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livingintheworldofstories · 4 years

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forgiveness (can you imagine)

Genre: angst with a happy ending Word Count: 8273 Summary: After Beelzebub slams the door to Hell in his face, Crowley walks to Aziraphale's bookshop, but he can tell that something is off. He falls to his knees in pain - and then he realizes. She is making him Rise. It's painful. It's what he would never admit that he wanted. (Maybe now he can be loved.) ao3: forgiveness (can you imagine) If there is one thing Crowley is absolutely certain of, it is this: Once a demon, always a demon. However, what Crowley is absolutely certain of and what Crowley dreams of are quite different things. On lazy afternoons, he dreams he is a serpent and has always been a serpent. On good days, he dreams he is a demon and has always been a demon. But on the bad days, Crowley dreams he is forgiven. And loveable. And loved.

(Once an angel…)

Same side, he dreams voraciously. White-winged and golden-eyed, he dreams wolfishly. Untainted, unsullied, unmarked. Every blessed four-letter-word. Good, nice, kind, he dreams ravenously.

(You were an angel once.) And hungrily, hungrily, he dreams, a soft warm hand grasping skinny fingers. Yellow eyes and dark heart forgotten. What was once wretched. What was once wicked. Forgiven. Skin that has forgotten the shape of scales. I recognize you. I see you. We are the same. (Flames so hot they dance blue, licking up and licking down and licking everywhere as of yet untouched by pain.)

A Shakespeare play unwritten. Stars uncrossed. The sweetest love confessions, like poems, honey of the soul. He dreams so desperately. Two angels, side by side.

(Feathers burning so quickly, so easily, like they were meant for it. Stubborn flesh burns harder.) On worse days, at his weakest, Crowley dreams he is whole. He has never broken his wings. He has never disappointed anyone. He has never made a mistake so bad it can’t be forgiven. Pathetically, he dreams, I deserve to be loved.

(That was a long time ago.)

Crowley wakes up, and knows the nature of a demon, and knows to hold his tongue.

It’s just after the Nahpocalypse that he gets it a little mixed up and washes his dreams over into his carefully separated reality.

Demons, typically, do not hope. Hope is just a few technicalities removed from faith after all. It had been viciously burned out of them when they screamed during the Fall and no one came. Crowley, of course, has always been a rather terrible demon.

(This is where the sunset will take inspiration from. How beautiful, it thinks, watching white wings burn hot red, ardent orange, spiteful yellow. I will make those colors mine.) So for a few awful days after the world doesn’t end, Crowley is consumed with shameful, treacherous hope. His whole corporation is brimming with it. It’s brimming with idiotically composed hypotheticals. What if Heaven was holding him back? What if he lets himself have things now? Or some more pathetic ones. What if he will hold my hand?

(You do not land from a fall like this.)

But, of course, among all the things that changed, there are things that didn’t.

(You crash.)

Crowley is still a demon. It is intrinsic to his being that he can not be loved, certainly not by an angel. Unloved is woven into his pitch black feathers. Unforgiveable is braided into his fire hair. Maybe that’s what’s holding Aziraphale back.

(The crash is what leaves the life of what once was an angel hanging by a string. Any being with burning wings thinks it knows pain. But then their bones shatter. Then the fierce power of the impact knocks the breath out of their lunges. They would think, that knocked the soul out of my body, if they could still form coherent thoughts.)

Because Aziraphale knows. The very core of his being is rotten and wormed. There is no unseeing that. And hope dies a slow death in Crowley’s heart, as days pass, and everything is different and stays the same.

(You can only live through this if you convince yourself you do not have a soul.)

Maybe that is why he chooses to wander into hell, under thinly veiled excuses. No one bothers him on his way in. He makes it all the way to his office before he is stopped, two demons grabbing his arms and the Lord of Flies fixes him with an angry glare and crossed arms.

(In toxicity and heat, only the most stubborn beings survive. Maggots crawling up your calves, flies kissing your eyes, leeches clinging to your skin, a parasite disguises its greed as love and you reach for it without hesitation, without inhibitions. You let yourself be fooled with the hopeless desperation of a starving man.) “What are you doing here, Crowley?” Beelzebub asks, head tilted.

“I was just – ehh, y’know, clearing out my office -”

Beelzebub waves a hand, a cue for the demons to drag him through the narrow corridors of Hell. They ignore Crowley’s struggling and his shuffling feet and keep a tight grip. Outside the doors of Hell, they sent him on an undignified tumble with a shove. Crowley takes a moment to find his feet, but then he whirls around. Beelzebub and their demon bouncers are standing in the doorway.

“You can’t just – I mean, no hospitality, you people. I’m a demon too! I have rights! Worker’s rights, ever heard of it?”

“You’re no demon,” Beelzebub buzzes and slams the door in his face. Crowley blinks at it for a few moments, feeling oddly dejected.

(An apple that isn’t picked falls.)

Downtrodden, Crowley starts to walk somewhere, anywhere. He follows the familiar way to the bookshop almost automatically. He doesn’t know what he wanted in Hell, not really. He hasn’t belonged there for a long time. Perhaps he was looking for some familiarity. Perhaps he wanted to remind himself of what he deserves.

He breathes in the open space and lets himself think of Aziraphale. It’s not too late for lunch. Forget about what he can never have. Most dreams are best locked away. He just needs to put a lid on it somehow, the same way he has done for millennia.

Oh, he knows. There are some questions you do not ask. There are some strings you don’t pull. Not if you want to keep – not if you want to stay - He breathes in deeply, the smog-filled dirty London air, the free sky air, cold breeze air.

(But you do rise eventually. Sulfur dripping from what remains of your wings, every bit of you that can still feel aching, and strangely certain She doesn’t love you anymore, you rise.) This is how to carry on: You saunter forward. You keep your eyes ahead. On his way, he notices a total of four (four!) people who smile at him. It’s like the opposite of people staring because you have something on your shirt. It’s like everyone being very impressed with you because you don’t have something on your shirt. Crowley is thoroughly unsettled by it.

He does not expect the sudden piercing pain in his chest. It makes him crumble to his knees. The humans start sending him irritated glances now, so he scrambles to his feet and ducks into the nearest alley. Next to three black trash bags, Crowley lets himself be consumed by the ache.

Crowley has had his fair share of pain and millennia to feel it, but he has never felt anything like this before. It’s pain reinvented, like someone changed up the formula, just to make torture a little more interesting.

Fuck. Where the bloody Heaven is it coming from? Crowley’s knees buckle again and he props himself up by his hands, the rough asphalt digging into his palms. Fuck, is he dying? It feels like dying. He has never touched holy water, but he imagines this is what it must be like, like burning without burning.

It’s the mirror-image of agony. It’s pain in a different flavor. It’s death by – love. That’s what it is. Love. Bloody angelic fucking love. And there is something distinctly holy about it. It’s been an eternity since he’s felt like this, like this without the pain, like this but like it belonged in his body. But he remembers – fuck, he remembers and back then it was good, so good. (It’s a method of torture to put someone in a room for days and never turn off the light.)

He looks around frantically, searching for who did this to him, if it was Beelzebub and her demons, if it was an angel because only an angel could cause divine agony like this. But there is no one – he is alone in the alley with the trashcans – there is nobody but him, just like back then.

It’s everywhere, even in his toes, even in his fingertips. If he could feel pain in his hair or his nails, he would.

Maybe it’s Her. What if it’s Her? What if She is punishing him now, for saving the world or for asking too many questions or for not being good enough of a demon? Maybe She’s decided that if he doesn’t fit in the two categories she has carved out for them, he doesn’t deserve to exist at all. Maybe She’d decided he’d asked for too much. (He had. He’d asked for the world and for love and for nights spent stargazing and holding hands with an angel.) And She wouldn’t even let him say good-bye to Aziraphale. How is that for mercy? (He had never known Her to be merciful.)

He tries to grab his phone through the pain, but his hands are shaking and it slips through his fingers. Tremors roll through his body and he leans forward.

“It’s not fair,” he mutters, grinding his hands against the ground. He feels like he did in the burning bookshop, only this time he doesn’t have to lose his world. His world will stay, it’s only him who will be gone. That’s better. That’s almost something resembling okay. Aziraphale will be fine.

He’d thought he was dying back then, he’d really thought he would, back then he had still thought she would be merciful. Maybe this is Her finishing the job.

If he’s dying, why does it have to hurt so much? Couldn’t She have done it in his sleep, if She’s oh so powerful? (But he doesn’t deserve it, does he? He doesn’t deserve a peaceful exit. That’s what She’s always thought, that he should BURN BURN BURN) He screams

broken s o u n d s tumbling out of his mouth

Drowning

It’s like DROWNING

He has died like humans do a few times he has never drowned but almost so he knows -

It is drowning and surviving. Gulping up water, have it fill your lungs, and it does, it’s everywhere, holy and everywhere, he is choking on it and gasping for air that won’t come and never being granted the mercy of death.

This is the holy water that will refuse to kill you. He is n o t dying, dying is easy, he has done it over and over, he is living and that’s worse WORSE Where is HER MERCY? Humans die, and they say it’s like walking toward the light at the end of the tunnel. Why do they get to have it so easy? Why does light burn burn burn like water does. . And his wings. They hurt so much, he has to drag them onto this plane of existence.

. !

? Blue, everything. is. blue. ?

? They move

drag

on their own accord

on SOMEONES accord

upwards

UPwards

u p w a r d s - but they drag down go up but drag down heavy as lead as a lead balloon as the beginning of the world But you fly anyway, impossibly, against each downwards drag of your wings. (It’s like falling upwards.) (It’s still losing. It’s always losing.) He flies with wings in agony. Drowning. Only there is no water to drown in. It wells up inside of him, invisible and not really water.

Tears, though. Those burn. Like holy holy water. Surviving. Even though you’ve run out of air long ago and all you breathe is water, wet and cold. And it is Good.

He could feel how very bloody Good it was. (And Goodness hurts and scathes and sometimes kills. And Goodness does not repent. Goodness leaves a trail of bodies after itself and does not glance back a single time.) Why does She want him so high? So She can drop him? So he can Fall again? And again and again? Why is he surprised?

She brings him closer and closer – to Heaven – to what he once was - She will drop him - She will drop him out of the clouds - And worst of all -

He will never see Aziraphale again.

(Can She drag him up again by broken wings?)

He always thought he would die by love, all the love that has always consumed him and eaten him and devoured him and sustained him and nourished him and healed him – but Aziraphale is not even here, but Love is and doesn’t leave.

He doesn’t need Love with a capital L, he never has. He had love instead.

(And he was good at it, if there was one thing at all he was good at, it was this. He loved. Like a human. Like an angel. Like a demon with nothing else to live for. He’d loved, and it had been so, so good, and She would never take it away from him.)

And it had been so much. Too much. He had expected to drown in love, yes, but not like this. (He had expected a touch lingering too long.) (He had expected a gaze too intense.) (He had expected words too harsh.) (Those were the things he had prepared to die for.) (And oh, the love he had lived for.)

Higher, higher, he keeps shooting higher, he cannot stop his wings. (He will fly too close to the sun.) More than he would like to admit, I am scared. If this is dying, when do we get to the good part? If this is not dying, what is it? Is this my punishment for hoping? For asking? Should have known better than to hope. Am a demon after all.

demon aren’t i why does it feel wrong to think demon (unforgiveable it’s what i AM) I am a demon, I am unfor- I am un- I am a- I am an Giveable for u n Able lov u n Nomed N O M E D I am. Scattered letters on my tongue. I am an. I will die touching the clouds. (I am flying too close to the sun.) (But you don’t know how much I have always ached with it.) (You think your Love can kill me, go on, try it. I fucking dare you.) (Torture me with kindness. Whip me with niceties. Hollow me out with your Love, I fucking dare you.) You do not get to shape me. You do not get to make me. I am not your bruise to press on.

(I did ask when I was Burning.)

(I begged.) (Resurrect my soul. Glue my wings back on. Heal those sulfur burns. Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me.) You are slicing through the air and it is slicing through you. You are the weapon and the wound.

(You have flown too close to the sun.)

You are Her Enemy. You are Her detested door-to-door salesman. You are a dried leaf under Her boot and She likes to hear it crack.

…

You are Her child. … You are My child.

you are my child i love you i’m sorry -

The Goodness and the Love and the Holiness flood his veins and his essence and everything, until there is no room for him anymore.

It will keep pressing, he knows. Until he is burned away. And it’s okay. Aziraphale is safe. And it was all worth it. He has loved. He is ready to go.

But then it eases – but She will not let him – he can breathe again – his wings are his again – he is floating -

He gains control of his wings and lands on the ground of the alley softly. And he can tell. Something is Gone. And something is There.

There are two things he is certain of: He is Forgiven. He is Loved. Which makes him not certain of anything anymore.

He is shaking, even though the pain is gone. Once a demon. (Once a demon…) ? Once a.

? ?

He will not be loved. He will not be forgiven. He is. He’s.

It’s everywhere. He has felt it before, but that was a long, long time ago.

Love is not something to have. It’s a passer-by. It’s a precious visitor. It is not in its nature to last. (Not for someone like Crowley.) Love will not be owned. (And if there is one place it does not belong it’s behind yellow slitted eyes.) He knows what it feels like to have Love bleeding from your fingertips. Love oozing from star-maker’s hands. Love dripping red from curled angel hair. Love is not to keep. What just happened? What happened? Something is Missing. Something is There.

He is a demon, he has wings. He has… White. Why are they white? Fucking shit. Fucking hell. Holy fucking shit. Fucking Heaven. They’re white. They can’t be white. It’s impossible. (They burned in fire and in acid. They broke and healed. They are as black as a void where goodness used to lie.) He tears off his sunglasses and turns them around, quickly skimming his reflection in the glass. The eyes are still there. But the wings are looming behind him, as if he were – some sort of – holy – ngk

And if there’s one thing Crowley is absolutely certain of, it is this -

(It’s WHAT I AM -) once. crowley was once an angel. Fuck. As a matter of fact, no. No. No no no no no.

Crowley does not run to Aziraphale’s bookshop. It is an emergency, but not one that warrants superfluous exercise. He does, however, walk at a very brisk pace.

He does not think anything but a never-ending string of swear words and curses. He throws open the door to the bookshop and there he is. Safe. Whole. Tartan bow tie and everything.

He almost walks back out when he is hit with a wave of love stronger than anything he felt out on the street, love that he knows is not his own.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley rasps. He can’t say the other thing at the moment. “Oh, Crowley!” Aziraphale starts walking toward him, hands anxiously fidgeting in front of him. “What’s going on? What happened? Is it angels? Are angels after you? I could swear I’m sensing one close by, I’ve been a little… nervous about it.” “Nah – no, it’s not – it’s not angels, I don’t think, it’s -”

“But I’m usually never wrong about these things.” Aziraphale frowns.

“Well – well you’re not wrong, technically, it’s just.” Crowley can’t say it and tries to scramble for a place to start. “I went to hell.” “Hell? Why? Did they take you? Did they hurt you? Are you hurt?”

The expression on Aziraphale’s face is heartbreaking. But Crowley is fine. Isn’t he? Nothing broken. This time, there are no scars. Skin is unblemished now. “No, I’m not hurt, well, not anymore, but… I don’t know why I went into hell, it was stupid. But then she – she slammed the door in my face and said you’re no demon, which ha! Fair enough. Just Beelzebub being petty, you’d think. You don’t just un-become a demon. It’s not like – not like I could be some sort of an aardvark all out of a sudden. That’s not how it works.” Aziraphale has come very close now and reaches out his hands to clasp Crowley’s, which is probably meant to be reassuring but makes the panic flare up inside of him. Maybe it’s not even panic, but some other embarrassing emotion close to it.

“My dear, what are you saying?”

Crowley clenches his jaw. He can’t say it. Aziraphale will think he’s mad. He is mad. This is mad.

Aziraphale is fine. Now that he’s seen it, he should leave. Maybe he can just… sleep it off. Maybe it will all turn out to be a very strange dream. He will wake up in his flat, as demon as ever, and there will be nothing to be confused about, nothing to dread and nothing to hope for.

But he can still feel it. As real as anything. Buzzing under his skin and above his skin. In the bookshop, he can tell it’s everywhere. Is that Aziraphale’s love? It’s… shining. It’s so beautiful. No, it can’t be. There’s too much of it.

His lips are clamped together, but his wings are not. He unfolds them right here in the bookshop. They are so bright. Brighter than they should have any right to be.

Aziraphale lets go of his hands and stumbles back. He makes a small ‘oh’ sound.

What will he think? That it’s ridiculous. It is ridiculous.

(That it shouldn’t have happened. Crowley doesn’t have what it takes to be one, that’s obvious to anyone.) (That he has wanted this to happen. That he has wanted to upend Crowley’s entire being and remake it ever since they met on the wall. That this is good.) Aziraphale presses his hands in front of his mouth and just stares.

That’s when it occurs to Crowley – things are different now. He hasn’t changed, but things have. Unforgiveable unraveled and turned into forgiven. Unloveable unraveled and turned into loveable. How much more would it take for loveable to turn into loved? Maybe Aziraphale will let himself -

(Is the apple still so tempting when it is not forbidden anymore?)

“Is this -” Crowley asks, “Could we -”

He thinks, Aziraphale will just know. Because of course he is asking. He is asking.

But Aziraphale is shaking his head. Still staring.

Oh, the eyes. He forgot about the eyes. Quickly, he puts on another pair of sunglasses. His eyes are still demon. He is a demon, but watered down. Still too demon. Even when he’s not.

“I – I know the eyes are still – but it doesn’t matter, I’m -” and it doesn’t feel right, but if this is what it takes to convince Aziraphale – “I’m an angel, right?” We’re on the same side, right? We’re the same. Right? Just don’t look past the sunglasses, and it will be fine. Just forget that my wings were black only yesterday. Aziraphale’s expression changes, but Crowley can’t tell. “You being -” Aziraphale hesitates too, “- an angel doesn’t change how I feel about you, dear.” “Oh.”

Crowley had let himself hope again and he’d barely even noticed it. But he shouldn’t have. Maybe in time, Aziraphale would get used to it. Maybe in time, he would fall in love. But not so soon. Crowley has waited six thousand years, he can wait a little longer.

Unless.

Unless it doesn’t matter. Unless what’s on the surface doesn’t count, only what Aziraphale knows to be true and what he knows to be true is that Crowley is a demon and meant to be a demon and demons can never be redeemed. Maybe She has changed Her mind about that, but that doesn’t mean Aziraphale has.

Aziraphale knows.

(Maybe it was never being a demon what made him unloveable.)

But he can wait. He will. He’ll be patient.

Oh, the love. It’s starting to become unbearable.

“How did it happen?”

“I don’t know – it just suddenly started. I was walking here and then suddenly I was Rising.” “How? How do you Rise?” Aziraphale seems astonished by it. And Crowley thinks of burning love. Of water that is not water. Of divine agony. “Just… sauntered vaguely upwards,” he says and shrugs. It’s strange how different and familiar it feels. How foreign and home. How far and how close. “There’s just so much love here,” he says, just to say anything else, “where does it all come from?” Aziraphale looks surprised and then bashful.

“Maybe it would help if I stepped outside for a moment?” “Why, what’s the problem?” Crowley asks, confused. “Oh, wait, you don’t mean – all that love is coming from you?” Ah. That explains. It was a stupid question earlier, although it’s not like that’s ever stopped him. He should have been able to tell. So much love, so much, and none of it is directed at Crowley. (There is the proof Crowley never wanted that Aziraphale was not just lying to Crowley or even to himself.)

“It is,” Aziraphale says softly, resigned, almost like he just admitted to something. “I am an angel after all.” But Crowley has always known that Aziraphale loves. But he had not known how sweet it would feel, even if it’s just a dream that it’s for him.

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale asks and comes closer again. “I know it must be a startling change.” “Ha! You can say that again. Count me startled alright.” Crowley runs his fingers through his hair and lets out a slow breath. “Yeah, I’m okay. I just… don’t understand why She would do this. Why would She just – shake everything up again? I thought – She made the rules clear all these years ago and now I feel like maybe I was playing an entirely different game all along.” Like he thought they were playing chess, but it was really Monopoly all along.

“Maybe… maybe She wanted to reward you.”

Aziraphale had not been there. He had not felt it. To him, being an angel comes without a price attached. “No,” Crowley insists immediately. “No way. It must be some sort of punishment. I just can’t see how yet.” “Is it so hard to believe that the Universe would simply be kind to you?”

“Yes,” Crowley says tersely.

She isn’t kind, She plays games. The Universe has never granted him favors. Anything Crowley tried to do right has always gone wrong.

“I can’t,” he realizes suddenly, “sorry, angel. I can’t.” He rushes out of the bookshop and doesn’t listen to Aziraphale’s stammering and doesn’t turn back around. It’s not just the conversation he can’t do, it’s all of this. He’s not an angel. He’s not a bloody angel. He doesn’t want to be an angel. Angels are stuffy and hypocritical. Angels have hurt him and have hurt Aziraphale. He doesn’t want to be an angel. (He has never wanted to be a demon either, of course, but that’s semantics.) The Bently is still at the entrance of hell, so he takes a Taxi back to his flat.

“I’m not an angel,” he says to the air. He circles his throne and flops down on it. A moment later, he gets up again and starts pacing the room.

“Do you think this counts?!” he says, growing more agitated. “Do you think the pain just – goes away? It doesn’t work like that. It doesn’t mean you never let me suffer. You did. You did.” He slams his hands down on the table, then braces himself on them.

“You might have Forgiven me. Maybe. Maybe you did. But that doesn’t mean that I will forgive you.”

He just can’t figure it out. So he yells. Yells loudly, as if something like volume could ever make Her hear him. “Why did you do this?” he yells, “what do you want from me? Do you want me to forgive you because I won’t. Do you want me to be your perfect little angel because you can forget that.” She has never heard him. For millenia he has begged her, he has asked her, he has yelled at her and She has never responded. “FUCK you,” he yells. “You hear me? Yes, I just cursed your fucking name. Are you going to make me Fall again, now? Then go ahead and do it.”

Is that Her game? Are those the stakes? He’d never known back then. That that was something that could happen. But now he does. Now he knows Her and what She is and what She will do.

“Is that what you want? For me to make the next mistake so you can push me out again?” That must be it, right? Why else would she do this? It’s oh so in-fucking-effable.

“I won’t be your blasted clean slate!” His plants are shivering, even though it’s not them he’s yelling at. “I won’t be your blank canvas, just for you to hurt again.” (I will not have everything just to lose it all.) (I will not climb high just so I can fall deeper.) “I am a demon,” he says with a certainty he doesn’t have, “I don’t care how white my wings are, I am a demon.” Demon means many things and most of them Crowley has always hated with his whole being. But demon also means ‘abandoned’. Demon means ‘pushed over the edge of Heaven’. “I am a demon. You didn’t not hurt me just because I don’t have the scars to prove that you did.”

She cannot erase him. She can’t write him out of existence, it’s too late for that. He might die, yes, but he was here and he was a demon and she can’t take that from him. “Twice,” he snarls, “twice you’ve ripped away who I am. Redefined my being how it pleases you. I am not your plaything. I am not your game piece.”

He pushes himself away from the table again, suddenly drained from anger. “I am not Crawly,” he says. And refuses to be.

***

The angels come for Aziraphale the next day. He is not expecting them. They scoop him up outside his bookshop and drag him up.

Gabriel is with them, but not to get his hands dirty. He is here to taunt. To mock.

“You’re not an angel, Aziraphale,” he says, “you should have Fallen. We’re just helping to – speed things along, as it were.” So that’s what they were after – a Fall. Aziraphale had often wondered what it would be like to Fall. He had wondered if the freedom would be worth the pain.

In the privacy of his mind, he has drawn up a list of things he would say if he were Fallen. And a list of things he would do.

There were times he had wanted it. (Our side.)

They keep dragging him up, knows he is too weak to break free and he will not miss Heaven.

They break his wings with a well-placed blow half-way to the clouds and he will not miss the angels.

When they reach the lowest cloud, he slips free.

It’s not the angels who make him Fall. Angels don’t have that kind of power.

What makes him Fall is a thought that starts with How could She do this to him? The thought follows Why do you let him be an angel now and not six thousand years ago? It stumbles briefly over Why do they get to be angels? The thought reaches Are you saying he didn’t deserve it before? Because he did. He deserved everything. It dives right into You don’t know what’s right or wrong, do you? And hits You’re just playing a game with full force.

It’s not quite I don’t believe you did the right thing that does it. It’s the thought he ends with: I don’t believe in you. He falls. He looks up at the sky and the clouds and the somber faces of beings that were supposed to be good. And he thinks, I don’t believe. And then he Falls.

He doesn’t try to move his broken wings. He lets it happen.

(He had thought Falling would take longer.) (But it’s over quickly.) (It’s hitting the ground that hurts.)

(The force of his fall denting the asphalt.) He lies in the rubble. And he knows that something is Gone. And something else is There.

Several of his bones are broken, but it’s nothing he can’t mend. His corporation survives the fall. Love doesn’t.

He lies and lets himself feel the loss of it. I don’t want your Love, he thinks and misses it terribly.

He stares at the far-away sky for a long time. It is untouchable now. For a long while, he lets himself feel the pain - and finds it’s not a fresh wound. It’s very old and has been bleeding for a long time. Maybe it can finally start healing now.

Then he thinks, I should get on with it. If Crowley can do it, so can I. Then he rises up in his spot of rubble. And then he does. ***

(He does not call Crowley. He locks the bookshop and closes his blinds.)

(He cries for as long as his corporation will produce tears.)

(He tears half of his books apart with his fingers and all the brute force he can summon, then he miracles them back together. Once. Twice.) (He screams at Her, but he doesn’t use words. She will understand.) (He lets his phone go to voice mail and miracles it apart when it keeps ringing.) (He does not answer the knocks on his door.) “Aziraphale!” (Not the banging either.) “Angel!” (His bones have healed but the pain fills him from head to toe.)

“Please let me in.” (He posts Crowley a letter. I’m fine. Go away. He lets it float outside the bookshop.)

(It goes quiet.) (He can still sense an angel around.) *** A week later, Aziraphale dusts the bookshop.

It’s ineffable.

Aziraphale is Fine. He lifts the blinds. To Hell with ineffable.

He gets on with it.

*** Crowley is leaning against the door of the bookshop when it opens. He gets to his feet swiftly and turns around, but he balks when he sees Aziraphale’s face.

“No,” Crowley says and backs away. Scared. “She can’t – She can’t, She wouldn’t dare. Not you.”

Because I would tear Heaven apart for you, and She knows it – I would tear her whole Creation apart until She was the only being left and then I would put Her to trial.

“No. It’s fine.”

Aziraphale looks indeed fine for someone who has spent a week holed up in a bookshop. He looks too fine. Unnaturally fine. He ushers him into the bookshop and closes the door behind them.

“It’s not,” Crowley says quietly.

“Well, it is what it is. No use in dwelling on it.”

But Crowley will dwell on it. For a long time.

“What happened? Why didn’t you call me?”

He is frantic with concern, the shock of finding the locked-up bookshop still deep in his bones. He hadn’t expected this. He would have expected angels to come and get their revenge. Not Her. “I believe this is something I had to do alone,” Aziraphale says.

These are the repercussions. This is the price. Why would She make Aziraphale, Aziraphale of all angels, the best angel there is, why would She make him Fall?

“Did it hurt?”

Too much time with a demon. Where is the limit?

You can have my soul, you can have my heart, you can have my wings, I let you take it all, but not him – you can’t have him. “It didn’t hurt a lot for a Fall.”

He has dreamed of this. He is a complete and utter bastard and he has dreamed of this. What if Aziraphale were a demon? What if I were an angel? He had never imagined those two would collide. “But it hurt.” Aziraphale doesn’t answer, which is answer enough.

This is the cruelty he knows from Her. She will keep them forever apart. They can never touch. They will never be the same. Maybe that’s her punishment. (It is ever more cruel if you had hope. And Crowley has always been a terrible demon.) “I’m sorry,” Crowley says.

In a general bad-things-should-never-happen-to-you way but also in a very specific this-is-my-fault way.

“Don’t be,” Aziraphale says kindly. “We were always rather terrible at our jobs, weren’t we? You a bad demon. Me a bad angel.”

(I would give my grace to you, if I could.) (I don’t deserve it, I never did.) “I was a terrible angel too.”

“And I imagine I’ll make a terrible demon. I suppose it doesn’t really matter then, what we are.”

Why him why him why him why HIM?

“It does. It does!” Crowley is growing angry. “I can’t believe how calm you’re being. Why aren’t you freaking out? I’m freaking out.” “My dear, I’ve had six thousand years to learn that, angel or demon, it’s not important. They’re really just labels.”

“Just. Labels.” Crowley repeats dumbstruck.

He steps past Aziraphale to the sofa, grabs one of the pillows and presses it to his face. And then he screams.

Aziraphale doesn’t get it.

He doesn’t understand, this is all on Crowley. Crowley never should have talked to an angel on the edge of Eden. He never should have gotten so close.

“What about Love?” he tries, choked up.

“It was a bit overwhelming sometimes. All that Love.” If Crowley could sense love, then so could Aziraphale back then. Then he’d sensed Crowley’s love – then he’d always known – and of course he’d known something so blindingly obvious – and it had all been too much for him, Crowley’s love, so much that he was glad to be rid of it. Not having to sense it anymore.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley says again and he is. More than anything.

Crowley should go.

This is why Aziraphale had barricaded the bookshop.

It’s over. They both know it’s Crowley’s fault. He ruined this. He’d wanted to much. He’d wished a doomsday upon them.

“’s my fault,” he speaks it out into the open quietly. The sorry wraps around his throat like a snake and starts to strangle him. “It must have been my fault. I made you Fall. I tainted you.” (This is what happens when you touch an angel.) (When a demon touches an angel, they bleed into each other. It is as unholy as it is holy.) Aziraphale, who must be the kindest demon there is, if Crowley can ever accept he is a demon, does not condemn or accuse him. He will be gentle about his rejection. Aziraphale is an expert in wrapping brush-offs in nice words. He kicks people out of his bookshop with sensible shoes.

Can’t you see, angel? I did this I did this I did this to you I am worse than a demon

I am your monster, I am your nightmare, I am your Personal Hell I am your punishment, I am your crime, I am your worst mistake He is a thief and a scoundrel. He took it. He took Aziraphale’s grace. Aziraphale should hate him. Should kick him to the curb.

(He had seen something precious and wanted to own it.) And Aziraphale has always known, has rejected him at every turn because he always knew what was really there, but nothing has ever been as bad as this. There is no coming back from this. He will walk out the door of the bookshop and never return. Won’t be allowed to. (The most unforgiveable thing he has ever done is to be forgiven.) But Aziraphale looks at him, with his kindness. He steps toward him.

(You should not have let me touch your wings, lest I turn them black.)

You might not be Heaven’s angel, but you will always be mine. (I turned them black.) Aziraphale puts a hand to Crowley’s cheek, as if to soothe him.

(I never even kissed you, but I burned away your Grace.) Aziraphale tugs his sunglasses off gently. (Not burn, but take. Take and take and take.) “Dearest, don’t insult me,” Aziraphale says then, “this was nobody’s choice but my own.” “Choice?!” Crowley croaks.

“I was never much fond of being an angel, as you well know.” How can Aziraphale accept this so easily? Doesn’t he know - Why does he always understand but never understand -

But there is nothing to change it. This is the new world now. We are an angel and a demon has become true once more.

***

“It’s strange,” Crowley says, “I thought all your angel-love would disappear, but it’s all still here.” Aziraphale lets out a strangled sound. “Yeah, s-strange.” *** For a day there, they were both angels. But now Crowley has missed his chance.

*** “She has been quite cruel, from time to time,” Aziraphale says. *** “Even the kids.” *** A man rushes past Crowley when he enters the bookshop.

“Who spit in his coffee?” he asks Aziraphale, who is sorting books.

“Oh, I have a feeling he suffered a minor delusion and thought the book he picked up had maggots crawling all over it, but who knows.” “Okay, and who spit in your coffee?”

“Satan,” Aziraphale says innocently.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley exclaims, equal measures scandalized and bemused.

“Didn’t you see that book he was carrying in his bag? Full of dog-ears. I will not tolerate a book-abuser in my shop.”

“I see.” Crowley hides his smirk.

*** A girl runs along the sidewalk and trips over her own feet. Crowley, sitting in the Bentley, sees her fall. Her knee is scraped and starts bleeding. She’s crying. Crowley’s heart flies into his throat.

He wants to heal her. It’s a forbidden emotion. It’s Something Not To Think About. He is not allowed to want things whole. Except now he is.

It’s a subtle miracle. Crowley gets out of the car and gives a short wave of hand. The skin mends itself and the scrape is gone.

He has done this kind of thing before, of course. When there were no other demons around. This time he doesn’t feel guilty. “Did you just heal -” Aziraphale starts when he walks into the bookshop.

“Shut up.” ***

“Oh, but you can’t leave without trying the crème brûlée,” Aziraphale tells the couple on its way out the French restaurant. “It’s simply – well, divine.”

The couple has a change of heart. “I’m starting to think it’s the opposite,” Crowley remarks and raises an eyebrow.

“I have no idea what you’re insinuating,” Aziraphale says cheerfully and takes a bite of asparagus. *** Crowley leaves for the homeless shelter every now and then. Aziraphale knows better than to ask.

***

Crowley doesn’t know what to do with Love. It feels like it belongs to somebody else. But he also knows that missing it is worse, so much worse. He knows Aziraphale doesn’t tell him everything.

And he can’t bear the thought, not even of Aziraphale being a demon but of Aziraphale suffering like a demon.

He won’t feel Unforgiveable, not now that they know that demons can be Forgiven. But cut away from Love, from Her Love, not being able to sense it anymore… Crowley knows that it’s hard. It’s lonely.

Sometimes, it’s like freezing out in the cold. Sometimes, it’s like starving of something. He wants to give it back to Aziraphale, even if only a sliver. Only a modicum of what he really deserves.

And Crowley… well, he has Love but he does not have love. Not the kind he wants.

“I want you to know… it’s not gone,” he tells Aziraphale on a quiet evening, sitting next to him on the sofa.

“What, my dear?” “I… I know you always knew… and of course, I know you don’t return – I just want you to know. Because it’s the not knowing… that’s really painful.”

Crowley is explaining himself badly, but it’s been in his mind for so long, it’s hard to let it out.

“Whatever are you talking about?” Aziraphale diverts his full attention to him now. “Well, it’s… It didn’t really become clear to me that you knew, must know, until I could sense love myself.” Quickly, Crowley adds: “But I still do.” “Do what?” Aziraphale looks very confused, which means he’s not being deliberately obtuse. And he’ll have to say it. It hurts to say it, but nothing is as bad as Aziraphale not knowing.

“I love you,” Crowley says softly. “And you know that. You must have been able to sense it for millenia. So I hope you realize… you’re not unloved. Could never be. Not as long as I’m alive.”

Aziraphale’s mouth drops open.

“You don’t have to respond!” Crowley rushes to say. “All this time, you haven’t said anything, so – so that’s an answer in itself. I mean, I sense love, of course I know you don’t. Can’t.”

This will not break them. If nothing has yet, this does not have the power to. But it still hurts. Oh, it hurts. And he has always, always wanted too much. “My darling, I think you’re not yet an expert at the sensing of love.”

Crowley rolls his eyes.

“It doesn’t exactly require a lot of skill.” Aziraphale sends him a calculating look.

“Who do you think my love belongs to, then?”

It sounds like a trick question. “Wha – the world?”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “A nice thought, but I really don’t love the world all that much.” “Then what?” “It’s a misconception, you know. That angels can tell where the love comes from. We – they can only tell that it’s there.”

So he didn’t know. He didn’t know that Crowley loved him – well, he should have been able to tell anyway.

But then Crowley’s throat goes try. His mind should not go there, but it does. The well of hope inside of Crowley is endless. No matter how much of it you snuff out, there is always more to come.

“So hypothetically,” Crowley says.

“Yes, hypothetically…” “All this love could be directed… at one person.”

Crowley scoots a little closer to Aziraphale. “Even a demon?” Crowley adds. “Yes, a demon,” Aziraphale breathes. Yes, feast yourself on my tainted love. Do you think you are immune to poison because it was home in my veins? Are you willing to take your chances?

It’s bad. Crowley shouldn’t do this. But he can’t stop his hand from reaching out. He stops at at the last moment, just before touching Aziraphale’s and quickly draws it back. He almost forgot. There’s a crater between them still.

“But you won’t let yourself,” he says and is certain that it’s true. They are an angel and a demon, it doesn’t matter who is which. Aziraphale thinks they don’t fit. “We’re an angel and a demon. ‘S probably some sort of law of nature against it.”

Hope dies a slow death in his chest. “You’re probably right,” Aziraphale says, which speeds up the process a little. “But -”

“But?” “As of late, it turns out, I’m a bit of a rebel.” Crowley’s head shoots up. “What?” “And I don’t care much for rules.”

I have always been venomous, you should have known to stay away. You shouldn’t have let me tempt you. (Soft-seeming lips, did you let yourself be caught off-guard by the teeth behind?) “Aziraphale,” Crowley whispers and it’s do you want this will you let me can you forgive me? Aziraphale takes his hand. Please don’t let me bite you. “You really shouldn’t,” Crowley says.

“Why not?”

Aziraphale looks at him so earnestly, so seriously, like Crowley matters. “Falling for it wasn’t enough of a clue?” “You didn’t make me Fall, dear. That was all me.”

“But I’m not g-” his voice is wet “good for you.” “You are.” Aziraphale’s voice is rising. “You didn’t need to be an angel for me to know that.”

He wants to lean in, lean so close he can breathe Aziraphale’s breath, he wants to press his lips to Aziraphale’s but he’s frightened that Aziraphale would let him.

Venom on my lips and poison in my blood, I taste so sour, darling, don’t drink from me. And I know you are a glutton for it, you are a glutton for the finer things. But don’t drink your punishment from me, it won’t taste well. But then Aziraphale leans forward and kisses him and Crowley can’t stop him and he doesn’t want to and Aziraphale’s love tastes so, so sweet. And Crowley doesn’t like eating pastries or candy but he loves this.

She will never have this. She could never create this. She could never remake the world in a way that he won’t fall for Aziraphale.

It’s a slow kiss and it’s a little difficult to fit all that love between their lips, but they manage it.

She could never take this. She can drown the world and She can burn the world and She can banish the angels and She can grow a garden in Hell, but this love will always be there. She can’t touch it.

Crowley is not rotting, not anymore – he is blooming, like the blossoms on an apple tree. Not even he can destroy this.

He is touching the sun. He is living in it.

“Well then,” Aziraphale says and beams at him. “Can I tempt you to dinner?” Crowley groans. “Oh, you’re insufferable.”

Aziraphale looks very smug.

“Then I suppose you’ll just have to smite me. With, what was it? Your angelic righteousness.”

They stand up from the sofa at the same time and start walking toward the door.

“You’re a real bastard, Aziraphale,” Crowley tells him. Aziraphale preens at the compliment. Things are shaken up. They are a little different and a little the same. But Aziraphale and Crowley carry on as always. And Crowley still glues coins to the sidewalk every now and then. Aziraphale still blesses babies once and again. One of them might be an angel and the other might be a demon.

Semantics, really.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #good omens fic #good omens fanfic #crowley #crowley x arizaphale #aziraphale

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aureasadrisit · 7 years

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how about a " 5 times they almost met up again after the circles fell / the civil war started, but just missed one another due to bad timing or other circumstances "

Five times ______ed ( accepting ) | @servesorlais

Arranging for the blood and for how the room would look had not been an easy manner, not human blood at least. Arranging for the remaining loyal templars to leave her was the hardest part, it broke her heart to know that they would blame themselves for what was to transpire there. There would be no corpse but it wasn’t needed either, assumed dead as was as good as dead when a pretty mage was involved and that was what Daph… Maxima was betting on. Her phylactery was accidentally destroyed a couple of months beforehand and she had yet have the chance of redoing it, with the whole mess and stress coming from Kirkwall and considering that she was always so well behaved, they simply added more templars when they could spare it. Sometimes, they simply called in favours to guards to hopefully protect their charges. She wondered if they understood how much worse giving their charges, most that did not know how to fight, to men and women like them? In the end, it didn’t matter, she made sure that the room looked the part. Her jewels gone but not to carry with herself, only a small backpack had been allowed, everything else was to make part of the play.

Her jewels would be sold, eventually, later. For now, they would be ‘stolen’. Her father, it still sounded so strange to call him that, had arranged for her transport, quite far away from there. A package a few months back had arrived with the clothes that she should wear and the papers to cross the borders. Doing such a thing to the room that she had always considered to be a home that she’d never leave made her feel that something had come out of place, she had not said goodbye to anyone, left no letters. Only an empty room with blood and burn marks, teared fabric. While that made her feel calmer, that she did not need to explain anything to anyone, ignoring the hollowness that clawed her lungs threatening to pierce through them was much harder.

As she crossed the streets with her face covered with a veil covering her face as many ladies would do when visiting the Chantry. She nearly froze when a group of chevaliers passed on the other end of the street, she did not alter her speed, nor did she look in their direction. They seemed distracted enough and the last thing that she wanted was to attract their attention. When she stepped in the carriage, only then does she look at them and she thinks she recognises the blond hair under the hat with the yellow feather, but perhaps she was simply imagining things. Her head shakes as her hands move directly to her cherry cigarettes and the full wine bottle that was displayed on the other side of the carriage.

As the horses are told to go, Maxima wonders if it was her eyes playing ugly tricks on her but Val Royeaux had never seemed so beautiful like on that night.

II.

Maxima returns a single time to Orlais after the news of the War of the Lions breaks out. While to everyone around her, her interest is merely academic, almost a morbid curiosity of what might come from two people that in her very educated opinion should be helping each other instead of tearing themselves apart, to her it’s something quite different. Daphné would have stood behind Celene, if one was to chose between supporting Celene or Gaspárd, to sway the people’s opinion there was only one option that seemed good enough. Gaspárd was and had always been someone that only had war and honour painted across his forehead and the blood of those beneath him paid the price as he played conqueror, as he played with the lives of the Orlesian Empire just for the fact that he did not hold the title.

Returning to Orlais had drove her to a deeper and harder drive into the bottle than she had expected and to say that her head was threatening to explode after such a long ride to Montsimmard and rough sleeping was a misunderstanding. No one could deny who she was without getting a good fistful of what Livius had to say about what they thought. She did not want to be seen and that also meant that Livius was simply there to make sure that she would not get into trouble that she would not be able to come out of. Her clothing was far from what she loved to dress, leather pieces much similar to what she wore before when aiding Marius. She would have wore a closer attire to what the people in Montsimmard dressed but she needed to be able to get to her daggers fast when… if they needed to be used.

Livius and Maxima are standing by a small stall of food almost next to the entrance of the alienage. Despite the easy smile and the searing headache she can see that Livius knows how anxious and nervous she is to be there. They would not go into the alienage, her business was outside of it. Her hair is tired up, curled but hidden beneath a cowl, much like Livius’, face hidden by a scarf. She had forgotten how much she hated the cold. Two other men cross the same narrow street but Maxima’s eyes are glued to the floor and they do not move when her shoulder hits against the one closest to her, she does not even glance up even as she nearly trips on herself due to the strength of the other. Livius stops to look back but she doesn’t and continues her march down those streets that she knew far too well.

III.

“Lady Maxima, I think it is prime time to stop and get some rest.” Livius’ calm voice can be heard as he sits beside her on an empty table. She was the last one awake from it since the other three men and women had already fallen asleep with her heads on top of their glasses. When Maxima’s eyes move up to meet his the first thing that she wants to say is that she knows when it is prime time to stop and not him but she bites her tongue and instead drinks the rest of the glass while glaring directly at him. She would do whatever she wanted especially with the new knowledge that had gotten into her hands she thought that she damn well deserved to drink as much as she wanted. She should be happy, truly, but instead she felt petty towards the bitterness and anger that came from knowing that now she had more half siblings beyond the ones that resided in Tevinter.

No, now she had full blown elven half-siblings that would never know of their existence even if she had paid to make sure that they would remain safe. Well, as safe as money could buy considering in the shithole that they lived. She deserved to feel like she was fucking there, that she was just not some wild tale of a woman that got stuck between two families that wished that she never existed. Fucking hell, this is pathetic, Maxima since when do you care. So instead of letting her eyes water she would burn her whole throat down until she couldn’t feel anything else. She would rather die than to cry over that woman ever again. Bitch, never had enough patience for her, enough love for her but for fully pointed ear children she has all the time, patience and love to give.

“I am tired.“ she rises to her feet, even if she feels like she’s standing straight she knows best, especially how gelatinous her legs felt. Livius’ expression of relief was quickly washed over when her hands wrap around the half filled bottle and she starts making her way towards the stairs. Not before, of course, removing her shoes she didn’t want to end up with her ankle gone “Go pay the innkeeper, please, we leave first thing in the morning.“

She knew she would feel like death but well, she already felt pretty dead so feeling worse perhaps would aid her in increasing her self pity. As soon as her door closes another opens and a man walks out, grim expression when facing the snow outside. It doesn’t get better from this point onward, Michel and snow is the least of your problems.

IV.

“Oh, sorry dearest Josie, I was not aware that it was quite so late!” she gets up slowly from the chair next to the fireplace on Josie’s office, she would have died to have one like that in the small room that she was staying in. Skyhold nights were dreadfully cold, she guessed it was to be expected but they really didn’t need to chose the coldest part of Orlais, in the middle of the mountains, to have as their base, did they?

She hums saying her goodbyes, she guessed that she would need to freeze over making her way to her quarters. She hoped that Agatha had not turned into a Popsicle of white fur before she got there, or perhaps found a way out of the room to go steal from the kitchens. Despite seeing Livius’ expression of exasperation everytime he went to grab her being extremely amusing she could not allow the animal to continue to wreck havoc in the kitchens. The door is closed behind her and her fingers move to the interior of her pockets. The thing with Orlesian armour is that they were very noticeable that, Orlesian.

They were crafted in a way that they would be the center of attention, always even if your job was to be an assassin. So when the candle light shone against what she thought it was the shape of a lion her eyes nearly snapped at it, heart climbing its way up her throat at the speed of lightning as suddenly it seemed that the throne room was not so cold after all. Green eyes would have reached its destination had it not been for the Inquisitor’s voice “Lady Maxima, a moment, if you could!“

Her body turns immediately towards the door to the left of the throne, a large smile drawn on her lips as she approaches slowly. Please let it not be Agatha again, please, please, they indicate for her to follow him and they leave the room “Inquisitor, I always have a moment for you.”

There are very few things, in Maxima’s opinion, that could really change your way of seeing life. One, would be to discover that you have magic and that the rest of the world is not really appreciative of such a fact. Two, is the first attempt on your life that you survive and the aftermath that comes from it ( and how, after a while, your mind immediately jumps into action, even if your life is not actually in danger ). Three, to see the Orlesian Empress die before your very own eyes when the whole point to go to the Halamshiral ball had been to protect her. She was walking towards Michel’s figure, it had been… well, years really and considering how the night seemed to be coming to a close she had deluded herself enough that maybe.

It was a weight that had been removed from her shoulders, all the whispers and rumours that had surrounded his name. If Maxima was to be honest, she thought that he had died during the Civil War. It would not have been a nice conversation but maybe with the evening’s mood? Maybe? She wasn’t sure what she expected.

When the Empress’ voice rang across the ballroom though, she stopped, turning instead of meet her only to have her eyes widened and mouth open in horror as the events unfold right before her eyes and she freezes. Livius hand immediately wraps around her arm pulling her from the crowd and from the moment of dumbfoundedness towards the exists. How could this happen, how did the Inquisition allow it to happen?

#servesorlais #we let us be just to be ( michel )#and I will answer ( meme replies )#( this got long rip )#( wel p what else is new )#( and why was michel and friend 1 in Montsimmard? who knows )#( me while writing this: boy do I hate myself )#alcoholism tw #gendered slurs tw #( also the last one doesn't appl y for our current thread but like #*vague hand gesture* maybe for another timeline )

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lavalampelfchild · 7 years

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And this monstrosity is finally done! Trying to get Alistair to actually look like Alistair was incredibly frustrating (I hope I did a decent job of it).

So here is King Alistair, post-Blight, sharing a moment with my Amell OC, Aja.

EDIT: There’s a little ficlet here, below the cut, to explain this moment, but it’s a piece of writing about which I have some mixed feelings, and of which I am not as proud as I am of the picture. I will leave it up because I don’t want to brush imperfections in my writing career and development under the rug, and I believe in having something of a writing trail to track my progress as I develop.

I will explain that this entire piece (the art and writing both) was inspired by a piece of Skyrim art that I saw which took an illustration of a single moment and then paired it with writing to give that single captured moment context and nuance. And that little excerpt, I felt, added so much to what would otherwise have looked like just another piece of fanart. I wanted to try doing that, but it didn’t exactly end up the way I had hoped it would. The art, however, is something I put a lot of work into, and of which I am quite proud.

It certainly doesn’t have to be the case for everyone, but I’ve found that I tend to prefer the pieces of art that show a captured moment, rather than a still-life or a portrait of someone. As a result, when I’m making my own art, I prefer to avoid having my characters looking directly at the camera, and try to portray them in the middle of doing or saying something. I absolutely love it when characters are showing some sort of emotion, or are in the middle of performing an action in a piece of art. Anything that makes them look like there’s movement or expression, even if it’s a composition showing just a single character with a particular expression on their face. It implies something more than just what we see, and that’s what I live for in visual art.

That’s what I tried to show here: a single moment in time with a trajectory and a history that showcases human emotion and expression, and the fic below is meant to show that trajectory and history.

(And for those who don’t want to read the fic, but care about the context, it’s basically about my Amell using her magic to cheer Alistair up.)

Alistair sighed. This dinner was awful. It was painful having to sit through. Lobbying, thinly veiled insults, sycophantic nonsense. The food was alright, but he could hardly focus on the flavor with everything else going on. And the worst part of it was that he was expected to smile and take it all. Oh, no, we need this trade agreement to not fall through, and then there’s Lord Who’s-It who controls vital whatever, and he gets very temperamental when you insult his cat. Bastards, the lot of them…

Except they probably all knew their mothers.

When Alistair finally managed an excuse to get away, he escaped into a quiet hallway and sighed. Who knew this king business was so damn stressful.

He meandered the hall a ways and wondered if they would send someone to bring him back if he stayed away too long. He scrunched his nose in distaste at the thought, his neck tingling uncomfortably. He brought his hand to the back of his neck and rubbed absently at his nape, thinking up different excuses he could use that would get them to leave him alone. Maybe an illness? Something in the meat wasn’t sitting well with him? Well that might have worked if he hadn’t had two helpings without any issue…

He felt the tingle again and paused, brow furrowed. Alright, that doesn’t feel too normal… He felt it again, and pressed his hand harder to the back of his neck.

Suddenly, something sparked against his neck and he yelped, whirling around to scope out the perpetrator because there was no way he was imagining that.

And there she stood, Aja Amell, some distance away from him, her hands folded in front of her, looking innocent as you please.

Alistair narrowed his eyes.

“Was that you?” he demanded, his voice a pitch higher than he would have liked. Aja’s eyes widened and she placed a hand gently over her chest as though offended.

“Your Majesty!” she gasped. “I would never!” Her expression was the very picture of delicate harmlessness.

Yeah, no, Alistair wasn’t buying it.

Fighting back a grin, Alistair leveled her with as kingly a glare as he could manage. “Is that so? Then, who was it?”

Aja looked around as though making sure they were alone before taking an earnest step toward him. “Oh, Majesty, it was terrible! A sneaky witch thief has made her way into the castle, and it seems she’s running amok causing trouble! I tried to stop her before she could get to you, but I fear I was too late…”

Alright. So the grin won, and Alistair lost. He turned to face Aja more fully and crossed his arms, warmth blooming in his chest. So she was playing it like that, was he?

“Uh-huh, yeah, right. I know it was you. You’re the sneaky witch thief.” I’m never going to live that down, am I? “You know, what you just did is technically high treason. I could have you… I don’t know, thrown in the stocks or something.”

Aja’s eyes were sparkling, her grin as wide as Alistair’s, and Maker, how he loved this woman.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Aja challenged, planting her hands on her hips. Alistair waggled his eyebrows.

“Oh, wouldn’t I?” He sighed dramatically and held himself up in the way he imagined all kings did, metaphorical tail feathers puffed and everything. “These are the consequences for assaulting royalty, and you really should think about that before you—Agh!” A tiny bit of static zapped his cheek. He turned to glare at Aja.

She smirked threw a small ball of sparks his way. He just barely managed to scramble out of the way. “Hey! Stop that!” Aja boldly ignored him and sent more sparks his way. “You—!”

“I’ve no intention of going quietly,” she declared, preparing another spell. Alistair outright laughed at that.

“Ah, so I see drastic measures are required. I think I can handle that. Get over here, you!”

Aja bolted down the hall and Alistair followed, dinner forgotten. It didn’t take him long to catch her, and when he did, he pulled them both to a nearby alcove, holding her tight as he pressed playful kisses to her laughing face.

“You’re awful,” Alistair declared, smiling against her cheek. “Absolutely awful.”

Aja laughed and reached her arms around him. “Well, I learned from the worst.” She pinched.

“Ouch! Will you stop harassing me!?” He supposed his command might have carried more weight if his smile didn’t currently threaten to split his face in two. Aja didn’t answer, but looked up at him instead, and held his gaze. For one long, breathless moment, Alistair was caught by her expression.

Sometimes he still couldn’t get used to it; how could someone – anyone – look at him the way she did? As though he were everything, everything in the whole world, the one thing on this blighted land that the Maker got right? It awed and humbled him.

He wondered if his face looked like that when he looked at her. Doofier, maybe.

Eventually, Aja sighed and rolled her eyes, the moment passing. “You’re thinking too much.” Alistair flushed and buried his face in her hair, an awkward chuckle escaping him before he could stop it. For several quiet minutes, they simply stood there, basking in each other’s presence until Alistair grudgingly remembered why he was even there in the first place.

“…I suppose I’ll have to go back to that dinner, won’t I?”

Aja didn’t answer immediately, and really Alistair could hardly blame her. The nobles who attended these events – especially foreign dignitaries – made no secret of their disdain for mages, or for mages occupying important positions in a royal court, or for mages sleeping around with kings. Alistair winced at that.

Well, they should just consider themselves lucky that he couldn’t rightly marry her because then they’d really have a problem. Ooh, the king of Ferelden took a mage as his queen! How scary! How indecent! That was one Alistair heard a lot.

“I certainly wouldn’t object if you decided to stay here,” Aja finally said, drawing him out of his thoughts. He looked down at her, noting the uncertainty in her voice. He opened his mouth to reply, but Aja continued, her tone one of somewhat forced cheer. “I should hate to think of you being accosted by our sneaky witchy perpetrator—”

Alistair huffed impatiently. “Alright, really? It was one time, and I – okay, so it wasn’t exactly the smartest thing I’ve ever said, but I hardly deserve t—”

Presumably to shut him up, Aja yanked him down and kissed him, Alistair’s surprised yelp muffled by her lips.

His reaction was immediate. Pulling her closer, Alistair deepened the kiss, ultimately deciding that if it came down to a choice between Aja and some stuffy dinner full of impossibly annoying nobles, there really was no contest.

After several moments – Alistair didn’t really care to keep track – he pulled away. Smiling, he set his forehead against Aja’s. “You make a compelling argument.”

Aja winked. “I have been told that I’ve a clever tongue.”

“Hm. Must be all that lamppost-licking you’ve done while you were still a saucy young apprentice.”

“I beg your pardon!”

“Acting all affronted, are you? Well, that won’t work, my dear, I know all your dirty secrets.”

Aja squirmed in his hold, playfully smacking his shoulder. “I have no ‘dirty secrets.’”

“Is that so? So you’re not the one sneaking around with the king of Ferelden making free with his virtue?”

“Well, there is that…”

Alistair grinned and swooped down to steal another kiss. Let the stuffy nobles deliberate or be scandalized or whatever the hell it was noble people did at parties.

He had a sneaky witch thief to deal with.

#alistair theirin #alistair x amell #dragon age origins #lavalampelfchild's art #my writing #Aja Amell

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