flapper with short black hair shrieked as she rush into the speakeasy, her feather boa slipping off her shoulders. "She's coming! She's really coming!"

Huh. Speak of the devil and she shall appear.

Crowley took another sip of his wine, then nearly choked on it as the Killer Queen entered the room.

He'd recognize those blue eyes anywhere.

"Angel?!" he sputtered. He cursed, almost biting his tongue as he realized it might have been better to keep his mouth shut.

Aziraphale glanced across the speakeasy, her eyes widening as she saw Crowley. Crowley tried to look away and pretend he hadn't seen her, but it was too late. As Aziraphale passed by his table, she sent him a look that said:

Meet me in a private room in ten minutes.

In reality, it wasn't her look that spoke, but rather her words were spoken telepathically into Crowley's mind. Sometimes being a supernatural being was convenient, even if telepathy did feel rather invasive. Tended to leave a person with an itch on the back of the neck.

Crowley found himself unable to take his eyes off Aziraphale as she walked away. The angel rarely presented as female, but he found her to be as beautiful as ever. The glittery silver flapper dress she wore hugged her curves in a way reminiscent of Bessie Smith.

Wait.

He was supposed to be angry at the angel. Not ogling her.

(Fortunately, Crowley had always been very good at multitasking.)

~*~

Crowley pulled the door shut after entering the private room, tossing his hat down on the table. "Fancy running into you here, angel. And as a flapper, of all the fashion trends to choose from."

Aziraphale's face turned a pretty shade of pink, and she fidgeted with the strings of pearls hanging around her neck. "I needed to, well, it was necessary to assimilate myself as a bit of a party girl, my dear."

"So I've heard, Killer Queen." Crowley sat down across from the angel, not particularly regretting the acidity of his tone. "You know, you could just admit that you came to fraternize with the American elite. Wouldn't hurt my feelings."

Aziraphale stared at him, her face revealing no emotion whatsoever. Then she sighed, tucking an escaped strand of her wavy blonde hair behind her ear. (The angled cut looked good on her, much to Crowley's irritation and attraction.) "I take it you're still... angry about 1862."

Angry? No, he wasn't angry. Betrayed, perhaps. Frustrated. Tired of the 60 years of resentment that still boiled inside of him. But not angry.

(How could he ever be angry at her?)

Crowley didn't bother to grace the angel with an answer to her question.

Aziraphale bit her lip, which Crowley noticed was an action cuter than it had any right to be. "Will you at least tell me why you're here? In America?"

Crowley shrugged. "Corrupting souls. Committing evil deeds. The like."

"Such as...?"

The silver ribbon that was tied around Aziraphale's forehead and threaded through her blonde hair was distracting, though not as distracting as the lower-than-usual cut of her silver dress.

Damn, he was whipped.

"Urging Prohibition along, for one. Inciting a bit of gang violence. I've already gotten two commendations for encouraging bootlegging and for my help in facilitating the development of increased organized crime."

Aziraphale chuckled, resting her elbows on the table and placing her chin on her hands. "I should have known your lot was behind Prohibition. The intention of the movement seemed too good to be true."

"Without Prohibition, there'd be no speakeasies, no bootlegging, no Al Capone. As humans say, the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. And while that's not literally accurate, it is what happened here." Crowley noticed that the angel's nails were perfectly manicured. The relaxed manner in which she sat was ridiculously poised. "Anyways. Care to tell me what you're doing in America, Miss Killer Queen? Besides the whole 'seducing humans to test their loyalty to their partners' affair."

Huh. That came out more bitter than he intended.

Aziraphale frowned. "Who told you that?" She rolled her eyes. "Trust me, my dear. I have not 'seduced' anyone. Besides, I only agree to help the women whose husbands I know are unfaithful."

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "And how are you able to tell, exactly?"

Aziraphale pursed her lips (which were painted a rich crimson, and Crowley couldn't stop staring at them), then sighed. "My dear... Trust me when I tell you that there is nothing more painful than being in a room with two people, one of whom is in love with every fibre of their being, while the other feels nothing. Worst is when they never have, and they never will."

For a moment, Crowley did not respond, simply staring at the angel.

He wanted nothing more than to hold Aziraphale close to him and kiss her senseless, to kiss her with the passion of someone who'd been in love for almost 6000 years.

But he couldn't. He'd never be able to.

An angel could never love a demon. Not like that.

And thus, therein lay the problem. He did understand. Or at the very least, he was deathly afraid that he did.

Crowley laughed. It was harsh. Bitter. "No, angel. I understand plenty." He stood abruptly, unable to be in her company any longer. "I've got to be going." If he stayed even another minute, he might say something he'd regret. "I know you have holy business to attend to. All that jazz."

Aziraphale stood, too, her brow furrowed in confusion. "But you've only just got here!" Her face reddened, and she broke eye contact with the demon. "Not to mention that it's been... It's been a while since we last saw each other, and - and had a chance to... Talk."

"I have to go," Crowley repeated. He grabbed his hat off the table. "I'm sorry, angel."

"No," Aziraphale murmured. "I'm the one who's sorry." She glanced at Crowley, her expression determined and her blue eyes steely. "But as I said 60 years ago, I refuse to be a part of your self-destruction."

Her stubbornness was as endearing as it was frustrating. "I know," Crowley said simply. He placed his hat on his head before moving around the table to get to Aziraphale, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles, just above the silver ring on her middle finger. "I forgot to mention that you look beautiful," he said as he let go of her hand. "Maybe hold onto that dress for a rainy day. It suits you."

Aziraphale's face turned a deep shade of pink. "O-Oh," she stammered. "Thank you, my dear. That's - That's very kind of you to say."

Crowley turned around to leave, but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

"Wait." Aziraphale's voice was hushed. Her grip on his shoulder tightened, though not enough to cause any pain. "Will - Will I see you again? Soon?"

Crowley gently shrugged her hand off of him. He didn't turn to face her. "Goodbye, angel."

He was already halfway out the door before she responded.

"My dear boy... Be careful."

And then he was gone.

~*~

[backpfeifenguy]

All in Your Head Chapter 5

After a few minutes, something occurred to Raven. “Why didn’t you just call Mento?”

“I need a psychic I can trust.”

“You don’t trust him? I thought he was a father figure or something.”

Beast Boy raised an eyebrow. “And? Daddy issues are standard issue in our line of work. Besides,” he murmured, “he probably gave this bastard more to work with than anyone else.”

Raven couldn’t resist; it was rare for Beast Boy to talk so openly about his life before joining the Titans, and even rarer for him to talk about Mento. “Was he really that bad?”

“Worse,” Beast Boy replied, “trust me. He pretty much never talked to me except to make me feel like shit. Every day, he’d find some knew way that I’d disappointed him, some new reason why I wasn’t good enough, some new lecture about how the whole team was going to die because I wasn’t strong enough…” Raven could tell that this conversation was taking Beat Boy somewhere he probably shouldn’t be in his current state, and resolved to change the subject.

“You know, you actually remind me of Aziraphale a little.”

“Excuse me?”

“Aziraphale,” Raven replied simply, “from Good Omens. You remind me of him.”

“I remind you of him? Really?”

“You’re smarter than people give you credit for, and you’re good at being good.” Beast Boy snorted. “What the hell does that even mean?”

“It means you help people. You don’t have to think about it, you just help them.” Raven felt herself blushing slightly, but pressed on anyway. “You said the Beast is basically just your instincts, right?”

“That’s what it told me.”

“And everytime it’s come out, it’s tried to protect me,” Raven said with a faint grin, “your deepest instincts are to protect others. Face it Beast Boy; you’re a good person.”

No you’re not; you’re just a dog that got a few tricks whipped into it. Raven thinks that you’re a good person. She’s smarter than you. Ergo, she’s right, you’re a good person. “Thanks Raven, that means a lot to me.”

“Any time, Beast Boy.”

“I can confirm that you are indeed a good person.” An unfamiliar voice sounded from the corner of the room.

“I was wondering when you’d speak up,” Beast Boy replied calmly, “I’m guessing you’re the psychic that Robin called?”

A figure stepped forward; she had red hair and green skin, darker than Beast Boy’s. “How did you know?”

“What, like you made it hard?” Beast Boy scoffed. “I could smell you the instant you came in, through the wall I might add. Combined with your green skin and the fact that you smell like Martian Manhunter, I’m guessing you’re Miss Martian.”

“And he thinks he’s dumb.” Raven quipped, rolling her eyes. Because you are; having a good nose doesn’t make you smart.

“My name is M’gann M’orzz, but you can just call me Meghan. Now,” Meghan’s tone shifted from friendly and open to all business, “I’m told that you’ve got an uninvited guest in your head.”

After a quick explanation and a warning about the Beast, Meghan began her work. “I feel I should warn you, this may take a while; pinpointing the exact telepathic signature of the attack could takes hours, even days… No wait, I found it.” Her eyes narrowed. “Of course it’s him…”

Psimon’s plan was progressing nicely; Beast Boy hadn’t been seen in two weeks, the other titans were run ragged operating with an incomplete team, and best of all, they had no way to trace it back to him! All in all, he was starting to feel unstoppable. And that’s when his wall exploded.

A voice rang out from the smoke. “Hello Psimon.” Robin stepped forward.

“Heard you been messing with my little buddy’s head.” Cyborg growled, emerging from the smoke.

“That was an unwise choice of actions.” Starfire opined, the glow of her eyes contrasting with her calm tone.

“Very unwise.” Raven’s voice emerged from behind him.

“You think you’ve won?” Psimon sneered.

“Pretty much.” Best Boy stepped forward, looking unbearably smug.

“This isn’t a victory, this is just the start of negotiations.”

Beast Boy looked confused. “Negotiations?”

Psimon smirked. “You need me to get rid of the program I left in your grey matter, so you’ll have to give me what I want.” He’d hoped he wouldn’t need this contingency plan, but he’d settle for it anyway; extort his way to freedom, set the program to its dormant state for a few weeks, go into hiding and reactivate it. His plans would be delayed, but ultimately unchanged.

“No I don’t,” Beast Boy replied, “she already took care of it.”

“Who did?” Psimon demanded, taken aback.

“I did.” Miss Martian floated down through the ceiling.

“I surrender.” Psimon whimpered.

“I thought so.” Miss Martian smirked.

“So,” Beast Boy began growled as soon as Psimon had been restrained, “why did you do it?”

“To destroy the Titans, of course.”

“And you went after me?” Beast Boy shook his head. “Kind of a weird choice of target.” Don’t sell yourself short, boy.

“I didn’t go after anyone in particular,” Psimon responded airily. “The program simply attached itself to the most receptive mind.” He leered. “Doing the sad clown bit, are we? A little cliched.”

Robin narrowed his eyes. “Explain.”

“No,” Beast Boy sighed “I should explain, not him.” Everyone turned to face him. It’s time, boy. They need to know. “He didn’t put a voice in my head; he just took one that was already there and made it worse.” After a moment of hesitation, he continued. “It’s called intrusive thoughts. They’re a common symptom of depression and PTSD… both of which I have.”

“The program was meant to drive you to suicide!” Psimon hissed. “You would have died, and the program would jump ship onto whoever was most affected by your death. The Titans would have fallen like a line of dominoes!”

“Well, I guess I had a little more help than you expected.” You can say that again.

“What are you?” Psimon demanded. “What the hell are you?!”

Beast Boy leaned in close, so that only Psimon could hear him, and lowered his defences just enough to let his mind be read. “I’m a boy.” And a beast. “And stronger than you.”

Psimon was restrained and taken away by the police before long, and Miss Martian left shortly afterwards, pausing only to give everyone a quick psychic scan to make sure Psimon hadn’t messed with their heads. Before they could head home, Robin still had one very important job to handle. “Beast Boy, are… are you okay?”

For a second, it looked like Beast Boy was thinking of lying to him, but after a moment his shoulders sagged. “No. I’m not.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Another moment of silence. “Yes.”

Robin remembered his training for situations like this. “Would you rather wait until we get home first?” First rule of talking about trauma; make a safe space available. Somewhere private, comfortable and judgement-free.

Beast Boy looked grateful. “Yes.”

The atmosphere in the common room was tense; nobody felt comfortable saying anything, so they were all just waiting for Beast Boy to talk. “Okay, I guess I should start at the start; how much do you guys know about my life before the Titans?”

“Not much grass stain,” Cyborg replied. “You don’t talk about it much.”

“Okay,” Beast Boy sighed, “let’s take it from the top. My parents were biologists; Mark and Mary Logan. We were in Africa when I got my powers; the Upper Labumba region. They were researching a disease called sakutia.”

“The virus that turns animals green?” Cyborg asked.

“Yeah,” Beast Boy grinned ruefully, “and then I went and got bitten by a green monkey.”

“How’s that work?” Cyborg asked, severely confused. “Sakutia’s fatal in humans. One of the few diseases to have a 100% fatality rate. So how come you ain’t dead?”

“My parents were working on a cure, and when I got bit, they decided to test it out on me.” He chuckled sadly. “It’s not like it could have made things any worse. The cure was based on introducing animal DNA, since Sakutia only kills humans. It worked, but…” He gestured to his face. “There were some side effects.”

“So your parents saved your life and gave you your powers,” Robin muttered. “I always wondered.”

Beast Boy sighed. “And then they died. Went off a waterfall in their raft.” His eyes began to glisten with tears. “My mother saved my life that day, too. She told me to turn into a bird. If she hadn’t, I would have gone over with them.”

Cyborg couldn’t believe what he was hearing; had his little buddy really been keeping so much pain inside? “And that’s when you ended up with the Doom Patrol?”

“No,” Beast Boy replied, his expression taking on a haunted cast. “That’s when I ended up with Galtry.” And so he went on, outlining the abuse he suffered at the hands of Nicholas Galtry, his subsequent sale to Doctor Register, (he refused to say what happened in Register’s custody, except that it was ‘real bad’), his subsequent escape and homeless stint, followed by his capture by thieves who forced him to use his powers to help them rob houses, and finally, the Doom Patrol. “I basically just broke into their headquarters and refused to leave; after chasing me for six hours they gave up and let me stay.”

“Now tell them the rest.” Said Raven, her tone firm but not unkind.

Beast Boy looked at her for a moment and continued. “Things weren’t great with the Patrol either. Rita was great; she’s basically my mom now. Cliff and Larry seemed to like me too, but Mento…” Codename only for Mento; Cyborg could guess what that meant. “I don’t think that man ever praised me for anything. No matter what I did, it was never enough for him, and after a while, I just couldn’t take it anymore. I snuck out in the middle of the night, made my way to Jump City, met you guys and never looked back.”

It took Cyborg a moment to process everything he’d heard; all that misery in one little life. But once it had fully sunk in, he knew exactly what to do. “That’s it, I’m calling a group hug. Everybody bring it in, Beast Boy needs it.”

“Hey, come on Cy!” Beast Boy mumbled, blushing faintly. “You know Raven doesn’t do--” He was cut off when Raven wrapped her arms around him.

“I’ll make an exception this time.”

Robin stepped forward. “Me too,” he said, draping his arms over Beast Boy and Raven’s shoulders. “It’s an emergency.”

“Indeed,” Starfire agreed, flying in and hugging the cluster of titans. “You are in need of the group hug, friend Beast Boy.”

Cyborg chuckled as he encircled the other titans in a bear hug. “Sorry grass stain; you ain’t gettin’ out of this one.”

“Yeah,” Beast boy whispered, his voice hoarse. “Okay.”

“You’re keeping something from us.” The others had gone back to bed, albeit reluctantly, on the grounds that their being sleep deprived wouldn’t help anyone. The only ones still awake were Raven and Beast Boy.

“I am.” Beast Boy confirmed. “There’s a lot in my past, and I’m not ready to tell you everything.”

“Is it bad?” Raven demanded. “The thing you’re not telling us?”

“Real bad.” Beast Boy replied simply. “Maybe even the worst part.”

“And the intrusive thoughts?”

He shrugged. “They come and go.” Raven felt a flash of sadness in from Beast Boy, tinted with resignation.

“You’d better get some sleep,” Raven replied, her mind made up. “Because in the morning, I’m teaching you how to meditate.”

“Seriously? You’d do that for me?” This time she felt a burst of gratitude.

“Of course I would,” said Raven. “You’re my friend and I want to make sure you’re okay. Besides;”  She smirked. “If I teach you how to meditate, I might even get some peace and quiet every now and then.”

You’re green. Beast Boy opened his eyes; he hadn’t slept that well in weeks. Your ears are weird. It really was refreshing to only have to worry about his usual intrusive thoughts, which were a lot less frequent. And a lot more fucking lame. Apparently the Beast felt like being a little more vocal now, but that was fine. The Beast didn’t try to make him kill himself, the Beast was cool. Very cool. The important thing was that his mind was his own, he was back on active duty, and he had friends who cared about him. Your fangs scare people. Is that really the best you can do, little voice? Pathetic. And an incoming call from Jump City medium security prison, apparently.

“This better not be a dick pic.” Beast Boy muttered, accepting the call.

As it turned out, it was Control Freak. “Hey, uh… this is gonna sound weird but… are you okay man?”

“What the hell’s going on?” Beast Boy demanded.

“I just wanted to check up on you,” replied Control Freak. “Word is Psimon was pulling some weird stunt, trying to make you kill yourself.” He shrugged. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Beast Boy sighed. “Control Freak, you’re a villain, in case you forgot. So why are you checking up on me?”

“Because,” Said control Freak after a moment. “The Titans wouldn’t be much fun without you.” He looked away for a second. “And you guys are kind of all I have.”

Beast Boy felt a strange sort of dread; the feeling that things were about to get really awkward, and there was nothing he could do about it. Any other day he would have considered ending the call, but he was in a ‘pay it forward’ kind of mood. “Okay, I’ll bite. Why do you feel like we’re all you’ve got?”

“Well, I was never really any good at making friends, and as for my father…” Well, isn’t that familiar?

“Dude, say no more,” said Beast Boy. “I know all about bad father figures.”

“You guys are kinda sorta... the only people I really interact with much.”

“Are telling me that all this time, you’ve been robbing people, wasting incredible technology, and, most recently, nearly killing me… because you were bored and lonely?!”

“I guess it does sound pretty stupid when you say it out loud.”

“You know what? I’m not even going to lay into you for that.” Beast Boy sighed. “Everyone makes mistakes. My big question is why it never occurred to you to be a hero.”

“What, like you guys?” Control Freak looked confused. “No way in hell that’d ever work!”

“Why not?” Beast Boy asked. “You’ve definitely got the tech for it.”

“I don’t really have what you’d call the superhero body.” Control Freak gestured to his considerable paunch.

“That’s what training’s for.”

“I’m a villain!”

“So was Ravager before she joined up with us. And let’s be real,” Beast Boy smirked. “She was a lot scarier than you.”

‘What if I’m not good enough?” Well, this is certainly familiar.

“Just try your best,” said Beast Boy. “If it’s not enough, at least you tried, and you can try again.” He grinned. “It’s not like you’d be getting your start against Slade!”

Control Freak looked pensive. “I guess it’s worth thinking about.”

“Look, if you’d like I could have a talk with Robin about it, maybe get things set up for when you get out.” He grinned, he hoped reassuringly. “In the meantime, start hitting the exercise yard, and be on your best behaviour. I’ll see what I can do for you on my end.”

Control Freak sagged with relief. “Thanks man; I owe you one.” Robin’s gonna flip his shit.

“So let me get this straight,” Robin began. “Control Freak’s decided to reform? And he wants to be a hero? And you believe him?!” Told you.

“Look dude, he opened up to me.” Beast Boy was trying his best to keep a level head, but he really didn’t need this. “We’re the closest thing he has to friends. Us. The guys who beat him up and hand him over to the police, and we’re all he’s got. I can’t turn my back on that.”

Robin sighed. “And if he’s lying?”

“Then he’s still Control Freak,” said Beast Boy. “We can handle him, no problem.”

“I’m with Beast Boy.” Everyone in the room turned to look at Raven. “If he really wants to redeem himself, I say we give him a chance.”

“Are you serious?” Robin demanded. “Am I the only one who remembers that Control Freak nearly killed Beast Boy?”

“And then he had a panic attack and made a medic.” Cyborg noted. “Right before he surrendered.”

“That’s three in favour.” Raven muttered.

Robin’s shoulders sagged. “Fine, I’ll see what I can do about getting him released into our custody. Maybe I can use Taskforce X to make a case. But if we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. Cyborg, get to work on an emergency shutoff for his remote. And Beast Boy, get to work on a training schedule for him.” Robin winced. “Getting him into shape won’t be easy.”

“I’m afraid Beast Boy won’t be able to get started on that jut yet,” Raven interjected. “I need to teach him how to meditate.” She grinned very slightly. I like her. She would make a fine mate. With a sinking feeling and a faint blush, Beast Boy began to suspect that he might have just traded one dangerous voice in his head for another.

Author’s notes: Well, that’s it for this one! I’ve had fun writing it, tell me if you saw Psimon coming, and please, give me feedback! This is the first of a planned series, with the next part concerning Raven getting a boyfriend… who isn’t Beast Boy! Shock horror! That said, I’m not getting to work on that one until I get at least one review.

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Coming Soon - Absence of Words

Great news! The new Sawdust of Words fic is finally ready! I’ll be posting it some time this week (likely Friday, but I might manage to swing it sooner if I have a day where I’m not too exhausted after work).

“Absence of Words” will pick up shortly after the ending of “Finding the Words” - with Aziraphale and Crowley having freshly established that yes, they love each other, that can definitely be a thing going forward.

However, Crowley’s difficulties communicating (as discussed in “Finding the Words” and demonstrated in “Three Little Words”) quickly land them in trouble, as the miscommunication rapidly goes from “kind of amusing” to “annnnngst.”

I mean, it’s me. Was it ever going to be not angst?

The full fic will be a little over 13k. Excerpt below (2 scenes, one of which I posted an early version of...dang...more than a year ago?!)! Feel free to leave a comment/ask/private message with your thoughts!

(Note: because some people prefer to know what kind of ending to prepare themselves for, I’ll give a brief description after the excerpt, as well as CWs for the fic as a whole).

--

They walked for more than half an hour, hands still twined together.

Aziraphale spoke the whole time, more animated with every step, and Crowley drank it all in. He paid no attention to where they were, how far they walked, how late it was getting. All that mattered was they were here, they were together, really together.

They’d done it. They’d done everything.

Stopped the Apocalypse.

Fooled their sides.

Won their freedom.

And then, in the garden…Crowley’s lips still tingled, recalling the brush of Aziraphale’s. He almost couldn’t believe it had happened, couldn’t believe he’d dared. His breath caught in his throat every time he remembered that he now lived in a world where he had kissed Aziraphale. A world where nothing would come between them ever again. Each time Aziraphale’s eyes drifted over to him, Crowley was certain he’d discorporate on the spot.

The angel waved his arms as he talked. He pulled Crowley’s hand along with each gesture – sudden jerks ahead of them, tugs across his chest, complicated circles as if trying to draw what he described. More than once he nearly pulled Crowley off balance; Aziraphale didn’t know his own strength.

It would have been easier to let go.

He probably should let go – his palm was warm where it had been pressed against Aziraphale’s for half an hour, his fingers stiff and itching, longing to move again. The chills running up his arm, almost more than he could bear, were the most exquisite torture he’d ever suffered. Every time their palms shifted, finding a new position against each other, it pierced him like an arrow, tore through his heart, leaving it fluttering and juddering and palpitating like nothing else ever had. Crowley really, really needed to let go.

“Are you all right, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, glancing over.

“M’fine.” He gently squeezed the soft fingers locked through his, starting another wave of bliss that threatened to overwhelm him even before Aziraphale graced him with that smile…

Yeah. He wasn’t letting go any time soon.

--

Crowley’s hand was in his.

Aziraphale could hardly believe it had happened, hardly believe he’d dared. This seemed, somehow, the most momentous thing to have happened all weekend, though an outside observer would probably disagree. Well. That observer didn’t understand.

They’d started walking, the impulsiveness had come over him again and he – Aziraphale – the angel who dithered over every choice, every action – the angel who likely hadn’t taken the initiative on anything within living memory – he’d run his hand down Crowley’s arm and…

Well. Here they were.

They hadn’t spoken about it. Hadn’t really acknowledged it. But neither had let go.

Once he had his bearings, it shouldn’t have taken long to get back to his shop. But Aziraphale put it off as long as he could. They paused in front of dozens of shop windows, remarking on the pastries or clothing or sports equipment on display, but in truth Aziraphale was just looking at his own reflection, a fussy old angel, anxious and overeager, standing beside an exquisite demon radiating suave confidence. Quite the mismatched pair and yet, that’s what they were: a pair.

Perhaps even a couple.

Oh, dear, that seemed far too bold.

Aziraphale stumbled over whatever nonsense he’d been saying, and quickly turned away from the window. He glanced up to see if Crowley had noticed his distress, and oh, through those black lenses he could just catch a glimpse of golden slit-pupil eyes watching him directly, not just a glance from the corner of an eye. He’d been nodding along to everything Aziraphale said, that smirk hovering on his lips, threatening to turn into an actual smile. Crowley squeezed his hand, gently, as if to make sure it was still there, and it sent Aziraphale’s heart racing again.

Finally, after forty-five minutes, they ran out of detours and excuses and reached the last intersection: Soho to the left, Mayfair to the right.

His footsteps slowed as they approached. Aziraphale didn’t want to let go, not yet, didn’t want to relinquish the warmth, the feeling of the uneven heartbeat against his palm, the tiny shiver he felt whenever Crowley’s thumb brushed the back of his hand.

They paused at the corner, Aziraphale looking left, Crowley glaring straight ahead.

“Well.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.” He glanced down at their hands. Oh, dear. He didn’t seem to know how to let go.

“Nh,” Crowley said.

“Come now, dear fellow, you know this is the quickest way home for both of us. Twenty minutes. Fifteen, if you drive like you always do.”

“Nnnnnnh,” Crowley elaborated.

Aziraphale ordered his fingers to let go. Traitorous things, they only held on tighter.

“I could walk you back to the shop,” Crowley pointed out. “Or we could pick up the Bentley together, then drive over. Quicker that way. We can grab whatever you need…”

“What part of it’s a surprise are you having trouble with?” He meant it to be teasing, but Crowley’s lips went tight anyway. Aziraphale put a bit of extra cheer into his voice. “Look, as I understand, it’s proper etiquette for the individual with the car to pick up the other, when two people are…” He trailed off, considering in fascination all the words he could use to complete that sentence. “And…it wouldn’t hurt to have a moment to, I don’t know…”

He honestly didn’t know.

But the longer he stood in Crowley’s gaze, the more certain he was that he needed to step away. A thousand emotions were bubbling up inside him, and he needed space to process them, privately, before they burst out in the most unseemly—

“Aziraphale.” Crowley turned, and his fingers hovered by the angel’s face, as if not sure where to touch. “Do you…want to be alone right now?”

“That’s not…” He swallowed, finding he couldn’t look away from Crowley’s mouth. His lips. Did he want to kiss them again? Or be kissed? Both were terrifying. Both were tempting.

Crowley took his other hand, leaning closer.

“Yes. I do.”

Crowley went very still.

He thought his heart might burst; Aziraphale couldn’t tell one beat from the next. His hands started to tremble, and he stepped back, wiping them anxiously on his waistcoat, tugging it straight. “Don’t be – this isn’t about – it’s nothing like that.” He straightened his tie. “I just – perhaps I could use a few minutes, yes, and there’s nothing – nothing of note about that, I’m sure you could too, but all in all this is the simplest solution, that’s – that’s all there is to it.”

It could be very hard to read Crowley’s expression, but just now his lips twisted, his jaw went tight, and Aziraphale felt his heart begin to ache. The demon circled him, fingers jammed in his pockets, and started towards Mayfair as fast as his long legs would carry him.

“Wait! Crowley, don’t—”

“Fifteen minutes, Angel. Be ready.”

He watched the dark figure until it disappeared around a corner. And only then did Aziraphale realize he’d let go of Crowley’s hand

----

NOTES AND SPOILERS

CWs: Mentions of past abuse (physical and emotional, very brief/implied); emotional manipulation/gaslighting (from the POV of Aziraphale, still believing what he’d been told); anxiety (low-level but constant, and building across the fic); miscommunication, accidentally hitting another’s triggers. Very brief G-rated discussion of attraction. Swearing.

Ending: This will have a happy ending. Not all communication issues will be resolved in this story, but groundwork will be laid. Future stories will deal with developing healthy communication/trauma coping strategies.

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Within the Circles: Chapter 5 (+ Epilogue)

The final chapter and epilogue of "Within the Circles" have been posted to AO3!

After the harrowing experience, Aziraphale and Crowley start the healing process. But recovery from this sort of trauma is never easy. Featuring the return of Anathema and Newt, who I don't write about nearly enough.

--

Crowley didn’t want to linger in the awful basement, but there was too much down there that would be dangerous if discovered, more than he could handle on his own. Fortunately, one of the necromancers had left a mobile in the wreckage.

When Anathema and Newt arrived, Crowley—human-shaped again—was still picking his way through magic ingredients, while Aziraphale rested in the corner, wrapped in a red cloak.

“Here,” Newt said, kneeling next to the angel. “You’re not really either of our sizes, but I think Shadwell’s old jumper should fit you, and Tracy had this skirt. It’s not ideal—”

“I think this will do marvelously,” Aziraphale said with a weak smile. “Thank you, young man.”

“And, ah, Tracy also found a pair of sunglasses…?”

They were extraordinarily pink, but Crowley wore them anyway.

Next, Anathema looked the angel over, Crowley hovering behind, ready to throw her across the room at the first sign of magic. “If I had to guess, it’s this one.” She pointed to a symbol drawn onto Aziraphale’s shoulder with Sharpie, then traced again by a blade, leaving bright red cuts. “Power regulation, basically a surge protector. Whatever she was siphoning off you, it was just different enough from a demon to get, mmmph, major feedback.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Newt pointed out.

“It’s all it takes.” Crowley said, shooing the witch away so he could sit beside his husband again, help him pull the jumper on. “I…I’ve seen them fail for…much less.”

A long pause. Crowley tried not to think about the questions on everyone’s mind. It wasn’t any of their business, except in a way it was now. He did his best to push all those thoughts aside.

“I’m just glad no one was badly hurt,” Aziraphale said with a shaky smile.

“Except you,” Crowley grumbled, not even trying to hide the fact that he was fussing. “And one human had a few broken bones, but as I understand, he really deserved it.” No, that didn’t help. There was a pinch of horror around Aziraphale’s eyes, but he didn’t say anything yet. “Here, something’s missing.” Crowley tugged the rumpled bowtie out of his pocket.

“Oh!” his angel’s face lit up. He quickly looped it around his neck, struggling to tie the knot with trembling fingers. Crowley helped—though his own fingers were just as bad—and eventually there was a crooked tartan bow in place below his chin. “Yes. I feel worlds better now.”

Crowley leaned close and kissed him, gently, almost afraid that Aziraphale would break—or that he would. “Just a bit longer, Angel. Few things to take care of. Then we can go home.”

“Of course, darling.”

Aziraphale was holding together surprisingly well, but Crowley knew. All those times he’d been summoned cut him deep, the pain, the humiliation, piling on in layer after layer until they smothered him in darkness—

He wished he knew what to say. Words were too fucking hard.

Crowley stumbled over to where he’d gathered the shit the summoners had left behind. A sack full of Aziraphale’s beautiful feathers, another of his hair. A cooler with vials of blood, faintly glinting gold. A jar of clear liquid marked Angel Tears that almost made him wish he’d let Aziraphale rip the bastards apart.

“What do you think?”

“Based on the prices we saw, a million pounds, at least,” Newt said, earning a glare from the demon. “Sorry. Just…” He hunched back over the computer, and a few seconds later it was an inert hunk of metal and plastic, any information about angels lost to the universe. He started on the phones next.

“Don’t know about the feathers,” Anathema said, “but for the rest…probably dispose of it all in a river. Running water’s a reliable way to neutralize the power. But there’s still a lot.”

“Is that a problem?”

She squeezed his shoulder, tried to give an encouraging smile. “No. We’ll take care of it.”

“Nhhh.” Crowley looked down at his feet. “Thankyou.”

“Thank you for calling.”

He nodded, turning away. “Mmmmh. We’ll take the feathers. Figure out something to do with them.”

“What about that thing?” Newt gestured to a hollow stone column, a deep red glow inside. “Looks…really dangerous.”

“Less than you might think.” Crowley leaned against the energy well. All the power that had been drained from Aziraphale as he was interrogated was stored in there, a flickering amorphous cloud of light. “They used to just let it dissipate into the air, until someone figured out how to collect it. But it’s inert like this, and I’ve got no idea how to activate it, so I usually just…” he shoved at the stone until it tipped over, clattering against the concrete floor. The light inside fluttered weakly and went out.

“Well. That’s alright then. Last of the electronics,” Newt added, tossing a black-screened phone against the wall. “We’ll need some equipment for all that.” He gestured vaguely to the rings embedded in the floor. “Hammer. Prybar. Maybe acid.”

“Or just demolish the place entirely,” Anathema suggested.

Her boyfriend nodded. “If you can think of a way to convince them this is our property, I’ll call those fellows who did the renovations for us.”

“You don’t have to,” Crowley objected.

“I think I do.” Newt looked at the circles and shuddered. “Unless you were thinking of stealing one of those diggers up the street. Then, by all means…”

“Nnnnnn.” The demon rolled his shoulders until they popped. “Think I’ll leave this one to the contractors.”

“And that just leaves…” Anathema nudged the books with her toe—grimoire, spell book, and notebooks full of dangerous information about angels. “How do you all feel about a bonfire?”

“That sounds lovely,” Aziraphale said, staggering to his feet. “Though I’m afraid my weekend plans involve recovering in bed with my husband. I’m going to be quite busy with that.”

“Ahhhh, shit.” Crowley ran his fingers through his hair. “The bed! I…I de-manifested it. Not going to have the energy to bring it back for a couple days.”

The angel snapped his fingers, frowning. “I appear to be out as well. I may have overdone things a touch.” That would be something to discuss later. Three times, summoners had driven Crowley into a berserk rage, draining him even of reserves of energy he couldn’t normally access. Aziraphale had apparently discovered the angelic equivalent and it was…chilling.

The two humans glanced at each other. “We’ve got a spare room now,” Anathema said. “Looks like it’s about to have its first guests.”

“Oh, no,” Crowley said.

“That sounds lovely!”

“Absolutely not.”

“A weekend in the countryside, just what we need.”

“No, no, no, no.”

“Crowley, dear, what is the matter?”

“I am not riding all the way to Oxfordshire in that disaster he calls a car!”

Read the rest on AO3!