#Aziraphael truly wants to do good and he things that at its core heaven is still good and he can do good

[casuallychat]

So I didn't get to see S2 until today and I'd previously seen half a spoiler that Aziraphael died?! And then I hit block on all spoilers and went about my day. But then I sat down today to binge the entire season clutching my pearls the entire time, thinking of how Aziraphael would meet his end. And then the season (and what a lovely season it was) was all about how much Crowley loves his angel and I was fully expecting the ending to rip my heart out if Aziraphael died. But the ending?? The actual ending?? How about you feed me poison, it'd be less painful? Wow, give us everything and then give us NOTHING? IT TOOK ME 30 MINUTES TO GET THROUGH A 5 MINUTE SCENE BECAUSE I KEPT STOPPING IT. MY HANDS WERE SHAKING! I TEARED UP! AZIRAPHAEL, BABY, NO, WHAT ARE YOU DOING??

That is to say, the season was amazing, I'm planning a full rewatch of both seasons and a reread, and I plan to consume an unholy amount of fanfic for this. Neil Gaiman is a king, I won't accept criticism.

[hel-is-makingstuff-blog]

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.