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maddrmatt · 3 years ago

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A Beautiful Future: A Premonition or a Punishment?

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Greetings, readers and fellow SoKai fans!

Time for a certain Princess of Heart to take the spotlight in this story!

Fair bit of warning though, I sort of used this chapter to showcase a few headcanons and speculations regarding the future of the series.

Also, there’s a little challenge within this chapter that you can take on if you wish.

Enjoy!

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Chapter 3: Writings of a Princess

Land of Departure

Dear Sora,

I know it’s been a while since I last wrote to you. I haven’t really had anything really important to tell you since I came here.

Now something incredible has just happened and I had to tell you first before anyone else. But before that, here’s a few updates on what’s been happening on this side of reality.

I’m still training hard. No offense to Merlin, but I think I’m getting way better with my Keyblade training under Master Aqua than him.

My days here at the Land of Departure are filled with learning various fighting techniques or improving my magic skills. And to test them, I often spar with Aqua, Terra or Ven. One day, I might even get a perfect score against one of them in our matches.

All of three of them and Chirithy have been very good to me. They’ve really made me feel like part of their family.

But as great as it’s been with them, they’re no true replacement for everyone back home. I miss everyone: Mom, Dad, Selphie, Wakka, Tidus, Riku, and you. Especially you.

Sorry, Sora. It’s just so hard every day knowing that you’re trapped in that fictional world. I really wish I could’ve gone there with Riku to save you. But after being out of action for a year and the fact that I couldn’t even land a single blow on that memory of Xehanort, I knew it was the better choice to stay behind and train even if I didn’t like it.

I really hope Riku finds you soon. We’re all so worried about both of you. Since nobody really knows anything about this Quadratum place, we’ve all thought Riku was a little hasty in just taking off there alone.

We still haven’t heard anything from Mickey yet either. Hopefully, he’ll come back soon from Scala Ad Caelum, and he’ll have found something we can use to help you and Riku. Until that happens, all the rest of us can do is wait.

Anyway, time to tell you the real reason for this latest letter, Sora. And you are not going to believe what it is. I can hardly believe it myself.

Last night, I had a dream. It was actually the first dream I’ve had since I came to the Land of Departure.

Not that I’ve minded not having dreams just in case they ended up being recreations of my worst memories. I’ve already watched you vanish twice. I don’t think I could bear to watch it happen again in my dreams.

But the dream I had was nothing like that at all. It was of a wedding, Sora. Our wedding.

It was an amazing sight. It was in this gigantic chapel that looked like it was in Radiant Garden, and it was filled with all your friends from around the worlds.

Many of our fellow Guardians of Light and closest friends made up our wedding party. It was hardly a surprise to see Selphie as my maid of honor or Riku as your best man.

You looked so handsome in the suit you were wearing. And judging from the stunned look on your face when you saw me coming down the aisle, I must’ve looked pretty beautiful to you.

It was truly incredible, Sora. It felt so real and so wonderful. I wished it never ended.

But, unfortunately, as it is with dreams, we all have to wake up eventually. And when I did, the happiness I felt ended up giving way to other emotions as I reflected on the dream.

First of all, I felt a little confused. As good as that dream was, I couldn’t help but wonder why I had it at all. I mean, wouldn’t you find a little strange to have a dream about a wedding especially since we haven’t even had our first kiss yet? It’s kind of rushing things a little.

But don’t get me wrong, Sora. I know, deep down in my heart, how we truly feel about each other. I wouldn’t have shared that paopu fruit with you otherwise. And when the time is right for it, the idea of getting married to you is something I will embrace wholeheartedly.

So, I thought more about the dream and believe it or not, I started to think that it was not merely just a dream. I wonder if what I saw was our future. It definitely did feel like that since there were so many unfamiliar parts in it.

For example, I had no idea there was a tradition in Radiant Garden weddings for the bride and groom to crown each other with symbolic flowers. Then again, I could have known that if the knowledge came from a memory from when I lived there. Maybe I attended a wedding there when I was young.

But what really stood out to me and made me believe that this could be our future was the many unfamiliar guests. I knew that because I’ve been studying the details of your last two journeys from Jiminy’s Journal and the Gummi Phone. And even though the Journal of your first journey was erased (Naminè’s still really sorry about that), I still remember everything about it from being in your heart through it all.

So, I was able to recognize who you had met and who were strangers. They were far too numerous to mention. But here are some examples that really stood out to me.

A tall woman with long black hair wearing a tan colored dress and a beautiful turquoise necklace with a raccoon, a dog and I think I saw a hummingbird flittering around her.

A pair of robots, one yellow and box-shaped, the other white and cylindrical, who were holding hands.

A couple that consisted of a redhaired woman and blonde-haired man who appeared to have some kind of hairless rodent on his shoulder.

A teenage boy and girl along with a younger boy and a company of animals such as a bear with gray fur, a panther, an elephant with a tuft of brown hair and a quartet of vultures.

A large family that appeared to be a mix of humans and skeletons along with a very colorful winged dog and a giant winged cat.

A boy with red hair (whose head looked triangular) along with another boy with green hair and a bunch of other teenagers as well as some kind of strange teal animal that looked like a cross between a duck and a beaver and a man with brown hair, poor posture and wearing a lab coat (who wears that to a wedding?).

A princess dressed in a beautiful green gown accompanied by a prince in a green suit with a blonde woman dressed in pink, a short old woman dressed in white and wearing sunglasses and a snake around her shoulders as well as an alligator who was carrying a trumpet.

A very unusual group consisting of two men and a woman with blue skin and pointy ears along with a dog-sized dragon, a centaur, and a winged lionlike creature with horns and a scorpion’s tail.

A girl with bushy brown hair among what appeared to be a family of giant frogs.

A woman dressed like she was some kind of islander with a burly man with numerous tattoos (I think I saw one of them move) over his body along with a pig and a chicken that didn’t look very smart.

A family who seemed to be some kind of royalty consisting of a princess in a simple green dress with long curly red hair along with three identical boys with the same kind of hair, their big, strong father with a peg leg and their very elegant mother.

A boy and a girl who looked like they were twin siblings who were accompanied by a pair of old men who looked like twins as well.

A redhaired boy in the company of a group of what looked like various human-sized bugs.

There were so many more, but I think I’ll stop here. With the large number of guests at this wedding, I could go on listing them for a long time. But it does seem there’s a lot more friends for you in the future.

Unfortunately, while I was mulling over the dream further, a horrible thought came to me. I started to wonder if the dream, as beautiful as it was, wasn’t meant to bring me happiness at all because it was actually showing the future that we could have had but now would never have. And the true reason of it was to punish me for my failures in the fight against Xehanort.

I know you wouldn’t like to hear this, Sora. But there are still days where I can’t help but feel responsible for your disappearance and think that if I had made some different choices, you’d still be here.

I know it was my choice to fight alongside you because I wanted to keep you safe the same way you’ve always done for me. But looking back, I now see it was foolish to assume that my training alongside Axel would turn me into a Keyblade wielder on yours or Riku’s level. And it was probably an even worse idea for a wielder with very little actual battle experience to go from basic training to a high stakes battle with nothing in between.

We may have been desperate to stop Xehanort before he went after the New Seven Hearts especially since he had already assembled all his darknesses. But we probably could’ve and should’ve explored some other options instead of going to fight the Organization right away after you woke Ven.

Since Ienzo told us that they had a replica body ready before we even left for the Keyblade Graveyard, we could’ve gotten Roxas or maybe even Xion out of your heart before the fight. In Axel’s words, they were the old hands when it came to Keyblades.

We also could have made a bigger effort to find and save Terra first even if our chances were pretty low. That would not only have gotten us a more experienced wielder, but it would’ve also lowered Xehanort’s ranks by one.

Maybe if we had done things that way, we would’ve had more experienced Keyblade wielders to fill out the Seven Guardians of Light. And even if it would be disappointing to be put in the reserves, it would’ve been worth it if it led to you being safe.

So, those are the reasons I believed that dream was a punishment. But you’ll be glad to know, Sora, that I only entertained those beliefs briefly.

After thinking it over some more, I decided that it didn’t matter what that dream’s purpose was. Comfort or punishment, I’m going to actually use it to serve my own purposes instead.

I’m going to let it remind me of what my ultimate goal is and drive me to be the best Keyblade wielder I can be. One that’s going to make the forces of darkness think twice before causing trouble and one that you and Riku will be proud to have fighting alongside you. And hopefully, that will lead us to a future like the one in the dream or at least one that’s pretty close.

In fact, after seeing that dream, I think I may end up actually proposing a couple of ideas to Aqua and Master Yen Sid. I’ve been thinking about them a lot and maybe now is the time to try to put them into action.

Since I need to get some real battle experience to become a stronger Keyblade wielder, I’d like to go on a journey throughout the worlds to gain some. Hopefully, Aqua will think it’s a good idea. And even though there’s been little sign of the Heartless and Nobodies since Xehanort’s defeat, there is one thing I really wish to do.

I’d like to try to find and identify the remaining three of the New Seven Hearts. After all, who’d better to find them than someone who’s part of the same group? And if we knew who they were and what their home worlds were, we’d be in a better position to protect them if someone tried what Maleficent and Xehanort did.

Who knows? Maybe all those unfamiliar faces at the wedding were not only friends you’ll make on future adventures, but ones I’ll make on my own adventures. Maybe even the remaining New Seven Hearts were among them.

I also have an idea that may be able to help in the quest to bring you home. If Fairy Godmother could bring me back to the Final World, I could talk to that girl from Quadratum again. She may not be able to remember certain things. But she might be able to tell us something about that world that could help.

Naminè might even be able to help with this plan. Even if you only met that girl briefly, that may be enough for her to be considered connected to you and therefore, Naminè’s memory powers can work on her.

Hopefully, the Masters will think that these are good plans. I really want to do any part I can to not only help bring you and Riku home, but also to protect the worlds as both a Keyblade wielder and a Princess of Heart. After all, with you two gone, someone’s got to pick up the slack.

Well, I think that’s enough for now. It’s nearly time for breakfast and then it’s training until lunch. But before I go, there’s just one final thing I’d like to say.

Whether that beautiful dream shows a wonderful future that is meant to be or not, it doesn’t matter. Because the only kind of future I’ll ever wish for is one in which we’re safe, we’re happy, and we’re together. That’s all I really need.

See you soon,

Kairi

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Much later, the training hall in the Land of Departure was filled with the sounds of clashing Keyblades and various shouts of magical invocation. While those sounds were nothing uncommon in that location, there was an unusual intensity that day.

As Aqua, Ven and Chirithy watched, a heated sparring match was taking place between Kairi and Terra. But much to their surprise, the more experienced Keyblade wielder was actually struggling as the young rookie was keeping him mostly on the defensive.

“Wow! Kairi’s on fire today!” exclaimed Ven.

“She is, indeed,” concurred Chirithy.

“Well, she has improved a lot in her skills since she came here. But you two are right. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this driven before,” said Aqua.

“You’ve got that right, Aqua. If she lands one more hit on Terra, this’ll be the first time she’s won by a perfect score,” said Ven.

As the match went on, Terra blocked blow after blow from Kairi. Then, strangely, she ceased her attack.

Terra saw his opportunity and charged toward her with a downward slash. The Princess dodged to the right narrowly avoiding the hit.

“Light!” she cried out as she fired a small but powerful Light spell at Terra’s side. He grunted as the magic struck him and knocked him off his feet.

“Point to Kairi,” declared Aqua.

“That’s three to nothing! Kairi wins!” exclaimed Ven as Chirithy clapped its paws together.

“Well done, Kairi,” said Aqua.

“Thank you, Master Aqua,” Kairi said as she walked over to Terra and helped him up.

After exchanging bows with each other, the Princess of Heart said, “I hope that didn’t hurt you too badly, Terra.”

Terra chuckled. “Not at all. It helps that you’ve learned how to restrain your magic during training. But I’ve got to say, Kairi that I am impressed. That’s the first time since you’ve come here that I’ve been unable to land a single hit on you.”

“You’ve certainly come a long way, Kairi. Today, you showed some truly exceptional skill and strength. You should be very proud of yourself,” said Aqua as she, Ven and Chirithy approached.

“Well, I’ve had a good teacher and some great sparring partners. But I think it really helped that when I woke up today, I just felt a little extra drive,” said Kairi.

“Yes. We noticed,” said Aqua.

“Why is that exactly?” asked Chirithy.

A certain smile came to Kairi’s face which caused her four friends to exchange knowing looks. They had spent plenty of time with her by now to know what exactly brought out that special smile of hers: thoughts of a certain someone close to her heart.

“I had the most amazing dream.”

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Notes from the Mad Doctor:

I thought the best way for Kairi’s spotlight chapter would be to do in the style of one of her letters to Sora. I’ve used it before as readers of my big fic Kairi’s Epic Journey would know.

So, in case it wasn’t obvious, the challenge I mentioned at the start is that list of unknown guests. It was quite a challenge to write all those characters by description alone. I hope you all will take a shot at identifying them. Some are pretty obvious, but some may be a little more difficult.

I hope I did a good job in trying not to make this chapter’s narrative too similar to the previous chapters. I actually tried having Kairi leap to the punishment notion before the premonition notion. But unfortunately, the flow didn’t work right.

Fortunately, the views on the punishment notion are a little different. Sora has absolutely no regrets for what he did and believes that he’s being unfairly punished for breaking rules he had no idea existed. Kairi, however, believes her punishment is deserved since she blames herself for what happened to Sora. Fortunately, both are able to use that dream to keep on fighting.

I hope you all aren’t put off that this is more like a series of one-shots centered around a certain plot device (the wedding dream) instead of a congruent storyline. That was what this project ended up being.

I give my thanks to whoever reads this chapter.

I also give my special thanks to @fandomchanger, @flynn-science, and @ladylucky for their likes on the previous chapters as well as @sokaiweek, @phoenix-downer, and @the-secret-place for reblogging the previous chapter.

Comments, likes and reblogs are much appreciated! Stay tuned for what comes next because it’s going to be a real feel-good chapter!

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Onto the next chapter!

#kingdom hearts #kh fanfiction #sokai #sokaiweek #sokaiweek2021 #kairi #aqua #ventus #chirithy #terra #maddrmatt

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goodlucktai · 5 years ago

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grace requires nothing of me

good omens pairing: aziraphale/crowley word count: 3604 title borrowed from one by sleeping at last part 2 of the is there a better bet than love? series read on ao3

Crowley is doing a good job of dithering without looking like he’s dithering, slouched in the doorway as though he isn’t sure of his welcome, or he isn’t sure Aziraphale has thought this through.

Which is silly. Aziraphale has thought this through more than once.

“Don’t fuss,” the angel chides lightly. “Come here.”

Which is all it takes to coax the demon the rest of the way inside, though he crosses the room to the bed with a grumble. Aziraphale helps him out of his jacket, and then his silk shirt, and then the undershirt beneath that, and then a tanktop. He has to bite on the edge of an amused smile, or else Crowley will sulk, but he thinks its rather cute of his snake to seek that extra bit of warmth in every nook and corner he might find it.

“It is not,” Crowley gripes aloud, reading his mind with the ease of someone who has known and loved Aziraphale for more than six thousand years. He’s faced resolutely away and his bare shoulders are hunched, the skin there and on the tips of his ears turning a telling pink. “I’m cold-blooded, angel. Cute has nothing to do with it.”

“Of course not, dear,” Aziraphale capitulates easily. He can afford to surrender these little victories when he’s already won the greater prize. It’s an effort to keep his hands to himself in his eagerness. “May I see them now?”

Plucking anxiously at his trousers, Crowley ducks his head in what could have been a nod, except he doesn’t lift it again. And then he brings out his wings, filling the room like a dark rush of water.

(Crowley’s wings are black, yes, but that’s no way to judge a fellow’s character. Not all angel wings are white, the way humans tend to depict them in their art and literature; Gabriel’s are dove gray, and Uriel’s are shining gold. The Morningstar, before he Fell, had wings of every color. Aziraphale’s pale feathers, against the iridescent black and blues of Crowley’s, feel rather plain.

But--

Look at you, Crowley will say, awed. He will touch the faun brown and off-white cream with a reverence he keeps a secret all the rest of the time, with hands that are much too generous to belong to a proper demon. His eyes will linger on Aziraphale’s face, as though they can’t help themselves.

And Aziraphale will feel, for a welcome change, beautiful.)

But along with the familiar wings, as was their agreement, Crowley manifested the ruined skin that Aziraphale has never seen, the mark of a fallen angel that he has kept carefully hidden for all these years.

They cut across the long lines of his back, the raised burns eating from the smooth skin of his shoulder blades with jagged teeth.

Aziraphale wants to touch, to soothe them, but he doesn’t quite dare.

His dearest is tense and still; he hasn’t taken a breath since he bared his back. He is braced for something, it seems, something that he expects will hurt.

He hides his scars like he hides his eyes, and Aziraphale’s heart is so full it aches, fragile human thing that it is. He can’t bear to think of Crowley carrying this wound for so long, this angry, ancient, anguished thing.

And so he leans forward and presses his lips to Crowley’s shoulder, kisses the ruins of him so there can be no mistake. Crowley’s feathers are soft in Aziraphale’s hands, and beneath them, so are the scars.

“Look at you,” Aziraphale tells him, returning an old favor. “You’re perfect, you know. Just as you are. All that you are.”

He could stand to say it more, it seems. Crowley gropes blindly behind him until he finds one of Aziraphale’s hands and then he holds on as though he’s terrified he might fall again, fingers trembling, grip tight enough to bruise. Aziraphale hushes him, and draws him back until he’s safe in the circle of Aziraphale’s arms, the safest creature to be found on the whole of the earth with how far and how fiercely Aziraphale would go to protect him.

Aziraphale thinks the world could end around them, and his own wings could burn, and all else could be lost, and still he would be right here, holding his love.

“Perfect,” he presses against Crowley’s hair. “You’re perfect.”

It’s another intimate evening, another warm night in the bedroom above the bookshop, when Aziraphale asks, “Did it hurt?”

Crowley is pliant against his side, dozing with his eyes half-open because he sometimes forgets his eyelids when he’s sleepy. He hums at the feel of Aziraphale’s fingers brushing against the side of his face, tilting his head to chase the warmth.

“Did what hurt?”

“The Fall.”

As soon as the question is out, Aziraphale wishes he could take it back. He’s not sure he can bear the answer. He doesn’t want Crowley to have hurt back then, and doesn’t want him to hurt now, and isn’t sure where he found such thoughtless daring to broach the subject they’ve both avoided for millennia.

But after a brief pause, Crowley’s frozen surprise thaws, and his stiff, guarded lines smooth out. The slight weight of him goes boneless again as Aziraphale cards rueful fingers into his hair.

“Must have done,” he murmurs. “Don’t really remember.”

Aziraphale loses his breath in a rush, relieved.

“What a mercy,” he says, and gathers Crowley up for a kiss. The demon whines, but resettles quickly enough atop Aziraphale’s chest-- always an opportunist, Aziraphale thinks wryly-- and then they are eager to distract one another from maudlin thoughts.

(He is right about the mercy, though he doesn’t know it yet.)

Nanael slices their hand open with a letter opener, somehow, bleeding from the meat of their palm. They stand there looking at the alarming swell of blood with an expression of mild surprise.

Aziraphale isn’t proud that his knee-jerk reaction is to snatch the rest of his mail out of the way of the drip. He assumes the younger angel is going to miracle the hurt away, and forgets how foreign life on earth is to them at large.

Thankfully, Crowley remembers.

“Nice one, Feathers,” he snaps, rounding the counter. He shoves his glasses up to his forehead, eyes absurdly yellow in the low light of the shop. “You trying to get yourself discorporated? Let me see.”

Nanael’s corporeal form is that of a young man in his early twenties, but the way they waffle beneath Crowley’s disapproval puts Aziraphale in mind of a scolded child. And really, they’re not even a whole millennia old.

Crowley takes them by the wrist and glares at the offending slice in their hand. With a gentle prod of his thumb, he miracles the hurt away.

Aziraphale intervenes then, to save his estranged little sibling what is probably shaping up to be a lengthy lecture, since Crowley’s caring tends to manifest that way; as though coughing up enough sharp edges will be enough to hide his soft heart. Aziraphale sets his mail aside and pats Crowley on the elbow, taking the wind out of his sails with a disarming smile.

“Well done, my dear, as always. Now what do you say about pulling the car around, hm? It’s well past time for lunch, and I’m rather in the mood for Greek.”

When the demon has gone, slouching out of the store with a surly expression that doesn’t fool Aziraphale in the slightest and hasn’t done since that first day in the garden, he gives Nanael a firm look.

“You must be more careful. Heaven isn’t in the business of handing out corporations freely, and especially not after clumsy mishaps. You’re doing yourself no favors, hanging around here as much as you do, so you really should strive to take caution.”

He doesn’t add anything about all the many clumsy mishaps of his own. He was only spared them, like Nanael was, by Crowley’s timely arrival and flagrant disregard for company policy, and he would prefer Nanael to abide by a better precedent. They can’t always count on Crowley to bail them out of trouble, even if he always has before.

But Nanael is staring at him, their hand still open and outstretched in front of them. They haven’t moved since Crowley was beside them. Their dark eyes are mystified.

“How did he do that?” they ask. “Demons can’t do that.”

Aziraphale frowns. “Nanael, whatever rot they’ve been feeding you Upstairs about the Fallen, I can assure you-- “

“No, not-- I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t mean he wouldn’t, I mean he can’t.” The angel touches their healed palm, folding careful fingers around where the cut sat moments ago, as though it’s a secret they should hide. “You need Grace to perform miracles. The Fallen are cut off from the Host, they can’t access that anymore. Demon’s powers are anti-miracles, really. They can’t do purely good.” They squint at Aziraphale, suspicion taking the place of confusion. “How don’t you know all this? You’ve been down here forever.”

Aziraphale doesn’t say there is a lot to learn down here, and I am still learning. He doesn’t say how much of that can you believe to be true, when your side and theirs won’t take the time to understand each other? He doesn’t say I have only known one demon, and he has always been good.

He looks at his young friend and listens to the sound of a Bentley honking impatiently outside the shop and doesn’t say anything at all. He’s thinking, instead.

About the Arrangement, about the years of trading an unwanted workload back and forth to make it more bearable, about the countless miracles under Aziraphale’s name that could actually be credited to a demon who shouldn’t have been capable of them.

About their charade after Armageddon, when they chose their faces wisely. He has walked in Crowley’s shape, he has known him down to the bone and sinew and soul. He thinks, surely, he would have felt the sudden absence of the Host as keenly as a puppet with its strings cut during every second of their charade. He thinks, surely, he would have recognized an emptiness where that light should have been, having lived with it since God breathed life into him eons ago.

But he didn’t notice anything missing at all.

(Who is there to compare Crowley to? What source is there for Aziraphale to draw understanding from? There has never been anyone like his love, not in all the turns of the earth.

Someone who Fell, not out of spite or malice, but hungry curiosity and countless unanswered questions; who spent whole afternoons with those humans in that garden he loved, who was fond of Eve and gave her the tool she needed to make her own choices because he saw himself in her endless, fearless wondering; who played the hand he was dealt without ever giving into bitterness or cruelty the way of the other angels in Hell, looking instead upon the humans with the amused affection and secondhand delight of an estranged uncle or a displaced step-sibling.

Aziraphale remembers a winter afternoon in 1783, all but forgotten after that close call during the Reign of Terror a decade later, when Crowley burst into his flat with shining eyes and mussed hair and clothes still rumpled from travel.

“They’re flying, angel!” he’d said, buoyed by his own disbelief and wonder and ecstatic, aching pride. “Two brothers in Annonay, they’ve built a balloon! They were only up for a few minutes, but they really flew!”

And how, Aziraphale thought back then, has thought a hundred times since, how could he have Fallen? This bright and beautiful thing? As close to blasphemy as he dared venture in those days, Aziraphale would look at Crowley with love a vast and painful secret in his heart and wonder how.)

Aziraphale has never been one to spring into action, tending instead towards study and reflection, and in that vein he might have sat on these new and alarming questions for years if left to his own devices.

But interference came in the form of a gaggle of angels, following Nanael back to Soho to see what they were getting up to in all these days spent on earth. They were stricken to find themselves cornered in the bookstore, as though they had betrayed the beloved place somehow. When they look around for help, they look to Crowley first.

He doesn’t disappoint.

“This isn’t a daycare center,” he says blithely. He’s still lounging, propped up on his elbows behind Aziraphale’s counter, but the lanky, lazy lines of his body are deceptive. “We’ve got all the holy feather dusters around here that I can stand, so you lot can see yourselves out now.”

Aziraphale taps his fingers against the table, hot ire rising like a tide inside him. It has barely been three years since the apocalypse that wasn’t, three years since their respective former bosses agreed to leave them be, and they can’t even begin to enjoy retirement.

The angels aren’t sense-blind, and seem wary to encroach any further into Aziraphale’s territory. But they are so like Nanael was those years ago when they first stood inside the door and glared at Crowley with an eternity of borrowed hatred they didn’t even understand, carried like a mantle or an inheritance they never learned how to leave behind.

It rankles, to have Crowley looked at like that. Here, of all places, in this corner of the world that belongs to them, where they have plotted and promised and argued and loved, always together.

Aziraphale says, with an edge of anger, “The three of you should leave.”

Three, not four. Nanael looks hopelessly gratified not to be included in that number, and slinks a little closer to the counter. One of Nanael’s sisters follows, her hand clenched in the pocket of a sensible sweater with nonsensical pom-poms hanging from the drawstrings.

“If the company of a demon did this to you, it can do it anyone,” she says. “I won’t allow anyone else to Fall.”

Her heart is in the right place, Aziraphale will grudgingly allow, much, much later. But her hand, fisted around a small bottle of enough holy water to do all the damage it needs to, is not.

She yanks Nanael to one side, and tosses the contents of the bottle over the counter, and Aziraphale is

one

second

too

slow.

He is too horrified to beg mercy, to spare even a word of prayer. The water falls, and lands, a damning splash against his dear love's skin.

The promise of the world ending, the Antichrist’s arrival, Lucifer himself clawing up from the pit, none of it, absolutely none of it was as frightening as that one second he was too slow.

Aziraphale is lightheaded with fear, nauseous with it, colliding with Crowley and grabbing him up in hands that shake and beginning to miracle away all of the damp that he can before it sets into the fetching leather of his jacket more than it already has.

Crowley blinks, the water dripping harmlessly from his damp fringe and the sharp jut of his chin, beading in his eyelashes like tiny pearls. There is no steam, no visible pain, no destruction. Crowley is befuddled but whole in his hands, alive, that stubborn heart racing furiously away inside him.

“Angel,” he says, and it comes out sounding afraid.

Aziraphale says, "Shh, I've got you," and there is a long, long moment after that where absolutely no one else moves or speaks or even breathes.

And then Aziraphale, to put it politely, loses his temper.

“Must have been a bluff,” Crowley says much later, when the unwanted angels have been run off with a fury that would have done Hell proud, and the welcome angel is sleeping away their distress on the lumpy sofa in the back room, and it is just the two of them alone in the flat upstairs.

Pouring out glasses of scotch and passing one across the table, the angel says, with the air of someone making polite conversation, “It was Holy. I could feel it from where I was standing.”

Crowley goes still, drink halfway suspended. After a beat, he lowers it.

“What does that mean?”

“It means-- I don’t know what it means. I don’t know what you are.”

He says it with reverence, but Crowley flinches, as though it landed with a blow. He’s curling in on himself, this snake without a hole to hide in, and Aziraphale rounds the table before he can go away entirely.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says. “Really, my dear, have I ever hurt you?”

The split-second after he asks feels like an eternity, and his stomach turns. He looks down at his own hands, then away at some far corner of the room. He thinks of you go too fast for me and there is no our side and the look on Crowley’s face both times.

Sickly, he adds, “Intentionally, that is. Of course.”

A groan, and Crowley shoves his sunglasses up his forehead so he can dig the heels of his palms into his eyes.

“Don’t be daft, angel,” he bites without heat. “You’ve never hurt me.”

Almost forgiveness, but an aimless sort; Crowley is offering it freely, just as he offers everything else, but as far as he’s concerned, there is nothing to forgive. Aziraphale tugs his hands down by the wrists and kisses first one palm, then the other, and by then Crowley is recovered enough to look back at him.

“A demon immune to holy water,” he hedges.

“An angel immune to hellfire,” Aziraphale counters neatly. “There’s also your Grace, my dear.”

Crowley frowns. “What’s wrong with it?”

Aziraphale realizes that Crowley probably has little more idea than he does about how demons get on. He spends the majority of his time on earth, and the majority of his company with an angel, and the rest he makes up as he goes along.

“It shouldn’t be there,” Aziraphale explains gently. “You should have been cut off. I hadn’t even thought about it until Nanael brought it up, clever thing.”

“Shouldn’t have-- “ Crowley’s expression shifts rapidly, through offense and hurt and indignation, to settle squarely on bemusement. “I have been cut off, Angel. I haven’t heard Her voice in-- “

It’s a painful thing, this demon and his faith. It wouldn’t hurt so much if he didn’t still love Her. Aziraphale holds him closer, before he gets any ideas about running away to that empty flat in Mayfair to heal from these wounds in private.

There is proof of something here. Proof in the holy water and the hellfire and the miracles. Proof in how much Crowley has been allowed to get away with, consorting with the adversary, skating by with little mischiefs and frustrations over any true evil deeds, as though some higher power was safeguarding him from his employers’ suspicions. He has never truly caused any harm, has never truly cost any human their faith, and his temptations are only that: temptations.

Just like in the garden, he only presents the choice, good or bad, and Aziraphale has seen the light go on in his eyes when a person chooses rightly.

There is proof. Here, in this. In choices, and choosing rightly. As though it’s all been--

"Ineffable,” they say together, Aziraphale inspired, Crowley dull.

“Oh, it must have been a part of the Plan, Crowley,” Aziraphale goes on, all but scooping him up. “There must have been a reason. She must have needed you here.”

It isn’t always good or bad, right or wrong, black or white. Sometimes there is a gray area, a middle ground, and not everyone can see that. Not everyone can find it. It would take a soul like the one wrapped up in Aziraphale’s arms-- the one who created both stars and original sin, who glues fivepence to the sidewalk and brings dead birds back to life, who has been a soldier on both sides of the same war and when the time came to declare loyalty he chose door number three.

He chose humanity.

“You didn’t fail,” Aziraphale whispers. So glad his faith survived intact up to this moment, because there were times when he questioned, when he wondered. “Oh, my darling. You did exactly right.”

He Fell, but without the pain or memory. Relegated to Hell, but only for a short time before he slithered right out again. Retained his Grace, and roamed the earth alongside the humans he threw his lot in with. Not evil, and not righteous, but good.

Crowley is blinking rapidly, yielding when Aziraphale brings their foreheads together, hooking fingers into the pocket of Aziraphale’s waistcoat for something to hold onto.

"Then why was I punished?" he asks in the tone of someone trying to understand a puzzle they've been stuck with for six thousand years. "Why did She leave me alone?"

"But She didn't," Aziraphale says. "You were never alone. And neither was I."

"Angel," Crowley says slowly some days later, a pretty picture in the morning sunlight beaming across the kitchen. He's frowning, but his hand in Aziraphale's is warm. "If I'm not one or the other, what am I?"

"Haven't I told you enough by now?" Aziraphale says in playful dismay, leaning over the table to meet him with a kiss. "You're perfect, my dear."

The best thing She ever did, really.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #aziraphale #crowley #anthony j crowley #my writing #gomens fic #bringing back nanael bcus i actually love them a lot #is there a better bet than love

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fullsailjournalgpwilcox · 8 years ago

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insanity

Some define insanity as doing the same thing, day in and day out, expecting different results. That’s appears to be what I do, day after day, … , year after year. Expecting the big change to come with no effort from me, whatsoever. Win the lottery, sudden find the will to write (wow, here I am), take that trip, do something crazy, like jump out of a perfectly good plane, even with a parachute. I’ll probably never misuse a plane that way, not on purpose, but for the rest, well… here I am, writing, that’s a start. Well as for lottery and whatever other good fortune I think is just going to drop into my lap? Well, I’ll be waiting a lot longer than I already have for that to resolve in my favor.

Ever wonder why even though you grab your uniform in the morning for work and it’s wrinkled to all kinds of hell, that when you get to work, it’s steam dried, perfectly wrinkle free? Well, I see a gift even if you don’t. What about the near accidents, the trouble that never really turns into real trouble? Even when you were in those more dangerous cities, you never really encountered any problems did you? A scare here and there but nothing serious since high school, oh except for the bullies. Well, you did fear for your life but it was never in any real danger was it? It wasn’t like the stories you’ve heard, of the teen beat down for no other reason than being in the wrong place? Or a group of teens going into the woods coming back one short? Or the guy a town over that just happens to bump his fellow at the gas pump and doesn’t leave the gas station alive? You live in fear of these things happening to you with negative consequences but you also fantasize how it would be if you some how survived a brutal assault, turning the tables on the villain. How would you feel? Would it be heroic, accidental, just the fantasy in your head?

I digress but here’s the deal, you do feel like you’ve always been waiting for something, always hiding behind a book cover, computer screen, or your own awkwardness which somehow turned into an awkward humor (you have almost no idea how!). I would strongly suggest that this change has come and you have been in a hidey-hole of your own making, protecting yourself until you were mature enough to exercise your true power.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. In the books and comics the hero(ine) always comes into their own starting around puberty or in high school or shortly after. But have you ever really thought about that? All the hormones raging, the second guessing (which admittedly never stops), the crushes, the rampant revenge fantasies?? Just to name a few problems with this premise? Well, in your case (and the safest way to go, sound familiar?), whatever gifts you have have always been hiding, at the edge of your consciousness and perhaps your sanity. The maybe and sometimes influence you seem to have over weather, animals and people? Those near misses we mentioned above? All part of how you mature into your gifts, without hazardous pubescent consequences. This caution is a part of you, something beaten into you again and again, physically, verbally and emotionally by most that you have held dear and this is why you are even more cautious still in your relationships. Well, that not true, is it? How many relationships do you really have? Spouse, yes. Any close friends? No. coworkers don’t count and we both know it.

So from early on your life has been a life of caution, baby steps in most things but never any full investment in almost anything or anyone. This separation feels like a strength and sometimes it feels like a curse, but it has been both for you, has it not? Yeah, I know, no time to respond or rebut, but let me get to the good part and we’ll see. You do have gifts, I can’t tell you the full extent of them I can just sense them, rising from the mud, like an alligator rushing to its prey, except for you. I’ve watched you on and off over the years, and your alligator is a glacier, slowly cutting a path south, as it grows and grows. Yes, yes, I do mean that whatever you have is probably the biggest and most contained I’ve ever felt before. Most burst out like that Alien from that poor guy’s chest or at least control the “hero(ine)” more than they control it, like that monster movie, with the bug in the guy. Remember? No questions? Well, I seem to be answering some, but no, I don’t know when they will manifest partly or fully, I just know I’m here now talking to you instead of watching, so it must be soon, if only in relative terms. Well, tomorrow’s another day, I’m beat, playing the superhero(ine) herald. Good night! Well, I did my job, at what felt the right time. I told you and it may happen tomorrow or it might be next week but usually it’s just within a few days of me knowing. Yeah, yeah, you’re right . Just like in the movies or comics, it requires a catalyst for it to reveal itself, in part or in full. I’d hate to say it but hell, it might still be awhile or it might require one hell of a catalyst to draw out whatever is inside you, like that zit or boil you work for days and days until it forms that head and then blam, you have a pus ridden mirror, white, gray, or yellow mixed with some red. Bad way to call it a night but I’ll check in with you at the end of your day tomorrow.

Well, here we are. It’s been weeks and no end in sight. I know, I know, I’ve been checking in with you less, but it’s hard, there are others out there, not here, but out there and I can’t wait around on just one, you know. Go on vacation, maybe? Take a random day off and drive until you have to turn around in time to get some rest for work the next day? As much as the chaos surrounds you at times, it doesn’t really enter your bland little, protected world. Break free from the bubble. Right now, I gotta go, I feel another zit about to blow. Good luck and I’ll see ya next week; Just can’t come back every day now, expecting something different and it not happening.

Here we are methuselah, powers have come and gone and yours has still not manifested. I’ll have to retire… we’ll both have to retire soon, so gimme the blammo moment, the big ah…something! You have been the thorn in my side, the unrequited passion, the one that got away. Why has nothing happened? I know I’m not wrong. Wait, I feel something, do you? You do! Ah, here it is, the money shot. There he goes! Into the sky! My chest, the pain! But he looks back and shoots rains out of his fingers that heal me, we are both younger again and he is punching through a comet, planet killer size, only to have the pieces continue to rain down on the earth and then he changes into a massive trampoline bouncing the majority back into space and then he burns up, hot as the sun destroying the last remnants before they fall to earth. They are gone and he is too, a hero that no one knows, just part of what most of the world knew as a planet wide meteor shower, with little or no ill effects.

I was saddened by his loss, the one who almost got away. Now I am retired, sitting out my days on different beaches, day after day, like turning the channel on a tv (box with video? Not familiar? Anyway…). One day a sunny beach, the next rainy, the next snowy, on and on. I try to think, or not think, to rest and enjoy myself, think of all the successes and failures of this career thrust on me, and my biggest failure, being a guide to hero(ines) but not one myself.

What is that? A knock at my door? I feel something again. I feel stronger, I look in the mirror, I am younger and when I open the door, it’s the one that got away. He appears semi solid, unsure of his shape, more a ghost than a man, but he hugs me and I know him to be alive still, somehow.

He explains that he has been gone, fighting disaster after disaster and like his first one, he battles them all quietly and alone, a hero without recognition, just as it should be, no fame, no glory, just the work itself. He says he found me because he needs me now, to fight alongside him, to be a hero myself.

I tell him that I am no hero and even though I am young again, I am not ready to fight. Then he tells me what I should have told him more clearly all those years ago: find it within yourself to be hero(ine), it’s been there all along. I accept and we are off through a door to another world to do great things (or not).

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sindioses · 8 years ago

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insanity

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