aelbereth



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  1. Rec 62

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    “We have the forms, of course,” Gabriel sighs, rooting through his desk. “Haven’t had a reason to use them before, so they’re a bit covered in old dark matter, but—here we go.” He turns, and hands Aziraphale a stack of tan folders. “The non-disclosure agreement, the declaration of conflict of interest, all the relevant training modules for compliance, and more.”
    Aziraphale just stares.
    “What,” Gabriel says. “We’re a civilized, corporate organization. Did you assume we’d burn you in hellfire?”
    “A smidgen?”
    Gabriel laughs, claps him on the shoulder. “We’re going to do something much worse. The paperwork alone will take you centuries.”
    In which heaven is excessively corporate, and Aziraphale is trying to figure out how to explain to his one-sided crush that he needs Crowley’s signature on forms stating that they’re dating. Nothing stays the same.

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    11 Nov 2019

  2. Rec *

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    The first time Crowley made the Effort, he was reclining on a very comfortable couch in the dimly-lit confines of a cozy little restaurant in Rome, with his head pillowed upon the breast of an Angel.

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    03 Sep 2019

  3. Rec *

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    Crowley had, in the six thousand years Aziraphale had known him, shed his skin exactly twice that Aziraphale knew of. Both times he had disappeared without a trace, having retreated somewhere very safe and very, very unknown to hide while he was so vulnerable, and Aziraphale had never thought to ask beyond that information. Everyone was, he had supposed at the time, entitled to their secrets.

    The problem was that he had stumbled directly into this secret now, and there was hardly a graceful way out of it.

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    25 Aug 2019

  4. Public Bookmark *

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    “You don’t have a side anymore.”

     

    Aziraphale stays at Crowley’s flat.

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    14 Aug 2019

  5. Public Bookmark *

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    ‘Aziraphale, you need to stop telling that goddamned story to everyone we stumble upon,’ she hisses. ‘I’m serious. You keep it up much longer, everyone’s gonna think we’ve gone and murdered that alleged husband of mine.’

    ‘Crowley,’ Aziraphale says blithely, a serene smile plastered to her face as a familiar-looking man passes by, ‘Dear. That’s what I want them to think.’

    [In other words: Harold, they're ... well, adversaries, of course. With history.]

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    25 Jul 2019