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hel-is-makingstuff-blog · 5 years

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Sloth in Soho-Ch.4

Aziraphael sat at Crowleys dining table, unnecessary reading glasses perched upon his nose, writing on a clean sheet of paper he’d found in the demon’s office.

Pride. He wrote in his practiced script, taking a brief moment to appreciate the fine quality of the fountain pen he had found, before he continued with a detailed description of Crowley’s first nightmare.

Wrath. Another description containing all that he could remember, including the feeling of something ‘other’ being present. He hadn’t realized it until he had awoken but there had been a feeling of being watched, like an amoeba under a microscope. He hesitated a moment before writing out five more words, leaving ample room aside each in preparation for the future. Greed, Envy, Gluttony, Lust, Sloth.

This was likely the path these dreams were taking, though he couldn’t fathom an order. Something out there was appealing to Crowley’s worst traits and abusing them though to what end he still was not sure. To drag him back down? To torture him? Simply because they could?

The angel fought an urge to lay his head on the table and close his eyes. He didn’t sleep yet he felt exhausted down to his very soul. Pulled thin like cellophane. It had only been three hours since he arrived in Crowley’s new home but it felt like days. Above him, in the bedroom, a fresh wave of feeling was building. If it was exhausting for him it had to be debilitating to dear Crowley. He massaged his temples, trying to ease the pressure the demons energy was causing, and pushed his own physical welfare to the back of his mind. At least it was contained to the house. He couldn’t imagine what kind of effect these forces would have on the unsuspecting humans outside.

He underlined the sins. Tapped the paper. Then stood. Time for another attempt.

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It was getting easier to keep himself clear headed as he entered Crowley’s dream. This time he had his wits and senses about him from the very start. He was prepared for all manner of horror.

He was not prepared to find himself sitting on their bench in Saint James Park. Blue skies stretched overhead and there was a sweet breeze that carried the scent of flowers. The ducks were splashing happily in the water, not far off, as children tossed bread in their direction with glee. Crowley was in his usual spot, legs akimbo and looking like he was attempting to melt through the slats, watching the passing activities of mortals with hidden eyes. Aziraphael smiled in relief. This was familiar. He could handle this. “Lovely day,” he started, pleasantly, hoping to gauge just how aware the demon was of the reality of the situation. There was a twitch at the corner of Crowley’s lips. “Suppose it is. Heard they have it better southwards. Bastards.” That was an...odd comment. Aziraphael ploughed onwards. “Some sun is better than none, yes?” “Hmph,” was all he got in return. The angel was starting to get an off feeling in his stomach again. “Uhm...did you fancy some lunch?” “What’s the point?” Crowley huffed softly, looking anywhere but the angel at his side. “We don’t need food. We don’t get hungry. We’ll never have the same enjoyment as they do. Lucky, blessed arseholes.”

Ah. Envy it was, then. “Why don’t you go back to fawning over your bloody books?” Crowley continued with a bitterness Aziraphael only heard when the demon had been drinking tequila. “That’s where you really want to be.” It took a lot for Aziraphael to not snap back at the accusation. It would be all too easy to fall into familiar patterns given the scene decorating and start trading barbs with the man. Except he knew there was no good nature hidden in the demons words.

He was envious of the time Aziraphael spent fussing about his shop. It was baffling to the angel, seeing as Crowley was welcome to join him when ever he liked but...but there may have been an uncomfortable truth in this perception. He did tend to get wrapped up between the stacks to the point of being a reprehensible host. Aziraphael took breath. Kindness. Kindness was the remedy to Envy. Beside him Crowley was beginning to work himself up, a flickering of reignited wrath threatening to flare into something very real. “Where are those kids parents?” He was asking without giving Aziraphael a chance to respond, gesticulating towards the happy little ones and their ducks. “Bloody fools. Don’t they know some wicked blighter could come and snatch them away at any minute? Kids are miracle and they just left them there! I swear, people don’t deserve half of what they got. I could do it better.”

The ground swallowed the children up like a tasty morsel, eliciting a shout from the angel. Oh this was exactly the opposite of good!

“And look at those plants!” Crowley was on a roll, standing suddenly and sauntering over to meticulously maintained flower bed. They wilted under Crowley’s gaze. “They hire some gardener, pay him with the people’s taxes, and he lets insects chew up the flowers! The fucker has the easiest job on the planet and he can’t even DO IT RIGHT.” Aziraphael followed him, hands outstretched, placating, trying to get a word in edgewise but unable.Never had he known Crowley to be envious of the world around him. Perhaps it was something he kept close to his chest or refused to acknowledge. “And your lot! They have all eternity and all of God’s favor and protection and, what? They still want to stomp on my sort? Don’t they have enough?!” Crowley snarled up at blue-grey sky, the beginning of fangs forming at his canines. “And mine are fucking oblivious to how bloody fantastic it can be up here! Imagine being able to not know and not care and just do your job without asking fifty million questions!” Envy of Gods love, envy of ignorance, envy of humans doing what they want, envy of all the things he believed just out of his reach.

“Why are you here? Didn’t I tell you get on?” Crowley huffed and paced, the blue gone from the sky. Everything was dull, grey, and miserable. Aziraphael smiled. “I want to be here. I’ve devoted this whole day to you,” he informed him cheerily. It wasn’t exactly a lie. His day so far had been centered around Crowley and there was no where else he wanted to be.

This seemed to throw the demon. “Yeh?” He shifted a bit, looking elsewhere. “Well...you needn’t have done that.”

Aziraphael approached and gave him a firm poke in the forehead. “How hard it must be, to want so much and ask for so little in return. If you need my attention you must say so. You can do nothing about the children or the plants or Heaven and Hell...but you can about me, yes? I’m right here.” Crowley’s eyebrows lifted high above his sunglasses. “You want to be here?” “Why, yes!” Aziraphael laughed and smiled, delighting in his own admission. Of course he wanted to be here. Didn’t Crowley know that? Hadn’t six thousand years of friendship in defiance of the natural order of things taught him anything? “If I didn’t want to be I would have left when they called me back all those years ago.”

“Why?” He sounded like he was asking after some secret, a note of hope in his voice, a feeling of...of...something in his aura. He was suddenly close, the park had stopped existing. All his focus was on Aziraphael. “Why?” The angel repeated, brow furrowing. Actually, why...why did they always seek each other out? Why did they risk their lives to save the world? For humanity's sake, to be sure, but...but Crowley was willing to leave it all behind as long as Aziraphael came with him. He had been tempted to accept. Even if the world ended as long as he and Crolwey weren’t forced to kill each other all would be well. It was a selfish thought he had banished the very moment it had occurred.

“I...I suppose that a great many things are better as long as you’re at my side. Whether it be sorting books, having a meal, or feeding ducks,” his voice had lost it strength and a blush was rising in his cheeks. “You’re so willing to go out of your way for me...I don’t believe I’ve ever done as much for you. I...I envy your ability to know exactly where you want to be.” Crowley was so close. Why did he need to be so close?! “Angel….” He started, all wrath and envy gone from him. Everything he ever wanted was standing directly in front of him, Aziraphael realized...and promptly began to panic. Did this mean the Crowley was-?!

“Again?” It wasn’t Crowley’s voice. This voice drawled and sounded more than a little irritated. “I do wish you’d stop interrupting. It makes everything so much harder.” Both Crowley and Aziraphael jumped, looking at the encroaching dark for a source of the voice.

It was hard to focus with Crowley’s hand on his arm like that. When had it gotten there, anyways?

“Wait your turn, foolish angel. Keep this up and I’ll have to redivert myself. That would make me cranky. You don’t want that.” Crowley was in motion then, hissing. “I know that voissssce! Aziraphael! You need-!” Whatever he needed he never found out. A noise like a vuvuzela giving birth to a fog horn during a traffic jam shook the air, blotting out his voice and scattering their thoughts to the wind. When he returned to the bed room this time he found himself basically laying on top of the demon, face in his chest. His head and ears were still ringing with a very real pain and something alarming hot was running down the sides of his face. He mopped at it hurriedly, already thinking about plunging back in- His hand came away red. Aziraphael’s ears were bleeding.

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #fanfic #fan fiction

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hel-is-makingstuff-blog · 5 years

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Sloth in Soho-Ch.3

Tea. Aziraphael needed tea. Well, not in the strictest sense of the word but he needed to soothe his nerves before he made another attempt to draw his demonic friend out of his unnatural slumber. That had been...disturbing.

At least he knew for sure now that whatever was happening was afflicting Crowley was just that: an affliction. It wasn’t of Crowley’s own doing and, indeed, could be shaken out of it he found the crux of the nightmare and countered it. It was a puzzle. A twisted puzzle but still something he could solve if he kept his wits about him.

Crowley had called him clever not too long ago. He hoped his words were not misplaced.

Which side was this coming from? Hell seemed the obvious answer. They’d probably know how to manipulate and contort the demon in all kinds of sadistic ways. It was safe, as well. Why risk taking on a demon that could sit in a path of holy water and showed no compunctions in destroying one of their own? It would be much safer to sit back, take advantage of Crowleys favorite vice, and torture him when he was at his most vulnerable. Hm. Crowley had mentioned quite a few decades ago that he had received a commendation for his sleeping century. It would be on record that Crowley excelled in sloth when he wished.

...Heaven could be at fault too, however. True, they had focused their ire on Aziraphael but an uppity demon running about ruining the Great Plan would also be grounds for a good smiting. That it would hurt their equally uppity, HellFire resistant angel would be a pleasant bonus. A fully expected benefit. By the time he finished his tea he was no closer to course of action. Though, he was nicely sated. Crowley, for reasons that Aziraphael dared not delve into at the moment, stocked his favorite tea. Crowley didn’t even drink tea often and, when he visited his former flat, he hadn’t even had kitchen let alone a kettle or tea cups. Yet...here they were. Aziraphael stomach gave another strange twist. If this kept up it would be an all out knot soon. Time to get back at it. He could ask the demon about when he was awake. (He’d probably never ask him about it.) When he returned to the bed room the angel for Crowley just as he had left him: unconscious, unmoving, constantly dreaming. The only difference was that now he was tucked snugly under the comforter. It was silly, as Crowley was still fully clothed, but it made Aziraphael feel better to know that he was at least comfortable.

The waves of emotions were still rolling off him, albeit they were less so. Perhaps his last foray into the confines of Crowley’s mind had actually done something. He hoped that was the case.

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Aziraphael choked as the pungent scent of sulfur and the scorching heat invaded his airways. There was groaning and sobbing punctuated by the occasional scream.

Around him feathers and ash fell to the scorched ground like snow. Some were on fire, others perfect as the day they were created. The ground was littered with them, the sky saturated. Far above there were dancing flames, barely seen from his lowly point. BeyonD that, stars, one burning brighter than all the rest. He knew what would happen next. This story was a familiar one, though the vantage point much different. The last time he was up there, with the holy flames, with the stars.

War was a maker of beast in not just men but the heavenly as well.

The Morning Star Fell, crashing at some spot on the horizon with such force that he struggled to stay on his feet despite the distance. This time he had the sense to close his eyes to blot out the blindingly light that had taken days to recover from back then. More Fell. Screaming in rage, in horror, in shock. A purge of On High. The world was beginning to close, a layer being built, bit by bit, high above. This was Her newest creation. An eternal prison. Hell.

He heard him then. Crowley, gasping for air, shrieking as he struggled from the river of sulfur. His black wings soaked to the very core and useless for flight no matter how hard he flapped and jumped, attempting to get lift. He fell to his knees before rising again, stumbling and shambling, shouting all the way. “Wait! WAIT! Where are you going?! Don’t leave me here!” The sky closed up, leaving only rock and heat. Aziraphael wanted to curl in on himself and cocoon in his wings. It was too horrible. Unavoidable, yes, but unavoidable things were often the worst of all.

Crowley screamed an cursed and, all at once, fell as if bound by rope, arms and legs tight together. He hit the hardwood like a stack of bricks, scattering books.

Wait. Books? Aziraphael tore his eyes from friends, taking stock of his surroundings once again. There had been a change. This was hell but not at the same time. The materials were all wrong. Instead of smoldering feathers there were burning pages falling from on high. The sulfur and brimstone stench subsided only to be replaced by the scent of burning paper and molten leather. The sulfurous stalagmites had changed when he wasn’t looking into teetering, smoldering stacks of nameless books. Crowley was thrashing against his invisible bindings, wings tucked so close they were flush to him. The blackened feathers flattened, hardening into scales...then there were no legs but a tail- “Aziraphael!” His own name being screamed so terribly sucked the breath from him. Crowley was screaming once again, his mouth all fangs and forked tongue. “Assssziraphael I can’t-...you’re gone! I can’t find you! You’ve gone! h’Assssssssszzzziraphael! H’asssszira-!” All that was left was the snake, fangs bared to the dark ceiling above them, striking as if it might bring all of heaven down to its level.

As a principality Aziraphael had all manner of experience in the evils of man and how to inspire the strength to counter them. He considered himself quite good at it, if not lax at times, which is why he allowed himself to indulge. A delicious meal, a rare edition, sitting a bit too close at times to demonic company, taking orders as more of a suggestion, excetera, excetera. Anger was a rarity, saved for only the most dire of situations. His patience and faith that all would be well if he did the right thing kept it bay. Blind rage was beyond him. Even in mortal men he found it hard to truly know what would restore them. Crowley, however much he liked to deny it to the angel, was an optimist. There was always a temper brimming just beneath the surface, fueling his humor and more pragmatic view points, but his ‘glass half full’ way of approaching himself and the world around him seemed to keep him standing up right. This was a wrath born from the lack of a silver lining. Black as the billowing smoke that was beginning to choke Aziraphael and overflowing with fear and heartbreak. It was primal and without rational thought, destructive to its very core and more volatile than nitroglycerine being transported by express freight. It was terrifying.

Or, rather, he felt it should be. Instead he found himself bursting with compassion and sympathy. “I lost my best friend.” At the time with the end of the world looming and his lack of body he could only offer the briefest of apologies, of condolences, and they had never truly revisited that moment in the weeks that followed. The shop was fine, Aziraphael was corporeal, and upper management was giving them both a wide berth. “I lost my best friend.” His voice had broken, unusually hoarse as if he had screamed himself raw and never bothered to fix the damage. Oh! He hadn’t even looked like himself! Covered in soot and dried swat, clothing rumpled and filthy…. He had never seen Crolwy so disheveled, not in the six thousand years he had known him. Oh Crowley! Oh dear, sweet Crowley!

He was in motion before he consciously made the decision to go to him. The great snake tossed and coiled, hissing and striking, blind, utterly reptilian rage reflected in familiar yellow eyes. He threw himself on the serpent without further hesitation, wrestling with it. He yelped as a fang found purchase but kept on it, holding tighter, putting his wings into it. “I know, my dear, I know. It wasn’t fair.” He found himself saying through grunts and pants, saying whatever he thought might soothe the demon. After six thousand years of companionship surely he knew the right combination of words somewhere in his heart. “You were never abandoned, though, not truly! You did not go gentle into that good night. You raged, raged against the dying light. I’m right here. It’s quite alright! I’ll be here until you can see the dawn again.”

He kept talking, eyes screwed shut as it was all becoming too much. Too much fire, too much smoke, too much fury. Concentrate on scales, concentrate and pulling him closer, concentrate only Crowley.

He kept talking.

His hands ran over smooth, searing hot scales in gentling motions. He hushed and soothed.

Keep talking. Hold closer.

He was in the midst of some Whitman and breathless reassurances when he relized he stroking feathers. That all was still. The air was thick and hot but lacked the acrid smoke of moments ago. Cautiously he opened his eyes. Staring up at him from his lap were bright yellow eyes, framed by an angular face. Clean and well groomed from his red hair down to the tips of snake skin shoes. Aziraphael could only stare back, suddenly mute after speaking at such great length. Around them was Eden. Wait. No. The stone ceiling was made of glass, as were the walls. A green house awash with lush plants, fed on anger but provided for with care. He barely noticed. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the demon looking up at him from his lap. Slender hands reached upwards, framing his face tentatively. Relief exploded in his chest and, for the first time in his long life Aziraphael wanted to give in and allow himself to fall into those welcoming hands, turn his face until his lips meant the pulse in Crowley’s wrist and-

“It’ssss all wrong, innit?” Crowley spoke finally, a residual hiss worming its way into his words. “Sssomething wrong is being done. We weren’t here a second ago. I wasss...elssssewhere.” Aziraphael seized on this moment of lucidity. “Yes! My dear, I’m afraid you are under some sort of psychic attack! This all exists in the confines of your mind.” Gentle fingers ghosted along his jawline. “Are you real, then?” “Do I often make valiant appearances in your sleeping hours?” The angel joked, shooting a grin his way. Crowley never answered, fingers stopping their journey all at once. Aziraphael laughed uncertainly. “I don’t suppose you have any answers, do you?” He pushed, trying to wave away his last question with a new one.

“There’s all kinds of demons that could do...thissss,” Crowley hissed thoughtfully. “Humans ssskilled in the occult assswell. And angelsss.” Aziraphael nodded along. He wasn’t saying anything that he had not already considered himself but it was nice to get Crowley’s opinion on matters. It helped him think. Between the two of them they could come to a solution. They were truly stronger together. Crowley went rigid in his arms. “Ah, hell. Thisss doessssn’t feel good.” Everything was breaking apart. The plants were wilting and fading to nothing, the floor itself collapsing in on itself. “Not again!” He groaned and held to Crowley tighter. “You can’t go without me! I’ll...I’ll follow!” Crowley once again, infuriatingly, said nothing. Instead he continued to gaze at him with a peculiar expression. Then he was pushing the angel away, falling back into the crumbling nothing.

This time when Aziraphael came to his senses he shouted out in frustration and very nearly pitched the clock radio on the nightstand across the room in a fit of rarely felt anger.

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #fanfic #fan fiction

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hel-is-makingstuff-blog · 5 years

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Sloth in Soho-Ch.2

Aziraphael stayed frozen in the porch for what seemed like an eternity after the door swung shut behind him, fighting off the sense of dread that came when something so perfectly cliche happened in real life. Well then. That was...something.

He cleared his throat and pulled at his tie on impulse, straightening it then un-straightening it in the same fiddly movement. “Crowley?” He called, willing his voice to not come out as a hissing, soft shout and, instead, something that would carry more. He wasn’t afraid. He was NOT afraid. There was nothing to be afraid of. In fact, if not for the hurricane of second hand emotions buffeting him, he would say that nothing was wrong. Crowley had made quick, efficient work of his move, it seemed. There was a new paint, new hardwood, new everything smell hanging heavily in the air along side a tingle of infernal miracling. A whole renovation done in twenty-four hours. Crowley’s rather perfectionist, efficient nature when it came to his living space was on full display. He moved from the porch, mindful to toe off his shoes lest the demon bark at him for tracking in dirt, and into the home. He had never been inside when the original owners resided here. He had only knew them threw casual interactions and his own angelic prowess. He imagined it would be dated in the same way his own flat was. Perhaps it had been yesterday. The space was currently quite trendy, like he had stepped into the world’s coziest discotheque. The floors were so spotless he could see his reflection in the dark wood and the furniture occupying the main living area was made with rich, jewel toned velvets that looked inviting and sleek at the same time. His fingers twitched with an urge to run his hands over the fabric and test whether they were as luxurious as they appeared to be. The light fixtures, though off, seemed to be of the ultra-modern, chrome, dimmable sort. Perhaps they were ‘smart lights’ or whatever they were called. Crowley had seemed quite keen on the ‘smart house’ concept when they were talking about his plans. Magic without magic, he had called it, grinning and tipsy, sprawled across a stack of Aziraphael’s uninventoried books. (Fetching, Aziraphael had thought in that moment. Then, just as soon as the thought had entered his rather inebriated headspace, he banished it. Crowley was always fetching. He excelled at being fetching and the man knew it. He didn’t need him to tell him that. So he didn’t.) A cursory glance around the first floor revealed more of Crowley’s surprisingly tasteful decor choices but nothing of the man himself. Second floor it was, then. Ascending the stairs proved to be more of an endeavor than the angel could have ever expected. Crowley was definitely up there if the sudden wall of emotion that struck him was anything to go by. His stomach twisted so violently that, if he had been human, he surely would have not only vomited but passed out as well. As it were, though, it only set him springing upwards, taking the steps two at a time. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Something was wrong. His other wordly blood was boiling in his veins. The last time he had felt this kind of reaction was when Satan burst through the ground and fixed them all in his gaze. Some foul plan was afoot and Crowley was at the center. He hoped he was not the cause. No. Crowley was good at his core. He would never intentionally hurt himself or others. He hoped.

He found the bed room on the first try, throwing the door open dramatically like some kind of pulp hero. For a moment he felt let down, his shoulders sagging with just as much drama. Crowley was sleeping so soundly that he didn’t even stir when the door hit the wall, cracking the plaster. There was no obvious threat within sight. Aziraphael was berating himself for his overreaction and preparing to fix the damage-then it hit him again. That barrage of rapid fire, overly intense feelings. Crowley was having a nightmare. Fascinating! He knew the demon enjoyed his ‘beauty sleep’ but he had never mentioned anything about dreaming. Perhaps it was something that only demons could do? Or...only Crowley? Perhaps any otherworldly being could do it but they never did because sleep was not truly needed. Heaven knows it had never been something he indulged- Another wave brought his thoughts up short and redirected his attention back to his sleeping companion. Crowley’s smooth brow and slack jaw held no sign of the distress he was experiencing. If Aziraphael wasn’t tuning into the evidence first hand he would have believed nothing to be wrong. It couldn’t be allowed to continue, though. The demon may wake up cross with him but that was better than the hurt he was enduring. Aziraphael would weather his sour mood and offer to take him to brunch when his fit wore down. “Crowley, dear,” he called gently, approaching his bedside and daring to place a hand on a slender shoulder. “It’s time to wake up.” Nothing. Not even a flinch. This was not the first time Aziraphael had caught the demon napping and he knew for a fact that he was easy to rouse. Typically he’d make production of stretching and blinkingly blearily up at him with a peculiar expression that the angel was never quite able to decipher before asking what day it was and looking put off that he’d been woken up early. When he was up, he was up, though. There was a feeling like ice water in the lungs building in Aziraphaels chest. Before he could even reconsider he was kneeling on the bed, nearly straddling the sleeping man, and shaking him. “Crowley! For Heaven's sake, Crowley!” His voice was pitched with a budding panic. Crowley was limp in his hands, a rag doll to be tossed about. If it weren’t for the periodic darting beneath his eyelids and the warmth he radiated he would have thought him dead. The thought sent a fresh jolt of alarm coursing through his body. It was irrational, of course! Nothing short of a bucket of holy water could kill his friend and they had seen to it that no one would give that a try anytime soon. Besides, he was right here. Everything was fine. Well, physically it was. What was he to do? There was most certainly something foul afoot but what it was he simply didn’t know. It was unlikely he’d receive any aid if it was requested. Heaven still sent him their missives and he did his duty in the Almighties name but his fellow angels had taken to treating him like an aberration since the HellFire incident went awry for them. He had a good laugh when Crowley recounted it all to him but now...well, it certainly made it difficult to ask for assistance. Not that they would come. What was he going to say? ‘Hello Gabrielle! Sorry for that end of the world business but I could really use a hand with my dear Crowley! You remember him right? Handsome chap with the glasses? Demon?’ As Crowley had once said, that would likely go over like a lead balloon. He doubted that he’d get any help from Crowley’s side for the same reasons. Not that he really wanted to ask. Certainly if any demon caught wind of his dear friends current state they would quite literally seize the opportunity with both hands and throttle him! Not that he’d let them. No. He’d never let them. He’d smite the lot if they even tried, paperwork be damned! That left only himself. “Our Side.” He’d have to muddle his way through this. He’d have to reach in without Crowleys explicit permission and suss it all out. It was the best course of action. Yet it felt so very wrong. Switching bodies had been done consentingly and they had both agreed back then that they wouldn’t invade each other’s private thoughts through that connection. It certainly wouldn’t be welcome now that they were themselves again. Tentatively he reached out his aura, opening himself up to Crowley, testing the waters. He had been near sickened on the stairs by the waves emotion he felt and he had been mostly closed off then. Now, with the doors opened a crack, he could feel more, see more. The way Crowley’s aura flared as brightly as the sun only to dim as if snuffed out the in the next second. A terrible seesaw of conflicting emotions that was distressing for the angel to interact with. He threw himself wide open to it. He’d not cower in the face of this. Crowley had done stupid, dangerous things over the millenia for Aziraphaels sake. How could he hesitate any longer when faced with the evidence of his dearest friends agony? How could he even call himself his dearest friend if he did not do that for him? It was on that soul steeling thought that Aziraphael let himself be fully swept up by the demon and pulled into him. Invasion or privacy or no, he’d figure this out and face Crowleys anger later. He prayed he’d forgive him.

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Strangely enough, Aziraphael’s sense of smell returned to him before his sight or hearing. He could smell fresh stardust and void, the scents of brand new universe. It stirred something in his heart he hadn’t felt since he left Heaven to guard Eden. Could it be…?

Yes! His hearing and sight came back together and he was blessed with celestial harmonies being sung from a distance and the great, velvety black expanse of the universe. This wasn’t Heaven. This was the place that existed above and below and to the sides of all existence, where stars were hung and galaxies born. Except there was very little of either, at the moment. Every now and then a light would flicker on, light years away or color would bloom. This was the Beginning. The time before Earth. The time before Heaven was called such. Before the Rebellion. Before Angels had names. This was the time when they all had one goal and one love: Please the Almighty, their Creator, and follow Her instructions to make all this void into something beautiful.

He hadn’t been one those to decorate the cosmos. It was something he watched from afar with delight as he basked in Her words and love. Actually, now that he allowed himself to think about it, he hadn’t really had a job before he was given his sword and told to fight in the Rebellion. Giving himself a shake of the head, he cleared his thoughts of nostalgia. This wasn’t real. This was a dream. A sense of astoundment overcame him as he remembered that. This was a dream. Crowley’s dream. There he was. Red hair that fell in perfect, loose ringlets past his shoulder blades, standard issue white, linen robes wrapped about his slender frame, and brilliant white wings tucked tightly to his back as he floated aimlessly in the rich darkness of the void, a finger pressed to his lips and his brows knit in unexplained consternation. Aziraphael’s heart give a rather alarming lurch in chest. A part of him always wondered about Crowley before the Fall. It was a period of time that the demon refused to speak about. Well, except for that one time when they were polishing off their second bottle of red wine at the shop and Crowley began flipping through books of astronomy. “Oi! That’s one of mine!” He had declared in drunken delight upon seeing a grainy photo of a nebula. He had clammed up when pressed and never spoke of it again leaving Aziraphael desperately curious. “Crowley!” He called and flew forward. Oh! He hadn’t even realized his wings were out. He didn’t have time to question it as he was finding it difficult to make any kind of head way. There was a pressure that made it nigh impossible to move his wings, like he was flying through a thick custard. His progress was painfully slow and inexplicably exhausting. “I’m here! Just...wait!” He didn’t know what he was telling him to wait for. Indeed, there seemed to be nothing happening to cause the former angel any kind of distress.

Crowley continued to look out into the void, seemingly not hearing him. At times tilting his head to the left or right as if to get a better angle on the blackness and tapping his finger to his pursed lips in thought. Oh how Aziraphael wished he could see the man’s eyes! Not only would they satiate his own curiosity as to what God had bestowed on him at the Beginning but they would also tell a story. Crowley tended to be rather expressive, sans sunglasses, something he was sure the man knew. Crowley spread his wings and arms slowly, as if stretching out some kink in his celestial body. Then he was in motion, waving his hands gracefully like the conductor of a great symphony, summoning saturated scarlets, brilliant blues, vivid violets, and just a touch of turquoise. He swirled and mixed, swayed and bowed, utterly lost in his work. Aziraphael could only stare, mouth agape, as a nebula he had never known to exist took shape.

Stunning. Absolutely stunning. He had an appreciation and love for all creation but, in that moment, he loved this more than anything else. It reeked of a passion that was denied most angels, a wildness that he thought unknown back then. Just as quickly as it started it was done and Crowley was back to sitting in the void, studying his handiwork. No matter the time period, Aziraphael knew when his friend was dissatisfied. Why he should be he had no idea. This was a marvellous creation! He never took Crowley for a painter but now he wondered if he had ever picked it up in the past six thousand years. It would probably be a good outlet for him. He’d have to suggest it when everything was better. “It’s beautiful, Crowley,” he tried, hoping his voice carried over the distance between them. He had never meant anything more in his life. Crowley didn’t react. He merely kept looking. Aziraphael was growing irritated. What was he to do if he couldn’t make Crowley hear him? Why was this memory causing him such distress and what did it have to do with his continued slumber? The nebula was wiped from existence with a sudden violence that sent the angel reeling. What in heaven’s name-?!

Crowleys wings were fluffed up, his hand extended, teeth bared. “That’s not the best I can do,” he hissed to himself, angrily. “Amateur. Not worthy of notice. I shall never be seen with a production like that.” There was a fire in his primary feathers, a blackening at the very quills. Crowley showed no sign of noticing but Azirphael could feel the anger reverberating in the space around them. The frustration was palpable, a toxic kind of pride shattering the serenity of the void, quite literally splintering it. The heavenly chorus is the distance was warping like one was attempting to play a warped vinyl record. There was a hint of brimstone in the air. A new nebula, more gaudy and brilliant than the last, was created only to be destroyed. Again and again. A Sisyphean task of Crowley’s own creation that Aziraphael was helpless to-

No. To say he was helpless was akin to despair. If he despaired there would be no one left to help Crowley. He needed to break this down, part by part, determine the core issue, and proceed in some way. This was...what? Crowley didn’t feel like he was doing well enough. No. Simpler. Crowley wanted to be noticed? Simpler again. Crowley was...Crowley was…. Prideful. He wanted to be prideful and be noticed for his efforts. He wanted this nebula to be the best version of itself so everyone would look at it and say ‘Crowley made that!’ Yet he couldn’t find peace. It wasn’t good enough. The nature of this unending night was that it would never be good enough for the Almighty or himself. Aziraphale found in himself a new strength and pushed forward towards his increasing frantic friend, wings straining with the effort and hand outstretched. Just a little further. Just-just a little--! His fingers wrapped firmly about the man’s thin wrist, bringing his frenzied movements to a sudden halt. For the first time since he entered this space Crowley was aware of him. Crowley was looking at him with eyes that simply were not there. Oh goodness. Oh oh oh! It was all the angel could do not to recoil in horror. Instead he smiled his gentlest, most reassuring smile, unsure if it could even be seen. “My dear, what a beautiful thing you’ve made. Truly, I’ve never seen anything quite so stunning,” he soothed, stroking the demons ego and meaning every syllable. It felt strange to compliment him like this. He was normally trying to encourage humility but...Crowley had been prideful since the beginning, apparently. Maybe, just maybe, validation would act as a balm to his soul. Crowley gaped for a moment. “...Angel…?” He began, confusion etching lines across his face. “It...it’s just like the other ones….” “Not so!” Aziraphael vehemently reassured, using his contact with the demon to lever himself closer, bringing his body near flush to Crowley’s own. He tried to wrap him up in a feeling of well being. “You’ve done quite well.” Validation truly was medicine to the former angel. Even this simple acknowledgment snuffed the fire in his wings. He looked away, colour staining his cheeks. “It’s...not perfect yet.” “It will never be!” Aziraphael declared cheerily. “Isn’t that better though? Nothing in creation is perfect. Nothing is as we expect it to be. This is beautiful because you made it, my dear. I should very much like it if you left it as is so I might always enjoy it.” These words had a profoundly humbling effect of Crowley. Aziraphael couldn’t guess at the thoughts that were running through his head but a sensation of second hand satisfaction and...and something else coursed through him.

Crowley was smiling a distinctly Crowley smile, slitted yellow eyes focused on him. Actually, Crowley looked like Crowley as he had always known him, black wings and all. Aziraphaels tender heart flipped. This kind of open expression was rare and, therefore, precious. “Suppose I can’t deny you it, then,” Crowley intoned with a smirk. It seemed he was going to say more but at that very moment it all went pear shaped. The universe inverted, fissures spreading in the dark. There was a very real physical push against his very being that sent him tumbling, arse over tea kettle, back and back and back through space- -and off the side Crowley’s bed where he was laid. Still sound asleep.

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #fanfic #fan fiction

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hel-is-makingstuff-blog · 5 years

Text

Sloth in Soho-Ch. 1

Welp. Guess I’m reviving this blog to post a Good Omens fan fic that I wrote while I wait for AO3 to let me in. Here we gooooo.

~Hel.

Crowley, as a demon living on earth, was very familiar with sin. In fact, he considered himself an expert in all seven of the cardinal ones, having indulged in each and everyone over his eternal life. Sometimes daily. Sometimes multiple times a day. Hell, hourly when he was having particularly strong streak of indulgence and wickedness.

Pride was perhaps his number one go to. Oh, he wasn’t exactly proud of being a demon. There was something about the role that always seemed to fit poorly, like he had walked into a boutique and picked out a good quality Halloween costume instead of an actual outfit. No, his pride was centered on his cleverness and good looks. He fancied himself one of the more intelligent demons from the pit and he always kept his appearance in top shape, never giving over to the warts and blemishes of his counterparts. Perhaps if he had spent more time ‘in the office’ he’d let himself go but, as it were, he didn’t have to worry about that much anymore.Wrath was another one he was pretty adept at. He had been simmering with anger for well over six thousand years. Anger at the Almighty for tossing him aside, anger at Lucifer for being so well spoken and appealing to his rather curious and rebellious nature, anger at his former ‘friends’ for turning their back when he Fell, anger at his fellow demons for being such a sorry, pathetic lot, anger at himself for not leaving well enough alone. He was careful with his Wrath, almost afraid of it. There were those that didn’t deserve his anger, after all, and he was never one for letting something so deeply personal wound those around him. Better to direct it at the foliage and piss people off with inconveniences so they could feel a fraction of what he felt daily. He related Envy directly back to his Wrath. He could taste the want on his forked tongue before he fell into a particularly bad fit. He envied the heavenly hosts and their clean lines and nicely coiffed visages. They had never tasted sulfur or had to wrestle with their own, personal beasts taking a very physical form. He envied humans and their ability to flit about doing as the pleased, even when they felt they had no control at all. He envied even his fellow demons for how easily they abandoned their past selves and threw themselves into their roles. Wrath and Envy, feeding each other constantly in never ending supply. Much like the former, Gluttony and Greed held on to each other tightly. Greed spurred him to have things. He didn’t need a flat or plants or a fancy car or expensive clothing and accessories...yet he had all of these things and, even as he considered himself a minimalist, he always had an eye out for new souvenirs. He wanted what others had on earth, a home and the things that came with it but he never felt like it was enough. There was always something more he needed. A void that he was always trying to fill. Lust. Lust was nice. Lust felt harmless and felt good. One could lust after something or someone and never need possess it. He lusted often. Sometimes he’d indulge. A pretty face with a prettier smile could destroy him, leaving him weak in the knees. A few whispered words and a smile of his own and he could indulge in not only his own lust but others as well. Sure, sometimes a husband or wife would be hurt or a career ruined but it seemed so small and surmountable. Harmless, in the great scheme of things, and a good side note in a memo back to the office. Well, when he had to send memos to offices. He didn’t really do that anymore, though he still kept notes in case things went tits up. Now, Sloth. Sloth was his all time favorite. Sloth was easy. He could do nothing for years and, if ever called out on it, he need only say he was practicing or coax the mortals in his surrounding area to follow his lead then all was fine again. He had slept a century away, once, letting his aura spread out like the blankets he had nestled under. When he woke up he had found the quaint neighborhood he had taken up in had grown to be rather materially wealthy with unscrupulous souls who were growing fat off the hard work and pain of others while they, themselves, did nothing. Head office had loved it. A true long came. He had gotten a certificate of commendation with Lucifer’s signature and everything. It was currently packed away in the bottom of one of the few boxes he was stacking near the front door of his flat. Head office didn’t call on him anymore. He had been fired which...well. It didn’t mean much, really. He was still a demon with demonic vices only, now, he could perform and tempt and create mischief in ways the pleased him instead of some great Beast with a fancy signature. The only downside was that severance package: a constant sense of paranoia and dread coupled with a feeling that he should change things up a little. He had decided to move a few weeks after he did his part in averting apocalypse. His sparse, brutalist inspired flat no longer seemed fitting for his new lease on life. Its concrete walls reminded him too much of the hallways of Hell and what use was that, anymore? He toyed with the idea of using his talents to redecorate but, even with his limited imagination, he found it hard to see the space differently than it was. Better to start fresh in a new location and let the place itself inspire who he wanted to be. That his new flat happened to be in Soho was brilliant stroke of luck that he tried not to think too hard about. Soho was a sought out neighborhood, after all. People could end up on waiting lists a hundred names deep for a decent one bedroom flat without a kitchen. Anything beyond that was snapped up before the ink could dry in the classifieds section of the paper. That not only a flat but an all out house with a driveway had opened up and was available around the time he started looking was nothing short of unlikely. That it was not even a five minute walk from a certain book shop in an area that he was sure sported very few houses was miraculous. He didn’t question it out loud. He had only made arrangements, paid not only a deposit but his first years rent in advance, and told Aziraphale of his great luck when they had met for dinner that night. Aziraphale had looked guileless. Truly astounded. What good news, Crowley! Surely that meant he’d visit more often? Perhaps they could have lunch more often! Daily, even! Crowley pretended to not notice that the angel seemed smug. He was good at noticing these things. He was better at ignoring them. He was very good at ignoring a lot of things about Aziraphael, none of which were worth recounting because acknowledging was exactly the opposite of ignoring. He wasn’t sure which vice steadfastly ignoring something fell under. Perhaps Sloth? Yes. That seemed to fit well enough. Even thinking of his favorite sin made his eyes itch with sleep. Well, he had been packing for a few days straight. Even before that he had been avoiding indulging himself for over a week. Unlike most demons, Crowley could dream. He quite liked it, most times, as they were usually just ideal reflections of his everyday life. A particularly well executed plan, a smooth temptation, a green house all of his own, a good evening spent in angelic company…. His last nap had been...tumultuous. The images were jumbled and reflected memories and...and his own unconscious imaginings. It was a nightmare, something a demon should be unfazed by. Yet it had stuck with him. It was a coincidence that he had decided that a change of scenery was needed the next day. He was shaken from his thoughts by the buzzer of his flat notifying him of the arrival of the movers. Great. Good. Late but, hey, who was he to pitch a fuss about it? He was a demon, after all. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Aziraphale, angelic principality, was a common sight in Soho. Most paid him no mind. He and his shop were simply a fixture of the neighborhood. That both seemed to never age or go anywhere were an afterthought, barely retained once they recognized him. Still, when people did grasp onto his presence, they usually noted a book or a take away bag tucked under his arm as he fussed about. The probably explained the occasional curious look he was getting as, instead of either of those items, he had a potted plant tucked under his arm. He was quite proud of it. A succulent with a dark top and golden undersides that reminded him of Crowley perfectly. A fantastic house warming present! He hoped. Luckily, hope was something he had in abundance. There was perhaps the tiniest bit of a spring in his step as he by-passed his shop, heading to his dearest friends new abode. Crowley had been in his neighborhood entire day now and he hadn’t been over for some tea! Nevermind the demon had warned him to stay away for at least twenty-four hours as he moved in and decorated to his liking. Aziraphale had offered to help, of course. A celestial being and demonic one working miracles together was certain to make the work go faster than one on their own! Crowley had politely declined. Well, politely for Crowley. Aziraphale had followed his instructions to the letter and he was anything if not punctual. Even his diversion to the garden center had been planned to leave him just the right amount of time to make the trek, on foot, to his best friends house. He beamed brightly at the home as he approached, feeling a tiny bit proud of himself. The owners, a sweet elderly couple that had stuck together through thick and thin, had quite suddenly come into a bit of a windfall in the form of a winning lottery scratch ticket and decided to retire to villa in Spain as they had always dreamed of doing. The only reason they had decided to not sell the home out right to some enterprising developer was because of the need to have a source of extra income. A good, well deserved stroke of fortune for some truly decent and loving people. That Crowley had been planning on relocating and that it was just so close to his shop was a coincidence. Mostly. He may have worked a little miracle on the lottery ticket and, perhaps, mentioned how the home would probably be torn down when sold in a passing conversation with the couple...but that was it! ...well, aside from inspiring the garden to bloom a bit brighter just in case Crowley did decide to look into it. Which he had. He opened the gate to the front path with barely contained excitement. It screeched loudly on rusted hinges, causing him to wince. Oh. Oh that wouldn’t do at all! A flick of his hand and the screeching stopped, the hinges suddenly well oiled. That done he made his way to the front door, noting that the plants in the flower bed seemed to be in need of a good watering. Hm. Crowley must not be quite settled yet...or he was hesitant to scream at his flower beds in broad daylight in front of a busy street. Still contemplating the state of the garden he distractdly knocked on the door, a soft sound that barely reached his own ears. Somehow, Crowley always heard his tentative knocking. Except this time he was left waiting. He shifted the plant in his arms, making it more obviously seen for when Crowley opened the door. He waited. Then, after a brief moment of anxious hesitation, knocked again. Louder. Perhaps the acoustics of the demons former flat allowed for his knocks to carry differently than this house. This time there was some movement from...somewhere. Upstairs if he had to hazard a guess. He supposed he could reach out, touch Crowley’s aura, and simultaneously know the demons position and notify him of his presence but they tended to leave that for more urgent circumstances. Brushing each other aura’s and tracking one another was...well, it felt invasive. Neither of them were a fan, though Aziraphale often wondered if Crowley’s ability to appear where he happened to be was the result of him ‘checking in’ more often than he let on. He never asked about it. Aziraphale’s brow was pinched in confusion. Still no answer. He was debating whether he should knock again, reach out with his energy, or just walk straight through the door when the latter suddenly just...swung open. “Ah! I was beginning to-” He stopped and peered into the home. It seemed dark for a sunny afternoon. As far as he could tell everything had been unpacked and Crowleys possessions were now adorning the interior but...it felt off. Well, a door opening with no one behind it, as it had, would feel off. Aziraphale hesitated at the threshold. He was not one for horror movies but he did indulge, from time to time, in written works of macabre and dreadful. It was a bit of a morbid fascination of his and horror did offer some fantastic insights into the heart of man and the fears that plagued them. It was research, he told himself. .This was like one of those penny dreadfuls. A door opening on its own, inviting an unwitting guest to indulge their curiosity. Only...Aziraphale knew the nature of beasts that lurked in the shadows, this one being particularly familiar. Once again he considered reaching out but...what if this was a game? Would he be runing some surprise of Crowleys if he started prodding? If his hands hadn’t been occupied by the potted succulent he would have wrung them. Everything felt strange. He was deeply attuned to the emotions of others but Crowley always had a firm wall in place. It would develop a fissure from time to time, such as when doomsday was bearing down upon them, and Aziraphael could feel the fear and desperation in the demons being. Since, though, the wall had gone back up and Crowley had gotten back to being Crowley albeit without infernal direction. There was a tidal wave of emotions being held in just beyond that door way. A floodgate waiting to spill out into the surrounding area. Aziraphale could pick no dominant emotion, rather it was like everything was being felt all at once, all the time. The longer he tried to tune in to it the more his stomach churned. Right. Something needed to be done. He needed to cross into the unknown. His feet stayed rooted in place. Oh. He was afraid. What if this was an unwelcome intrusion? A moment more of hesitation and he straightened his already impeccable posture further. He was the guardian of the east gate! A Rogue Angel! A bookshop keeper that was regularly cussed out by humans! He could handle a little unknown evil! With that in mind he took a breath...and crossed the threshold. The door swung shut behind him.

#good omens #fanfic #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale

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