(no subject)
Yay for go_crossovers!
Here's a totally inane ficlet I wrote in my journal last night.
I apologize in advance for the horrid characterizations. Oh, and I generally hate reading Potterian stories where Sirius is called "Siri" without punching someone in the nose, and Remus assents to the cringetacular nomer of "Remie" outside of the realm of "Let's make fun of fangirls!!1!"-talk. So, if the fact that Aziraphael is referred to as Az in the narration sets anyone's teeth on edge, throw a porcelain claw-footed bathtub at my head.
Or Neil Gaiman.
Yeah, throw Neil Gaiman at me.
Divine Providence
Remus/Aziraphael
(GO/HP)
Belly-dancing between PG-13 and R
The entire position was going quite smoothly, actually; they had regular dates, and that was comforting for both of them, as one was fighting evil and the other was horribly over-extended pretending to thwart his oldest friend and technical archnemisis. So what if "Mr. Fell" generally paid; Remus called him an Angel when...well, you know when, which might have been ironic, if he hadn't expected it. Perhaps it was the wings.
Az told him it was an old charm, never recovered, terrible prank gone wrong, just used a shrinking charm to make it less noticable under clothes. Remus still thought Az was a wizard, and never complained about the wings. Az suspected it was something of a turn-on for the wizard, really.
Mortals. If he hadn't been in such close quarters with Remus, Az would have suspected the mild-mannered, bookish werewolf's kink to be the subliminal work of Crowley.
As it was, Aziraphael decided that it would be time, soon, to tell Remus the truth.
You may wonder, If he's an angel, shouldn't he be telling the truth all the time? Well, no. One can't run a bookshop in SoHo, successfully prevent hundreds of customers every year from purchasing any rare Biblical specimens, and maintain a relationship with a magically-gifted queer werewolf who actively seeks vengance for the deaths of his closest friends without stretching the truth every once in a while.
Not to mention the whole immortality thing. Very difficult to conceal.
But Aziraphael does his best.
Really, it's not his fault that Remus thought Az was a wizard. It just slipped out.
But tonight, he was going to set things straight. Conscientiously straightening his sensible pale plaid jacket, Aziraphael mentally ran though his speech.
"Remus, there's something you need to know."
No, it sounded like he was about to confess he was with child, which was something that only brought to mind several utterly terrifying internet fan stories Crowley had shown him once. Male pregnancy? Only Hell's patrons could produce that horror.
"Remus, I've been meaning to say this to you for quite some time now."
Too much like a proposal. They'd have to move to Vermont. That meant marijuana, and cows.
Good cheese, though.
"Remus, I'm God's representative of Good on Earth. I'm over four thousand years old. And, the wings are real."
No.
He'd never believe the part about the wings.
That night, they met at the bookshop, to decide where they'd go that night. Miraculously, every time they showed up at an expensive and popular hotel or restaurant with no reservation, there was always a table open.
Tonight, they didn't make it to the restaurant. Aziraphael got as far as "Remus, I..." before he was suddenly forgetting his words under the gentle lips of a sexy, amber-eyed werewolf.
"Wha' was that, Az? You were saying something..."
"Remus, I wasn't expecting that."
"It's your jacket. Really sets off your shoulders in this light."
This light, Remus had never realized, was the faint glow that tended to follow the angel about like--like an angelic glow.
"Well, I've always thought tartan is stylish."
"You looked nervous."
"Well, I think...our relationship's progressed to the point where...well, to make myself clear..."
"You're an angel."
"What? How did you know?
"The wings were a bit of a give-away."
Here's a totally inane ficlet I wrote in my journal last night.
I apologize in advance for the horrid characterizations. Oh, and I generally hate reading Potterian stories where Sirius is called "Siri" without punching someone in the nose, and Remus assents to the cringetacular nomer of "Remie" outside of the realm of "Let's make fun of fangirls!!1!"-talk. So, if the fact that Aziraphael is referred to as Az in the narration sets anyone's teeth on edge, throw a porcelain claw-footed bathtub at my head.
Or Neil Gaiman.
Yeah, throw Neil Gaiman at me.
Divine Providence
Remus/Aziraphael
(GO/HP)
Belly-dancing between PG-13 and R
The entire position was going quite smoothly, actually; they had regular dates, and that was comforting for both of them, as one was fighting evil and the other was horribly over-extended pretending to thwart his oldest friend and technical archnemisis. So what if "Mr. Fell" generally paid; Remus called him an Angel when...well, you know when, which might have been ironic, if he hadn't expected it. Perhaps it was the wings.
Az told him it was an old charm, never recovered, terrible prank gone wrong, just used a shrinking charm to make it less noticable under clothes. Remus still thought Az was a wizard, and never complained about the wings. Az suspected it was something of a turn-on for the wizard, really.
Mortals. If he hadn't been in such close quarters with Remus, Az would have suspected the mild-mannered, bookish werewolf's kink to be the subliminal work of Crowley.
As it was, Aziraphael decided that it would be time, soon, to tell Remus the truth.
You may wonder, If he's an angel, shouldn't he be telling the truth all the time? Well, no. One can't run a bookshop in SoHo, successfully prevent hundreds of customers every year from purchasing any rare Biblical specimens, and maintain a relationship with a magically-gifted queer werewolf who actively seeks vengance for the deaths of his closest friends without stretching the truth every once in a while.
Not to mention the whole immortality thing. Very difficult to conceal.
But Aziraphael does his best.
Really, it's not his fault that Remus thought Az was a wizard. It just slipped out.
But tonight, he was going to set things straight. Conscientiously straightening his sensible pale plaid jacket, Aziraphael mentally ran though his speech.
"Remus, there's something you need to know."
No, it sounded like he was about to confess he was with child, which was something that only brought to mind several utterly terrifying internet fan stories Crowley had shown him once. Male pregnancy? Only Hell's patrons could produce that horror.
"Remus, I've been meaning to say this to you for quite some time now."
Too much like a proposal. They'd have to move to Vermont. That meant marijuana, and cows.
Good cheese, though.
"Remus, I'm God's representative of Good on Earth. I'm over four thousand years old. And, the wings are real."
No.
He'd never believe the part about the wings.
That night, they met at the bookshop, to decide where they'd go that night. Miraculously, every time they showed up at an expensive and popular hotel or restaurant with no reservation, there was always a table open.
Tonight, they didn't make it to the restaurant. Aziraphael got as far as "Remus, I..." before he was suddenly forgetting his words under the gentle lips of a sexy, amber-eyed werewolf.
"Wha' was that, Az? You were saying something..."
"Remus, I wasn't expecting that."
"It's your jacket. Really sets off your shoulders in this light."
This light, Remus had never realized, was the faint glow that tended to follow the angel about like--like an angelic glow.
"Well, I've always thought tartan is stylish."
"You looked nervous."
"Well, I think...our relationship's progressed to the point where...well, to make myself clear..."
"You're an angel."
"What? How did you know?
"The wings were a bit of a give-away."