saunters vaguely downwards

      A hand moves to snatch the bottle from his grip and miracle it away. Not that being complimented is not, just a little bit, flattering – being hit on by wasted demons so early in the morning is not her thing, though. After all, she was a goddess once, a long time ago, and nobody ever seems to remember, not even Beelzebub herself. The routine has taken over. Sometimes she wonders whether she really used to do something other than paperwork.

    “That’s enough,” she commands, albeit wearily. Of course it won’t work, Crowley is too drunk to estimate the potential outcome, and she hasn’t even discorporated him on the spot for daring to touch her. “I’ll escort you to my office and deal with you after the meeting.” It’s probably a terrible idea – either he will find a way to escape, or the office will reek of alcohol for the next week. She could also at least try and help him find some balance, but she doesn’t. It’s not her job. This is, the meeting, the agenda for the upcoming decade, and right now he’s ruining her perfect schedule. 

     “Come on,” a little push follows as she directs him towards the door. “I am a goddess, by the way.” And why did she have to mention that… 

He pouts, reaching for the empty space where the bottle had been, overbalancing and stumbling forward, almost falling but catching himself on the wall. Crowley didn’t mean to hit on her, it was just hard not to say whatever came to his mind, at that moment all he wanted to do was wax poetic about the incredible being before him. His mouth fell open as he realised what she’d done, turning back to stare in awe and perhaps just a little fear. How on earth had she made a bottle disappear into thin air?

Oh yes, Crowley had managed to get drunk enough to forget all about the fact that he too could make things disappear due to being a demon. “You’re mad at me. Did I do somethin’ wrong, Miss Goddess?” He pouts again, dragging his feet and grabbing at her like a small child. “Whatcha gonna do to me? I dunno if I’ll be awake if you leave me there for the whole meeting. I dunno if you noticed, but I’m like... not incredibly sober right now.”

Suffering

"Who are you...?"

"I'm sorry, who are you again?"

"This isn't my house..."

"Why would you bring me here? I don't remember this place at all.."

"Who are all these people in the [photos/videos]?"

"I don't think I can remember.. I'm sorry.."

"We aren't [dating/engaged/married]! I don't even KNOW you!"

"Well.. well, what if I don't WANT to remember any of this?"

"I just wanted to start over.."

"Would you just quit trying? I'm a lost cause at this point, don't you think?"

"This isn't my child.. I never even HAD a kid.."

Responses

"Come on, you have to remember your [insert relation here]!"

"Okay, knock it off. Quit trying to gain attention, you're being self-centered!"

"Okay, so what about this person/place/thing? That has to jog your memory.."

"Don't you remember? We've been [dating/engaged/married] for [insert number here] weeks/months/years!"

"You really don't remember me, do you?"

"I'm sorry, but I don't want to help you remember.. maybe this is for the best.."

"Don't worry.. we can start all over. I'm by your side, no matter what."

"I can't deal with you not remembering me.. us..."

In comparison to demons like the dukes, Crowley’s evil stench was more a mild inconvenience then something that really made you ill. It was in fact so fair in its note that Aziraphale had long learned to tune it out. Whenever somebody claimed his bookshop smelled evil, the Principality just said those were the books.

When Crowley returned with the children, Raphael had already prepared things in advance. There was a new spacious area cleared with medical beds, pillows and tools. The children all walked over to one bed. Crowley said: “I know how to bandage injuries especially. Casting a bone? I have never done this before, but I am sure if you show me how to do that, I can help.”

Crowley said: “You should check on the seriously injured ones first. The ones with risk of Death are those five.” He gestured towards the respective children, before he walked over towards a boy with a gash on his forehead. Kneeling down, Crowley scooped up a swab and some iod. Drenching the swab in the disinfecting lotion, he began to clean the gash.

Angel and demon started working.

Raphael didn’t have a lot of experience with demonic smells. In fact, he was more used to the opposite - angels had clean scents. Gabriel smelled like jasmine, Michael smelled like clean linen, and he had been told he smelled like petrichor. And upon the sudden imposition of something foul-smelling (not that he supposed Crowley could help it), what could he do but cringe and cough?

Secretly, Raphael felt proud of the work he’d accomplished already, having finished with two patients before nodding and moving over to the seriously injured children, healing any mortal wounds by lifting his hands and letting out a golden holy light that streamed towards the children, curling around them and through them, though avoiding any small cuts or broken bones - any non-mortal wounds, as Raphael commanded.

It was a reminder of how powerful he could be. Yes, Raphael was a healer, but he had patronage over so many things, and he was still an archangel. He had powers beyond what many humans could comprehend - at least, what they could comprehend in the old days. “You’re doing well, Crowley. Do you know how to sew at all?” He didn’t suppose the demon had much time for simple needlework, but it was worth asking.

     A frown settles on her forehead, anger rising from within at this act of… whatever that is. A drunk demon is no news; drinking isn’t forbidden, if anything, it’s encouraged – it’s her domain, after all, the sin of gluttony. But Beelzebub doesn’t have time to deal with this right now, there is a meeting to hold and Crowley’s presence is not very much wanted. 

     “What do you want?” she sighs, trying to abstain from rolling her eyes – whenever someone here compliments her, or thinks they are complimenting her, there certainly is something that they want. Special treatment, for the most part. A delayed punishment. A forgiven wrongdoing. It doesn’t work anymore, and not that it worked much in the past. When it comes to Crowley, however, there is always a chance that he might be sincere – alcohol might have made him bolder, but it also makes her angrier. 

      “I can feel the stench of booze you emit from the other corner of the room,” she adds, eyebrows quirked. 

She seems angry, and that energy makes him shrink back a little. Is it his fault? Unlikely. He just complimented her. He mulls over this while taking another swig of the bottle, swaying from side to side before stumbling forward and grabbing her shoulder (a move sober Crowley would never dare to do).

“Don’t want anything.” He’s telling the truth. Well, mostly. He’d love another drink, but he’s pretty sure he can get that himself. “You’re just... Pretty ‘n smart ‘n like...” His eyes refocus. “Like some sorta goddess...” He trails off, eyes roaming the meeting room like it was somewhere completely new. “How’d I end up here? It’s so biiiiig.” He blows out a breath of awe, looking back and becoming almost comically unbalanced. His mind is foggy, memories of the past day or so already becoming tinged and unrecognisable. 

@awayfrom14thcentury​

“You’ll not go touching any of mine, then, until we know for sure. It would be the opposite of funny if you were hurt handling my things.” He’d never forgive himself if Crowley was hurt again on his behalf; once had been more than enough, and he’d fussed over his poor demon’s burnt feet for days afterward.

The sensation of fingernails scritch-scratching his scalp made Aziraphale sigh in complete delight, a blissful look coming across his face. Crowley certainly knew how to render him putty in his hands, didn’t he? He leaned into the touch like a rather spoilt cat. If he thought he could get away with purring without Crowley laughing at him, he likely would, too.

“Awful change,” He mumbled in agreement. Aziraphale was a creature of habit. He had his routines, and did not suffer them to be tampered with lightly. Indeed, the only one who could interrupt his routines without raising his considerable ire was the demon he was currently using as a pillow. And yet- “You know… I’ve been thinking. About… well, you know. Us. And maybe perhaps… Well, actually, no, it’s silly. Forget I ever said anything.”

“I don’t know. It could be quite funny.” He hadn’t been completely overjoyed at burning his feet, but he imagined he looked quite funny walking in, and seeing Aziraphale caught up with a bunch of idiotic Nazis almost brought a smile to his lips if it wasn’t for the dire situation they were in, with a bomb about to fall on them. 

However, he definitely smiled when he saw the expression of bliss growing on his angel’s face, and it was all Crowley could do to continue his ministrations of love on Aziraphale’s scalp. He adored this - this affection that the two of them could perform like their old dances, now that so much had changed. Most of all, he liked making Aziraphale feel good. He knew what being in Heaven felt like, and making him feel special and wanted was so important.

“I wouldn’t mind staying like this with you for the next few years.” If Crowley were to be completely honest, which was a very bad thing for a demon to be, he’d been entirely in love with Aziraphale ever since he’d mentioned giving away his sword. But that moment did not outweigh the mountains of moments of the angel pushing back, and so he’d decided to leave it. He’d rather have a friend than nothing at all. “No, what were you saying?”

He wears a crown as well, though without the multitude of colours that his counterpart is working with. He supposes it’s probably sharper too, made from a few thorny berry bushes. Something in the back of his mind urges him to tell Raphael that their crown would already be finished if they just commanded the plants to be better, but he pushes it aside. He doesn’t want to ruin the moment. Crowley picks up a fallen leaf, imagining it turning from green to a fiery Autumn red, and then it does. He passes it to them to add to their crown. 

“Yeah. Between us, there’s something special.” He doesn’t elaborate on quite what he’s talking about, letting the words hang in the air between them. He’s never shown Raphael his eyes. The one thing about himself he can’t will to be normal... They’re so naive, he thinks. It’s better to let them think the world, that all its systems, are beautiful and right. After all, he doesn’t want to poison their mind with cynicism and fear, the way his had been after his Fall (the word is always capitalised in his mind). 

For the past twenty hours or so, Crowley had been getting very, very drunk, on absolutely everything alcoholic he could lay his hands on. It was a miracle he hadn’t passed out yet or done something equally terrible. And so, he lays, with his legs across one arm of the throne, a bottle of something firmly in his fist, and he peers at Beelzebub with a sort of childlike wonder. He may be in an absolutely horrid mood (the world is going to end and he’s upset about it), he can’t help but gasp.

“You’re the most incredible person I’ve ever seen.” He slurs and hisses, too drunk to stop his snakiness from rising to the surface. He had a question for her, that was certain, but his mind, all loose and uncaring has become distracted. Crowley slides off the throne, slowly shifting towards her. 

Crowley could not believe the sight of disapproval on Raphael’s face. He understood that being cut off like this was probably rude, but then they were under pressure. These children could die. Crowley could already feel the faint echoes of Death approaching, calling to him. That itch to return to the spot of where bodies, clung to life. Aiding them in their last moments, feel how they grew cold underneath his hands.

Crowley gritted his teeth. Oh, no, we are not gonna have this! He would not let the children of this train crash die. Crowley may be responsible for it, but he still could do as much damage control as possible. After all what mattered for Hell, was that the crash had happened. Not who survived or died. Luckily, Raphael seemed to understand this as well.

“Alright”, Crowley said, “I will be on my way. Hang on. One more thing though.” He rose his hand and snapped his fingers. There was a strange feeling of a cold wave, rushing through everything. Crowley had frozen time, so that nobody, except for him and Raphael as well as the children could move. “See you in a minute!”

With these words, his body burst into some kind of blackish smoke. Crowley raced up the cables for the tram and used these to travel as fast as the electrones. He remerged from the cables at the train station. In a matter of minutes, Crowley returned towards Raphael with, what looked like a horrific army of children.

Blood in clothes and hair. The children walked behind Crowley with shuffling creeping steps. Several’s limbs were distorted in a way, that indicated a broken leg or arm or ankle. Some had blood, covering their faces, flooding out of injuries on their temples. A few had dark patches on the fabric of their chest and underneath their ribcage, indicating fatal, internal injuries. A few really lucky ones only had some scratches and bruises.

“They are not dead yet, though he is trying to claim them.” Crowley’s breathing quickened as he looked at some of the most gruesome injuries. “I fear some have the risk of not making it.” He could practically hear the echoes, pounding against his head and when he looked at some of the children, he already saw their mangled, broken eyes. Not today! Not today!

Crowley said: “I can try, but I doubt I will be of much help! I am literally the opposite of you. And I ain’t talking about the whole demon business. I was made to be God’s hangman. I am not supposed to heal people! I mean I can do it, but it is gonna be hard. Especially for the ones, which are at high risk. I fear if I touch those, I am just going to bring them to the other side.”

Raphael fought the urge to roll his eyes when he felt the cold wave of time freezing as it simply wasn’t a polite thing to do, but he’d been about to do the exact same thing. “Yes, yes, go on then. And don’t keep me waiting.” He watches the puff of smoke dissipate, coughing a little at the acrid, burnt smell that Crowley left behind.

“The least he could do would be to clean up after himself.” He muttered to himself, miracling up a large space in the middle of the A&E so he could adequately treat his new patients and some extra bandages amongst other medical supplies and some washcloths. Then, he simply waited for Crowley to return.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait too long. He waved at the children before shooting a cursory glance at Crowley like a teacher might glance at a misbehaving child. “Hello everyone. I’m Nurse Raphael, and this is Mister Crowley. We’re going to make you feel all better. How does that sound?” He gestured to the space, where piles of supplies - catered for each child - magically placed themselves together. 

     “SHUT IT!” There is only a split second before her expression changes from calm and understanding to angry, and a firm fist pounds on the desk hard enough for the wood to crack – the conditions offered to Crowley are more than a sign of generosity on her part, considering the circumstances, and yet he dares to spit out threats? More than that, he is absolutely pathetic like this – she knows, of course, she can understand, but these emotions must never be shown nonetheless. Especially not– are those tears?

     “I’ve been more than patient with you, even though I should be boiling you in holy water right now. You’ve been consorting with the enemy, Crowley. You know what that means. You should be on your kneezz, kissing my ass for saving yourzz from extinction, and you threaten me?” Beelzebub raises from behind her desk, blue eyes turning red as the world before her eyes shatters into thousands of compound pieces. He might be clever and creative, but she is still more powerful, and in the position of authority. 

      “So be fucking grateful before I changed my mind. Or I will send you to the Eighth Circle in your snake form and in a couple of centuriezz I’ll make a pair of shoes out of your skin.“ The Eighth Circle is a common threat, but always efficient – with so many creatures tormenting thieves there, there’s always room for a new one. And it’s not the kind of job any demon would want. Especially not someone in Crowley’s predicament.      

He stumbles back, falling out of his chair and collapsing to the ground, a feral look in his eyes and more tears steadily streaming, burning away his skin where they fell, though not enough to show his scales. Beelzebub’s right, of course. There’s no point screaming and raging like a petulant child. He’s better than that. He can plot and scheme later, out of her prying eyes. He can pray to Mum for a way out, convincing himself that he can hear Her in his mind.

“Please accept my apology, Lord Beelzebub.” He’s on his knees now, hands clasped, chin held high though the pathetic tears won’t stop their tirade against his face. “This was just... surprising. I’m not sure why I...” It’s all bullshit, these apologies, this confusion as to why he exploded in her face. They both know their dearest people will soon be (or are currently) in their position, and it hurts. And it hurts how pitiful he must seem. Crowley’s always been a proud demon, and being reduced to a stuttering pile of sorries is the worst punishment he can imagine. Well, not the worst, but pretty close.

It’s a little-known fact that Crowley can sing, despite hurting his throat terribly in his fall.

He pouts, swinging around to tug on her arm, almost begging her to stay. It wasn’t fair for her to leave so soon, he wanted her to stay forever and ever. To illustrate this point, he starts pulling off her coat gently, to try and encourage her to stay.

      “He is,” she says dreamily, her smile shining ever brighter at the touch of his lips. “Your brother?” Blue eyes raised at Raphael with a hint of surprise and fascination, she stops herself there and then – angels were made to love each other and everything in this world, or the one beyond them. But loving everyone means truly loving no one at all – Beelzebub loves this angel she’s just met, and she trusts him, because that’s what angels do. But with Lucifer it’s different in ways she cannot explain. 

      Feeling abandoned is just not right for an angel. They were supposed to love humans, too, and the majority of them does, but she was so relieved to find out that she wasn’t the only one to feel like this. That there are other angels who feel that they deserve more of HER attention. 

      “What do you mean, more nuanced?” there is no confusion, just pure interest, because different opinions are required in order to work out a proper plan of action. There might be something they have overlooked, or never noticed in the first place. Lucifer wants a rebellion, and Beelzebub knows she’ll follow him no matter what – for freedom, for the sake of getting HER to love them again, or if SHE won’t, for the chance to have free will. And she knows it won’t be because of her little crush – it will be because of her own beliefs. 

“You probably can’t see the family resemblance.” He teased, marvelling at how smitten this young angel was with his brother - the young, pretty ones always were, and he was lucky if he could talk with a few that were interested in anything other than what Lucifer liked and disliked and how to get to know him better. It was a routine he was used to, so he summons his staff, leaning against it just a little and cocking his hip out. Raphael enjoyed relaxing, which he supposed was partly due to his true form.

But true forms brought another thought to mind - who is this Beelzebub? She emits an aura of power, that’s undeniable, but where exactly does she rank? Raphael and all his brothers and sisters and siblings were Archangels, and though they were the second-lowest rank of angels, they were fairly well respected.

      She’s lost, too, like everyone else, but she’s not going to admit it – the battle has been inevitable, in Beelzebub’s mind, for millennia. Centuries of preparation, military training, only to lead ten million demons to their deaths, and march there herself. But there is always a faint chance she still clings to, a chance that Hell might win – but she has no idea what to do afterwards. A whole new planet above, all sin and no virtue – it would be boring. 

      And who would she meet in secret for a cup of coffee and a purely diplomatic discussion?

     “We have to believe, Crowley, and we have to fight.” Honestly, she’s almost astonished by how confident she sounds. “For thousands of years we’ve been despizzed, cast away, hiding in the darkness – we have every right to take back what’s rightfully ours.” They can’t know their leader is having second thoughts. That she’s just as desperate – and maybe a lot more so than the majority of them. Because she remembers pain, she’s ready for it, but dying – disappearing forever – scares her just as much as everyone else. 

He looks askance at her, the movement causing his hair to pull back, revealing his tattoo. One could even think it shivered at being exposed to light, but that would surely be ridiculous - merely a trick of the light. Crowley moves, snake-like, across the floor, circling around Beelzebub and squinting at her. There wouldn’t be any survivors on Hell’s side, that was for sure.

       “Your fault,” she repeats blankly, without hesitation or even realization – like a bunch of religious fanatics accusing someone of a sin, except she doesn’t point fingers. Truth is, Beelzebub feels a weird pang of compassion for Crowley, well, something close to it. A demon should feel triumphant over bringing an angel to the fall, they both know that, but the pain of it, the horror and the consequences of eternal damnation – it’s not something you’d wish on your worst enemy, which angels are, and it’s definitely not something you’d wish on someone you so inconveniently and stupidly find yourself caring about.

       She sighs, running her fingers through her messy hair. “I will relocate you both to the Circles for now. A couple of decades, not that long – I trust you can teach him the basics of behavior.” Separating them now wouldn’t be the best decision, and her selfish goal is to figure out how the newly fallen will react to staying close to the one who landed him here. In case things don’t play out well for her, too. They tend to be too violent, the new ones, and are very prone to trying to hurt other angels, especially those in higher positions. Which everybody knows shouldn’t be attempted. 

        “Once he’s settled and accustomed to our ways, you will be able to go back to your earthly station. You know the protocol – guide him, restrain him, protect him from the others, show him around, the usual.” What she used to do back when they fell. Shattered and terrified, stumbling in the dark and trying to pick the others’ broken pieces. An angel, once so gentle, turned into a demon seemingly invincible. They never saw her hurting while she played a great part in building the system, the hierarchy, their fortress of the damned. 

        She never wants to do it again. But now it’s Crowley’s turn. 

“My fault.” He repeats again, trying to formulate a way for them to escape. The Circles, his angel (and he’s always going to be his angel, no matter what state he’s in) could probably stand. There’s no way they’ll be allowed into Limbo, at least knowingly, but he knows they could break through to there as long as they’re high enough up. He can only hope that Beelzebub will be lenient enough to let them close enough.

But there’s no denying that Aziraphale’s fall is solely due to him. He swallows through a lump in his throat, trying to keep any emotion off his face, but he couldn’t help the burning tears from seeping out under his glasses, stubbornly wiping them away as soon as they fell. The tracks remained, though, thin burnt lines traced down his cheeks. 

@awayfrom14thcentury​ ♡’d for baby angel

     Lucifer spoke again, and she couldn’t look away – never could, lured in by his voice, fascinated by his ideas. She’s been more devoted to him than the rest of the angels who came to listen, and it’s an important task to talk to them, encourage them. The hands of a seraph are gentle and delicate, never held a sword before, but she isn’t afraid – not yet. There are many things he’s taught her now, and freedom speaks louder than war. Freedom is worth fighting for, rebelling for. 

     “Raphael,” her voice is soft, a timid smile illuminating her features like the sun. “I don’t believe we’ve met before. My name is Beelzebub,” she’s never been a strategist, no has she ever been a soldier of the Lord, but she’s been changing recently – the sweetest of angels turning a little stronger, a little darker. And SHE hasn’t even noticed. SHE never notices anything anymore, being so infatuated with HER precious humans.

       “Do you think he’s right? Lucifer,” there’s a strange tenderness in her voice at the mention of the name. “Do you trust him?”

While Lucifer was an incredibly silver-tongued and charming angel, that was to be sure, but Raphael couldn’t say he agreed with all of his ideas. He didn’t want to throw Mum out of Heaven, if he was completely honest, he enjoyed the way things were, and he doesn’t mind that She’s focused on the humans - they’re shiny and new, and Raphael thinks they’re beautiful too - they deserve to be nurtured, even if it’s at the cost of Her attention to angels. 

“Beelzebub. A pleasure to meet you.” He takes her hand, raising it to his lips with a smile. “He’s very handsome, that brother of mine.” He’s never been ashamed of a little bit of namedropping, on the contrary, he thinks it can be incredibly useful if you let the right people know who you know. “I think the situation’s a little more nuanced than that.”