naive_wanderer



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    Aziraphale’s mouth burned. But not like hellfire burned, cruel and destructive, sizzling a hole through whatever it touched. This was that same terrible charge of ethereal electricity, conducted in the very fluid of Aziraphale’s being. Something that had seemed so outside of him, something of heaven, something that wasn’t part of the Aziraphale who had lived six thousand years here with Crowley on Earth, careful and petty and kind. And yet here heaven had been, all this time, just past his lips.

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    23 Aug 2019

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    "I'm in a bit of a pickle, my dear," Aziraphale said over the telephone.

    Crowley was seized by immediate fury. Not even a decade, and they're at it again, he thought viciously. You'd think they'd be embarrassed enough to stay out of things for a few centuries at least, after botching the apocalypse like that.

    "Who's done something to you?" hissed Crowley.

    "Ah," said Aziraphale, in the quiet tone of someone who didn't mean to learn someone else's secrets and was mildly sheepish about it. "This crossword clue -- I'm stuck -- 1980s French fencer, thought you might know. It's eight letters and has a Q in it."

    "Trinquet," Crowley snapped, in the tone of someone who had revealed one of his secrets and was annoyed about it.


    An account pertaining to the cultivation of figs, the ecstasy of St. Theresa of Avila, the ontological uncertainty of mammoths, the nature of temptation, 2001: A Space Odyssey, and the ten years following the end of the world.

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    22 Aug 2019

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    He was the bloody Serpent of Eden, and he wasn’t going to stand for this kind of flagrant trespassing.

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    09 Aug 2019

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    Names had a peculiar sort of power. Naming something formed its nature, in a way. There had been no angel of the eastern gate before the Almighty spoke the name “Aziraphale;” a fallen angel had not become a creeping serpent until he heard the name “Crawly.”

    But nature also informed the connotations of a name. The thousands of cheated merchants, scandalized priests and scathingly-reviewed poets who had uttered the name “Crowley!” in anger throughout the years had given the name its dark and bitter taste.

    Anthonys, however, remained relentlessly ordinary. Anthonys were greengrocers, maths teachers, nervous and lovestruck young men who wore glasses and could hardly speak to the objects of their affections.

    If “Crowley” was ninety percent pure cacao, “Anthony” was at best milk chocolate.

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    08 Aug 2019

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    “It’s just,” he continued, “I’ve noticed that humans—some humans, anyway—they use that word, angel, as a…well, as a sort of…endearment.”

    “Do they?” said Crowley, who had invented using the word as an endearment in the 13th century AD.

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    07 Aug 2019