#unless Armageddon happens in my room somehow

[captivemuses]

I only have five kids in my room all day I could cry. And thats even with my partner teacher next door calling out. Happy Monday to me lol

[sparkkeyper]

A Matter of Trust

My take on the “night at Crowley’s flat” fic. 

Swapping faces requires complete trust. Unfortunately, Aziraphale has not been particularly honest leading up to Armageddon and it's hard to overcome that doubt.

Words: 2295

Warnings: None

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"You really think she meant switching our actual faces?"

"I've been over it a dozen times and I'm quite sure. I've had the last 72 hours to become familiar with Agnes' peculiar brand of predictions."

Crowley blew out a long breath and took another sip of his coffee. It was the deepest hour of the night. Darkness pressed around the outside of his flat, threatening at the edges of the LED lighting. "Put a lot of stock in this prophecy, do you?"

Aziraphale nodded from where he sat nearby on the couch, the torn slip of prophecy on the cushion between them. "Absolutely. Every prediction in her book came to pass exactly as she saw it. If this is the scenario we're up against, then 'choosing our faces wisely' is our best shot at surviving it."

"Suppose that's settled, then. Once Above and Below start after us, they won't stop unless we really give them a good reason."

"I agree. Now, this will require complete trust and extraordinary focus in order to work. It isn't like lending someone a scarf."

"That's the point, I thought. Something neither side will see coming."

"Exactly. All right then." Aziraphale wriggled a bit on the couch, bracing himself. "Are you ready?"

Crowley set down his coffee and flexed his fingers. "Ready."

Aziraphale held out his hand and the demon took it. Swap with him.

Nothing happened.

"Er..."

"Ngk. Hang on." Crowley gave himself a shake. "Been a long day and all that. Lemme just refocus. Right, let's do it." He took the angel's hand again. Swap. With. Him.

Again, nothing happened.

There were several long, awkward seconds.

Get it together, you stupid snake. This is important. This could be the most important thing you've ever done. This is Aziraphale. Best friend for centuries. You know what to expect from him.

He did know what to expect. That was the problem.

The moment was stretching on far too long. He dropped the angel's hand like it had burned him and scrubbed his palms over his soot-stained face.

"Crowley?"

"It's fine! I'll make it work, give me a blessed break."

He stood and paced the room for a moment while Aziraphale sat stiffly on the couch, watching him. "Is there anything I can do to...to facilitate things? I'm not sure what the problem is."

"There's no problem, it's fine," Crowley snapped. "I've got this. Just worry about your end of it and I'll worry about mine. Right!" He spun on his heel with his hand out and Aziraphale stood to match him. "Swap, then!"

He clasped the angel's hand and tried. He could feel the miracle simmering somewhere in the ether, attempted but not complete. He reached for it, he reached with all his might.

"Crowley-"

"I can do this," he insisted, a pit forming in his stomach. He'd just held his car together for 40 miles, he could believe one little idea for 5 seconds.

"Crowley-"

"I can do this!"

"Oh for goodness' sake-"

The angel was frustrated. He had every right to be but that was beside the point. A frustrated Aziraphale got indignant. A frustrated Aziraphale stormed off.

A frustrated Aziraphale pulled away when they needed most to stick together.

Crowley blessed savagely and spun, stomping for the balcony.

"Where are-"

"I just...I need to get some air." He slammed the door behind him before Aziraphale could respond.

The night breeze from so many stories up was like a slap in the face. Crowley welcomed it, leaning heavily on the balcony railing and burying his face in his hands. He couldn't do the miracle. Not that he didn't want to - he'd rarely wanted anything so much in his life. But he couldn't get his heart into it the way it needed to be.

We're not friends!

It wasn't true, of course. But it was something Aziraphale had wanted to be true. Because it would make the angel's life so much less complicated. Crowley was a friend...until he wasn't. Crowley occupied a place of esteem...until he didn't. Aziraphale worked so very hard to view a messy world in a manageable way and sometimes cuts had to be made.

His coffee sat suddenly on the railing because it knew what was good for it, and when he raised it to his lips it obligingly added a considerable amount of whiskey.

If they couldn't do the swap, they had no future. The Earth had a new lease on life tonight, but if they couldn't swap it would be at the price of their own. He knew Hell would show no mercy and he couldn't fool himself into thinking Heaven would. But Aziraphale... When it came to Heaven, Aziraphale could fool himself into thinking a lot of things.

I don't even like you!

Even if I did I wouldn't tell you! We're on opposite sides!

Aziraphale, who always had excuses to fall back on.

Aziraphale, who had a book with the Antichrist's address and hadn't told him.

Aziraphale who, when the world was on the brink of destruction, had kept calling out to Heaven.

If it came down to their partnership or Heaven, Heaven was the first to be appeased, no contest. Crowley understood his reasons. Aziraphale was, at his core, an angel. He treasured that identity even if he disagreed with his superiors and assignments. He held out hope in goodness, in Her, in a way Crowley never could. He wanted so badly for everything to turn out nice and good in the end, and Crowley could not take that from him.

When Heaven couldn't provide, Crowley was there to be his safety net. But Heaven was always, always first.

The balcony door clicked behind him and hesitant footsteps stepped out into the night. "If there's anything I can do to help you focus, you need only ask."

Crowley couldn't bring himself to look at him. "Focus isn't the problem."

Aziraphale was quiet for a very long moment. "Oh," he said softly.

There was no shock in his voice. No condemnation either. Crowley wondered if it would take some time to sink it, given everything that had already happened to them tonight, but as Aziraphale joined him at the balcony railing he knew that the angel understood what this meant.

Dull blue eyes followed Crowley's gaze out over London and Aziraphale took a slow sip of his tea. "This is my fault, isn't it?"

"Don't," Crowley told him tiredly. "What's done is done."

"But the consequences are ongoing. And will be for a long time, I expect." Aziraphale sighed heavily. "I am responsible, I won't pretend otherwise."

"I tried," Crowley confessed, the words barely audible over the background hum of the city. "I truly did."

"I don't doubt it."

A breeze wandered in. Tousled through red and blonde hair. Wandered somewhere else.

"I suppose I ought to at least ask...was it slow over time or was it because of this past week?"

Crowley didn't answer for a moment, taking another sip of his coffee. "Bit of both."

"Mmm." Aziraphale nodded, not particularly surprised by this. "I should have seen this coming, really. I should have seen a good many things coming."

"Stop it," the demon muttered. "You can't see everything coming. Something something ineffability."

"Is just one of the excuses I've been hiding behind for a very long time. And now it's caught up with me. With us." He sighed. "I suppose it's not just evil that contains the seeds of its own destruction."

Crowley didn't have the energy to come up with a biting response. He just looked exhausted. "I don't regret a minute of it, you know," he murmured. "The Arrangement. You and I. Wouldn't trade it for anything." There were dark circles under his eyes. "But I can't trust you the way I'd need to for this to work. I wish I could. I've tried. I just can't do it."

Aziraphale grimaced to hear the words out loud, but did not dispute it. How could he? "I don't blame you. You're right - it's not fair to ask you to trust me when I've squandered your trust so thoroughly."

We're not friends, hung thick in the air between them.

"Not that I think you don't care," Crowley clarified. "I know you do. You're terrible at hiding it, really. And you came to find me today before it all ended. That's not nothing." He took another sip of coffee. "But you also lied to my face. Repeatedly."

"I did," the angel acknowledged quietly.

"While the world was ending."

"Yes."

"That hurt, Aziraphale."

Aziraphale bit his lip hard. "I know. I'd take it back if I could. But I suppose it's too late to make a difference now."

They stood in silence for a time. Then Crowley sighed and turned back to the flat. "Come on. It's been a long day. There's wine in the kitchen, we may as well enjoy it while we can before they come for us."

The angel followed him inside and watched as he pulled glasses from a cabinet. "Thank you again for allowing me to stay the night. You didn't have to, after everything."

"Stay as long as you like," the demon uncorked the wine bottle. "Your shop's gone. Fuck's sake, I'm not a monster."

"No." Aziraphale's expression was very, very soft. "You're not."

Crowley took off his sunglasses and looked up at him at last: this demon whose heart had been broken too many times. "I want you to be all right, Aziraphale. I need you safe. I need you alive. I want to see you happy. But I don't know how far I can meet you."

"I can't say I'm surprised, after all I've put you through," the angel admitted ruefully. "Denying we were ever friends, or insinuating that you were somehow less than I. I've been a rather dreadful friend to you over the centuries."

Crowley hung his head, wine forgotten. "I know why you keep us at a distance and I know why you lied about the boy. You were doing what you thought was best at the time. I can't blame you for that. But to do what that prophecy wants, when push comes to shove I need to believe with all my heart that you won't leave me hanging. And I...I can't bring myself to believe that." He scrubbed his hands across his face. "Given time I might, but we don't have time. I can't do it. And I hate it. Because that's going to get you killed. I need you alive but once they come for us, I won't be able to save you. Not this time."

"You talk as though you're not in danger yourself," Aziraphale's face crumpled. "Crowley, if Below gets their hands on you they will destroy you utterly. I will not let that happen. I can't take back what I've said but you are the dearest thing in this world to me and I'm not going to stand back and let them take you."

Crowley looked like he was trying so very hard to hope but just couldn't get there. "I want to believe that, I really do. But I can't do blind faith like you can. I don't have it in me anymore."

Aziraphale closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to the demon's. "I'm not asking you to forgive what I've done. And I'm not asking for blind faith. Goodness knows how much trouble that's caused." His voice cracked at that but he plunged onward. "I'm only asking you to believe me when I say that I will not let Hell have you. If we cannot switch our faces, we will find another way."

"But your prophecy. Agnes-"

"Agnes be damned." That shut Crowley up. Tears glistened on the angel's cheeks. "If I have to march Down There after you. If I have to take up a sword. If I have to stand between you and God Herself. I swear to you on everything that I am, I will not let Hell have you."

And in that brief moment, for just that one promise in a sea of other broken ones, Crowley believed he was telling the truth.

His hand scrabbled for Aziraphale's and he pushed for all he was worth before he could lose this moment, he pushed every atom of his soul into the heart of his best friend, gave him everything that he was and ever could be, and in that instant he trusted Aziraphale to keep him safe.

And then Aziraphale was pouring into him and Crowley opened himself up and let it happen, let him seep into every muscle, every bone, every molecule of his being -

-and suddenly there was no difference between them, there was no angel, no demon, just a tumult of soul and hope and pain and fear and resolve and-

Crowley tumbled out the other side like falling out of bed. He gasped in a strangled breath, stumbling backwards into the kitchen counter and staring suddenly into his own face. He stared down at his clothes - beige - and his hands - manicured - and back up, feeling the warmth of his best friend's corporation surrounding him like a blanket. Aziraphale, in Crowley's, did much the same.

There was stunned silence in the flat as they let this sink in. Then one of them snapped, or maybe both, and suddenly Crowley's face was buried in the collar of a stinking, burnt leather jacket and Aziraphale was crushing him close, and both were squeezing so hard the other could scarcely breathe.

"Thank you," Aziraphale managed at last. "For trusting me enough to let me save you."

"Not if I save you first," Crowley choked out, and broken giggles filled the flat.

(Also on AO3!)

[monsterfuneral]

sparks in the rain | bill and ted | ch. 1

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Coming Soon

Relationship: Poly!Bill and Ted x Fem!Reader

Summary: A malfunction with the booth lands Bill and Ted into the most peculiar situation they’ve been in, stuck in the year 2021 standing in front of a woman they never thought they’d meet.

Words: 1,087

Warnings/Tags: Bill being kind of a dick to Ted, Covid-free universe, nothing else really, character ends up in the reader’s universe au

Author’s Note: This came to me when I was in the shower while thinking about the concept of having Bill and Ted watch the movies they’ve been in. This also started off as a crackfic idea only for me to actually put thought into it

EDIT: Changed the summary from what it previously was to what it is now, I feel like this one’s a little better. 

REQUESTS OPEN

(please read my “I do NOT write” section before sending in anything <3)

--- 

This was totally Ted’s fault, not that he would fully admit it. Turning the blame on Bill who had in fact pointed out the wrong number while digging through his backpack. It wasn’t rare for Ted to forget the number to Billy The Kid’s location, and Bill was always better with operating the phone booth than he was. So of course, as a result they ended up in the wrong place with a broken antenna. The booth had knocked against the apartment building’s roof on their way down, sending pieces of red metal across the rainy parking lot. 

Bill couldn’t help but let out a frustrated sigh as he watched the top of the booth spark from where they stood inside, his eyes practically rolling into the back of his head as he thought of the amount of Elmer's glue it would take to get all of those pieces back together. He looked up at Ted, who was still staring out the window, past the water droplets that cascaded down the slightly dirty windows, at the damage he had done. He knew it would be impossible to fix it in the rain unless Bill wanted to risk going to his grave early by electrocuting himself. So with one last glance at the sparks above, Bill finally decided there was no use staying inside the booth and that Billy would have to wait. 

They were lucky enough to be so close to the apartment building, where they could take shelter from the rain. Ted stared at the booth, guilt beginning to crawl up his throat but still unable to apologize as it truly wasn’t his fault. 

“Ted my friend, this is the most heinous situation…” Bill complained, looking up at his taller companion “You’re sure you put in the number I told you to?” 

“Well you had to have put it in wrong somehow. How else would we have ended up in this-” Bill paused for a second, looking around the environment to try and guess where the two of them may have landed “Place.” 

“Of course dude, you know I would never miss an opportunity to play cards with Billy.” ted answered.

Ted looked at Bill, wondering why Bill found it so hard to believe that he may have just given the taller of the two the wrong number in the phone book. He shrugged his shoulders, hair waving and tickling against his nose as he tried to come up with a good response. Noticing how tense Bill was as he looked around. 

“I promise you dude, I put in the right number, I checked at least three times while putting it in.” 

“I should’ve just done it instead like I usually do.” Bill muttered with his eyes trained ahead on the almost empty parking lot. He crossed his arms with a bit of a shiver as the wind started to pick up, suddenly regretting the decision to wear his Motörhead crop top, missing the warmth of San Dimas. 

The brunette couldn’t help but frown at his friend’s growing attitude towards him, not entirely understanding why he was being so hostile over one simple mistake that could be fixed in just a few hours. Ted wondered if the stress of their newly acquired jobs at Pretzel 'N' Cheese was starting to weigh on the blonde, or if apartment hunting while living with his recently divorced dad was becoming too much to juggle. Ted guessed it could be a number of things, but what he didn’t understand was why it had to be taken out on him. 

Silence was heavy between the two as Bill rubbed his arms occasionally and Ted rocked back and forth on the heels of his feet, looking up at the grey sky with vague curiosity. The chill in the air was also beginning to become more noticeable to the taller of the two as well, his own body flinching at the sudden shiver that would take over his upper body before resuming his rocking as if it hadn’t happened at all. 

It was hard to know just how long they had been standing in the cold, even though Ted glanced down at his wrist he was reminded that he once again forgot to wind his watch. Something he had hoped he would begin to remember doing now that he had a job, but that didn’t seem to be the case. Ted gave a hopeful glance towards Bill, who was now sitting on the steps that led to the second floor of units, his head turned away from his friend and towards the wetted roads where a car would whiz past occasionally and kick up some water from the puddles that were beside the sidewalks. 

The awful silence was finally broken though by the sound of one of the apartment door’s opening, Ted looked over at them, their back turned as they still had their door cracked open listening to an inaudible voice filtering from inside. He was quick to lose interest and looked back at the flickering sign to some mattress company that was just across the street. 

The person at the door shrugged a purse on their shoulder and let out an agreeing hum before saying, “If there’s any pizza left then leave me some! I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Before closing the door and proceeding to dig through their purse, presumably for car keys. 

Both Bill and Ted’s heads whipped towards the all too familiar sounding voice, a voice they had heard over and over again in the theaters and on the TV in Bill’s living room during their annual movie nights. The very own Armageddon Lady herself was walking right towards them, still digging through her purse muttering to herself about her keys. 

Bill was quick to stand up from his seat on the stairs and stand beside his taller friend, his eyes wide and mouth agape and all Ted could was let the word vomit take over. 

“No way dude…. It’s Armageddon Lady!”

Your heart practically jumped into your throat at the loud, yet familiar sounding voice, your eyes immediately snapping from your purse and the two men stood just a few feet in front of you. Your own eyes widened, mouth falling open and you almost dropped your phone as your brain practically short circuited, trying to wrap itself around seeing the younger versions of well known actors right in front of you, dressed exactly like-

“Holy shit it’s Bill and Ted.”

[ollieofthebeholder]

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a The Magnus Archives fanfic

Also on AO3.

Chapter 1: Martin

It’s been six weeks now that Martin’s been living in the Archives, and he’s beginning to feel like he’s going a bit mad.

In the first place, it’s really hard to separate work and personal life when they’re both conducted in the same space, and even though he tries to keep from doing work in the area he’s been sleeping in, it still creeps in. He’ll do anything for Jon, of course—not that he’ll admit that out loud—but it does get a bit wearing, being on the job, so to speak, all the time.

In the second place, there’s the paranoia. The worms are real and present. They’re outside the Institute, and apparently just about everyone has seen them by now, but they’re inside, too, or at least in the Archives. It’s been a while since Jon rolled his eyes or Sasha got that I am being tactful look on her face when Martin suspects he sees one, because they’ve all seen them and gone after them. The trouble is that knowing the worms are getting inside, that he’s not just jumping at shadows, makes his nerves worse, not better. He tries not to bring it up so much to the others unless he has proof, but he’s getting twitchier by the day and it’s getting harder and harder to sleep.

In the third place, he’s apparently getting forgetful.

 It’s something he’s really only noticed in the last week, but Tim and Sasha will bring something up, ask him about something they wanted him to look up or reference a previous conversation, and then act confused when he doesn’t know what they’re talking about. He’d think they’re gaslighting him if they were the type to do that, but as much as Tim likes to tease, he’s not malicious about it. And Sasha banters, but doesn’t tease, not like that. Which means he’s losing moments and chunks of time. He supposes he should just be thankful he hasn’t forgotten anything Jon’s asked of him yet, or at least that Jon hasn’t brought it up if he has.

It’s probably from lack of sleep, which tells Martin he should definitely be getting more of it, but it’s hard. Partly it’s the worrying about the worms and partly it’s the fact that he’s got this persistent feeling of being watched, but if he’s honest, a lot of it also has to do with the fact that he worries about Jon. The man doesn’t take care of himself, he looks positively exhausted some days, and he hasn’t snapped at Martin in almost two weeks, a new record. Martin wants to wrap Jon in a blanket and hold him until he gets some rest already, but that desire sends his mind down paths he’s trying to keep it from wandering, thank you very much. Still, Martin’s not sleeping much either and it’s probably affecting his memory. Still worrying, though.

He sighs heavily and turns over on the cot, like he’s trying to get comfortable. He already is comfortable, at least physically. It’s his mind that’s uneasy, that won’t rest.

Finally, he gives up. Maybe if he gets up and does a quick circuit of the Archives, just to assure himself there aren’t any worms, he’ll feel better. And if all else fails, he can busy himself with quietly removing staples from documents so they’ll be in better condition years down the line. He gets where Jon is coming from, wanting them all to be together, but come on, even Martin knows you’re not supposed to do that.

He climbs out of the cot, replaces his glasses, and pulls on his trousers; no one else is supposed to be there, but it’d be just his luck if Jon stayed late or passed out at his desk or something. Or worse, Tim’s still around, ready to make a cheeky comment about his choice of sleepwear. He slips the torch into one pocket and the corkscrew into the other, picks up the fire extinguisher he keeps with him at all times now, and heads out barefoot into the Archives.

It’s—there’s no other word for it—spooky at night, with no one else around. The emergency lights stay on all the time, sporadic lights that don’t so much illuminate as give texture to the darkness. You can see your way around, but if you want to do any serious work you’ll need to either turn on a regular light or use a torch. Martin’s at the point where he trusts anything about the Institute about as far as he can see it, including the electricity, hence why he always carries the torch with him. Also, he’s discovered that this emergency lighting isn’t all over the Institute, not that he plans on venturing out of the Archives tonight. This is just a quick tour to reassure himself that his sleep will be worm-free, so that maybe he can get some.

He’s a few steps away from one of the empty offices, its lights dark—no emergency lighting in there—when he hears a sound from a nearby aisle and freezes. Someone—or something—is in the Archives.

Oddly enough, the fact that it sounds too big to be a worm is not reassuring.

Martin’s not stupid, far from it. He’s read the statements, and he’s also got a secret, rarely-indulged fondness for Gothic horror that dates back to his discovery of Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s Christabel. He knows that going towards the sound and calling out a questioning hello is asking for trouble. He’ll end up with all the blood drained out of him, or fed to a giant monster, or with some creep wearing his face like a mask.

On the other hand, what can he actually do? He doesn’t have his cell phone anymore, didn’t grab his laptop before bolting out of his flat, and the only phone in the Archives is in Jon��s office. Martin doesn’t even know if it’s a real phone or if it’s just a fancy-looking intercom system. If he retreats back to the room he’s been staying in and hides under the blankets, it won’t stop whatever is in there from coming after him if it wants to, plus he’ll be trapped. At least out here he can, in theory, get away if it attacks.

Plus...he’s too damned curious, he supposes. Not knowing bothers him almost as much as the risks of finding out.

He takes a deep breath, slips his hand into his pocket to reassure himself the corkscrew is there just in case, and steps around the shelves.

“Hey!” he calls, and then yelps in surprise.

Standing a few yards away down the aisle is him.

The other person doesn’t just look a lot like him. It is him. Same height, same build, same coloring. Same messy mop of hair that needs a cut, never mind a comb. Same bags under the eyes. Hell, he’s even wearing the same damn sweater Martin is, the one he refuses to admit out loud why he likes to wear so often. And he’s looking at Martin with the same startled expression on his face that Martin must have on his own.

Then the other Martin sighs and closes his eyes, his shoulders slumping, and suddenly he looks...old. Tired for more reasons than just a simple lack of sleep. “Christ. You’re the one person I was trying to avoid. Couldn’t sleep, could you?”

“Wh-who are you? What are you?” Martin demands, aware that his voice is creeping towards a higher register. “I-I’ve got a knife!”

The other looks up again. “Really? You haven’t switched to the corkscrew yet?”

“Th—what?”

“Corkscrew,” the other repeats. “It works better on the worms than a knife would. They go straight in, more or less, and they don’t move quickly, so you can...pull them out with it easier. If you need to.”

Martin’s fingers tighten around the corkscrew’s handle, unsettled at hearing his logic spilling from another’s mouth, especially a mouth that matches his own. “How—how do you know about the corkscrew? Or the worms?”

The other’s lips twitch in a smile that doesn’t have a lot of amusement in it. “I’m you from the future.”

Martin blinks. “Shut up.”

“No, honest.”

“You expect me to believe in time travel.”

The other actually laughs. It sounds like the way Martin laughs when he’s not so much amused at what’s happening or what’s been said as at his own reaction to it. “Honestly? I didn’t completely believe in time travel until I woke up here in the Archives and heard Tim’s voice.”

There’s something a bit wistful in the other’s voice that, weirdly enough, makes Martin believe him a little bit. Not completely, but a little bit. On the other hand, the fact that the other claims to have known he was in the past because he heard Tim’s voice is...probably not good. Martin decides he’s not quite ready to know that yet. “So...you’re from the future. In the past. Why?”

“You want the short answer or the long one?”

“Short,” Martin says after a moment’s deliberation. “Until I decide if I trust you.”

The other nods, as if he expected that answer—which, well, if he really is Martin from the future, he probably did. “To stop the world from ending.”

Martin gives a short bark of incredulous laughter. “So—so are you saying you’re here to prevent nuclear warfare, o-or climate change, or are we talking biblical Armageddon with angels and demons and seven years of darkness?”

“The last one’s the closest, really,” the other says seriously. “No demons or angels, though. Not the traditional type, anyway. And I can’t really say how many years of darkness we’ve had. Time hasn’t meant all that much since it ended.”

“Wait, wait. You’re saying the world already ended. Will end. In my lifetime. And I’ll...survive it, somehow?”

The other’s gaze is...disconcerting, to say the least. It’s like he’s seeing through Martin, looking not at him but at a fixed point in his life. “Not your lifetime. That’s what we’re here to stop. Maybe it’s better to say I’m from a future, but not yours.” He smiles faintly. “I never met myself, so we’ve already changed that much, at least.”

We, Martin notes. Not I. That’s not terrifying at all. He decides that most questions can wait until he’s sure he actually believes the other, though. “What are you planning to do to stop it?”

The other hesitates. “That’s...there’s not really a short answer to that one, and it won’t make much sense without the long answer to the other.”

“F-fine. Fine. What can I do to help you prevent the world from ending?”

“Keep Jon safe.” The other speaks with an intensity and gravity that settles into Martin’s bones, pinning him to the ground with the weight of it. “Don’t let him get hurt.”

“He gets hurt?” Martin’s voice goes slightly shrill for a moment. His growing feelings for Jon are a tightly-kept secret, or at least he wants them to be—Tim’s probably figured it out, he seems to figure out everything else—but the mere idea of Jon being hurt sends him into a minor panic. A small, more rational part of him wonders if this is proof that the other isn’t him, that he isn’t panicking at the thought.

“Not if you can help it,” the other says. “I—I can’t go into too many details. Not right now. You’re—you’re probably safe, whatever you know, but I can’t be certain, and it’s a lot to risk at the moment. Just...trust me. Keep Jon safe. Don’t hover,” he adds hastily, as if he knows how likely it is that Martin’s going to do exactly that, “but just...keep a sharp eye out for worms. And spiders.”

“Spiders aren’t dangerous.” Martin narrows his eyes at the other as another tendril of doubt curls through him. “Not all of them. Not inherently.”

“No, not spiders themselves,” the other agrees. “But...well. Let’s just say Jon has his reasons for being afraid of them, and they’re...very valid. Spiders won’t hurt him, exactly, but they’re liable to be a sign that something that will hurt him very nearby.”

“The worms. Am I in danger?”

Again the other hesitates. “Not tonight. Not...Jane Prentiss knows where you live, so she toyed with you, set you off-balance as a warning to the others. It’s why you can’t go home. But she only knows because she followed you back from that basement. You’re not what she’s after. She won’t attack the Institute while you’re sleeping.”

Martin stares. “That’s...not as comforting as you might think.”

“No,” the other says, with an odd sort of smile and laugh, as if at a private joke Martin doesn’t get. “No, I guess not.”

Martin bites his lip, then asks the only question he feels like he can ask. “How can I trust you? How can I know you’re...really me from the future?”

The other tilts his head, as if considering that question from all angles. Martin knows it’s not a fair question. He can’t really expect the other to tell him something that happens in the future and then just...wait around until it happens. Especially since now it might not happen, if the other has already changed things. The thought gives him a slight headache.

Finally, the other says, “You should tell Jon the truth.”

Martin’s heart rate accelerates dramatically. Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. “A-about what?”

“About your CV. That you lied to get the job. Tell him, first thing tomorrow.”

That’s not what Martin was afraid the other was going to suggest telling the truth about, but it doesn’t noticeably calm him, either. “He’ll kill me! Or worse, fire me!”

“He can’t.” The other speaks with the weirdest mix of authority and sadness Martin’s ever heard. “At least, he can’t fire you, any more than you can quit. And he won’t kill you. Anyway, better for it to come out now than...the way it eventually came out for me. Trust me.”

Martin swallows, hard. In the grand scheme of things, it’s not that big a deal, really. Anyway, he’s been at the Institute for eleven years now, so it’s not like he doesn’t have some qualifications by now. Isn’t university just supposed to be a shortcut to experience? “A-all right. I’ll talk to him tomorrow. And if he doesn’t completely lose his mind, I’ll...be back to talk to you tomorrow night. I’m living here right now.”

“I know. It’s been...what, a month?”

“Six weeks and a bit.”

“So it’s the end of April,” the other mumbles, more to himself than anything. “Plenty of time then. I can hold off a bit longer.”

Martin’s nerves can’t take much more of this. “I’m—I’m going to go—lie down.”

The other’s gaze flicks back to his face. “Go ahead. I promise you’ll be safe.”

It shouldn’t be comforting, to hear that from a stranger wearing his face, his skin. But to Martin’s mild surprise, when he gets into the cot and pulls the blanket up over his shoulders, he falls asleep almost right away.

[ineffable0husbands]

How the Mighty Have Fallen: Chapter Eleven

Warnings: Inner conflict, reliving trauma, and self doubt

Ship(s): Ineffable Husbands

tag list:  @adoratato @iamdevilantlysatan @bri-cas @that-gender-bender r @scum-of-the-earth @pieces-of-annedrew @scampycat4999 @elrilsf @my-emo-child @always-reading2 @larrklopp @l-garnxtt t @halbarryislife @ninjacatinsanitycrazy @impossiblynervouscycle @audder17 @boredafsposts s @i-really-dig-the-purple @mycrappylife01 @lostwolf-fandomlover r @hamiltrashphannerd @she-who-must-not-be-named @sundry-whovengerslocked @deceitfullyanxiousprince @booklover223 3 @whats--a--sexuality @drunkinfandomstuff @catsarebestest t @sonic-spade @reprehensibleghost t @to-dance-among-stars-in-dreams @afternoon-sunlight @danifandxm @oddpopsicle @rise-abxve @shipping--hell @wolfbear135 @kattage

“What happened?” he asked, cautious. This was the first time he’d seen Raphael in millennia, and he’d come back with a traumatized Crowley and didn’t even have the decency to explain what was happening. Raphael closed the door behind him as he entered and sighed, running a hand through his hair and looking at the couple sympathetically.

“I returned some more of his memories to him. They aren’t all exactly...happy ones. It appears the last memory I gave him is forcing him to relive some rather traumatic events,” Raphael murmured. He rested a hand on Crowley’s back and the demon flinched, burying himself further into Aziraphale. “He needs to rest. He isn’t in a good state of mind right now,” Raphael insisted. Aziraphale hesitated before nodding, situating Crowley better in his arms despite how desperately the demon was clinging to him.

“I was going to make tea, but it appears that I may be a bit caught up for a while. Would you mind doing that for me?” Aziraphale whispered to Raphael. He didn’t trust the archangel, not by a longshot, but he was here and Aziraphale planned to put him to some use, even if it all did backfire. Raphael gave the other angel a curt nod and a lazy salute with two fingers before meandering into his kitchen. Aziraphale decided not to think about how Raphael knew where the kitchen was. He held Crowley and carried him up to the bedroom on the top floor of the bookshop. When he tried to settle his demon onto the bed he whimpered and grabbed for Aziraphale, eyes open now and filled with fear.

“Don’t leave me alone right now, please angel,” Crowley said quickly. His hands were shaking. Aziraphale kissed Crowley’s knuckles and got into bed next to him.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, darling,” Aziraphale reassured gently, pulling Crowley close. The demon curled into his side and wrapped his arms around his waist, burying his face into the angel’s soft stomach. Aziraphale gently pet the demon’s hair until Crowley fell asleep, mouth open and snoring softly, glasses askew. Aziraphale carefully took the glasses off and set them aside, sitting him and rearranging Crowley into a more comfortable position before pulling the blankets over him. He didn’t leave, as he promised, but sat up against the headboard and waited for Raphael to come in with the tea. Crowley shifted and muttered something under his breath, reaching out and wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s thigh in his sleep. The angel’s face flushed as Crowley smiled in his sleep and nuzzled against him.

“I’ve brought the tea. Where should I put it?” Raphael whispered, poking his head into the bedroom. He was carrying a tray with three cups and what appeared to be milk and sugar. Aziraphale gestured vaguely to the nightstand and watched Raphael carefully. Something about him rubbed Aziraphale the wrong way. He couldn’t sense any form of emotion from him, for one. He had somehow completely shielded himself from detection.

“Just because I’ve let you in here doesn’t mean I trust you,” Aziraphale said scathingly, making a point to have his opinion of the archangel known. Raphael smirked and sat in a chair at the end of the bed, swinging one leg over the other and leaning back.

“Good, you’d be a moron if you did,” Raphael replied coolly. “I can explain why I’m here if you’d like, Anthony already got the story.” Aziraphale hesitated before nodding. “Alright. In the beginning, Matthew was my apprentice. You know about Matthew right? Ok, good. So we were tight, really close. When Matthew fell, heaven put me in charge of casting him out and essentially eliminating his memories. Then they forced me to take away the memories of everyone in his life so no one knew about Matthew, just Crowley. At first it was working out alright. However, that’s changing rapidly. It’s quite literally causing the second apocalypse.” Aziraphale hid his anxiousness by scoffing at the other angel.

“You really expect me to believe that Crowley’s memory- or rather, the lack thereof, is causing the Apocalypse?” Aziraphale asked with a chortle. Raphael deadpanned.

“Yes. The relationships he had were with many vital and important people in both heaven and hell. His absence in their memories is causing a rift. Anger, denial, confusion, they’re all caused by the lack of memories and making all parties involved more aggressive. I’m sure you remember when Gabriel stopped being as nice as he first was,” Raphael continued. Aziraphale paused to consider his words. It just seemed so preposterous that Crowley, his Crowley, was so important that his absence would cause a war. Then again...being the creator of stars and nebulas would have made Crowley fairly significant in heaven. Maybe…

“I just don’t see how this would cause a second Armageddon. I mean...Crowley said that we knew each other before, and it hasn’t affected me much. I get the occasional headache, but it’s nothing like what happened to Crowley,” Aziraphale insisted, his stubbornness overshadowing his curiosity and thoughts that this could be a reasonable explanation. Raphael considers Aziraphale for a moment, crossing one leg over the other and rubbing his beard/chin in thought.

“Your memories haven’t been restored yet, I assume?” Raphael asked, standing up from his chair and clasping his hands behind his back. He was unashamedly studying Aziraphale, looking the principality up and down. If Aziraphale hadn’t been sitting on the bed, he was sure the archangel would have done circles around him.

“No, they haven’t, and I don’t see why they should be. I remember Crowley now, we are together and in love and that’s all that really matters. I don’t need to remember our past together,” Aziraphale said firmly. Raphael raised an eyebrow.

“If you’re so sure, I suppose I can’t force you. Think on it, though. My offer still stands.” And with that, Raphael swept out of the room and left Crowley and Aziraphale alone. The demon shifted and muttered something in his sleep, curling up tighter into a ball. The angel sensed no distress, which he was grateful for, but he himself was suffering from his own inner battle. He didn’t need to remember his past with Crowley. It was unnecessary. Or was it? What if it helped them? Or helped the angel better understand his partner?

What if Aziraphale couldn’t truly love Crowley unless he remembered?

[everymovie2020]

The Wave (2015)

Date watched:  1 June 2019

This is how starved I am for a decent disaster movie – I watched a Norwegian movie with subtitles.  And it was very good, but I'm probably not going to make a habit of watching foreign-language films unless they are acclaimed disaster movies, such as this.

Plot:

Kristian is some kind of geologist (I think) and he and his family live in a fjord in a little town that seems to only be accessible by boat. Kristian's job is to keep an eye on one of the mountains in the fjord because it could collapse and send an 80m high tsunami down the fjord to fuck everything up, and nobody wants that.

The mountain starts making some rumblings but everyone else is like, "Kristian, you're overreacting, there is nothing wrong with the mountain," and I mean this kind of blasé attitude is how people get killed in these movies, all right?  Because there IS something wrong with the mountain and Kristian is the only damn one of them who realises it!

There's a sub-plot of Kristian and his badass wife Idun (she's the best) being on the rocks, and also his son is mad at him for some reason that I don't understand. Idun works at the local hotel which happens to be right on the waterfront, which is not a great place to be.

Anyway, more stuff happens with the mountain until finally, in the middle of the night, disaster strikes – one side of the mountain collapses.  By this stage Kristian has realised that they're totally fucked, and the tsunami warning has gone off in the town so people are evacuating, but he can't get down to the hotel where his wife and son are because there's no time to get to them and then get to higher ground.  So he and his daughter start running up the hill, and then they run into their neighbours who are still in the car (everyone else is out and running at this point), and of course as the wife goes around the front of the car, the car in front reverses into her and traps her.

So Kristian tells the husband to take the kids and he'll help the wife, and he manages to free her, but by then it's too late, the wave is already hitting – and the CGI is spectacular, by the way –so they get into a car and strap in, and I was just like… I mean, I get it, but also… you're fucked.  You're both fucked.  So of course they get swept up in the wave, but like, you'd be so dead.  You'd be 100% dead.  There's no way anyone, not even Kristian, can hold their breath in freezing, icy cold fjord water in the middle of a massive tsunami.

But of course he survives, because he's the star – and I knew he was going to but it bugs me sometimes with these disaster movies, especially one like this which is leaning more towards serious than full on camp (cough Armageddon cough cough), because there's no way anyone could've survived what they went through.  I know people survive tsunamis, but they were in a car that got smashed by the full impact of the wave, she was fucking impaled with something, and yet miraculously they end up still on the cliff and he just opens the door and gets out?  Like, okay.

So then he's got to get down to the remains of the hotel to find his wife, who, along with her son and another dude, are trapped in the underground bomb shelter beneath the hotel, because her son – who is an actual IDIOT – was down there skateboarding with headphones on and didn't hear the sirens, didn't know the wave was coming, held up the evacuation process of the rest of the people from the hotel, made his mother stay behind, made two people stay behind to help her and then one of them dies as a result, and he's just downstairs SKATEBOARDING.

I mean.

But then in another sense he also saved their lives, because the bus taking hotel guests to higher ground totally got annihilated by the wave, and I mean, I was sitting there going, "There is no way this bus is going to be able to climb the hills in time to avoid the wave," and as usual, I was right.

So Kristian gets to the hotel and figures out they're in the basement, alive somehow, but the room is filling with water rapidly, but then the other dude with them starts panicking and trying to drown Idun and the son, so she straight up fucking murders his ass by holding him under the water.

I want to express to you my admiration for Idun in this moment. She kills this dude and pretty much shrugs it off.  And her son is straight up SHOOK but she's totally unaffected by it.  Idun is a boss bitch, straight-up the best, most capable character in this movie and I love her.

Anyway, Kristian rescues them, then he almost drowns and the son saves his life – it's poignant, okay – and then that's pretty much it.

So, overall, I would say that I enjoyed it.  It was a bit slow in the lead up to disaster, but the wave is truly epic and the post-wave disaster zone is terrifyingly realistic.  It's not reinventing the wheel, but disaster movies tend to follow a formula (some dude knows a disaster is going to happen, no one listens to him, disaster happens, everyone suddenly appreciates him – though in Volcano the "dude" is Anne Heche).  As long as there are characters to root for and scenes of epic destruction, I'm cool with the formula because it works.

[shipaholic]

Omens Universe, Chapter 15

Link to next part at the end.

(From the beginning)

(last part)

(chrono)

---

Chapter 15

Crowley and Aziraphale sat facing each other in the dying firelight.

They’d made themselves more or less presentable. Aziraphale had reconstituted most of his clothes from the firmament. Crowley had done the same, and looked immaculate, but had slung a blanket around his shoulders like a cape. He met Aziraphale’s eyes and saw his own seriousness reflected back.

“OK,” he said. “We need a plan.”

He left a pause, in the vague hope Aziraphale would fill it with a bullet-pointed list of Anti-Antichrist measures he’d prepped in advance.

When this didn’t happen, Crowley gave a little cough and went on.

“I know him pretty well, I think. I was basically there his entire childhood. He thought I was imaginary, but I don’t think that matters.”

“Any information will be helpful, I think,” Aziraphale volunteered.

“Hmm.” Crowley scratched his head. “OK. Uh. Friendless kid. Except for me. Maybe I could appeal to his better nature.”

He realised this was stupid as he said it. Adam was literally the reincarnation of Satan. On top of that, he’d had a tailor-made demonic upbringing. The better nature ship had sailed.

He drew a blank on helpful things to say. What else was there? He was utterly detached from humanity? He could remake reality on a whim? Fighting him would be even more pointless than trying to reason with him?

“He hates Hastur?” he managed.

Aziraphale looked blank.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said.

Crowley let out a breath. It sounded like a pressure valve wobbling under strain.

“OK, never mind. I’ve got to admit, angel, I can’t think of much that’s useful. It doesn’t look good, basically. Maybe we should cross that bridge when we come to it. Improvise something.”

He could tell by the look on Aziraphale’s face that this was already off to a poor start.

“Why don’t we start at the beginning? We need to get off this planet.”

That should be a bit better. Aziraphale was the ideas man when it came to getting from Planet A to Planet B.

Aziraphale looked put on the spot.

“Ah,” he said. “Er. We could fly?”

“Fly?”

“Right, sorry. That would take years.” Aziraphale fidgeted. He did that when he was stressed. This wasn’t going well.

“How about a portal?” Crowley suggested.

That somehow went over even worse. Aziraphale practically squirmed. Crowley thought portals were his thing.

“Portals are very complicated, Crowley.”

Crowley gestured with both arms. The cape moved with him. He was a bit fond of this cape.

“Don’t you just draw on the ground with chalk and pray?”

Aziraphale gave him an affronted look. “There are calculations involved.”

“Well, you’re clever. Can’t you figure them out?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Honestly, without reference books, or a clear idea of our current coordinates…”

Crowley tried not to sound as frustrated as he felt. “Well, just remake the one from your bookshop and… adjust it a bit?”

Aziraphale’s expression contained volumes.

“What,” said Crowley. “Would we end up inside a volcano on Jupiter or something?”

“No. It’s far more likely it would do nothing at all,” Aziraphale said, a little snide.

“Great.” Crowley lost the battle. He sounded frustrated. Fine, he might as well let it out. “You may as well try it, then. The only alternative really is that we start flapping and hope we run into another spaceship.”

“Yes, all right. I suppose we have no choice.” Aziraphale’s voice was clipped. Fine. They could both be annoyed.

“Damn right. I’m not flying for four light-years without a break.”

Crowley stood up and stretched his legs. He felt bad already for being snappish. It wasn’t fair on Aziraphale. He was, once again, going to be the one doing all the work. Crowley’s stomach gave a guilty squirm.

“Can I bring you anything?” he asked, a little gentler.

Aziraphale’s gem glowed, and a piece of chalk fell into his hand.

“The coffee machine should work inside the café Zadkiel made.” He still sounded a trifle cool.

“No problem.” Crowley hesitated. He bent down and kissed Aziraphale’s head. Some tension left his shoulders.

Crowley strolled out, leaving Aziraphale to begin the preparations.

~*~

???, ? days until Armageddon

Everything was bloody awful.

Crowley didn’t say it. Neither of them did. But it was hours later, maybe the next day on Earth already, or even the day after that. Adam could have razed the place to the ground by now, and they had accomplished absolutely sod-all.

Aziraphale’s fingers were stained with chalk. So were the ends of his hair. Crowley tactfully wasn’t mentioning this. It wasn’t as if he could get rid of it with a miracle, anyway.

Crowley’s job had been to fetch coffee, which he had done on a loop for the past however many hours it had been, to the point he’d practically worn a footpath between their front door and the café. Unfortunately, Crowley had never so much as switched on a coffee machine in his life. He had a similar heavy industrial device back at his flat, but he had always snapped his fingers to operate it. He listened to the whir of machinery, thought contentedly about how much electricity it was using,[1] and collected the perfectly made cup without further speculation of how it had got there.

Crowley’s attempts to wrangle some coffee out of the infernal[2] machine in the café, however, had gone about as swimmingly as Aziraphale’s attempts to make a working portal.

There was a chalk circle in the centre of the living room. It was around the same size as the one in Aziraphale’s bookshop. However, the squiggles overlaying it looked as though Hieronymus Bosch had had a go. It was as though Aziraphale had tried to duplicate his old portal, and then rotated five degrees and done the same again, laying copies on copies until the pattern that arose could make a physicist’s brain dribble out of their ears.

Crowley’s contribution to the endeavour was about twenty espresso cups filled with congealed liquids[3] that had been undrinkable when they were fresh, littered around the room.

He glumly handed the latest one to Aziraphale. Aziraphale accepted it, eyes wide and slightly mad. He raised it to his lips, reconsidered, looked into it, raised it to his lips again, smelled it, and put it down beside the last one. Crowley, for want of anything else to do, started collecting them all up. He’d stack them in the kitchen. Zadkiel had made them a kitchen, although it didn’t include a sink. Washing up had never been a thing that happened to either of them before. Crockery just got summoned from the aether and banished again when it was dirty.

Aziraphale scrubbed more chalk dust into his hair. He made a noise best described as that of a distressed penguin.

“I’m sure these runes are wrong,” he moaned.

Crowley risked a peek over his shoulder. “Which ones?” he hazarded.

“Who even knows. This is hopeless. I’m making this up as I go along and then filling in the gaps with nonsense. We’ll be lucky to end up in the right solar system.”

Crowley carefully avoided saying anything unhelpful about how some other solar systems were a bit of alright, really. He sat down beside Aziraphale.

“Maybe we should just get it as good as you think you’re going to and test it out.”

“You know we could teleport into a volcano on Jupiter, don’t you?”

“So we’ll climb back out and make another portal on Jupiter. At least it’s closer.”

Aziraphale tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling with bloodshot eyes.

“You know what’s really eating away at me? Not getting a proper look at that book. I’ve never ignored a book before. It was a terrible time to start.”

“A book of prophecy’d be useful right about now,” Crowley admitted.

“I’m sure that young lady back in the Bentley mentioned an Agnes. She can’t have meant…”

Aziraphale trailed off. The prospect that his personal holy grail was within two feet of him for the entire day without him noticing was a thought too excruciating to contemplate.

He gasped, rummaged in his trouser pocket, and pulled out a tiny, charred scrap of paper.

“I forgot about this until now! Look, Crowley! This blew out of the book.”

Crowley scooted over. They both read it.

When alle is fayed and all is done, ye must choofe your faces wisely, for soon enouff ye will be playing with fyre.

“That’s cheery,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale mouthed ‘choose your faces’ several times in a row. His face crumpled. Crowley patted him on the arm.

“Were you hoping it was a portal diagram?”

“Slightly,” Aziraphale confessed.

“It’s good news, in my opinion. If you think about it. We must get through this crisis in order to end up in, er. Another crisis.”

“Unless this isn’t about us at all.”

“Must be.”

Crowley had no hard evidence for this. It would just be really irritating to him, personally, if the one useful thing they’d turned up in the last two days wasn’t even anything to do with them.

“I reckon we should test the portal,” he said.

Aziraphale tossed down the chalk. “Fine. Why not. I’m going cross-eyed staring at the blasted thing.”

They got to their feet, wincing as joints popped. They’d acquired a few middle-aged human traits by accident over the years.

A quick dance and a fusion later, Zadkiel snapped his fingers for candles. They floated into place around the circle and lit themselves. He sat back down, cross-legged, and put his hands together in prayer. It gave his demon half a little headache, but it was ignorable.

He reached out to Her with a question and waited for Her answer.

Like a house with faulty wiring, the portal began, very faintly, to flicker.

Zadkiel prayed with all his might. He screwed his eyes tightly shut and reached into himself, offering himself up. There was something here, he just had to find it.

The portal blipped on, briefly.

A little smoke fart went up in the middle. All the candles blew out, emitting an unpleasant smell.

Zadkiel sat perfectly still. His cheek twitched.

“Fuuuu -”

He split apart.

“- ck!” Aziraphale remained sprawled on the floor. He looked on the verge of tears.

Crowley pulled himself into a seated position. He poked Aziraphale in the side.

“I didn’t think that was a bad start.”

“Yes, clearly we’re in two minds about it,” Aziraphale snapped.

Crowley withdrew his hand. He felt a little stupid. Bit hurt, too.

“I’m a pathetic excuse for an angel,” Aziraphale almost whispered.

“Hey!” Crowley felt, ridiculously, offended on Aziraphale’s behalf.

“It’s true. She made me to love humanity, and I abandoned them.”

Well. That. Crowley’s mouth opened, then closed.

“But She abandoned them too!” Aziraphale pushed himself upright. He looked anguished. “What kind of loving Creator would do that?”

“Er,” Crowley said.

He’d personally grappled with questions like these millennia ago, when he was young and angry - angrier - and arrived at the vague sense that he’d drive himself mad trying to understand some people, so he might as well just get on with things. He wasn’t sure how to handle Aziraphale suddenly plunging into the beginning of what was, for Crowley, a lifetime’s worth of existential angst.

“And I don’t even have time for a crisis of faith right now! This is all my fault. This entire scatter-brained plan was my idea. All I’ve done is strand us light-years from home in the middle of nowhere. I thought I was being so clever, Crowley. And daring, to turn my back on Heaven and flee into the night. But I should never have turned my back on Earth. It’s unforgivable.”

“That’s my line,” Crowley joked, feebly.

A tear rolled down Aziraphale’s face. Crowley pressed close and kissed his temple. He had no idea what to say. Scraps of the wrong words tumbled across his brain, but nothing at all that was helpful.

He had to say something, though. No matter how badly it went. He drew a breath.

“OK, so we’ve both been massive cowardly idiots, that’s pretty obvious.”

“That’s incredibly non-reassuring,” Aziraphale hiccupped.

“But it doesn’t matter. You know what we need?”

Decades of pop culture flashed before his eyes. Oh, yes. He could do this.

“A redemption arc.”

Aziraphale looked up. On the plus side, he was no longer crying. On the other, he looked like he might vomit a tiny bit.

“Crowley, please tell me that isn’t a cinematographic reference?”

Crowley held up a hand. “Hear me out. We’ve both been incredible idiots and cowards. True enough. But you know what I’ve learned from humanity? If you show up late after messing everything up, give a speech that’s mostly about yourself, and save the day, everyone will forget the stupid, selfish stuff you did until that point. People have short memories. It’s the worst, best thing about them. You can be a flaming shit ninety percent of the time and turn it around at the last minute, and it only makes them like you more. But.”

He looked into Aziraphale’s eyes. This was the important part.

“You do have to actually save the day. Otherwise you look like an arsehole. So just focus on that. If we pull that off, we’ll be heroes, no matter how often we ran away and put ourselves first and let everyone down.”

Nailed it.

Aziraphale stared at him, mouth ajar.

“Crowley, that was the worst speech I have ever heard in my life. I actually feel worse now.”

Crowley’s confidence wavered. He pulled it back up by the fingernails. Stick the landing. He could do it.

“No, angel. My point is… people are forgiving. They’ll forgive you even when you can’t forgive yourself. That’s… the thing, isn’t it? Grace? Humans have it. You’ll never find it in Heaven, we both know that. You’re right - it was another thing entirely to abandon Earth. So let’s make up for it. I know you can get us back there. And we’ll save them all, together. And if you still want to beat yourself up, I won’t let you. We are on the same side. And you may be an idiot, but you’re also the cleverest person I know. So. Be clever.”

A faraway look appeared in Aziraphale’s eyes.

Aha. Crowley tried not to lean forward expectantly.

“I just thought…” Aziraphale said. He sounded like a man basking in a sudden epiphany.

Crowley held his breath.

“...You obviously learned to write motivational speeches in Hell.”

OK. Fine. He wasn’t as moved as Crowley might have hoped. Crowley was willing not to mind, so long as they got a plan out of it.

“She said, playing with fyre…” Aziraphale read the scrap of paper again. “Could she have meant hellfire?”

Crowley frowned. “I don’t know how to make a portal to Hell either, if that’s what you’re -”

“What would happen if our sides summoned us back?”

Crowley blinked. “Kill us on sight, presumably?”

“Well.” Aziraphale looked disconcertingly blithe. “We could always cross that bridge when we came to it.”

So far, Crowley didn’t love where this was going, but he held his tongue. Aziraphale stood up and paced.

“We can’t make a portal from here to Earth, that’s a total dead end. But I can get to Earth from Heaven. And you could get back to Earth if you were in Hell. It’s as easy as stepping on the lift. All we need to do… is get on their radar. Perform a miracle as ourselves, unfused. They’ll see someone dallying around in space instead of preparing for Armageddon and summon us back.”

“And kill us on sight.”

“It’s mad enough to work!”

“I’m not sure about this -”

“We’re supposed to choose our faces wisely. She wrote us a clue… she means us to outfox them.”

He had a point. Crowley took the slip of paper from him and read it again.

“OK. I trust you. Let’s puzzle this out.”

~*~

An angel and demon faced each other over a scuffed chalk circle.

They had made their preparations. If things went according to plan, they would see each other again on Earth. If not… then this was goodbye.

Aziraphale leaned in and straightened Crowley’s tie. They exchanged smiles. Nothing that needed saying had gone unsaid.

“See you on the other side.”

They snapped their fingers.

Crowley made a shower of sparks. Aziraphale, a bunch of party balloons.

There was a pause, long enough for a pair of beleaguered actuaries to go, “hang on”.

Twin thunderclaps rang out.

Both of them were sucked into the air and vanished.

---

[1] None. None of Crowley’s appliances ran on electricity. None of them were even plugged in. Crowley didn’t understand this, however, so he mistakenly believed his coffee maker churned through factory-level quantities of electricity. It gave him a warm glow as he sipped his morning cappuccino.

[2] For once, not a compliment.

[3] And some solids.

(Link to next part)

[theworstbob]

yellin’ at songs, week forty-one

18.10.1997 20.10.2007 21.10.2017

10.18.1997

42) "If I Could Teach the World," by Bone Thugs-N-Harmony

OK I'm just, I know I should be doing more than pointing at the lyrics page and going "haha you believe this shit," but like "How many mo days on this old earth can you see/It's a crime to me/So we should get ready for Armageddon/'Cuz I know God should be ready to roll and do away with the wickedest shit like Mr. Police Man" ...like legitimately what. Bone Thugs is worried that everyone is too evil and God is going to END THE WORLD AT ANY MINUTE, and "that's why [they] get high." I have no idea what this song is or what Bone Thugs' belief system is. This song is so weird. "How can I say this, if we can, no more murder." I JUST WANNA SAY: I AM ANTI-MURDER. Unless you like really have to. I mean, if you can not murder, that'd be super cool! But I guess if you absolutely have to murder, that's okay. I can be fine with it. No, no, really, I'm fine if you want to murder! I just like it when people don't murder, but if you need to murder, you need to murder, and, y'know, that's just what you're gonna do.

55) "Sock it 2 Me," by Missy Elliott ft./Da Brat

this is fine, why did i decide to write two posts back to back, this is no way to listen to music, this was already a bad way to listen to missy, there's shit she's probably doing that requires either headphones or better speakers, i mean i'm consuming music badly and then offering bad opinions which is sort of the reason why i stopped doing this for a bit, like what even is this paragraph, this is self-reflection not music words, and this is music which deserves words to be written about it. i don't know what i'm doing. it's one am and i'm on the return of jafar imdb page. eleven whole entire people wrote return of jafar, which means eleven people all sat in a room convincing each other they were doing good work. how come i don't have ten other people on this thing. it'd still be bad but there'd be voices telling me it was good. thank you for making music, missy elliott, i don't know why i didn't listen to it.

76) "So Help Me, Girl," by Gary Barlow

i wonder if gary barlow realizes he's the last person named Gary to have a hit on the billboard hot 100. ...i shouldn't make that assumption, there's gotta be at least 12 country garys looking to break through, but it's just nuts that in my lifetime dudes named Gary -- GARY -- were trying to be heartthrob pop stars. this dude wouldn't be in Tiger Beat, but he was definitely in like Panther Groove or whatever cheap knock-off your dad bought you from the newsstand because he knew there was a cat involved with that magazine you liked what with all the boys and such. there was an interview with the dude from boy meets world who played the main character's brother's roommate in that issue of Panther Groove. this song was four and a half minutes long and i have stern words for whoever made this a thing my life had to encounter.

89) "One More Night," by Amber

hey guess what: dance music? still horrible. still so so very bad. still nothing i ever wanted to listen to but these are the choices i've made and this is the thing i wanted to pursue and it's on me to reflect on the mistakes i've made.

92) "You're the Inspiration," by Peter Cetera ft./Az Yet

...you know how sometimes you're on the bus, and some gross person will sit next to you for three seconds before they turn their head a little bit and see that there's open seats in the back, and you're like "I'm so glad I don't have to deal with Clearly A Smoker Jones anymore" and then some fucking even grosser person takes that seat? this is how i feel right now. i miss dance music right now. DANCE MUSIC.

93) "The Rest of Mine," by Trace Adkins

I NEVER THOUGHT DANCE MUSIC WOULD SOUND SO GOOD BUT THEN 1997 FOLLOWED UP "IDOL GIVES BACK"-LEVEL BALLAD WITH SLOW-ASS COUNTRY BULLSHIT AND NOW I HATE THAT I MISS DANCE MUSIC. 1997 you are the least trash year i am considering, and this week is why i have to say "least trash" instead of "best."

10.20.2007

55) "Blue Magic," Jay-Z

This is a microwaved Jay-Z leftover, one of many songs about how Jay-Z used to sell coke but now sells CDs, from the soundtrack of a movie about gangsters which seems like it should be much better than it is. This will probably be the week's best song. This week is horrible.

72) "Soulja Girl," Soulja Boy Tell'em ft./I-15

Life is a miracle. The fact that you and I are communicating, are engaged in a transaction of ideas, me having written these words and you reading these words, is only possible because of all the planets in all the solar systems in all the galaxies this is the one close enough to the star it orbits to feel its heat but not so close that it isn't just always on fire which allowed tiny organisms to form and grow and grow and grow and grow and we discovered the tones which pleased us and rhythms which soothed us and we tasked some of the large organisms to create these noises and one such organism was Soulja Boy Tell'em and life is a miracle.

97) "Into the Night," Santana ft./Chad Kroeger

how has nickelback not gone country yet? i just realized nickelback is eventually going to make a country album and now that i've made this realization i'm stunned that it is only at this point hypothetical. like, nickelback is absolutely just gonna add a fiddle to "photograph" and have a top-ten hit for big machine. anyway, hey guess what, chad kroeger is completely unconvincing singing a song about having a fun night with a woman. his voice turns this song into a dirge because all he knows is misery. this song is what it sounds like when sean penn tries to tell a knock-knock joke. ...i guess sean penn telling a knock-knock joke would sound more like sean penn's voice than this song, but you know what i mean.

98) "Everybody," Keith Urban

every day keith urban wakes up and sees a man named Geoff whose job for the last seventeen years has been to shave Keith Urban's face so that he always maintains a consistent level of just-woke-up stubble. Geoff's daughter just graduated from college last summer, the first member of either side of Geoff's family to do so, and Geoff is so insanely proud of his Addison for taking advantage of the opportunities he's worked so hard to create for her. Keith Urban is hot and as a not-hot person this makes me angry, is what I'm trying to say.

99) "What Do Ya Think About That," Montgomery Gentry

the thumbnail for this song is a dude in a camo cowboy hat. at one point montgomery gentry snarls that he "shot a little eight ball down at the pool hall" and i know this is a song about how monty doesn't care what other people think but i really think he could have phrased that lyric in a way that didn't sound like he does heroin in public. like i always assumed when country dudes talked about horse riding, they were relaying cowboy fantasies, but i guess i was looking at the culture completely wrong?

10.21.2017

68) "Hi Bich," Bhad Bhabie

I watched gameplay of Getting Over It recently. In Getting Over It, near the end of the game, there is a snake. Near the snake, there is a sign which says "Do Not Ride the Snake," and the narrator tells you not to ride the snake. So the player knows, without a doubt, that if they ride the snake, they are taken to the beginning of the game and will have to replay the entire frustrating thing. So if you know that riding the snake is only going to bring you disappointment and sadness, why would you ride the snake? I'm not listening to this fucking song and you can't make me.

74) "No Promises," A Boogie Wit da Hoodie 75) "Say A'," A Boogie Wit da Hoodie 84) "Undefeated," A Boogie Wit da Hoodie ft./21 Savage 86) "Beast Mode," A Boogie Wit da Hoodie ft./PnB Rock * NBA YoungBoy

I was prepared to just write "I know I listened to four songs because I clicked four links, but I swear, I just listened to one twelve-minute-long song," but shot outs to "Say A'" for being "I Spy"-level jaunty! It's not as free-spirited and fun as "I Spy," little in life is, but man, I was relieved to hear a jaunty piano, and the hook is pretty inspired. Like, he knows any run-in with a cop could be his last, so when he gets off with a warning, he's just like, "Fuck it. We did it! Doesn't mean it can't happen, but hey! Look at that!" The other songs are pretty boilerplate, but I'm intrigued in what this dude can do if he's got "Say A'" in him.

98) "Smooth," Florida Georgia Line

Man, this is not a hot one. This is a lazy joke, yes, but look at what I'm dealing with. If they don't have to try, why should I, y'know?

Who won the week?

Somehow, 2017. It helps that I’m just pretending Bhad Bhabie isn’t a thing, but like if we’re being real “Say A’” is the only song in this batch worth acknowledging, and worthless as Florida Georgie Line is, they’re not Nickelback.

Current standings 1997: 15 2007: 12 2017: 14 Yo, 2007 might actually be a legit contender next week! That’ll be fun!

[sparkkeyper]

Variations on a Theme

I’ve been working on this one for a while and finally managed to finish it up for the Ace Omens discord prompt - Dancing.

The music I had on repeat while writing the second half was “So Close” from Enchanted. I like to imagine the record they end up with is one of those piano-only arrangements of it.

Also, you can’t tell me that Crowley didn’t jam to every Top 40 since music charts were invented.

(Now on AO3!)

---------------------------

"You mean you've only danced the gavotte?"

Crowley's sunglasses were barely hanging on to his nose as it was, what with the both of them being several drinks into their first bottle of the night. It didn't take many to banish the glasses these days, not when the pair of them were nestled comfortably in the back room of the bookshop, the failed Armageddon several weeks behind them. The demon stared incredulously over the tinted lenses as Aziraphale straightened from where he had begun to slouch with his wine.

"And why is that such a surprise? Angels don't usually dance at all."

"Yeah but you're not a 'usually' angel, you're you!" Crowley waved a hand wildly but did his glasses the mercy of setting them on the end table before they could fall. "You like the...the singing and the harmonizing and stuff. Humans have been moving to music since the Beginning and you really never, ever wanted to learn?"

"I did learn," the angel pointed out.

"Never wanted to learn more than the one?" Crowley amended. "Just the one in six thousand years?"

"It just didn't strike me as something I wanted to try," Aziraphale shrugged and refilled his wine glass. "The humans seemed to enjoy it sure enough, but it looked like such a hassle to attempt."

"A hassle!" Crowley threw his head back and grabbed his hair, and goodness did Aziraphale love to watch him wax dramatic when embroiled in a topic he was passionate about. "Dancing a hassle! Dancing a ha- It's not a job, angel, it's for fun!"

"Yes but in order for one to dance well, one must put in a certain amount of work."

"It's not about dancing well, it's about letting loose." Crowley rolled his eyes, stalking over to the angel's record collection next to the gramophone. "Unless you're in a professional stage company, you're not required to dance well."

"Somehow that sentiment isn't the least bit surprising coming from you."

"Oi, I'll have you know I'm an excellent dancer even though I'm not required to be. Come on, there's got to be something in here you can dance to."

"I don't know the proper steps to anything else."

"Bah, steps!" Crowley waved him off. "Don't need steps. Just make it up."

"I most certainly cannot."

"You most certainly can so. Oh for Satan's sake-" Crowley gave up his hunt and snapped, materializing a record in the gramophone and giving the handle a few solid cranks. "There we go!" His shoulders began moving to a heavy clapping beat that had definitely never been released on 78.

He turned back to Aziraphale, a grin on his face as his hips twitched to the music. "No steps, see? Just freestyle it. Come on, off the sofa, let's see it."

"This hit, that ice cold,

Michelle Pfeiffer, that white gold,

This one for them hood girls,

Them good girls, straight masterpieces-"

He made a get-up gesture and Aziraphale rose uncertainly. "I really don't think I know what to do with this-"

"Don't have to, that's the best part. Just move to the beat. "

Aziraphale tried to imitate his friend, he really did, but there was no pattern to follow. One moment the movement was in Crowley's shoulders, the next it was in his hips, and now his feet were acting out a stomp-like rhythm on the carpet. It was a fascinating thing to watch, how dancing seemed to take over his entire corporation. With the gavotte, one's back remained quite straight. There was a level of control and skill to it that Aziraphale had greatly enjoyed: maintaining some parts of yourself in position while moving others. But with Crowley's dancing, the entire line of his body twisted and flowed. A movement that started in his neck might end in an arm, or maybe it would travel up one leg and come back down the other. He made it look effortless, like it took no thought at all.

"I'm too hot! Hot damn!

Call the police and the fireman.

I'm too hot! Hot damn!

Make a dragon wanna retire, man-"

The demon's eyes flicked over his stilted attempts to copy the motions and Aziraphale watched him bite back a smirk. "No, angel?"

"Perhaps it's this century's music - goodness, there's not much melody, is there? - but I really don't understand this sort of dancing."

"Not much to understand, really, but here. We'll step it back a few decades." He snapped again and a new record appeared in his hand, which was quickly swapped out for the one on the gramophone.

Crowley snapped his fingers to the beat, hips moving in time. "Oh, don't give me that look. You can't possibly dislike Bill Haley and His Comets."

"One, two, three o'clock, four o'clock, rock.

Five, six, seven o'clock, eight o'clock, rock.

Nine, ten, eleven o'clock, twelve o'clock, rock.

We're gonna rock! Around! The clock tonight!

Put your glad rags on and join me, hon',

We'll have some fun when the clock strikes one-"

"It's not that I dislike it..." Aziraphale did his best to imitate the hip thing, and the demon's stifled snort told him exactly how unsuccessful he was at it. "I just don't...connect with this style of dance, I suppose. That's the only way I know how to put it."

"So try your own style. It's not a right and wrong, it's just whatever motion speaks to you." Crowley threw his torso into a shimmy and goodness, what were his knees even doing? Aziraphale gave up trying to copy any of it.

"That's just it! Motions don't 'speak to me'. Dancing isn't...isn't...aimlessly gyrating! It's about form and style - about using form and style to bring the music to life. There's a language to it the same way there's a language to literature. Every kick and dip and bow means something and it's all spoken into being through movement! But there needs to be a form in order for that to happen."

"No no, that's the problem! That's so limiting! So much of the universe is already made up of forms and rules!" Crowley threw his hands up to encompass the heavens. "Laws and etiquette and physics, everywhere! Inescapable! Dancing is freedom! Music is emotion distilled down into pure audio form precisely so you can do what you want with it! How does it make you feel? What does it make you want? You take it and you process it and you feel it and move however it moves you! It's speaking, yes, but in a way no one else has control over! The thing about dancing is you get to be purely you, no matter what anybody else wants."

"I already am me," Aziraphale insisted. "And I like knowing what movement comes next. I like having straightforward expectations to fulfill. That's what's satisfying - completing the steps and knowing you've gotten them right!"

The moment stretched out between them as they both let this soak in. Somewhere along the way, the gramophone had made the executive decision to go silent.

"Certainly can't fault you for that," Crowley said slowly. "Preferring a solid plan. Expectations outlined and all. It's very you."

"Nor, I suppose, could I fault you for preferring more freedom in your movement. You've always had a penchant for finding new ways to express yourself. What with the clothes and the hair and all." Aziraphale fidgeted with the corner of his waistcoat absently. "It suits you, it really does. But not me. If that were my only option, I'd rather not dance at all." He shook himself with a tiny smile and sat back in his armchair. "Ah well. I had a good run with the gavotte, anyway. Got a few good decades out of it."

Crowley pursed his lips for a few moments, then switched the record again to fill the room with a smooth piano. "Can't have that, though, can we? One dance goes out of style and you're done? I don't think so. Come on, angel, get back up." He made a come-here motion until Aziraphale stood again.

"Look, I'm really not-"

"You want defined steps? I'll give you defined steps."

Aziraphale paused, considering. "What sort is it?"

"Easy one. Simple, can use it for a lot of dances. Waltz, foxtrot, all kinds of things."

Aziraphale chewed on his lip. He wasn't anxious to make a fool of himself stumbling over a completely unfamiliar style. But goodness, he missed dancing.

Crowley held out a hand to him. It was a hesitant thing, far enough out to be an offering but close enough in to be passed off as a casual gesture if it went unaccepted.

Aziraphale braced himself and accepted it. "Right. So how does this work?"

"Easy. Here, I'll lead. So you just - hand here... Other hand here..." Crowley positioned Aziraphale's right hand on his shoulder and loosely grasped his left. They stood like that together for a moment, a good distance apart so the angel could look down at his shoes. "And I step like this..." Crowley moved one foot forward. "So you step backwards to match me. Go on, then."

Aziraphale stepped as instructed.

"Right. And then I move here -" His other foot came forward and to the side - "And yours comes back and over along the same route. Yep. Now feet together, like they were at the start. Good?"

Aziraphale made certain he had his balance and nodded.

"Good. Now I step back, like you did, and you come forward this time... No no, leave your other foot there. Right. Now bring your other foot forward as mine comes back and over. Just stepping in a big square, that's all we're doing. And feet back at the start. Make sense?"

Aziraphale pulled in a deep breath. "Simple enough in theory."

"Here, we'll try it again. Back-two. Side-two. Forward-two. Side-two...that's right. Now we just add a bit of a turn to it and that's all it is. Like this... Back-two, side-two-"

Aziraphale clutched at him as they worked their way around the room to the music. (The furniture wisely backed itself up to give them space, twisting physics occasionally to avoid being tripped over.) The problem wasn't the steps, exactly. It was combining the steps with everything else: holding tight to Crowley to keep his balance while still trying to keep enough distance to give his legs room to work, figuring out which foot to have his weight on and when, incorporating the dratted turn into the rest of it, moving precisely in time with Crowley so that they didn't step on each other.

Humans had so many pieces to keep track of. So many parts moving a specific distance at the same time. He'd been in this corporation for thousands of years and usually had an excellent handle on how it operated, but that only made new movement patterns more difficult to master. It took so much work for him to commit such things to muscle memory. Each misstep threw his rhythm off and dammit, there, he was so close to overbalancing them both -

But Crowley kept him in place.

Crowley's palm rested just under his right shoulder blade, guiding the motion of his body through space. Holding him so steady even when he felt himself floundering. Wasn't that always the way? he thought distantly, eyes trained on his feet. Even after stepping repeatedly on the demon's toes (and heels, and instep, and in one spectacular fumble the back of his left knee) Crowley was a solid anchor keeping him upright.

Dancing of any variety did not come naturally to Aziraphale. Angels were built to be sturdy, immovable. It had taken him ages to make any headway at all with the gavotte. But Crowley didn't seem to mind. He chuckled a bit when Aziraphale stepped too early. He murmured advice, a smile on his lips. And his eyes sparkled. Goodness, how they sparkled.

Letting the music wash over him, Aziraphale put his trust in Crowley. Let the demon guide him here in their own little circle. Slowly, slowly, he was getting the hang of the steps - treading on toes less at any rate. It was nice, dancing like this, it really was...

And then Crowley spun him.

He didn't realize what was happening until it was practically over. The motion of Crowley's arm coming up and turning guided his whole body smoothly around and he clicked back into place against the demon like he was never meant to be anywhere else.

Aziraphale's feet faltered to a stop, eyes wide and all steps forgotten.

Crowley froze with him. "Too much?" he asked quietly.

"I - I..." Aziraphale felt like he was still spinning, heart beating entirely too fast. "I don't..."

"Too much," Crowley answered himself, releasing his hold and taking a step back. "Thought I might try mixing it up, but I misjudged. Won't do it again."

"Mixing it...oh. Of course." Aziraphale looked down at the space between them. It was barely two feet but it suddenly seemed so much farther. "This is holding you back, isn't it? This repetitive step. You'd much rather be improvising."

"I...well I didn't say that..."

"Like you said before. You'd prefer to let the music move you rather than be limited to a predetermined pattern. I can understand that even if I can't relate. You shouldn't be beholden to this."

"It's good," Crowley blurted out, making the angel pause. "For music like this. The down-tempo, largo stuff. This is a good way to dance to it. I like it." He swallowed hard and tried for a nonchalant shrug. "I mean, don't ask me to dance like this to Uptown Funk but for this style it's...y'know. It's good."

"Right. Good." Aziraphale fidgeted, hands feeling incredibly empty. "I admit, I'm very much out of my depth here. Angels don't... I don't know what I'm doing.”

"We can stop. No sense pushing it."

"I didn't say... I'll get used to it."

"You don't have to get used to anything you don't want to." Crowley made to step back but Aziraphale, in an instant of panic, stepped forward after him.

"I want to!"

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft piano. Crowley stood frozen, as though his next movement required the most careful consideration of his life.

Aziraphale steeled himself and raised his hands back to their dancing positions. "Please."

The demon looked over the two of them and very hesitantly replaced his hands, as though doing so might scare the angel off.

They stood there for a long time. Not moving, just holding on to each other with the breathless tension of men on the gallows, waiting for the trap door to open beneath them.

Aziraphale pulled in a deep, steadying breath. "I'm afraid it's going to take a long time for me to get this right. All of this. I'm not very good at this sort of thing when I don't know the steps."

"Take all the time you need," Crowley replied softly. "I'm just sort of making it up as I go, honestly."

"It might be very long. I can't improvise as easily as you can."

"I wouldn't expect you to." The demon tightened his grip ever so slightly and Aziraphale suddenly couldn't conceive of pulling away. "No spinning, promise."

"I - I didn't say that." Fingers itched to trace a familiar nervous pattern - straighten bowtie, adjust waistcoat. They tightened in Crowley's hands instead. "Just...warn me before you do. Let me prepare."

"I can do that, yeah." The demon held him so carefully, as though giving him every chance to break away, and started them off into their pattern once more.

The hesitant grip grew more sure with each rotation around the room, and it was impossible to tell if it was one or both of them. Each successful round of the sequence made Aziraphale feel a little bolder. It was the reassurance of a task set and completed: the very ancient satisfaction of expectations met. That desire had been ingrained in his bones since bones were invented and in a way it calmed him. There was so much he suddenly felt unprepared for but at least he could do this. 

He wasn’t successful every time, of course. He still fumbled, still trod on snakeskin shoes. But the guiding hand was back under his shoulder blade and God, did it make a world of difference. It stayed with him through each failed attempt and carried him through to try again. Any wrong positioning of his legs seemed less important when he was sure Crowley would keep him where he needed to be. 

He could see the tension draining from the demon as well. The sense that he was holding something fragile and afraid to break it was melting slowly back into the confident strides Aziraphale had seen from the start. The lines of motion flowed through him the way they had earlier, though more predictably at present. He was still amazing to watch, all moving lines and sharp joints. Aziraphale blamed more than one stagger on it.

"All right if I spin you?"

The angel braced himself. "All right."

"'Kay. Three, two-" Crowley twirled him again and for a single, dazzling moment it felt like flying. It felt free and easy and the most natural thing in the world -

And then he stumbled over his own feet coming back in and nearly collapsed against the demon's chest and drat, now he'd lost all the steps-

"Forward-two, right-two, back-two, you've got it, come on, forward-two -"

Aziraphale clung to the instructions and managed to get back on track within an eight-count, concentrating fiercely on the movements of their feet together.

"That's what I'm talking about. Look at you. Angel dancing something other than the gavotte. Who would have thought, eh?"

"Who indeed." There was a warm fluttering in his chest. So much to keep track of with these human bodies.

He was still going to need a lot of time and a lot of practice. He had a feeling there was a lot of unknown territory ahead regarding the two of them.

But he had Crowley to keep him steady. So they’d be all right.

[shipaholic]

Omens Universe, Chapter 14, Part 2

Link to next part at the end.

(From the beginning)

(last part)

(chrono)

---

Chapter 14, cont.

“So we’ve lost the Antichrist, then.”

“Bound to happen.”

Aziraphale and Crowley stopped craning their necks to peer into the sky. Clearly, the alien ship was not coming back.

Aziraphale turned and absently smoothed down the front of Crowley’s jacket. Crowley had enough brain space going spare to mentally give a little cheer.

“I don’t think we were very responsible guardians,” Aziraphale said, mournfully.

“Nope.” Crowley thought about it. “It was literally my job to be an irresponsible one, in fairness.”

They looked out over the planet that was, finally, all theirs.

Crowley shifted his weight. The ground squelched. It was a good thing he could miracle up a fresh pair of shoes, these snakeskin ones had had it - oh no. He couldn’t. His face fell. No more miracles as himself. Bless. That was going to be impossible to remember.

“I suppose,” Aziraphale said slowly, “While it was nice to have him with us…” He hesitated. “The Antichrist coming along was not, technically, part of the plan.”

Crowley eyed him sidelong.

“He did gatecrash your brilliant plan,” he said, nodding. “Absolutely.”

“So… perhaps…”

Crowley waited, expectantly.

“...This is for the best?”

Crowley beamed. “I reckon you’re onto something.”

“I mean, he does obviously have all his powers.” Aziraphale’s smile dipped slightly. “And we’ve sent him back to Earth like some kind of plague ship, dooming all life upon it…”

“But it’s not like it was actually our fault,” Crowley said hurriedly.

“Oh… no.” Aziraphale was now not smiling at all. “I suppose not.”

“Who are we to stand against Armageddon? It’s written, isn’t it? It’s always been written. In really big font. It’s…” He couldn’t believe he was going to say this. “Ineffable.”

Aziraphale looked pleasantly startled that Crowley had said that. Then it faded. He looked glum and serious once more.

Crowley rested his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders. His ungloved thumb stroked the base of his neck. Aziraphale’s pulse was close by, a steady marching beat.

“Hey. We tried, remember? We thought if he came with us, we could stop it from happening. We didn’t have to do that. It’s not our fault it didn’t work.”

Aziraphale wavered. His eyes were bluer than ever, under the purple sky. Crowley wanted to kiss the soft creases at the corner of his mouth.

“We saved ourselves,” he said. “That’s all we could ask for.”

Aziraphale breathed out. A thread of tension left his body. He leaned forward,  sharing Crowley’s body heat.

“I suppose all we can do is live on.”

Crowley nodded. “You said it.”

“And remember the Earth. Whenever we think of it, it will be like… a memorial.”

Crowley leaned forward and kissed him softly. His heartbeat drummed, warm and alive, against Crowley’s palm.

They broke apart and leaned their foreheads together.

“What should we do first?”

~*~

Zadkiel took a stroll along the river through St James’s Park.

There were no ducks. He was building up his confidence with living creatures. Not that he couldn’t make them, it was just that there were ethical considerations to introducing foreign wildlife to an alien planet. He was half-angel, after all. He thought about these things.

He passed Petronius’s restaurant as he turned about the park. It sat just behind one of the famous St James flower beds. He thought it was a nice addition. He hadn’t quite got all the details, he knew, but then again, it had been a long time since they were there. He was sure the table they’d sat at inside was as accurate as he could make it.

A few yards away, visible over the tops of the trees, was the Globe. He’d shrunk it down a little. It had felt a bit empty with just him standing inside. Still, perhaps they could put on their own plays. Aziraphale would love that.

He hadn’t tried to replicate the Bentley, or the bookshop. That felt disrespectful, somehow. They’d have to find new things to love.

He looked upon his work, and saw that it was good. For a first attempt, anyway. He unfused.

Crowley brushed himself down. He took Aziraphale’s hand.

“Nice one with the restaurant,” he said.

Aziraphale smiled shyly. “I thought that one was you.”

“Probably both of us. We’ve got to eat somewhere, right?”

Aziraphale chuckled. He bumped shoulders with Crowley.

“I remember that was the night I persuaded you to try food.”

“Mmm. Oysters. Not exactly beginner’s fare.”

“Oh, but you have opinions on that, now.”

“‘Course I do. You’ve been a good influence on me.”

“And you on me,” Aziraphale said, softly.

The air seemed to shimmer. The pink-red sun had gone down. They didn’t have to feel the cold, so chose not to. Crowley chose to let Aziraphale slip his arm through his, though.

They walked together along the river. It was like a date - in fact, that’s exactly what it was, Crowley realised. Their first date. Unless you counted all the earlier ones. He decided not to. You only got to have a first date once. He preferred to have it now, when he and Aziraphale were safe and as far from Heaven and Hell as they were ever going to get.

They passed a few more scattered, anachronistic monuments on their way. A café Crowley had been fond of. A tiny painting gallery Aziraphale went to in the seventeen-hundreds. They were all a bit off, a row of sketches slightly smudged. History had blurred in Zadkiel’s mixed-together memories.

“It’ll be more convenient, having them closer together,” Aziraphale ventured.

The air felt a little sombre. They reached the edge of the park and stopped.

This was as far as Zadkiel had made. The park stopped dead along a straight edge. Lawns and flowers came to a halt as if burned away by an electric fence from that point onward. Even the river stopped there, bisected by a straight line in the dirt. Water gurgled merrily along and disappeared into a plane of rock and marshland.

They stared off into the unknown wastes. The land beyond seemed bleak, inhospitable. But realer.

The little garden they’d created sat behind them. It seemed like a dreamland, then. Something for children who refused to grow up.

The first raindrops fell.

Crowley shivered as trickles of water dampened his hair and clothes. Beside him came the sound of wings unfolding. A feathery canopy of white covered his head.

He smiled at Aziraphale. His heart squeezed with tenderness.

It didn’t matter that they’d never get it completely right. That the Earth would burn, and nothing would remain except these imperfect facsimiles they’d conjured up out here. He had Aziraphale, and Aziraphale loved him, and Aziraphale would always shelter him from rainfall. They could wander this empty world, the two of them. Maybe nobody had to get kicked out of Eden this time. They could do things right.

He shifted closer, into the angel’s warmth.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Aziraphale said.

His gaze was heavy with affection. Crowley grinned dopily at him.

“You won’t find a penny ’round here,” he said.

Aziraphale leaned in. Crowley felt his breath on his face, warm and sweet. His hand raised to Crowley’s cheek, hovering, not quite a caress. Crowley swayed, blinking slowly, punch-drunk with love.

Aziraphale whispered: “Magic.”

He pulled his hand back with a flourish. There was a coin in it.

Crowley’s face went through an entire journey. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

“That was never anywhere near my ear,” he said at last.

~*~

It was still raining half an hour later, so they wandered back to the cottage.

It was tucked behind some trees, slightly apart from the rest of the buildings haphazardly crammed into St James’s Park. It was the only new thing Zadkiel had made. It wasn’t any place Aziraphale or Crowley had been, but it felt familiar, all the same.

It had an immaculate garden at the front, with a winding path through arrays of verdant plants. They all shook with terror as Crowley passed by. He shot them all a look, but went no further in Aziraphale’s presence.

The little porch was a riot of tasteful clutter. Aziraphale beamed at it. Then he frowned.

“It’s a bit… monochromatic, isn’t it?”

Crowley saw what he meant. The front of the cottage was all rustic Olde Worlde charm, except that it was, incongruously, jet black. The front steps had a hint of a marble sheen.

Aziraphale pushed open the front door (black, with an enormous gilt knocker). He entered the hall and gave a snort of laughter.

Crowley peered around him. This was more his speed - a high-ceilinged vault of a hallway. Hunks of black marble and flashes of gold leaf. Except…

“Tartan?”

It was hard to tell at first glance, but dark overlapping strands of varying shades coloured every surface, forming a criss-cross pattern that was, indeed, tartan.

“I think this cottage might be a fusion,” Aziraphale said, beaming.

“It’s ugly as sin,” Crowley said.

“I suspect we weren’t winning any beauty contests the first few times we did it.”

“Well, it’s hard to do anything with grey. It took us a while to get our sense of style.”

They wandered further in. The passage opened up into a wide, stone living room with a deep fireplace.

Crowley brightened. “That’s more like it.”

He raised his good hand to snap his fingers. Aziraphale grabbed it in the nick of time. They stared at each other. Crowley’s stomach plunged.

“Oops. Forgot,” he said, croakily.

Aziraphale said nothing. He didn’t need to. He dropped Crowley’s hand and straightened up.

“We’d better get into the habit of doing things the human way,” he said, briskly, and strode over to the fireplace.

This, at least, was pretty good entertainment. Crowley watched Aziraphale struggle with logs and tinder and get closer and closer to swearing. Finally, he stood up, pink in the face.

“Never mind. Fuse.”

Zadkiel made quick work of the fire. He snapped his fingers again, and a deep rug spread out in front of it. He settled onto it with a deep, contented sigh.

He snapped again for a glass of wine.

He whiled away an hour, enjoying his own company. He sipped the wine slowly, until about the halfway mark, when he began throwing it back. This was a trait Crowley and Aziraphale shared. He snapped for another one, and things got a little silly. He ended up giggling at one of his own jokes and spilling wine on himself. He banished the stain (he’d hear no end of it from Aziraphale if he didn’t), and sat up, scrubbing his hands through his own hair.

He fingered the ends, considering. He concentrated, and his hair grew a few inches, both downward and outward. He nodded approvingly. Shoulder-length was a good look on both him and Crowley.

He should spend the week together. Get everything set up, just right. Do all the miracles in one big batch, rather than have to keep popping in and out of fusion because they’d run out of milk or something. He’d never had the opportunity to stay fused for this long, come to that. To luxuriate in it. It had always been a furtive thing. Moments snatched every few years. Sips of water spread too thin amid long stretches of thirst. Of want.

He shook, slightly.

It was both of them. Seventy-eight years of loneliness. It had felt longer than the thousands of years they’d once spent ignoring each other. The seconds dripping like a leaky tap. Counting them all. Assuming it was forever.

He wiped his eyes. It felt like a bad idea to be drunk right now. He jettisoned the alcohol from his bloodstream. It helped a bit, but he didn’t feel much more cheery. He felt like a hug, actually.

He lay down and wrapped his arms around himself.

Nice. But… actually, there were some things that were better done the old-fashioned way.

His body glowed, melted, and flowed back into two.

Crowley blinked. His throat felt tight and a little hot. His arms were around Aziraphale. The angel’s blue eyes were so close Crowley could count the lashes.

“Hey,” Crowley said. His voice wobbled a bit. Blessit.

Aziraphale gave a small hiccup and buried his face in Crowley’s jacket.

Crowley breathed deeply and pressed his face to the top of Aziraphale’s head. His hair was crisply curly. It tickled. It was actually a bit annoying. He managed a smile at that.

They clung to each other for a long time.

Aziraphale moved back by inches. He pulled himself level with Crowley until they were face to face.

Crowley’s heart hammered. Aziraphale’s mouth was a determined line. His eyes brimmed with undefined emotion.

He leaned in and kissed Crowley.

This kiss felt different. It was like the moment before, when Aziraphale gave him that look, coy and heavy with intent. It bowled Crowley over. He found himself pushed onto his back, and he caught his breath in little gasps between kisses as Aziraphale climbed over him and settled there, hands on Crowley’s face. Crowley gripped his wrist with his one good hand and felt Aziraphale’s pulse hammer against the base of his thumb.

One more time that night, they collapsed together, helpless under their own gravity.

The rain drummed on the roof of the cottage. No-one paid it any attention.

~*~

Crowley lay cocooned in warm blankets. Aziraphale was stroking his newly shoulder-length hair. He was definitely keeping it this way.

He felt a little stunned. Good stunned, that was. His brain hadn’t fully cranked back up yet. He was in no hurry for it to come back.

The fire had burned down to its embers. Crowley watched the coals simmer, no longer urgent with heat. Aziraphale watched the light flicker in Crowley’s eyes.

Crowley felt his eyelids sink. Aziraphale’s fingers combed over his scalp. He really could stay here for a week. They could keep doing that until they drove the Earth’s fate from their minds.

Aziraphale’s fingers stopped moving. He shifted beneath Crowley. Crowley raised his head sleepily to look at his face. It was wrinkled in thought. There was a little pinch between his eyes.

Aziraphale sighed, more with his body than breath.

“Crowley?”

Crowley waited for the thought to come out.

“I think we have to go back.”

There was silence.

The words dropped through the centre of the cottage, filling the room right into every corner. Crowley let them fill his bones and ring the bell of his heart.

He pulled himself up. He adjusted the blanket around himself and stared down at Aziraphale.

“Yeah,” he said at last.

His conscience had paced all day inside the locked room he’d stuffed it into. The more Crowley hummed and tapped his foot to drown it out, the louder it grew.

Now that Aziraphale had said, with such calm certainty, the truth, that they couldn’t abandon the Earth, they couldn’t, it was theirs -

Crowley knew what they had to do.

They had to save their home.

---

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