An angsty fic offering.
Title: Heaven Fall Into Hell (1/3)
Rating: R for adult themes and sexual content (not terribly graphic, I don’t think, but not exactly work safe either), violence, and possibly some language
Genre: Angst
Characters/Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale, Metatron, Hastur
Summary: Angels are supposed to be pure. Aziraphale is not.
Length: 2231
Author’s Notes: I don’t usually write slash, and this is my first foray into it. This is not going to be terribly happy slash, though, so get ready for lots of not-so-nice things to happen. Completely un-betaed, so feel free to criticize. Title from the song ‘Angels/Losing/Sleep’ by Our Lady Peace.
***
-I-
“Are you even lisssstening to me, angel?”
Aziraphale, who for some time had been distractedly fiddling with the greens on his plate, now picked his head up and focused as a reflex. Over six-thousand years experience with a person will tell you a lot about them; the first thing Aziraphale learned about Crowley was that when he started hissing, you had better listen. The angel smiled bashfully and murmured, “Dreadfully sorry, dear boy. I’ve been out of sorts. Do carry on.”
Crowley would not go on just yet. He hesitated and looked Aziraphale over. Out of sorts was right; the angel was a mess. Crowley knew well that normally Aziraphale would never bear to step into public in such a deplorable condition. Now his clothes were rumpled, his hair mussed up, and it was very clear from the clumsy way Aziraphale was folding his hands that he had been chewing on his primly manicured nails. It wasn’t normal at all, and it made Crowley wonder if perhaps something was going on ‘up there’ that concerned the both of them.
Nothing could be further from the truth, of course. The fact was that absolutely nothing was going on ‘up there’, and that was exactly the problem. It was normal for Aziraphale to go a few years without hearing from Heaven, but they were usually fairly punctual about sending correspondence every decade. It had now been roughly fifteen years since the aborted apocalypse, and Aziraphale hadn’t heard a single word or utterance from his superiors since. He considered that perhaps it was possible they had forgotten about him or that perhaps they were trying to forget about him and the whole fiasco; however, he would assume that they would at least have the common decency to return his calls. It was Heaven, after all. It may be a horrible bureaucracy, but it was supposed to be based on chivalry, honesty, and good.
That wasn’t the only reason Aziraphale was so distracted, though. He was currently busily trying to ignore the other reason and failing miserably.
It was then Crowley decided to drop any previous conversation and find something to cheer the angel up. Aziraphale was perfectly intolerable when he was miserable and Crowley hated it; he hated it because the miserable mood then rubbed off on him, no matter how hard Aziraphale tried to hide it. The demon glanced around the room for a distraction, then pointed and grinned. “Say, look over there,” he whispered as he subtly coaxed the angel into looking in the right direction.
If only to humor his friend, Aziraphale craned his head to peer across the room. Beside the bar, a young couple held hands and shared a drink. The corners of Aziraphale’s lips twitched, wanting to be a smile but feeling much too tired to get all the way there. “Well, that is very sweet…” he began, but Crowley cut him off.
“No,” Crowley murmured, “Really look.”
Aziraphale looked back once more and frowned. “What is she doing?”
Crowley snickered against the back of his hand. “She’s tying a knot in a cherry stem with her tongue,” he wheezed, trying to suppress his laughter.
The angel’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “That’s appalling,” he uttered. “Does the poor woman really believe that she has to pull such a silly stunt to attract the young gentleman?”
“And the best part,” Crowley added, “is that he’s really going to fall for it.”
Dropping his silverware onto his plate, Aziraphale turned away. “I’m sorry, this is revolting.”
Crowley was incredulous. He grabbed Aziraphale by the wrist before he could go anywhere. “Come now, Aziraphale, don’t you think that’s funny!?” Crowley cried out.
With an indignant glare, Aziraphale wrenched his arm free. “No, I do not find it funny,” he decried. “That’s lust, Crowley. Lust is a sin.”
“Sorry excuse for lust,” Crowley muttered as he kicked back and laid his feet up on the table. “It’s such a tired old trick. Now if you want to see a really cool trick with a cherry stem…” He plunged his hand into his drink, plucked out the cherry, bit the fruit off the end and then, in a space of roughly two seconds, managed to tie a perfect bow with the cherry stem.* He leered at the angel and batted his eyebrows. “Now that,” he declared, “is impressive.”
*It’s been said that Crowley can do many weird things with his tongue. This is one of them.
After one moment of overwhelmed silence, Aziraphale leapt to his feet, knocking the chair over, and managed to wheeze, “IthinkI’vegottagosorry,” before scrambling madly for the door. He could feel every single person in that restaurant staring at his back as he dove out, but didn’t care.
The demon watched after Aziraphale in bewilderment. Crowley just couldn’t understand what was wrong with the angel lately, but decided it best not to push it. He took a moment to survey the room as the diners went quietly back to their meals. A man at the bar set a picture of his girlfriend aside as he paid for his tab. With a quick flick of Crowley’s wrist, the surprised picture found itself in the wallet of a man a few tables away. Said wallet was at that time being opened by the girlfriend of the wallet’s owner. Upon seeing this picture of another woman, the girlfriend stood and promptly slapped her lover across the face. The man at the bar was just now noticing the absence of his picture. He fumbled around for it a moment until finally noticing it in the possession of the man across the room.
Crowley smiled, satisfied, at a job well done. Rising, he stepped away from the table and meandered out without waiting for the bill. He never waited for the bill, and besides, the staff would be too busy breaking up a fight to care-he made sure of that.
***
The Thames was swollen, grown fat on the pouring London rain which had been invading the air for many days. Aziraphale staggered into the bookshop, drenched, too weary to miracle himself dry. With a great force of will he crossed through the back room and limped up the stairs to his apartment and to his room, shedding wet clothes along the way. A sweater-vest was unceremoniously tossed onto a tacky lampshade* and a pair of loafers found themselves instantaneously on opposite sides of the room. The angel tripped over his pants as he crossed the threshold into his bedroom and let them fall off his ankles as he fell onto the bed. His shirt had been lost somewhere in the process and was now MIA.
*It was a revolting shade of green and laden in tassels. Aziraphale had picked it up at a little old lady’s yard sale for just two dollars. Excited about his purchase, Aziraphale had gone to Crowley straightaway and asked him how beautiful he thought it was. Crowley had declined to comment and, unbeknownst to Aziraphale, also had to will away a bit of blood that had come up from biting his lip.
For a moment he just laid there, still, staring at the light from passing cars as it dashed across his walls. He soon found that his wings were driving him nuts, aching and falling asleep from disuse. Cautiously he let them out and stretched them, fanning them to their full length, then fell back on his bed once more without bothering to pull them in.
Despite a great determination to avoid doing so, his thoughts lingered briefly on Crowley. They lingered on the serpentine smoothness of his voice and of his movements. They lingered on his sharp golden eyes and cool, well-put-together demeanor. They lingered on his sharp sense of style and his sleek frame. They lingered quite insistently on Crowley’s tongue and the weird things it could do and what kind of other weird things could it do if only…
No. Aziraphale quickly pushed that thought out of his mind. It was an improper thing for an angel to be thinking. The frustrated angel let out a groan and curled up into a tight little ball, trying to push Crowley entirely out of his mind, but Crowley refused to go. Crowley had just set up camp in there and he would be damned if he had to pick it all up and move on elsewhere. No, Crowley was going to stick quite firmly where he was and Aziraphale would just have to deal with it.
It was no use trying to forget him; Crowley was quite distinctly unforgettable, impossible to ignore. He demanded attention. Aziraphale just wasn’t sure if the kind of attention he wanted to give would be appreciated. Certainly Up Above would have a few things to say on the matter too. It was quite dreadful behavior unfitting for any angel.
Something had to be done, though. Aziraphale’s desire to be close to Crowley was driving him insane, and if something wasn’t done soon he would surely lose his mind. He didn’t care for being so tense all the time and he certainly didn’t care for the impatient tingling in the bottom of his stomach. Wasn’t there something humans did sometimes to relieve this agony sometimes? Something they did to themselves?
Well, it was worth a shot. Anything to make that restless aching and that want to go away.
Aziraphale slid down his boxers and gently grazed himself with his fingertips, slowly.
Hm, strange.
Interesting.
Good.
Again.
More.
Faster.
And now, rather than avoid thinking of Crowley, he focused on him as he pumped his hand. He thought of Crowley’s body, his face, his mouth, and the angel whimpered Crowley’s name as he came and made a mess of the sheets. Slightly embarrassed, he waved his hand and it was clean. Then he crumpled onto the bed, exhausted and happy.
For some time, the only sound in the room was the sound of Aziraphale catching his breath.
Then the stillness was broken as a shaft of blinding blue light shone down on Aziraphale. A booming voice echoed across the room. “Aziraphale,” it addressed, quite distinctly displeased.
Self-consciously, Aziraphale crossed his legs and arms, trying to cover himself up. He wound up looking quite a bit like he was cowering.* Meekly, he squeaked at the voice, “Yes?”
*and perhaps he was
“Heaven is quite offended at your recent state and actions, Aziraphale.”
Aziraphale did his best to look confused. “Wh-Whatever d-do you mean?” he stammered.
The Metatron had no patience for these kinds of games and refused to play along. “Do not be a fool. We have seen you. We always see you. We know what you have done, and it is behavior most unflattering for an angel. An angel is supposed to be a pure being, Aziraphale. Lust is a sin, Aziraphale.”
“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale moaned. “I’m sorry. I promise you it will never happen again.”
“You do not understand,” insisted the voice. “In your time on Earth, you have fallen in with humans, you have adopted human vices, you have consorted with the enemy, and now you have corrupted yourself. You are an unfit angel, Aziraphale.”
There was nothing Aziraphale wanted more badly at that moment than to sink into the bed and disappear. However, he stayed quite firmly in place, frozen. “What… what are you saying?” he inquired, voice going thin.
“We are saying,” the voice clarified, “that Heaven rejects you and your services. You are stricken from duty and henceforth banished, Aziraphale.”
Aziraphale felt quite sick and quite numb at the same time. He clung tightly to his sheets as though he honestly thought it would do him any good. “What? No,” he sobbed. “No. Please.”
“The order has been sent down, Aziraphale, and it must be followed. Remember ineffability, Aziraphale.”
“No, no, no! I’ll do anything! Anything!” Aziraphale frantically begged, and his physical body shook so badly that it just might fall right apart. “Let me speak to Him! Let me explain to Him! Please, no! Please don’t send me away! Please!”
“What must be done must be done,” the voice said flatly, and before anymore pleas could be sent up the light shut out and the voice was gone.
Aziraphale had just a split second to look around futilely for an escape when the floorboards at the foot of the bed opened up into a swirling vortex of fire. Books and papers fluttered around the room like mad butterflies as they were sucked in. Aziraphale tumbled out of bed just in time before it was ripped out of place and pulled down as well. Desperate, Aziraphale crawled forth and clung to the heater as more and more of his room disappeared into the bright and fiery hole. “No! No, please!” he cried out to no one who would listen.
Under the extraordinary strength of the suction, Aziraphale felt the heater bend in his hands. His fingertips slipped, and in a fraction of a second he was flying through the air, then plummeting, screaming, pleading for mercy. No one would hear. Hell swallowed him up and closed quite neatly behind him. No sign was left that he had been there save for a few stray feathers which floated soundlessly to the floor.
Outside, it stopped raining for just a moment. Then it went on quite fine without him.
Rating: R for adult themes and sexual content (not terribly graphic, I don’t think, but not exactly work safe either), violence, and possibly some language
Genre: Angst
Characters/Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale, Metatron, Hastur
Summary: Angels are supposed to be pure. Aziraphale is not.
Length: 2231
Author’s Notes: I don’t usually write slash, and this is my first foray into it. This is not going to be terribly happy slash, though, so get ready for lots of not-so-nice things to happen. Completely un-betaed, so feel free to criticize. Title from the song ‘Angels/Losing/Sleep’ by Our Lady Peace.
***
-I-
“Are you even lisssstening to me, angel?”
Aziraphale, who for some time had been distractedly fiddling with the greens on his plate, now picked his head up and focused as a reflex. Over six-thousand years experience with a person will tell you a lot about them; the first thing Aziraphale learned about Crowley was that when he started hissing, you had better listen. The angel smiled bashfully and murmured, “Dreadfully sorry, dear boy. I’ve been out of sorts. Do carry on.”
Crowley would not go on just yet. He hesitated and looked Aziraphale over. Out of sorts was right; the angel was a mess. Crowley knew well that normally Aziraphale would never bear to step into public in such a deplorable condition. Now his clothes were rumpled, his hair mussed up, and it was very clear from the clumsy way Aziraphale was folding his hands that he had been chewing on his primly manicured nails. It wasn’t normal at all, and it made Crowley wonder if perhaps something was going on ‘up there’ that concerned the both of them.
Nothing could be further from the truth, of course. The fact was that absolutely nothing was going on ‘up there’, and that was exactly the problem. It was normal for Aziraphale to go a few years without hearing from Heaven, but they were usually fairly punctual about sending correspondence every decade. It had now been roughly fifteen years since the aborted apocalypse, and Aziraphale hadn’t heard a single word or utterance from his superiors since. He considered that perhaps it was possible they had forgotten about him or that perhaps they were trying to forget about him and the whole fiasco; however, he would assume that they would at least have the common decency to return his calls. It was Heaven, after all. It may be a horrible bureaucracy, but it was supposed to be based on chivalry, honesty, and good.
That wasn’t the only reason Aziraphale was so distracted, though. He was currently busily trying to ignore the other reason and failing miserably.
It was then Crowley decided to drop any previous conversation and find something to cheer the angel up. Aziraphale was perfectly intolerable when he was miserable and Crowley hated it; he hated it because the miserable mood then rubbed off on him, no matter how hard Aziraphale tried to hide it. The demon glanced around the room for a distraction, then pointed and grinned. “Say, look over there,” he whispered as he subtly coaxed the angel into looking in the right direction.
If only to humor his friend, Aziraphale craned his head to peer across the room. Beside the bar, a young couple held hands and shared a drink. The corners of Aziraphale’s lips twitched, wanting to be a smile but feeling much too tired to get all the way there. “Well, that is very sweet…” he began, but Crowley cut him off.
“No,” Crowley murmured, “Really look.”
Aziraphale looked back once more and frowned. “What is she doing?”
Crowley snickered against the back of his hand. “She’s tying a knot in a cherry stem with her tongue,” he wheezed, trying to suppress his laughter.
The angel’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “That’s appalling,” he uttered. “Does the poor woman really believe that she has to pull such a silly stunt to attract the young gentleman?”
“And the best part,” Crowley added, “is that he’s really going to fall for it.”
Dropping his silverware onto his plate, Aziraphale turned away. “I’m sorry, this is revolting.”
Crowley was incredulous. He grabbed Aziraphale by the wrist before he could go anywhere. “Come now, Aziraphale, don’t you think that’s funny!?” Crowley cried out.
With an indignant glare, Aziraphale wrenched his arm free. “No, I do not find it funny,” he decried. “That’s lust, Crowley. Lust is a sin.”
“Sorry excuse for lust,” Crowley muttered as he kicked back and laid his feet up on the table. “It’s such a tired old trick. Now if you want to see a really cool trick with a cherry stem…” He plunged his hand into his drink, plucked out the cherry, bit the fruit off the end and then, in a space of roughly two seconds, managed to tie a perfect bow with the cherry stem.* He leered at the angel and batted his eyebrows. “Now that,” he declared, “is impressive.”
*It’s been said that Crowley can do many weird things with his tongue. This is one of them.
After one moment of overwhelmed silence, Aziraphale leapt to his feet, knocking the chair over, and managed to wheeze, “IthinkI’vegottagosorry,” before scrambling madly for the door. He could feel every single person in that restaurant staring at his back as he dove out, but didn’t care.
The demon watched after Aziraphale in bewilderment. Crowley just couldn’t understand what was wrong with the angel lately, but decided it best not to push it. He took a moment to survey the room as the diners went quietly back to their meals. A man at the bar set a picture of his girlfriend aside as he paid for his tab. With a quick flick of Crowley’s wrist, the surprised picture found itself in the wallet of a man a few tables away. Said wallet was at that time being opened by the girlfriend of the wallet’s owner. Upon seeing this picture of another woman, the girlfriend stood and promptly slapped her lover across the face. The man at the bar was just now noticing the absence of his picture. He fumbled around for it a moment until finally noticing it in the possession of the man across the room.
Crowley smiled, satisfied, at a job well done. Rising, he stepped away from the table and meandered out without waiting for the bill. He never waited for the bill, and besides, the staff would be too busy breaking up a fight to care-he made sure of that.
***
The Thames was swollen, grown fat on the pouring London rain which had been invading the air for many days. Aziraphale staggered into the bookshop, drenched, too weary to miracle himself dry. With a great force of will he crossed through the back room and limped up the stairs to his apartment and to his room, shedding wet clothes along the way. A sweater-vest was unceremoniously tossed onto a tacky lampshade* and a pair of loafers found themselves instantaneously on opposite sides of the room. The angel tripped over his pants as he crossed the threshold into his bedroom and let them fall off his ankles as he fell onto the bed. His shirt had been lost somewhere in the process and was now MIA.
*It was a revolting shade of green and laden in tassels. Aziraphale had picked it up at a little old lady’s yard sale for just two dollars. Excited about his purchase, Aziraphale had gone to Crowley straightaway and asked him how beautiful he thought it was. Crowley had declined to comment and, unbeknownst to Aziraphale, also had to will away a bit of blood that had come up from biting his lip.
For a moment he just laid there, still, staring at the light from passing cars as it dashed across his walls. He soon found that his wings were driving him nuts, aching and falling asleep from disuse. Cautiously he let them out and stretched them, fanning them to their full length, then fell back on his bed once more without bothering to pull them in.
Despite a great determination to avoid doing so, his thoughts lingered briefly on Crowley. They lingered on the serpentine smoothness of his voice and of his movements. They lingered on his sharp golden eyes and cool, well-put-together demeanor. They lingered on his sharp sense of style and his sleek frame. They lingered quite insistently on Crowley’s tongue and the weird things it could do and what kind of other weird things could it do if only…
No. Aziraphale quickly pushed that thought out of his mind. It was an improper thing for an angel to be thinking. The frustrated angel let out a groan and curled up into a tight little ball, trying to push Crowley entirely out of his mind, but Crowley refused to go. Crowley had just set up camp in there and he would be damned if he had to pick it all up and move on elsewhere. No, Crowley was going to stick quite firmly where he was and Aziraphale would just have to deal with it.
It was no use trying to forget him; Crowley was quite distinctly unforgettable, impossible to ignore. He demanded attention. Aziraphale just wasn’t sure if the kind of attention he wanted to give would be appreciated. Certainly Up Above would have a few things to say on the matter too. It was quite dreadful behavior unfitting for any angel.
Something had to be done, though. Aziraphale’s desire to be close to Crowley was driving him insane, and if something wasn’t done soon he would surely lose his mind. He didn’t care for being so tense all the time and he certainly didn’t care for the impatient tingling in the bottom of his stomach. Wasn’t there something humans did sometimes to relieve this agony sometimes? Something they did to themselves?
Well, it was worth a shot. Anything to make that restless aching and that want to go away.
Aziraphale slid down his boxers and gently grazed himself with his fingertips, slowly.
Hm, strange.
Interesting.
Good.
Again.
More.
Faster.
And now, rather than avoid thinking of Crowley, he focused on him as he pumped his hand. He thought of Crowley’s body, his face, his mouth, and the angel whimpered Crowley’s name as he came and made a mess of the sheets. Slightly embarrassed, he waved his hand and it was clean. Then he crumpled onto the bed, exhausted and happy.
For some time, the only sound in the room was the sound of Aziraphale catching his breath.
Then the stillness was broken as a shaft of blinding blue light shone down on Aziraphale. A booming voice echoed across the room. “Aziraphale,” it addressed, quite distinctly displeased.
Self-consciously, Aziraphale crossed his legs and arms, trying to cover himself up. He wound up looking quite a bit like he was cowering.* Meekly, he squeaked at the voice, “Yes?”
*and perhaps he was
“Heaven is quite offended at your recent state and actions, Aziraphale.”
Aziraphale did his best to look confused. “Wh-Whatever d-do you mean?” he stammered.
The Metatron had no patience for these kinds of games and refused to play along. “Do not be a fool. We have seen you. We always see you. We know what you have done, and it is behavior most unflattering for an angel. An angel is supposed to be a pure being, Aziraphale. Lust is a sin, Aziraphale.”
“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale moaned. “I’m sorry. I promise you it will never happen again.”
“You do not understand,” insisted the voice. “In your time on Earth, you have fallen in with humans, you have adopted human vices, you have consorted with the enemy, and now you have corrupted yourself. You are an unfit angel, Aziraphale.”
There was nothing Aziraphale wanted more badly at that moment than to sink into the bed and disappear. However, he stayed quite firmly in place, frozen. “What… what are you saying?” he inquired, voice going thin.
“We are saying,” the voice clarified, “that Heaven rejects you and your services. You are stricken from duty and henceforth banished, Aziraphale.”
Aziraphale felt quite sick and quite numb at the same time. He clung tightly to his sheets as though he honestly thought it would do him any good. “What? No,” he sobbed. “No. Please.”
“The order has been sent down, Aziraphale, and it must be followed. Remember ineffability, Aziraphale.”
“No, no, no! I’ll do anything! Anything!” Aziraphale frantically begged, and his physical body shook so badly that it just might fall right apart. “Let me speak to Him! Let me explain to Him! Please, no! Please don’t send me away! Please!”
“What must be done must be done,” the voice said flatly, and before anymore pleas could be sent up the light shut out and the voice was gone.
Aziraphale had just a split second to look around futilely for an escape when the floorboards at the foot of the bed opened up into a swirling vortex of fire. Books and papers fluttered around the room like mad butterflies as they were sucked in. Aziraphale tumbled out of bed just in time before it was ripped out of place and pulled down as well. Desperate, Aziraphale crawled forth and clung to the heater as more and more of his room disappeared into the bright and fiery hole. “No! No, please!” he cried out to no one who would listen.
Under the extraordinary strength of the suction, Aziraphale felt the heater bend in his hands. His fingertips slipped, and in a fraction of a second he was flying through the air, then plummeting, screaming, pleading for mercy. No one would hear. Hell swallowed him up and closed quite neatly behind him. No sign was left that he had been there save for a few stray feathers which floated soundlessly to the floor.
Outside, it stopped raining for just a moment. Then it went on quite fine without him.