Aziraphale, sharing a bed with Crowley:
Imagination: a soft yawn, a long-bodied stretch; the flutter of lashes; a hint of yellow, and Crowley peers up at Aziraphale, smiling the tiniest smile; good morning, my darling, he whispers
Reality: Crowley is drooling on the pillow and it is melting
Start out up high. Start out looking at Earth in her entirety.
Now zoom in. Closer, closer, yes, I know it’s not as nice up close, but we’ve got to get down to the nitty gritty here, we’ve got to head to—
England—
London—
There’s the curve of the Serpentine, we’re almost there—
In on a neighbourhood, on a building, on a window, zip in quietly and be careful, because if he knows we’re here I can’t say what he’ll do.
Him, I mean: that one over there on the leather sofa. The one all in black, with the red hair and the sour expression, coiled up on himself with his shoes on the leather (imagine!), staring darkly at something small and defenseless in his hand.
Does he look like trouble? He’d be pleased to hear you say it.
He’s a demon. His name is Crowley. And he is trouble. Most days, anyway. Flat tyres, stuck zips, late trains, bank cards that won’t work when they just did at the shop down the road, long queues, rude gestures out car windows – that’s all him. Sort of, anyway.
Not what you were thinking of when you thought of a demon? You expected pitchforks, probably, or at the very least horns and a tail. Look, that’s old-school. And Crowley is not old-school.
What he is, at the moment, is frustrated. You see, even a clever demon like Crowley gets stymied sometimes. There are problems even he can’t crack.
One of them is in his hand.
***
He sniffed at it. It was wonderful. The pastry was light and flaky. The filling crumbled at a touch to sticky sweetness underneath. He sighed and nibbled an edge.
It was delicious.
“Damn it,” he said, and thumped the sofa, and took another angry bite. “How’m I supposed to compete?”
He slid a sour look at the neat little plateful of Nanaimo bars, perched cheerily on his table, contrasting with the gunmetal gray. The plate was pink and had flowers on it, because of course it did.
“Damn it.“
***
Perhaps we’d better establish a bit of backstory. Bear with me.
Once upon a time there was a garden—
Oh, you know that bit?
All right. Then let’s skip ahead to the part where Crowley has been in love for… oh, ages. Longer than you or I could ever quite understand, so let’s just say: long enough.
Yes, demons can love. They’re angels, after all, just gone a bit sooty and resentful. But given the right circumstances, the right entity… yes, they can love.
If you asked Crowley about it… well, first, he’d kill you. But assuming you’d somehow gotten past that part, he’d admit that he’s a bit frustrated by the whole thing. Love is not his style. He’s more of a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am kind of demon. In and out, kill ‘em with style, leave ‘em wanting more. He likes to cause trouble and leave while the sirens have just started to wail.
Love is none of this. Love is hanging around. Love is sorting out the trouble, or worse yet, not causing it. Love is doing nice things instead, things to make the other entity smile, things to make it say “Oh, my” or “Thank you, Crowley” or “Oh, really” in that particular tone of voice it has that makes Crowley want to wriggle.
Wriggle! It’s unbecoming of a demon. He hates to think of what the others would say. Screwtape, in particular, would have some Words for him on becoming entangled with…
With…
One of Them.
Yep: Crowley’s in love with one of the Good Guys.
And the Good Guy in question adores butter tarts with an unseemly passion. Enough to speak wistfully of them when they aren’t around. Enough to ask Crowley to drive at ridiculous speeds across miles of English countryside to storm a bake sale, taking no prisoners. Enough to devour the butter tarts on the way home, leaving crumbs on the seat of Crowley’s car (the car hadn’t minded terribly, which was unusual in itself). And enough to leave one for Crowley, saying archly, “Perhaps after you actually try it, you’ll understand.”
Crowley is now glumly staring at this butter tart, letting its flavour spread across his forked tongue, and thinking: How do I become a butter tart?
Start out up high. Start out looking at Earth in her entirety.
Now zoom in. Closer, closer, yes, I know it’s not as nice up close, but we’ve got to get down to the nitty gritty here, we’ve got to head to—
England—
London—
There’s the curve of the Serpentine, we’re almost there—
In on a neighbourhood, on a building, on a window, zip in quietly and be careful, because if he knows we’re here I can’t say what he’ll do.
Him, I mean: that one over there on the leather sofa. The one all in black, with the red hair and the sour expression, coiled up on himself with his shoes on the leather (imagine!), staring darkly at something small and defenseless in his hand.
Does he look like trouble? He’d be pleased to hear you say it.
He’s a demon. His name is Crowley. And he is trouble. Most days, anyway. Flat tyres, stuck zips, late trains, bank cards that won’t work when they just did at the shop down the road, long queues, rude gestures out car windows – that’s all him. Sort of, anyway.
Not what you were thinking of when you thought of a demon? You expected pitchforks, probably, or at the very least horns and a tail. Look, that’s old-school. And Crowley is not old-school.
What he is, at the moment, is frustrated. You see, even a clever demon like Crowley gets stymied sometimes. There are problems even he can’t crack.
One of them is in his hand.
***
He sniffed at it. It was wonderful. The pastry was light and flaky. The filling crumbled at a touch to sticky sweetness underneath. He sighed and nibbled an edge.
It was delicious.
“Damn it,” he said, and thumped the sofa, and took another angry bite. “How’m I supposed to compete?”
He slid a sour look at the neat little plateful of Nanaimo bars, perched cheerily on his table, contrasting with the gunmetal gray. The plate was pink and had flowers on it, because of course it did.
“Damn it.“
***
Perhaps we’d better establish a bit of backstory. Bear with me.
Once upon a time there was a garden—
Oh, you know that bit?
All right. Then let’s skip ahead to the part where Crowley has been in love for… oh, ages. Longer than you or I could ever quite understand, so let’s just say: long enough.
Yes, demons can love. They’re angels, after all, just gone a bit sooty and resentful. But given the right circumstances, the right entity… yes, they can love.
If you asked Crowley about it… well, first, he’d kill you. But assuming you’d somehow gotten past that part, he’d admit that he’s a bit frustrated by the whole thing. Love is not his style. He’s more of a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am kind of demon. In and out, kill ‘em with style, leave ‘em wanting more. He likes to cause trouble and leave while the sirens have just started to wail.
Love is none of this. Love is hanging around. Love is sorting out the trouble, or worse yet, not causing it. Love is doing nice things instead, things to make the other entity smile, things to make it say “Oh, my” or “Thank you, Crowley” or “Oh, really” in that particular tone of voice it has that makes Crowley want to wriggle.
Wriggle! It’s unbecoming of a demon. He hates to think of what the others would say. Screwtape, in particular, would have some Words for him on becoming entangled with…
With…
One of Them.
Yep: Crowley’s in love with one of the Good Guys.
And the Good Guy in question adores butter tarts with an unseemly passion. Enough to speak wistfully of them when they aren’t around. Enough to ask Crowley to drive at ridiculous speeds across miles of English countryside to storm a bake sale, taking no prisoners. Enough to devour the butter tarts on the way home, leaving crumbs on the seat of Crowley’s car (the car hadn’t minded terribly, which was unusual in itself). And enough to leave one for Crowley, saying archly, “Perhaps after you actually try it, you’ll understand.”
Crowley is now glumly staring at this butter tart, letting its flavour spread across his forked tongue, and thinking: How do I become a butter tart?
Delighted by the fact that Crowley and Aziraphale ‘making an effort’ is, like, their version of roleplay.
“My dear, I hope this doesn’t sound too outré…”
“Oh? Go on,” said Crowley, lowering his sunglasses.
“I wonder if it would interest you to pretend…”
Crowley’s eyebrows climbed.
“…that we had sex drives.”
“Why, angel,” said Crowley, intrigued. “You naughty bitch.”
Each of them has watched angels soar before. The connotations are somewhat different.
Aziraphale has flown formation, singing out the glory of God. He likes matching his voice to the others, he likes dipping in and out of the tight arrangement. He likes to perch and watch, too, enjoying how the others find each other without looking, just by sensing.
He hasn’t done it in a very, very long time now. He’s not sure he still could. But to fly with Crowley is pleasant in its own way.
Crowley remembers formation flying too. It never suited him much. His latest memories of angelic flight are of craning his neck, watching white wings circling high above him—
—and then a sudden jerk out of formation, and a heavenly cry: Tabarnak!
And now an angel dipping, swooping, trying to fly with only one wing and shaking its fist at what it knew must be far below, and here is Crowley laughing, a dab hand with a curse.
He’s never felt tempted to zap Aziraphale. Well, all right, tempted, but he’s never done it, and that counts for something.
Ooh, ooh, okay, ficspo:
So you know how Aziraphale and Crowley switch bodies, because they’re pretty sure they know how Heaven and Hell will punish them?
What if they guessed wrong?
“So, what’s it to be,” says Azi!Crowley, “an eternity in the deepest pit?”
“For starters,” says Dagon.
Meanwhile, Crow!Aziraphale is Falling. Again. This time around, he can enjoy the view. Unfortunately, it’s shit.
Even the boiling pool of sulfur is a bit meh the second time.
He pulls himself out, brushes himself off. He scents the air. Brimstone, of course, but also: Angel In Pain.
“Riiiight,” he says, and snaps his fingers, and now ‘Aziraphale’ is wearing sunglasses and a Pissed Off Expression. “That’s going to stop right about now.”
Good Omens 2, electric boogaloo: Crowley tips Hell over and shakes it out to rescue his angel. And also: bodyswap.
(In which Crowley talks to his car, the Bentley is passive-aggressive, and Aziraphale likes Canadian baking.)
Freddie Mercury sang longingly about the passing of time and the constancy of love in a changing world, and Crowley rolled his eyes and pretended to vomit.
“Would you stop playing soppy garbage, please,” he said, changing lanes without signalling.
The speakers cut out, and the Bentley growled at him.
“Oh, don’t be like that. All right. Fine. Play what you like. Just… no sad stuff.”
The radio hissed static.
“Look,” said Crowley, “it’s not that I don’t like the song. I’m just not in the mood for it right now, all right?”
The static popped and fizzed. Under the hood, the Bentley’s motor grumbled.
“No, no, it’s nothing you’ve done. You’re a good car, you know that.”
The static faded out. The Bentley hummed along quietly for a few minutes, greasing through traffic like a shiny black oil slick, and then the radio switched on again: it’s late, sang Freddie softly, ooh, is it just my sickly pride?
Crowley sighed. “What’re you getting at?”
The music got a little bit louder. And then a lot louder. Crowley winced and fiddled with the knob. It didn’t do anything: it’s late, insisted Freddie, it’s late, it’s late, but not too late…
“Look, I know, but I’m not sure exactly what you’re expecting me to do. Can’t make someone feel the way they don’t feel. Well… you can, but look, trust me on this, it doesn’t work out well.”
The Bentley rumbled disapprovingly, nearly swiping a city bus.
“Look, there’s nothing I can do. He says we go too fast for him—”
Rrrm.
“All right! Fine. I go too fast for him. But you’re not helping.”
Morning reblog!
(In which Crowley talks to his car, the Bentley is passive-aggressive, and Aziraphale likes Canadian baking.)
Freddie Mercury sang longingly about the passing of time and the constancy of love in a changing world, and Crowley rolled his eyes and pretended to vomit.
“Would you stop playing soppy garbage, please,” he said, changing lanes without signalling.
The speakers cut out, and the Bentley growled at him.
“Oh, don’t be like that. All right. Fine. Play what you like. Just… no sad stuff.”
The radio hissed static.
“Look,” said Crowley, “it’s not that I don’t like the song. I’m just not in the mood for it right now, all right?”
The static popped and fizzed. Under the hood, the Bentley’s motor grumbled.
“No, no, it’s nothing you’ve done. You’re a good car, you know that.”
The static faded out. The Bentley hummed along quietly for a few minutes, greasing through traffic like a shiny black oil slick, and then the radio switched on again: it’s late, sang Freddie softly, ooh, is it just my sickly pride?
Crowley sighed. “What’re you getting at?”
The music got a little bit louder. And then a lot louder. Crowley winced and fiddled with the knob. It didn’t do anything: it’s late, insisted Freddie, it’s late, it’s late, but not too late…
“Look, I know, but I’m not sure exactly what you’re expecting me to do. Can’t make someone feel the way they don’t feel. Well… you can, but look, trust me on this, it doesn’t work out well.”
The Bentley rumbled disapprovingly, nearly swiping a city bus.
“Look, there’s nothing I can do. He says we go too fast for him—”
Rrrm.
“All right! Fine. I go too fast for him. But you’re not helping.”
“Yes, hello. I’d like to make a reservation for seven o’clock, please.”
“Yes, sir. Party of…?”
“Two, please.”
“Yes, sir. Name of?”
“Fell.”
“First name, sir?”
“Ah—”
It’s not that no one ever asks. People ask all the time. A title usually does the trick. Sometimes he goes by Mr, sometimes Mrs, once upon a time he’d flirted with Mademoiselle, because titles are great fun: they hide secrets, they have connotations. But if one is asked specifically for a first name, it’s rude to use a title. Some kinds of rudeness he’s perfectly fine with. Being rude is not sinful. But it’s also usually, he feels, not necessary.
Aziraphale is a perfectly lovely name for an angel, and a completely awful name for a human. For starters, no one can ever spell it (not that there really is any correct way to spell it in any human language, except perhaps Hebrew, and even then one has to squint). Once they’ve failed to spell it, it’s a certain thing that any attempt at pronunciation will be execrable. He dislikes unnecessary embarrassment, both of the human who is tasked with uttering his name and of himself, and spending five minutes arguing back and forth extremely politely about how to pronounce his own name is not something that brings him joy.
Angels don’t lie. He’s quite sure about that. He’d come into existence with a very specific task set, and none of those tasks had been distort reality. Of course, none of those tasks had been style one’s hair or wear proper shoes or even be polite, either.
The first time he’d given in to the impulse to just make up a name, he’d felt a bit odd about it. But everything had gone so smoothly. He’d been able to just go in and eat and then leave and it hadn’t mattered at all, the human hadn’t really wanted to know his name, they’d just wanted something to peg him by while he was there.
And so: Fell. Ezra Fell. Ms Azee Phale. Mme A Zinnia File. A Z Fell, bookseller.
That last one has stuck around the longest, now. He’s grown rather attached to it.
A… A… what begins with A?
“Anthony.”
(“Wha?” says Crowley, half looking around from where he’s idly zapping motes of dust out of a sunbeam.)
“Very good, sir. We’ll see you tonight.”
chequerootlurks
I’m an apprentice tattoo artist. An artist who owns a few shops invited me to their team.
I’ve got a long way to go. I’m still learning basic shading techniques. Working with a tattoo pen adds depth to the traditional flat plane I’m used to working on.
One is never too old to learn a new skill.
At times I feel like a complete newb.
So, here is a meme that I love. I’m sharing it for everyone who is learning something new.
