Happy Holidays, aten_ra!

[waxbean.livejournal.com]

Title: Here, There and Everywhere

For: Dara/Aten_ra

From: Vzyali

Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley (mild)

Rating: PG-13 (for the odd swear word)

Also features: Uriel, and brief appearances/mentions of Lucifer, God, Metatron, Beelzebub, and two lesser-known angels.

Summary: Uriel visits Aziraphale and Crowley to question them about the almost- Apocalypse, and in the process learns about the past they share.

Author’s Note: This was way longer than I expected, and contains much less Aziraphale/Crowley then I expected. However, I do plan on writing a prequel and a sequel or two, at least one of which will be utterly and completely smutty. I managed to fit in brief mentions of God and Lucifer, but when I realized how long this was going to end up I finally decided to lessen their appearances. I hope you enjoy nonetheless, and have a wonderful holiday season <3.

Prologue: Upstairs
The first sphere of Heaven was teeming with activity, the rustling of many sets of wings echoing throughout the vast, diaphanous Great Hall. Seraphs, Thrones and Cherubs moved deftly among themselves, weaving under archways that led them to any one of a number of locations nestled inside the complex. From the translucent ceiling filtered golden light, shining as it hit the pale blue stone of the walls.

A cherub known as Behemiel flitted through an archway, narrowly avoiding collision with a group of seraphs practicing their scales. He swerved right and passed through another arch, slowing down as he flew through the dim, candle-lit hall. A folder was clutched in one hand, while the other tried to untangle knots from hair the color of ground cumin. He moved to the side as a many-eyed throne rolled by, and he nodded a quick hello before continuing his journey to Uriel’s office.

I hope I’m not late, Behemiel thought to himself as he self-consciously picked up speed. The young angel was notorious for being as absent-minded as some of the domestic animals he presided over, and this was an important meeting. It wasn’t often that an angel of such prestigious rank requested his presence.

After a series of right and left turns and brief encounters with fellow angels, the cherub arrived outside Uriel’s office. It was located at the very end of the tunnel-like hall, and the large and intricately carved door flanked by blazing torches made the location impossible to miss.

Behemiel took a moment to tidy his wings and slightly oversized dress clothes, then reached out and knocked on the door. He heard the faint scrape of chair legs on stone, and tried to remain calm as the door slowly opened.

“Behemiel, you’ve arrived,” said a voice from inside the room. “Practically on time, too. Color me impressed.” Its tone was smooth and slightly sarcastic, leaving Behemiel feeling sheepish as he stepped inside, muttering apologies as he straightened his tie. The office appeared to have been carved from stone; it had a cave-like quality to it, and was decorated with deep browns, silvers and indigos. An unembellished chandelier hung from the ceiling, with seven large candles providing illumination.

“It’s quite alright,” the voice said reassuringly, closing the door behind Behemiel and walking back to a large and very old desk. “Did you bring what I requested?”

Uriel was, in a word, dark. His hair, shoulder-length and wavy, was a rich, dark brown, and his skin was somewhere between bronze and umber. Dark blue eyes studied Behemiel as the he sat in the chair opposite him. The young cherub eventually met Uriel’s gaze, then fidgeted involuntarily and placed his folder on the desk in front of him.

“I did, sir.” Behemiel replied with an obedient nod. “All the information I could find in my database.”

Uriel gingerly took the folder and brought it closer to him, long, graceful fingers flipping it open and removing the contents. There was a photograph of a small, scruffy looking black and white dog attached to the documents with a paperclip, which the Angel of Presence studied for several moments.

“This… is the hellhound?” he asked skeptically, glancing over at Behemiel.

“Yessir,” Behemiel nodded, wringing his hands under the desk. “A mix between a Jack Russel Terrier and a West Highland Terrier… however,” he added as he noted the senior angel’s look of disbelief, “my contact from, er, below, gave me his word that the dog looked like your average, run of the mill hellhound last time he saw it. I’m not sure how reliable his word is, but…” the cherub shrugged. “I believe the general consensus is that the former Antichrist was able to manipulate the outward appearance of the creature to fit his personal standards.”

Uriel considered the theory for a moment, leaning back in his chair with a pensive expression. “Sounds plausible enough,” he eventually agreed with a nod, patting the folder of papers. “Thank you for this. You have been helpful.”

Behemiel couldn’t help but beam at the praise, and he straightened up in his chair, looking pleased with himself. “No trouble at all, sir.”

“Very well,” Uriel said, attempting to wrap things up with the inattentive cherub. He stood, walking to the door and opening it for the younger angel.” You are free to leave.”

“Oh, right,” Behemiel nodded, sliding out of the chair and looking curiously at Uriel. “If I may ask, sir…” he began to say, but Uriel interjected, already knowing what the question would be. The senior angel gave a rare half-smile, patting Behemiel on the shoulder.

“I’m putting together a little report for Him. Just gathering all the information I need.” Uriel moved his hand, drifting down from the cherub’s shoulder to rest at his lower back. He applied slight pressure, gently urging Behemiel closer towards the exit. “My next task is to make a journey to Earth, in order to collect information from the principality directly involved in the incident.”

Behemiel twitched a little when Uriel touched him, and shuffled out into the hallway. “Ah, good luck then sir,” he smiled, unfolding his wings.

“Peace be with you, Behemiel. And thank you.” Uriel said stiffly, raising his right hand slightly in a rather unmoving wave.

“Yeah, peace.” Behemiel grinned, turning as his feet lifted off the ground. “See you around, sir.”

Uriel’s rigid stance relaxed somewhat, and he leaned against the doorframe to watch the golden-haired angel depart.

1. Downstairs

The heart of Soho, located almost directly in the center of Greater London, wasn’t really the ideal location for an austere angel such as the cherub Uriel. He sighed as a group of raucous-looking teenagers with violently bright colored hair strode past, and looked at the shop signs above him. Many signs glowed with electric lights, contrasting brilliantly with the dark, moonless night. This one was outlined in pale violet, with words in pink lights that were half burned out.

“Intimate Books”, the sign above him read (though from a distance it read “Inate Boos”), and Uriel almost allowed himself a smile. This must be it, he thought to myself, and reached for the door handle.

A bell rang faintly from somewhere in the store, and he looked around, adjusting the dark blue tie around his neck. The books he was confronted by appeared to be second-hand paperbacks, all featuring a similar image on the cover. A large, muscled man with chiseled features and rather tight trousers, holding a small, oval-faced woman with long, wavy locks and heart-shaped ruby red lips. In every cover they both appeared to have wardrobe malfunctions, as their chests were partially exposed.

A middle-aged woman with curly red hair and too much makeup started to close in on Uriel. Her name tag read “Gwen” and she dressed as if she were sixteen. The angel immediately recoiled as she asked him to step inside, shaking his head and mumbling that he had walked into the wrong store. He slowly backed towards the door and slipped back out onto the street, despite Gwen’s protests and coos of “don’t be shy, love!”.

“Harpy.” He mumbled testily as he stood outside the row of buildings. The book shop owned by the principality known as Aziraphale was supposed to be on this street, but he couldn’t find it any-

“Oh.” Uriel said to no one in particular as he shifted his gaze to the left. It was next to “Intimate Books”, but there were no bright, flashy lights to make it noticeable. The store didn’t even appear to have a name, and the only sign Uriel could see hung from the door and read “Closed”. Rows of book-lined shelves could be seen through a dusty window, and no one appeared to be inside.

Uriel stepped over to the locked door, opened it with ease, and walked inside. He was instantly hit by the crisp, dry sent of paper. The room was tidy but dusty, as though no one had been in the place for years.

Then he picked up a noise. A voice – no, two voices, coming from behind a door that led to what Uriel assumed was a back room, perhaps for storage. The cherub began to walk forward until he stood outside the door and then knocked twice, not quite softly enough to be polite. The formerly talkative pair behind the door grew quiet immediately, no doubt surprised by the presence of someone inside the shop.

Uriel could hear the scraping of a chair and the patter of shoes on creaky old wood, and then the door opened to reveal a round-faced and bespectacled blond man in a sweater vest. Blue eyes grew wide from behind their lenses, and a pink tinge colored his cheeks.

“U-Uriel. Er, what a pleasant surprise,” the man said unconvincingly, rather startled by the severe looking angel in front of him.

“Indeed,” replied Uriel fluidly, trying to make out the identity of the other presence in the room before his eyes landed back on the principality. “I have a few questions I’d like to ask you Aziraphale, if you’d be so kind. In regards to the… recent incident you took part in.”

Aziraphale’s rounded shoulders slumped, and he gave the senior angel a little nod. “Of course,” he said, stepping aside to let the senior angel in.

When Uriel entered the back room of the bookstore he was finally able to see Aziraphale’s guest in full. A thin black-haired man of what appeared to be average height sat in a rickety old chair by a table, dutifully avoiding eye contact with Uriel and sipping red wine from a glass.

“Have a seat,” Aziraphale offered graciously as a third chair suddenly appeared. Uriel nodded and lowered himself into the seat, eyes still locked on the dark-haired man (who, the senior angel noted, had rather impressive cheekbones). Uriel recognized him from somewhere, but only vaguely.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your–” Uriel searched for the right word, drumming his fingers idly on the table surface, “–friend?” Aziraphale blinked, cheeks turning a rosy shade of pink as he dropped into his own chair.

“Oh!” Aziraphale let out a nervous chuckle, and Uriel arched an eyebrow. “This is–”

“Crowley,” the angel’s friend finished, lifting his head and offering a hand for Uriel to shake. The cherub noticed Crowley’s eyes as soon as their hands joined; the slit pupils surrounded by golden-yellow irises leaving little doubt as to what he was. “Haven’t seen you for a while,” the demon added, flashing a cocky grin that masked his uneasiness perfectly.

“Seraph, right?” Uriel questioned as he withdrew his hand, and Crowley gave a slight nod.

“Yep.”

“I knew I remembered you from the choir. And when did you…”

“When He did.” Crowley answered curtly.

Uriel nodded in understanding, surprised that Crowley wasn’t more hostile with his answers. Falling from Heaven was a bit of a sensitive subject, the senior angel supposed, and he hadn’t conversed with a demon in – what was it? – almost a century.

“Would you like something to drink?” Oh, right. Aziraphale. He had momentarily forgotten. Uriel looked up to see the angel glancing at him awkwardly, wringing his hands in his lap. Then he eyed the bottle of wine already sitting on the table, and he nodded.

“I’ll have what you’re having. Now – and forgive me, this question has nothing to do with my original reason for coming here – why are you,” he pointed at Aziraphale, then made a gesture towards Crowley, “in the company of a demon?”

2. The Scent of Heaven

When Aziraphale opened his eyes for the first time, everything was dazzlingly white with a dull golden sheen. He was dressed in a white garment that seemed more liquid than cloth, and feathery wings unfolded behind him, stretching for the first time.

The angel didn’t know where he was, or what he was doing there, but he knew he was home. Home smelled like the Welsh countryside after a heavy rainstorm, clean and rejuvenating and promising life. Of course, Aziraphale hadn’t realized that until he’d actually been caught in a downpour near Pembrokeshire, but it was a rather fun experience and he couldn’t complain. Until he had to dry his wings, anyway.

He heard the distant voices of a choir resonating throughout his new home, singing in a tongue he did not know yet instantly understood. He began to notice shapes moving around him, forms that varied in size and appearance and who all seemed equally confused.

Some time later (Aziraphale could never be quite sure how long – telling time in Heaven was quite tricky, especially in the old days) he found himself in the First Sphere and surrounded by a multitude of angels, awaiting an informational speech. The speech, which was to be given by Metatron (who, though nearly infinite in knowledge, was a rather dull orator), was to provide information relating to Earth, which had just been completed about a day ago. As God had decided to take a breather directly after that event, His heavenly scribe had been temporarily promoted.

Metatron did not entirely enjoy its new role, as was apparent in the thin-lipped frown that graced its beautiful fire-swathed features. Metatron climbed the steps that led to an elevated podium, clearing its throat to capture the attentions of the crowd.

As soon as the Voice of God began to speak, Aziraphale’s mind began to wander. He was contemplating the possible alteration of his appearance (his golden curls were much too long and got tangled too often) when he felt an elbow nudge him in the arm, and he turned to the left to see who had done it.

A seraph with warm, honey-colored eyes and hair like the night sky was looking at him with a little smirk.

“I don’t see why He couldn’t have appointed someone with better speaking prowess,” the black-haired angel drawled, clearly amused. Aziraphale nodded in agreement, sighing.

“Perhaps it’s some sort of test of the will,” he offered, thankful they were towards the back of the crowd and probably couldn’t be heard by Metatron. The seraph grinned, giving a shrug of his shoulders.

“Perhaps. Oh, I’m Crociel by the way.”

“Aziraphale,” the principality smiled back.

From then on, home – Heaven – smelled not only of Welsh moorland post-thunderstorm, but of Crociel as well.

3. Downstairs Again

“Ah, yes,” Uriel nodded after taking a long sip of wine. “Metatron’s speeches always did work well for social networking. I must have met half of my friends during those.”

Aziraphale looked at Uriel over his glass, thinking; ‘he has friends?’, while Crowley refilled his glass and drank quietly. He was starting to remember things he hadn’t thought about in a while, and his natural reaction was to get himself as ridiculously drunk as he could. It was easier that way.

“So,” Uriel continued when the other two remained silent, “what exactly were the circumstances that caused you to…?”

“Fall? Go to Hell? You can say it, you know. Any way you like.” Crowley’s voice had started to increase in volume, and he was slurring a bit as well. He hesitated, taking another sip of wine before continuing. “Though it wasn’t so much falling as… as…”

“Tripping.” Aziraphale blinked, using the edge of his sweater vest to clean smudged glasses. Uriel stared at them both from across the table. Alright, so they were buzzed. How often did they do this sort of thing? He found it a bit odd; an angel and a demon getting together to drink and… ‘what was that term?’ …shoot the breeze.

“You… tripped… into Hell?”

“At first, yeah,” nodded the demon, and Aziraphale gave him a pat on the hand.

“Go on,” urged Uriel.

4. To Lose One’s Footing

Lucifer’s tale began with curiosity and ended with expulsion, much like the tale of Adam and Eve.

He was beautiful, confident, and intelligent. He had flaxen hair that shone with the light of a hundred stars, and eyes like liquid gold (a tad poetic perhaps, but it was true). He was the twelve-winged chief of the Seraphim, whom angels admired above all except God.

He was also a right brat who was too full of himself to realize that he’d made one fatal mistake. He was too ambitious.

All angels held high opinions of themselves, that much was true. But there were opinions and questions you didn’t share with anybody else – and when Satan did just that all Hell, quite literally, broke loose.

Crowley, or Crociel as he was known back then, was caught in the crossfire. He certainly didn’t play a big part in the Rebellion – which was rather unfortunate, really. He was an angel of the seventh hour of the day, and planning a rebellion sounded like a good way to spend those other twenty-three hours.

All the main fighting took place on a vast, flat plain that you could fall off of if you weren’t too careful. No one except God knew why that was, but no one was about to question him. They were already finding out what happened to those who did, and their fates weren’t very appealing. It was the main goal of Michael and his heavenly troops to lead Lucifer, along with his supporters, off the edge and into the abyss, where they would be locked away for eternity. At least, that was the plan.

(All in all, it was very similar to the buffalo runs of the Old West. A group of men on horseback would charge into a herd of buffalo, making them run. With a bit of careful angling the poor bison would run in the direction of a cliff, and promptly tumble over its edge.)

Crowley wasn’t much of a fighter, and he felt a bit out of place dodging flaming swords, wings, and a host of other protrusions threatening to knock him over. Somebody’s arm had already swatted his halo away.

He searched for the missing halo in vain, wandering ever closer to the daunting edge of the plain. ‘It has to be around here somewhere,’ he tried to convince himself, wiping black strands of hair away from his eyes.

He didn’t notice as a figure approached, looming over the seraph crouching near the ground in search of his halo. Then he felt someone nudge his thigh with a foot, and he turned around with a scowl. “What?”

“I always knew you were one of them,” sneered a familiar face. Mendrion, one of the Powers and an angel of the seventh hour of night.

“One of who?” Crowley asked, confused and more than a little bit nervous. The flame on Mendrion’s sword seemed particularly hot, and the fact that it was aimed at his head was slightly disconcerting.

“Lucifer’s,” Mendrion replied coldly, and Crowley felt his eyes bulge.

“What, me?” He exclaimed, standing up straight and backing away from the threatening weapon.

“Yes, you.”

“I think you’re mistaken. I would never–”

“Where’s your halo then?” Mendrion interrupted, taking slow steps towards Crowley. The seraph started backing up a bit, and noticed that the scene Mendrion was causing had started to draw a small audience. He saw Aziraphale among them, looking worried.

“That’s what I’ve been looking for, someone knocked it off… think it went that way, actually,” he added, pointing past Mendrion’s shoulder.

“A likely story,” the power said darkly, and Crowley could feel the edge under his heel. ‘Oh, fuck,’ he thought as he tried to persuade Mendrion he was innocent.

Well, if he were to be honest with himself he wasn’t really that innocent. Lucifer did have a point or two, after all. They had been His faithful servants for, well, God knew how long, and then He went off and created another species. One he seemed to care about much more than his loyal angels.

Crowley didn’t really see the appeal himself. They were too pink and naked. But those thoughts didn’t make him a traitor, right?

Right?

“Oh, come on. You can have my shift if you want, sun really isn’t my thing–”

Crowley took another step back as Mendrion continued to close in on him, forgetting that there was no more ground to step on. He lost his footing all together, and simply fell. He heard Aziraphale shout from somewhere above him, along with the sounds of battle becoming fainter and fainter as the wind rushed all around him.

Opening his wings and flying back was out of the question. He struggled, managing to unfold one before he felt the pressure bend it into an unnatural position. Crowley let out a groan of pain when he felt something snap, and all of a sudden his surroundings went black.

Crowley was still falling; the eerie howl of wind as he sank through the air told him as much. But now he felt as though he had been blinded – shrouded in darkness without knowing when or where he would land. Once or twice he heard something rush past him; and once or twice they were howling – whether in pain or anger, Crowley couldn’t be quite sure. Once he saw something resembling a ball of fire, no doubt an angel who had been punctured by a flaming sword.

After what seemed like ages the seraph landed on his back with a sickening thud. His wings were definitely broken, judging by the unpleasant crack they had made when he landed, and he was sure those weren’t the only damaged parts of his body. He lay unmoving on the hard, damp surface, staring up towards the path from which he came.

5. Sauntering Vaguely Downwards

Crowley felt something prod him in the side. One eye slowly opened, then the other. A sallow face framed by limp dark hair stared back at him, then withdrew and outstretched a hand. Its other hand held a flickering torch, illuminating their surroundings.

“Up,” the figure said, and Crowley took the hand without question. He winced as the thin being helped him up, wondering where he was and what had happened. Then, as he tipped his head back to work a kink out of his neck, he remembered the fall. He reached around his shoulder to feel for his wings, but none were there.

“How long has it been since I…” he began to ask before trailing off, turning to the dark-haired figure who had helped him up. He looked familiar, but Crowley couldn’t place a name on him. He turned back to Crowley with large, sunken eyes, then began to walk into the shadows surrounding them. Crowley had no choice but to follow, wondering if anything he encountered could make his existence any worse.

“Who can really say?” the being rasped, and Crowley noted that there was a bizarre buzzing noise just under his voice. It was faint but eerie, making the hairs on the back of Crowley’s neck stand on edge. “There is neither sun nor moon to tell the time, and the only sources of light come from lakes of liquid fire and fissures in the cavern’s surface.”

Fissures? Cavern? Liquid-bloody-fire? Where am I, and who are you? Crowley wondered as he was led through the darkness. He decided to ask after it became apparent that the sallow-faced figure wasn’t about to talk.

“Er,” Crowley began awkwardly, “who exactly are you, and where are we going?”

The strange being leading him through the gloom continued to remain silent, until at last Crowley began to see the faint glow of their destination. But it wasn’t until Crowley saw a great stone palace, glowing with the light of brilliant persimmon flames, that the sallow figure responded.

“I am Beelzebub,” he droned, “and this is Pandemonium, the center of Lucifer’s new realm.”

Crowley felt his jaw drop at the same time he felt something sprouting from his shoulder blades. Glossy black wings unfolded as Lucifer’s second in command led the fallen angel towards his new home.

6. Downstairs Once More

Uriel paused mid-sip, staring in mild awe at the demon before him. Crowley swallowed a large gulp of wine and arched an eyebrow at him. “What.” he said flatly.

“That’s just…” Uriel began, trying to choose an adjective. Aziraphale scooted his chair closer and leaned against the table with his elbows, looking a bit flushed as he smiled. Crowley stared at Uriel, waiting for the senior angel to wrap it up. “...I mean, really?” he finished lamely, setting his glass down a little too hard. “But you… you accidentally fell off the edge! Why did you become a demon for that?”

Crowley shrugged. “I suppose He knew I’d have more fun,” he suggested, giving an obligatory glance to the ceiling.

“…huh,” Uriel mumbled. All this wine must be making me less eloquent, he thought to himself, and he cleared his throat. “I think we all ought to sobriq – er – sober up, and get on with business.”

After expelling the alcohol from their systems they remained on task for approximately thirty-six minutes, during which they discussed the rather embarrassing infant mix-up, that whole “godfather” business and Agnes Nutter’s book of prophecies. It was that first part that confused Uriel the most, and the other two had to explain it multiple times before he grasped the concept fully.

On the thirty-seventh minute, the nagging pang of curiosity in the back of Uriel’s mind got the better of him.

“What happened next?” he asked.

7. At the Eastern Gate

Eden was emitting a soft greenish glow. It wasn’t the kind of glow you saw every day; it was the kind of glow that only took place when everything was new. Even the human, Adam, had skin that shone like glistening bronze, though the Earth’s first mosquitoes would soon put an end to that.

Crowley slithered over to the Eastern Gate, coiling up at Aziraphale’s feet and making an awkward gesture with his upper body.

“Hi,” he hissed quietly, peering up at the angel with an expectant look. When Aziraphale didn’t react the snake reached his tail out, giving him a good poke on the ankle. The angel glanced down, Crowley spoke again. “Hey. It’s me.”

Aziraphale’s clear blue eyes widened, and he looked around nervously. “Cr… Crociel? Is that really you?” The Principality bent down gracefully, and Crowley gave a nod.

“Er, it’s Crawly now, for the time being. Since I’ve got this serpent thing going on.” He gave a pointed flicker of forked tongue, sounding mildly resentful.

Aziraphale’s smooth brow furrowed. “What happened to you?” he asked. “I was so worried, I saw you fall and I –” Aziraphale paused, traces of worry flickering across his features. “You’re one of them now, aren’t you?” His voice sounded sad, and his manner had turned distant. Aziraphale looked away, watching a pair of lions roaming in the distance.

“Yes,” admitted Crowley, trying not to sound as guilty as he felt. “But,” he added desperately as Aziraphale made as if to stand, “but – will you keep still for a minute? – that doesn’t mean we can’t still see each other every now and then, right? Hell, I heard Michael and Lucifer talking just a little while ago…”

Crowley trailed off when Aziraphale stood, taking the flaming sword leaning against the gate tightly in hand. His wings unfolded, and he looked towards the heavens.

“Oh, come on,” Crowley protested, but Aziraphale was already in the clouds.

8. Downstairs a Fourth Time

The rest was summarized much more quickly. How they went from reluctant enemies to awkward partners, and from partners to something more. Crowley, finally in his element, was ready to go into sordid detail, but a strained look from Aziraphale made him hold his tongue.

Uriel listened quietly, finding their interaction nothing short of fascinating. Before him was a demon who became utterly complacent in the presence of an angel, and that angel acted like a combination of caring mother and doting wife.

They agreed to meet the next day, to discuss the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t without the added distractions of wine and the past. Crowley let out a sigh of relief as soon as Uriel was gone, and Aziraphale just smiled and gave a shrug.

“It wasn’t that bad,” he reassured, taking Crowley’s large, thin-fingered hand into his own soft one. They retreated to the back room, and when Crowley sat down in his chair he tugged the angel down on top of him.

“He was prying into business that wasn’t his own,” Crowley grumbled stubbornly and Aziraphale chuckled, pressing his rounded cheek to Crowley’s bony one.

“Oh, really? You seemed rather eager to give a description of…” Crowley’s teeth found his neck as he spoke, and he started to trail off. “Of…” Aziraphale sighed, eyes fluttering shut, and soon only silence and dust filled the book store’s lackluster back room.

Comments

[sidesinger.livejournal.com]

Marvelous read! I do hope there will be a prequel and sequels to this. :)

[random-nexus.livejournal.com]

I found this quite interesting and very well done. I like "here's how they got to that point" stories, especially when they're done well! *chuckles* Crowley tripping was quite believable, actually. And I grinned sappily at the end, hee hee! Nice.

Exceedingly enjoyable!

[aten-ra.livejournal.com]

*glee!* Quite unexpected, and very enjoyable. I really like getting see different takes on how they met and how Crowley fell. I would definitely like to see whatever sequels or prequels stem from this. Poor Crowley, bit of a victim of circumstance there, but he really doesn't seem the type to have much fun as an angel.

Metatron’s speeches always did work well for social networking

Hmm...maybe that was why he was appointed as the Voice? I wonder what Metatron would think of that idea. *grin*

that angel acted like a combination of caring mother and doting wife.

That's Aziraphale in a nutshell, I think. XD

Well done, Secret Author! And thank you so much!

[sirius-luva.livejournal.com]

Oh goodness, this was WONDERFUL! Truly awesome. I love your description of Behemiel and Uriel, and he's so cutely confused! I giggled out loud throughout the Intimate Books scene!

And the three of them getting drunk and only staying on topic for thirty-six minutes, and all the flashbacks... I never thought of halos as physical things that could be knocked off but despite the humour, that was a very poignant scene. Crowley really got screwed over, didn't he?

And Metatron's speeches working very well for social networking and Uriel having met half his friends there! XDDD And the first mosquitos putting an end to Adam's perfect bronzed skin! And the sordid details!

Absolutely fabulous work, my dear.

[hsavinien.livejournal.com]

Interesting take on things.

[freudian-lisp.livejournal.com]

Why, oh why doesn’t this have more comments? This was absolutely wonderful!

Your writing style alone is to die for, it’s just descriptive enough to put images in my head, but not so verbose it turns into purple prose (good god, no) or anything. It was an extremely enjoyable read. Love, love, love how you wrote the characters and the dialogue in particular. I liked your take on Uriel, how he’s kiiind of a jerk, but not filled with Heavenly Reaeg like certain other versions of him. Behemiel was adorable as well.

In every cover they both appeared to have wardrobe malfunctions, as their chests were partially exposed.

This line right here had me laughing out loud. I really didn’t expect “wardrobe malfunctions” to turn up. One never does. It’s a bit like the Spanish Inquisition.