(no subject)
The second angsty-ish fic I wrote yesterday...
So, property of Gaiman and Pratchett, some angst, blood and A/C undertones. Another one which has a name after a (The Real) Tuesday Weld song and doesn't really have anything to do with the story itself.
x-posted in lower_tadfield.
Crowley had been gone for a week when Aziraphale finally heard from the janitor that he was back.
The flat was dark and clean, though it smelled strange. The angel found him sitting in the darkness in his office.
”Leave the lights off”, Crowley croaked.
The smell of iron was heavy in the air. The floor felt sticky under Aziraphale’s shoes. He had an ominous feeling. Sometimes he wished angels weren’t quite so sensitive.
“How was… Downstairs,” he asked, squinting, trying to make out some details in the demon’s silhouette. All he could see was yellow eyes.
Crowley sighed. “Fine.” Feigned coolness shone through. “They ahh… I mean, I got into some trouble because of…” a sticky gulp. “The whole not-armageddon and… stuff.”
You didn’t need to be an angel to hear he was in pain. Aziraphale reached for the switch and flipped the lights on. Crowley moaned and covered his eyes from the light. Aziraphale stared around the room. Blood was spattered on the floor, the walls and furniture.
Crowley peeked from under his hand. He looked paler than usually, sickly. Aziraphale crossed the floor and laid his palm on the demon’s shoulder. Crowley looked up.
“I’m fine,” he said. He didn’t look fine. His eyes were wide and dull. His torso was bare and his black trousers were clotted with dried blood.
“Where did all this blood come from?” Aziraphale searched Crowley’s body for any visible damaged, to no avail. And demons weren’t that good at healing themselves.
“I’m fine.” He gagged. “…honestly.” A small hand gesture and a window flew open to let clear night air in.
“You said there was trouble. What kind of trouble, Crowley?”
Crowley looked at him as if he’d just noticed him.
“Oh you know…” he gave a forced laugh. “They weren’t too pleased with how the end of the world turned out. And then there’s the…” A nervous chuckle.
“Us?” asked the angel, still desperate for any sign of where the blood originated from.
“Us.” Crowley smiled. “But, I mean, they took it better than I’d have thought…”
“Crowley, where’s this blood from?”
Crowley stared at the floor. Aziraphale felt cold dread creep up inside him.
“Whose blood is this? What did they make you do?”
The demon let out a sound between a snort and a sob. His hands were shaking.
“Are you crying?”
Yellow and dry eyes shot up. “I can’t cry, you idiot.”
The angel relaxed a little. Blood he could take, but not a crying demon.
“My dear,” he said softly, touching Crowley’s side. “Tell me about the blood.”
“You sound like a shrink.”
Aziraphale nearly slapped him. Would have, if it weren’t for the miserable state of the demon and the smell of copper in the air.
“I want to know who bled all over your walls, you daft demon,” he said, voice rising.
Crowley merely shrugged and rose stiffly. “I have to wash it away. It’s not… if the janitor sees it… fetch me a bucket, will you?”
Aziraphale stared. “Just will it away.”
“Bring me a fucking bucket, angel, it can hardly be too hard of a task for your divine self to manage!”
Aziraphale ignored him. “Your hands are shaking. Is that your own blood?”
Another sob, snort, then a low chuckle and just when the angel thought the dams would break, Crowley took a deep breath and turned to face the bloodied wall.
It came to him, like an obscene revelation.
“Crowley… Show me- show me your wings.”
A moment of bitter silence.
“What wings?”
So, property of Gaiman and Pratchett, some angst, blood and A/C undertones. Another one which has a name after a (The Real) Tuesday Weld song and doesn't really have anything to do with the story itself.
x-posted in lower_tadfield.
Crowley had been gone for a week when Aziraphale finally heard from the janitor that he was back.
The flat was dark and clean, though it smelled strange. The angel found him sitting in the darkness in his office.
”Leave the lights off”, Crowley croaked.
The smell of iron was heavy in the air. The floor felt sticky under Aziraphale’s shoes. He had an ominous feeling. Sometimes he wished angels weren’t quite so sensitive.
“How was… Downstairs,” he asked, squinting, trying to make out some details in the demon’s silhouette. All he could see was yellow eyes.
Crowley sighed. “Fine.” Feigned coolness shone through. “They ahh… I mean, I got into some trouble because of…” a sticky gulp. “The whole not-armageddon and… stuff.”
You didn’t need to be an angel to hear he was in pain. Aziraphale reached for the switch and flipped the lights on. Crowley moaned and covered his eyes from the light. Aziraphale stared around the room. Blood was spattered on the floor, the walls and furniture.
Crowley peeked from under his hand. He looked paler than usually, sickly. Aziraphale crossed the floor and laid his palm on the demon’s shoulder. Crowley looked up.
“I’m fine,” he said. He didn’t look fine. His eyes were wide and dull. His torso was bare and his black trousers were clotted with dried blood.
“Where did all this blood come from?” Aziraphale searched Crowley’s body for any visible damaged, to no avail. And demons weren’t that good at healing themselves.
“I’m fine.” He gagged. “…honestly.” A small hand gesture and a window flew open to let clear night air in.
“You said there was trouble. What kind of trouble, Crowley?”
Crowley looked at him as if he’d just noticed him.
“Oh you know…” he gave a forced laugh. “They weren’t too pleased with how the end of the world turned out. And then there’s the…” A nervous chuckle.
“Us?” asked the angel, still desperate for any sign of where the blood originated from.
“Us.” Crowley smiled. “But, I mean, they took it better than I’d have thought…”
“Crowley, where’s this blood from?”
Crowley stared at the floor. Aziraphale felt cold dread creep up inside him.
“Whose blood is this? What did they make you do?”
The demon let out a sound between a snort and a sob. His hands were shaking.
“Are you crying?”
Yellow and dry eyes shot up. “I can’t cry, you idiot.”
The angel relaxed a little. Blood he could take, but not a crying demon.
“My dear,” he said softly, touching Crowley’s side. “Tell me about the blood.”
“You sound like a shrink.”
Aziraphale nearly slapped him. Would have, if it weren’t for the miserable state of the demon and the smell of copper in the air.
“I want to know who bled all over your walls, you daft demon,” he said, voice rising.
Crowley merely shrugged and rose stiffly. “I have to wash it away. It’s not… if the janitor sees it… fetch me a bucket, will you?”
Aziraphale stared. “Just will it away.”
“Bring me a fucking bucket, angel, it can hardly be too hard of a task for your divine self to manage!”
Aziraphale ignored him. “Your hands are shaking. Is that your own blood?”
Another sob, snort, then a low chuckle and just when the angel thought the dams would break, Crowley took a deep breath and turned to face the bloodied wall.
It came to him, like an obscene revelation.
“Crowley… Show me- show me your wings.”
A moment of bitter silence.
“What wings?”