Happy Holidays, NotASpaceAlien!
Dec. 30th, 2018 06:08 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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go_exchangeTitle: Not Without End
Recipient: NotASpaceAlien
Word Count: 10,850
Summary: Years after the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, Crowley and Aziraphale have had their fair share of (mis)adventures, and they just want to enjoy a cosy life full of convenient miracles in their little cottage. However, a series of unexpected events draws the very personal attention of every magical being. Heaven and Hell might be racing to unravel the mystery, but a certain witch is leagues ahead of them both...
Note: The mods have divided this fic into two posts.
Better than prophecy
(Note: Thank you to The Librarians for the concept of mathe-magics, which this author would love to practice next to its less occult, more ordinary counterpart.)
If you want to imagine the past, think of a small workroom gradually becoming covered in old, hand-written notes, freshly printed articles on harsh white sheets of paper always just on the edge of yellowing with age. Look at how the shelves finally get buried under piles of unknowable machine-parts, and the seemingly functional, albeit mysterious machines themselves carefully balanced on top of them. Watch as the desk labours under the weight of books and never-sleeping computers. Forget the original pastel colours of the walls, as a tapestry of photos, graphs, post-its and multi-coloured strings evolves over them.
And, eventually, welcome in the messy cushions and the old woollen blanket that take up residence in a corner, serving as a makeshift bed every once in a while in the small hours of the morning. Listen to the lullaby of a kindred voice, speaking of unspeakable secrets of our world, and turning out to not know all that much about them, after all. Take in the ticking of a lanky standing clock with unnecessarily many hands, interspersed with the “pings” of new messages about the limits of possibilities and the dismissal of probabilities.
Imagine a dark and stormy night - because if this particular witch has to obey the narrative laws of the universe, working in that cramped room day and night as her genius unfolds, then so does the weather.
Imagine a lightning strike and some equipment that fails to join the blackout… and a couple, staring at the screens first in content, and then in absolute shock.
“Is this for sure?” the man asks.
“Yes,” the woman answers. “Mathe-magics has never lied before.”
They look at each other in the artificial blue-white light, nod much more grimly than their age should allow, and let their machines join the blackout. There may come a time, after all, when every tiny bit counts.
Interrupted
If you want to imagine the present, imagine an equally dark, but quietly rainy night. Listen to the pitter-patter of droplets on the roof of a lone cottage, and a pristine greenhouse, which definitely should not be able to fit all the plants that it does. Watch the blinking lights in the windows showing an old-looking, but secretly very modern television set hard at work. Don’t necessarily pay very close attention to it, because every movie left in the DVD-player attached to this particular telly for more than a fortnight transforms into Bohemian Rhapsody anyway…
“‘s a good movie,” Crowley mumbled over the credits, his tongue lazy after the deluge of wine that it had very recently survived.
“All I’m saying is… right? I’m saying is all… all is… ‘s a bit diffra-... duffer-... it changes every time,” Aziraphale said, not much more eloquently, in spite of his best intentions.
“I think the dina-... the velcro-... the dinos make it be’er,” Crowley insisted.
“You think lizards make everything better, my dear,” Aziraphale observed, sobering up a little. He was very grateful for the small but persevering part of his mind that reminded him they had plans other than getting drunk that night.
“Well, they do,” Crowley replied, following the angel’s example. “Look at palaeontology. ’s funny.”
“You old serpent,” Aziraphale said fondly, reaching out to ruffle the long-suffering demon’s hair.
“Silly angel,” Crowley countered after deciding not to slither out from under the pleasantly warm touch, his integrity be damned (which it kind of was anyway).
What that certain silly angel registered from all this, was that his beloved demon was letting out content little hisses (which were, in spite of the sound, strangely reminiscent of a cat’s purring).
And once this hissing purr began, sleep would follow soon enough. That hadn’t been the original plan for the evening, but seeing all worry finally leave Crowley’s face as he drifted off was something that Aziraphale could never resist seeing (or bringing about, if he could).
Now that he thought about it, the couch was comfortable enough… indulging in a little sleep before summoning a new book to read was a sound enough plan. Maybe with a glass or three more of that wine…
While he focused on refilling the discarded bottle and getting the taste just right, Aziraphale momentarily stopped caressing the dozing demon, and came to rest his hand on the back of the other’s neck.
He nearly fell to the floor in shock when Crowley jumped up, hissing in a way that was decidedly not blissful anymore. In fact, it had a rather threatening edge, possibly covering something else… but really, once the demon’s mind got going, it was difficult to keep up with the frenzy of thoughts and feelings chasing one another through it, even for another supernatural being.
“Are you… quite all right, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, wishing fervently that he had been able to come up with something more appropriate to say. However, even this took him long enough that, regrettably, Crowley was trying to cover the facts and causes of his unusual behaviour by the time he spoke.
“It’ssss… fine,” Crowley answered, biting down on his tongue to stop hissing again. For an occult creature, he was an incredibly bad liar - which he made up for by trying to be twice as secretive and half as trusting, Aziraphale thought to himself with a sigh.
As if to offer confirmation, Crowley covered his eyes with a pair of freshly miracled sunglasses, and stiffly folded his hands behind his back in an attempt to stop any possible flow of non-verbal clues.
“You really don’t have to-...” Aziraphale started to say; however, he was interrupted by a round of echoing thunder coming from behind.
Whirling around in alarm (it wasn’t a stormy night, after all), he saw that it had only been the door, snapping open with far more force than physically necessary, bringing down the equivalents of doors on a number of ethereal and occult defences around the cottage with it.
“Next time, pick up the phone - and just stop miracling everything left and right!” a soaked, furious, and mildly terrifying Anathema shouted at them from the threshold.
Without further ado, she marched into the hall, dropped her coat on a chair next to the fireplace to dry, and faced the flabbergasted pair with as much certainty in her smart brown eyes as angels rarely saw in human gazes.
The door creaked accusingly.
“Sorry for barging in,” the young witch offered curtly. “But you’re really hard to find, and we have to talk.”
“Can’t it wait until-”
“No, it can’t wait until morning, or until whenever you remember that you are supposed to check your messages.”
“All right,” Aziraphale conceded, suddenly unsure whether his phone was even in the hundred-mile vicinity, “what is it? Are you in some sort of trouble?”
“If I’m right - and I am - then we all are,” she said gravely. “Listen to me, and, for once, listen as if you would be speaking to Agnes: you must learn to get by without miracles, now, or you will be made to learn to stop using magic - wasting magic - the hard way.”
Old routine
The future held surprisingly few surprises (for a while). Spring became summer, summer quickly faded into autumn, autumn into winter, and winter into spring…
… when finally, Crowley had had enough of the idiotic nightmares. After discreetly going through all known herbal remedies, his last ray of hope was that a change of scenery would keep the blasted things away. It had been suspiciously easy to convince Aziraphale to spend some time in London again, even without giving him any hints to the actual reason at all. A small part of the demon’s mind was telling him that whatever fragile companionship they had managed to build up through millennia of hard work and barely seeing each other, quickly soured and turned into something boring or uncomfortable once they had moved in together. At least that must have been how things appeared from an ethereal point of view.
For now, though, a significantly greater part of his mind was preoccupied hoping (not quite praying) that he wouldn’t have to relive the same stupid nightmare over and over again if they moved away from the place where it was first triggered.
That part of his mind was, however, forced to shut up and keep waiting: the first night back in Mayfair, sleep avoided him by about a hundred million miles. And he couldn’t keep trying indefinitely: he had a date with Aziraphale and with the well-fed descendants of some equally well-fed ducks. And, demonic appearances be damned (which they kind of were already), he would make sure to give them healthy food this time.
To Crowley’s eternal disgruntlement, they never actually got as far as feeding (or, in his case, also obligatorily sinking a few of) the ducks. Walking down the astonishingly unchanged path, all of a sudden, he found himself pushed into a nearby bush by Aziraphale, who was already running away - towards something bright and bluish and slightly painful over the water, which had decidedly not been there just a second before.
Three things went through Crowley’s sleep-deprived mind at the same time. The first one was that the angel would come to regret this sneaky attack when he was going to find his opening hours changed to a horrifyingly regular schedule. The second one reminded him that he was being grumpy, and he should consider what the bright and painful thing might be before he jumped to conclusions. Finally, the third one told him that there was an inexperienced, defenceless angel somewhere on Earth, and he should capture the unlucky enemy soldier and interrogate them.
A reeling fourth thought joined the party belatedly, informing him that the third thought hadn’t been his own at all; rather, it was an assignment straight from Hell.
Crowley stood up with a grunt, and, coming back to his second thought, stayed behind the cover of the closest tree until the blue light above the water faded. He watched with some trepidation as a very unsettled Aziraphale made his way back to the offending bush, searching for some words somewhere between the truth and a lie that he could safely share with his counterpart. Suddenly, Crowley felt glad that his sunglasses had survived the undignified fall he took, and kept his prickling eyes safely in their shadows.
“I’ve got an assignment from Heaven,” the angel began cautiously.
“I’ve got one from Hell,” Crowley nodded. He could dig up no hint of willingness to follow his orders, of course… but he also couldn’t quite see a way out of them yet. The best thing to do was probably to just stay in the loop for now, he decided. “Should we coordinate the search?” he offered.
“No, I… it’s Heaven. They told me already where I’m supposed to go.”
“Oh. I see. Well… I suppose they also know which one of you harp-wrenchers snuck out?”
“For the last time, Crowley, you know very well that we do not actually have harps, and, more importantly… no one snuck out. Apparently, it was some sort of accident?”
“How does an angel accidentally end up down here?” Crowley wondered.
“I have no idea, but I should go before they do something to draw too much attention.”
“Or to hurt people.”
“... or that,” Aziraphale allowed with some reluctance. “I’ll make sure to give you an acceptable reason to lose my trail, if you want?”
“Yes, please,” Crowley accepted with a grin. His mood and the consequences be damned (which… you get the gist), he found himself enjoying a little of the old-fashioned sneaking around. “Just warn a guy before you bless the rain next time, eh?”
“Will do, my dear. Oh, and I’m sorry we couldn’t see the ducks, my dear.”
“The ducks will be there long after our visitor’s gone,” Crowley said dismissively.
“And sorry I shoved you like that, didn’t really have time to think,” the angel added. “Here, let me at least mend that tear in your shirt,” he insisted, and started waving his hand very ineffectively.
“I must be too distracted…”
“Leave it, angel,” Crowley mumbled, entirely unconvinced by that conclusion. But they had more pressing matters at hand. “Just take care of that celestial leak, and let me know when we can talk safely?”
“Will do, dear. Find some cover after the first thunder?”
“Will do,” Crowley promised, too. “Good luck, angel.”
He stayed in the shelter of vegetation for a little while, until Aziraphale was far enough away that all the other secret agents in the park wouldn’t be suspicious if he started following the hurrying angel. In the meantime, he had some opportunity to work on that stubborn tear on his sleeve - which took him exactly four attempts to magically vanish.
A new entry made it all the way to second place on the list of his worries, overshadowed only by the presence of some uninvited angel no Earth: that there might be something wrong with his (and Aziraphale’s) miracling skills. And at the worst possible time, too.
He adjusted his sunglasses, and marched out of the park with much of his old mistrust of the world firmly in place once again.
Like lightning from Heaven
Three days later, Aziraphale felt frustrated and exhausted in equal measure.
He had found his decidedly panicky and clumsy colleague in the wax museum, hovering invisibly among the statues of long-since-dead musicians, and watching with intense trepidation as the unsuspecting living walked by them and as some tried to prod them.
As his calming thoughts weren’t quite getting through to the unprepared visitor, Aziraphale unceremoniously grabbed them by an ethereal tendril, and dragged them outside, all the way back to his dustier-than-usual bookshop.
There, he finally stopped for an explanation forced into the other’s still reeling mind (perhaps with somewhat more force than was strictly necessary). This, at least, made their struggles stop… only for them to begin an endless stream of complaints with a slight hysteric edge to the thoughts. One piece was a recurring theme:
“Why didn’t you say something? I thought I was in Hell! With all those dead having lived abominable lives? I thought it was Hell!”
“Just stay here while I contact someone?” Aziraphale practically begged his unwanted guest in the end.
“What should I do?” they asked, much to his surprise.
“I don’t know… read a book?” he suggested - a decision which he was sure he would regret later.
Soon enough, though, he forgot all about those minor details. Talking to Heaven was tricky enough sometimes; and convincing them of something was downright impossible in most cases. The long and fruitless argument he had in his back room with three different disgruntled superiors ended up being useful only for one single thing: coaxing a tiny bit more information out of the tight-lipped bureaucrats.
Apparently, they didn’t want to take or even allow the stray angel back into Heaven - mostly, because they genuinely had no idea what had caused this particular being to fall-but-not-Fall, just to take an abrupt stumble down to Earth. When Aziraphale had tried pointing out that this was not really handling the issue, just sticking their collective head in the sand, a very confused gate-keeper didn’t get his reference to ostriches and tore the ethereal connection in overstated anger.
Coming back to the front of the shop wasn’t a much better experience, either, what with the formless presence squeaking at him in alarm:
“Why do you have all these erroneous Bibles?”
“To keep the enemy from confusing humans with them,” Aziraphale lied smoothly, mentally thanking Crowley for the useful suggestion, even if it had come in the form of teasing. He sighed, and prepared himself for a stream of terrified protests. “Heaven wants you to stay here.”
“What? Why?” Formless as the presence may have been, their confusion was almost tangible in the air.
“I’m sure you’ll get some assignment down the line,” Aziraphale offered, not at all certain that suspicious heavenly paper-pushers would ever want anything to do with this unfortunate outcast. Hayliel, he reminded himself. Their name was Hayliel - at least he should think of it, if everyone else was going to pretend to have forgotten that an angel with such a name even existed…
“But… but…”
“I’m going to get you a corporation you can use,” Aziraphale pushed on. “It won’t be an officially tailored and bestowed one, so it might be a bit of an uncomfortable fit, but it’s better than nothing. I’m sure you’ll get used to it quite soon,” he lied, wondering quietly when he had made that much of a habit out of forging and spreading untruths, and whether he was doing it to Crowley, too.
“But…”
“Just stay here and wait until I come back.”
“But… Aziraphale, I don’t know anything about Earth! All I ever did was keep records on extinct species! I’ve never actually been here! I even mixed it up with Hell! I thought I had fallen and ended up in Hell!”
“I’ll help you adjust, Hayliel, don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll do splendid work soon enough,” Aziraphale said, not sure anymore how much of that was merely wishful thinking, and how much of it a blatant lie. “But I really must go now. The sooner we get started, the better.”
… but it wasn’t better. Not really. Sure, smuggling a comatose body without any current occupier out of the hospital was a bit of a tricky task, but Aziraphale had been convinced it would help. After all, Hayliel had been through enough trauma recently, they couldn’t just be asked to reanimate and inhabit a corpse. An empty, but technically living shell was the better option, for certain. Corporations without bespoke tailoring were always a little uncomfortable, however, they easily beat being an ineffectual formless presence for any duration.
He just hadn’t expected this specific corporation’s voice to be quite so high-pitched, that was all.
Or Hayliel to have all the grace and understanding of Earth of a human toddler.
It took him three entire days to get away from his clingy guest for long enough to let Crowley know what had happened - and that they wouldn’t be meeting up anytime soon. Aziraphale could practically see all the glass and crystal accessories in their beloved Ritz shatter from the scream Hayliel would let out if she were to see the two of them spending so much as a minute together without visible signs of barbaric enmity.
It’s a wonderful(l) world
Even at the end of summer, it was way too bright and hot as Hell outside - and Crowley should know, he had been there.
Even on a summer night such as this, he had to find the saying was true: there was no rest for the wicked.
“Crowley, a fellow agent is coming up and you have to assist- nevermind,” the radio blared at him. It had been doing that, for a while. After the first two such aborted calls, he actually flew to the coordinates that had already been shoved into his head, only to find the unreasonably strong scent of sulphur at the site of a minor volcanic eruption. On the third occasion, he was actually prepared, camping out at a generally restless Mount Etna, just close enough to the site of the eruption to see the hellfire-tainted lava burn up something that had definitely come from Hell, but was, as of that moment, entirely powerless.
Mortified, he rolled halfway down the slope before his cold and numb limbs managed to stop his stumbling, and his wings could be made to carry him far, far away from the scene.
That had been a dozen calls ago.
Demons were still dying left and right, Crowley had no idea why, and, worse still, he couldn’t even fully trust his own abilities anymore. Ever since that day in St James’s Park, there had been… incidents. Little moments when a miracle took multiple attempts, or just far longer to work than a momentary feat of magic should ever have.
And worst of all? He didn’t have anywhere he could turn to for a little help. The other realms were, of course, out of the question, humans didn’t have any reason to know even as much as he did about current events, and Aziraphale… Aziraphale was busy these days.
Just as demons were turning up dead seemingly ever more often, angels kept turning up in what Aziraphale had described as a severe lack of intention and corporation. And, lone bookworm as the pudgy angel may have once been, he ended up taking all the others under his wings, figuratively speaking.
Or maybe quite literally, too - a supremely unhelpful part of Crowley’s mind supplied. He knew from experience just how comfortable those messy wings could be, and envied those angels their places in their soft cocoon.
But it was understandable if Aziraphale preferred their company, wasn’t it? They could be his shiny new collection, and their absolute lack of field experience could make him feel like a wise leader without requiring much effort: the perfect soil for the normally mostly controlled vestiges of the angel’s vanity. And wasn’t it just easier to be among his own kind? Obviously, it wasn’t like that for demons, but Crowley reckoned it must be the case for the other side.
And so, he ended up quietly avoiding the angel colony that had reared its head near St Paul’s - including his own age-old counterpart. At least the other blasted feather-brains wouldn’t find out about their business partnership. Apart from a few strained phone calls, there had been no contact between Earth’s senior field agents for months by now.
Which was all well and good from a survival point of view, but which left Crowley all alone with the mystery of demons and volcanoes and malfunctioning miracles. (And just alone in general - but he wasn’t quite at the point of admitting that yet.)
No one had any idea what was really going on, or, at the very least, no one had thought to tell Crowley…
… except, that wasn’t entirely true. There was one theory out there… even if it was very much out there. But what did he have to lose?
With this cheerful rationale, and The Prophet’s Song (by “Beethoven”) blaring on full volume, Crowley drove up to the North to locate a certain witch with whom they hadn’t exactly parted on the best terms. But, to be fair, he never would have thought there might have come a point when he would find himself dwelling on her warning to use magic sparingly…
To his utter surprise, a very familiar disheveled pearly feather greeted him at the threshold of the Device house. Instantly on full alert, he listened to the voices coming from inside, fearing that Aziraphale might not have come here alone.
“No, I don’t recall any prophecy at all that speaks of angels halfway falling after the Apocalypse up to which point the prophecies went,” Anathema was saying, slightly exasperated. “But I do have a theory that can explain such an occurrence.”
“And much more,” Newt added without much enthusiasm. Cursed to break technology as he might have been, he was one of those people who could sense a conflict building from a mile and a week away, Crowley had learnt early on.
“If you are referring to the, frankly, ridiculous warnings you came to shout at us that night-”
“Yes, I am! Why is it so impossible to believe it, though? Do you know, do you really know it’s not the case?” Anathema asked, sounding a tiny bit like she was hoping to be proven wrong. Which made sense: after all, scientifically-minded as though she was, she was still a gifted witch, mixing those two traditionally opposed areas for a living. Or for a pastime. You could never be entirely sure with witches.
“Well, not per se, but…”
“There you go, then. You have your explanation.”
“Yes, and it’s wrong-”
“Is it really?” Crowley asked, faking the perfect flippancy to play devil’s advocate from behind the cover of the door. He was very satisfied with his entrée, right up to the point where Newt let him into the house, and he could guess from the man’s oddly sympathetic expression that he wasn’t doing such a stellar job of hiding his worries.
“Crowley? What are you doing here?” Aziraphale questioned, giving him a quick once-over. “And how long has it been since you had some proper sleep?”
“I’ve stocked up a century’s worth of sleep, remember?” Crowley half-answered with a shrug. He resisted the urge to adjust his sunglasses, or to rub at his prickling eyes behind them. “And apparently, we’re here for the same reason - we’re both out of ideas.”
“What do you mean, both?”
“I thought you two usually coordinate…?” Anathema asked quietly. She looked very much like she was going to continue, but Newt’s urging hand on her shoulder was enough to make her reconsider.
“Not so much… recently… ah, what with all the other angels around, you understand…” Aziraphale mumbled, cheeks promisingly rosy with embarrassment.
“Anyway, angel, I think she’s right,” Crowley mercifully cut in. “Or, at least, no one has a better theory, and we should be better safe than sorry. Demons keep popping up, too, just like your feathery little congregation - the only difference is, the ones from Down Below don’t survive the trip.”
“Alarming as that is, my dear, I don’t see what it has to do with her theory…?”
“Well, I don’t see it, either, but she said it fits, and she’s been right about the miracles.”
“I have?” Anathema asked, partly astonished, but mostly, frightened.
“Yes…?” Crowley offered uncertainly. Making sense of the witch’s reactions was, he decided, once and for all well beyond his capabilities. “Didn’t you think so?”
“Well, yes, obviously, but… you should have admitted it long ago, or not admitted it at all!”
“What? Why?”
“You should have noticed the trouble with conjuring, what with all the ridiculous and unnecessary miracles you both keep performing day by day, I don’t know, at least a year ago, I think? Or not noticed it at all, which would have meant I was wrong - and I would be so glad if that were the case…”
“Well, I only saw something fishy when we went back to London in the spring,” Crowley clarified.
“Oh, you mean that silly little thing with the tear on your shirt?” Aziraphale asked, adding some decidedly forced laughter. “I told you, dear boy, I was just distracted…”
“Hm, quite. And, pray tell, have you been distracted a lot lately, angel?” the demon countered sharply.
“I have a lot on my mind,” Aziraphale said defensively.
“Oh my God, you have, haven’t you…” the realisation broke out of Newt, possibly without consulting the greater part of his brain before doing so.
“It doesn’t mean a thing! You try taking care of a group of sheltered angels who are just on the verge of figuring out that Heaven wants nothing to do with them-”
“Hang on, what was that? Why?” Crowley interrupted.
“Superstitious fear?” Newt suggested helpfully. And insightfully, judging by the ashen look in Aziraphale’s eyes.
“Well, the powers-”
“Of course, powers! I must have used the wrong power-law!” Anathema cut the evolving explanation short with an excited cry. “But that’s good news! It means the process is slower than I had estimated - we have more time to sort things out!”
“Er… great. Now, could you just tell the rest of us what it is exactly that needs sorting out - and how?” Crowley inquired, seeing his own bafflement mirrored in the other two men’s (or man-shaped beings') expressions.
“The world is trying to go out with a whimper, but we won’t let it,” Anathema declared, her ominous tone made somewhat ineffective only by the very schoolteacher-like act of dragging a portable blackboard out from a corner.
Next - Part 2!
Recipient: NotASpaceAlien
Word Count: 10,850
Summary: Years after the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, Crowley and Aziraphale have had their fair share of (mis)adventures, and they just want to enjoy a cosy life full of convenient miracles in their little cottage. However, a series of unexpected events draws the very personal attention of every magical being. Heaven and Hell might be racing to unravel the mystery, but a certain witch is leagues ahead of them both...
Note: The mods have divided this fic into two posts.
Better than prophecy
(Note: Thank you to The Librarians for the concept of mathe-magics, which this author would love to practice next to its less occult, more ordinary counterpart.)
If you want to imagine the past, think of a small workroom gradually becoming covered in old, hand-written notes, freshly printed articles on harsh white sheets of paper always just on the edge of yellowing with age. Look at how the shelves finally get buried under piles of unknowable machine-parts, and the seemingly functional, albeit mysterious machines themselves carefully balanced on top of them. Watch as the desk labours under the weight of books and never-sleeping computers. Forget the original pastel colours of the walls, as a tapestry of photos, graphs, post-its and multi-coloured strings evolves over them.
And, eventually, welcome in the messy cushions and the old woollen blanket that take up residence in a corner, serving as a makeshift bed every once in a while in the small hours of the morning. Listen to the lullaby of a kindred voice, speaking of unspeakable secrets of our world, and turning out to not know all that much about them, after all. Take in the ticking of a lanky standing clock with unnecessarily many hands, interspersed with the “pings” of new messages about the limits of possibilities and the dismissal of probabilities.
Imagine a dark and stormy night - because if this particular witch has to obey the narrative laws of the universe, working in that cramped room day and night as her genius unfolds, then so does the weather.
Imagine a lightning strike and some equipment that fails to join the blackout… and a couple, staring at the screens first in content, and then in absolute shock.
“Is this for sure?” the man asks.
“Yes,” the woman answers. “Mathe-magics has never lied before.”
They look at each other in the artificial blue-white light, nod much more grimly than their age should allow, and let their machines join the blackout. There may come a time, after all, when every tiny bit counts.
Interrupted
If you want to imagine the present, imagine an equally dark, but quietly rainy night. Listen to the pitter-patter of droplets on the roof of a lone cottage, and a pristine greenhouse, which definitely should not be able to fit all the plants that it does. Watch the blinking lights in the windows showing an old-looking, but secretly very modern television set hard at work. Don’t necessarily pay very close attention to it, because every movie left in the DVD-player attached to this particular telly for more than a fortnight transforms into Bohemian Rhapsody anyway…
“‘s a good movie,” Crowley mumbled over the credits, his tongue lazy after the deluge of wine that it had very recently survived.
“All I’m saying is… right? I’m saying is all… all is… ‘s a bit diffra-... duffer-... it changes every time,” Aziraphale said, not much more eloquently, in spite of his best intentions.
“I think the dina-... the velcro-... the dinos make it be’er,” Crowley insisted.
“You think lizards make everything better, my dear,” Aziraphale observed, sobering up a little. He was very grateful for the small but persevering part of his mind that reminded him they had plans other than getting drunk that night.
“Well, they do,” Crowley replied, following the angel’s example. “Look at palaeontology. ’s funny.”
“You old serpent,” Aziraphale said fondly, reaching out to ruffle the long-suffering demon’s hair.
“Silly angel,” Crowley countered after deciding not to slither out from under the pleasantly warm touch, his integrity be damned (which it kind of was anyway).
What that certain silly angel registered from all this, was that his beloved demon was letting out content little hisses (which were, in spite of the sound, strangely reminiscent of a cat’s purring).
And once this hissing purr began, sleep would follow soon enough. That hadn’t been the original plan for the evening, but seeing all worry finally leave Crowley’s face as he drifted off was something that Aziraphale could never resist seeing (or bringing about, if he could).
Now that he thought about it, the couch was comfortable enough… indulging in a little sleep before summoning a new book to read was a sound enough plan. Maybe with a glass or three more of that wine…
While he focused on refilling the discarded bottle and getting the taste just right, Aziraphale momentarily stopped caressing the dozing demon, and came to rest his hand on the back of the other’s neck.
He nearly fell to the floor in shock when Crowley jumped up, hissing in a way that was decidedly not blissful anymore. In fact, it had a rather threatening edge, possibly covering something else… but really, once the demon’s mind got going, it was difficult to keep up with the frenzy of thoughts and feelings chasing one another through it, even for another supernatural being.
“Are you… quite all right, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, wishing fervently that he had been able to come up with something more appropriate to say. However, even this took him long enough that, regrettably, Crowley was trying to cover the facts and causes of his unusual behaviour by the time he spoke.
“It’ssss… fine,” Crowley answered, biting down on his tongue to stop hissing again. For an occult creature, he was an incredibly bad liar - which he made up for by trying to be twice as secretive and half as trusting, Aziraphale thought to himself with a sigh.
As if to offer confirmation, Crowley covered his eyes with a pair of freshly miracled sunglasses, and stiffly folded his hands behind his back in an attempt to stop any possible flow of non-verbal clues.
“You really don’t have to-...” Aziraphale started to say; however, he was interrupted by a round of echoing thunder coming from behind.
Whirling around in alarm (it wasn’t a stormy night, after all), he saw that it had only been the door, snapping open with far more force than physically necessary, bringing down the equivalents of doors on a number of ethereal and occult defences around the cottage with it.
“Next time, pick up the phone - and just stop miracling everything left and right!” a soaked, furious, and mildly terrifying Anathema shouted at them from the threshold.
Without further ado, she marched into the hall, dropped her coat on a chair next to the fireplace to dry, and faced the flabbergasted pair with as much certainty in her smart brown eyes as angels rarely saw in human gazes.
The door creaked accusingly.
“Sorry for barging in,” the young witch offered curtly. “But you’re really hard to find, and we have to talk.”
“Can’t it wait until-”
“No, it can’t wait until morning, or until whenever you remember that you are supposed to check your messages.”
“All right,” Aziraphale conceded, suddenly unsure whether his phone was even in the hundred-mile vicinity, “what is it? Are you in some sort of trouble?”
“If I’m right - and I am - then we all are,” she said gravely. “Listen to me, and, for once, listen as if you would be speaking to Agnes: you must learn to get by without miracles, now, or you will be made to learn to stop using magic - wasting magic - the hard way.”
Old routine
The future held surprisingly few surprises (for a while). Spring became summer, summer quickly faded into autumn, autumn into winter, and winter into spring…
… when finally, Crowley had had enough of the idiotic nightmares. After discreetly going through all known herbal remedies, his last ray of hope was that a change of scenery would keep the blasted things away. It had been suspiciously easy to convince Aziraphale to spend some time in London again, even without giving him any hints to the actual reason at all. A small part of the demon’s mind was telling him that whatever fragile companionship they had managed to build up through millennia of hard work and barely seeing each other, quickly soured and turned into something boring or uncomfortable once they had moved in together. At least that must have been how things appeared from an ethereal point of view.
For now, though, a significantly greater part of his mind was preoccupied hoping (not quite praying) that he wouldn’t have to relive the same stupid nightmare over and over again if they moved away from the place where it was first triggered.
That part of his mind was, however, forced to shut up and keep waiting: the first night back in Mayfair, sleep avoided him by about a hundred million miles. And he couldn’t keep trying indefinitely: he had a date with Aziraphale and with the well-fed descendants of some equally well-fed ducks. And, demonic appearances be damned (which they kind of were already), he would make sure to give them healthy food this time.
To Crowley’s eternal disgruntlement, they never actually got as far as feeding (or, in his case, also obligatorily sinking a few of) the ducks. Walking down the astonishingly unchanged path, all of a sudden, he found himself pushed into a nearby bush by Aziraphale, who was already running away - towards something bright and bluish and slightly painful over the water, which had decidedly not been there just a second before.
Three things went through Crowley’s sleep-deprived mind at the same time. The first one was that the angel would come to regret this sneaky attack when he was going to find his opening hours changed to a horrifyingly regular schedule. The second one reminded him that he was being grumpy, and he should consider what the bright and painful thing might be before he jumped to conclusions. Finally, the third one told him that there was an inexperienced, defenceless angel somewhere on Earth, and he should capture the unlucky enemy soldier and interrogate them.
A reeling fourth thought joined the party belatedly, informing him that the third thought hadn’t been his own at all; rather, it was an assignment straight from Hell.
Crowley stood up with a grunt, and, coming back to his second thought, stayed behind the cover of the closest tree until the blue light above the water faded. He watched with some trepidation as a very unsettled Aziraphale made his way back to the offending bush, searching for some words somewhere between the truth and a lie that he could safely share with his counterpart. Suddenly, Crowley felt glad that his sunglasses had survived the undignified fall he took, and kept his prickling eyes safely in their shadows.
“I’ve got an assignment from Heaven,” the angel began cautiously.
“I’ve got one from Hell,” Crowley nodded. He could dig up no hint of willingness to follow his orders, of course… but he also couldn’t quite see a way out of them yet. The best thing to do was probably to just stay in the loop for now, he decided. “Should we coordinate the search?” he offered.
“No, I… it’s Heaven. They told me already where I’m supposed to go.”
“Oh. I see. Well… I suppose they also know which one of you harp-wrenchers snuck out?”
“For the last time, Crowley, you know very well that we do not actually have harps, and, more importantly… no one snuck out. Apparently, it was some sort of accident?”
“How does an angel accidentally end up down here?” Crowley wondered.
“I have no idea, but I should go before they do something to draw too much attention.”
“Or to hurt people.”
“... or that,” Aziraphale allowed with some reluctance. “I’ll make sure to give you an acceptable reason to lose my trail, if you want?”
“Yes, please,” Crowley accepted with a grin. His mood and the consequences be damned (which… you get the gist), he found himself enjoying a little of the old-fashioned sneaking around. “Just warn a guy before you bless the rain next time, eh?”
“Will do, my dear. Oh, and I’m sorry we couldn’t see the ducks, my dear.”
“The ducks will be there long after our visitor’s gone,” Crowley said dismissively.
“And sorry I shoved you like that, didn’t really have time to think,” the angel added. “Here, let me at least mend that tear in your shirt,” he insisted, and started waving his hand very ineffectively.
“I must be too distracted…”
“Leave it, angel,” Crowley mumbled, entirely unconvinced by that conclusion. But they had more pressing matters at hand. “Just take care of that celestial leak, and let me know when we can talk safely?”
“Will do, dear. Find some cover after the first thunder?”
“Will do,” Crowley promised, too. “Good luck, angel.”
He stayed in the shelter of vegetation for a little while, until Aziraphale was far enough away that all the other secret agents in the park wouldn’t be suspicious if he started following the hurrying angel. In the meantime, he had some opportunity to work on that stubborn tear on his sleeve - which took him exactly four attempts to magically vanish.
A new entry made it all the way to second place on the list of his worries, overshadowed only by the presence of some uninvited angel no Earth: that there might be something wrong with his (and Aziraphale’s) miracling skills. And at the worst possible time, too.
He adjusted his sunglasses, and marched out of the park with much of his old mistrust of the world firmly in place once again.
Like lightning from Heaven
Three days later, Aziraphale felt frustrated and exhausted in equal measure.
He had found his decidedly panicky and clumsy colleague in the wax museum, hovering invisibly among the statues of long-since-dead musicians, and watching with intense trepidation as the unsuspecting living walked by them and as some tried to prod them.
As his calming thoughts weren’t quite getting through to the unprepared visitor, Aziraphale unceremoniously grabbed them by an ethereal tendril, and dragged them outside, all the way back to his dustier-than-usual bookshop.
There, he finally stopped for an explanation forced into the other’s still reeling mind (perhaps with somewhat more force than was strictly necessary). This, at least, made their struggles stop… only for them to begin an endless stream of complaints with a slight hysteric edge to the thoughts. One piece was a recurring theme:
“Why didn’t you say something? I thought I was in Hell! With all those dead having lived abominable lives? I thought it was Hell!”
“Just stay here while I contact someone?” Aziraphale practically begged his unwanted guest in the end.
“What should I do?” they asked, much to his surprise.
“I don’t know… read a book?” he suggested - a decision which he was sure he would regret later.
Soon enough, though, he forgot all about those minor details. Talking to Heaven was tricky enough sometimes; and convincing them of something was downright impossible in most cases. The long and fruitless argument he had in his back room with three different disgruntled superiors ended up being useful only for one single thing: coaxing a tiny bit more information out of the tight-lipped bureaucrats.
Apparently, they didn’t want to take or even allow the stray angel back into Heaven - mostly, because they genuinely had no idea what had caused this particular being to fall-but-not-Fall, just to take an abrupt stumble down to Earth. When Aziraphale had tried pointing out that this was not really handling the issue, just sticking their collective head in the sand, a very confused gate-keeper didn’t get his reference to ostriches and tore the ethereal connection in overstated anger.
Coming back to the front of the shop wasn’t a much better experience, either, what with the formless presence squeaking at him in alarm:
“Why do you have all these erroneous Bibles?”
“To keep the enemy from confusing humans with them,” Aziraphale lied smoothly, mentally thanking Crowley for the useful suggestion, even if it had come in the form of teasing. He sighed, and prepared himself for a stream of terrified protests. “Heaven wants you to stay here.”
“What? Why?” Formless as the presence may have been, their confusion was almost tangible in the air.
“I’m sure you’ll get some assignment down the line,” Aziraphale offered, not at all certain that suspicious heavenly paper-pushers would ever want anything to do with this unfortunate outcast. Hayliel, he reminded himself. Their name was Hayliel - at least he should think of it, if everyone else was going to pretend to have forgotten that an angel with such a name even existed…
“But… but…”
“I’m going to get you a corporation you can use,” Aziraphale pushed on. “It won’t be an officially tailored and bestowed one, so it might be a bit of an uncomfortable fit, but it’s better than nothing. I’m sure you’ll get used to it quite soon,” he lied, wondering quietly when he had made that much of a habit out of forging and spreading untruths, and whether he was doing it to Crowley, too.
“But…”
“Just stay here and wait until I come back.”
“But… Aziraphale, I don’t know anything about Earth! All I ever did was keep records on extinct species! I’ve never actually been here! I even mixed it up with Hell! I thought I had fallen and ended up in Hell!”
“I’ll help you adjust, Hayliel, don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll do splendid work soon enough,” Aziraphale said, not sure anymore how much of that was merely wishful thinking, and how much of it a blatant lie. “But I really must go now. The sooner we get started, the better.”
… but it wasn’t better. Not really. Sure, smuggling a comatose body without any current occupier out of the hospital was a bit of a tricky task, but Aziraphale had been convinced it would help. After all, Hayliel had been through enough trauma recently, they couldn’t just be asked to reanimate and inhabit a corpse. An empty, but technically living shell was the better option, for certain. Corporations without bespoke tailoring were always a little uncomfortable, however, they easily beat being an ineffectual formless presence for any duration.
He just hadn’t expected this specific corporation’s voice to be quite so high-pitched, that was all.
Or Hayliel to have all the grace and understanding of Earth of a human toddler.
It took him three entire days to get away from his clingy guest for long enough to let Crowley know what had happened - and that they wouldn’t be meeting up anytime soon. Aziraphale could practically see all the glass and crystal accessories in their beloved Ritz shatter from the scream Hayliel would let out if she were to see the two of them spending so much as a minute together without visible signs of barbaric enmity.
It’s a wonderful(l) world
Even at the end of summer, it was way too bright and hot as Hell outside - and Crowley should know, he had been there.
Even on a summer night such as this, he had to find the saying was true: there was no rest for the wicked.
“Crowley, a fellow agent is coming up and you have to assist- nevermind,” the radio blared at him. It had been doing that, for a while. After the first two such aborted calls, he actually flew to the coordinates that had already been shoved into his head, only to find the unreasonably strong scent of sulphur at the site of a minor volcanic eruption. On the third occasion, he was actually prepared, camping out at a generally restless Mount Etna, just close enough to the site of the eruption to see the hellfire-tainted lava burn up something that had definitely come from Hell, but was, as of that moment, entirely powerless.
Mortified, he rolled halfway down the slope before his cold and numb limbs managed to stop his stumbling, and his wings could be made to carry him far, far away from the scene.
That had been a dozen calls ago.
Demons were still dying left and right, Crowley had no idea why, and, worse still, he couldn’t even fully trust his own abilities anymore. Ever since that day in St James’s Park, there had been… incidents. Little moments when a miracle took multiple attempts, or just far longer to work than a momentary feat of magic should ever have.
And worst of all? He didn’t have anywhere he could turn to for a little help. The other realms were, of course, out of the question, humans didn’t have any reason to know even as much as he did about current events, and Aziraphale… Aziraphale was busy these days.
Just as demons were turning up dead seemingly ever more often, angels kept turning up in what Aziraphale had described as a severe lack of intention and corporation. And, lone bookworm as the pudgy angel may have once been, he ended up taking all the others under his wings, figuratively speaking.
Or maybe quite literally, too - a supremely unhelpful part of Crowley’s mind supplied. He knew from experience just how comfortable those messy wings could be, and envied those angels their places in their soft cocoon.
But it was understandable if Aziraphale preferred their company, wasn’t it? They could be his shiny new collection, and their absolute lack of field experience could make him feel like a wise leader without requiring much effort: the perfect soil for the normally mostly controlled vestiges of the angel’s vanity. And wasn’t it just easier to be among his own kind? Obviously, it wasn’t like that for demons, but Crowley reckoned it must be the case for the other side.
And so, he ended up quietly avoiding the angel colony that had reared its head near St Paul’s - including his own age-old counterpart. At least the other blasted feather-brains wouldn’t find out about their business partnership. Apart from a few strained phone calls, there had been no contact between Earth’s senior field agents for months by now.
Which was all well and good from a survival point of view, but which left Crowley all alone with the mystery of demons and volcanoes and malfunctioning miracles. (And just alone in general - but he wasn’t quite at the point of admitting that yet.)
No one had any idea what was really going on, or, at the very least, no one had thought to tell Crowley…
… except, that wasn’t entirely true. There was one theory out there… even if it was very much out there. But what did he have to lose?
With this cheerful rationale, and The Prophet’s Song (by “Beethoven”) blaring on full volume, Crowley drove up to the North to locate a certain witch with whom they hadn’t exactly parted on the best terms. But, to be fair, he never would have thought there might have come a point when he would find himself dwelling on her warning to use magic sparingly…
To his utter surprise, a very familiar disheveled pearly feather greeted him at the threshold of the Device house. Instantly on full alert, he listened to the voices coming from inside, fearing that Aziraphale might not have come here alone.
“No, I don’t recall any prophecy at all that speaks of angels halfway falling after the Apocalypse up to which point the prophecies went,” Anathema was saying, slightly exasperated. “But I do have a theory that can explain such an occurrence.”
“And much more,” Newt added without much enthusiasm. Cursed to break technology as he might have been, he was one of those people who could sense a conflict building from a mile and a week away, Crowley had learnt early on.
“If you are referring to the, frankly, ridiculous warnings you came to shout at us that night-”
“Yes, I am! Why is it so impossible to believe it, though? Do you know, do you really know it’s not the case?” Anathema asked, sounding a tiny bit like she was hoping to be proven wrong. Which made sense: after all, scientifically-minded as though she was, she was still a gifted witch, mixing those two traditionally opposed areas for a living. Or for a pastime. You could never be entirely sure with witches.
“Well, not per se, but…”
“There you go, then. You have your explanation.”
“Yes, and it’s wrong-”
“Is it really?” Crowley asked, faking the perfect flippancy to play devil’s advocate from behind the cover of the door. He was very satisfied with his entrée, right up to the point where Newt let him into the house, and he could guess from the man’s oddly sympathetic expression that he wasn’t doing such a stellar job of hiding his worries.
“Crowley? What are you doing here?” Aziraphale questioned, giving him a quick once-over. “And how long has it been since you had some proper sleep?”
“I’ve stocked up a century’s worth of sleep, remember?” Crowley half-answered with a shrug. He resisted the urge to adjust his sunglasses, or to rub at his prickling eyes behind them. “And apparently, we’re here for the same reason - we’re both out of ideas.”
“What do you mean, both?”
“I thought you two usually coordinate…?” Anathema asked quietly. She looked very much like she was going to continue, but Newt’s urging hand on her shoulder was enough to make her reconsider.
“Not so much… recently… ah, what with all the other angels around, you understand…” Aziraphale mumbled, cheeks promisingly rosy with embarrassment.
“Anyway, angel, I think she’s right,” Crowley mercifully cut in. “Or, at least, no one has a better theory, and we should be better safe than sorry. Demons keep popping up, too, just like your feathery little congregation - the only difference is, the ones from Down Below don’t survive the trip.”
“Alarming as that is, my dear, I don’t see what it has to do with her theory…?”
“Well, I don’t see it, either, but she said it fits, and she’s been right about the miracles.”
“I have?” Anathema asked, partly astonished, but mostly, frightened.
“Yes…?” Crowley offered uncertainly. Making sense of the witch’s reactions was, he decided, once and for all well beyond his capabilities. “Didn’t you think so?”
“Well, yes, obviously, but… you should have admitted it long ago, or not admitted it at all!”
“What? Why?”
“You should have noticed the trouble with conjuring, what with all the ridiculous and unnecessary miracles you both keep performing day by day, I don’t know, at least a year ago, I think? Or not noticed it at all, which would have meant I was wrong - and I would be so glad if that were the case…”
“Well, I only saw something fishy when we went back to London in the spring,” Crowley clarified.
“Oh, you mean that silly little thing with the tear on your shirt?” Aziraphale asked, adding some decidedly forced laughter. “I told you, dear boy, I was just distracted…”
“Hm, quite. And, pray tell, have you been distracted a lot lately, angel?” the demon countered sharply.
“I have a lot on my mind,” Aziraphale said defensively.
“Oh my God, you have, haven’t you…” the realisation broke out of Newt, possibly without consulting the greater part of his brain before doing so.
“It doesn’t mean a thing! You try taking care of a group of sheltered angels who are just on the verge of figuring out that Heaven wants nothing to do with them-”
“Hang on, what was that? Why?” Crowley interrupted.
“Superstitious fear?” Newt suggested helpfully. And insightfully, judging by the ashen look in Aziraphale’s eyes.
“Well, the powers-”
“Of course, powers! I must have used the wrong power-law!” Anathema cut the evolving explanation short with an excited cry. “But that’s good news! It means the process is slower than I had estimated - we have more time to sort things out!”
“Er… great. Now, could you just tell the rest of us what it is exactly that needs sorting out - and how?” Crowley inquired, seeing his own bafflement mirrored in the other two men’s (or man-shaped beings') expressions.
“The world is trying to go out with a whimper, but we won’t let it,” Anathema declared, her ominous tone made somewhat ineffective only by the very schoolteacher-like act of dragging a portable blackboard out from a corner.
Next - Part 2!
(no subject)
Date: 2018-12-30 01:54 pm (UTC)"every movie left in the DVD-player attached to this particular telly for more than a fortnight transforms into Bohemian Rhapsody anyway…" yesss!
"the angel would come to regret this sneaky attack when he was going to find his opening hours changed to a horrifyingly regular schedule" lol
"and the consequences be damned (which… you get the gist)" I get and enjoy it a lot :)
Intriguing first part!
(no subject)
Date: 2019-01-04 11:47 pm (UTC)DVD-transfiguration into Bohemian Rhapsody was one of my proudest writing moments, to be honest :)
(no subject)
Date: 2018-12-31 12:18 am (UTC)I really love the image of angels cocooned in their comfy feathers and a "colony" of angels forming under Aziraphale's care. Poor things! It would be so scary, abandoned in a place you know nothing about! They obviously fared better than those poor demons though....
I'm delighted to get such a long fic!! Thank you!!
(no subject)
Date: 2019-01-04 11:52 pm (UTC)and, i also like Anathema being able to show off a bit - honestly, she was one of the few characters who actually appeared competent during the notpocalypse (or at the very least she managed to create that impression).
i really liked the whole prompt set, and i hope i managed to come up with something sufficiently scary for our favourite witch to discover. also, i couldn't resist sneaking some trust and other issues for Crowley into the story...
yes, well, i imagine Aziraphale would be a decent enough "Earth tutor", especially when he has a vested interest. as for faring better... hmmm, wait until you will have read the second part...
(no subject)
Date: 2019-01-01 06:19 pm (UTC)I'm so curious to find out where this is going! What an interesting and distressing problem!
(no subject)
Date: 2019-01-04 11:58 pm (UTC)as for the movie... i've always imagined that when the book said tapes morphed into best of Queen compilations, they still retained some elements of the original music, so it would make sense identifying songs like "Another one bites the dust by Tschaikovsky". Similarly, I imagined Azi&Crowley had planned to watch a movie from the Jurassic Park/World franchise, but after two weeks, it morphed into Bohemian Rhapsody... it just managed to keep some dinosaurs. :D
(no subject)
Date: 2019-01-02 08:34 pm (UTC)And the video turning into Bohemian Rhapsody!
(no subject)
Date: 2019-01-04 11:58 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2019-01-03 04:08 pm (UTC)>> :O this is such a GREAT start for a GO fic and it pulls me right in! What a mysterious and thrilling first 'chapter'! What happened?! Aaaah! I need to find out!
"every movie left in the DVD-player attached to this particular telly for more than a fortnight transforms into Bohemian Rhapsody anyway…"
>> HAHAHA! XDD This is brilliant! Oh, and I LOVE the way you write! I love that you don't just describe the setting, bt describe it with all the "imagine this, look at that, listen to these, watch those" bits. It makes the reader a part of the story and it works so well! Amazing!
"You think lizards make everything better, my dear"
>> hahaha! well, he's RIGHT! XD
Oh my God, they are SO CUTE! ToT The way Zira caresses Crowley's hair and Crowley starts hiss-purring and falls asleep! ;_;
"the well-fed descendants of some equally well-fed ducks"
>> hehehe :D
"the angel would come to regret this sneaky attack when he was going to find his opening hours changed to a horrifyingly regular schedule"
>> oh noooooooo, hahaha, that is EVIL! XD
"the consequences be damned (which… you get the gist)"
>> hahahaaaaa, I love that running gag XD
"a very confused gate-keeper didn’t get his reference to ostriches"
>> omg, ahaha XD brilliant
Aw, I feel so bad for Crowley who's now alone and can't talk to Aziraphale anymore :< That always breaks my heart. And of course his thoughts make everything worse and he thinks Aziraphale WANTS to be out of touch with him and prefers to be around the other angels DX Crowley, nooo!
"The Prophet’s Song (by “Beethoven”)"
>> X'D
Oh no, I hope they can sort things out! D: And especially that Zira and Crowley will be happy with each other again in the end!
(no subject)
Date: 2019-01-05 12:08 am (UTC)>> :O this is such a GREAT start for a GO fic and it pulls me right in! What a mysterious and thrilling first 'chapter'! What happened?! Aaaah! I need to find out!
--> Thank you, and don't worry, you will find out, along with Crowley and Aziraphale :)
>>describe it with all the "imagine this, look at that, listen to these, watch those" bits.
--> yey! i wanted to try something new for the set-up and dramatic opening, and i'm so glad it seems to have worked :)
"the angel would come to regret this sneaky attack when he was going to find his opening hours changed to a horrifyingly regular schedule"
>> oh noooooooo, hahaha, that is EVIL! XD
--> GOHE has such a lovely audience, multiple people have shown they care ddeply for Aziraphale and his irregular opening times in their comments :)
"the consequences be damned (which… you get the gist)"
>> hahahaaaaa, I love that running gag XD
--> thank you! i hoped people would!
Aw, I feel so bad for Crowley who's now alone and can't talk to Aziraphale anymore :< That always breaks my heart. And of course his thoughts make everything worse...
--> i don't think i'm spoiling anything when i confirm that yes, his thoughts make everything seem worse than it is. had things gone more smoothly irl, i might have managed to sneak in a chapter/section actually showing that Azi wasn't having such a great time either, and would never abandon Crowley for the angel colony... but i'm glad people seem to have come to the same conclusion anyway :)
Oh no, I hope they can sort things out! D: And especially that Zira and Crowley will be happy with each other again in the end!
--> SPOILER ALERT: this is a holiday fic... i think that says everything :D
(no subject)
Date: 2019-01-20 02:22 am (UTC)They're feeding the descendents of the ducks :')
Love the reappearing 'which it kind of was already' whenever Crowley says '__ be damned' XD
that last sentence is great :D