#obviously everyone already knows what crowley really means. except for crowley. and aziraphale

[meme-the-frog]

There is one interesting moment about naming...

So, it just popped up in my head out of a sudden. In their first ever meet Crowley didn't say his name and Aziraphale only knows him as Serpent, Demon, Crawley, Crowley etc. Many names, but none of them which could name him as an ANGEL.

Why is it so important? Well. As we know, each name has it's own meaning, especially in the very beginning when it was the absolute defining of the essence of a person. For an angel it is more than just necessity. It's the very point of their lives.

And in our case it is also meaningful because... Who was that brave and cheerful angel, who wasn't afraid of asking questions and giving advices to the Up Stair? Who wanted the Universe, almost his own creature, his child, to live forever? Or, at least, not 6000 years. It's nothing! And we do not even know his name.

I was picking up some variations of a proper angelic name for Crowley.

The first one, obviously, was The God's Light ('Let there be Light!'). He was the One, who gave these gorgeous colours to all what surround us. And he has so bright smile. Unfortunately, the nickname is already taken - Uriel. So go further.

Next was God is what Up, because everything we see in the sky and above was created under his words and hands. It would sound something like Imalael. Seems to me kinda soft and strong at the same time, Archangel Imalael. Still not what can suit him. Besides, God is also in what Down, in what Inside everyone and everything, not only Up.

It must be the name with so HUGE HIDDEN meaning, clearly understandable when it gradually comes to you. And then the spark of a little idea turned to a flame. How couldn't I see that before?

What was the value of the scene when Crowley creates the Universe? To show his LOVE to the work. He really in love with the Starfactory, planets, nebulas, his emotions are childishly joyful, like when you do something that brings so much happiness. What was the value for him to make a deal with Aziraphale? To show his LOVE to the Earth and people. So much were experienced, so much were seen and tried and done. He just can't lose it. It would be so unbearably dreadful. What was the value of moments shared with Aziraphale, helping, talking, walking, having supper in Ritz? To show his LOVE to the angel...

In fact, Aziraphale always touches Crowley while feeling love around. Always.

Maybe that is why he is not SO DEMONIC as the others, because the Love is too strongly good feeling, which is not available to demons (except Beelzebub now). This love is not about passion, lust or something, it is deep inside you. He didn't fall by the reason of act a sin. Because love isn't a sin. He has it more than God herself.

This is the moment. The Naming. This will give him his purpose, his function, his identity.

I'd call him Amael. Which means God's Love.

Peculiar, open, hidden, protective, romantic, quiet, loud, huge, or in small ways - every. And just like Love - his work is everywhere. Even being demon, still he is the One, who brought Nina and Maggie together, he is the First demon, who tries to avoid murders.

He can't become a true demon due to Aziraphale. Being around angel makes him feel his true nature. And that's why he is afraid of losing him and want Aziraphale to go with him wherever place in the Universe together.

Pure, bright and ginger Archangel Amael.

[itsclydebitches]

(WLW anon) I really don’t like the “bad rep is better then none at all”. I hate that. We should want good rep, because bad rep has been used time and time again by homophobes as to say we shouldn’t get representation. To me it’s not “gay can have the same flaws as het”, it’s “fix the flaws in the het”. Also I know Renora being independent was a good, I was just saying in comparison BB. Also, yes, they were separated, but also didn’t stop thinking about each other. Especially bad with Yang.

Indulge me for a moment because I want to take a trip down memory lane and list some—just some—of the queer rep that has been important to me over the years:

Ellen comes out both as herself and as her character… years later, she’s a hated millionaire who is criticized for how she treats her staff

The wildly influential Buffy gives us two women entering a loving relationship… except then Tara is killed off, Willow goes evil for a time, and Buffy comes under fire for Joss Whedon’s everything

The beloved and respectable headmaster of one of the most popular book series ever published is revealed to be gay… except it doesn’t count because it wasn’t in the text and now all of Harry Potter is cancelled because JKR is transphobic

Kurt is an unambiguously gay teen in a hugely popular TV series, acting as one of the first overt representations a generation has seen… except he’s way too stereotypical and Glee is a joke now

Orange is the New Black gives us a number of queer women, including one of our first trans characters… but isn’t it problematic that they’re all criminals?

Brooklyn Nine-Nine hosts an out gay captain and gives us a bisexual coming out story that resonated with many, myself included… except now we’re supposed to hate all the characters on principle because they’re cops

Korra and Asami walk off into the spiritual sunset together… but they never kiss or anything, so that doesn’t count either

Steven Universe gives us a queer relationship and a wedding… but it’s an issue that this is just a kid’s show and, really, does it count when the rep is embodied by space rocks whose entire species only creates a single gender? Feels like a cop-out

Same with Good Omens. Yeah, Crowley and Aziraphale clearly love each other… but you never see them kiss or declare their intentions. It’s great ace rep though! Unless you want to level the criticism that asexual characters are always nonhuman

A character intended to be a minor guest becomes a show staple and eventually declares his love for one of the two main characters… except then Castiel immediately dies, Dean doesn’t respond, and they never meet on screen again

I finished Queen’s Gambit the other day and the main character had a one-night stand with a woman! … but everyone is talking about how bisexuality is used to represent her lowest point, so that’s bad too

I could go on for literal pages. Some of these arguments I agree with (Dumbledore), others I’ve pushed back against quite strongly (Crowley and Aziraphale), but all of them are valid criticisms depending on what part of the queer community you’re in and what your expectations are. My point here is that it’s all “bad rep.” I mean that seriously. If anyone reading this is scrambling for the comment section to say why [insert media title here] is actually fantastic rep, I guarantee that someone disagrees. Or if they don’t, give it some time. Just wait until the characterization becomes offensively outdated, or another part of the story ruins the relationship, or it comes out that the author did something truly horrific, or the terminology changes and it’s labeled as “problematic” now… just wait. At some point, any rep we feel is good rep now will be criticized, cancelled, and dragged through the mud. The rep that I personally haven’t seen much push-back against—like the beloved Captain Jack Harkness in Doctor Who, or Schitts Creek that just won a ton of awards—is wrapped up in the criticism, “So it’s all just about able-bodied, cis, (mostly) white dudes, huh? :/”  Even the argument that queer characters need to be written by queer authors doesn’t hold up. I absolutely adored Sense8. “Wow, a gay main character in a loving relationship with another gay man, both of whom enter a loving poly relationship with a woman, another lesbian trans main character who marries the love of her life on screen, an entire cast arguably queer due to them sharing orgy scenes centered around the emotional intimacy they share, everyone survives, and this was written by two trans women! Great, right?” Well, not according to the wealth of opinions explaining how Sense8 is horrible rep, actually. Every piece of rep we’ve got is either currently flawed or will become flawed in the future.

So what do we do with that?

That’s where my “I’d rather have bad rep than no rep at all” comes in. For me, that’s not waving the white flag. That’s not an oath that I won’t expect better rep in the future (I do) or that I won’t criticize the rep we get (BOY DO I), but rather just an acknowledgement of reality. The vast majority—if not the entirety—of rep is “bad rep” in one way or another, but I’d still rather have it than nothing at all. Because I’ve lived just long enough and studied media just enough to know what nothing looked like. It was watching all queer characters meet untimely deaths. Before that it was watching queer characters be derided and treated as jokes. Before that it was nothing but coding, where queer characters didn’t exist except in our own headcanons and interpretations. Obviously “bad rep” covers a very large range of issues and “They haven’t even confirmed this relationship yet” is a bigger issue than “This queer character embodies one or two, mild stereotypes,” but ultimately I’d take any of it over nothing at all. And enjoying what we’ve currently got doesn’t mean I’m willing to settle for it indefinitely.

To use an iffy analogy, imagine there’s a factory. This factory makes plates. So. Many. Plates. Big plates, small plates, plain plates, decorative plates, plates for every possible occasion in your life—and everyone with a steak for dinner is pleased as punch. You though? You’ve got soup. You need a bowl. Your entire life you’ve been struggling to eat your soup off a plate (it doesn’t work) and listening to friends and family claim that the plate with a slightly raised edge could be a bowl if you squint (it’s not). To say it’s frustrating is an understatement.

But then, one day, the factory starts producing bowls too. Hurray! Except as soon as you get your hands on one, you’re told you really shouldn’t be using it, let alone praising it. Look at the state of that bowl! It’s cracked right down the middle, ugly as hell, shoddily made all around… you’re not really going to settle for that, are you? And no, you obviously still want the factory to produce better bowls, but at the same time, this is a bowl. You’ve never gotten one before and you can finally enjoy your meal, even if the soup leaks at times. Sometimes a lot. But you’re still feeling better about your meal than you ever have before. And what you then begin to realize is that lots of the plates are a mess too. They also have cracks, they’re also ugly, many are also shoddily made. The difference is that the factory is producing so many plates at such a rapid pace that every steak eater is able to get by. One plate breaks completely? You’ve got a thousand fallbacks. Don’t like the look of this one? A thousand other options. You disagree about what “shoddily made” means? Luckily there are enough plates that everyone can find what they prefer! But the bowls… there’s only a few. Some are really expensive. Others are only available for a limited time before they suddenly disappear. Your bowl breaks and you have to wait months, years sometimes, to get another one. You’re constantly told to go buy this one obscure bowl no one else has heard about and yeah, you like it... but you’d also like to buy one of the bowls everyone is already enjoying. You find yourself looking at the plates and thinking, “I’d like that. I’d like to have so many options that the flaws, while still a problem, are much more bearable.” You’re still going to demand that the factory get its shit together, you’re still going to (rightly) complain about the awful quality of your bowl… but it’s still nice to have a bowl, period. There are still things you like about it, even if it’s a mess: the color, the size, the beauty of the shape of it. Its potential. You’re still pleased you have something to enjoy and that helps serve the need you’re looking to fill, even if that something is imperfect.

That’s “bad rep is better than no rep.” To bring this very long response back to Blake/Yang, I don’t think their problems negate their benefits. Is their relationship currently non-canonical and filled with a number of writing issues everyone has a right to be angry about? Yup. I express that anger a great deal. Are they still half of a team on a very popular show that is (presumably) set to be canonized as queer? Yup. I’d much rather live in a world where big shows like RWBY try to include queer rep and fail in a multitude of ways—with the expectation and hope that they’ll continue to improve—rather than in a world where authors a) don’t care or b) are too scared to try. Because that’s where a “good rep or no rep” stance leads. The danger isn’t homophobes because they’re, well, homophobes. It doesn’t matter if the rep is good or not, they hate it on principle. But if queer authors writing for other queer identities, or allies writing queer identities, or even queer authors writing their own experiences (like in Sense8) continually come under non-stop fire for their attempts… there’s a good chance that many people won’t ever try. We’re already seeing that here on tumblr with young authors admitting that they wouldn’t touch [insert topic here] with a ten-foot pole because just look at what happens when you get it wrong. And authors will get things wrong because authors are fallible people forever unlearning their own ignorance. So though it might sound strange coming from a blog that has turned into such a RWBY critical space, I am glad that RWBY’s queer rep exists, despite all the frustrations that I share about it. I think a RWBY with various types of “bad” queer rep is better than a RWBY with no queer rep at all, particularly when “bad” or “good” is so intensely subjective. There’s a middle ground between passively accepting whatever we’re given, and tearing into rep with such ferocity that we end up rejecting it all. There’s a space where we can be critical of rep and embrace the parts that work for us, simultaneously.

I hope and expect the het rep will get better too, but… that’s never going to happen instantly. To quote RWBY, there’s no magic wand we can wave to fix all our problems. Rather, it will take slow, plodding, meandering, lifetimes’ worth of work to see that change occur and I personally don’t want to spend the one life I have waiting for that perfect rep to show up. Because it’s unlikely that it will. While we work, I’d rather find the good in what rep we’ve already got.  

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Hey, everyone! I’ve been saying for a bit I want to get some fics from prompts I’ve written onto AO3 but...it’s so hard...ok it’s not hard, Executive Dysfunction is just kicking my butt. I’m going to post some of them to Tumblr today. If you want to help these babies get on AO3, they need: titles, tags, you pestering me in the comments. If you don’t think they’re good enough for AO3 - fair enough, just hit the little heart if they make you smile!

Prompt: Aziraphale reading to Crowley

(Requested by @zadusk and @lyricwritesprose)

“Sorry, can’t help you,” the innkeeper said, “just rented out our last room.”

“What?” Crowley crossed his arms, huffing through his nose. This was Bethlehem all over again. “This town is in the middle of nowhere, it has three inns, how can they all be sold out?”

“I don’t know what to tell you.” The innkeeper shut the ledger. “Everyone’s headed down to London, and we’re on the way. Now. I can offer you a hot meal, and for, let’s say, half the price of a room you can sleep in the stables. The hay loft is clean, apart from the mice—”

“Stablesss!” Crowley hissed, slapping his hand on the counter. “Do I look like someone who sleeps in stables?”

The innkeeper didn’t appear remotely impressed. “You look like someone who is going to be sleeping in a hedge. Looks like a storm tonight. Good evening.” And he spun away, calling out to the cook in the back room.

“Oi!” Crowley shouted. “Get back here, you—!”

“Crowley! Whatever are you doing here?” The familiar voice was half delighted, half scolding. Aziraphale appeared beside him, same white suit as the last time they’d met, top hat tucked under his arm. “I thought I made it clear we shouldn’t see each other so often. Since I opened the shop, it’s been—”

“Yes, I know.” Crowley waved a hand and turned away. “I’m not here for you, Angel, I have actual business in York.”

“Really?” Despite his words, Aziraphale trailed behind him. “How interesting. I’m just returning from York – oh, no, you don’t think they’ve sent you to undo all my work again, do you?”

Crowley snorted. “No bet.” He dropped his voice into a low whisper. “This is why we need to meet up more often. Look at all this time we’re wasting! And now I have to march through the bloody night in the rain because there’s no place to sleep—”

“Oh! Well, I wouldn’t dream of it. You can share my room.”

“Ngk?!” Crowley’s brain crashed into his skull with all the speed and grace of a train wreck. “Mf. Yk. No I can’t – Aziraphale!”

“Oh, my word – obviously, I’m not planning – that!” His voice dropped even lower and he tugged on Crowley’s elbow. “Don’t be crude, dear fellow. I have a room with a bed that I’m not intending to use. You can have it. I just need a chair to sit in while I read.”

“Jgk.” Crowley turned away, taking a deep breath through his nose. It made sense. He could sleep. Aziraphale could read. No getting soaked, or lost in the dark, or needing to fight off highwaymen or anything of the sort. “Fffine. We can. Er. Do that.”

“Jolly good.” He could practically hear the angel straightening his waistcoat. “Now that’s settled. I’ve already had my supper and was about to head up. Unless you’re hungry—”

“No, no, now is fine.” He still couldn’t quite meet Aziraphale’s eyes. “Lead the way.”

The room, it turned out, was nearly as advertised.

A double-sized bed with a straw-tick and a quilt. A little stand with a pitcher of water and bowl for washing up. Windows that could be tightly shuttered to block out some of the city noise.

The only thing missing, really, was the chair.

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s fingers tapped on his book and he glanced around, as if a seat might be hiding in the corner. “Well, er…”

“It’s fine. I can leave.” Crowley turned on his heel and reached for the latch.

“Absolutely not! I won’t hear of it. You get settled and I’ll – ah – I’ll miracle in a chair.” He peered around the narrow room. “Somewhere.”

“Look, I can—”

“No. Miracle yourself a nightgown or whatever it is you need.”

“I—”

“Hush!”

Resigning himself, Crowley waved his clothes into something more comfortable for sleeping and crawled under the blanket. It was…slightly better than sleeping in the stables, he supposed. The straw was lumpy and the sheet covering it coarse, but the pillow was well-stuffed with goose-down, a luxury he could get used to. He shifted onto his back, trying to find a comfortable angle.

Instead, he found Aziraphale, standing beside the bed, staring blankly at the wall. “There…well…it would appear there isn’t room for a chair,” he confessed. “Not one that will fit my, er…my current corporation comfortably, that is.”

Crowley looked at the ceiling. He could sleep up there, but it would mean abandoning the pillow. Or. Or.

“Look, Angel,” he said as casually as he could. You can, um, you can sit on the bed. I’m not going to be offended or anything. It’s fine.”

“No, I couldn’t – couldn’t possibly—”

“Aziraphale. It’s really fine.”

The quilt tugged, folded back, and with a rustle of straw Aziraphale settled into the mattress. He sat straight, stiff, and so close to the edge he might topple off.

Even so, he was alarmingly close.

“You, um. You need the candle?”

“No, my own light will be sufficient, thank you.”

“Yeah. Obviously.” Crowley tossed his glasses onto the little table and waved a finger at the candle, which immediately snuffed out, leaving the room dark except for the soft glow of Aziraphale, gently illuminating his book.

Crowley closed his eyes and prepared to fall asleep.

He turned onto one side. No good, too close to the edge.

He turned the other way, or started to, freezing when he felt how close the angel’s warmth was.

Then he lay on his back again. The whole room fell very, very still.

“Bless it, Aziraphale, will you relax?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I can practically hear your muscles creaking. How am I supposed to all asleep with all that – that tension barely six inches away!”

“I don’t know what you might be referring to. I am – am perfectly relaxed here, reading my book and you – you interrupt with these – these pointless accusations.”

Crowley gave up and turned on his side, facing Aziraphale, giving him as hard a stare as he could manage. “Your book is upside down, Angel.”

“Is it?” He swallowed. “I mean, of course it is. I am training myself to read upside-down text, a highly useful skill, which I’m sure—”

Crowley shut his eyes. “This was a terrible idea.” He sat up, swinging his legs off the bed.

“Where are you going?”

“Look, Aziraphale, neither of us is actually comfortable with this. So I’m just going to head out. If I leave now, I might make it to the next town before the rain starts, and maybe they’ll have a room. You can have this one and—”

“Crowley,” he said, voice much softer than expected. “My dear fellow. I won’t be able to relax knowing you’re out there. I know you won’t be in – in any real danger but…I would rather know that you’re safe.”

He stared ahead, sitting perfectly still in the way that only beings who aren’t really alive can – no breath, no heartbeat, no tiny motions.

Then, slowly, Crowley pulled his legs back under the quilt and lay on his back.

“What’s this book about, anyway?” he asked.

“Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?”

“It’ll help. Trust me. What is it – poetry? Ancient epics about glorious wars? Not Hamlet again, I hope, that play is a gloomy mess of—”

“No, nothing of the sort. It’s…well, it’s a sort of love story.”

That didn’t sound too bad. “Sort of?”

“Well, yes, it’s more a – a study of the manners and traditions of courtship. Our heroine is the second of five sisters, and there’s a great deal riding on finding them suitable husbands, but her choices are, well…not especially appealing.”

“Does she tell them to go jump in a lake?”

“Not in so many words,” Aziraphale said disapprovingly. “But yes, she has so far turned down two proposals quite bitingly. Although I think she was a bit hasty in her judgement of one of the young men.”

“I like it.” Crowley turned to look at Aziraphale, and found the angel had relaxed, and moved just a little closer. “What’s it called, anyway?”

“Pride and Prejudice.” His fingers tapped against it. “Just released last year. I must try and find the author’s other work when I finish.”

“Well, you’ll have to tell me how it ends.”

“Oh, are you…interested?”

“Hmm,” Crowley settled his head a little further into the pillow. “I do like a good drawing room drama. Perhaps I should pick out a few dresses and spend a year or two back in those circles.”

“As I recall, you were always deceitful and wicked and caused many a scandal.”

“I should hope so. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

Aziraphale smiled down at him, and it made Crowley feel light-headed in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. “Then I imagine you’ll be brilliant at it.” He suddenly turned away, looking at the shuttered window. “Oh! Do you hear that? The rain has started.” The first drops were tapping against the shutters fitfully.

“Good thing I didn’t go out.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale looked at the book again. “Er, would you like me to…to read it to you? Just the first part, until you fall asleep.”

“I…” Crowley cleared his throat. “Yeah. I mean, your voice puts me to sleep half the time anyway, so…”

“Oh, yes, absolutely wonderful. Let me just get the first volume.” He hopped out of bed and hurried over to his jacket, rummaging in the pocket to pull out another hardcover book. When he returned to the bed, it was with almost no self-consciousness, wriggling comfortably against his pillow only a few inches away from Crowley.

“Now, let’s see…yes, here. ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife…’”

It was strange, seeing the angel from this angle, round face slightly lit by his own glow, little smile curving up his lips as the words bubbled out excitedly. His voice rose and fell as he read, trying to paint a picture of Longbourne and Netherfield and the lives of the Bennet sisters. Crowley could get used to it, the look, the sound, the soft familiarity of it all. Not that he was likely to have an opportunity.

He didn’t close his eyes. Not yet.

--

“‘But I can assure you,’ she added,” Aziraphale was quite enjoying the voice he had chosen for Mrs. Bennet, raising it now in slightly erratic excitement. “‘that Lizzy does not lose much by not suiting his fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid man, not at all worth pleasing.’” He shifted again, raising his arm to better articulate the dialogue. “‘So high and so conceited that there was no enduring him! He walked here, and he walked there, fancying himself so very great! Not handsome enough to dance with!’” He dropped his voice into a vicious hiss. “‘I wish you had been there, my dear, to have given him one of your set downs. I quite detest the man.’”

He glanced to his left, grinning, hoping to see Crowley’s reaction to his bit of acting, but the demon had at some point fallen asleep. He lay half on his back, still facing Aziraphale, shock of red hair across the white pillow. His mouth hung slightly open and something emerged that was almost a snore, but rather too small to really qualify. It was drowned out by the wind and rain outside, rattling the shutters. Now and then, in the distance, thunder rumbled.

“Well. I suppose…yes, you sleep now.” Aziraphale turned to put the book down, thinking to find the second volume and pick up where he’d left off.

“Nf.” Crowley turned onto his side, one arm flinging out towards Aziraphale’s waist. “D’n stp,” he mumbled. “Jus’ gettn gud.”

“Er, are you…awake?” The arm tightened slightly, and Crowley pulled closer, pressing himself against Aziraphale’s side. “Crowley, er, dear…you’re…”

“M’fine.” He sighed, not seeming aware of the world at all. “S’nice.”

For a long moment, Aziraphale stared at the demon who had – had invaded his space. Had settled against him in a most – most awkward and undignified way.

Well. There was really only one thing to do.

Aziraphale slid a little lower against the pillow, until he’d surrounded Crowley in the crook of his arm. “Is that better, dear?”

“St’ry.” But he settled into that space between Aziraphale’s side and his arm with a content sigh, arm now draped across the angel’s chest.

Oh, dear. This is not going to be easy to explain when he wakes up. But that wouldn’t be for several hours, at least, and right now, there was a very small smile on Crowley’s lips.

“Well. Chapter four. ‘When Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former, who had been cautious in her praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her sister how very much she admired him…’”

--

Thanks for reading! Pride and Prejudice was initially published in three volumes, in 1813, attributed simply to “The Author of Sense and Sensibility.” I have no idea what was going on in York in 1814 - I mostly needed someplace they could walk to but would take several days - so feel free to attribute whatever historical events you can think of to these dummies! 

[lady-divine-writes]

Ineffable Holiday 2020 - “Anathema’s Solid Right Arm” (Rated PG)

Summary: Anathema takes it upon herself to bring together two customers she knows have a crush on one another ... drastically, if necessary. (1694 words)

Notes: I had started writing this for @ineffablehusbandsweek prompt coffeeshop au, but I never got it done. So I have written it for the Ineffable Holiday 2020 Day 2 prompt 'hot cocoa/cider'. Human au. Mainly fluff.

Read on AO3.

“So, Mr. Crowley,” Anathema says, eagerly setting her cocoa and her apple cider muffin on the iron bistro table out front of her shop, right by the door where she can keep track of customers going in and out, “is he here yet?”

“Who?” her reluctant companion, who’d been there first, nursing his mug of coffee while he eyed the people walking by, asks.

“Don’t play dumb with me!”

“Pfft. Who says I’m playin’?”

“You know exactly who I’m talking about. The man in the cream-colored coat who comes here every day at 2 o’clock for a cup of Earl Grey and a blueberry scone. The one you’ve been mooning over for weeks and weeks but refuse to say two words to.”

Crowley spots a gentleman who fits that exact bill weeding through the crowd. But by the time he reaches the coffee shop, it’s obviously not him, and Crowley groans. “Don’t you have anything better to do than bother me?”

“This is my shop, and you're a customer here, so I think that gives me exclusive bothering rights.”

“I liked you better when all you did was read books behind the counter and ignore the rest of us.”

“Lucky for you, you’re much more interesting than a book.”

“Lucky me,” Crowley grumbles in a put-upon voice.

Crowley isn’t exactly a friend of hers, but he is one of her best customers. He shows up every afternoon without fail at precisely 1:30 and orders the same thing each time - black coffee and the muffin of the day (which he never eats). Anathema had thought he chose her spot over other, more commercial coffee enterprises because of her homey atmosphere and signature, in-house roasted Arabica blends. Many of her customers (an older set among the locals) do. 

Turns out, he stopped by every day because of another daily customer of hers - a pleasant, older man with fluffy white-blond hair, and a positively glowing smile, the kind that can be described as lighting up a room. Anathema has watched the two of them religiously. To this day, Crowley has never once spoken to the man, and the man (Aziraphale is the name he gives when he orders) has made no move to speak to him either. And as it’s already nearing 2:15 with no sign of him, it seems today won’t be the day Crowley gets his chance. 

Which explains his sour mood.

Anathema watches Crowley pull apart his muffin with one hand while he searches the stream of pedestrians, not paying an ounce of attention to the fact that he’s decimating it, crumbs falling through the scrollwork on the tabletop and attracting birds from all around. 

Anathema feels for the man. She really does. She’s watched the evolution of him from the first day he walked into her shop: cocky, condescending, constantly criticizing everything from the smell of the place to the decor. But he’s softened considerably since Aziraphale, almost become a whole different person. 

There are some things about him that have not budged. He still dresses like a wealthy undertaker, sporting a pair of dark sunglasses whether it’s dreary out or fine. Both style choices make him the yin to Aziraphale’s yang seeing as Aziraphale only dresses in tones of lightest cream and pale, sky blue.

Anathem has become invested in whether or not these two end up together. There's no better time than the present. 

Christmas time.

Which Anathema considers the most romantic season of the year

(Stuff Valentine's!)

If Crowley isn’t brave enough to make the first move, and Aziraphale (whom she thought she caught more than once peeking surreptitiously Crowley’s way) won’t, then she needs to make this happen. 

Starting today, if possible.

But what if he found a different coffee shop to go to? 

What if he had been waiting for Crowley to say something and mistook his silence for disinterest?

How tragic would it be for these two to end up star-crossed!

Nope! Not on her watch!

She straightens up and peeks around at the customers enjoying their beverages on this blustery day, then beyond the dining patio to the holiday shoppers hopping from store to store. It’s easy to mistake many an older gentleman for the object of Crowley’s affections, but easier to spot him out the moment he arrives, threading through passersby like a salmon traveling upstream, offering everyone he meets a smile, a nod, and an, “Excuse me! I’m very sorry! I must get through!” 

“Look!" Anathema cheers. "Mr. Crowley! There he is!”

“Yeah, whatever,” Crowley says, but she sees the slightest twitch of a smile playing at the corners of his lips as he waits for Aziraphale to blow by him into the shop for his daily fare.

Except, he doesn’t. 

It doesn’t look like he’s stopping at all, hurrying through the crowd to continue down the street.

Crowley's twitchy smile withers. Anathema’s jaw drops as she stares at Aziraphale’s back while he walks on. In her peripheral, she sees Crowley’s head bow, his lips tightening into the thinnest of lines as he sinks slowly into his mug of freezing cold cider.

And that's that.

She has to do something! If she doesn’t, Crowley is going to be miserable for the remainder of the afternoon. Grumpy and alone, he'll stay out here well into supper and, in turn, will make her miserable.

She can’t have that.

But she doesn't know how to fix things. She can’t chase after the man. He has a considerable head start. Plus, with the crowd between them, she’s not sure she'll reach him before he gets away. 

She doesn’t know what on Earth possesses her. 

She grabs up the picked apart remains of Crowley’s muffin and, without another thought, hurls it with all her might. She thought she aimed low enough to tag Aziraphale’s shoulder, or brush his arm, but obviously not when she hits the poor man square on the cheek.

Anathema throws her hands over her mouth and gasps.

Crowley launches swiftly to his feet.

Aziraphale stops walking.

“What on Earth!?” Aziraphale mutters, pivoting quickly on his heel and looking over at them in surprise. But he doesn’t see Anathema at all. The second the muffin hits its mark, she says, "Good luck!" and bolts inside the shop, leaving her red-faced companion staring, mouth agape, at the man glaring back with a cheek covered in mascarpone cheese filling.

Aziraphale must recognize the culprit is Crowley because his demeanor changes. He smiles bashfully, feeling his pockets for a handkerchief, but his eyes never leave Crowley's face.

Silently, and from her hiding place just inside, Anathema cheers.

She knew it! She just knew it! 

After a few awkward seconds of searching, Aziraphale still can't seem to find it, and Crowley, realizing that this is the chance he's been waiting for, hurries to the rescue. 

On the brief saunter over, he debates the best opening line for this situation. Hello is first on the list. Hi sounds a bit too casual. Yo pops up to make a short appearance but is brutally beaten to death. What ends up coming out of Crowley's mouth, not even a contender, is, “Here,” as he thrusts a black handkerchief Aziraphale's way.

“Oh!" Aziraphale accepts it gratefully. "Thank you so much, my dear."

"Crowley," Crowley corrects, biting his tongue hard after because what did he have against this man calling him my dear? Not a single, Goddammed thing!

"Aziraphale," Aziraphale offers. "Uh … was that your muffin?”

“No! I mean, ngk … yes, it was. But someone tossed it … I suppose?” Crowley looks over at Anathema, who has the gall to spy on them through her front window, smiling like anything and making, what he can only describe as, encouraging hand motions.

“What kind was it?”

“The muffin of the day - apple cider, filled with …”

“Mascarpone cheese, yes," Aziraphale finishes with a frown. "Was it tasty, at least?”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t know. Didn’t get a nibble of it.”

“Pity.” Aziraphale side-eyes Crowley as he watches him wipe the remaining cheese off his cheek. “Thank you for this,” he says, gesturing with the handkerchief. “I’ll get it cleaned for you.”

“Keep it. This way you have an extra, just in case. You never know when some rogue baker might throw a muffin at you again. Or a doughnut.”

“True. A jam-filled would ruin this coat. It’s one of my favorites, too.”

“Is it?" Crowley steps back, gives the garment a casual once over as if he doesn't have the thing memorized - every line from shoulder to hem, the position of the pockets, the lay of the lapels. "It suits you.”

“Thank you," Aziraphale says, self-consciously tugging at the seams, smoothing out non-existent wrinkles. 

The two men fall silent. Anathema, palms pressed against the glass, starts dramatically mouthing, "Do something! One of you! Do something!"

Neither of them sees her, but Aziraphale says, "Now I’m curious.”

“About what?”

“I’ve never had one of the specialty muffins. Creature of habit, I’m afraid. Always order the same thing.”

“I think she has one left if you’d like to give it a go.”

Aziraphale bites his lower lip, his cheeks turning a fetching shade of rose. “Do you think … would you mind splitting it with me? Then we can both satisfy our curiosities.”

That last part sounds like an invitation to more than sharing a muffin, and Crowley, admittedly dense to those sorts of flirtations, is determined not to let it pass him by.

“That sounds like a brilliant idea.”

Anathema beams when she sees Aziraphale and Crowley heading her way, flashing them a double thumbs-up that only Crowley catches. Crowley rolls his eyes. Aziraphale looks in time to see the top of her head drop below the sill, another unfortunate chair upturning behind her. “Is that the young lady who runs the shop?” he asks, pointing at Anathema's bun bobbing away from the window towards the counter.

“I believe it is,” Crowley says dismissively.

“Is she quite all right?”

“No.” Crowley sets the chairs right at the small table and offers one to Aziraphale. “Not in the slightest.”

[broadwaytheanimatedseries]

Okay But What If I Just

Miraculous Omens AU:

So this is a really wild idea I had, basically a modern human AU where the angels and demons are just people

And I'm not sure if they're highschool age, I think college age fits better for Zira and Crow

Anthony J Crowley and A.Z Fell go by Az and Crowley/Crow most of the time, they are the only ones who call each other by their first names, Crowley more so than Angel.

Because that really is his name, Angel Zion Fell, and Crowley figures it makes sense that the sweetest soul on earth is named after a being of pure goodness, a force of light.

Of course this isn't entirely the reason for his name, the main reason being his legal guardian's obsession with religion, purity, and order most of all.

Gabriel Archer was a strict man with only a love for rules in his heart, and Az has known this since he was old enough to think for himself, which is something Gabriel did not like him doing at all.

Az spent his life being told what to do by all the relatives that came by to talk with Gabriel about the future and where the world seems to be headed these days.

Gabriel always looked like there was an enormous weight on his shoulders whenever the topic came up, as he would fix his tie as if nervous, but not hesitant. Never hesitant.

Gabriel has been waiting his whole life for the right moment to Strike, so when the opportunity finally presents itself, he uses the butterfly miraculous he's been wearing for years now and creates an Akuma to lure out the new Ladybug and black cat miraculous holders.

So now She must choose two. Two souls, meant to work in perfect harmony together, who can stop the efforts of a man who has the wrong idea for what the world should be.

Meanwhile, as all that happens, Az has no idea what the person who raised him is up to, and is enjoying his life of luxury as someone who inherited his parents' riches, and on the other side of town, Crowley lives in an apartment building with the worst neighbors and a shitty landlord.

People tell him he's exaggerating when he calls it hell but it truly is a mess. The only thing that gives him comfort and manages to survive, thanks to his skill and intimidation, are his lovely, wonderful plants.

And though people would describe Az's life as heaven, to him it's beginning to feel more like a fancy, cushy prison. Gabriel tries to make it as comfortable as possible so he never wants to go out and see the world, but it won't work.

Az is desperate for friendship and hungry for knowledge, while Crowley is tired of his crummy life and mundane everyday routine, so much that even causing mischief has become part of the norm and is no longer exciting.

So when they are both tested by Her and She sees them fit for the miraculouses, their lives change forever.

Anthony J. Crowley becomes Ladybug, and very much enjoys being able to change his gender presentation so easily.

He insists on using female pronouns while on duty and as an added bonus it seriously helps with keeping his identity a secret.

The various, increasingly weird lucky charms always make perfect sense to her, they're just like all the pranks she plays as Crowley, one tiny change can set a whole chain of events into motion.

And A.Z Fell becomes Chat Noir, and he loves being able to ditch the goody two shoes persona everyone has decided to see him as and just go apeshit.

That being said, he's still Aziraphale and obviously still cares about people, but he doesn't feel the need to be so nice and polite all the time, and the ever so important rules he grew up believing are the only thing that matters, don't seem so relevant anymore.

He's hesitant to use his cataclysm at first, but when Ladybug tells him "whatever you break, Chaton, I can fix." he doesn't hold back, and true to her word, the lucky charm never fails to explode into a million glittery ladybugs that put everything back in its place.

Chat Noir and Ladybug see each other as partners, but Crowley can't communicate his emotions to his Angel to save his own skin, and Az is similarly as nervous around the wily ol' serpent.

So instead of a love square it's two pining hopeless idiots that are already fucking married except they don't know it's the person they're absolutely hopeless for.

Az and Plagg get along swimmingly, their love of food and general sass making them almost instant friends, and Az is greatful to have someone like Plagg who's always there for him.

Crowley and Tikki get along as well as a cunning, angry trickster and an ancient deity of creation can, it's hard but they manage. Tikki is often his moral compass and voice of reason whenever he's about to do something mean and/or stupid, so she's saved his ass a lot since he started being Ladybug. He also tries not to yell at the plants too loud when she's close by, he doesn't wanna scare her.

Gabriel and Nooroo... Do I even have to say it? The names don't even change, why would the dynamic be any different. Both Gabriels are assholes, no one is surprised.

So... Yeah.

[time-is-a-pain]

Bella Is Not Impressed: Part Two

Previous, Next

“And that’s how I ended up saving a litter of stray kittens from a Southern Smooth snake”

Bella rolled her eyes as the latest of Lila’s tall tales reached her ears from where she was sitting surrounded by her faithful listeners. 

“That’s bull. Southern Smooth snakes are in southern France. It’s literally in their name.”

“I know I’ve already said it a lot,” Marinette started from her seat across the table, “but I’m so glad there’s someone else here who realizes that Lila is lying.” 

Bella shrugged, “Honestly Mari, um, full offence to Alya and the others, but it’s not even that hard to tell she’s lying.” 

Marinette sagged a little and Bella instantly felt a pang of guilt. She hadn’t meant to make her only friend in the country sad. But she was right, the things Lila tried to sell as the One and Only Truth were quite frankly ridiculous and Bella couldn’t believe anyone bought it. 

“I know,” Marinette grumbled in frustration, “no one will notice the glaring holes in her stories and I can’t even get Alya to fact check any of them.” 

Bella was patting Marinette’s arm when Adrien sat down at their table. “Hey, I heard you guys talking about Lila.”

Bella didn’t miss the way Marinette heaved a sigh and scooted away from her crush. Which was weird considering how hyped she’d been at the idea of sitting together in class. Bella also didn’t miss the mumbled “I didn’t tell her.” aimed towards Adrien. 

“You mean the Liar?” Bella asked bluntly, noting with interest the way Adrien flinched. 

“You haven’t told anyone about her lies, have you?” 

Bella shrugged and folded her arms, “I haven’t seen any reason to yet, and quite honestly I have a bet going with my uncle about how long it’ll take before her Faithful Listeners catch on a hole.” 

Adrien but his utensils down, frowning slightly. “You shouldn’t tell anyone about her lies.” 

Bella raised her eyebrows. “No one, not even if I have a good reason to?” 

Adrien shook his head. “If you tell on her there’s a risk she’d be Akumatized, and no one wants that.”

Marinette deflated more and Bella scowled. “No. If I have a good reason to tell on her, be it that her lie is spreading actually harmful information or that her lie is causing someone to feel bad enough to be Akumatized, then I will.” 

Adrien started to argue but Bella cut him off. “From what I’ve seen of Paris, everyone is at risk of becoming an Akuma. Even those of us right here at this table. I will not, enable anyone to be a manipulative bully just on the off chance that they’ll be forced to show their true colors.”

Bella glared at Adrien, daring him to argue. He didn’t. But he did huff and leave the table. Marinette lightly kicked Bella’s leg under the table, pointing to the other side of the room when she had Bella’s attention. Apparently the group had heard at least part of what Bella had said and were staring at them. Bella couldn’t quite read Lila’s expression,  but everyone else’s was clear. They were all confused as to who the manipulative bully Bella mentioned was. 

Bella sighed and turned away. “Just ignore them. If they want to know they’ll have to tear themselves away from their precious darling and ask.” 

Marinette and Bella finished their lunch in silence, keenly aware of the rest of the class throwing puzzled looks their way. Marinette kept Bella in the lunchroom for a minute after the bell rang and everyone had filtered back to class.

“Can I talk to you after school?” 

Bella agreed, wondering what Marinette wanted to talk about. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

After school let out Bella waited for Marinette by the gate. She knew that Marinette’s bakery wasn’t that far from school and the two of them had agreed to talk there during a lull in class. Bella still didn’t really know what Marinette wanted to talk about, but the way she twisted her hands and wouldn’t look Bella in the face made her worried. 

She greeted Marinette’s parents when they got to the bakery and happily munched on the pastry Mr. Dupain had given her on the way up to Marinette’s room. 

Marinette sat in her desk chair, motioning for Bella to sit on the bed. Bella toed her shoes off and sat cross-legged on the bed.

“So, what did you want to talk to me about?” 

Marinette chewed her lip, obviously finding it hard to start. Bella knew what that was like. 

“Does it have to do with what we were talking about at lunch?” 

Marinette nodded and Bella rolled her head back, thinking about which part of their conversation could have sparked this. 

“What’s the biggest word in your head right now?” 

Marinette brought her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. “Butterfly.” 

Bella felt a knot start twisting itself into her stomach. That word and Marinette’s body language were Not Good together. She started to ask another question, but it seemed that was all Marinette needed to get started. 

“I was almost Akumatized. In the bathroom, Lila’s first day back at school.” 

That knot moved up to Bella’s heart and started burning. She had to remind herself to calm down before she got angry enough to attract a butterfly of her own. 

“I knew she was lying, and she threatened me. Said she would take away all my friends.” 

Bella flexed her hands, biting her lip to keep herself from pointing out that Lila had pretty much already accomplished that. 

“Does Adrien know about that part?” Bella struggled to keep her voice even.

Marinette shook her head, “I couldn’t tell him,” she whispered. “Because Lila threatened to take him away from me too. He made me promise not to expose her. Said it wouldn’t be a good example and it was okay as long as we knew and she wasn’t hurting anyone. He said exposing her wouldn’t make her a better person.” 

Bella sucked in a breath. “Mari, I hate to say this cause I know how much you care about Adrien, but that is a steaming pile of bs. It isn’t your job to make sure Lila becomes a better person and all you’re doing by not calling her out is telling her that it’s okay to walk all over you.” 

Marinette curled up tighter, tears welling up in her eyes. “But what about the chance she’ll get Akumatized?” 

Bella leapt off the bed and went to pull her over to the bed where Bella gently gathered Marinette into her arms, rubbing soothing circles on her back. “Just like I said at lunch, allowing and enabling someone to manipulate their way into ruining someone’s life, your life, is in no way excused by the possibility of Lila being Akumatized.” 

Marinette nodded, burying her face in Bella’s neck to hide her tears. Bella rocked them back and forth, rubbing Marinette’s back and humming her favorite tune. Some time passed before either of them spoke again, content to simply rock back and forth. 

“Mari?” Marinette hummed, tickling Bella’s neck. “Mari have you told your parents?” Marinette stiffened and a long moment passed before she shook her head. Bella rushed to assure that it was okay. They sat again for a long while, Bella managing to get Marinette’s promise that she’d tell her parents about Lila and her threats before the week ended. Bella almost called her parents and tell them she’d be having an impromptu sleepover, but Marinette had turned down the offer. 

“Thanks, but I already feel much better. And I have your number if things get bad again.” 

So Bella had instead called her parents to pick her up from the bakery, hanging out with Marinette and her parents until they arrived. On the way home Bella talked to her dad about the best way to collect evidence against a bully. That got her some worried looks, but she was quick to assure them the bully wasn’t hers. 

When they were home and Bella was up in her room, she texted Ley-Ley. In part to vent and part to see what his demonic take on the situation would be.

Bella: Heyyyyyyyyy are you up?

Ley-Ley: Am now, what’s up?

Bella: I need to yell and also I need your demonic opinion.

Ley-Ley: Wait hang on, let me get angel in on this.

Ley-Ley: Okay, yell away

Bella: Okay SO. You remember sausage girl? Yeah she’s a huge liar. Like, first day at school she claimed to know you before you’d gotten popular and you said you’d never met her, plus you’ve been popular since we were tiny babs. 

Bella: So obviously she was lying but I figured, “what the hell, it’s not like that kinda lie would hurt anyone here.” so I left her alone.

Ley-Ley: Uh oh. This is looking bad already

Bella: But then I found out today that my friend Mari has not only been threatened by sausage girl, she was nearly Akumatized because of her. 

Bella: And to top it off, Mari’s crush knows that sausage girl is lying, but doesn’t know that she threatened Mari, and made Mari promise not to expose Liela because “doing so wouldn’t make her a better person.” 

Ley-Ley: First of all, bullshit. Second of all, that’s not your friend’s job? If sausage girl is a bad person then she is gonna have to be the driving force behind being a better person. 

Bella: That’s what I said! And to make matters worse, the teachers at school are all whipped into favoring the bullies. Except Mrs. Mandeliev, but unfortunately we aren’t in her class.

Ley-Ley: WHAT?!? The teachers are supposed to help the kids being bullied, not the other way around!

Bella: I know! What makes this ironic is the teacher told me outright to report if I saw anyone getting bullied. And then she turns around and tells the bullied kid to “be the better person” and keep letting the bully (Chloe) walk all over them. 

Ley-Ley: Angel’s saying we should go to Paris and knock some sense into your school. 

Bella: XD Please

Bella: In all seriousness though, it would be nice if you were here.

Bella:

They know my uncle is one of the most popular gardening blogs in London, but I never told them you’re my uncle and they all heard the story of how Liela met the famous A.J. Crowley before he became a popular blog so having you show up and then deny ever meeting her would also be a good start in tearing her web apart

Ley-Ley: Bella my sweet niece, I would be happy to help you defend your friend. Aziraphale and I will be in Paris next week.

[dolphin-bouillabaisse]

GO-ctober prompts, 12

Inktober except without the ink, and with drabbles instead.

Prompt #12 - Dragon

(previous | next | beginning)

(find it all on Ao3)

“Hold up. Hold up. What do you mean they're not real?”

“Not real. Never existed.”

“But there's bones! Bones and fragments and- there's a whole scientific field about them!” “Nah.” Crowley swirled his almost empty wineglass around. “S'all just a big joke.”

“Dinosaurs aren't real.” Anathema stared at the ceiling from her current position of 'slumped down on the sofa that was just as comfortable as it looked and surprisingly big enough to hold two very drunk people- ...entities? without them hanging all over each other'. She rather supposed it wasn't that big on usual days, when it was two different entities sitting on it.

“Dinosaurs aren't real.” Crowley echoed and refilled his glass and then hers, as she held it out for him.

“I'm too drunk for this, I think.” She said, even as the red was still pouring into her hand.

“Sober up then.”

“I can't just do that.”

“Sheesh, your kind is useless.”

“Well, forgive me for being made that way, apparently.” Despite her meager protests, she took a big gulp of wine. Having to come to terms with all the truths Crowley kept confronting her with needed proper alcoholic lubrication. “So, no dinosaurs.”

“Nope.”

“What about- oh, what about werewolves? And vampires?”

“Nah. All those scary things were just you humans trying to find a good story for the horrible things other humans did. Or animals, I guess.”

“So nothing from fantasy is really real, then?”

“That's a broad assumption.” Crowley leant back on the sofa, but Anathema's look was pleading enough for him to go on. “Most of it's not, no. But some stuff. Like...” He thought about it, but not long. “Like unicorns. Those were real, but only for a really short time.” “Get out. Unicorns? You're having a laugh.”

“Nah, unicorns were a thing. But there's nothing left over, those horns they kept finding weren't real ones.”

Anathema paused, and contemplated.

“Loch Ness Monster.”

“That, I'm not telling you.” He grinned in an unsettling kind of way, and Anathema was suddenly very much reminded that she was dining with the devil, so to speak. Or had been dining. They'd come back from the restaurant about two hours ago, but the wine had not stopped since. She didn't dare ask about it. “I make good money out of that conspiracy. Also, the Scots would have my head for it, one way or another.”

She hummed, understanding only a little bit and taking another sip. The room was starting to become slightly blurry.

“And dragons?”

“Oh, those were real. But the middle ages all but killed them off.” Crowley already refilled his glass again. “Might be some poor buggers hiding in caves somewhere in the tundra, or something, I dunno.”

“You're fucking kidding me.” Anathema sat up a bit, careful not to slosh any wine on her surroundings (one scolding from an angel was enough to teach her). “Dragons are real, but dinosaurs are not?”

“Yep.”

“Does that mean some of the dinosaur bones were actually dragons?”

“Could be. S'not like I really check up on them, y'know.” She sank down again, contemplating this new information, until a soft but stern voice behind them caught her attention.

“Don't listen to him, dear.” Aziraphale had wandered over from the middle of the shop, where he'd gotten lost in some books while trying to look up something Anathema had asked him about an hour ago. “Dragons are not real, and never were.”

“Oh.” She only muttered, as Crowley put his tongue out towards the angel.

“Oh come on, angel, let me have some fun with this.”

“So dragons aren't real.” Anathema repeated between them before they could dissolve into another bickering argument, as they often did. “Are dinosaurs, then?”

“Oh no, those are absolutely a joke.” Aziraphale patted her shoulder as he went past, a wineglass suddenly in his hand, stretched out for Crowley to fill before he went back to his armchair.

“How do you guys know all this? I mean, you-” the wineglass in her hand pointed to Aziraphale, and almost dripped on the carpet a little bit, “you know, obviously, angel and creation and-and all that, but-”

“Now I know you're really getting too drunk.” Crowley's voice was deeper than usual. “I already explained the demon and fallen angel thing to you.”

“Oh.” She mumbled into her glass. “Oh, yeah. Sorry. That was rude.”

“S'fine. Like I care.”

“So you both know- basically, you know everything?”

“Yes.” Crowley said.

“Absolutely not.” Aziraphale said. “We know a lot, yes, given the fact that we've been on Earth rather a long time now, but we weren't all involved in everything.”

“We were at the most important bits, though.” Crowley started counting off on one hand, but quickly gave up when he realised he would need far more fingers for that. “The whole Ark thing, and the Jesus thing, and most of the important kings and emperors, and the revolutions – how many were there, again? - and, and when they invented fireworks, and glass, and- basically a lot of inventions, and lots of political stuff, although that gets really boring and repetitive after a while, and-”

“Dear.” Aziraphale interrupted him, albeit with a smile. “You're rambling.”

Crowley also sloshed his wine in his direction, not caring at all that some of it did spill. “I'm drunk, angel.”

“That you are.”

“Did you know that humans can't sober up?”

“Of course I did. And you do, too. You just like to be contrary.”

Anathema was still working stuff through her head as they chatted on, which was slightly difficult given the level of inebriation she'd achieved, and the constant background noise of two immortal beings bickering around like 12-year-olds (she had more than enough experience with both of these groups by now). She came to another important question after a while, though, and decided not to wait for a pause that would never come to ask it.

“How does that feel?”

“How does what feel, exactly?”

“I'm afraid we've missed a little part of your question there, dear, in your head.”

“How does it feel- to be there when things like that happen? Like, standing around at court and watching people party and waiting for the revolution to start? Or seeing people get sick and knowing it's gonna be the plague and, I mean, everyone will die? Doesn't it feel horrible?”

“That's not how it works.” Crowley sighed and leant back some more, and Anathema could almost feel the weight on his shoulders from remembering. “We don't know what's gonna happen, just like you don't know how the future is gonna turn out. You don't know how it's gonna go until you get the news how it went.”

“Then how did you end up in all these important places? There's, I mean, a million – or more – what I mean is, the earth is a biiig place.” Anathema stretched her arms, as if trying to show just how big, and Crowley held her drifting wineglass aloft so it didn't stain his jeans. “How come you were at the right places and not in some... some other place on the other end of the world.”

“Well.” Aziraphale was answering her, but focussed far more on Crowley, who'd taken the wineglass out of her hands and pushed her arm back down a bit. “Some of it was work, you see. Upstairs does know what's going on, so to say, and they would send me there to help out. Simply put, of course.”

Crowley nodded before Anathema turned to him, an almost accusing look in her eye. “Then what's your excuse? I mean, Hell doesn't know, does it? Surely God is not telling the devil how things are gonna happen?”

“We have some pretty good spies and conspirators on our side, though.” Crowley shrugged. “Never really questioned it, to be honest. Would just get the memos of where to travel and who to tempt, and that's it. And then when he showed up” another shaking wineglass in Aziraphale's direction, another red drop on the carpet that disappeared immediately. “I usually knew I was right on track.”

He sunk back down, almost on Anathema's level now, and had another drink before mumbling on.

“'nd sometimes I'd just look him up to see what was going on, cause otherwise things'd get real boring after a while.”

Anathema took another round of thinking for that sentence, which Aziraphale had not actually heard, or at least pretended very well not to have heard, as he gave no reaction to it.

“That's actually really sweet.” she concluded before Crowley could hush her.

“What is sweet, dear?”

“Crowley following you around cause he got lonely.”

“Did he now?” Aziraphale's smile was beaming, and almost painful to stand, especially after about two and a half bottles of wine.

“Yeah, he just said-” “You are too drunk, book girl.”

“Am not! You just said it!”

“That is rather sweet, my love.”

Crowley groaned, and sunk even deeper. “Tell the whole blessed world, won'tcha?”

“Like a puppy.” The last bit of alcohol was settling into Anathema's brain. “I'm not a dog-”

“Cat, then. Very affectionate cat. They are, sometimes.” “I'm a ssssnake!”

Anathema stared at Crowley, too groggy to really understand. “Do those get affectionate?”

A sudden sound made her head turn, but she wasn't clear enough to recognise it as Aziraphale swallowing down a burst of laughter.

“Well, I'd say this one is.” He smiled over to Crowley, who was – was that a blush? Could demons blush? Anathema had more questions. She was luckily not drunk enough to ask them yet.

[langernameohnebedeutung]

suzuwarahikaru replied to your post “what happens at 5 am?”

where is the essay, OP!?

@suzuwarahikaru​ Honestly, it’s drivel and I didn’t feel like it particularly went anywhere and it was just me monologuing about one aspect of a bigger question so that’s why I didn’t post it. But ok, just for some context: You probably know how the MCU was often criticised for having “bland one off villains” and that’s true especially in their early films - and that was time when Heath Ledger’s Joker loomed very large and Ian McKellen was famous for his performance of Magneto and the idea for a Magneto solo film had just been scrapped in favour of XM First Class. At that point apparently the MCU guys walked up with the demand that Thor 1 only has to give them 1 thing: A villain as good as Magneto which they could use in Avengers. Now, obviously it had to be Loki, because Loki is Thor’s most famous antagonist and he was the first guy the Avengers ever fought in the comics, and Loki in Thor 1 is satisfyingly complex - but now that Loki’s dead and has a solo show coming out in a while, people dug up that old quote and started arguing about whether Loki actually became a villain “as good as Magneto” - which I honestly wouldn’t care about, except this argument spilled a few  “But Loki is great and Magneto is boring”-posts into the Magneto tag a while ago (which mixes with a lot of: Why did Cherik get a happy end but Stucky didn’t that’s so unfair!!!! posts) and then some comments started lowkey implying that Loki is a character who’s more attractive to sophisticated fans and that Magneto fans are usually men and Loki fans women (with the not so subtle implication being that Magneto fans are comic dude bros who like him for his cool powers and because he’s a Bad Guy(TM) I don’t really care about that, but over the course of this argument someone made a rather interesting post, wondering about what “went wrong” with Loki and while I love Loki as a character and as a villain, it made me ponder what could have been done to make Loki (even) better and to help him stand on his own 2 feet as a character and this was their post:

Now and this was going to be my response: Personally, I don’t think that having spectacular powers or anything make a villain good (they make good visuals though) but whether the hero learns something from fighting them, whether their motivation maybe reflects something that we experience as well and that maybe they unmask something that we usually don’t feel comfortable to address. And Loki has all these qualities.

I’m not going to try to objectively pinpoint where it ‘went wrong’ but it’s actually interesting to look at the XMCU and the MCU and to compare notes. The XMCU is often criticised for being too wordy, too slow-paced and “what’s with the constant time jumps and decade-hopping?” But I think that’s something the Thor franchise could actually have profited from, because…these guys are immortals and it just feels rushed in my opinion to watch their world fall apart in what is for them a matter of a long weekend. 

For example, a bigger distance between the events of Thor 1 and Avengers would have lent more weight to Loki’s disappearance and Thanos torturing and brainwashing him, Thor’s and Jane’s relationship would have been given more time to develop (making their reunion in Thor 2 more meaningful). They could also have given her more time exploring Asgard/battling the Ether. We could have learnt more about the Dark Elves, the Frost Giants, the Nine Realms in general. 

And that’s at least part of the problem, in my opinion: We don’t know enough about Asgard. You can’t just throw in an alien word without world-building and you can’t introduce characters who are millennia old by showing us 6 years of their lives and maybe 1 flashback. There is a reason why a show like Good Omens spent basically an entire episode on Crowley and Aziraphale’s lives through the millennia. Captain America got a film set in the WW2, Wolverine Origins covers over a century of Logan’s story. Magneto isn’t a better (or worse) villain than Loki, because as you said, the writing makes the character and both get pretty good and pretty bad writing at times. But a big difference is: We know a lot more about Magneto than we know about Loki. 

One example of this is personal relationships. Something I never realised before I started typing this is how little space Loki is given to let him form/have/maintain/test/strengthen meaningful relationships. 

Basically, all his meaningful interactions are inside his family. Magneto (to be clear, I’m bringing up so often bc the MCU apparently insisted on being rude af and asking Kenneth Branagh on drawing inspiration from a character who’s basically the opposite of Loki in every regard) gets a lot more screen time to develop his relationships with other characters, even if it means less CGI action scenes. 

In fact, I’m currently tempted to find out how many 1 on 1 dialogue scenes Loki gets per hour of film vs. how many Magneto gets. Loki enters the picture with a family, ‘friends’, a biological father, servants, an entire kingdom of people who know him, but he barely gets to have any meaningful interactions outside of his family environment. Seeing him interact with a friend or even someone who hates him for reasons unrelated to his relationship with Thor or someone who supports him would in turn show us a lot about how he sees other people, how he sees himself, how he treats them, what he values in a person, what kind of people trusts (if he trusts) – that’s a lot of potential that was left pretty much wasted in my opinion. 

One of the first things Agent of Asgard did was add Verity Willis to its main-cast so have a character for Loki to interact with, to serve as a moral anchor, and to call him out on his bullshit. Having relationships is powerful. In the MCU, Loki’s relationship with his mother is such an important, humanising element to his character. Also a lot of headcanons and metas and thoughts about Loki are inspired by those few scenes where we see him interact with the Warrior’s Three and Sif before Loki finds out about his parentage. 

And even when encounters the Avengers, they meet once, they talk once, then Loki he returns to Asgard and they never meet again, except Bruce - and even then there’s barely any time to talk about what happened in Avengers 1. He doesn’t get to form any meaningful relationships with his adversaries when he talks to them in Av1, these scenes just exist to present the Avengers in a certain light. And in the end it’s canonised that Loki was brainwashed so it’s all pointless anyway. (pls (don’t) make me write an essay on agency and the MCU, because honestly, between Bucky, Gamora, Nebula, Loki and everyone else was brainwashed it’s actually worth a conversation)

Even in Thor 1 Loki never meets Jane or Darcy, one of the main-characters. And we never see a single frost giant after the first film. Erik Solveig is the only Earth character from Thor 1 Loki actually meets and he’s brainwashed for most of that and in Thor 2, they don’t get to meet again. 

Imagine if Loki had had someone he trusted in Thor 1 and told them about finding out he’s a Frost Giant and they reject him and treat him like a monster. This could be three or four scenes that don’t throw off the film but would have been very powerful. Or imagine if Loki keeps his heritage a secret from that friend/trusted person and they find out in Thor 2 and confront him about it. Valkyrie and Loki never talk about him invading her mind or the things he saw. 

We never get to see him alone on Sakaar to deal with what he presumes is the end of his home world and the death of everyone he knows and we never see him interact ‘win the Grandmaster’s trust’. 

We never see him interact with the Hulk before they’re suddenly fighting side by side in Infinity War. We never find out exactly what the Aesir’s sentiments towards him are, what kind of prince he was in the past, how present he is in public, what reputation he has beyond silver-tongue mischief guy and which specific events shaped it.

If the MCU wants a villain “as good as Magneto” (which is already annoying bc they imply that Loki is not as good a villain which is such a subjective measure – Magneto done wrong is a horrible and downright offensive villain and trickster characters done right are amazing for revealing the flaws of a hero.*) then they have to give writers and actors the same means to do that with. The X-Men franchise, for all it flaws, always gave Magneto screen-time (so much that people criticised it). 

There’s a Charles-and-Erik dialogue in pretty much every film, allowing us to follow the state of their eternal argument at every step. We see his friendship with Mystique grow and fall, we see Wolverine call him out on his bullshit, his attempt to make young Hank and Mystique feel better about their visible mutations, we know how he treats his followers, his new recruits, his enemies, his students, his wife and his daughter, (daughters, if we count The Gifted and his legacy), his colleagues, his lovers, his ex-lovers, allies and former allies, politicians, police, prison guards, Nazis, soldiers, insane Egyptian gods – and we get to learn his feelings and thoughts about all of these through personal interactions, decisions and gestures. And in turn we know how they feel about Magneto. What do we know about Loki’s feelings about people outside his family? How does he feel about Fandral? What are his thoughts on the Valkyrior? How did his views on Frost Giants change and when? Did he challenge them at all or did he just become cynical about them? 

As I said, Loki is a formidable villain but I think that he suffers from the same problem as many MCU characters: We hardly know them. Think about Natascha whose been part of the franchise since Iron Man 2 but we hardly know anything about her. How much do we know about the family Drax lost? Or about Wanda’s family? About Pepper’s private life? We hardly know anything about them and especially when characters are thousands of years old and we know nothing about their past, it really creates a gaping hole in their biography and that really leads back to my original point: If we could spend more time with them, we would know them better and care more. One of the reason Dark Phoenix is a bit under-whelming is because we know very little about Jean and Scott in this time line. 

There are two DCEU films I actually own and watched more than once: Wonder Woman and Aqua Man. And while I personally didn’t find Aqua Man that good, this film actually tells us a lot about him and despite my lack of knowledge about the DCEU and me being a giant Marvel nerd, I preferred Wonder Woman over Captain Marvel and that is because I felt closer to her character. It really boils down to a “show don’t tell issue” and for me, that would mean: Maybe fewer giant CGI battles. more people living their lives. *(which should also highlight why setting Magneto as a mark for K.B. is so off-mark. Loki is about unmasking hypocrisy, Magneto himself is a hypocrite who regards himself as a hero but often does immoral things and that for example gets unmasked by Wolverine, another social outsider with littl care for social conventions)

[not-a-space-alien]

Into the Unknown, Part 11: Collect Call

Prologue | Dramatis Personae | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10

Series masterpost

On AO3

They left Mykas to his endeavors that night, figuring he could handle himself and Angelo for a few hours while the rest of the group pressed on.  They made plans to meet back up at the church at sunup if they couldn’t find each other otherwise.

Alternate-universe-Soho was their next stop, thanks to Angelo’s directions. They located Aziraphale’s bookshop, which had the same veneer of dust and unfriendliness as always.  The only difference, as far as they could tell, was this version’s hours of operation: Thursday from 6AM-7AM, instead of 5AM-6AM.

Quite generous of him to shift it closer to the morning rush hour.

The approach would be to try and finagle the information out of Aziraphale through trickery, before resorting to violence or intimidation.  To interview him about an incident, a run-in with a rogue demon.  They were just blindly guessing at how the interaction between Here Crowley and There Aziraphale may have gone; Angelo hadn’t known any details about Crowley’s whereabouts, but Aziraphale had likely at least seen him.  Crowley would have tried to find him first thing, and Crowley was resourceful enough to manage it, probably.  So There Aziraphale must at least know something of use.  So they had to talk to him.

There Aziraphale likely wouldn’t talk to a demon, so Maltha couldn’t do it, and Aziraphale himself certainly would raise an eyebrow.  Victoria and Uriel had both fallen in this timeline and as such, their presence would elicit more questions than answers.

That left only Ramial, poor shy, nervous Ramial, who opened the door to the shop with one trembling hand and an official-looking notepad in the other. “Excuse me?  Aziraphale?  I need to talk to you.”

The bookshop was so strikingly similar that Ramial could have forgotten she was in a world where the sky was purple had there not been windows. Stacks of books teetered everywhere, and the tip of Aziraphale’s curly hair appeared from behind one of the shelves. “We’re closed.  Didn’t you see the sign?”

“Erm, well I’m here on official business.”

Aziraphale’s disgruntled face rose up above the books.  He looked the same, except his pattern of freckles was slightly different.  “Oh.”

“Do you have a few minutes to speak with me?”

“I suppose,” said Aziraphale distastefully.  “Come into the back room, why don’t you.”

Ramial took a seat at Aziraphale’s card table in the back while he grumpily moved about in the kitchenette.  “Would you like some noll?”

Ramial glanced up at him under surprised eyebrows.  “Some what?”

“Oh, you probably wouldn’t know it,” said Aziraphale.  “If you haven’t been on Earth much.  It’s what we drink in Great Britain.  Noll and scones in the afternoon.”

Ramial bit back the You mean tea? that built in her throat.  That wouldn’t make any sense to say.  Maybe this was going to be harder than Ramial thought.  She really wasn’t built for subterfuge.  “Yes, of course, that’s why I didn’t know what it was.   Apologies.”

“Think nothing of it.”  Aziraphale took a seat across from her.  “What was it you needed to talk about?”

Ramial wrote on her notepad, which had been enchanted to communicate with the notepad that Maltha held.  Anything Ramial wrote on it, Maltha would see, and anything Maltha wrote on hers, Ramial would see.

Ramial wrote Crowley doesn’t appear to be in the shop.

“I’m afraid we’ve never met,” said Aziraphale.  “Or I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Of course,” said Ramial, extending a hand.  “My name is Ramial.  I’m stationed under—”

Oh, bother, that was an embarrassing lie to begin and not know how to finish.  She had almost said Raphael. Was that a good idea?  Raphael wasn’t an archangel here, but Miriam was. “—Miriam,” she finished, after an awkward pause.

Aziraphale removed a cup from the counter, pouring some steaming hot liquid into it that looked suspiciously like tea, but it didn’t smell quite right.  The scent was vaguely like hot shoe polish.  He sipped it.  “Mmm, yes, all healing-class angels are under Miriam’s domain.  But you’re specifically…?”

“Ah, in Heaven,” she said quickly, hoping Aziraphale wouldn’t ask for too many more details.  “Miriam sent me down to interview you.”

“Mmm,” said Aziraphale.  He resumed his seat.  “I assume this is about my most recent report.”

“Yes,” said Ramial.

“I’ve already filed special reports with both Camael and Gabriel,” said Aziraphale.  “Why would Miriam also take interest in this matter?”

Ramial bit her lip.  She scribbled on the notepad quickly, This isn’t going so well.

“We’re just interested in the potential medical applications of, the, ah, contents of the report,” Ramial bullshitted terribly.

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes at her.  Out of the corner of her eye, the words You can do this scratched out on her notepad.

She erased them quickly.  “All right, then,” said Aziraphale.  “I don’t quite understand it, but go ahead and interview me, then.”

“Right,” said Ramial, clicking her pen and frantically writing What do I say?????

Ask about his adversary the reply appeared.

“Is everything quite all right?” Aziraphale said, sounding annoyed.  “You seem rather nervous.”

“I—I’m sorry!” said Ramial.  “I’ve never been down to Earth before—it’s still a little scary to me.”

Now here was something that never failed to put Aziraphale in a good mood: someone making him feel experienced and wizened.  He leaned back in his chair, looking smug.  “Yes, it can be quite overwhelming at first.  But you get used to it when you’ve been here as long as I have.”

“I’m not even used to my corporation yet,” said Ramial.  “First one I ever had.”

“Mmm, yes, I can tell,” said Aziraphale.  “You’re obviously a little clumsy moving about in it still.”

Ramial, who had in fact been in the same corporation for the last 6,000 years because of her good maintenance practices for it, struggled to hide her offense.

“Okay, let’s get back on track,” said Ramial.  “I wanted to ask about your demonic adversary.”

Whether it was luck or Ramial’s own good thinking, that seemed to get Aziraphale talking without much more prompting.  “Oh, yes, what happened was very anomalous.  He’s been dead for hundreds of years, and then about—oh, what was it, two days ago?—he shows up in the park.  Acted very strange—he didn’t seem to understand what was going on. But I assume you’ve read the report.”

Ramial wrote all this down.  As Aziraphale finished the last sentence, the words Ask how he died appeared on the pad.

“Ah, I glanced over it,” said Ramial.  “But they didn’t give me much time to read it.  I read very slow, unfortunately.  Not like you, I’m sure.  I’m sure your reading speed is positively terrific.”

Aziraphale puffed up.  “Mmm, yes, I’m sure it is.”

“And Camael didn’t explain anything to me very well, said he was busy.”

“Of course,” said Aziraphale.  “He’s always doing that.”

“So could you refresh me on the basics?  Seeing as how I’m not as good at reading as you are.”

“Of course,” said Aziraphale magnanimously.  “Always happy to help out the less world-wise among Heaven’s ranks.”

Ramial could not help but think this version of Aziraphale was a rather large prick.  Then again, regular Aziraphale was also a prick.  She tapped her pencil.  “His name is Crowley, right?  How did he die?”

“Well, I killed him, of course,” said Aziraphale.  “A very clever trick with holy water.  I received a commendation for it.”

A prick it was, then.  Ramial struggled to hold back the tears that sprung unbidden to her eyes and wrote the newest revelation on the notepad.  “And did you manage to…?”

“Kill him again?  No, I’m afraid.  He managed to get away, thanks to the interference of a well-timed demonic warrior.”

He what?????? came the reply from the notepad.

Holy water, Ramial wrote.  But ours is still alive.

“Do you recall which demonic warrior?” said Ramial.

Aziraphale leaned back.  “Hmmm…I believe Hastaphael said his name was Botis.  Terribly ugly thing, he is.  Hastaphael hates the brute.  He’s killed many an angel in this territory.”

Ramial nodded and wrote this down, biting her lip and feeling her eyes threaten to leak.

Aziraphale clucked his tongue.  “Now why would Miriam need to know those sorts of details?”

Ramial scribbled with a trembling hand Can I please leave now?

“I had assumed Miriam would be more interested in the obvious implication of demonic resurrection….Are you quite all right?”

The word Yes appeared on the notepad. Ramial snapped it to her chest and stood at attention.  The tears finally broke through.  “Thank you for your time, excellent work,” she babbled, then spun on her heel and dashed out of the shop.

She bashed through the door, ran into the alley, spread her wings and leapt up, zooming into the eaves of a building nearby where everyone else had nested out of sight.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as hands reached out to pull her back to safety.  “I’m sorry,” she blubbered, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” cooed Maltha.  “You did just fine.”

“He’s such a prick,” she sobbed.  “He killed Crowley and wasn’t even sorry about it.”

Not even their Aziraphale found it appropriate to muster up a defense of this new version of him.

Victoria hugged her comfortingly.  “We got the information we needed, you don’t have to be sorry.”

“This world is horrible,” said Maltha.  I can’t wait to leave.”

“I dunno,” said Uriel.  “I don’t think it’s so bad.”

Maltha gave her a dirty look.

“What?  It’s organised. We’ll be able to track Crowley down by his paper trail.”

“And just because it’s organised, that makes it okay?” said Victoria.

“It’s not okay,” said Uriel.  “I’m just saying it would be less work to fix than ours was.”

“Whatever,” Maltha said.

“This is what would have happened if we had a Satan who was methodical and organised,” said Uriel.  “Instead of just sadistic and directionlessly cruel.”

“If you like it so much then why don’t you just stay here then?” Maltha snapped.

“Please stop fighting,” Ramial cried.  “I can’t take it.”

“Sorry,” said Maltha.

“Sorry,” said Uriel.

“Sorry,” said Victoria.

Uriel dabbed at Ramial’s eyes with a handkerchief wordlessly. Aziraphale wrung his hands.  “All right,” he said.  “So here’s what we’ve learned.  The Aziraphale that exists in this universe killed this universe’s Crowley a few centuries ago, permanently dead.”  He swallowed the lump in his throat.  “Then, our Crowley showed up a few days ago and ran into that Aziraphale, who assumed his nemesis had been resurrected and tried to kill him again.  There was a conflict involving two warriors named Botis and Hastaphael, and Crowley managed to get away and is still alive.  Is that what we can glean from what Ramial conveyed to us?”

Everyone around him nodded.  Ramial sniffled.

“So the next logical step is to track down either Hastaphael or Botis,” said Uriel.  “The demon is more likely to know where he ended up, since they presumably escaped together.”

“Right,” said Victoria.  She tapped her chin.  “Hmmm…We know that Mykas exists as a member of the Infernal court in this universe, so maybe we could leverage that to get Botis to tell us what we need to know. He wouldn’t talk to any of the angels, and Maltha doesn’t exist here.”

“Hmm, yes, but Mykas is currently occupied,” said Aziraphale. “Although if we can’t think of something else, we can pull him away from distracting Angelo.”

Maltha tapped her chin.  “We could call Botis through the infernal communication network and lie about our identity.  We don’t know what Mykas is like in this universe anyway, so impersonating him might be difficult.  I don’t know if our Mykas could manage it.”

“Fair point,” said Victoria, cringing.

“Let’s call Hell, then,” said Uriel.

“All right,” said Aziraphale.  “That’s good.  Whom shall we say we are?”

“A clerical demon trying to confirm the details of a case,” said Uriel. “If I’m Satan here, I’m positive Hell would have a lot of paperwork, even more than our universe.”

“All right,” said Aziraphale.  “That could work.  And if he gets suspicious, we could simply hang up, so it’s low-risk.”

“We don’t have the ingredients we’d need to construct an infernal communication sigil,” said Maltha.  “But it shouldn’t take too long to gather them in a city like this.”

“Blast,” said Aziraphale, “all the shops are different, though.  I don’t know where anything is.”  He peeked off the roof, where he saw his alternate-universe bookshop down at the end of the block.  “Except…I’m sure all the things we need are in my bookshop here.”

They all watched in silence as alternate-universe Aziraphale came out of the shop, looking around quizzically.

“He’s probably looking for Ramial,” said Maltha.  “He senses something isn’t right.”

The Aziraphale in the distance flared his wings, looking around uneasily.

“We could distract him to get him out of the shop for a while,” said Victoria.  “That would give us free access to it.”

“Or we could simply kill him,” said Maltha.

Aziraphale looked a bit queasy.

“What?  It would get him out of the way.  Even if we just discorporate him, we’ll only be here for three days, and Heaven might not give him a new body in time to come back down before then.”

“That’s, uh, not a bad idea, actually,” said Victoria.  “But, uh…”

“He kind of deserves it,” said Ramial, but she looked white-faced.

Maltha rolled her eyes.  “What weak stomachs you all have.”

She flicked her wrist.  In the distance, the light pole behind There-Aziraphale soundlessly toppled over, squishing him with a startled cry.

“There,” said Maltha.  “Now he’ll be gone for a few days, and he won’t know it was anything other than a strange accident.”

Still, the rest of them looked a bit uneasy.

Maltha led the way into the shop past Aziraphale’s empty corporation.  A gaggle of human bystanders had gathered by now, including one valiant individual fruitlessly attempting CPR, and they were able to slip into the shop one by one while everyone’s attention was diverted.

Ramial locked the door behind them and switched the shop sign to “closed.” Uriel shelved herself alongside the volumes in the reference section, sitting primly on top of the case and informing everyone she would be of no help here as she had no experience communicating with demons.  Aziraphale rolled his eyes and waded through the messy shop to the back room, guessing the ingredients would be kept in the same place here and home.  Victoria and Maltha followed Aziraphale, but Maltha veered off when her eye caught on a particularly interesting volume.  When Victoria tried to get her back on track, Maltha excitedly waved the volume at her marveling at some detail that was interestingly different in this universe than their home one.

While Victoria tried to wrestle Maltha away from the shelves, Aziraphale threw open the cabinet in the back room.  Rows of corked bottles stared back at him.

“The spell ingredients are all here!” he called out.

He threw the rug aside, got down on his hands and knees, and drew out the chalk circle.  Maltha eventually came in and helped.  Ramial also tried to help, but like Uriel she had no experience with occult sigils and provided mostly moral support.  Victoria told them she would keep watch at the front of the shop.

Aziraphale, Ramial, and Maltha crowded around the circle.  “I should do the talking,” said Maltha, eyeing the two little angels a little condescendingly.  “I have the most experience interacting with the infernal hierarchy.”

Aziraphale wrung his hands.  “Well, all right.  But remember, you’re a low-level clerical demon, not the queen.”

Maltha grimaced.  “That’s right.  All right.”

They activated the circle.  “This is Dagon, lord of the files,” buzzed the response.

“Hello,” said Maltha.  “I’m trying to reach Botis.  Can you transfer me to him?”

There was a grunt on the other end of the line.  “For what purpose, and whom shall I tell him is calling?”

“I’m just trying to finish up some paperwork and need to contact him to make sure I’ve got the details right.”

Dagon responded in a bored way, “all right.”

“You know how Satan likes those details,” Maltha added.

Dagon didn’t respond for a moment.  He sounded like he couldn’t possibly care less.  Then:

“Botis has been informed and instructed to get in contact right away.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The light in the circle pulsed for a few moments as the line went silent.

“All right,” said Aziraphale.  “We just need to find out where Crowley ended up, and go there, and we’ll have this sorted out even before the first day.”

“This is Botis speaking,” came a voice from the circle.  It was the same voice, but it had a cold edge to it their Botis never had.  It was awful.

“Hello,” said Maltha.  “I’m filling out some incident logs regarding the interaction you had with the angels Hastaphael and Aziraphale a few days ago.  Just wanted to make sure I got all the details right.”

“Of course,” said Botis.  “Didn’t manage to kill either of them, unfortunately.”

Maltha pretended like she was writing this down.  “Okay, that’s what it says here.  It says there was also another demon with you, right?”

“Yes, his name was Crowley.  Strange fellow.  Not sure what was up with him.”

“Strange in what way?”

“He had no Eye of Satan.”

Maltha, Aziraphale, and Ramial all bit back the desperate urge to ask what on Earth that was.  “Right,” Maltha said falteringly.  “Very strange.  There’s one detail missing I needed to confirm, what ended up happening to him?  I assume you got him to safety?”

“Yeah,” said Botis.  “As per the Queen’s orders, I took him to an outpost for medical treatment, then escorted him down to the ninth layer of Hell for inspection by the Queen herself.”

Aziraphale let out a shaky breath and put his head in his hands.

“I see,” said Maltha, her voice turning hard.  “Would you happen to know the outcome of the inspection?”

“Huh?”

“Was Crowley ever released, or did Satan detain him?”

“Oh, likely Satan detained him.  He was quite an anomaly.”  There was a suspicious pause on the line.  “Why would you need to know that?”

“It’s for the report,” Maltha said icily.

“I’m afraid that’s sensitive information,” said Botis.  “And I find it inappropriate that you would ask for it. Remember that our Lord Satan is always watching us.”

“Yes,” said Maltha, her hand beginning to sprout angry talons.  “And where exactly might you, personally, be, at this exact moment?”

“What?” said Botis.

“Physically speaking, I mean.  Your location.”

Aziraphale stomped on the chalk circle and ended the call.

Maltha stood up and raked her claws down the wall, tearing off a board and huffing violently.  “That fucking fuck—”

Ramial held up her hands.  “It’s all right—”

“He took Crowley the one place Crowley would be terrified to go, and where it’s hardest to get him out of.”

Aziraphale didn’t try to comfort her.  He was holding back his own tears.

“I hate this fucking universe,” Maltha growled.  “I hate everyone in it.  I hope it burns to the ground behind us.”

Aziraphale sat in the corner of the room with his knees curled up to his chest, taking a few moments to collect himself.  Maltha got down on her hands and knees and began making alterations to the circle on the floor, muttering to herself.

“What are you doing?” Ramial asked.

Maltha grunted, absolutely fuming, and Ramial didn’t have the courage to repeat her query.

The circles for contacting Heaven and Hell were surprisingly, or perhaps not that surprisingly, not very different from each other.  It only took a minute for Maltha to convert the infernal communication setup into one for contacting Heaven.

Her skin smoked slightly as she activated it, and she stepped back out of the circle.

“Operator,” a nasally voice answered.

“Transfer me to the healing ward,” Maltha barked into the circle.

Whether it was the authority in her voice or the simple efficiency of Heaven in this universe, but Maltha was transferred wordlessly within the second.

“Healing ward, this is Gareniel speaking,” said a chipper voice.

“I demanded to speak to the archangel Miriam immediately,” said Maltha.

“May I ask who is calling?” the poor angel gasped.

Maltha stepped forward, burned when she touched the circle, then stepped back and continued hollering into it.  “Just put me in contact with her immediately.”

The angel fearfully put her on hold to be transferred.

“Maltha,” said Ramial.  “What are you trying to do?”

Maltha bristled and ignored her.

“This is the archangel Miriam,” said a melodious voice from the circle.  “What is so urgent?”

Maltha went rigid, standing there in agonising silence.

“Hello?” said the voice.

“You fucking coward!” Maltha exploded.  “You watched them all fall and did nothing!”

The line conveyed a stunned pause.

“You should have followed them!  You should have died for them, if it came down to that!  You should have—”

“Who is this?” said Miriam.

“The ghost of Christmas past.  Your conscious.  I don’t know how you live with yourself.”

“What?” said Miriam, and for an archangel, she sounded very small indeed.

“This world is Hell and you did nothing. The people you love were—are—tortured and tormented and you continue to do nothing.”

“What would you have me do?” said Miriam.  “Fly up to God and challenge him to his face?”

Maltha seethed.

“What good would ever come of that?”

Maltha opened her mouth to yell, but Ramial had swiped the chalk circle away and cut the call off.

Maltha’s enraged gaze met Ramial’s compassionate eyes.  Maltha softened.  Ramial held out her hands.

Maltha trundled over to Ramial and put leaned onto the top of the smaller angel’s head.  Ramial hugged and patted her comfortingly.

“We’ll get him back,” Ramial said.  “I know we will.”

They drew apart as Victoria entered the room.  “We’ve got company.”

Aziraphale unfolded himself and stood up, alarmed.  “Who is it?”

“Warrior.  A power. If I had to guess, it’s probably Hastaphael.  He’s banging on the door shouting about how Heaven sent him, and whoever is inside needs to let him in.”

“What?” said Maltha.

Victoria, jaw clenched, looked pointedly at Maltha.  “It seems he got word something unusual was going on in Aziraphale’s shop, on account of the report Aziraphale just gave.”

Aziraphale began to shovel spell ingredients from the cabinet into his jacket pocket.  “Let’s go.  Our business lies in hell, not Heaven. We can avoid some upset by dodging Heaven for a bit longer.”

“There’s been an alert already?” said Maltha.  “They mobilised a response that fast?”

Victoria had the grudging expression of someone losing a good portion of the respect they had for a close friend.  “The rules are different here, Maltha.  You can’t just do whatever you want without consequences now.”

[kedreeva]

okay no if we’re gonna do this we’re gonna do it PROPER.

Because look at me. Listen.

First of all, I want everyone to remember that Aziraphale says these things before Crowley ever mentions running off.

But to really understand that, we have to go back in time. We have to go back to 1862 at St James and watch when Aziraphale says to Crowley, in a kind of snobby way, “We may have both started off as angels, but you are Fallen.” At this point in their story, Aziraphale doesn’t know that Crowley loves him, or if he does, he doesn’t believe it is real, and he certainly doesn’t understand his own feelings for it. As a matter of fact, he makes this accusation just a minute before Crowley turns his world upside down by asking for holy water, and Aziraphale is very, very suddenly and without warning thrown into a world where he has to consider his world without Crowley in it.

And he melts down. He’s always been worried, at the back of his mind, that one or both of their sides would find out about their arrangement. He’s always, to some degree, had the idea that if Crowley were caught he would be punished, maybe discorporated, maybe even destroyed, but... you know, Crowley’s just been around for so long, and he’s so vibrantly full of life, he’s so cocksure and flippant and he very obviously has this will to live and be alive that Aziraphale never really believes in the possibility that Crowley will stop being there. What Aziraphale believes, is that Crowley’s desire to remain alive will ensure that he does.

But the holy water request is the first time Aziraphale has come face to face with the idea that Crowley... might give up. I don’t mean to say that he thinks Crowley wants to die, I don’t think that’s... really the point. The point is that Aziraphale sees that there may come a time when, rather than fight to stay alive and come back to Aziraphale, Crowley would be willing to surrender and be destroyed. That idea will be very important soon.

Skip forward, and we see and end to their fight in the Blitz, when Crowley saves Azriaphale from the Nazis. Aziraphale has had time to consider what transpired in 1862. When Crowley arrives to save him and requests to be saved in return, it sounds like business as usual, except... Crowley does something selfless, in saving the books. He does something kind. Now, I’m sure, absolutely CERTAIN, that Crowley has done kind things before, but it’s Aziraphale that’s changed now. It’s Aziraphale who looks at his action and (aside from realizing oh. I love him. oh that’s why it’s like this) has the first thought that... maybe he’s been wrong to assume Crowley can’t be anything other than what he is. For perhaps the first time, the thought that “maybe he could be redeemed” forms. Aziraphale may not understand it as such but the seed has been planted.

Fast forward again, and all the stuff with the apocalypse is happening. Crowley comes to him and asks him to help stop it. Crowley spends the majority of the series begging Aziraphale, in various ways, to work toward saving all of humanity and the Earth. Crowley is the one advocating, at every turn, for them to please do something to stop this. Not hell. not heaven. not god. Crowley. And this comes on the heels of everything else Aziraphale is feeling about how much he will lose, and what right and wrong really mean, and he’s been lying to Crowley and lying to Heaven and he’s stolen a book and the world’s already turned upside down as far as he’s concerned.

And Crowley turns up to the bandstand, and asks what Aziraphale knows and Aziraphale can’t tell him because he needs to have a plan first, and Crowley tells him he hasn’t got anything, and Aziraphale tries to tell him it’s someone’s plan at least, and Crowley loses it. He starts cussing out the plan and - by proxy - god. He’s showing the same open disregard for his well being as he did in 1862. He’s got nothing either, and without something, there’s no hope. There’s only surrender to the inevitable.

But it’s been nearly 60 years since Aziraphale realized he can’t lose Crowley. Not since he realized he loved him, but since he realized he cannot lose him. And the apocalypse is heading in at full tilt, and when it arrives, it’s going to take Crowley away from him, and Aziraphale has seen Crowley do good. He’s seen him be kind. He’s seen him act in very undemonlike ways. And he has that one, crystal-clear moment of hope.

May you be forgiven.

Not just for cussing out god’s plan, not just for spitting in the face of divinity in that moment, but forgiven at all.

And Crowley hears that in the words. When Aziraphale says “may you be forgiven,” Crowley hears “for everything” because his response doesn’t fit right if he thinks Aziraphale just means for this.

“I won’t be forgiven, not ever. Part of a demon’s job description: Unforgivable. That’s what I am.”

AND THAT ENTIRE BIT IS SO IMPORTANT.

“I won’t be forgiven, not ever” doesn’t refer to just this moment, it reaches all the way back to the Fall. Importantly, he doesn’t say “I’m unforgivable” at any point, he follows a logic track:

“Part of a demon’s job description” isn’t “part of what I am intrinsically.”

“That’s what I am” isn’t “I’m unforgivable” it’s “I’m a demon”

And it’s a demon’s job to be unforgivable.

“I won’t be forgiven because it’s my job not to be forgiven”

And Aziraphale’s response to that?? “You were an angel once.” A clear reminder that being a demon was not always Crowley’s job. A bid to ask Crowley to consider quitting his job and coming back, just like I said in the first place. Aziraphale has seen Crowley be good and kind. Some part of him believes that Crowley could be forgiven and come back, if he would just put his mind to it. This is a direct mirror of the 1862 conversation, and it shows the HUGE amount of growth that Aziraphale has gone through, to change from “you were an angel once but you’re a demon now and that’s immutable” to “You’re acting badly right now but you were an angel once, don’t you think there’s a chance you could be forgiven still?”

(he never considers that Crowley might not want to come back, that Crowley believes what was done to him was unfair and that he doesn’t need forgiveness because he didn’t do anything that needs it, but that’s another meta entirely)

Before Crowley ever utters “go off together,” Aziraphale is already ready to ask him to come back to the light, to come home, to please not go away, to please not leave him here alone. Because he can’t lose Crowley. They may bicker and snipe at each other for a moment, trying to argue about the plan, and Crowley is still fighting to save everything even if his methods are untenable, but he is fighting still, and Aziraphale is still holding onto hope-

Right up until Crowley lays everything at his feet and asks him to choose.

“Even if this all ends up in a puddle of burning goo, we can go off together.”

He tells Aziraphale basically ‘you don’t have to lose me, but you can’t have both, and I won’t come back to your side.’

That’s the ultimatum that breaks them. Crowley will leave his side - and in a way he left his side millennia ago - but he won’t join Aziraphale’s side. That’s the choice Aziraphale is asking him to make. Aziraphale will fight to get Crowley back into Heaven, but he isn’t mentally or emotionally in a place where he can leave his side. That’s the choice Crowley’s asking him to make.

They both are asking the other to come away with them in their own way, and they can’t meet in the middle yet. They will, but not yet. It’s important to me, however, that they both - both - make the request here, that they both come to the conclusion “I don’t want to go on unless we’re together” on their own and then going about it in truly different and equally terrible ways. And both of them having a bit of a fit when it doesn’t work.

[not-a-space-alien]

Falling Hazard, Part 7:  A Triptych of Various States of Affairs in Hell, Earth, and Heaven

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16

Series masterpost

On AO3

Anyone in Abraxas’s position would have mixed feelings about seeing the banquet hall again. Fortunately for Abraxas, she knew exactly what she wanted to do with those feelings.

Abraxas leapt up onto the table, feet squeaking on the polished wooden surface as she walked down it.

“Abraxas,” said Paula, seating herself in one of the elegant wooden chairs. “Get down from there. Someone is going to have to clean your footprints off.”

“Ha,” said Abraxas. She just desperately wished there was something on the table that she could kick off, like a vase or a bowl. But it was completely cleared.

When she reached the end, she looked down at the regal carved seat at the head of the table, the one upon which Satan had always sat.

Abraxas spun and faced Paula, hands in her pockets.  “Hey Paula?”

They were at opposite ends of the table, so they practically had to shout to hear each other.  “What, Abraxas?”

Abraxas fell backwards into the lord’s chair, sprawling out in it.  “Look, I’m Satan.”

“You’re silly is what you are.”

“Grumble grumble grumble,” said Abraxas.  “Bring me wine. Bring me food. No! Not like that!  I haven’t done a single thing except terrify everyone since the fall of man, but you have to respect me!”

“Is this what demons usually do with their free time in new Hell?” said Paula.

“Dunno,”said Abraxas.

A chime jingled from Abraxas’s pocket.  “Oh shit,” she said, leaping out of the chair.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.”

Paula crossed the room to her.  “It’s just your phone, love.”

Abraxas looked at her, then down at herself, patting all her pockets until she found her phone.  “It’s Aziraphale!”

“Well don’t ans—” Paula began, but Abraxas had already picked up.

“Hello?”

Paula made a “cut it out” motion across her neck.  Abraxas’s eyes flickered over her, but she did not hang up.  “Aziraphale!  Hi! Can you hear me okay?  I don’t get good reception here.”

Paula could hear Aziraphale’s voice muffled on the other end of the line.  Abraxas put her hand over the receiver as Paula and Abraxas sniped back and forth under their breath for a few seconds, then Abraxas snapped the phone back up to her head.  “I’m in Hell. I’m helping Maltha with something. Oh, I—Aziraphale, I didn’t give the spell to anyone, if that’s what you’re calling about.”

Paula slapped her forehead.

“The—” Abraxas said, adjusting the phone.  

“What are you doing?” Paula mouthed angrily at her.

“The important spell you told me not to tell anyone.”

“Get him off the line,” Paula whispered, miming hanging the phone up.

“Yes!  Sorry, that’s what I meant. Yes.  But I haven’t given it to anyone.  Just like you told me.  Good ol’ Abraxas.  You can always count on her.”

Paula hid her face in her hands.

“Oh.  Uh-uh.  Trouble? Uh, no not really. Yeah.  You want to talk to her?”

“No,” whispered Paula frantically, waving her hands.  But it was too late, and Abraxas put the phone up to her ear.  “Aziraphale, hi,” she said.  “I’m Paula.”

“Paula?” said Aziraphale’s disembodied voice.  “Oh, we met once in, what was it…”

“Culloden, I think,” offered Paula, “Sometime in the 1800s.”

“Right, yes.  Good to talk to you again,” said Aziraphale.

“You too.  So was there…anything you wanted to ask me, or…?” said Paula, looking at Abraxas with hatred.

“Uh…” said Aziraphale, suddenly sounding unsure.  “Um, some…really crazy stuff happening, isn’t there?”

“For sure.  Keep yourself safe, Aziraphale.  Maltha is worried about you and Crowley.”

“She is?  That’s….hold on a moment, Abraxas said she was in Hell, didn’t she? Are you in Hell with her?”

“Oh shit,” Paula mouthed.

“What?” mouthed Abraxas.

“What do I say?” Paula mouthed.

Abraxas grimaced and raised her shoulders.

“I knew Maltha was making some changes but I didn’t know that angels—were—what are you doing down there?”

Panicked, Paula punched the End button.

“You just hung up on him!” said Abraxas.

“What the hell was I supposed to do?” said Paula.  “You idiot! You know I’m not good at talking on the phone!”

“Well, neither am I! But I can’t just ignore him!”

“For somebody’s sake,” said Paula.  “You obviously can’t be trusted with a phone.  Give it to me.”

“No,” said Abraxas, diving on the phone.  “You can’t take it from me!  The throne room is a Pokéstop!”

As they fought over it, it vibrated in their hands.

“Oh no he’s calling back,” said Abraxas, dropping the phone on the table.

They both frantically danced around the table, trying to decide what to do as it buzzed angrily on the wood.

It went to voicemail. They stopped.

“Okay,” said Paula. “Maybe we sh—”

The phone vibrated again, humming like an angry hornet.  Paula picked it up and threw it at the wall, where it smashed into three pieces.

Abraxas looked at her destroyed phone with horror.  “I just hatched a Chansey.”

Paula patted her shoulder. “You can get a new phone and keep playing that horrible game about the monsters after this is all over.”

Abraxas seated herself at the table, pouting with her head on her hands.  Paula took a seat next to her.

“Seriously, though, you shouldn’t worry,” said Paula.  “Maltha is handling things.”

“Right…” said Abraxas.  “I hope I didn’t say too much. I’m a horrible liar.”

Her eyes flicked up to the entrance to the kitchen, to see an imp peeking out from the doorway had been watching them this whole time.

“Come on over!” said Paula, waving her hand.  “If you want to.  We’re not scary.”

The imp crept out, approaching the table as though Paula were the most frightening thing she had ever seen.

“Ah…what’s up?” said Abraxas.

The imp open and closed her fists, as if trying to decide what to say.

“You work in the kitchen?” said Paula, trying to start conversation.

“Yes,” said the imp.  “And I’ve never seen an angel this close before.”

“Well,” said Paula, spreading her arms, “now you have!”

The imp’s hands kneaded the air nervously.

“Is something wrong?” said Abraxas.

“That sphinx is yours, isn’t it?” said the imp.

“Oh, Toby?” said Abraxas. “Well, he’s not mine.  You can’t own a Sphinx. But I’m taking care of him.”

A big grin slowly spread over the imp’s face.  “That’s great.  You found him up on Earth?”

“Yup.”

“Wow.”

“You want to pet him? If I can wrangle him into the room.”

The imp shook her head. “Oh no, I’m not brave enough to touch him.  But just seeing him was a great honour.”

“Mm,” said Abraxas, scratching her head.  “A’right.”

“You spend a lot of time up on Earth?”

“Yeah, usually.”

The imp’s tail swished back and forth excitedly.  “Have you ever seen a griffin?”

“A griffin?” said Abraxas. “I have, as a matter of fact.”

The imp’s face lit up. “Really?  What was it like?”

“I can’t tell you,” said Abraxas, “because griffins only divulge themselves to those who are worthy.”

“Abraxas!” said Paula, slapping her shoulder.

“But how did you prove yourself?” said the imp.  “Your aura is so small…  I mean, I didn’t mean to offend! I’m sorry!”

“That’s okay,” said Abraxas. “But you know what?  It’s not about your aura.  It’s your attitude.  It’s about what you do with what you’re given.”

“Wow,” breathed the imp. “I would love to meet one some day.”

“You could go up to Earth, you know,” said Abraxas.  “You can just walk out.  Nothing is keeping you here except your fear.”

“Oh, well,” said the imp, flustered, “I-I couldn’t go up to Earth.  That’s too frightening.”

“Not at all!” said Abraxas, “Look, do you enjoy working here in the kitchen?”

The imp blushed.  “I do, actually.  A little.  I’ve never cooked before. And I still have time to read.”

Abraxas paused, as if the answer had thrown her a loop.  “Oh. Well, look, you—”

Abraxas was cut off by a voice amplified to fill the dining hall. “Presenting Maltha Queen of Hell and Noah Son of Satan, Adversary, Destroyer of -”

“You really have to do that every time we enter a room?” said Maltha’s annoyed voice.  She appeared from the entrance to the banquet room, a sleepy Noah in one arm.

The lesser demon who had been announcing them shuffled to the side, chastised.  Maltha approached the table and set Noah on it, fussing about his hair.  Noah’s eyes were puffy and red, and he clutched his stuffed rabbit.

Abraxas realized that with time it was, Noah should normally be asleep.  “Is there something wrong, Maltha?”

“My proper title is lord,” said Maltha tightly.  “And yes, there is.  Noah is very upset and cannot sleep. Which you would be able to see if you used your eyes.”  Her gaze swept across the table.  “Why are there footprints on the banquet table?  Abraxas, Paula, did you see who was walking on it?”

Abraxas and Paula both shook their heads frantically.

Maltha turned her attention back to Noah, scowling.

“Lord Maltha,” said a small demon who was hovering at her elbow.  “The nursemaid can take care of Noah.  You have other things to do.”

“Ashtoreth you mean?” scoffed Maltha.  “Noah cried when he saw her.  I’d hardly let her take care of him.”

“We can find someone else to handle the young prince.  It is not an appropriate use of your time.  I understand this was normally something the queen consort took it upon herself to do, but in her absence—”

Maltha cut him off with a wave of her hand, then curled a finger to motion him closer.  When he leaned in, she smacked his clipboard out of his hand, sending it flying across the room.

“Your head will follow if you try to force that silly schedule on me again,” said Maltha.  “If I have no time for Noah, I have time for nothing.”

The smaller demon bowed his head, creeping away.  Maltha took a deep breath, patted Noah on the head, then turned to the imp that was still loitering by the table with Abraxas and Paula.  “Yulera,” she said, “I think Noah would like some biscuits.”

The imp bowed slightly and said, “I think the cook has just made some, actually.  I’ll bring them right away.”

Maltha turned her attention back to Noah as the imp scampered away.  She tried to straighten his collar.

Noah sniffled pitifully. “When is Bethy coming back?”

She finally gave up fussing about his clothes and combed his hair.  “Soon, I’m sure, dear.  You needn’t trouble yourself about her.”

“But where did she go?” Noah wept.

“All right,” said Maltha. “I know she is the one you really want, but look! Here is something Beth never let you have: sweets past your bedtime.”

The server was making her way back into the room with a platter of biscuits.  Just as she reached Noah, the doors to the banquet hall boomed open, accompanied by the rattling of armor.

The imp dropped the tray in absolute terror, fleeing back to the safety of the kitchen like a bug under a freshly overturned rock.  The object of her distress was a warrior angel with black wings, who strolled into the room with a hand raised in greeting, approaching Maltha.  “My Queen, I—”

Maltha hissed and grabbed the rim of his breastplate, yanking him down.  “Vincent, I told you that you scare the staff when you move about like that.  Let Mammon tell everyone you are coming.”

Vincent gave her a dirty look, then crouched down, picking up a biscuit from the floor.  “Lord Maltha, Mammon was not in the antechamber. It was imperative I speak to you as soon as possible.”

Maltha smacked the biscuit out of his hand right before it reached his mouth.  “Don’t eat food off the floor like some damnable pigeon. That was not for you.”

Vincent glowered, crossing his arms.  “You are in a foul mood.”

Maltha ground her teeth, closing her eyes, irritated.  “Yes, Vincent, I am in a foul mood.  Why don’t you make things easier for all of us and give your report.  How did it go?  The fact that you returned tells me Crowley must have sent you back.”

A loose group of about five other angels meandered into the room behind Vincent. “Mmm, yes,” he said. “He wouldn’t even let us into his flat.”

Maltha palmed her face. “Okay…Vincent…Did you…tell him that I sent you to protect him?  Or did you just show up and ask to be let in, just like any of the warrior angels he might be needing protection from?”

“Um,” said Vincent.

“Now hold on a minute,” said the warrior behind Vincent, stepping forwards.  “He wouldn’t open the door.  We couldn’t just very well shout through it, for anyone to hear, ‘Hey there, we follow the commands of the queen of hell, oh by the way, feel free to have Uriel punish us for disloyalty whenever you feel like it!’”

Maltha tapped her fingers on the table.  “That’s fair. Well, let’s not badger the poor man. If he wants to be left alone, he can be the judge of that.”

Vincent crouched down and took another biscuit off the floor.  Maltha sighed and said, “You don’t have to eat the ones off the floor. We can order a fresh batch from the kitchen.”

Vincent, nonplussed, took a bite out of his, and said through the crumbs, “Oh, Lord Maltha, it was important for us to speak with you because we have brought someone else down for you.”

Maltha clapped her hands together.  “Wonderful! Just what I needed to improve my mood.  Where are they?”

Two warriors parted to reveal a principality looking around looking very unsure of herself.

“And hello to you,” said Maltha, beckoning her forwards.  “Who might you be?”

“Olivia,” said the principality, kneeling.

“I understand a salute is more conventional for angels, is it not?” said Maltha, extending her hand. “Or a handshake?”

Olivia straightened up. “Some would argue I stopped being an angel the moment I bowed to you.”

Maltha’s face split in a grin with just slightly too many teeth in it.  “Goodness, let’s hope not.  Now, would you spread your wings for me, please?”

Hesitantly, Olivia spread her wings.  She then gave a sharp cry of surprise as Maltha plucked a feather from the base.

Olivia folded her wings in and turned around, but Maltha was no longer looking at her.  She held the feather up to the light, examining it.  

“Oh, Lord Maltha,” said Vincent, still squatting on the floor with the discarded biscuits. “Heaven has finally chosen the new archangel.”

Maltha brought the feather to her mouth, tasting it.  Olivia watched with fascinated disgust.

“Interesting…” said Maltha. “Okay.  And who is the new archangel who will bring their numbers back up to the full seven?”

“The power Victoria.”

Maltha paused, eyes flashing back onto Vincent.  “I see they chose a warrior,” she said with an evil grin.  “We are already winning.  They’re afraid of losing Michael and being left without any sword at all.”  Maltha set the feather on the table, then picked Noah back up.  The small boy curled against her shoulder, exhausted from crying.  “Vincent, will you go back to Heaven and take care of that? It sounds like Raphael could use some help.  The poor boy always did struggle to get anything done.”

“Yes, lord,” said Vincent.

Maltha snapped her fingers at the small demon with the clipboard, who had been sitting in the corner, chastised.  “You there. Please get out a piece of parchment and a quill.”

“Are you finally going to send out a general address?” said Abraxas.

“The promotion of the new archangel will likely further the panic among Hell’s ranks.  I can’t pretend we’re doing nothing anymore. Now, write this down…”

Crowley had asked Aziraphale to sleep on the couch that night, which hadn’t bothered Aziraphale as much as he thought it might have.  Sometimes you just need space.

He woke up before the demon and set about making breakfast.  His ears pricked up at the sound of bare feet on tile, and the kiss he had been hoping for arrived on the back of his neck.

“You’re up early,” said Aziraphale, flipping a pancake.

Arms appeared around his waist.  “Wasn’t comfortable.”

Aziraphale made no comment on that, instead moving to set the table.

Crowley took a seat at the table and let Aziraphale spoon scrambled eggs onto his plate.  “Oh, you’ve gotten a correspondence, dear,” Aziraphale. “On the table there.  I thought we might open it together.”

Crowley picked up his fork and skewered a sausage link.  “Why don’t we wait a few minutes?  Let’s just eat our breakfast in peace.”

“All right,” said Aziraphale, taking his seat, and then as if they were still on vacation: “What would you like to do today?”

Crowley gestured with a fork.  “Well, far as I can see there’s nothing to do. Figure we should just keep sitting tight.”

“Maybe that letter will have some information we can use.”

“Mmm.”

“I should probably run over to the shop later in the day to check for any mail.  At least once today.”

“Yeah.”

“But let’s worry about that later.”

“Yeah.”

They ate slowly and deliberately, willfully ignoring the situation, taking a breather in each other’s company.  When they were finished, Aziraphale collected all their dishes and loaded them into the dishwasher.

“All right,” said Crowley. “Now, let’s look at it, I guess.”

The letter was on infernal parchment, with Maltha’s seal on it.  Crowley broke the seal and unfurled it for them both to read.

To all the denizens of Hell,

Heaven has hurt me in a very deep and personal way, and despite my staunch insistence on keeping Noah out of the War, they intend to charge ahead anyway, against the Ineffable Plan that they themselves claim to love so much.

They have declared war.  If it is bloodshed, chaos, and violence they desire so much, they shall have it.  But do not fear for your lives, for the safety of your companions and the fate of the Earth many of us have grown to care for.  Heaven’s representatives do not understand the full gravity of what they have done.  They have awakened an angry, dangerous beast, and Hell’s war machine reaches much further than they have wagered.

-The archdemon Maltha

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley to see that he was grimacing.  “Was this supposed to be reassuring?  Because it’s not. Like…at all.”

Aziraphale squeezed his shoulder.  “Maybe we can try to write her back?  She brushed me off, but maybe she’ll listen to you.”

Crowley did not look optimistic.  “Maybe. Worth a try, I guess.”

Crowley took the seat at his desk and withdrew his fanciest set of pens.  He tapped one on a parchment to get the ink flowing.  “All right.  What should we say?”

Aziraphale never got to answer, because at that moment there was a knock on the door.

“Let me get it,” said Aziraphale.  “I’ll see who it is.”

“Okay.”

Aziraphale walked over and looked into the peephole.  “It’s Angelo!”

“Angelo?” said Crowley, abandoning his stationery.  “Let him in. It might be important, and I don’t think he’s going to hurt me.”

“All right,” said Aziraphale.

He undid the chain and the deadbolt and cracked the door open.  The sigils around the place fell.  Angelo stood in the hallway, staring at him very hard.

Aziraphale pulled the door open fully. “Angelo, we weren’t expecting—”

Angelo’s attention snapped from Aziraphale to Crowley. “You!” he shouted, streaking past Aziraphale and launching into the flat.

Angelo’s stature and weakness of aura meant that he posed no real physical threat to anyone, not even Crowley, but he tackled the demon with impressive effort, jamming his shoulder into his stomach and knocking the wind out of him.  Crowley stumbled back and rolled as he tumbled down, kicking Angelo off him.

“What are you doing, you bloody lunatic?” Crowley shouted as he tried to fend off mildly offensive punches.

Aziraphale intervened eventually and pulled Angelo off by his collar.  The smaller angel continued to swing and curse even as his fists fell on empty air.

“Angelo, what are you doing?” said Aziraphale.

“This is his fault,” panted Angelo, finally slowing down. “Michael is going to fall because of him!”

Aziraphale forced him to sit in the easy chair and asked Crowley to make them some tea.  Crowley removed himself out of the danger zone into the kitchen.  

“Angelo, please calm down.”

When Crowley came back into the room with a tray of teacups, Angelo tried to lunge at him again.  Aziraphale blocked him.  “Sit down, or we’ll kick you out.”

Angelo fell still, looking at them both with intense bitterness as Crowley poured them tea.

“Now, Angelo, why don’t you tell us, calmly, what you came here for?”

Angelo burst into tears and big, ugly sobs.

“Oh, dear,” said Aziraphale.

“Listen,” said Crowley. “Neither of us know what’s going on with Michael, but it wasn’t me.  Raphael won’t listen to me.  I don’t know what he’s thinking.”

Angelo looked down, sniffing.  “I was afraid you might say that.”

“Wait, do you believe me?” said Crowley.

Angelo took his teacup and sipped it, scalding hot and without adding anything to it. He had never had tea before, and unsurprisingly didn’t find it to his liking.  He grimaced and put his cup back down, saying, “I don’t understand what Raphael is doing.  It doesn’t make sense even if Crowley were lying.  He’s obviously just using you as a cover story for whatever he’s really trying to do.”

“Angelo,” said Aziraphale, “Victoria told us that Michael attacked you.”

Angelo nodded miserably. “He almost killed me.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Aziraphale, putting a hand on his.  “This whole affair must be difficult for you.  Have you been able to talk any sense into Raphael?”

“I…I haven’t tried.”

They both stared at him disbelievingly.

Angelo’s hand shied away from under Aziraphale’s.  “I was too afraid. I’ve just been hiding this whole time.  For the first time ever, Michael is the one who needs help, and I can’t even work up the courage to try and help him the way he always helped me.” Tears started to spill down his cheeks again.  “Because I’m a goddamn coward.”

Aziraphale tried to pat his hand again, but he refused to be comforted.  “Angelo, you almost died,” said Crowley.  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s only natural that you’d be scared.”

“I need help.  I need someone to help me help him.  Aziraphale, I was hoping…”

Aziraphale tried not to grimace. He really did.  Angelo broke eye contact with him, dejected.

“If we could help, we would,” said Crowley.  “Maybe it’d clear my name and get me out of this mess Raphael’s thrown me into.  But neither of us have any control over the situation.”

“Now hold on,” said Aziraphale.  “You don’t need to worry.  It takes all six of the other archangels to agree to cast the seventh out, and that’s not going to happen.  At the very least, Gabriel is deadset against letting Raphael have his way. I’m positive Uriel and Metatron are on his side.  Goodness, they haven’t even replaced Camael yet.  Michael can’t fall as things stand now.”

“You haven’t heard? They made Victoria the new archangel last night.”

“Did they?” said Aziraphale, brightening.  “I’m sure she’ll sort this whole thing out, then.  She was just about ready to throttle Raphael last time I spoke to her. She’s more committed to Michael’s wellbeing than anyone else in the situation.  Now that she’s got some authority—“

“She’s come out in favour of Michael falling.”

Aziraphale sloshed tea out of his cup.  “What?”

“Why on Earth—In Heaven—would she do that?” Crowley exclaimed.

“I don’t know,” said Angelo fretfully.  “I saw her go into the infirmary after she was promoted, but I don’t know if she ever came back out.  She sent the other archangels her decision in a letter.”

Crowley picked up his teacup and sipped, thinking very hard.

“Raphael’s done something to her,” said Aziraphale, echoing his thoughts.  “Do we know for certain that letter was from her?”

Angelo shrugged.

“I never thought Raphael, of all people, might be capable of such subterfuge,” said Aziraphale.

“Raphael’s been hiding in the infirmary and hardly comes out,” said Angelo.  “He’s got Michael locked up in there and on so many drugs he can’t even string a sentence together.  I think Raphael is afraid that if he leaves Michael alone, one of the other archangels will come override his commands and take Michael away from him.”

“My God,” said Aziraphale. “If Raphael is doing that to him, Michael wouldn’t even be able to speak to defend himself.  Is that why he’s doing it?  To try and avoid Michael worsening his case?”

“Maybe,” said Angelo, flustered.  “But maybe he really does believe Michael is too dangerous to be walking around freely. When he attacked me, it almost seemed like he didn’t realize what he was doing.  Afterwards he was horrified to see what he’d done.  He didn’t even resist when Raphael took him prisoner.”

“Maybe Raphael really does believe Michael is too dangerous to be in Heaven anymore,” said Aziraphale. “I don’t know what else he could be doing.”

“I hate this!” cried Angelo. “I’m tired of the other archangels always mistreating him, treating him like he’s too stupid to make decisions. I thought Raphael was the one of them we could trust.  And I’m too much of a coward and a wimp to do anything, as always.  Aziraphale!  Crowley! Please, you have to help me.  We have to do something.  Please. He would hate Hell so much.  He would hate it.  He wanted so badly to be under the blue sky, and Hell—and all the demons down there already hate him and want to hurt him. I can’t imagine what—they would do to him—and… Imagine what kind of demon he would be. Can you imagine?  That much raw power in someone hurting that badly, and finally free of Heaven’s restraints?  Undirected?  Creation wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Angelo hid his face in his hands. Aziraphale and Crowley sat there with that very unsettling mental image.

If Michael fell, that would create a new archdemon even more powerful than Maltha, and there was no telling what he might do.  And Heaven would be the only place safe from that wrath.

It might be in their best interest to stop Michael from falling, if they wanted the Earth to stay in one piece.

That is, if they could do anything about it.  If even Victoria could somehow fail, they might be out of luck.

“I don’t know what’s happening to him.  He used to be so gentle, Aziraphale.  After everything they’ve done to him, and everything he’s done for everyone else, he deserves some help.  He doesn’t deserve this.”

“Angelo,” said Crowley with concern, because it seemed like Angelo was on the verge of an absolute breakdown each time he spoke.

“I know you don’t like him all that much,” wept Angelo.  “I get it. He’s hurt you both.  You don’t have to forgive him if you don’t want to. But he needs help.  He needs it bad.”

“But there’s nothing we can do, Angelo,” fussed Aziraphale.  “We’ve been having a hard time even getting any information.”

“Oh come on,” said Angelo.  “You two can do anything you want to.  You fought off the legions of Hell trying to get the antichrist just because you felt like it.  I know you can do something if you really wanted to.”

Crowley let out a snort as Angelo spoke.  “Is that really how you see us?”

Angelo flushed.  “Come on, you have to help me.  He saved your life, Crowley. And Aziraphale, he always considered you a friend.  He went out of his way to help you and help the Earth even though he knew he would be punished for it.”

“Punished…?” said Aziraphale.

Angelo did not answer.

“You mean they punished him for those times he went against orders and came down to Earth?” Crowley picked up.

“Of course!” said Angelo. “Didn’t you kind of pick up on how upset the other archangels got when he didn’t do what they told him to?”

“Well, of course,” said Aziraphale.  “But they’re the same rank, I didn’t see how they could…”

“Well, they used me, usually.”

Aziraphale was about to ask him to elaborate, but it looked like he wanted to cry again, so he left that thread alone.  “All right,” said Aziraphale.  “Crowley?”

“Maybe we can think of something,” said Crowley.  “What courses of action do we have at our disposal?”

“Well,” said Aziraphale, staring into his teacup.  “Maybe we can have Angelo talk to Raphael?”

“I think we’ve established pretty thoroughly by now that talking isn’t going to accomplish anything,” said Crowley.

“Fair point,” said Aziraphale.  “So…We know now that Michael is in the infirmary.  If we could get him out and away from Raphael, would that help?  Then he could at least speak to defend himself, instead of Raphael having complete control over him.  And maybe they couldn’t sentence him if they didn’t know where he was.”

“Maybe,” said Angelo. “It’s worth a try.”

“But the question is how we might get him out,” said Aziraphale.  “Everyone in Heaven will recognize me and Angelo and know what we’re doing right away.  We’d need…some sort of disguise, or a ruse, or a distraction to empty the infirmary...”

Angelo scratched his head. “We could use a smoke bomb.”

“…A smoke bomb.”

Angelo raised his shoulders, as if to say I’ve got nothing.

Crowley suddenly hissed and downed the rest of his tea.

“You have an idea?” said Aziraphale.

“Of course I have an idea!” Crowley fumed.  “I always have an idea!  I’m the slippery serpent!  But I don’t want to tell you what it is because it’ll probably get me skinned alive!”

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, putting his hand on Crowley’s.  “If we can do this, I’m sure it’d clear your reputation.  It might just fix this whole mess.”

And maybe, just maybe Aziraphale himself wanted that confirmation that Crowley wasn’t hiding an ulterior motive.  Crowley could not tell, and it pissed him off to no end.  He poured himself another cup of tea, this one with a miraculously higher alcohol content than the stuff in the pot, and downed it as well.

Angelo got out of his chair and knelt at Crowley’s feet.  “I am begging you.  I’d do anything to save him.  Anything.”

Crowley set his cup down, looking sullen.  “Get up off my floor, Angelo.”  He rubbed his temples.  “Everyone will recognize you two, but probably nobody in the infirmary except Raphael would recognize me.  And since I’m a healer, no one would even question why I was there.  I could just slip in and wait around until Raphael wasn’t looking, then break Michael out.”

Angelo looked at him uncomfortably.  “But you’re a demon. You can’t even get in past the gates!”

“Yes,” said Crowley, irritated, as though he were getting to the part that really bothered him.  “But, the archdemon Agares, when she was posturing for Satan’s empty throne, garnered support because she claimed to have found—”

“A way for demons to get into Heaven unharmed!” said Aziraphale, nearly leaping up.  “And we happen to have a demon who worked for Agares in our contacts—Abraxas!  She knows how to do it!”

“You are suggesting,” said Angelo slowly, “that, with whatever this thing is that Agares discovered, Crowley, you can just…walk in and take Michael?”

“I was able to just walk into Hell and get the information we needed to kill Ba’al Berith.  It’s…not that different I suppose.  And everybody ‘knows’ that Hell doesn’t have healers except Maltha, so they won’t have any reason to suspect me.  Everyone’s forgotten about me.”

“But they’ll be able to tell you’re a demon by your aura,” said Angelo.

“Let’s see what Abraxas can tell us,” said Aziraphale.  “Maybe there will be some way to hide it.” He leaned over and planted a kiss on Crowley’s forehead.  “Clever serpent.”

“If I were really that clever, I would have kept it to myself,” he muttered as Aziraphale pulled out his mobile phone.

“Oh, Crowley, may I use your mobile?” Aziraphale said.  “I used all my minutes earlier on…something.”

Crowley sighed and handed his device over.

“Thank you,” Angelo said. “Let’s do this. I’ll find some way to repay you. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he said sourly.

Three minutes.

That’s how much time Raphael had to prepare for Victoria’s arrival, and he only got that much because Ramial, who had gotten into the habit of hanging around Heaven’s infirmary, saw her coming and thought to dash back and tell Raphael about her approach.  Raphael had thanked her, sent her away to clear the hallway for whatever was about to happen, and sat at his desk as properly as possible.

This was one going to be one Hell of an argument.  

Victoria arrived just as predicted, shoving lesser healers who had tried to tell her off out of the way.

A cluster of worried powers of healing were visible behind Victoria as she opened the door.  But there was no one they could have called because, in reality, the other archangels were not only pleased about how this was going to go, but had in fact promoted her for this very purpose.

The door to Raphael’s office slammed shut with far more force than traditionally warranted.  And the newly minted archangel Victoria stood in front of it, burning Raphael with a glare of absolute hatred.

Raphael tapped his fingers on his desk nervously.

Victoria marched forwards and slammed her hands on his paperwork, rattling everything on his desk.

Raphael, fidgeting, gave her a smile and said, “Victoria, you’ve been an archangel for a total of, what, three hours?  And you’ve already—”

Victoria cut him off with one broad gesture that swiped everything off his desk and onto the floor.

Raphael’s nervous smile broadened.  “You know, Victoria, you’re an archangel now.  It’s customary for you to invite other people into your office, rather than going to see them.”

Victoria’s hand shot out and clamped on his throat, ripped him out of his chair, and slammed him into the wall, sliding him up it until his feet dangled.

“I don’t give a fuck about my office,” Victoria growled.  “You absolute worm.  You slimy invertebrate.”  

Raphael said nothing.  It would have been difficult to do so, anyway.

“You and Crowley and Maltha.  Is this all you healers are?  Liars and traitors?  Other people come to you for help when they are vulnerable, and you trick them into spearing their hand on a sword by pretending it is a hand for them to shake.”

Raphael said nothing.

Victoria squeezed his throat, and he spasmed.  “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t just kill you right here, hm? Do you think the other archangels would care?  You think Gabriel would be secretly relieved he didn’t have to deal with you anymore? You think Uriel couldn’t just write over someone else’s page to make yet another new archangel?  You think Michael would be relieved that his own brother—”

Victoria’s fingers sunk into his throat, and he began to kick his legs feebly. “—isn’t spreading slander about him anymore, trying to throw him to the beasts, cast him into the Pit!”

“Victoria,” Raphael finally managed to say, although his airway was completely cut off so he had to us a miracle to speak.

“Have you ever thought about what they’d do to him down there?” Victoria yelled. “He’s been the capital B Big Bad for all the demons of Hell to hate for six-thousand years!”

The door clicked open quietly, and a warrior angel with black wings slid in, closing it behind him.

Victoria paused, not removing her hands from where she was strangling Raphael.

“Victoria,” said the warrior, saluting her.  “Please stop what you’re doing.”

Victoria looked from the new arrival to Raphael and back again, then released the other archangel.  Raphael fell to the ground, coughing.

“Vincent,” said Victoria, finally placing his name.  “You were one of Michael’s favourite warriors.  You were ready to die next to him defending Aziraphale from Agares.  And you’d take Raphael’s side in this?”

Vincent ran his fingers along the hilt of his sword.  “There are things you do not know, Victoria.  This is for Michael’s own good.”

Raphael, still panting, righted himself and braced himself on his thighs. “Ah—ahhh—thank you for coming, Vincent,” he wheezed.  “And just in time.”  He staggered over to Vincent and put a hand on his shoulder, patting him.  “Ah…. Are you molting?  Feather loss could be a symptom of an infection.”

“Sir,” said Vincent stiffly.  

“It’s okay, you don’t have to be shy.  Everyone molts.”

“Sir,” said Vincent.  “I hardly think my wings should be a priority.”

“Right,” Raphael said, finally catching his breath. “You’re right sorry. Our priority should be…  Victoria, would you like to see Michael?  I think it might clear some things up.”

“See him?” said Victoria.  “Yes. Take me to him.”

Raphael tentatively slid past her to exit the office, leading the two of them through the halls of the infirmary.  Victoria vibrated with barely suppressed rage the entire time.

Raphael stopped at one particular door and withdrew a set of keys from his pocket.

Victoria smacked the keychain out of his hand.  “You’ve got him locked up like an animal.”

Raphael patiently bent down and picked the keys back up.

“Victoria,” said Vincent.  “Please calm your tits.”

Both archangels looked at him questioningly.

“It’s a phrase I learned on Earth, when I was assigned to be someone’s guardian angel,” said Vincent, looking very serious.  “It means, ‘Don’t worry, everything is under control.’”

“All right, then,” said Victoria.  “I will calm my tits.  But you had better make things clear to me.”

“We will,” said Raphael, unlocking the door.

The room beyond had soft walls and not much else.  Michael sat on the floor with his head leaning against the wall. His eyes were hollow and stared straight ahead even as they entered and Victoria dashed over to him.

Victoria let out a gasp and knelt.  “What did you do to him?”

“We—” Raphael began.

“This is outrageous,” Victoria said, cupping Michael’s face.  “His corporation has lost so much weight.  Haven’t you been feeding him?”

“Yes, but as you can see—” Raphael tried again.

“Can’t he hear me?” Victoria said as Michael’s head lolled in her hand. “What’s wrong with him?  What have you done?”

“All I’ve done is—“

“What’s wrong with his aura?” Victoria said, frantically moving her hands all over him.  “What’s happening?”

“Commander.  Victoria,” said Vincent.  “If you let Raphael speak, he will explain everything to you.”

Victoria stood.  “Right. Sorry.”

Raphael took a deep breath.  “Victoria, what you see happening to Michael is not the result of anything I’ve done, but a fated breakdown that had been planned from the beginning of Creation. All I’ve done is give him some sedatives to ease his pain and calm him down.  But he needs extremely large doses, so he’s not very aware of what’s going on around him.”

Victoria looked down to Michael, who still leaned against the padded wall with a blank expression.  “What do you mean?”

“Uriel said that Michael was fated to die in the war.  The Final Battle was supposed to be the end for him. And when it kept getting delayed and delayed, it started to take a toll on him.  Right now we were scheduled to be nearing the climax of the destruction of Hell’s armies.  Michael’s form is trying to metamorphosize into what it would be to let him accomplish such a feat.  He is descending into mindless bloodlust that will eclipse all other cognitive functions. He is, essentially, dying.”

“Dying?” said Victoria.  She knelt again and put a hand on Michael’s head.

“Yes,” said Raphael.  “His mind will go first, but I suspect his body will go next.  His corporation was never designed to hold something like this, so it might begin to break down as his aura expands and shatters.  But I’m not entirely sure what will happen to him.  I’ve never seen any other angel deteriorate this way.  Michael is a unique case.”

Victoria stopped stroking Michael’s hair, then abruptly stood, pivoted, and decked Raphael, who at least landed on the padded floor this time.

“Then why the Hell are you trying to cast him out of Heaven?” Victoria shouted.  “If what you’re saying is true, he needs you now more than ever!  He needs his family to come together and support him!  How could you demand we abandon him to the Pits of Hell?  Into eternal darkness?”

“Commander Victoria,” said Vincent.  “Please stop hitting Raphael.”

Victoria crossed her arms sourly as Raphael hauled himself back to his feet.

“I’m not sure you understand the severity of what’s happening, Victoria,” said Vincent.  “The fact that Raphael has him sedated might be the only thing keeping Michael from killing us right now.”

Victoria looked back to Michael.  “He wouldn’t do that.  He’s never hurt angels before.  He’s got a good heart.”

“He nearly killed Angelo,” said Raphael.

Victoria looked at him sharply.

“We put him under before he got any worse,” said Raphael.  “I think we might have slowed the progression. Michael didn’t seem to realize he had hurt Angelo and was extremely distressed when he found out what he’d done.  I’m afraid to let him off the sedatives because if he’s gotten any worse, there might not be anyone who can overpower him to subdue him again.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Victoria, rubbing her face in her hands.  

“Don’t bring him into this,” said Vincent.

“All right,” said Victoria.  “Okay. Fuck.  Okay.  So what are you doing?  What’s the plan?  How do we treat him?  Can we save him?”

“All right,” said Raphael, taking a deep breath. “This is the part you are probably not going to like.”

Victoria waited for him to continue, wondering what he could possibly be going to say if what had been said so far was the part she would like.

“I went down to Hell and told Maltha about what was happening, and—”

“You what?”

Vincent, sensing what was about to happen, stepped between the two archangels. “Commander, I really must insist that you keep your hands to yourself.”

Victoria unclenched her fist.

“I had a consultation with Maltha,” said Raphael.  “She had a chance to examine Michael during their time together in Aziraphale’s shop, so we put our heads together.  The diagnosis we came up with was that the only way to save him would be for him to Fall.”

“To…Fall?”

“Yes.  Maltha has already agreed to ensure his safety in Hell to the best of her abilities regardless of the outcome.  Severing Michael from his angelic role may—”

“And you trusted her?  You believed the ruler of Hell telling you it would be for Michael’s own good to send him straight down to her, to be under her control?  Are you fucking stupid?”

“Victoria,” said Vincent in a cautionary tone.

“Victoria,” said Raphael, “give me some credit.  She didn’t make this up.  We came up with it together.  This is his chance for avoiding his fate as the Sword of Heaven, and the destruction of the Earth.”

Reeling, Victoria stepped backwards.  “Those angels who had all gone missing.”

“They’ve abandoned their loyalty to Heaven.  They are in Hell under Maltha’s protection, preparing for Michael’s arrival.”

“You think Maltha would do this out of the goodness of her heart? Really?”

“Use your head, Victoria.  Why wouldn’t Maltha want Michael to fall?  It’d be effectively disarming Heaven.  This is in her best interest as well.  And she is not cruel.  She knows Michael’s needs to be happy are very simple, and she would take better care of him.  I trust her more than I trust Gabriel.”

“Why?”

“Because Gabriel would sacrifice Michael to start the war. He would sacrifice anything to start the war.  He knew this whole time that Michael was going to be destroyed, but he was willing to let that happen.  And he abused Michael for six-thousand years to make sure he stayed in that role that would eventually see this happened to him.”

Victoria looked back down to Michael, who was still looking straight ahead foggily.

Doubt hit Victoria like a train as she suddenly realized that she trusted Gabriel less than Maltha, too.  And all at once, that realization came bundled with the recognition of the true gravity of what that meant: That she could dissent from Heaven, aloud, the way Raphael had just done.  That she was thinking for herself.

That she had free will.

That she, and Raphael, and Gabriel, and Uriel, and yes even Metatron, they all had free will.   But nothing had changed.  They had always had it.  They had just never used it before.

And Gabriel, instead of using his to stand up for the Earth like Aziraphale and Crowley, or question God like Maltha, or put the wellbeing of his sibling above the will of Heaven like Raphael, was using his to be a right bastard. Like Camael had done.

“Okay,” said Victoria. “So what does Crowley have to do with any of this?”

Raphael smiled faintly.  “Er…Nothing actually.”

“Shit,” said Victoria.  “I was afraid you were going to say that.  Now I owe him an apology.”

“I think a lot of us do.”

“You used him as a cover story.  And not even a very good one.”

“If I let the other archangels know the real reason why I wanted Michael to fall, I could be cast out of Heaven.  I could be cast out of Heaven just for consulting with Maltha alone.  So I had to come up with some excuse for why he might need to be punished.  He’s never done anything to me, so I had to press it on someone else’s behalf. And the only celestial agents he’s hurt are Angelo and Crowley.  But everyone knows Angelo would never do that, and Crowley…”

“Was conveniently missing,” said Victoria.  “And could be safely blamed for any number of things to take the heat off you.”

Raphael put his arms around himself, and Victoria noticed for the first time how scared he looked.  He had understood the full gravity of the situation from the very beginning.  He had placed a great deal of trust in Victoria by telling her all this.  If even one or two of the sentences he had said got back to Gabriel, it would be plenty of grounds for he himself to be cast out, just as he said.

Putting Michael’s wellbeing ahead of the war was an act that could not be forgiven. Handing him over to Hell to save him would basically guarantee that the war would not happen, because Heaven would be stripped of its greatest weapon against a Hell that had that very same weapon.  Heaven would never win, and they’d know it, and they would never start the war.

Raphael was turning the entire Great Plan on its head, arse over teakettle. Going against the other archangels and God Himself.  Raphael was treading well over the line past which other archangels had gotten themselves disciplined in the ultimate way.

Raphael had known that she would agree with him, that she would be willing to go against Heaven. Because she loved her big brother the same way that Raphael did.  He had known exactly how this would play out in her head.

Damn him.  He was smarter than she thought.  And now she felt the exhilaration of rebellion coursing through her veins.

“All right,” she said, extending her hands out to Raphael and Vincent. “Let’s do this.”