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    In retrospect, leading with it was probably a mistake.

    “You—wait, what?”

    “Never mind,” Scott says. “Never mind, it—you're back now, everything is fixed, it's fine. Everything's fine. There's just… some stuff I need to talk to you about.”

    “You had a thing? With an FBI agent?” Hope looks like she can't work out whether she's angrier that Scott maybe-sort-of-cheated on her—does it count as cheating when one of them’s nothing but a pile of ash, Scott's not clear on the ethical parameters there—or whether it's just that he kind of fell into bed with the long arm of the law.

    “Jae’s not—well, he is, but—look, it's complicated. It just sort of, it happened, okay? It was a weird time for everyone.”

    “Yeah, so I hear.” Hope takes a deep breath, pinches the bridge of her nose. “Okay. Fine. Tell me how you managed to sleep with Agent Woo, and we’ll go from there.”

    “Yeah,” Scott says. “Okay,” and wonders where, exactly, to start.

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    13 Dec 2020

  2. Public Bookmark *

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    It doesn't occur to Crowley to tempt Aziraphale until approximately 5,900 years into their relationship.

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    27 Oct 2020

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    “The Angel of the Eastern Gate.” Crawly grins. “What’s your name, anyway? You never said.”

    “Oh...” Apologies, Aziraphael almost says, but then he doesn’t. That would be taking things a bit too far. This is still the Enemy. “Aziraphael.”

    “Aziraphael,” repeats Crawly—or tries to, because halfway through the word he chokes. Quite badly.

     
    Or: What if Aziraphale’s name was originally "Aziraphael", in keeping with the conventional spelling and pronunciation of angel names, but because of its divine nature Crowley is physically unable to say it out loud.

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    27 Oct 2020

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    After everything, Aziraphale and Crowley, by unspoken agreement, begin sharing their lives.
    ---
    Why? Aziraphale wanted to ask him, why millennia of the way things were, and now this?

    But while Crowley seemed to have little issue upending every unspoken rule they’d ever written for themselves, Aziraphale was not so flexible, and they had spent thousands of years never quite addressing whatever it was this had stemmed from. Words, Aziraphale had always felt, were for bickering about where to eat for lunch, or hashing out ontological debates, or other trivial nonsense; there was no need to trifle with the imprecision of language, with phrasing and the possibility of being misconstrued, when it came to important matters if the other person simply understood, without needing it said. Six thousand years ago, when Aziraphale had met Crowley on the wall of Eden, watching the first two humans set out to begin the rest of history, something deep within him, more central even than his Grace, had thought, oh, it’s you, and that had been enough for him--for both of them, he assumed--for three millennia.

    However much he wanted to ask, he didn’t know how. The words simply weren’t there.

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    25 Oct 2020

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    Aziraphale saw him sometimes in all-staff meetings, sitting toward the front but off to the side, lounging against a wall. Even then, he’d had style—wings tipped in gold and face painted with gold flakes in the pattern of the first constellation he designed. He was amazing, and eye-catching, and it was no exaggeration to say that he did not know Aziraphale even existed.

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    25 Oct 2020

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