#me throwing a bunch of flowery words together haphazardly: ‘is this anything?’

[fate-accursed]

// @deathwis ( tabitha. ) said: " promise you won't be cruel. "

The shelves are slowly emptying around them, and Abraham knows he'll have to send for a new shipment soon. His stock dwindles with each passing day; precious knowledge passed to eager hands, and none moreso than that of Tabitha Milton. It's one of the many things he likes about her, though he'd never dare say it aloud — too afraid of being forward, of crossing some invisible boundary that separates him from everyone else.

( They all have their place in this life, a path to redemption provided by the merciful Lord; Abraham would do well not to try and step outside of it. ) Perhaps in another life.

He wouldn't dare burden her with a long discussion, not the way he wants to, but he’s always been the curious type. Longing drives the beast of loneliness that gnaws at his chest, crumbling his resolve to stay quiet; it’s what makes the question finally slip this evening, seeing the bundle of books in her arms. ( Surely, it isn’t unusual for him to ask after the literature that keeps his friend customer’s attention? )

Impossible he would ever offer a cruel word, that he might sever the first, tender bud of a bond he so desperately wishes to possess — perish the thought. His eyes meet Tabitha’s with sincerity, solemn as always in his soft-spoken way. “I swear it,” he tells her, and he means it with his whole heart. “No judgement shall I cast upon your word, nor shall I utter an unkind thought. I only wish to sate idle curiosity."

[somethingjustsouthofbrilliance]

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

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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.  

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TBC