#azircphcle

     ‘yes, obviously‘

But it is too late. He’s been booped.

“I never claimed to be a saint. So just... keep your voice low.”

Beelzebub never showed their wings; they never allowed anyone to touch them or groom them like they were currently doing. They were a hypocrite but for good reason. Their wings had been burnt to the bone and scarred from the Pit that it made their acne-covered face more appealing. The same could have been said for the state of Aziraphale’s wings. They had tutted and demanded and pushed and yanked until the feathers began to re-align themselves. ‘You are a terrible angel,’ they commented, lacking any harshness. The feathers weren’t soft but course from his lack of upkeep that the Lord of the Flies ran their lips over where feathers met bone. Their already cracked lips catching. ‘You need to clean these too.’

It’s an odd choice, there’s no denying it and it gives Beelzebub pause in their work as they just stare confused at Aziraphale. ‘Here?’ They asked, giving a once over their desk and looking back up with a raised brow. 

She felt it a bit hard to breathe - a rare feeling indeed - as her hand seemed to rub her upper chest. Finding herself only then actually breathing what now felt like thick smoke than the blatant clear, clean air around them. “You did what now?” She had heard them the first time but, it was her brain that needed that repetition, a reassurance that what they had said was just an auditory hallucination. Especially in broad daylight of all things - outside from where she was comfortable: indoors.

     “You don’t know the half of it, angel.”  Crowley slid out of the driver’s seat, casting an appraising eye over the fields spreading before them.  “I know orange is traditional and all, but have you seen the blue ones?  Like Jarrahdales?  There’s green and pink ones too.  Or if you absolutely must go with orange, the Cinderella ones are a lovely shape.  Ah, and there’s those strange warty ones that really do look very goblin-y.”  Actually, those ones reminded him a bit of Hastur.  He’d leave them alone.  There were plenty of other non-Duke-of-Hell-looking squashes surrounding them.  Crowley in a vegetable farm was like a child in a candy store.  “They’ve gone and created all sorts of fantastic things!”

“Coming?”