#he would be happy anywhere with Aziraphale EXCEPT heaven | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

wanna-b-poet31 · 5 years ago

Text

Aziraphale and Food

So, stick with me for a moment: Why do we almost universally essentialize Aziraphale into a glutton?

Like yes, he eats, and yes, to our knowledge he’s the only known celestial creature (Christs and Anti-Christs notwithstanding) to eat on screen, but he never really eats to excess. In fact, I don’t think he eats food because he’s a hedonist (I mean he is a hedonist, but maybe not for this), BUT rather because it provides him an excuse to be with Crowley.

Sounds ridiculous right? It shouldn’t be right, right? We see Aziraphale eat alot over the course of the show, we see him enjoy eating, and we never see Crowley eat ever. So, it can’t all just be a ploy to be with Crowley? Right?

I mean he certainly enjoys eating, I’m not fool enough to say he isn’t getting any pleasure from dining out. Just look at his face as he appreciates the sushi! Joy!

And this calm, happiness follows Aziraphale when later in Ep. 1, Crowley takes him to the Ritz in an attempt to persuade him to save the world. And, to celebrate surviving the end of the world with his boyfriend best friend, the first thing they do once they’re free, really free of Heaven and Hell and their abusers, is going to the Ritz.

So I’m not proposing that Aziraphale doesn’t eat, or that he doesn’t get any enjoyment from eating >I mean look at how his face falls he is When Gabriel asks why he’s eating food, proceeding to call it “gross matter”, and eating it “sullies” his heavenly temple. It’s straight-up heartbreak, as Aziraphale glances down at his spicy tuna roll. (and let’s not forget or excuse that what Gabriel is doing here is abusive) <

However, if Aziraphale’s interest in food is simply selfish or gluttonous, then we must have seen him eat plenty of times without Crowley or the expectation that eating would be a vehicle for their social interaction.

We don’t.

AZIRAPHALE + SUSHI

Just think back to the above scene that establishes Aziraphale’s character.

This is the only scene with Aziraphale and food that does not include Crowley. And sure, he is alone in a sushi place, before being rudely interrupted by Gabriel’s garbage attitude. Crowley doesn’t isn’t there now, he’s not ducking under the table, or jumping out the window, or materializing himself anywhere else but there to avoid being seen by Heaven. So, clearly, this must be proof of Aziraphale’s undying attachment to food.

Case Closed. Diagnosis: Gluttony plain and simple.

However, if this is true, how do we explain his peculiar behavior in this restaurant?

For starters, immediately after receiving his food, he’s striking a conversation with the chef -- a chef who knows his NAMEd, not Mr. Fell, not some pseudonym, not simply addressing him like another customer, but as a friend (at least an acquaintance). Perhaps even more telling is not that Aziraphale and the Chef know each other, but that Aziraphale -- I’m a bit out of Practice is French IN FRANCE -- has gone out of his way to learn Japanese to converse with this person, treating him with the respect of a friend, not someone who is here simply for food alone. This is social.

Then there is a small chime, indicating a supernatural presence has entered the building. (We hear the same chime when Crowley rescues his ass from a guillotine) And notice how unsurprised he is by the sudden supernatural presence. He’s expecting a guest.

Couple this information with Crowley’s behavior at the graveyard (he acts like he wants to get the hell out of Dodge even before he’s tasked with delivering the Anti-christ like he’s got a prior engagement) and the knowledge that the A40 goes straight through Soho.

I think it’s reasonable to conclude that he’s expecting Crowley.

Notice how he pointedly looks to his left upon hearing the magical chime. We see in the next (below) shot, that he’s not turning to the door, but to a mirror. So why look there if not because Crowley always is on his right?

His face instantly drops and an overjoyed expectant look turns to a terse, forced polite smile when he sees Gabriel, not Crowley, has joined him. And while he defends eating, we don’t see him eat (even after Gabriel leaves). I think, perhaps unintentionally, this is the scene that tells us why Aziraphale eats.

Pretext.

AZIRAPHALE’S SOCIAL CALL, CROWLEY’S BUSINESS DEAL

Let’s look at the first time (temporally) we see Aziraphale broach the idea of food. In the early years and in Heaven, Aziraphale doesn’t volunteer any interest in food or social interaction. However, in Rome, things are clearly different.

>check out where I purpose Aziraphale falls in love with Crowley in Rome here<.

Notice how in the opening shot, Aziraphale isn’t eating. There’s no drink in his hand, no grapes in his mouth, nothing to indicate that he has been eating, or socializing. When suddenly!! He hears a voice, and stops, his game piece hovering over the board as he realizes Crowley is nearby.

Only when after he approaches Crowley, does food enter the conversation Hearing Crowley order gives him the perfect in, the clearly acceptable, casual social relationship that no one could question. He can see that Crowley, like him, has changed and that the demon is giving him limited responses, barely joining the conversation.

Aziraphale tries-- he honest to God tries -- to start a conversation without pretext, without some kind of excuse to join in the welcome, and frankly comforting, company. He asks “still a demon” trying, oh so haphazardly, to make it about work, kind of like when someone is asking you about the weather, and it blows up in his face, earning him the wrath of his friend. He simply can’t be the one to initiate business conversations because it, as a pretext for their relationship, is always off the mark, and comes across as dismissive of Crowley’s demon identity.

Only when he talks about food does he manage to get Crowley to open up, and accept his presence. He gives Aziraphale the all-clear to continue talking to him, and Aziraphale fucking jumps on it. It’s extra fascinating how both parties leave this scene with two radically different uses for food. For Aziraphale, it is a safe pretext to get Crowley to open up, but for Crowley, it seems to be Aziraphale’s main interest, not him.

Crowley also doesn’t seem to get that Aziraphale is not equipped to talk shop, and needs the security in being in a sanctioned social interaction. Friendly talks like the ones they’d shared earlier were comforting to Aziraphale, getting him to open up in a way that no other character had successfully managed. He means for this, and more importantly, he NEEDS this to be social. To be a kind of friendship, partnership, that he doesn’t get from Heaven. There’s security in being casual, social, and nothing more than that.

However, Crowley can’t talk about himself in any meaningful way. He mentions he’s never had oysters before, his sarcasm missing Aziraphale only to have him be surprised when Aziraphale tries one last jab at the business talk. The “let me tempt you” gets his attention, but he doesn’t relax until Aziraphale, “no, I suppose that’s your job”, or when Aziraphale diverts the conversation back into their work.

Both walk away from this conversation thinking “yes, I know how to talk to him now” Except, they don’t. Aziraphale doesn’t recognize Crowley uses their work as a catalyst, and Crowley doesn’t recognize that for Aziraphale food is a catalyst, not the product, he desires.

A MISCOMMUNICATION

When Crowley asks for a “favor”, a work lunch, we can see how the two fundamentally misunderstand how food is being used, and how the other thinks food is being used.

The whole exchange about the crepes, boils down to Crowley opening the door with “remember that work favor?” and Aziraphale responding with “I don’t remember the work pretext, but I remember sharing crepes with you”.

Notice it’s not I had crepes, nor is it a focus on the food itself. It is Aziraphale emphasizing the shared part of the shared experience, not the details (which we get to see by the way) of being rescued or of accusing Crowley of starting the revolution, and Crowley explaining that neither side had started it, but the humans had. All Aziraphale cares about is their relationship, but can only safely use food as his point of reference because it allows him to share time with Crowley.

Contrast this with how Crowley’s perspective. Even just asking if it was one of Heaven’s or Hell’s is cementing the conversation as a work lunch, reminding Aziraphale (and perhaps himself) that they’re only allowed a professional relationship, not a social one, and he gives himself the pretext of work. Neither recognizes that there is a cross in the symbolism.

THE SHIFT

Things do shift, at least for Aziraphale, and food works a second role. Romance.

In the 60′s Aziraphale doubles down on using food to facilitate his relationship with Crowley because now he explicitly us that, “He can’t have [Crowley] risking [his] life, not even for something dangerous” which I think means “I’m afraid of our relationship without the pretext and safety that food has provided us me.” The danger is having their mutual feelings of love being discovered, so he’ll give Crowley the holy water as a symbol of that trust.

But when he continues as uses food to roadmap a relationship free of the pretext, “Maybe one day we’ll go for a picnic, dine at the Ritz” is indeed a literal example of what their relationship could be but it also acts as a promise that “Maybe, one day we can go on a picnic, or dine at the Ritz without the excuses, and simply be us enjoying food, not us using food as a safety net”. It’s a road map that he will continue with the pretext, and he’s alright if Crowley is tired of using it to be around each other, but he needs it, not always, not forever, but for now, it allows him the comfort that he is protecting Crowley’s safety (as well as himself).

Crowley counters this moment with, “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go” which I argue translates into “I will dismiss the pretext now in a heartbeat, I’m not afraid of the consequences, I could ‘eat’ with you now”, but Aziraphale can’t risk it. “You Go too Fast for me Crowley” is a warning that he can’t have Crowley risking his life for him. We talk often about how Crowley has self-esteem issues, but so does Aziraphale, he does not see himself as being worthy of such a risk. So, he needs the pretense of food to function without (much) worry about what Hell would do to Crowley if they were discovered.

Unfortunately, they’re not speaking the same symbolic language, and as pointed out earlier, their wires are crossed.

CONCLUSION

In the beginning of the show, Crowley uses “no more fascinating little restaurants where everyone knows your name” specifically as a selling point, appealing to his presumption that Aziraphale’s love of food outweighs his love of the demon. He’s seen Aziraphale eat, and enjoy himself, clearly, at least Crowley thinks this tactic is reason enough to get Aziraphale to stay. Which points to the fatal flaw of Crowley’s reasoning. He only uses it because saying “we’ll never be able to talk to each other again” doesn’t even register as something he can say because he doesn’t value himself as enough for Aziraphale to consider saving the world. Food, however? Food has acted as a catalyst for understanding, but Crowley mistranslates “catalyst” for “produce” and presumes that because Aziraphale uses food to talk to him, he must love food, and not him. He’s wrong.

It’s not until they both throw out pretext and realize “shit, the song and dances we’ve been doing have not allowed us to rely on each other in the way we need” that they can move forward. And, after Armagedon’t they do just that, leaving the garden, and the remnants of their loyalties to other parties, and dropping all pretext, and just enjoying each other’s company as equals.

Ending the series at the Ritz, celebrating their closeness is likely not the last time they’ll ever share a meal, but it is likely the last time they will under the pretense that food is Aziraphale’s central desire and not Crowley. Sure, food is something Aziraphale mostly enjoys, but it no longer is an excuse. If he eats, it’s for enjoyment and personal choice, not a means for hiding or protecting Crowley anymore. And for Crowley, “tempting” Aziraphale to a bite of lunch without the expectation of a favor, or repaying a favor, removes his similar reservations about pretext. He no longer has to rely on work to simply “be” with Aziraphale.

TLDR: Aziraphale uses food as a social excuse to spend time with Crowley

Thanks for coming to my TedTalk, next time I’ll write too much about Crowley and retraumatization

2K notes · View notes

thyra279 · 5 years ago

Text

Aziraphale is right on Armageddon

I’m not entirely sure how posting/reposting on Tumblr actually works, so I’m making a post of what was originally a response to this excellent post by ileolai I really think that Aziraphale is given quite a hard time for how he handles things in relation to Crowley leading up to the Apocalypse.

In defence of my BAMF boi Aziraphale (referring to the TV series as I don’t remember all the differences in the book):

No, he shouldn’t have told Crowley at the bandstand that they aren’t friends/are over, he should have told Crowley when he knew the location of the Antichrist, and he might have been naive to think that he could change the minds of God/the Metatron/a higher authority. I hate that he lies to Crowley after figuring out the location of the Antichrist.

Crowley’s (admittedly desperate) plan, however, was romantic af but not any better morally or much worse practically. It would not have worked long-term. It would have been selfish, short-sighted and cowardly and gone against everything they stand for and believe in.

If they HAD actually escaped (for all they know, at least, discounting Adam’s choices), Armaggedon would still have gone ahead, the War would’ve taken place, and one side or the other would have won. The winning side would realise either straight away or eventually that one of their own had deserted from the war. Whether the next day or in a few millennia, eventually, surely, someone from the victorious side would have come across them somewhere.

(Might’ve taken me three run-throughs to capture the screenshot because I kept getting too caught up in watching the scene.)

Also, again, there’s the sticky moral issue of the two abandoning Earth and all the creatures thereof to the sole custody of either Heaven or Hell. The world would have ended, Crowley and Aziraphale would have been together, yes, but always looking over their shoulder, and only for a limited time until they were discovered and punished for desertion/their relationship.

Now, it seems there were two other things they could actually do. First, Crowley’s other suggestion: Kill the Antichrist, murder a child. Comes with its own lovely set of moral dilemmas #utilitarianism. Not something either is particularly keen on doing, although it is Aziraphale who gives it a go: He IS willing, in the end, all other options exhausted, to kill in order to save them and the world. (Granted, it kind of makes sense that he should do it; he’d at least be thwarting evil whereas Crowley would be going directly up against “his side”. But still, it’s going directly against the Great Plan.)

The only option that could possibly, potentially, mayyyybe work is to convince a higher-up to actually get the whole Armageddon called off. It’s the only way to save everything - the world, humanity, Crowley, their relationship; the only potential long-term solution. So, he goes to see the Archangels, to get them to either call off the war or (possibly?) kill the Antichrist. Aziraphale tells them some of what he knows, but he is smart enough not to tell his superiors that he already knows where the Antichrist is. He lies to them too and keeps the information to himself until he knows what the Right thing to do is to save the world.

Don’t think I’ve seen this talked about this anywhere: While speaking to Archangels, he also tries out quite a clever plan to help out Crowley, whose massive cock-up and cover-up in the wrong Antichrist fiasco will be found out as soon as Warlock reaches Megiddo: He suggests to the Archangels that Crowley did it all on purpose to trick Aziraphale and keep the real Antichrist safe.

(adorbs)

He’s not exactly making himself look great here, but it’s worth it if he can convince the higher-ups that Crowley is really a demonic strategic genius who was actually protecting the Antichrist all along.

After the Archangels tell him to piss off and the Bandstand scene (RIP), where he declares that can’t be on their side anymore and Crowley is the one to leave, he tries to get to Gabriel once again, which obviously fails. After Gabriel’s “What are you?”, he looks at him running off towards the bandstand, which is in focus although it isn’t in the rest of the scene and reminds of us him and Crowley, and we get the lovely, romantic (?) “I’m soft”. It’s pretty clear already that he has no intention of fighting in any war (or against Crowley). Then, after telling Crowley’s he’s being ridiculous for wanting to run away (and Crowley saying he’ll run off and forget about Aziraphale), he tries once again to explain why the war shouldn’t happen to the archangel thugs and to get them to see what they, as angels, should be doing and why it is vital that the world (and A and C’s role in it) continue.

He is clearly terrified. The archangels clearly aren’t there with good intentions, and yet he Stands Up to them and tries to make them see reason: They shouldn’t want the war, that’s not what they, the angels are there to do - they should be upholding one side of the moral coin, letting humanity choose between good and bad. (As an aside, I love all the “Aziraphale is terrible at being an angel” fun, but I - and probably god, and possibly even Aziraphale himself - think that he is the best angel: Even with the Arrangement, he has actually been doing the exact job of Heaven and Hell, upholding this careful balance between Good and Evil, allowing people to choose, navigating via his own moral compass, and taking care of humanity ever since giving away the sword, as a good principality should). He’s already saying pretty clearly that he’s on the side of The World, that he doesn’t want the war.

His last hope for actually avoiding the Apocalypse (and saving his and Crowley’s continued existence together) is God herself. Obviously and beautifully, he doesn’t get through, and the Metatron is no better than the other bureaucratic, dogmatic, powerhungry arsewipes in Heaven. He’s exhausted all other options, all hope of a long-term real solution for him and Crowley, and so he calls up Crowley to let him know Adam’s location so that they can go off in desperation and try to stop/kill the Antichrist. It won’t save them, but it might just be possible for them to save the world.

After his discorporation, he takes a very public, burning-all-bridges stand in Heaven and gives a metaphorical two-finger salute as he yeets back to possess people like a demon. He finds Crowley and is very much set on the task at hand - getting to and stopping the Antichrist - even though he and Crowley clearly have a lot of personal shizzle to discuss. At the Airfield, finally, he’s the one who actually does try to kill Adam to save the world.

Also, Aziraphale comes up with the brilliant distinction between the Great Plan and the Ineffable Plan, which implies that Heaven and Hell might be going against God, and that he and Crowley (and Adam) might just under Her protection, and would give Crowley and himself an out if only their bosses were flexible/good enough to see reason.

When it works and Armageddon IS actually avoided, he greets Gabriel coolly and unwieldingly while Crowley tries out a sycophantic (and fabulous) grovelling bow.

He has Taken A Stand and he’s not moving. For all that he frets and wiggles, he’s the guardian; constant, secure with a steady, certain inner moral compass that is much too good and intelligent to constantly align with Heaven. Crowley is the snake; wiley, slippery, flighty, constantly moving (and I mean that in the best way, I love Crowley as much as Aziraphale).

He grounds Crowley. When Crowley is finally giving up, saying goodbye to Aziraphale, refuses to give up, knowing exactly how to get Crowley moving again - pulling out another card in his… infinite variety… of ways to surprise and touch and steady the demon.

Morally, it’s like that old philosophy conundrum, the trolley problem with more heartbreak: If you could only save one, would you save your loved one or a group of strangers? When push comes to shove, Aziraphale cannot let himself throw the random bunch of strangers to the wolves, choosing his own unhappiness over the unhappiness of humanity. Add to that the fact that avoiding the Apocalypse is also the only long-term way to possibly save Crowley their relationship. (TV) Crowley is more concerned with saving Aziraphale and himself. Not a bad instinct; a very human one, in fact. His world IS Aziraphale, he moves around the angel, grounds himself in him. Aziraphale’s own happiness and well-being is contingent on Crowley being in the world, but he is willing to sacrifice that to save the actual world. He IS committed to Crowley, it’s just that Crowley can’t be in Aziraphale’s world if the world doesn’t exist. Aziraphale might owe Crowley an apology for throwing him under the cart for this, but he’s a damn good person/being and a really damn good angel.

I was gonna tie this down better to this thought I’ve been thinking a lot, but this got so long that Imma just gesture vaguely towards it, it’s not hugely related to the events of Armageddon: Aziraphale has to be constantly selfless everywhere except for with Crowley. He gets to be selfish in his relationship with the demon. Crowley, on the other hand, can only ever be allowed to be selfless and good through his relationship with the angel. Aziraphale being selfish allows gives Crowley a space to be giving and loving (in whatever way) and kind.

I know there are already lots of lovely fics out there exploring these things in profound and beautiful ways, but I got started on this essay journey, and I was damned if I wasn’t gonna finish it too.

So *sniffs* yeah.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #its ineffable #crowley #aziraphale #aziraphale and crowley #crowley and aziraphale #armageddon #trolley problem #damned if you do #bamf aziraphale #good angel #armageddidn't #guardian of the eastern gate #principality #good boi

349 notes · View notes

tonydaddingham · 1 year ago

Text

really, really good points!!! i will however let my absolute bias where aziraphale is concerned rear its ugly head though, in that whilst im 100% in agreement with you about how crowley perceived what aziraphale offered and said, my view is that aziraphale's motivation is a little more deep-seated that in being aligned with heaven/wanting to be part of the hive again.

(shoving under a cut because woo it's about to get lengthy)

i completely agree that aziraphale should be a little more intuitive than he currently displays re: crowley's trauma from the fall. whilst crowley has never told him, and puts on a 6000-year old swagger to paper over the gaping cracks that formed in him because of it, aziraphale is not stupid, and should be able to make an inference. he should know crowley better than that, be able to see beyond the walls crowley put up.

but at the same time, i know i have certainly known people that had certain triggers from deep trauma, even known people for a long time who have had History, and i've inadvertently glossed over what might trigger them or hurt them, because i just didn't know the full facts. these people didn't owe me their history, not at all, but even when ive previously gotten the impression there is a Thing going on, without knowing the full truth i couldnt entirely avoid hurting them by mistake.

and crowley doesn't necessarily owe aziraphale anything, but after all this time? i would have thought he could trust aziraphale with it. maybe thats just speaks to how immeasurably painful and vulnerable it was for crowley - in fact, definitely does! but in the context of the Domestic, aziraphale knows that crowley is a Good Person. he knows crowley was wronged (as far as the narrative has told us and him about why he fell) in the fall, for a minor infraction (if it's even justifiably an infraction in the first place!... and also if it's even true but that's a different story).

so, to my interpretation, the offer of restoration in aziraphale's mind is that it is an abstract (or from god?) apology to crowley, the gesture of righting that wrong and owning the fault, and giving crowley the position to do Good so noone has to ever suffer as he, they together, and others have. crowley is a good person, already halfway there, so why not just take the title and status that would allow him to practice it in absolute? they could do so much Good together.

and besides - wouldn't this mean they could exercise that good in a way that meant they never have to run? never have to escape anywhere in shame, never have to fear anything or anyone, never have to bury themselves and what they feel, because not only is aziraphale planning to return to heaven, but return as Supreme Archangel; noone would ever dare to question him and crowley! i think that's, in aziraphale's mind, ultimate safety and freedom, however naive in the long term.

i don't think, at this point, aziraphale feels guilty or ashamed of being in love with a demon - we'd probably see a lot more of the hesitancy of s1 in his behaviour, i think, if he was; instead, the man is obsessed with him in s2. like, besotted with crowley exactly as he is before the offer of restoration was ever on the table. i think he's fully embraced loving crowley as crowley - neither an angel or a demon - and ill discuss this here*. but this where i consider "nothing lasts forever" to come in - aziraphale saying that he doesn't care if the world disintegrates, as long as he and crowley remain that's all that matters (and again - crowley understandably does hear that at all).

in terms of vulnerability: im going to be a little ignorant and ask where you see crowley be vulnerable in the series other than in ep6? (genuine q, because im happy to be proven wrong!) because to me all i see is crowley hovering in the metaphorical doorway; aziraphale has been very forward (for him) this season in how he declares their togetherness at the very least, exception being his denial to gabriel in ep1 (but im mindful to chalk that up to it being before all the events of s1 where aziraphale let's himself fully fall). this is probably because crowley's not taking up aziraphale's more subtle cues, doesn't notice the glances and particular 'us' phraseology that aziraphale adopts, and thinks aziraphale is still himself a few steps behind, rather than ahead.

but all the conversations re: "you two a couple? you should talk more, are you treating him right?" has all been involving crowley... for once, it's aziraphale that's maybe gone a bit too fast and crowley is scrambling to catch up, and he does in true whiplash-inducing crowley fashion in ep6, but then of course aziraphale had to mete out the death blow of the restoration offer etc etc. crowley does lead that scene in terms of vulnerability, but was it all too late? possibly.

aziraphale learns a lot from the minisode experiences, but i similarly think they regress him/hold him back massively. he learns that things are not always black and white, that who and what he thinks should be good is sometimes bad, and who and what he sees as bad is sometimes good. that's indisputable, it's a massive shift in his mentality and perception of morality. however (and i discussed this at length here - gets a bit philosophical so fair warning for pretentious crap) i think aziraphale still struggles with his fear and love for god, her ineffability, and the exactness of her power. that's the lesson, as concerns angels-heaven-god, that he still has yet to learn and challenge.

ultimately by this point i don't think aziraphale has any issue with differentiating with Good as an institution, and Good as a core, innate trait and belief. aziraphale still believes in good as a concept, and wants to embody it and bring it back fully to heaven as it was originally intended, but i think he's fully cognizant by s2 that angels and heaven are not wholly good in and of themselves.

rot has set in, and it has led to a heaven and angelic host that doesn't align with his beliefs about what Good should be. this to me is what he's saying to crowley; that heaven as a concept was always intended to be good and is good by her design (again, i don't think he's gotten to the final boss battle of fully, wholeheartedly questioning god yet) but the institution itself has become the problem, and that's what you and i could fix together. when aziraphale says "youre (hell, crowley) are the bad guys", i don't think that he means it in a discriminatory manner, marking crowley as lesser than; but that crowley is a demon - a fact - but also a Good Person, so why would he ever want to take their offer? and why therefore would he not take this offer of rejoining heaven?

im not however (despite having spent all this post defending aziraphale) dismissing at all how crowley interprets what aziraphale is saying. it is completely understandable how crowley reads this all, but i think that its easy to accept crowley's interpretation as fact because he is the party probably in the most pain. i totally get that, and his reaction is so valid because of it.

but my last point joins on from this exact thing; i don't think crowley knows aziraphale as well as he likes to think... or rather, he thinks he knows aziraphale but out of excitement for aziraphale being an imperfect angel, someone like him, he somewhat dismisses some of the key principles of aziraphale's character. the whole Good thing ive already waxed lyrical about - but i think he doesn't quite see aziraphale's own trauma for what it truly is.

arguably (and this will sound fairly reductive of him), crowley had mercy in the fall. he was cast out, and whilst that caused unimaginable agony and disconnect, he knew where he stood. aziraphale spent thousands of years being an outsider, looked down on and brushed off as inconsequential as a result of having the same trait as crowley - occupying the in-between. i could imagine that aziraphale therefore has consistently felt that whatever he does, he is not wholly Enough to be loved by heaven, by other angels, or even by god. so he turns to crowley who, regardless of it being borne out of love or friendship, has always seemed to accept him, taught him more on how to live in, and see, the grey, and never made him feel lesser than for being in the in-between; crowley lives there too.

(further read if interested: first section)

so when aziraphale shows to crowley why he wants to rebuild heaven, "I can make a difference", and crowley rejects that, from aziraphale's perspective thats a massive betrayal. he thought that if anyone would get this, if anyone knew him completely, it was crowley.

that aziraphale - standing in front of him and offering all of him - would be enough for crowley to set aside his pain, hatred, and resentment (that aziraphale still doesn't know or understand the full scope of, admittedly, and therefore why he's asking something practically impossible for crowley to do) and put aziraphale first... to want to be with him in whatever form that takes. this, rebuilding heaven, is another chapter in aziraphale's forever, and crowley stopped at the end of the last one and closed the book.

this to me is summed up (and sums up the whole misunderstanding that was the Domestic) in "i don't think you understand what im offering you". aziraphale is of course potentially talking about being restored and rebuilding heaven, and crowley is definitely on that wavelength in his response, but i think aziraphale is also (if not more) literally saying, "this is me, this is who I am, and i would give it all to you, you can have me but you have to accept all of me and why i need to do this".

crowley doesn't hear that (fair - god i wish these boys would just speak in plain words for once), and from aziraphale's perspective, crowley essentially says 'yeah i love you, but not that much. i love the you that would fit in with what i want, i don't love the things about you that doesnt'. which to me, explains this reaction below - aziraphale accepting that crowley maybe doesn't want him as much as he thought he did, or loved a version of him that doesn't exist:

then follows the temptation etc ive already mentioned ✨

thesherrinfordfacility:

vaguelyxdownwards:

thesherrinfordfacility:

regardless of where one falls on the argument of whether aziraphale was or wasnt in the right in this scene, he has just in his own way been rejected; he wants to go to heaven to fulfil a higher, altruistic purpose, but was only ever intending to with crowley by his side. crowley in his own way has just rejected that, for understandable reasons, and could be interpreted as having told aziraphale that he wants him but only if aziraphale denies the part of him that doesn’t fit what crowley wants. (it’s all more nuanced than that, but as a summary).

that’s by the by, but we do know the crowley is able to tempt aziraphale - s2 with food, and s1 with adam/warlock - and aziraphale is at least on some level aware of it. so after they argue, and aziraphale looks away (bearing mind the “no nightingales” line which i take to mean as crowley saying “the damage is done, we’re over”, and last parting shot of “idiot”), crowley then strides over and kisses him.

it might not be right way to see it, but i did see it as its own brand of manipulation, temptation. crowley is evidently so overcome with his own emotion and desperation, and this is his last ditch attempt to get aziraphale to stay. and i think aziraphale realises it; he immediately reacts with ‘what are you doing’ frozen response.

then he succumbs to it, for a split second, because it is ultimately what he wants. succumbs to the temptation in a very unangelic way - awful when you consider what they’ve just argued about. but then aziraphale shakes himself out of it, and pushes crowley away, which says to me that he’s aware that crowley has just used his ultimate weapon; (inadvertently?) manipulated aziraphale’s own feelings for him and used them against him to try and get aziraphale to stay, in so doing he tried to tempt aziraphale into denying that part of who he is. even possibly intimating that crowley doesn’t want aziraphale unless he lets go of this part of who he is.

which is then where the I Forgive You comes in; personally, i read this as aziraphale benevolently forgiving crowley for what he just did, trying to manipulate him the same way everyone else does (ironic given metatron role in this), and also telling crowley in a language that only they understand that he knows what crowley just did, and that it hurt.

NEVER feel encumbered from sharing and interacting with me as long as it’s respectful (which it was)!

Okay this nterpretation makes the most sense of all that I’ve received, to me at least. I have little to add because I appreciate the nuance and the recognition of both characters’ process of core belief, thought, and action.

well you might soon regret that when i point out the following that ive noticed and will proceed to inflict maximum level damage; we know that michael sheen is the undisputed god of micro-expressions, right? well let’s cycle through the immediate aftermath of the Domestic once crowley has left:

that last one? thats just abject rage to me. imo he cycled through “oh my god he’s left, he’s actually left, we are never going to come back from this”, to “well that hurts like hell, he just tried to tempt me, he’s in the wrong, and he gets to storm out?”, to “he actually kissed me?”, to “and i liked it?”, to “i nearly succumbed to it, his temptation, he’s a bastard for trying it”, to lastly “im not good enough for him to stay, but i know i have more value than that.”

okay so yeah the above is very subjective but regardless those faces were a Choice. and whilst we know in the next bit of the scene that aziraphale wavers dramatically, he does, like, regain composure and almost again goes through the same inner monologue before he ultimately plasters on the smile again and follows the metatron out… and does it again just before he gets in the lift… and again in the lift. my silly angel is swinging on a pendulum between grovelling at crowley’s feet, and dedicating himself to proving crowley wrong. and given all of the above, i think it’s fair that he chose what he did!✨

I think this is a really solid observation, although I’d like to add a slight counter-consideration that centers on how SHAME motivates both of these characters.

I give Aziraphale a BIT less of a pass for his choice, given the context of the Job and starving young bodysnatchers memories, and even more for the general fact that Crowley has been so vulnerable (for Crowley) lately with Aziraphale, and given him ample opportunity to know the deeper pain that comes from being cast out of the company of people you care about….for doing little more than asking God (or, more likely, God’s so-called representatives, the Metatron and Archangels) important questions. Has he told him about this experience outright? No, but I just can’t believe someone as smart and emotionally intuitive as Aziraphale really doesn’t recognize that red button in Crowley at all.

Aziraphale has to engage in cognitive dissonance to believe that keeping in line with the Heavenly Host is the moral high ground; we see Crowley repeatedly, patiently (if a little smugly), trying to get him to realize that this view is reductive and dangerous, but he can’t and won’t listen, to the extent that he has to minimize the importance of their relationship as it currently stands (“nothing lasts forever”). And his point of view is understandable and what he wants to do is not that bad, until one acknowledges (as he cannot, in order to be “right”) that Crowley’s whole being pivots around eons of sorrow and rage at being rejected for existing: genuinely as himself. Crowley embraces being a demon in part to defy that shame. But the important point is that, to ask Crowley to become an angel again is tantamount to saying, “My love for you is henceforth conditional. You have to become like me for me to feel morally clean being publicly attached to you.” To Crowley, then, the person Crowley loves most has effectively re-enacted the trauma of getting cast out of Heaven.

Did Aziraphale mean for Crowley to read it this way? No, not consciously at least, but it really, REALLY sucks. And Crowley knows how much Aziraphale wants to fit in with the “good guys,” so he reads more hurt into the whole idea or being reinstated as an angel than is intended. Ironically, it’s how well Crowley knows Aziraphale that escalates their fight. Meanwhile, Aziraphale puts on blinders and doubles down because if Crowley would just give in and be an angel again, Aziraphale could bury his guilt over falling in love with the “enemy.” He could be both of the selves he wants to be: an exemplary angel, AND Crowley’s lover.

This may be my OWN personal bias showing, as a university educator who has been dealing with a largely white and underprivileged social demographic, whom I must constantly try to usher in the direction of feeling compassion for queer and BIPOC people and the issues they face (I teach a course on how American media shapes our understanding of American identity, so we deal with a lot of sticky issues in the classroom). Basically, we do a LOT of work on preconceptions and on assuming your version of events is the universally correct one.

I know Aziraphale isn’t a willfully ignorant person in the sense that a human bigot is (he’s far too caring and has too often proven himself willing to admit wrongdoing), but he’s headed that direction, as you say, in part to prove Crowley wrong, because if he can prove Crowley (who knows him best) wrong, that must mean he can assuage his own misplaced shame and guilt about being “tempted” in the past.

I do, though, think that not only this scene, but their entire arc to date, boils down to the fact that they both love living in limbo between extremes, on earth, but what separates them isn’t really “angel” versus “demon,” it’s “seeks the approval of community” versus “would rather be authentic even if that means solitude.” It’s two very different ways of coping with shame at unbelonging. And neither is actually superior; both are (irony!) very human impulses.

And yes, yes, it hurts :’’’’)

#good omens #aziraphale meta #feral domestic/final fifteen meta #s2 meta

191 notes · View notes

ldybluerse · 5 years ago

Text

In Which Cuddles Happen...

Humans are, despite their disagreeing, social creatures. After all, Adam needed Eve for companionship, even though there were plenty of animals in Eden for him to befriend. One should be grateful that Adam did not attempt to know the animals in the Biblical sense as he came to know Eve.

This story is not about Adam and Eve though, it is not even about humans at all. There was really no need to mention them, except for the fact that a single Angel and a single Demon have spent the last six thousand years amongst humans, enjoying the silly little things that humans do. Silly little things that they also would get up to.

Perhaps it is because they have corporations like humans that they feel drawn to be more human like. Or perhaps it is because anyone would get lonely after six thousand years of watching human love, loss, happiness, and pain shared. Universal feelings that Crowley and Aziraphale could also understand despite not being, strictly speaking, human.

What the two Celestial beings had come to learn, but never attempt before, was that sometimes the cure for what ails you is a hug. For the bigger ails in life, a cuddle was the necessary prescription.

After the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t and two failed executions, Aziraphale and Crowley were feeling good about how the events turned out. The world would continue on, Heaven and Hell would back off, at least for the time, and they came to a new Agreement; the only side that mattered was the side they stood on together.

Yet the euphoria of the moment couldn’t last forever. A day, maybe two at most. It at least lasted long enough to enjoy a wonderful meal at the Ritz and plenty of celebratory drinks back at Aziraphale’s book store. Worries crept back in as minds over-thought the things that minds overthink. Such things as whether or not Heaven and Hell will try again. Whether there is a Plan B or C or a whole alphabet of plans to end the world. Would they be enough to stand against the forces of Heaven and Hell truly working together to destroy Earth, and them?

All these thoughts where tying Crowley into knots. For a Demon, he worried a great deal about the consequences of his actions. A unique feature, perhaps it is an extension of his imagination; one must imagine consequences to worry that there will be some.

Aziraphale was just as worried as his Demonic counterpart. He was a guardian, a protector, and he did not know how he could do it alone, save for Crowley and some humans. Humans are wonderful, resourceful, creative, and deviant creatures! They could do so much and be great at doing it, but could they do enough to defeat Heaven and Hell? And what if that was the ineffable plan but they cocked it up?

Aziraphale couldn’t be sure anymore if he had Faith in the All Mighty, he certainly did not in Heaven. What was God doing? Creating all this life and telling them to love them then just deciding it’s okay to end it all? He would worry holes in his rugs from pacing if he kept trying to follow these logical rabbit holes.

If Crowley hadn’t caught his hand before he could make another round of pacing. The Demon has been lounging on couch in the bookstore; all long limbs and unable to sit up straight for longer then a few minutes.

The touch was a surprise and not unwelcome. Being on their Own Side seemed to involve more soft touches. And it had only been a few days! Six thousand years of keeping distance to avoid punishment was finally crashing at their feet as they were free to “fraternize”.

Oh, who was anyone kidding -which is no one, except maybe Heaven and Hell- they were free to be whoever they wanted to be.

Crowley tugged Aziraphale’s hand to encourage him to sit down on the couch. There was another reason for nerves and worries; what were they now?

Crowley raised one of his ginger brows high, “you going to keep sitting like a statue, Angel?”

“Well... I just don’t know! There is so much.... oh what are we going to do?!”

“I think... we shouldn’t do anything that has to do with Heaven and Hell.”

“Crowley, we have to figure out a plan. We were lucky that we made it through the first time. We can hardly hope our incompetence saves us a second time.”

“We can hardly plan anything because we don’t know where to begin to plan,” the lanky body of the Demon went from lax against the arm of the couch to being straighter. If not angled more towards Aziraphale’s sitting form.

“We could...” Aziraphale motioned with his hands as he couldn’t find the words. “Oh I don’t know!”

Crowley took the flailing hands into his own, “Angel, whatever comes up, we will figure it out. This is our home, and Our Side will protect our home.”

“But what about the plan?”

Crowley shot to his feet, his movement so fluid it was if he had no bones, “the Ineffable Plan? Well... I don’t care what God has planned. I don’t have to care! I only care about one thing!” Realizing where his words were headed, Crowley stumbled over them, “well, I mean two things. Earth. I care about Earth being here.” Somethings were too hard to say aloud yet.

“You were willing to go off to the stars. Leave it all behind.”

“Ngk... yes... but that’s because...” He dropped back to the couch besides Aziraphale. “I didn’t go so it doesn’t matter.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Crowley sighed, “we need alcohol.”

“Crowley. Why didn’t you leave?”

“You know damn well why I didn’t go. You’re the smart one.”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to reach out, he gently touched Crowley’s hand, “Maybe... I want to hear it. I may know, but without you telling me... well... then I can’t be sure.”

Crowley looked at Aziraphale, his signature glasses had been removed sometime ago when they entered the bookshop. He didn’t feel the need to wear them in the privacy of Aziraphale’s company. The Angel was looking at him in that way. That oh so soft way that says everything without a word uttered.

“It wasn’t worth going without you,” Crowley’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Earth isn’t worth saving without you...”

Aziraphale pulled him close, a simple hug. But simple hugs can be magical things, they can make the world and heal some of the wounds on a heart. Crowley and Aziraphale both needed hugs after everything they survived but telling two six-thousand-and-something-year-old Celestials they are touch-starved won’t get anyone far. It’s just something they have to figure out for themselves.

The hug lasted so long that it turned into a cuddle. Aziraphale leaning back in the corner of the couch, while Crowley draped over his chest and stomach. That need to be loved put their worries on the back burner. It was time to find a reprieve from their past and the worries of the future.

Sometimes the only cure for what ails a person is the act of full body cuddles. The type of cuddles where one person practically lays on another like a human weighted blanket. Now neither Aziraphale or Crowley are human, but they are human shaped. And there is nothing to say that Demons and Angels weren’t made in similar ways to humans; as social creatures. Of course Angels and Demons would be far too proud to admit they need contact from another being. They are too high and mighty or low and dangerous for that.

Aziraphale and Crowley are neither high and might or low and dangerous, they are in the middle, with humanity. Right there on Earth, in a crowded bookstore, in the arms of each other was where they belonged. It’s where they both finally eased their muscles and relaxed.

Crowley let his eyes close, he could nap right here for a century if he had a choice.

Quiet.

Yellow eyes flew open and he hardly dared to breath or move... there was a deep vibrating rumble coming from below him. He didn’t sense anything as he had with Satan. There was no great evil or anger anywhere nearby. And earthquakes certainly do not happen in England.

He stayed still listening. Waiting for something to happen, to figure out what was going on.

The rumbles stopped, “is anything the matter my dear? You have become stiff.” The Angel’s voice was soft, sleepy sounding.

“Is nothin’...” He forced himself to relax, but still on high alert. No one was getting his Angel this time.

The rumbling began shortly after Crowley relaxed again.

Wait.

The Demon adjusted his position a bit, his ear to Aziraphale’s chest. “Since when can Angels purr?”

———————

Note From Me: I dunno, my mind was like “purring is so soothing”, “OMG ANGELS SHOULD PURR BECAUSE ITS CALMING”.

I guess in headcanon Angels don’t know they can purr because they don’t exactly relax enough to do it. So it’s a surprise to everyone.

#AngelsArePartLionRight?#LionsCanPurrRight?#PurringAngelsShouldBeAThing #PurrsAreComforting #AngelsComfort #good omens #ineffable husbands #ineffable spouses #cuddles

593 notes · View notes

aethelflaedladyofmercia · 5 years ago

Text

A Cunning Plan

(This is a ButterOmens submission, expanding on @kaz3313‘s initial fic, “A Good/Bad Idea.” All continuations and expansions in any medium are welcome!

(CW: While this is the least distressing Hell story I’ve yet written, with almost no physical violence, it’s also not entirely played for laughs. The abuse is mainly psychological. The threats get intense and there’s a strong sense of exactly how bad it could be. Happy ending, though, unless you’re rooting for Team Hell, and there is comfort after the hurt.)

10575 words.

Michael glared at the telephone on her desk – an older model, with cords and physical buttons, instead of the sleek device she preferred. It almost never did anything anymore, but now it was giving off a horrific, shrill rrrriiiiing over and over. The blinking red light – not quite coordinated to the noise – told her it was an external call, to the general line.

Good. Someone else could answer that.

Rrrrriiiiing.

Except she had work to do and she couldn’t concentrate around that infernal –

Rrrrriiiiing.

After more than a minute of this abject torture, Michael gave in and snatched up the handset. “Hello?” she demanded, making no attempt to hide her irritation.

Her lip curled in disgust when she heard the voice on the other end of the line. She should have known. “No, I am not Gabriel’s…secretary, as you put it. Why would he give his personal line to you?”

Beelzebub’s grating voice seemed slightly less bored than usual. If this kept up, ze may even make it all the way to annoyed.

“Well, I believe he also said that we would be in touch. That means, don’t call us, we’ll –”

A scowl. “No, I will not transfer you.”

She stood up, very nearly losing her composure. “Or take a message. I told you, I’m not his secretary. You’ll get your paperwork back in a week. If you want to arrange a meeting then –”

Michael reluctantly listened to the demon’s reply. “Well. You had your chance for revenge, and as I recall, it didn’t work out, did it?” A pause. “No, I suppose things didn’t go well on our end, either. Not that that’s any concern of yours.”

Michael drummed her fingers on the desk, staring at the pile of paperwork. Everything since the failed Apocalypse had been paperwork and committee meetings, one scramble after another to create new plans for a world that stubbornly refused to end.

This wasn’t what she was designed for. She was built to lead the angels in a glorious war that should be going on right now. If it weren’t for those traitors…

“Fine. I’m listening. What is your plan?”

Two angels and two demons sat around the wrought-iron café table, awning shading them from the early-autumn heat, eyes watching the bookshop on the corner.

The pale one, Hastur, had a stench that had cleared out most of the outdoor seating area immediately, and Beelzebub’s swarm of flies had taken care of the rest. The flies coated every surface, every chair, the windows, the ground, and the little plate of pastries they’d brought as camouflage. Already the croissants were starting to rot.

Gabriel and Michael sat across from the demons, each with a cup full of bitter coffee. Neither would actually stoop so low as to drink a debase, earthly liquid. In fact, Michael had barely managed to convince Gabriel to sit near the cup, and he kept eyeing it as if afraid it would move closer of its own accord, spill all over his latest suit.

Michael pretended to take a sip, as the vile liquid tried to burn her fingers through the thin paper cup. It was annoying, so she immediately dissipated the heat. Somehow, it smelt even worse cold.

Beelzebub had some enormous, frothy monstrosity, to which ze was adding packet after packet of creamer, leaving the empty containers strewn about for zir flies to explore.

Only Hastur seemed to be enjoying his, devouring the cup one mouthful of shredded paper at a time.

“There,” Michael nodded down the street, the opposite direction from the bookshop.

Tall, clad all in black, dark red hair – the demon Crowley – and the round, pale shape of Aziraphale, in that absurd outfit he always wore, bowtie and all. The disgraceful angel was eating some form of confection while the demon talked at length, long arm waving in every direction.

Between them, their hands were clasped, fingers tangled together. It made Michael’s skin crawl just to look at it, and she slid her chair a little farther from the two revolting creatures at her table.

“This is what they do all day?” Gabriel demanded, incredulous.

“As far as we can tell,” she confirmed. “Go for walks. Eat foods. Sit in the bookshop. Touch each other.” Incomprehensible. Thousands of years of subtle defiance – so subtle even Michael herself nearly missed it – only to openly rebel against Heaven for a life of…nothing.

“Szoundsz miszerable,” Beelzebub muttered, echoing Michael’s thoughts, though the Prince of Hell had barely glanced at the two traitors. Instead, ze reached for the saltshaker, trying to add a pinch to the awful concoction. At the first shake, the cap came off, dumping several ounces of salt into Beelzebub’s beverage. “Great. Now it’sz ruined. Who doesz that?”

“Crowley,” growled Hastur, grinding his teeth so hard Michael thought they might crack. “He’s always loosening the tops in the Hell canteen. Thinks its…” he spat. “Funny.”

Michael and Gabriel shared a grimace. Hell was full of evil and cruelty, but what neither of them could stand was the unprofessionalism. “Regardless,” Michael tried to continue her report, “our experts have assured me they are indulging in several major sins. Sloth. Gluttony.” As they watched, Crowley paused, laughing. His thumb brushed crumbs away from the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth. “Lust.”

All four beings at the table shuddered this time, and four chairs shrieked as they moved apart, grating across the concrete floor. Despite being only a few meters away, the traitors didn’t notice – they would see and hear nothing of their observers, unless one of Beelzebub’s flies broke the barrier Michael had meticulously set up.

“Diszguszting,” Beelzebub declared as Aziraphale caught Crowley’s thumb and pressed it briefly to his lips. Several dozen flies buzzed agreement.

“When do we grab him?” demanded Hastur, ripping another bite out of his cup.

“That’s the tough part,” Gabriel said. “We have to wait until he’s alone. There can be no chance the demon is anywhere in the area.”

“Really?” The carefully maintained boredom in Beelzebub’s tone carried a note of mockery. “Are two Archangelsz afraid of one demon?”

“I don’t know, is the Prince of Hell afraid of him?” snapped Gabriel.

“Crowley is not the concern here,” Michael interrupted, glaring at both parties. She could not work like this, not if Gabriel was going to stoop to their level. “It’s Aziraphale.”

Hastur made a noise like an explosion in a swamp. “That cringing little nothing? Could take him apart with my bare hands.”

“No doubt you could, under normal circumstances.” Michael tried not to look at the hands in question – particularly the filthy, discolored nails. “But Aziraphale is a Guardian. He has extraordinary strength when acting in defense of one of his charges, and for some unfathomable reason he counts Crowley among them.” She glanced at the two demons sharing her table, neither of whom was paying enough attention for her liking. “Let me make this absolutely clear. He cannot access that strength in self-defense. That isn’t how he was designed. But if he thinks for one second that Crowley, or anyone else, is in danger – you will lose control of this.”

“Fine,” growled Hastur, who clearly lacked any patience, along with intelligence, grace, and good sense. “We grab the angel at night, when Crowley leaves.”

Michael pressed her lips together.

The look of horror slowly grew across Gabriel’s features. “Does the demon leave at night?”

“About half the time,” she admitted.

Another shriek of four chairs shifting apart.

Four nights later, Hastur watched the bookshop through the van window. Michael had manifested it, after spending five minutes mocking Hastur’s own attempt. He’d thought his imitation of a human automobile was good enough for the job, but Captain Fancy Wings wanted something convincing and realistic and with a functioning air conditioner. Little cardboard trees that he wasn’t allowed to eat sat on every surface, and Michael was spritzing the air with something that smelled foul and flowery.

“Stop that or I’ll rip your arm off,” snapped Hastur, as the spritz came too close to his eyes – and nose – again. The seven demons in the back grunted agreement.

Michael just raised an eyebrow. “You’re welcome to try.”

Hastur turned back to the shop. Crowley had finally left, and now the little cream-colored puffball was sitting in a chair with his eyes closed, sipping on a glass of something Michael had repeatedly insisted was not blood, though it was certainly red.

“Look. He’s alone. I say we go in now,” Hastur growled. This plan was taking far too long. If he’d been in charge, the angel’s hacked-off arm would be growing cold on Crowley’s doorstep by now.

“Not. Yet.” Michael’s voice was tense. “Believe me, I’m not going to keep you all a second longer than –”

They didn’t hear the telephone ring, but Hastur saw the angel jump to his feet and hurry over, sappy smile growing all over his face. “Ugh. They’ve been talking all day. What the Heaven else do they have to say to each other?”

The call went on for eternity, every expression on the angel’s face even more vomit-inducing than the last. Finally, he hung up and leaned back in his chair again.

“Now can we –”

“Our intel says after their conversation, Crowley always goes to sleep. So, yes, it should be safe to –”

Hastur kicked open the van door, emerging from the blessed potpourri cloud that Michael held them captive in. “Right, team, hit him hard and grab him quick. Let’s go.”

It wasn’t exactly the tactical strike Michael wanted, but it would do.

The doors to the shop had been magically reinforced, but they were no match for eight demons, one of them a Duke of Hell. In seconds, they swarmed through the shards of glass and red-painted wood.

She watched from the van as Aziraphale leapt to his feet. His fury at the intruder quickly shifted to horror when he saw what he truly faced, and he stumbled backwards. Michael smiled. “Not so brave now, are we, traitor?”

The first demon to reach him got a nasty knock in the teeth. Michael had warned them Aziraphale knew how to fight. Even without his Guardian strength, he was easily a match for any demon, possibly even two demons together.

But as he dashed to the phone, four jumped on him, dragging him down in a flurry of feathers, the traitor panicking so hard his wings manifested. Disgraceful.

When the demons finally had him immobile, Hastur stepped over and slammed a bar of metal into the back of Aziraphale’s head. Michael smiled again, imagining the crack it would make. Pity she couldn’t deliver it herself.

After a pause, she saw Hastur’s arm rise and fall again. Then a third time.

Really. That was just brutish overkill.

At last, Hastur and his smelly horde emerged from the shop, six of the demons carrying Aziraphale between them. That shouldn’t have been necessary. She tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, annoyed at the delay.

When the back door opened and the demons began wrestling the angel’s body inside, she snapped, “It took you long –” And fell silent as she saw Aziraphale’s eyes, wide open and alert.

“Michael.” With a flutter of white wings, he wrenched himself free of his captors, settling against the far wall of the van, trying to look like he was there by choice. “I wondered who the brains behind this would be. Just when I thought you couldn’t disappoint me any further.”

She glared at Hastur, who moved to sit beside Aziraphale. “You incompetent – I told you to make sure he was unconscious!”

“Won’t go down.” He jerked Aziraphale’s head forward by the hair, studying the back of his skull.

“What do you mean – you just didn’t do it right!”

“Listen, wanker, I know how to knock someone out. Know how to do a lot worse if I want. Something’s not right here.”

“Yes, I’m obviously too powerful for you,” Aziraphale said, but Michael could hear the tremble behind the false bravado now. “If you let me go, I – I won’t try to take revenge.”

Hastur hit him across the face so hard, the impact echoed off the metal walls of the van. And pulled away his hand with a shout, clutching his fingers to his chest. “How are you doing that?” Aziraphale barely even looked dazed, but the worry was blossoming into full-blown fear.

“We’re going,” Michael snapped. “Sit on him if you have to, we’ll figure it out once we get there.”

Hell had never captured an angel alive before. Beelzebub was nearly excited at the possibilities.

But ze was also aware it could go wrong, like at Crowley’s trial – instead of hundreds of demons witnessing the destruction of a traitor, they saw him boldly defy zir authority and shrug off gallons of Holy Water as if it were nothing. The damage control from that incident would never be over. Beelzebub couldn’t afford a repeat.

The cell ze prepared was deep in the twisted corridors of Hell; it had been designed to hold a Hellhound, so it should be enough to keep the angel contained. The chains that would bind him were forged from celestial orichalcum and stygian iron. Ze had added some fancy cameras, provided by Heaven, so the torture could be broadcast to all of Hell, but open plaza outside was to be kept clear.

“I like this,” Gabriel said, inspecting the cell. “Very thorough. Very dark. And the smell, that’s a good touch.”

“We don’t need your approval,” Beelzebub reminded him. “We know how to do our jobsz here.”

Gabriel grabbed one of the chains and pulled it with his whole weight. “But you’ve never had an angel before, have you? There’s a lot to consider. After all, angels and demons have very little in common –”

“The main differencze isz that angelsz are much more arrogant.”

The Arch-wanker finally turned to face Beelzebub, storming over to tower over zir, to try and intimidate zir. Pathetic, really.

“May I remind you that I’m here because you asked me for assistance.”

“Which you already provided. You’re now here asz a courteszy, nothing more.”

“A courtesy?” Gabriel demanded.

“Yesz.” Apparently, he thought puffing himself up and pulling a face would somehow impress someone who spent zir life ordering literal demons to stop chewing on each other for five minutes and do some blessed paperwork. “He isz our captive. We deczide what happens to him now. But asz he isz your traitor, and asz a szign of our goodwill, you can have a turn torturing him, when we are finished.”

“Listen here,” Gabriel pointed a finger. Wow. A finger. Beelzebub had never seen one of those before. “That little shithead has been a pain in my side for thousands of years, and if you think I’m just going to sit back and watch while your side takes him apart –”

“If you szat back and watched, you might actually learn szomething.” Beelzebub frowned. “But that would probably ruin your image.”

“Let me tell you something about…” But it seemed Beelzebub would go the rest of eternity without whatever wisdom Gabriel had been about to shit out, because they were interrupted by his flashy mobile phone ringing. He held up his finger and wandered off. “Michael! How’s the extraction going?”

Turning back to more important matters, Beelzebub made sure there were sufficient implements of torture in the cell. The one remaining issue was how to choose one of Hell’s many skilled torturers to work on the angel; despite Hastur’s insistence, he was clearly not the best choice. The camera set-ups were reminding Beelzebub of that reality TV thing Crowley used to write about in detail, and that was giving zir some interesting ideas for a competition…

“What do you mean there’s a problem?” Gabriel’s voice demanded, and Beelzebub sighed. Something else for zir to sort out, it seemed.

It was the second time Aziraphale had been led into Hell in chains, though the others didn’t know that.

It was harder this time. Not just because the manacles dragged at his wrists and ankles, each one connected to a different demon marching along beside him; Hastur led the way, pulling the chain for the collar around his neck. Two more demons held his wings in grimy claws.

It was humiliating, but that wasn’t all of it. Aziraphale found it had been much easier to be brave when everyone thought he was Crowley.

The routes they traveled were as wide as a city street, but the crowds pressed in on either side, reaching for him – he sometimes felt their hands brush his face, his wings, clutch at his shirt as he passed – and the shouting. Oh, the shouting.

I hope you brought enough angel for everyone.

Hey, angel, not so high-and-mighty now, are we?

You better hope they don’t leave you alone, angel, or I’m going to break into your cell and –

Hey, angel, I can’t wait to get my hands on your wings and –

What’s the matter, angel? Us demons not good enough for you?

Hey, angel –

Angel –

Empty threats, but no less terrifying for it. He tried to raise his hands to cover his ears, but the demons holding his chains jerked them back down.

It was fairly obvious which cell was meant to be Aziraphale’s: the one with two Archangels waiting outside it. He didn’t know how Michael had gotten there first. Probably took a more private route; the demons wanted to parade their captive in front of all of Hell, but they were still ashamed of their allies.

He tossed his head and tried to keep the quiver out of his voice. “Gabriel. I’d say it’s good to see you again, but I promised Crowley I wouldn’t lie so much anymore.”

“Aziraphale. What the hell have you been up to?”

“Is that…supposed to be funny?” He honestly could never tell with Gabriel.

Any trace of good humor vanished from the Archangel’s face, and Aziraphale felt a familiar fear tear through him. He can’t hurt you, he can’t hurt you…

“Take him inside,” Gabriel ordered. “String him up.”

“You don’t give the commandsz around here,” Beelzebub said, and there was a distinct note of anger behind the blandness.

“I thought you were supposed to be the expert,” Gabriel snapped. “We don’t argue in front of the prisoner. Take him in. Now.”

“What do you mean, he can’t be harmed?” Beelzebub demanded, rubbing zir forehead in annoyance.

“I mean, I bit him, hit him, scratched him – everything I could think of, but he barely felt anything.” Hastur looked offended, as if this was a professional insult.

“Barely felt anything?” Gabriel asked, trying to make sense of what passed for a report in Hell. “What did he feel?”

“Sometimes he flinched,” Hastur shrugged.

“Yes, but when did he –” Gabriel sighed. “Never mind. Michael?”

She nodded and stepped towards the cell.

“Sztop.” Beelzebub blocked her. “I told you, he isz our priszoner, and we get first –”

“Nobody is getting first anything until we know what’s going on,” Gabriel pointed out. “And unlike your…fine associate,” he gestured to Hastur politely, “Michael actually knows how to be systematic. Sit back and watch, you might learn something.”

Beelzebub’s face twisted, but ze stepped aside and let Michael go to work.

“Ah, Michael. Welcome to my new abode,” Aziraphale started, full of false bravery. Gabriel knew it was false. He’d known Aziraphale practically since the moment of the Principality’s creation. Soft and weak and anxious about absolutely everything. Right now he was standing in a dark, damp, filthy cell, arms and wings chained so they couldn’t even be lowered comfortably. He should be pissing himself already. But instead, he smiled that shaky, watery smile. “I’m sure they sent you to –”

Michael slapped him across the face, then shook her hand.

Aziraphale shrugged. “I’m afraid you’ll find that –”

Michael punched him in the jaw. His head snapped back, then lowered again to look at her.

“You know, it’s rude to interrupt.”

Over the next ten minutes, Michael tried everything, including half the torture implements Beelzebub had prepared. Knives scraped across his skin without any affect; hammers slammed into his joints with no more reaction than “Ooh, that smarts a little.” Pulling his hair brought barely a grunt of pain. Plucking his feathers seemed promising at first, but after the first minute, he stopped noticing.

They could find nothing that actually hurt Aziraphale.

It was while Michael was trying, unsuccessfully, to break a finger that Gabriel realized what was going on. He marched into the cell, grabbing the prisoner by the collar. “You didn’t.”

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Aizraphale whispered, tongue poking out to wet his lips.

Gabriel ripped off the bowtie, throwing it on the ground, then tore open the front of Aziraphale’s shirt.

“Stop – Stop it!” Finally, the high-pitched fear Gabriel had been waiting for, but he ignored it. Pulling back the shirt, he found what he expected to see: a complex, serpentine sigil carved into the skin over Aziraphale’s heart.

“You let him mark you. You let a goddamn demon mark you. Of all the disgusting, depraved acts –”

“Really,” Aziraphale cut in, sounding close to tears. “That’s no way to speak about my husband.”

“Huszband?” Beelzebub found that somehow more disgusting than the thoughts of what the two traitors had been physically doing.

“That’s not important,” Gabriel said, though he clearly found it just as disturbing. “That mark is protecting him from any harm. As long as it’s there, we can’t touch him.”

“Crowley,” growled Hastur, clenching his fist so that the jagged nails cut deep into his own flesh. “Thinks he’s so bloody clever, pulling this shit –”

Fascinating as his latest temper tantrum wasn’t, it was time to focus on the problem. “If the angel isz marked, it can only be eraszed with the blood of the demon. Which brings us back to the original problem.” They didn’t dare try to capture Crowley. Not without knowing what powers he might have.

“I got a good look at it,” Gabriel said, shaking his head. “It’s a demonic sigil, but an angelic mark.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, my good Prince of Hell, that it’s not powered by blood, it’s powered by faith.”

“Yeah? So?” Hastur got lost in conversations that didn’t feature disembowelments every few minutes.

Michael sighed. “There are two ways to break an angelic mark. Either he denounces his faith, or he loses it.” She frowned at her superior. “It might not be that easy. He believes he’s married to the creature. He won’t just denounce Crowley because you ask him to.”

Impossibly, Gabriel’s face grew even more smug. “Leave that to me. I know that idiot’s psyche inside and out. I’ll have him cursing that demon’s name by morning.”

Beelzebub frowned at the locked cell door. When they’d shut it, the angel had been smiling – he even waved at them. “I don’t szee how.”

“Trust me. He’s practically broken already. I’m going to need everything you’ve got on Crowley so I can sell this. Michael, if he’s marked, we’re going to need security a lot sooner than planned.”

“On it.” She walked away, tapping her phone. Then stopped and turned back. “Or I would be, if there was any signal down here. I need your Wi-Fi password.”

“We don’t just give that out to any angel who asks,” Hastur snarled.

“Hey,” Gabriel clapped his hands. “There’s no time for that. We’re going to be one big, happy family working together to break that angel, hmm?”

Beelzebub seriously considered just letting Aziraphale go and torturing Gabriel instead. It seemed like a lot less trouble at this point.

“Fine. Hasztur, go talk to Dagon. Get all filesz on Crowley, whatever she hasz... Michael, the code isz one-hundred-eighty-four zerosz followed by a one. Gabriel,” Beelzebub sighed. “Tell me how thisz isz going to work.”

“Oh,” the Archangel rubbed his hands together. “You’re going to like this one.”

Gabriel walked back into the cell, easy smile across his face. He placed a bright lamp beside him and settled into the folding chair Hell had provided. It wasn’t very comfortable, but it was important he look at ease.

The light made Aziraphale flinch, smile turning into a grimace. Good. Already used to the dark.

“Well, Aziraphale, looks like I have good news and bad news.”

“You’ve found you can’t torture me, so you’re letting me go?”

Beelzebub melted into the shadows behind Aziraphale, pulling on one chain, then another. “We can’t hurt you, but we can sztill make you very uncomfortable.” Aziraphale’s arms jerked upwards, until he had to stand on his toes.

Gabriel shook his head sympathetically. “Demons,” he shrugged. “They don’t really think big picture. But you know all about that.” Another jerk of the chains pulled down his wings as far as they would go.

Aziraphale grunted, trying to find a way to balance himself. “Crowley does. He always has a plan.”

“Yes, I’m sure he does,” Gabriel waved dismissively. “In fact, we’re waiting for him to show up. I assume that’s what his mark does, alerts him when you need help. Angelic marks are like that,” he added for Beelzebub’s benefit. “One is the protected, the other the protector.” The profane mark on Azirapahle’s chest was bright red against pale skin.

“Fasczinating,” the Prince of Hell muttered.

“He knew the moment you took me,” Aziraphale said, voice a little tighter. “He’ll be here within the hour –”

“Actually,” Gabriel glanced at his watch, “it’s been over two hours already.” It was almost impossible not to smile at the flicker of worry that crossed Aziraphale’s face at that lie. “No matter. When he finally shows up, we’ll bargain for your release.”

“What do you want?”

“Nothing much, really. Just certain assurances you’ll stay out of our way.”

“We’ve been staying out of your way!” He tried to take a step forward, then gasped and pulled back. Looks like Beelzebub’s theory was right – they couldn’t hurt Aziraphale, but he could still hurt himself, pulling against his chains. Interesting. “Look,” the angel tried again in a calmer tone. “All we want is to be left alone –”

“Then there’s no reason for this to be difficult. As soon as he –”

Gabriel’s phone rang, exactly on time. He smiled as he stood, pulling it out. “That’ll be Uriel’s team. Don’t worry, not much longer now.” Hurrying out of the cell, he pretended to take the call.

Beelzebub followed a moment later, scooping up the lamp, and Aziraphale’s tie from where it had fallen. “In casze we need proof that we have you. Enjoy the dark.” The cell door shut with a satisfying slam.

Gabriel waited just long enough for the dark and silence to press in on the prisoner. Then he shouted as loud as he could, “What do you mean he left?”

Exactly seventy-eight minutes after they’d dragged the traitor through the lobby to Hell, his demonic partner arrived. Michael had moved as quickly as she could, pulling eight of her best angels to guard the escalators, armed with every Holy weapon she could think of.

The demon Crowley burst through the lobby door with some sort of elaborate pump-action water pistol in his hands, a dark expression behind his glasses. When he saw the flaming blades, he slowed his march, lowering the plastic gun slightly.

“I’m afraid Holy Water isn’t going to work on us,” Michael smiled sweetly. “Did you have another plan?”

“Working on it,” Crowley grunted, eyeing the swords. She was relieved at that; she hadn’t been completely certain a demon immune to Holy Water would still fear heavenly weapons. “Why don’t you save us all some trouble and let him go? You can’t –”

“Can’t hurt him? You honestly believe that little mark is going to stop us?”

His lips twisted at that. So much for the infamous flash bastard. Crowley lowered his toy weapon to the ground and took a few steps closer, arms wide. “What do you want? Hmm? You want to negotiate? Give me your terms, I’m here.”

“We don’t negotiate with demons,” Michael started.

“No, you just raid bookshops with them.” Her phalanx took a step forward, and he jumped back. “Right, fine, touchy subject. I get it. Don’t want to be judged for the company you keep. Though, I’m pretty sure I smelled Hastur’s distinctive odor, and I am judging you.”

Even behind the glasses, Michael could see the way his eyes darted. He was testing her. Trying to find a weakness in their defenses. More clever than she’d expected.

“Just go home, Crowley,” she said. “We’ll be in touch.”

“When?”

“When we’re satisfied with the number of pieces he’s in, you can come and collect them.”

It really didn’t take that much to crack his composure. Michael almost expected him to charge their swords that second. “You can’t – he’s safe –”

“Because he trusts you? Let’s see how he’s doing right now.” Michael held up her phone, turning on the feed from Aziraphale’s cell. It wasn’t live, of course. Too risky. Gabriel had agreed to send her useful clips as the interrogation proceeded.

The first one played out, and Crowley made a wonderful noise of pain when he saw how the angel was chained up and collared, shirt torn open, Gabriel and Beelzebub confronting him in the harsh lamplight.

“Where isz thisz Alpha Czentauri?” demanded Beelzebub.

Aziraphale’s eyes darted from one to the other. “It’s…it’s just a place. Crowley mentions it sometimes.”

“And is that part of his rescue plan? Uriel says that’s where he’s heading. Took off in his car with,” Gabriel glanced at a list on his phone, “thirty-seven potted plants, a hundred and five discs of music, and all the wine from your shop. Not really sure what he’s planning to do with all that.”

“You’re…how could you…” The angel pulled his arms against the chains. “He wouldn’t go…”

Crowley turned astonishingly pale. Michael had been very impressed with the thoroughness of Dagon’s records, including a little snippet of conversation from the days after the failed Apocalypse, when the two traitors had made certain plans. Case of emergency, Crowley had said. If we ever have to run, we need to know exactly what we’re taking.

Michael slid the phone back into her pocket. “How long do you think his protection is going to last, once he thinks you’ve betrayed him?”

Crowley clenched his fists, but didn’t move closer. Instead, he threw back his head and howled: “Aziraphale! Can you hear me? I’m here! Aziraphale!”

Michael actually laughed. “That won’t work. He’s –”

“Hellhound pits? Thought I recognized that cell. Fine, he might not be able to hear me, but he still knows I wouldn’t leave him.” He picked up his water pistol and thundered out the door. “I’ll be back.”

Gabriel considered Hastur again; he was aggressively intimidating, which was good, but also aggressively stupid. “All I really need is for you to go in there and act like you want to rip him apart.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard.” Hastur grinned…well, it was like a grin, only horrible.

“Remember, he thinks he’s been in the cell for six hours.” It had only been three, but deprived of light, sound, and anything to occupy it, the mind lost all sense of time. “Just play along with whatever I say.”

“I know what I’m doing,” the demon snapped.

Gabriel opened his mouth, and one of the Beelzebub’s flies immediately zipped inside. He coughed, spitting it back out, and it buzzed away, unharmed. “That was rude.”

“You talk too much. Juszt open the door.”

The Archangel reached for the bolt that kept Aziraphale’s cell locked, but spun to point at Hastur again. “Whatever you do, do not threaten any harm against Crowley,” he hissed.

“I threaten whoever I want.”

“One word, one suggestion might be all it takes to set him off, even with the serpent nowhere nearby. Do. Not. Try it.”

The lanternlight pierced the darkness. The pale shape of Aziraphale slumped in his chains, limbs quivering from the strain. His eyes were closed, and he was mumbling to himself, a steady stream that didn’t pause with their approach.

Gabriel settled into the chair. “Saying your prayers, Aziraphale?”

One blue-grey eye cracked open, just a glint in the dark. “Our wedding vows. He will come back for me.”

Hastur snorted, picking up a twisted knife. “He’d’ve turned around by now if he was going to.” It would have been more convincing if he hadn’t immediately smirked at Gabriel.

“I’ve been in worse spots than this. He always comes.”

The voice was still tense, but not as shaky as Gabriel had hoped. The Archangel nodded for Beelzebub to begin pulling at the chains again, moving Aziraphale’s limbs into new, uncomfortable positions.

“You know,” Gabriel started. “If you were actually married, Heaven would have a record of it. We looked. Guess what?”

“It wasn’t under any authority but our own.” Now both eyes opened, looking past Gabriel towards the outline of the door. “We didn’t think it necessary to inform you.”

“We’d still have a record.” Gabriel had never looked at a marriage record in six thousand years, but he could pretend to be an authority on anything. “Unless, of course, one party didn’t really believe in that marriage. Just going through the motions.”

“I know what you’re trying to do.” Aziraphale’s eyes drifted over to the knife Hastur held, and his voice started to tremble. “It won’t work. Crowley will come for me.”

“Yeah,” Hastur gave another maybe-grin. “And if he does –”

Beelzebub grabbed the metal collar around Aziraphale’s neck, jerking his head back as far as ze could. “If he doesz, we let you go. Until then, you’re oursz.”

Gabriel would berate Hastur later. Thoroughly.

“Sorry, Aziraphale. Like I said, not big picture thinkers. They really don’t like that they went through all this trouble and didn’t get to hurt anyone.”

“Well,” Hastur grunted, stepping closer to breathe into the ear opposite Beelzebub. “Not yet, anyway.” He traced the tip of the knife across Aziraphale’s finger.

The angel’s eyes darted from one to the other. “You can’t –”

“Do you know what happensz to an angelic mark when the partiesz are four light-yearsz apart?” Zir tone was as bored as ever, but with the right question, it was still menacing.

“It’s never been tested before,” Gabriel said. “But our models show it fading long before then.”

Hastur dropped his knife and grabbed Aziraphale’s wrist, biting the soft part of his hand.

The angel gasped and pulled away; but thanks to whatever Beelzebub had done with the chains, his wings twisted against each other. Aziraphale gave a cry of pain, lost his balance, limbs jerking like a tangled marionette.

While the demons laughed – well, Hastur laughed, Beelzebub made what you might call a buzz of delight – Gabriel helped Aziraphale find his balance again. “See? It’s already starting,” he said, in soothing, comforting tones. “And it’ll just get worse the farther he goes.”

“That wasn’t…he isn’t…” Now Gabriel could see the confusion, exhaustion and fear he’d come to expect in Aziraphale’s eyes. “What do you want from me?”

Gabriel smiled beatifically, the smile he saved for his most important Messages. “Aziraphale. Just denounce Crowley. He’s leaving you, anyway. Do you want to wait here for hours while your protection fades? Letting the pain grow a little at a time? Giving Hastur a chance to think of something really creative to do with that knife? Denounce him, and we can get it all over with.”

“I…” Aziraphale’s eyes squeezed shut. “I…I know he’s coming. He is coming.”

With a noise of disgust, Gabriel shoved Aziraphale away. The angel gave an undignified squeak as he struggled not to fall again. “If that’s what you want, stand there and suffer. Just remember, every moment I’m down here waiting for you, is a moment I’m feeling less charitable. Let’s go.”

When the door was shut and locked behind them again, leaving Aziraphale alone in the dark with his thoughts, Gabriel allowed himself a laugh. “He’s nearly there.”

“You call that nearly there?” Hastur snarled.

“Agreed. Thisz isz taking too long.”

“I told you, I need one night. Just a little finesse. Not every problem can be beaten into submission.” Gabriel pulled out his phone. Fifteen missed messages from Michael?

“Can if you hit hard enough,” Hastur started, but the Archangel was no longer listening, scrolling through the text messages.

“Can demons make their own Hellfire?”

“Don’t be abszurd.” Beelzebub rolled zir eyes. “It comesz from the firesz of the pitsz. You can’t make it.”

“Yeah,” Hastur added. “It’s in the name. Hellfire. Why?”

As a precaution, Michael had doubled the guard at the escalator, but when the first fiery jar exploded at their feet, they had run screaming in every direction.

She’d retreated to Hell’s main gate, watching back down a corridor now completely consumed by too-hot flames. Strange flames, clinging to surfaces that shouldn’t burn, smoldering with black smoke. Flames that spread and grew in water.

She pointed her sword at the black-clad figure walking unconcerned through the fire. “Out of the way, Michael.” He still held two jars of fire, and the plastic gun strapped to his back.

“I don’t know what these flames are,” she said, calmly as possible, “but I heard back from Gabriel. I know it isn’t Hellfire.”

“Well, close enough. Greek fire. Little something I learned to make in Byzantium.” He threw another jar at her feet.

Michael didn’t flinch, even when the strange, sticky flames exploded across her legs. She forced the heat to dissipate, leaving nothing but a black, tarry substance. “I hope that wasn’t your only trick.”

Cautiously, she took a step towards him, trying to suppress the nearest flames. They were more resistant than normal fire, but once she knew they couldn’t harm her true self, it was easy enough.

Crowley backed away a few steps. She couldn’t see his eyes – the glasses reflected the light and flames – but she knew they’d be darting around again. Looking for a way past.

“Give up, Crowley. Or I’ll find out just how effective this sword is.”

“Let me see him again,” the demon demanded. “Show me Aziraphale and I’ll go.”

She could still hear the screams of her guards upstairs. He might not be able to cause harm, but the panic and chaos he brought was bad enough.

“Not here. Go home, send me a picture of yourself nice and comfortable. And I’ll send you a video of the angel. That’s the only deal you’re going to get.”

He clutched at the jar in his hand, but they both knew throwing it would be a meaningless gesture. With a sneer, Crowley spun and walked away. “This still isn’t the end, Michael!”

Once he was gone, she sighed in relief, and prepared to lecture her soldiers on proper discipline in the face of new weapons.

Crowley sat in the bookshop, in Aziraphale’s favorite chair. He’d cleaned up the spilled wine and shattered glass, gathered together the white feathers from the carpet.

It was nearly midnight.

The video played again.

“What’s so special about Alpha Centauri, anyway?” Gabriel asked, voice soft and calm. He sat in that folding chair like it was the Throne of Creation.

“It’s…just a place Crowley likes.” It hurt to look at Aziraphale, the way the chains pulled his wings back, his neck forward, his arms to the side. They weren’t supposed to be able to hurt him, but they’d still found a way. More than one; the strain in his voice had nothing to do with that on his limbs. “I don’t know why he went, but he’s coming back.”

“When did he first mention it?”

“During…when we thought the world would end.” He shifted his feet, one arm stretching to the limit. “Nn. He wanted to run. I didn’t. He came back.”

“Not this time.”

“He’s going to come. I know he’s going to come back.”

Crowley paused the video, rubbing his eyes. It was a trick he’d taught Aziraphale. Don’t try to be smart. Don’t be clever. It’s not like the movies. Just pick one thought, any thought, doesn’t matter what. And repeat it, over and over. Don’t think about anything else. Crowley should have known that he would be the thought Aziraphale picked.

He could hear the uncertainty creeping in. Was the mark on his chest looking paler than before?

He needed to reach Aziraphale, now.

Michael had doubled the guard again.

It wasn’t easy. Rumors of what the demon was capable of were spreading faster than his trick fire had.

But when Crowley sauntered up to the lobby at 1:45 AM, he found the room ringed with thirty fully armed angels.

She’d hoped he would be intimidated. Instead, he just waved.

“Lovely night for a drive, isn’t it?”

“You won’t get past us again, Crowley.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Just popping in for a friendly greeting.” He lounged against the glass door, opening it as far as it would go. “Say hello to my little friends.”

A swarm of rats – fifty, sixty, seventy, more – poured in through the door, flooding the lobby, scrambling over the feet of the guards, descending the escalator with a speed she wouldn’t have thought possible.

“Ooh, I can see you’re busy. Have fun, Michael.”

Beelzebub paced outside the cell. It had been over six hours, and so far they’d only succeeded in making the angel tired and uncomfortable.

Gabriel insisted it was going well. That the angel would break any minute. Just act like the result is inevitable, and sooner enough the prisoner will accept it.

The theory was interesting enough, but it still made for the most boring torture session in six millennia.

Some noise down the corridor. Beelzebub sent a few flies to investigate, buzzing around between the heads of demons.

Fifteen rats making their way down the hall, darting under feet and around tentacles, biting, scratching, but moving with more purpose than rats usually did.

These would be the vermin Crowley had unleashed. According to Michael, there were a lot more, but Hell was already full of rats. Did he think this would impress them? Make any difference in…

Something was different about these rodents.

Walking as fast as ze could, Beelzebub reached the edge of the commotion – the barriers keeping the crowds of Hell away from the angel’s cell – just as the first rat slipped out into the open. Ze snatched up the struggling creature, studying it. Brown fur, four scratchy paws, long bald tail –

There was a scrap of fabric tied to the tail, in a little bow. Tartan. Beelzebub scrambled in zir pocket and pulled out the angel’s tie. It matched exactly.

Nine more rats broke free of the crowd, racing towards the cell with tiny tartan bows dragging behind.

A message.

Beelzebub kicked apart the barrier and shouted at the demons behind. “Grab thosze ratsz! I want every rat in Hell captured, now! Move!”

The door to Dagon’s file room burst open.

She leapt across her desk, teeth bared. Who would dare interrupt her day? Four nothing demons? Armed with clubs? “This better be good,” she snarled, “or you’re going to wish you were swimming in a sulfur pool.”

“We…” the lead demon took one look at her teeth, and lost all nerve. “We’re looking for rats…”

“Rats? Rats? Look at this room –” Dagon gestured expansively to the overstuffed filing cabinets, the row on row of shelves filled with books and boxes and scrolls and, in the farthest corner, clay tablets. “Do you think I allow a single rodent in my domain? If you’ve come here to waste my time…”

She paused. Something wasn’t right. A noise she couldn’t account for. Rustling.

Gesturing for the others to follow, she stalked down the row of shelves, filled to bursting with files on every temptation, every misdeed, every demonic report since the dawn of time.

There – the fourth case down, on a shelf six feet high, one of the boxes vibrated with faint movement. Something was shuffling around. Skittering, even. As they approached, a little brown head popped out, scrap of paper in its mouth. It wiggled its whiskers at them.

“Get it!” shouted one of the demons, and all four raced forward, clubs falling, scrambling up the shelves.

“No! Stop! Don’t –”

With a crack, the case started to lean, slowly topple, and then crashed into the next.

And the next.

A hundred shelves overbalancing and collapsing like dominoes, a hurricane of paper filling the air, and Dagon stood in its eye, ready to scream.

The rat darted past her toes, a tiny bow on its tail.

In every corridor of Hell, demons raced after rodents, scrambling for them, grabbing them up only to drop them once the biting started.

Hastur chased after his prey as it got closer and closer to the prisoner’s cell. As it crossed the last meter, he dove to the ground, snagging the end of its tail.

The skin of the tail ripped free in his hand. But so did the little bit of fabric. The rat escaped, wriggling through a hole in the cell wall smaller than a demon’s hand, but without its message.

With a snarl, Hastur went in search of another.

Aziraphale was determined not to cry. He just didn’t know how much longer he could last.

His whole body ached. He told himself that it was just the chains, the way he’d been hanging in them for hours and days and eternity. It wasn’t a sign that Crowley had abandoned him, it wasn’t.

He just wanted to sit down.

One of the chains shook. He looked up into the darkness, wondering what new torment this was.

A rat dropped onto his shoulder, tail bleeding, claws scrambling at the heavy collar around his neck.

The first sobs started to escape.

Crowley paced outside the lobby of Heaven and Hell as the lead rat reported in.

“No, I’m sure you did your best. Did everyone make it out?” Tiny rat fingers ran across its whiskers. “That’s something at least. Shit.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and tried to think. It would be dawn soon. They’d had Aziraphale all night.

“Right. No more nice demon. Time for plan B.”

The rat squeaked.

“I don’t know, D? E? It’s not like I’m keeping count.” He eyed the pack of angels in the lobby, larger than ever. “I’m not going to get many more chances. This has to work.”

He knelt down and looked carefully at his agent. “I need you to tell me exactly where they’re holding him, got it?”

Gabriel held the pile of fabric scraps in both hands. “Is this all of them?”

“Isz it?” Beelzebub demanded of Hastur.

“Well?” Hastur turned to the small group of demons who had declared themselves Hell’s best rat catchers. They all shifted their feet uneasily.

“We think so,” one offered, and the others nodded agreement. “We can’t find any more.”

“You think so,” Hastur started. “And that’s –”

“Enough,” Beelzebub interrupted. Gabriel and his psychology, Hastur and his noise. This wasn’t how things were done. “If I szee another rat, bow or not, I’ll feed one of you to the Hellhoundsz. I don’t care which. And I’ll keep going until there are no more of you left. Undersztand?”

The group of demons glanced at each other. “We’ll…we’ll look again.”

Gabriel looked almost impressed, but right now he could stick his condescension up any and every orifice in his coroporation. Beelzebub grabbed the fabric out of his hands. “Bring the lamp and don’t szay a word. I’ll show you how it’sz done.”

Crowley’s phone buzzed.

He looked up from the map of Hell he was sketching on a receipt from Aziraphale’s favorite bakery. It was going to take a lot of careful planning, but his idea was finally starting to take shape. He just hoped his Angel could hold out a little longer.

A text from Michael. “Thanks!” Followed by emojis: a rat, a bow, a smiling angel.

Then the video file loaded.

Beelzebub walked into the cell, in that way every demon in Hell knew meant find some way to look busy on the other side of the world. This time it was Gabriel who trailed behind.

“We caught up to your huszband,” Beelzebub spat. “Gave him our proof. You know what he szaid?”

The hope dawning on Aziraphale’s face looked painful. It certainly ripped Crowley’s heart to shreds.

Beelzebub dropped something at the angel’s feet. The lantern light shifted forward: dozens of scraps of tartan, a bowtie shredded to ribbons.

“Lying,” the angel said numbly. “Coming back.”

“No!” The Prince of Hell’s flat disdain rarely cracked; the anger that leaked out was something few demons had ever seen, and even fewer had survived. “He’sz not!” Ze picked up a knife, sharp edge glinting in the uneven light. “Crowley isz never!” The blade slashed across Aziraphale’s palm. “Coming!” Across his face. “Back!” Across his stomach – and this time left a bright red line, glaringly visible below the pale trace of his sigil.

It wasn’t a cut. But it was a mark. An injury.

Beelzebub pressed the point of the knife into Aziraphale’s chin, forcing his head back. “Szo you’re going to be our gueszt. Forever.”

When ze pulled the knife away, there was a drop of blood on it.

Aizraphale collapsed in his chains, sobbing, heartbroken.

And Beelzebub turned and smiled directly at the camera.

The video ended.

Crowley stared at his blank phone, at the map on the receipt. And threw them into the back of the car.

“Fuck planning,” he snarled. “Time to improvise.”

Beelzebub bolted the cell door.

“That,” Gabriel said, voice full of some kind of emotion. “That was amazing! You just –"

“Shut up,” Beelzebub snapped. Satan, why had ze even invited the Archangel for this? He had done nothing to help, just dragged his feet with his stupid mind games. “I’m getting the torturersz. You can play with the angel until we get back. Then he’sz oursz.”

“Of course. You’re sure I should have Michael send this video to Crowley?”

“I don’t care. What’sz he going to do? Send more rodentsz?”

In a way, Michael was enjoying herself.

Trying to keep out one highly determined demon was almost as much fun as planning a war. Twenty angels scattered around the lobby itself, four more making a line across the escalators. More than that, and they just got in each other’s way. She’d switched off the escalator to Heaven, stationed a dozen more with arrows all along it. And five scouts up and down the street outside.

Whatever Crowley tried to do next, they were ready for it.

Something like thunder rumbled in the distance, except the sky was perfectly clear. She could see the last stars, giving way to the pre-dawn light.

And some other sound. A strange, discordant clanging, perhaps? But very faint.

“What is that?” she demanded.

Were there words in the clanging?

…lords and lady preach…

“I’m not sure, sir,” said the nearest angel dutifully, “but it sounds horrible.”

“Well, naturally,” she agreed.

…descend upon your…skies…

“I think,” said another with a frown, “that’s what the reports call bebop.”

…command your very souls you unbelievers…

Three of Michael’s scouts burst through the doors, waving their arms frantically. “Move!” one managed to gasp. “Out of the way!”

Bring before me what is mine…

“Of what?”

With a squeal of tires, the long black demonic car burst through the glass windows of the lobby, roar of the engine echoing off the walls, mixed with the sound of music screaming about The Seven Seas of Rhye. Flaming arrows rained on it from above, and bounced off with no effect.

The car crossed the lobby in seconds, and it was accelerating.

There was really no way a vintage car should have been able to fit down that escalator, but the Bentley was very good at getting places she didn’t belong.

He knew he’d hit a few angels on the way through the lobby, but they’d survive and he didn’t actually give a damn, a shit or any fucks at all.

Up ahead, someone was trying to close the main gates of Hell. With a grin, Crowley shifted gears, stomped on the throttle and cranked the music up even louder.

Storm the master marathon I'll fly through By flash and thunder fire I'll survive, I’ll survive, I’ll survive Then I'll defy the laws of nature and come out alive Then I'll get you…

Gabriel stood beside Aziraphale as he broke down, weeping messily. He could see the last few strands of faith holding that pale mark in place, but they would break very soon.

“I know it hurts, Aziraphale, but you really should have expected it. He’s a demon. He tempted you away from Heaven, and then he betrayed you. It’s what they do.”

The bound angel shook his head. “No. My choice. I – I – I wanted to…to live. To love.” The door opened and his head jerked up, but it was just Beelzebub, and Hastur, and five other demons, each nastier than the last. Another strand of faith broke. “Crowley, please,” he whimpered.

“If you’re going to quesztion him, aszk if he would rather sztart with bladesz or fire.” The glimpse of anger had vanished, buried again under that mask of boredom. It was actually an impressive bit of psychological warfare. They should talk about it sometime, compare notes.

“You did say you wanted choices,” Gabriel reminded him.

“I…I want to go home…” That broken tone was music to the Archangel’s ears. “Please…just let me go…I won’t…I’ll stay out of your way.”

“Too late for that,” Beelzebub said, as the other demons began selecting their tools.

“Tell you what,” Gabriel put an arm around Aziraphale. “When they’re done, you can come back to Heaven. Would you like that? I mean, we can’t reinstate you, but I’m sure there’s some role we can find for you.”

Once the demons had done their work, he’d have some better ideas for Aziraphale’s punishment and execution. Given the rumors that were circling, he’d have to make it very public this time, and he couldn’t afford any more misjudgments.

Hastur pushed his way past the other demons. “This was my idea. I’ve waited fucking long enough. I get to go first.”

Gabriel stepped aside, giving Aziraphale one last pat on the shoulder.

Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled.

Looping his grubby fingers around the metal collar, Hastur pulled Aziraphale off the ground entirely. “I am going to introduce you to whole new kinds of pain, angel.”

“Juszt leave szome limbsz for the reszt,” Beelzebub reminded him.

…comes the black queen…

Some kind of commotion had started up, across the empty plaza.

Gabriel glanced out the cell door, half expecting to see more rats. No, just that strange thunder again. “What is that?”

…Fi-fo the black queen, marching single file…

Both Hastur and Aziraphale turned towards the door, recognition dawning on their faces.

“No.” Hastur growled. “No, no, no –”

“Crowley…”

“NO!” The anger Beelzebub had let slip in the night was nothing compared to that moment. Ze raced out of the cell, arms waving at the crowd. “Szomeone sztop him! Whatever you have to do!”

Gabriel’s legs brought him even further. “Release the Hellhounds! Get the fire, anything – destroy him!”

“You will not,” came a quiet voice. Slowly, Gabriel and Beelzebub turned back towards the cell door, which was still wide open. Aziraphale was standing straight, deadly calm. “You will not hurt Crowley.”

“Shit.”

A voice from behind me reminds me

Aziraphale stepped forward, shaking off his chains as if they were cobwebs, dispelling the gloom with the glow of his wings and the demonic sigil on his chest, bright as daylight.

Hastur didn’t back away fast enough, and Aziraphale threw him clear across the plaza, to crash into the far wall.

Spread out your wings, you are an angel

“Shut the door!” Gabriel and Beelzebub threw their weight against it, driving the bolts home.

With one kick from the angel inside, it crumbled like paper.

Remember to deliver with the speed of light A little bit of love and joy

“You will not. Hurt. My husband.”

Aziraphale held a length of chain in his hands, stygian iron and celestial orichalcum. It glowed as his angelic powers flowed through.

“Your husb – oh, Crowley.” Gabriel held up his hands, backing away. “Is that who that is? I thought it was some new breed of demon.”

“I have no idea what anyone isz talking about.”

“You’re liars.”

Everything you do bears a will and a why and a wherefore A little bit of love and joy

“I think liars is taking it too far, Aziraphale, you know –”

“You said he left me. You lied. And I believed you.” The chain flashed out, ripping their feet out from under them. “But I will not let you hurt him.”

“No one isz going to hurt the traitor,” Beelzebub insisted. “You want to leave, go!”

In each and every soul lies a man Very soon he'll deceive and discover

“Oh, I’ll leave.” He grabbed them each by the front of the shirt, lifting them clear off the ground. “But not until I’m sure he’s safe from you.”

But even 'til the end of his life He'll bring a little love

The Bentley wasn’t as bad as the day he’d driven it through a burning M25, but it was still less than pristine. The front end was all bashed up, the sides scratched and scraped, and he’d probably be digging demon teeth out of the grille for weeks.

But he finally broke free of the crowd, and there ahead stood his angel, looking worn and tired, shirt in tatters, but alive. And smiling.

Behind him stood a cell of some kind, the door held on not by hinges, but a web of black and gold chains. There was probably some story there, but Crowley didn’t care.

He spun the Bentley in a wide circle, and came to a stop in front of Aziraphale, pushing open the door. “Did you call for a lift?”

“Crowley…” He climbed into his usual seat and shut the door. “I should very much like to go home now, if you don’t mind.”

Crowley ran his hands along the steering wheel.

What he wanted was to grab his husband into a hug that never ended, to apologize, to swear it was all a mistake, a lie, he’d never leave…

But Crowley recognized that look. Aziraphale was barely holding together, and any display of that kind would utterly destroy him.

So, ignoring the tearstains streaked across Aziraphale’s face, Crowley put the Bentley into gear. “Why don’t you pick out some music for the ride?”

Michael was still standing.

Not by much, but she was.

Her soldiers had abandoned their posts. All the demons in Hell seemed to be hiding. She couldn’t reach Gabriel. But she was still standing.

She planted her feet in the hallway, facing the gates of Hell, sword pointed ahead, waiting for that blasted machine to return. She could hear it coming. A noise like thunder. The terrifying, unrelenting baseline of the next song.

She was not going to move.

The hallway stretched before them. The escalator. Freedom.

And in between, Michael.

There are plenty of ways that you can hurt a man And bring him to the ground

“What do you want to do?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale turned up the music. “I believe the term is ‘floor it,’ dear.”

You can beat him, you can cheat him You can treat him bad and leave him when he’s down.

Crowley shifted into fourth, and took his husband’s hand.

The car came, faster and faster. The sound of it, the heat of it, filled the corridor.

But I’m ready, yes, I’m ready for you

Michael could see their faces inside. She met their eyes, held their gazes. Stared them down.

I’m standing on my own two feet

Aziraphale smiled and waved. Crowley did, too, but with only two fingers.

Out of the doorway the bullets rip

And Michael…leapt out of the way at the last minute.

Repeating to the sound of the beat…

“Ta very much,” Crowley shouted out the window. “Let’s never do this again.”

“Wanker,” Aziraphale called.

The car, impossibly, climbed up the escalator, and shot across the broken glass of the lobby, escaping into the sunrise.

In the dark of the cell, Gabriel crossed his arms, glaring at all the other demons trapped in here with him. That one in the corner looked like he might be trouble. The Archangel hoped he wouldn’t have to make examples out of any of them.

“So. While we’re stuck here. Who’s fault was all this again?”

Beelzebub rolled zir eyes and glared at Hastur, just recovering from his head-first meeting with the wall.

And Hastur bit his hand so hard it leaked foul black blood, then howled: “Crowley!”

Afterward

Aziraphale lay in his four-poster bed, wrapped in every blanket Crowley could find. Already the table beside him held three mugs of tea – black, green, and chamomile – and one of hot cocoa. There was a bowl of soup, a tray of chocolates, and another plate with a dozen different pastries.

Crowley frowned, trying to find space to fit the sandwich. He carefully re-stacked Aziraphale’s three favorite books to make a bit more room.

“Thank you, dear, that’s quite enough.”

“No, no it isn’t. There’s no ice cream. You want ice cream? And pie. Let me go get some pie.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale called sternly. “There’s only one thing I need right now.”

“What’s that? I’ll get you anything, Angel, whatever you want.”

“I need my husband.” There was the faintest quiver in his voice.

In a flurry of movement, Crowley crawled into the bed, wrapping his limbs around Aziraphale, pulling him into his embrace. “I’m here, Aziraphale, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere, I’m never ever going to leave you.”

“I – I do know that. I promise. I – I won’t doubt you again. I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, no.” Crowley twisted around to cup his face, wiping away the tears that were starting to fall. “You don’t apologize. I’m sorry. I should have gotten there sooner. Michael and her bloody guards. I won’t let them take you, ever again.”

“Oh, dear, no, don’t blame yourself. What could you have done?” He sniffed, and wiggled a little deeper into his blanket-cocoon. “Besides, you’d have to stay with me every minute of every day. I can’t ask that of you.”

“Too bad. I’m asking it of you.” He pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s forehead. “I know we said we wouldn’t rush into living together, but I’m ready. I don’t ever want to be apart from you again, not for a second. Not after this.”

“I…yes, Crowley. I feel the same.” He sighed. “I’d like to hold your hand now, but –”

“No. You’re still in shock. Stay in your blankets.” He rearranged himself one more time, draping himself across Aziraphale like another blanket, looping his arms around his angel’s neck, resting his head on his husband’s heart. “I’ve got you now. You just rest. I’m here.”

Thanks for reading! The Bentley’s Queen songs were “Seven Seas of Rhye,” “March of the Black Queen,” and “Another One Bites the Dust.” I don’t write the demon crew very often, so I hope they were entertaining!

I’ll probably post this tonight to AO3. Check the notes for a link.

49 notes · View notes

iamjohnlocked4life · 5 years ago

Link

Rating: Explicit Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley Additional Tags: POV Aziraphale, Friends to Lovers, First Time, Canon Compliant, Bodyswap

Summary: “If this were it, if this were really your last night, on Earth or Heaven or any plane of existence, what would you do?” or The night they spent together at Crowley’s.

I started writing this fic in June of last year, it's been a long labour of love, and I'm so happy to FINALLY have it edited and out in the world! Please share with your friends if you enjoy it.

Chapter 1: Last Night

Aziraphale still wasn’t sure why he agreed to this, except that, according to Crowley, his bookshop had been burned to the ground, and he hadn’t anywhere else to go. Wandering the streets until dawn didn’t seem the most sensible solution, and for all that angels didn’t need sleep, it had been rather a long and trying day, and surely no one would hold it against him if he took the liberty of a few hours rest before… well, before he had to deal with all that. He didn’t want to think about what “all that” might entail. He suspected dwelling on it too much at the moment would only dampen his mood, and he wanted to enjoy the lack of looming apocalypse for a bit.

Now that he was actually here, though, in a small metal box hurtling upwards to Crowley’s penthouse at far too fast a speed to be entirely natural, he wasn’t sure that enjoyment was the sensation he was feeling. Crowley seemed to be standing a quarter-inch too close for comfort, and Aziraphale’s stomach flip-flopped with nerves. Part nerves, part flying metal box, but regardless.

He breathed a sigh of relief when the bell dinged and the doors opened into a long, dark hallway. Crowley strode out ahead of him, snapping his fingers to illuminate soft ambient lighting throughout the flat.

“Coming, Angel?”

Keep reading on AO3

#good omens #ineffable husbands #good omens fic #crowziraphale #aziracrow #my fics #friends to lovers #aziraphale pov #I know this premise has been told a million different ways at this point but goddamnit I've been writing this since the show aired #so happy it's done #hope y'all enjoy

65 notes · View notes

ao3cassandraic · 1 year ago

Note

All-righty then! Good to know.

This raises the question of how he's so much more skilled than other angels in getting along on Earth. And that question leads me to my response to @amuseoffyre noticing the intertextuality of the Metatron as Big Giant Head.

Yeah, I'm back at Orwell and Nineteen Eighty-Four and telescreens (which are surveillance as well as propaganda tools, don't forget) and Emmanuel Goldstein the other Big Giant Head.

Because part of the answer is Earth surveillance. Has to be. The Metatron has zero on-screen incentive to wander the earth as Crowley and Aziraphale do, and there's zero on-screen indication he has (save perhaps his offhand admission to having ingested things, which he could perfectly well have done in Heaven). We never see him anywhere or anywhen on Earth until the Final Fifteen Minutes. He sends his minions the archangels after Gabriel rather than do anything or go anywhere himself.

So he's watching. Big Giant Head uses Big Giant Globe. Heck, he might have built that thing himself. Seems his style.

There's a fair whack of evidence that Heaven and Hell are surveillance states. The Metatron openly admits to Aziraphale -- it's in one of the bits we actually see, rather than in Aziraphale's recounting to Crowley -- that he's been using the records to piece together what Crowley and Aziraphale have been up to all these centuries.

I'm also thinking that something important may have gotten lost in our concern for the ineffable husbands. How consistently is the Metatron surveilling humans? Routinely? Or intermittently? Or does he just pop over to the records for a quick etiquette-up dekko when something like Whickber Street suddenly must be accounted for in his calculations?

I think there are arguments in several directions.

Pro: Surveillors gonna surveil. "Surveillance creep" is totally a thing -- it's routine for the scope of surveillance measures to expand past all reason no matter what the original intent of surveillance was. (If you think I am saying "oppose surveillance at every opportunity" you are absolutely correct.) The Metatron is a creepy manipulative bastard who seems to have no care for anyone ever.

Con: The Metatron is consistently contemptuous of all and sundry except when buttering them up to force them into his schemes. Does he think humans matter enough to bother surveilling us? He's certainly happy enough in both seasons to faff on about murdering us by the billions, and he's certainly dismissive of Muriel in ways that suggest he won't be interested in watching them.

We also know he's neither omniscient nor infallible, such that it's also possible his surveillance mechanisms are incomplete. He doesn't know why Jimbriel went to Aziraphale -- and Jimbriel explained himself before the 25-lazari miracle was put in place, though it's also possible that Aziraphale's more ordinary protections warded off the Big Giant Globe.

There's also a middle ground vis-a-vis the bookshop -- a meta I've unfortunately lost track of noted that Aziraphale's summoning circle gets an answer during the demon fight, and it's entirely possible (though not wholly certain; we don't know the rules governing that circle) that answer came from the Metatron. That would suggest inconsistent and incomplete surveillance, at least of the bookshop -- if the circle's on, the Metatron is listening; if not, not.

So yeah. I think the extent of Metatronnic surveillance, and how to either evade it or distract him from it, could be a pretty useful question to take into a putative s3.

Hi Neil Gaiman, I would like to know if Good Omens had any influence from the books of Enoch :)

Not particularly. I'd say the majority of the biblical influence on Good Omens the novel would have been Genesis and Revelations, and in Season 2 you can add The Book of Job.

I think it's fair to say that there's no textual evidence in either version of Good Omens for Enoch/Book of Giants as part of What Happened in the last 6000 years.

#good omens #good omens meta #the fucking metatron #orwell #nineteen eighty four #surveillance #and why to oppose it

4K notes · View notes

trashboatprince · 5 years ago

Text

I spent all day coming up with drabble ideas for Nanny and Francis because I am a sucker for this version of the Ineffable Husbands, and there needs to be more content, so here we go. Actually, this one isn’t really a drabble, it’s a long one.

Summery: The cook quits after some problems and Nanny volunteers Francis to take over until the family can hire a new one, leaving the poor man frazzled. Don’t worry, angel, you come highly recommended.

Ship: Ineffable Husbands, Nanny and Gardener edition

Ashtoreth smelled something familiar in the air, stirring her from her sleep. The clock said it was two in the morning, ah, that makes sense. With a smirk, the demon got out of bed, heading towards the kitchen of the large Dowling home.

Crowley, rather than Ashtoreth, found the kitchen’s doors closed, but there was a light on from under the crack of them. He couldn’t hear a sound, but he knew why. As quietly as he could, he opened the doors and stepped inside, nearly chuckling at the sight.

Dressed in his old nightgown was Aziraphale, not Brother Francis, not a trace of that disguise anywhere, carefully folding something in a pan on the stove.

“Wanted to have a nibble of crepes, eh?” Crowley spoke up, startling the angel.

“M-My dear..! Don’t do that!” Aziraphale hissed, setting the pan aside. “And how did you know I was up? I made sure no sounds could come from the kitchen while I was cooking.”

“I can smell better than a human, angel.” Crowley replied, sticking out his tongue. “Crepes, huh?”

“Felt like having a treat! I made you some, put a bit of brandy in them, for flavor. I was going to serve you them in the morning, but since you’re up...” The blond smiled, gesturing his hand towards a plate full of them, before his newest one was put on top.

Crowley gave a shrug, approaching to grab one. “I really shouldn’t eat at night, heard it sticks to you worse.”

“That’s a load of bullocks if you ask me.” Aziraphale replied as he got himself one, happily taking a bite. “Just enjoy it, you’ve earned it! You’ve been working so hard lately, my dearest. Warlock is in his terrible twos, I’ve caught sight of him giving you trouble.”

The demon chuckled a little, taking a bite of his own. “Ah, yes, he’s taken to greatly giving me Hell. Things are looking up for the hellspawn.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, but he’s also got the curiosity of someone who is happy to pet an animal with no desire to bring them harm. Ah, just today, a bird landed on my hand and he was so excited! He even tried to talk to it, such a good lad.”

“Hm.” Crowley took another bite, looking around the kitchen. “Heard the cook was gonna quit.”

“What? Really? I rather like Miss Birch, any reason why?”

“Says the idiot American guards keep trying to hit on her, and one grabbed her ass yesterday, she’s beyond pissed. If he does it again, she’s out.”

“I hope she doesn’t leave, I like that one soup she makes, you know, the one we had last week.”

Crowley shrugged. “We’ll see. If anything happens, I’m sure you can handle the kitchen.” He heard the angel choke on his bite of crepe. “What? Don’t like the idea?”

“I-I am meant to be the gardener here! As if the Dowlings would allow me to cook for them..!” Aziraphale stammered. “Heck, even the staff doesn’t like me eating with them, I doubt they’d like for me to cook for them.”

The redhead frowned deeply, the staff didn’t like Francis eating with them? Might explain why he always waits for them to finish before coming in to eat, or he simply eats outside. Sometimes he sits and eats with Ashtoreth when she is giving Warlock a bottle, or a snack.

“Well, if they give you trouble, they can deal with me.” He turned and kissed Aziraphale on the cheek. “Clean up and go to bed, got work tomorrow, Francis.” He winked and walked out, leaving the flustered man behind.

“Brother Francis.”

Francis paused as he stepped into the kitchen from the backyard door, looking away from the basket of fresh fruits he had picked to see the nanny who stood inside with Mrs. Dowling.

“Y-yes, ma’am?” He asked, confused. Ashtoreth’s face was calm, but Harriet looked a bit panicked.

“The cook left. Mrs. Birch said that Thomas touched her again, she then struck him with a ladle and walked out.” Ashtoreth spoke up, folding her hands on the island of the kitchen. He knew she was keeping a neutral expression, but six thousand years of knowing the demon let Francis know that she was clearly saying ‘I told you so’ in the tiniest twitches of her face.

“I’m terribly sorry to here that, Madam Dowlin’.” Francis frowned, turning to the American woman. “Anythin’ I can be of help with?”

“Yes,” Harriet spoke, glancing at the nanny before looking at the gardener, “Nanny Ashtoreth, uhh... she said that you were an excellent chef in your own right.”

Francis snapped his attention to the redhead, who had the most wicked of smirks on her face before it was gone in the blink of an eye. Snake in the grass!

“Yeeessss...” He started, turning his attention back to his ‘boss’. “I know a thing ‘er two around a kitchen, use to cook meself up some delights and treats all the time when livin’ alone. If you be needin’ someone to cook up some meals until you get new help, I’d be more then happy to do so fer you.”

“Oh great!” She smiled, looking and sounding so thankful. “We’ll even pay you a bit extra for this!” She headed out, saying she needed to make some calls, put in a new ad in the papers.

Once she was out of the room, Francis approached Ashtoreth. “My dear, you know darn well I ain’t one fer cookin’ for others.” She smirked again. “Except for you. You are mah exception.”

“Oh come now, Francis.” She leaned in close, touching his cheek with a gloved hand, and he couldn’t suppress the shudder he felt as she gently trailed a finger to his chin, gently lifting his head up to look at her. Damn her for being tall already, and now even more so with those heels. “Don’t you love doing good things for people? It’s an angel’s duty, right?”

“M-Ma’am..?” He wheezed before getting a kiss on the lips. Wow, normally he was the one who was starting the kissing, he had no problems when Ashtoreth did it though.

“If you do this, there will be more where that came from.” She spoke as she pulled back, lowering her shades to wink at him.

This snapped him to attention. “E-excuse me!? Are you trying to tempt me into cooking!?” Aziraphale exclaimed, getting a laugh from the demon.

“I think I’ve been letting you have too much fun with all the tempting you’ve done to me lately since we’ve been here, angel. Besides, I know you love to cook, and I was thinking you and I could go out to the store with Warlock, get some things for dinner. I’ll even pay.”

He looked at the redhead suspiciously. “And what shall I be making?”

“I was thinking... sushi? Maybe even some ginger chicken on rice?”

Aziraphale perked up. “Let me go get changed then!”

Ashtoreth wanted to kick herself.

She had suggested Francis to Harriet because she knew the man could cook, his love for food was borderline a fetish of sorts for him, no angel loved food and cooking like Aziraphale did. He was always quick to study up on new treats and meals he had eaten at places, something he’d love to try at home with his own hands.

What sleep was to Crowley, cooking was to Aziraphale.

The same was for Ashtoreth and Francis, you can’t give up old habits just because you’re pretending to be human to watch over the Antichrist.

She had made the suggestion simply because she didn’t trust anyone else in the house, hell, she didn’t even know if she could trust a new cook to make food for her. Mrs. Birch was nice, but her meals were nothing like what Aziraphale could create when he had whatever he needed for whatever thing he was craving.

She had went to the store with him, letting him happily grab up everything needed, along with things for the rest of the week as he was going to be making dinner and breakfast for the household. Once he got himself into the element, into the mindset of experimenting and being in an element that he was much more familiar with (since gardening was never his strong point), he had relaxed.

Sure, Francis would be stuck cooking for more people than just the usual one or two, but Ashtoreth told him that they didn’t have to eat in the staff dining room, they could just eat in the kitchen together, just them.

And she even said she’d help him, which is why she wanted to kick herself.

Francis was out of the stupid smock of his, he was dressed more like Aziraphale. Snake eyes, hidden behind shades, watched him as he worked on sticky rice with hands that could do it simply from muscle memory, studying his body in clothes much more familiar to him.

Dark brown pants hugged him in all the right places, his belt held the angel’s signature tartan pattern, as the poor fool couldn’t bare to part with it for the sake of a disguise. His shirt was cream, buttoned up, with the top two undone, revealing his neck, strange to see him without something around his neck, and it almost seemed scandalous to her.

Even more so was the fact that his sleeves were rolled up too, showing more skin than Ashtoreth had seen in years from him.

Francis had forgone his buck teeth, his muttonchops were still there, but looked so much tamer. He looked good, really good, her angel looked like a man who had been working outside all day, deciding to step inside to help her out with dinner.

She slapped her cheek, stop that, idiot! Just cause the two of you are more open in a home where Heaven and Hell have no eyes on you, doesn’t mean you can get soft with thoughts of a domestic lifestyle!

Still... would be nice, Crowley couldn’t deny that, it was a bit of a dream to live out life in a nice home with Aziraphale. Even demons were allowed cheesy, dumb thoughts like this, right?

If not, fuck those who say know, Crowley deserved this!

“I think it’s ready.” Francis spoke, catching Ashtoreth’s attention as he gently set a bit of sushi on a tray. He smiled brightly at her. “Darling, could you alert the waitstaff to take things out to them? I’ll finish up in here, I do believe Warlock needs his dinner.”

“Ah, r-right, yes.” She huffed, straightening up as she grabbed the meal she prepared for the hellspawn and stepped from the kitchen.

After the meals were brought to the family and the staff, and Warlock was fed, Ashtoreth returned to the kitchen to check up on Francis, surprised by what she found inside.

At the breakfast table, a beautiful meal had been set up, and Francis stood at one end, filling a glass of white wine. He looked up, smiling. “My dear, dinner is served.”

Ashtoreth blinked, before laughing a bit, moving over to him. “You weren’t excited about making sushi or cooking again, you just wanted a date night!”

“That might be a reason, yes.” Francis smile, pulling out the chair for the nanny, who sat down. He then kissed her on the cheek. “Sure, we could go to the Ritz on our day off, or even to that one place you like in Soho, but where’s the fun of it when I can just make you a delicious dinner in here? Prepared just the way my favorite snake likes it?”

“Bites that can be swallowed in one go and lots of alcohol?” She asked, her lips curving up.

“Oh, of course!” Francis spoke up before he took his seat. “I know exactly how my dear enjoys her meals!” He held up his glass, taking a sip.

“Oh, and Ashtoreth?” He continued, looking at her. “Next time you suggest me for something, please actually discuss it with me first.”

“Ha! Then where’s the fun in that, angel? I’m a demon! I do gotta give you some trouble, right?”

“Just for that, I’m taking your salmon roll.”

“Hey! No, that’s mine, you thief!”

END

I think this has become a whole au, where Aziraphale and Crowley are being dumb and in love with each other like this cause they can get away with more openly. Everything I write for them is dumb and lovey-dovey and I can’t stop.

Thanks for reading!

#good omens #ineffable husbands #anthony j crowley #nanny ashtoreth #aziraphale #brother francis #john's drabbles

53 notes · View notes

somethingjustsouthofbrilliance · 5 years ago

Text

Too Weak to Fly (chapter 1)

I got this idea in my head that won’t leave me alone - an image, really, and so I decided to spite it by writing a story around it. 🤷‍♀️

Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7

______________________________________________

Cold cocoa is disgusting.

The angel grimaces at the taste, setting the mug back on the table with a heavy sigh. Looks forlornly at the open book in his lap.

He forgot. Again. Got carried away with his reading and let his drink get ice cold. And now he can’t do anything about it.

Timidly he raises his gaze Heavenward, gives an experimental snap of his fingers.

Nothing. Of course there’d be nothing. He was told as much in the letter. Still, he keeps foolishly hoping the punishment would be lifted sooner than promised.

No such luck.

The letter appeared on his desk four days ago – an official Heavenly missive sealed with a golden sigil, written in Gabriel’s familiar flowery hand. The notice of temporary removal of powers as punishment decided upon through mutual agreement between Heaven and Hell for the two traitors responsible for the failed Armageddon. Seven days they were supposed to last without their powers. One week. If they managed to get through that week without getting discorporated, both Heaven and Hell pledged to leave the two of them alone for the rest of eternity. If not… Well, the “if not” did not bear thinking about.

In all honesty, except for the terrible inconvenience factor, Aziraphale didn’t think the punishment was all that dire. Of course, he was going to have to be pay more attention to what he was doing (he has already learned the hard way that bumping into a side table while carrying a cup of steaming hot cocoa could lead to some rather unpleasant sensations and a quite unfortunate stain on his favorite (only!) pair of trousers). And he was going to have to remember to look both ways before crossing the street, because simply willing the cars to move around him would no longer be an option. But that could be a good thing, a blessing in disguise, so to speak. Teach him to be more cautious, more aware of his environment – something the demon has often nagged him about. Besides, it was only for a week. Seven days of this forced disruption, and they will free to enjoy the rest of their existence wholly unbothered.

Crowley, who came round the bookshop four days ago with a similar letter, printed in black runny letters on a mildew-stained parchment, seemed to disagree.

“They wanted us destroyed, angel. Not just discorporated, desssstroyed! And we went and pissed them off even more by not dying.”

Crowley was pacing around the bookshop like a caged tiger, his expression more troubled than Aziraphale had seen in years. Since… since… since that moment on the tarmac of the Tadfield Airforce Base when Satan was about to rip his way into this world. The memory made him uneasy, and he gripped his cocoa mug tighter to hide the traitorous tremor of his hands.

“You said they’d leave us alone for a while,” he reminded the demon.

“They did,” Crowley brushed off his objection with a sharp waive of one skinny hand, “for nearly ten years. Probably trying to come up with a way to best punish us. And you can’t honestly believe that thisss – a slap on the wrist is the best they could do.” He shook his head, smiled, grim. “There’s a catch, angel. I know there is. Can’t be that easy.”

Aziraphale didn’t say anything then, merely frowned worriedly at the demon over the rim of his mug, when the latter informed him of his plan to investigate this so-called punishment further. But he did obey his friend’s urgent plea to “lock the doors, don’t go out, don’t let anyone in, wait until I return.”

That was four days ago. And Aziraphale’s been going out of his mind with boredom and inactivity. One would think that being left alone with nothing but his books for company would be nothing short of heavenly delight for the angel. To be able to read without interruptions, without meddling customers he needed to steer away from his precious books. And yet somehow being a virtual prisoner in his own shop, without a drop of magic to color the monotony of it all, without Crowley, whose presence has become a cherished, welcome constant in his life since the failed Armageddon, made the experience quite sour. Moreover, with day four of no news from the demon, boredom and inactivity were unavoidably joined by a niggling itch of worry.

A screech of the breaks outside the bookshop drags his attention away from his ruined cocoa, and he looks up at the window, a relieved smile gracing his lips as he spots the familiar silhouette of the Bentley parked haphazardly by the curb. Finally!

He rises out of his chair, lingers indecisively a few steps from the door, torn between the urge to run forward to greet the demon and the desire not to appear too eager, too longing. And then startles backwards, stunned, as the door flies open with a glass-shattering bang, and Crowley bursts inside, uncharacteristically disheveled and wild-eyed, his sunglasses nowhere to be seen.

“Angel!” he calls out, swallowing the distance between them in two large strides, “We’re leaving, let’s go!”

“Leaving?” Aziraphale blinks at him in confusion, gently trying to extricate his sleeve from where the demon gripped it with clamp-like force. “Where? What for?”

“Anywhere you wanna go, angel,” Crowley tugs on Aziraphale’s sleeve, dragging him insistently toward the door, “I don’t really give a fuck, as long as we’re out of London. Now!”

“Wait, wait, WAIT!” Aziraphale nearly trips over his own feet as he tries to keep pace with the clearly agitated demon. “Wait, Crowley, please. We can’t just leave, it’s–”

“We can and we will. Now, angel!” And they are outside already, and Crowley releases his arm in favor of gesturing sharply toward the waiting car. “Get in!”

Aziraphale digs his heels in. “I will do no such thing,” he insists with a stubborn jut of his chin. Folds his arms primly across his chest. “Not until you explain to me the meaning of all this.”

Crowley groans, loud and dramatic, rolling his eyes for good measure. “The sssstupid catch, angel,” he hisses out hurriedly, arms windmilling in time with his words. “I told you there’d be a catch, and I was right. They put a hit on us, angel. Your lot and mine.”

“A hit?” Aziraphale echoes, brows pulled together in honest confusion. “What does–”

“It means they hired a bunch of trigger-happy humans to hunt us down for a prize,” Crowley snaps, pulling a badly crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket. “Here.” He unfolds the paper, shoves it under Aziraphale’s nose. “Found this printout on an idiot that tried to ambush me outside the apartment.”

The angel stares blankly at the crumpled paper, the printed words swimming before him, hazy and terrifying like in a bad dream. It’s an ad, an announcement for a real-world hunt with a sizable prize for the winning party. And grainy pictures of him and Crowley with instructions on where to email the photographic proof of the kill in order to claim the prize.

“This… um… the man you took this from, is he…”

The demon winces, dropping his gaze. “He tried to discorporate me, angel,” his voice sounds flat, hollow with regret, his shoulders hunched as if in anticipation of a blow. “I had no choice.”

Aziraphale nods, swallowing past an impossibly dry throat. He knows Crowley doesn’t enjoy killing, never has. Knows he needs to reassure the demon that he isn’t angry at him, that he understands. All he manages is a strained, rasped out, “of course, dear.”

Crowley’s jaw ticks at the words, but his shoulders relax minutely and he looks back at Aziraphale, eyes blazing with urgency. “There are more of them out there, angel. Many, many more. I had at least ten following me over the last two days. I managed to throw them off, got them all chasing shadows up in Highgate Woods. But there are others.” He grits his teeth, mouth twisting in an odd mix of disdain and muted fury. “There are others, and we can’t stop them all, not without our powers.”

“Right.” Aziraphale feels lightheaded all of a sudden. “And if they manage to kill… discorporate us…”

“Heaven and Hell get to have us back in their clutches,” Crowley confirms, echoing Aziraphale’s thoughts, “and I doubt they’d ever let us out again.” He jerks his head toward the Bentley. “Three more days, angel. We just gotta lay low for three more days. Come on, get in the car. Please.”

Aziraphale sighs, absently stuffing the ad into the pocket of his coat. Gestures weakly at the door of the bookshop. “I should at least grab a few things,” he murmurs. “I need–”

“No time, angel!” Crowley’s hand is back on his shoulder, impatient and tugging. “Just get in the goddamn–”

He cuts himself off abruptly, his eyes widening at something behind Aziraphale, and then, suddenly, both of Crowley’s hands are digging into his shoulders, and he twists them both around, rough, violent almost. There’s a sound Aziraphale hears – a muffled pop, like the backfire of an engine, and Crowley’s body jerks sharply, an invisible force punching him forward into Aziraphale’s chest. There’s a brief moment of impossible, deafening silence with reality itself frozen in numb, horrified weightlessness, where the only things Aziraphale is aware of is the uncomfortable, spasming pressure of Crowley’s fingers on his shoulders, the oddly frightened, rabbit-like thudding of his own corporation’s heart, and the demon’s eyes – a terrifying, acid yellow with pupils tightened to near-invisible strips with pain.

A breath, and time lurches onward, and Crowley sags against him with a raspy groan, his hands sliding limply off Aziraphale’s shoulders just as the angel’s arms wrap themselves, desperate and trembling, around the demon’s suddenly boneless form.

_____________

TBC

#my fic #crowley/azirphale #good omens fanfiction #hurt/comfort #the usual #sjsob good omens fics

46 notes · View notes

breezypunk · 5 years ago

Text

The Bus Ride

I wrote a short thing about Aziraphale & Crowley a while ago. I’m rusty, so I’m sorry if it sucks, but thanks for reading. x

***

Crowley stayed silent for almost the whole bus ride. Aziraphale not looking anywhere else but out the window, deep sighs exhaling from his nose. He couldn't bare to look at Crowley, what was he supposed to say? He felt so out of touch with himself. Yes, Armageddon was averted, and yes, they had no more sides to worry about, but was this really the end of being bothered by Heaven and Hell? "Angel..." Crowley broke the silence as the bus came to a halt to let the first few people off. Aziraphale jolted out of his state of being zoned out and looked over a Crowley with what looked like glossy eyes. "Aziraphale, please don't cry." "This is far from over, dear." Aziraphale kept his eyes on Crowley, who was looking more visibly concerned for him. "If I have anything to do about it, nothing will happen, Zira. Please trust me." Crowley's eyebrows furrowed together, he hated seeing his angel so upset, after everything they had been through, 6000 years of dancing around one another, and helping each other in every possible way, even if it put their selves at risk, Crowley felt it was all worth the trouble. "I don't think you can do anything, my dear.." Aziraphale began. "But I appreciate the sentiment, and... of course, I trust you." "Then let me figure out what to do. For now, until they feel like bothering us again, it's just you and me. That's how it's always been, but..." Crowley stopped himself before he got too emotional. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers and clenched his eyes shut, sighing long and heavy. "But what?" "It's different now, Angel." Crowley looked at him again, but this time his eyes were soft and needing, like all he could see was Aziraphale and nothing else mattered, and in a big way that were true. "Different in what way?" Aziraphale could see Crowley was keeping something from him. "We should feel free, y'know? But we aren't. We saved the world and yet we're in more danger than ever, and now we're on our way to my flat to figure out if swapping bodies is even a good idea." Crowley could feel the anger being built up inside of him. "I just don't want to lose you, Angel. I can't and won't let that happen. Not on my watch." At this point, Crowley was looking dead into Aziraphale's crystal blue eyes, so sweet and innocent, it almost made Crowley feel guilty for having corrupted him so long ago. He felt like the Angel was better off without him most times but Aziraphale had always reassured him that they were a team and that no matter what, he cared for Crowley and wouldn't leave his side. "I've never been more scared, yet so comfortable around you, Crowley. You've always been so very kind to me. You may not like to hear it, but you have been, and I appreciate you so." Aziraphale rested his hand on Crowley's knee, Crowley's eyes widened, staring at the soft hand not leaving his body. It felt like a feather, a beautiful white angelic feather. He took a gulp and looked away from the angel, trying to reel in his emotions. Crowley was never good at expressing his emotions, although he found it easier when he was around the one person he trusted more than anyone. The Angel, HIS Angel. ~ ~ The bus stopped again, another stop to go and they'd be right in front of Crowley's place. They were both so exhausted and miserable, they just wanted to get off the bus and in the comforts of Crowley's flat and continue their misery drinking down their finest wines. Crowley realized that Aziraphale’s hand was still on his knee after a few minutes of being zoned out. "Angel... Your hand, it's still on me knee." "Yes, I'm well aware, you look as though you needed some comfort. I think we both do at this point. If it's a problem I can-" Aziraphale went to pull his hand away, but Crowley stopped him, their hands on each other’s. A metaphorical shock hit them both at full force and all they could do was stare at one another. "You were the worried one, you were crying angel, if anyone needs comfort it's you." Crowley spoke in a tone so soft that Aziraphale almost didn't hear him. "I just can't bear the thought of not having you around." Aziraphale realized his mind was wired, not knowing how exactly to discuss the topic of deep emotion with Crowley without scaring him off. He knew Crowley wasn't the best at expressing himself although he found a safe place in the presence of Aziraphale and knew he could open up more around him. “Aziraphale I’m not going anywhere, we’re in this together, like I said, we’re on OUR side, no one else’s, just ours. Don’t ever think that I won’t be here for you.” Crowley felt himself getting worked up with emotion that made him impossibly uncomfortable, but he was always putting himself out of his comfort zone for Aziraphale, he would do anything to make him happy and safe, this was no exception. He realized Aziraphale had went from just having his hand over Crowley’s, to fully locking fingers with him, without him even realizing it. His cheeks felt hot, he felt dizzy, this had never happened before. He knew Aziraphale cared for him, but he never touched him this way, never intertwined themselves to one another. Was saving the world the push Aziraphale needed to finally feel free enough to be this way around Crowley? Of course, Crowley wasn’t complaining, and he knew the angel needed comfort in any ways possible, Crowley’s hand would be there to hold whenever the angel needed it, and anything else he could offer, he would offer it tenfold. He gently caressed his thumb across Aziraphale’s knuckle, trying not to look in his direction, but he could see the angel looking directly at him from his peripheral vision. Just as he was about to say something, Aziraphale beat him to it. “You know, I was thinking.” Crowley turned to him suddenly. “If we so happen to be taken away by our… less than respected head offices, there might be a way to save ourselves after all.” Aziraphale’s eye lit up brighter than Crowley had seen them all night, well for a while really. He didn’t answer, instead arched an eyebrow, waiting for Aziraphale to continue. “Look, the prophecy. Agnus Nutter said, “When all is faced and all is done, ye must choose your faces wisely.” Crowley still looked puzzled. “My dear boy, I think she’s referring to us.” “How can you be so sure?” Crowley asked, sitting up from his slumped position to face the angel more accurately. “There’s no one I trust but you, Crowley. If I’d want anyone to take my place, in my body, to save my life, it would be you and no one else. Who else have I spent over 6000 years around?” Crowley sighed, he knew exactly what the angel meant, because he felt the same exact way. He didn’t know how it happened, or why it happened, but this bus ride ended up being the best night of his life, he could listen to the angel praise him all night, he’d do the very same. “You’re suggesting we switch bodies in order to save one another? I don’t know angel, what if something goes wrong, I mean we’ve never done that before. I can’t risk anything happening to you.” Crowley’s hand gripped at the angels, not wanting to ever let go. The thought of something happening to him down in hell if something went wrong sent an uncomfortable shock down his spine. “We may not have a choice, we have to try dear. This may be our last chance at being free forever, no more being spied on, no more worrying about our sides coming after one another. If we do this, and we succeed? We’ll be free. Free to be with one another for all eternity, no strings attached.” With that, Crowley knew his angel truly loved him, how could he deny it? He could for once in his demon life feel the love coming off of the angel like he never felt before. He wanted to save Crowley, and Crowley wanted to save him. “Angel…” Crowley sighed a deep breath and looked at him with desperate eyes, like he needed to express his gratitude in a way he never did before. His heart was beating a million miles a minute, he forgot he even had a heart before it started thumping against his chest. “Yes, darling?” Crowley briefly closed his eyes and gulped, knowing what he was about to do next would either make or break this interaction, but he felt like he was floating, floating in a pool of love and needed to do something about it before he discorporated. “Honestly angel there’s no one’s face I’d rather have than yours right now.” Crowley took a deep breath and grabbed the angel, kissing him with such gentle care that he thought maybe he wasn’t kissing him at all, until he felt Aziraphale melt into him, placing his right hand on the lower part of Crowley’s back, almost pushing him closer towards him to feel his body completely against his. He needed this, to feel this. He waited so long to have his angel, it wasn’t even the temptation he felt anymore, after so many years it turned into something so much more. He was hopelessly in love with Aziraphale, and finally after all this he was able to show it and not care what hell or heaven had to say about it. Maybe their mission was dangerous, and who knows, it could go horribly wrong. But at this moment, as Crowley and Aziraphale deepened their kiss, little moans and plenty of tears falling from their eyes, they had all the confidence in the world that everything would turn out okay. And I suppose if you asked them the next day if everything went alright, they’d walk up to you, hand in hand, with big smiles on their faces and tell you they never felt more free than they did in that very moment.

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #david tennant #michael sheen #love this show still #one year later #my favorite boys #fan fic

11 notes · View notes

seapiglet · 1 year ago

Text

Thank you. I've read all the finger wagging and patronising posts about how people who didn't enjoy this season just lack media literacy or are idiots who don't understand Neil's genius etc etc. But it went so completely against the entire point of the original story I can't wrap my head around it even making it to the screen.

Book Aziraphale and imo S1 TV Aziraphale would never have willingly abandoned Crowley and gone back to Heaven, no matter how much manipulation he was subjected to, because he loves earth so much and he loves his life with Crowley. The entire point is that they both love earth, they don't fit in anywhere except earth. It's literally the entire reason for everything that happens in the first season. One of the main themes is about accepting who you are and standing up to whatever authority wants to force into being something you're not. It's all about agency and about being human, even when you technically aren't.

In what world would Aziraphale leave his bookshop and his food and his music and Crowley behind in order to run heaven?? It felt utterly bizarre to me and extremely contrived. Drama for drama's sake. As if Neil had no clue how to create tension and anticipation for a potential final season without tearing apart the partnership which made everybody so happy in the first place.

It also felt like a cynical move to me given that the original story contained so much warmth and heart, and pretty cruel given that what people loved so much about the show was its whimsy and feel good nature. If there were a season 3 already commissioned and lined up for release I'd be more forgiving but right now the best case scenario is that it airs in 3-4 years. It's just not... nice. And it was a nice (and accurate) show!

I found the characterisation this season, especially with regards to Aziraphale, wildly off. He felt more like a caricature than a character right from the start; childlike and petulant in demeanor, instead of the 6000 year old nice but self-righteous rebel angel we knew and loved. Some of his lines, especially in that "breakup" scene left my jaw on the floor. "Nothing lasts forever"? His giddy glee at the prospect of turning Crowley into an Angel? His offer to let Crowley be his second in command? His conviction that Crowley would EVER even want that?? Who was that?? And where were the humans really? Just props. It all felt so hollow.

I do wonder if there would be a much stronger backlash and heavier criticism if Neil wasn't so present on this site. He does not take criticism well and doesn't hesitate to let it known, or to sic his legion of devotees on anybody who dares to question his writing. It's made for a really unpleasant fandom experience where nobody is allowed to say anything slightly negative. I mean the man's in his 60s and basically threatening to not write another season if people send him mean messages. WHAT.

The thing I've always loved SO much about the book is that neither of them were particularly important; just a minor demon and minor angel working their miserable desk jobs and hating their coworkers. There's not much of a tangible difference between heaven and hell and, although Aziraphale is often smug about it, he doesn't, deep down, agree with Heaven at all or that they're "the good guys" especially by the end of the story. Would the Aziraphale of season 2 ever have agreed to the Arrangement? Would this Aziraphale, who believes so strongly in the goodness of heaven, have been comfortable committing temptations on behalf of a demon? Of course not, because he's a different character altogether.

Tbh I knew we were in for a bit of a bumpy ride when Neil took out the scene of Crowley reviving the dead dove way back at the beginning of S1, plus the aggressive wall slam from Crowley. Then add in his conceptualisation of Hell as being populated with groaning, disfigured, acne-ridden creatures with... animals on their heads? I was like... fuck he's missed the point of his characters and he's gone full Gainan with it.

As a fan of Discworld I'm aware that not everything Terry wrote was nicey nice and he has plenty of darker, edgier stories, but you can't deny that his lack of influence was GLARING this time around.

Anyway I could probably go in about this ages because it's been building up for days but. Yeah. I'm not at ALL pleased with how this one turned out.

Good Omens Spoilers:

I'm off work now and can sort my thoughts a bit.

So far I've seen only positive reactions and some posts complaining about criticism (which I have not seen in itself).

I very much feel there's something missing in the discussion.

I'm not gonna spoil people's fun and I certainly will enjoy fan stuff, but I cannot stop being pissed.

And it's not about wether Aziraphale reciprocates Crowley's feelings and if they are a canon romantic couple or not.

That's not the point. The point also isn't dolphins, it is that I feel that Gaiman perverted the original core of Good Omens.

He might have done it for angst and a dramatic build up and he might resolve it if there will be a third season (which cannot be guaranteed, so THAT ending could be what we have to live with), but whatever the reasons, he did it and it leaves a bad taste.

To me the point of Good Omens always was that heaven and hell as a strict and rigid concept were equally horrible.

The 'good place' so to say was always earth.

And being a human on earth was about being accepted with all one's quirks and also making one's own decisions.

If I remember correctly those points are mostly made by Adam (who actually is the main character of the book, it just has so many colourful supports you wouldn't notice).

So Aziraphale and Crowley fit way better on earth, because they're both too unique for a rigid corporate structure.

They already are their own little team even if Aziraphale sometimes displays a holier-than- thou attitude and needs Crowley to remind him what he would loose, if earth were gone.

So they both defy their respective bosses to keep the niche they carved.

The first season of the show manages to keep that core statement despite changing the characters up a bit.

And it ends like in the book, with Aziraphale and Crowley fighting the system and winning, being free.

And now it's all set back and actually made worse by Aziraphale willingly going back, as long as he's in charge.

In the show, Aziraphale was bullied by his superior and now takes his job. He thinks he can change the oppressive system from the inside instead of abolishing it altogether, or staying clear of it, because it is 'toxic'.

And yes, I did notice that tiny bit of blackmail from Metatron regarding Crowley, but after all that happened THAT should have given Aziraphale a clue about what he is getting into again.

He also doesn't seem to suddenly know his best friend of 6000 years anymore.

Crowley never had a problem with being a demon. He had a problem with how hell treated him.

And a problem with how heaven reacted to asking questions, which is a thing he loves, so why would he want to go back?

On earth, Crowley was completely ok with doing minor mischief and performing demonic magic.

And Aziraphale technically knows that, but he tries to drag Crowley along for purely selfish reasons. And on top he seems to think that as a demon Crowley is not good enough anymore.

And that completely goes against the point.

The point that has been made very clear before and made book and parts of the first season so great.

Gaiman let the system win.

(and pull Aziraphale back in after he successfully got out. That's like someone taking back their horrible job at the factory that pays minimum wages and pollutes the environment as long as they're forman).

#good omens #this is officially my discourse blog now

188 notes · View notes

itsclydebitches · 5 years ago

Link

Clammy

Summary: Aziraphale's molt is upon him. He has to decide what to do with the feathers

A park bench and supernaturally beautiful weather. A basket of sandwiches, fruit, crisps, and a rather large selection of chocolate truffles. A bottle of Pinot Noir between them. Crowley stretched out his legs and thought that if this was it, all they ever managed to wring from this world, it just might be enough.

“Divine,” Aziraphale proclaimed, polishing off the last raspberry truffle. The sun had left chocolate coated over his fingers and he set to licking it off, heedless of decorum. Crowley designed to watch.

“Not precisely the word I’d choose,” he said. “Considering I bought them and all.”

“But Mrs. Sutherland made them.”

“But you don’t know what I did to them between here and the bakery.”

Aziraphale froze, thumb halfway between his lips and a smear of chocolate on his cheek. The shock lasted only a moment before he was rolling his eyes. “Of course I know. You forgot to chill them so now they’re a half-melted mess.”

“...touché.”

Not that half-melted messes had ever stopped him. Aziraphale continued to work his way steadily through dessert while Crowley watched the foot traffic in front of them, sneaking glances every now and then from behind the safety of his glasses. It was while he was most assuredly looking only at the changing leaves past Aziraphale’s shoulder that he noticed—

“That time of the century, huh?”

Aziraphale froze for the second time, eyes widening just a bit. But Crowley didn’t call him out on the absurd little wiggle he’d been trying (and apparently failing) to do subtly against the back of the bench. There was no one looking but Crowley and if he didn’t mind chocolate-covered fingers or crumbs down the front of his vest, there was little reason to think he’d mind this. With a sigh Aziraphale gave up and shoved the box away, reaching to scratch rather ferociously at his back.

“It’s so undignified,” he said, tone just this side of petulant. “I am meant to be an ethereal being. A creature of unsurpassed glory and wisdom—”

“Think rather highly of yourself, don’t you?”

“Not some, some, some common avian enslaved to his biology. I don’t even have biology. Not technically.” The last part was definitely a whine.

Crowley indulged in a snort and slid further down the bench, nearly boneless against the wood. Literally. His body bent in ways not generally allowed by spines and pelvises, but no joints dared raise a complaint. “You’ve got it easy, angel. I go through two of them.”

“Two?”

“Wings and,” Crowley gestured down his entire body, suddenly looking a little unsure. “You know. I am a snake.”

“Right.” Nothing like the embarrassment of another to sooth a bit of your own. Aziraphale cast him a crooked smile. “That’s... well. Quite sorry to hear it, dear boy.”

“You and me both.”

Another quick press against the bench and then Aziraphale deliberately went still. He let out a breath. Popped another truffle into his mouth and closed his eyes, trying to savor it. When he opened them again he could see Crowley’s concerned look, even behind the glasses.

“I’m fine,” he muttered. “Over sixty molts since the beginning. You’d think we’d grow used to them by now.”

Crowley barked out a laugh. “Grow used to what? The incessant itching? Constant pain in your back? Exhaustion? I slept for a month after my last molt. Only woke up because Beez themselves was looking for me. Molts are proof that She’s more than a little sadistic, angel.”

“Hush.” But the slap against Crowley’s arm was half-hearted at best. “I suppose I could return Upstairs. It’s always easier without a mortal body compounding things...”

“You really want to spend the next few weeks up there?”

No. He didn’t.

There was a certain understanding that came with annoyances shared across thousands of years. Without being asked Crowley miracled together the rest of their lunch and sent a quick thought towards the London traffic, urging it to thin out. He’d drive Aziraphale back to his shop, say goodbye like it was any other day... and then proceed to only call and text for the next three to four weeks. Their first substantial time away from one another since the Tadfield airbase, but they’d been expecting this. Molts, for all the grumbling, were intensely private things.

And as Crowley stood just outside the bookshop’s entrance, pressing the basket of leftovers into Aziraphale’s hand, he didn’t dare ask that they might change that too.

***

The bookshop was a disaster.

The space had grown considerably in the last two weeks, making room for a collection of supplies that would have rivaled any doctor’s office. Electric heating pads were a marvelous invention that Aziraphale now hoarded, along with the small pharmacy of mortal medications that didn’t seem to do much, but he was inclined to try nonetheless. Safe from the books were melting ice packs he used when unexpectedly feverish; weighted blankets when, a mere hour later, he was suddenly chilled. In the leftover space surrounding his most comfortable couch was the food, a veritable feast of everything salty and sweet. Some of it he’d ordered in, slipping the containers through the smallest crack in the door and slipping exorbitant tips back out. The rest came from Crowley. Per the unspoken promise he hadn’t stopped by again in person, but he could easily miracle things directly into the shop. Aziraphale often looked up from one of his books to find chocolates or tarts or freshly made bubble tea now sitting on the table. He gobbled it all up with a hunger he wasn’t supposed to feel.

Where there weren’t supplies there were feathers. A stunning collection of white that settled into every nook and cranny; an ethereal blanket of snow. Aziraphale didn’t bother picking up after himself whenever an old feather dropped and a new one began the arduous process of growing in. Most would disappear over the next week, fading out of this reality entirely. It was a rather convenient thing (perhaps the only convenient part of this whole process), with just a handful of flight feathers to deal with in the end.

Which was precisely what Aziraphale dealt with now, curled up on the couch with Persuasion resting forgotten in his lap. Disposal of these feathers was no minor thing. It required patience and careful thought.

...Which Aziraphale was quite happy to ignore once his phone buzzed. It took him a full minute to find it amongst all the mess and another to remember which button allowed him to light up the screen. Two more remembering his passcode. Really, he could appreciate humans’ continued advancements in technology, but did they have to keep making them so hellishly complicated too?

Ah. Now that he thought about it, that drive might have been Ligur’s doing.

hows it going?

Aziraphale smiled. Three simple words from Crowley and he already felt better. Though admittedly only a bit. One breath later and that incessant itch reared its ugly head again, along with the familiar ache in his lower back. One wouldn’t think that losing and re-growing feathers would be such a monumental feat, yet here he was, taking a moment to breathe before daring a response.

Crowley,

I’ve been better, as you know. Nothing to be concerned with, however. I expect only another week of this nonsense before things return to normal. Shall we get lunch together next Thursday? I greatly appreciate the food you’ve sent over, though I find myself craving something a bit more substantial after all these sweets. Italian would do nicely.

- Aziraphale

The response was immediate.

sure, angel.

There was a beat of silence except for the tick of the clock and a very low hum emanating from two of the heating pads. Then,

need more time to gift your feathers?

Aziraphale’s throat tightened. He blamed it on his poor health.

Crowley,

No, I don’t expect they’ll be any travel this time around. It’s quite nice of you to be thinking about my needs though.

- Aziraphale

His words had the desired effect. Aziraphale’s phone suddenly buzzed as ferocious as a beehive, text after text coming through about how Crowley was not nice, they’d had this discussion, he was actually being selfish, if you’d just listen, and by the way texting isn’t the same as sending a letter you stuffy, outdated, impossible—

With a chuckle Aziraphale let him keep going, well aware that no answer was the best response of all. As he leaned further into the cushions another primary dislodged and settled in his lap. This one didn’t look like it was going anywhere.

Aziraphale stroked the feather tip to tip, thinking.

No. The person he wanted to give this to wasn’t far away at all.

***

Angel feathers had, shockingly, once been a part of an angel. Imagine that. As such, they had a bit more significance to them than what came from your average hawk or peacock or whatever else might be leaving bits of themselves behind. Aziraphale didn’t know why some primaries remained while the rest disappeared—another question on the tip of his tongue that he’d never dared ask—but every angel knew that they’d wind up with a small handful after their molting and those must be dealt with in the most careful fashion. There was a vault up in heaven that catalogued and stored each deposit, perhaps with the hope that the feathers might one day be turned into weapons against the enemy. For those on Earth, however, there was the expectation that they not allow these pieces of divinity to fall into the wrong hands.

Aziraphale knew it was the same among the demons, another similarity that others were too scared or blind to question. They would molt and be left with feathers that gave off what one might term a bad aura: nasty thoughts and feelings that radiated outward, soaking into the back of a mortal’s mind and strengthening the longer they held on. Aziraphale didn’t know what Crowley had done with his own feathers over the years, whether he simply tucked them away where they’d never be found, or handed them off to those who were later remembered as the more unhinged individuals throughout history. He’d never had the nerve to ask. He, however, had always considered the remains of his former wings to be a gift and gave careful consideration to who would receive them. Angel wings had rather the opposite effect, promoting feelings of goodwill, creativity, and a general sense of peace when held. Aziraphale had thus handed his off to writers who fashioned them into quills, great chiefs who wore them with pride, poor mothers who might not have jewels or vases to display in their homes, but they could set this on their mantelpiece and know that someone was watching over them. It was a process that deserved his utmost attention.

Though in truth, Aziraphale had an inkling of what he'd do with his next molt in 1941. Now, with Armageddon behind them, he was quite sure of his decision.

Crowley,

My deepest apologies, dear boy. I meant to say that you’re quite considerate. Is that better?

- Aziraphale

P.S. It’s hardly my fault humans have forgotten how to properly write to one another. Besides, you ought to be proud of me. Convincing this tech to put in line breaks was no easy task!

His phone blew up once more as Aziraphale shook out his wings, trying to encourage the remaining stragglers to finally let go. He must look a right mess, physically done in and sporting only half his usual plumage. It was perhaps no surprise that molting had become a rather private affair over the millennia. Anyone who saw an angel in this state might second-guess their supposed superiority. Aziraphale hadn’t bothered with a mirror in weeks.

The heat was doing wonders for the muscles surrounding his wings though. The ibuprofen, while perhaps not effective under normal circumstances, seemed to be taking the edge off his headache. Crowley kept up a vibrating litany in his lap. He was clearly busy, yet just a moment later Aziraphale caught the scent of garlic and looked up to find a takeout box of pasta sitting on the table.

Fondness surged, helping his new feathers to grow and his mind to settle. Aziraphale placed the primary on a stack of books beside the couch, safely away from his newly arrived lunch.

Crowley,

Thank you <3

~Aziraphale

He’d made his decision. Best to start the implementation of it early.

***

A week and two days later Aziraphale finally left the bookshop. He was what, in human terms, might be called an introvert. Had anyone asked him on an average day whether he’d enjoy spending nearly a month by himself, nothing but books and films to keep his attention, he would have gasped in pure pleasure at the idea. Now, having lived that life once more—one always tended to forget such things as the years went by—Aziraphale recalled how little fantasy matched up with reality. Taking that first breath of fresh air was an unexpected pleasure.

“Angel!”

As was the company. Though perhaps ‘unexpected’ was quite disingenuous of him.

Crowley waited for him down the street, Bentley parked and providing the perfect object to lean against. Aziraphale took in his appearance, identical to when they’d last met with the exception of a pendant necklace spicing up his outfit and rather longer hair. Crowley must have encouraged the growth. Aziraphale was rather sure hair didn’t get to that length in just three weeks time, no matter how much Crowley might yell at it in the mirror. He had most piled up in a bun with the occasional wisp framing his face.

Perfect. Aziraphale couldn’t have planned it better if he’d tried.

“You don’t like it,” Crowley said, noticing his gaze, assuming the worst. One hand lifted instinctually to his hair, twitching like he wanted to start tearing it out. “I’ll change it back. If you want.”

In that moment, with Crowley framed by London traffic and the quickly fading light, Aziraphale had the uncomfortable realization that he could ask him to do anything. Anything at all and it would be done without question or hesitation. The power made him hesitate. Aziraphale knew now that he had to guard his words: ask for nothing more than what Crowley deserved to give; certainly nothing worse than what he’d forced him to endure before.

Wait for me.

“Not at all,” he said. “I love it! You’re just missing that final touch.”

“...final touch?”

They knew separation well. One month was nothing to them. Aziraphale slipped back into Crowley’s space, easy as you please, allowed to turn him slightly and gain access to his bun. Crowley was so focused on the hand Aziraphale had placed on his arm that he didn’t notice the object until it was slipped beneath his hairband.

“What the devil did you put—” Crowley stopped, catching sight of his own reflection in the Bentley’s hood. Aziraphale watched his eyes blow wide behind his glasses.

“Hardly the devil, my dear.”

With the molting finished Aziraphale had been left with eight primaries still in existence on this plane. He’d told Crowley as much over text and had patiently sat through reading the same thoughts he’d already had: it was suspiciously convenient, one might say miraculously so, that he had just enough feathers remaining to number the humans involved in stopping Armageddon. Well, seven humans and one antichrist. The brats deserve it, Crowley had said, voice surprisingly tender down the line. They’ll appreciate it, angel.

No doubt they would. Appreciation wasn’t quite what Aziraphale was going for though.

Upon getting the text that Crowley was outside he’d miracled one of the feathers into the fern he’d gifted him two months back, the only plant in his apartment given the honor of a room to themselves and (Aziraphale would bet) the occasional kind word. The white beauty would be the first thing to greet Crowley when he opened the door, stark against the otherwise dark space.

As Aziraphale donned his coat he’d sent the second feather into the pocket of Crowley’s favorite coat, a surprise for when the weather turned cold and his mood predictably plummeted. The third appeared pressed between the pages of The Extremely Big Book of Astronomy; the fourth now slipped beneath his pillow. By the time Aziraphale was descending the steps of his shop the sixth feather was on its way to Lesley, accompanied by instructions to deliver the inconspicuous envelope at a future date and time, to be decided. It never hurt to have another pick-me-up waiting in the wings. Pun most certainly intended.

The seventh currently rested on the Bentley’s dashboard, yet unnoticed because Crowley was reeling from the feather Aziraphale had slipped into his hair.

“Angel.”

Just that. A breath. So much packed into one single, reverential word. Aziraphale had to swallow hard before he could speak himself.

“I know,” he whispered, trying for steady and failing spectacularly. “We needn’t speak of it if you don’t wish to. Simply know that this decision was the easiest I’ve ever made... and you look quite beautiful, my dear.”

Crowley’s hand rose to brush at the feather, shaking enough that Aziraphale could spot the emotion even in the fading light. He was steady enough to open the door for Aziraphale though, stumbling back around to the driver’s side, managing up until he spotted the second feather on his dashboard. Aziraphale watched him double over and thought that perhaps he’d made a mistake...

No. There’d been enough doubting between them and the care with which Crowley cradled the gift said it all. Even as the rest of him shot the Bentley recklessly through the streets.

For once Aziraphale did not call Crowley out on his driving. There was silence—not even any Queen—all the way back to Crowley’s apartment. Aziraphale caught the tinniest noise, like pain, when Crowley saw the feather in the fern and then he was moving again, nearly tripping over himself in an effort to get to the closet.

It was a door Aziraphale had never seen opened before. He couldn’t even be sure the space had existed before this moment. But the trunk Crowley pulled out was certainly real enough. Aziraphale sucked in a gasp at its age, wood now held together through will and more than one demonic miracle. Crowley hesitated only a moment before flipping the lid.

Inside were black primaries. A couple hundred at least. More than enough to account for one individual’s molts across the centuries.

“Never gave them away,” Crowley said. One hand gripped his feather while the other dove into the trunk, finding and extending a handful of himself. “I was waiting for you.”

Aziraphale tried vainly to keep the tears out of his eyes. He’d never been very good at that. Too soft. Too soft by far.

“Well... I’m here now.”

And he was. As Aziraphale knelt and took Crowley’s face in his hands the feather in his hair slipped out, drifting into the trunk. A spot of white among the black. New amidst the old. It nestled there, settling in.

As did those who had born them.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #air conditioning #wings #good omens fic

321 notes · View notes

impishnature · 5 years ago

Text

Feather Fall (Part 1)

AO3 Fandom: Good Omens Rating: T+ Summary: What is an Angel without a connection to Heaven? A/N: @sightkeeper asked a while back for Aziraphale whump with the line ‘Blood? Oh it’s not mine’ and I wrote 18k words from just that. Warnings: Thoughts/talk of falling. Graphic violence (later). Panic attacks, blood, self harm. Some of these warnings are for another part but I’m putting them all here.

It had been three months since they had saved the world.

Three whole months. Ninety days. Two thousand, one hundred and sixty hours and counting.

And he was counting. Minutes, seconds, days, weeks, it all bled into one as he waited for something to happen- because for some reason it didn't feel like they had saved the world at all.

There had been no joyous occasions, no fanfare or parade. No celebrations except their own minimal affair. Just the peaceful, quiet hum of life continuing on it's path, never knowing just how close they had come to seeing it all crumble around them.

Well that, and the score of snarling angels and demons on their tails.

He could almost understand the demons vicious rage, but the angels? His family? How could they so blindly follow old texts that no longer truly aligned with what the world and humanity had evolved into? How could they sit idly by and watch it all burn, content to fight in a war with no real meaning or end other than complete annihilation? Was the world that the Almighty had created, truly just collateral damage in the wider scheme of things? Did none of them see the contradictions? The hypocrisy? How did their faith override their reason so easily?

And beneath all the questions, all the unfulfilled answers, there was a deeper ache; yearning, cold and hollow. It stung deep in his chest, pulsing pitifully with every fluttering heartbeat- a dagger thrust there by those who should have understood him, should have stood beside him.

Instead, they had tried to kill him with hellfire.

All for choosing humanity over an unjustifiable war.

All for asking the questions no one else seemed to be asking.

...Had he been so wrong?

Aziraphale sat, lost in his own thoughts, his book forgotten on his lap. It threatened to slip off him onto the floor at a moment's notice that he wasn't even present enough to feel or hear happening. It had been three months. Three months and the only contact his brethren had had was to try and kill him. He'd hoped that it would all blow over, that they'd see the error in their ways and realise that he and Crowley had made the best decision for everyone.

It was wishful thinking, he knew that now.

Neither side would ever admit they were wrong, nor admit defeat. It wasn't in their nature.

A human hundreds of years ago had seen the truth, but it had taken watching his own body be dragged up to heaven for him to accept his fate.

Thankfully, he hadn't been himself then, nor had Crowley been soaked in holy water as the other side had decided. But there had been a hint of barely quelled fury in Crowley's eyes when he returned that let him know that it was not just the actions or hellfire that had spoken out loudly at that meeting. He knew Crowley would never tell him, he'd sugarcoat it or brush it off, but then again he didn't really need to know what had been said. The dagger in his heart still twisted at the implications regardless, that deep rooted sadness that refused to leave.

Aziraphale tried to shake himself in his seat, the thoughts a dark cloud that needed to be swatted away. He brushed at his chest subconsciously, as if there was a physical item embedded there that he could tug out and be done with. It didn't matter what had been said. They wanted him dead, plain and simple. And when that hadn't worked, they'd cut him off.

He hadn't realised until then what true freedom tasted like.

For a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased, his mind slipping to warmer thoughts. It had been blissful at first. He'd felt lighter, brighter, like a weight had lifted from him, chains that he hadn't even realised he was wearing crashing to the floor. He no longer had to hide himself, to dim his light to quell questions and curiosity at his actions. He no longer had to subject himself to their whims even when he disagreed, to bite his tongue and smile dutifully at every snide remark or reprimand. And best of all; he could go about his life in peace, spend his days with Crowley without fear of what management might say or think, because none of them had any right to say anything anymore. They may judge him, but without the fear of consequences looming above his head, what really was there to stop him from giving into temptations and living life, however he saw fit?

He was already dead to them, or he would be if they had gotten there way, so, what more could he really do to anger them more than they already were?

But then the doubts had spread.

It had started as a small voice, that hint of sadness, that he couldn't quite escape. And then like a creeping vine it had taken hold. It grew and grew, tendrils reaching into every crevice of his skull, strangling the happiness that he had thought he finally deserved.

Aziraphale swallowed, his eyes open and unseeing as his shoulders raised defensively around his neck. He hunched forward, arms gripping tight to his knees, a bid to protect himself as the cold seeped back through his lungs and the dagger pushed deeper still.

His family had deserted him.

As much as he disagreed with them, as much as he was glad to no longer be under their scrutiny, it still didn't feel quite right to be completely isolated from Heaven. To have their full and unabated disappointment echoing through the silence of a disconnected phone line.

Was this what it felt like to fall? The ache of loss that he couldn't control or reason away. Grieving over something he hadn't even truly wanted, but now that it was ripped entirely from his grasp, never to be his again...

The thought sent a shudder down his spine and he propelled himself from his seat without thought, giving into the need to move, to pace. The book crashed to the ground at his feet, to be stumbled upon and kicked away with little remorse. Shame and repulsion slid heavily into his gut; a meal he wished he hadn't eaten and put him off eating ever again, whilst guilt and fear fizzled through his extremities, tingling down his fingers to keep them restlessly twining together as he paced.

It was nauseating and disturbingly unfamiliar, as if a beast had taken up residence inside his core and refused to be abated until he begged for forgiveness for crimes he hadn't even committed.

It roared to life inside of him, it fed on the panic and the paranoia, the doubts and the disorientation. It didn't care who was right or who was wrong, only that he reach a resolution and fast. It whispered insidiously in his ear, voice shifting between Gabriel's and Her's until his heart was clattering against his ribs and beating in his throat, and no amount of reminding himself that he didn't need a heartbeat would halt it.

You need to fix this. You are the fault, the issue. Heaven's closed its gates to you, how long until that is irreversible? What do your opinions matter against that?

Your fall is imminent- that is, if it hasn't started already...

"Don't be ridiculous." The words ground out of him amidst gritted teeth and an uncooperative tongue. The voices hushed against the sound, the beast curious and patient at his interruption. The blood pumping through his ears receded as his own commanding voice took centre stage and pushed the fear back in its place, down to the depths where it belonged. Or perhaps it wasn't his own voice, perhaps it was the accompanying shocked hiss, a spark of gold in the darkness, that lit up his brain and soothed his racing heart.

We picked our side. We picked the human's side. We did the right thing. Heaven and Hell are against us, surely that's got to mean something?

"I'm not falling." Aziraphale stood up straight, closing his eyes for a second to take a deep breath before glaring out at the open air, as if his aggressors were there in the room with him. "I would know. Crowley refuses to talk about his fall, and I will be damned if we place this- this- tiff at the same level as his suffering."

It was abhorrent, disrespectful, that his mind would put the two anywhere near one another.

The beast was subdued for a moment, irritated but conceding. It shrunk in size and let him breathe easier as clarity and logic took over his thought patterns.

...The peace didn't last long.

Her voice, quiet and questioning, echoed past all the others. It created space where it needed, growing in form and consistency, engulfing him in its reverberations.

How would you know?

"I'm sorry?" The words stuttered out of him before he could stop them. A puff of irritation fizzled through his chest, his hands clenching into fists.

What was he doing apologising to an imaginary voice? It wasn't real. It was just his mind playing tricks on him.

She wasn't here. She wasn't talking to him.

And if She was, he hoped that he would have enough in him not to shrink at Her presence, that he could ask all the questions that, over the years of silence, had begun to sit and multiply at the back of his throat every time he thought of Her.

His resolve didn't stop the flow of the voice though. The one that slid across the surface of his brain and mingled with his own thoughts until he wasn't sure if it was Her or him that spoke them into reality.

It was pervasive, humoured by his ignorance and strengthened by his doubts.

How would you know what falling feels like?

Aziraphale swallowed past the lump in his throat. A strangely hysterical part of his mind was proud of himself for having the foresight to close the shop early that day. Humans weren't all that fond of people having fights with themselves nor imaginary people. "I don't... I've seen it, heard about it. The Fall. They fell from- it wasn't a slow process. It's never been a slow process. There was never any doubt that they had fallen."

Well, that was then. No one's fallen in millennia. There was also never any doubt that they had lost sight, that they had lost faith. They fell for their reasons, you're falling for yours.

A sharper voice grated through, Her voice opening up the floodgates for it to return from the depths he'd cast it to. It was darker, less hypothetical, and more disparaging as it snarled at him.

You never could do anything right. Why would this be any different?

He was suddenly finding it hard to breathe, the need for oxygen to unnecessary lungs somehow desperate and required. The room was closing in on him, shrinking into a suffocating prison built purposefully for him. Each book, each shadow, opened another set of eyes that dispassionately watched his descent, judging him for every little action, every thought, every word, every minuscule movement-

Her voice slipped through the soft breeze, sending goosebumps trailing across his flesh and the hairs raising on the back of his neck.

Perhaps every day you make the choice to fall just that little bit further...

A soft clatter dragged some of his awareness back into the room. His eyes focused in and out on a small button rolling across the floor away from him with no recognition or recollection of where it had come from.

It wasn't until there was the remains of a bow tie held too tightly in his hand that he realised he'd been tugging at his collar in an effort to get his breathing under control.

And one day you'll realise with a shock that you haven't been an angel for a very long time.

"Stop it."

The cacophony of voices abruptly left him, like he had snapped the lid shut on whatever horrific chest they had manifested from.

Aziraphale stood in the deserted silence, breathing hitching and twisting as the shift took him by surprise and left him hollow, his own voice the only one now flying around his head in a wisp of fear and paranoia born from no one but himself.

He wasn't sure if he had accidentally miracled the others away or if this was some new harsh punishment set out by his old management.

At least, when the voices hadn't been his own he could pretend that this wasn't all his own doing.

Your choice, your choice- your fault. Can't blame anyone else for this. You stepped over the edge, you made the choice, no one else.

"This is... absurd." He swallowed, his patience and practicality paper thin and fragile against the onslaught, but still there, a thread of sanity in a tumultuous sea. "Utterly ridiculous." Every word added a layer, a knot, another steadying, gratifying breath to his heaving lungs. "You're fine, for Go- goodness- for goodness sake."

The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.

"We did the right thing."

Silence rang back at him across the empty room, disapproval and condemnation cloying the air like a stagnant smell that refused to budge. It didn't matter if they could hear him, not really, not when the answer would always be the same.

So many eyes upon him but so desperately alone.

"We did." If only he could believe it himself without a shadow of a doubt- without thinking about how many of his compatriots disagreed, how much pain they were happy to put him through because of his decision- perhaps then the dam would break and the fear of holy retribution would finally leave him. "It was the right thing to do."

The silence remained. His new unwanted companion. How many times had he wished for freedom from their scrutiny? Yet now as the feeling of being watched dissipated into the ether, he couldn't help but feel that every utterance from his mouth turned another spectator away from him, taking a piece of his grace with them.

Turning their backs, one by one. He didn't want their forgiveness- but he needed it all the same.

"It has to be."

Whether or not he wanted it, he was alone. No longer watched, no longer listened to.

He could do as he pleased.

As long as he was happy to fall for it.

Aziraphale moved. He wasn't sure where or what he was doing at first, just that there was a sharp need at his core to do something. His common sense and logical approach just weren't cutting it today. No amount of philosophical reading or prayer could fix the anxious storm that brewed inside his skull. He'd been able to tamper it down before, even forget its existence when in the company of a rather distracting friend, but it had always returned when he was alone, always bubbled back up, thick and oozing through every pore as if to suffocate him.

So now it was time for another approach.

Before he knew it, he found himself in front of a mirror, one that he wasn't even sure had been there before this very moment, though he didn't have the mental resources to really think that through at present. It was also rather reminiscent to one he had seen in someone else's apartment, but again- now was not the time to think of such things. Instead he found himself staring at his reflection, inspecting it, almost as if he would be able to see the difference his actions had caused. As if he would see some kind of blemish that would prove his fears correct, or crush them to non-existence with little fanfare, if only he could prove to himself that all was as it should be.

A rather optimistic and unrealistic notion perhaps, but one that he couldn't help but hold onto.

In reality, he wasn't really sure what he was looking for.

He was unkempt that was for sure.

Aziraphale stared into his own almost unseeing eyes, filled with a strange sheen of dread that he wasn't used to seeing. His chest was rising and falling in sharp bursts, his breathing still quickening under the stress he'd managed to put himself under. He tried to brush past the fear, ignore it for the time being, and instead stare deep and wide eyed into his own gaze for a hint of- something. Something new, something wrong, something- well, different.

The watery gleam to his expression may not be familiar, nor the pasty pallor of his skin, but it was still undeniably him.

He gave a soft, long, exhale, some modicum of certainty seeping into his system.

As much as he had a soft spot for a certain serpent's eyes... they were hardly subtle.

If he really were changing, he would expect a rather more dramatic change in his appearance, something that would say 'beware of me!' to humans.

If anything his reflection looked rather more human than it had any right to. With it's soft tremors and heavy breathing, hair wild and matted from fingers he didn't recall running through locks. With his shoulders hunched defensively around his ears as if to weather any storms thrown at him from the outside world.

Not to mention his suit.

A soft noise of distaste clicked across his tongue as his crumpled suit finally made it's way into his vision, taking his attention gladly from rather more important matters. He tried to straighten himself out; dusting off his shoulders, brushing down his sleeves and tugging at the hem. It was a frustrating task, one that usually took only moments, but for some reason was proving rather futile as he twisted and tugged to get his appearance back in order.

It was only when he gave up with a soft huff and went to the final task of straightening his collar, that he finally noted the distinct lack of a familiar bow tie, fingers flitting over non-existent material without thought.

He shook himself, ignoring the drop in his stomach at not noticing a rather vital part of his outward appearance. Pushed down the clamouring voices to check- check again, check everything, you missed something, you're wrong. He didn't need his bow tie, he wasn't going anywhere. Aziraphale continued his ministrations around his collar as nonchalantly as possible, as if he hadn't noticed anything amiss at all. All he had to do was fasten his top button and he'd be able to look at his reflection again and all would be well-

Oh.

His top button was missing.

His fingertips ran over the yielding fabric, thumbing the hole on one side and pulling perplexedly at the few stray threads on the other where a button had once been.

When had that- oh. Oh, he remembered now.

Aziraphale swallowed, closing his eyes. He felt his adam's apple bob against his knuckles as he tried to think straight. He'd read about this, hadn't he? Humans had all kinds of words for these situations. Where panic made the mind go blank to the outside world. When just being inside a struggling body was hard enough to cope with, let alone spending energy and effort on anything else.

The only thing was- he'd never heard of an angel suffering similarly.

Then again, he'd never heard of a demon being afflicted either.

Having said that, though... He wasn't sure he'd heard of any angels or demons going against the grain quite like they had, at least not since the Fall.

He found himself laughing without intention, a mildly hysterical chuckle that rattled through him until he wasn't sure if they were morphing into sobs.

Who was he fooling? No one had ever done what he and Crowley had done before. No one had attempted the things they had achieved. Why on Earth did he think that anything that happened next would have any semblance to what had come before?

All the research, and all the time in the world, would never be able to prepare them for whatever came next.

Because no one had any inclining as to what would come next.

They were all completely in the dark and there was no light coming.

They had to make their own way from now on, their own choices- and whether they liked it or not, the other angels and demons were in the same boat as him and Crowley.

Just like the humans.

Aziraphale blinked, his eyes finding his own reflection once more, not even comprehending the moisture clinging to his eyelashes and leaving glistening marks down his cheeks.

Just like humanity.

His laughter bubbled up again, this time hollow but accepting. Humanity had dealt with this for as long as they could remember. Faith and belief only got you so far, the rest was a choice you made every day. To be good, to do good- there was nothing stopping them, not really, only their own thoughts and feelings and those around them.

Every day they dealt with the knowledge that they truthfully- knew nothing at all.

And that was OK.

It had to be OK for them.

And now, it had to be OK for everyone else as well.

None of them had ever known Her plan. Not really.

They'd hoped they understood, they'd hoped She wasn't setting them up for failure.

Because why would She?

Her and Her plan- they were ineffable. That's all there was to it.

But then on the other hand- they were ineffable.

How on Earth could they ever live up to a plan that they had no way of comprehending? How could they follow those distinct orders without knowing why, or how, or even whether they were following them correctly?

Maybe She hadn't set them up to fail, but at the same time, She had doomed them to failure.

They would forever fall short of Her expectations. Because none of them knew what Her expectations were.

Perhaps, they weren't all that different from humanity, after all.

"Different..."

The word left him in an almost reverent hush.

There was one rather glaring difference.

Between humans, angels and demons.

He just wasn't sure he was ready to visualise the outcome of his transgressions.

"Stop being ridiculous." He growled, his teeth clamping together as his watery gaze hardened to ice. Self-loathing was bubbling up thick and fast, eclipsing all other thoughts and feelings as it heaved and seethed throughout his frame, it twisted his earlier tremors into something almost unrecognisable, more forceful, sharper in his twitching muscles.

No other angel or demon would have this much trouble looking at themselves in a mirror.

Not unless they had something to hide.

And he didn't. He didn't-

A soft low swish muffled and dampened the electric air around him. Warmth encircled his frame, his wings unfurling from the ether to rest either side of him, downy and light against the fabric of his suit. Feathers brushed against his neck as, just for a moment, he let himself be cocooned in their embrace, soothed by his own heavenly essence when no one else would embrace him or remind him that he wasn't alone.

Aziraphale let himself stand in that tranquil darkness for a few moments. Let himself breathe in the subtle smell that lingered from the ether they were kept in. He hardly ever got them out and the brush of nostalgia that the sensations brought forth was sustaining him in that instance, reminding him of all the good that he had done, all the times from long before when it had been the norm to wander with them proudly visible. That is, before the humans came along and didn't understand, needed answers to questions they couldn't give and they had begun to hide amongst them instead.

But this wouldn't do.

This wasn't what he had come here to do.

He took a deep inhale, holding his breath for a few more seconds before he unfurled his wings on the exhale. He gave them a cursory glance in the mirror, scrunching up his face in mild contempt at the sorry state they were in, dusty from their containment.

"I'm glad it's only me here right now. The higher ups would have a fit." The words came out in a soft grumble, a half relieved sigh at the notion that he was alone slipping past the pit of loneliness that had been consuming him.

He really was such a contrary being. One moment he hated it, the next he rejoiced it.

He ignored the hissing notions that still wormed their way into his head, instead turning away from the mirror to find a suitable place to groom himself. His fingers had already started before he had found a place to sit, twisting and tugging at itching feathers that were making themselves known the longer he had them out in the open. "When was the last time I did this? Too long ago. That's for sure."

He continued to tut and tsk at himself as he plopped himself down, focusing on one wing and then the other. It was an arduous task, one filled with somehow knotted together feathers and tweaking unruly down until it lay flat and in position like it should. There were a few that came away altogether but he ignored them as they fell, knowing in the way they dropped off into his hands and fluttered to the ground, that they should have been gone a long time ago if he'd thought to check on them. There were a few difficult spots, frustrating, irritating tangles that he couldn't help but curse and bemoan at, all the while ignoring his heart, threatening to beat out of his chest, every time a stubborn piece of dirt took longer than it should to leave his white shimmering wings.

It wasn't until he finished, back in front of the mirror, fiddling with the hardest to reach feathers on his back that he realised they were all the spotless white they had always been.

There were no darkening stains, no grey spaces or sparse black feathers leaking through like ink on gleaming snow.

Fear and paranoia shed from his back like another layer of itching feathers, his shoulders falling as the weight on them lifted.

"See?" The word left him in a puff of air, misting up his reflection in one relaxing exhale.

He continued to fiddle with some feathers, pushing and pulling them to make sure they stayed in position, ever the perfectionist now that he had a task before him. "I really should do this more often."

He dropped his hands, letting his wings relax before miracling his collar back to how it should be, running a quick hand through his hair to tame his wayward locks.

"Absolutely nothing to worry about."

#good omens #Good Omens Fanfiction #Aziraphale #crowley #hurt/comfort #Feather Fall #tw: blood #tw: falling (religious)#tw: self harm #tw: mental breakdown

14 notes · View notes