independent && selective Aziraphale from Good Omens. based on the book && the series. loved (&& ruined ) by Alice (+25 ). follows back from @wcndxrlnd.
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@azafell
independent && selective Aziraphale from Good Omens. based on the book && the series. loved (&& ruined ) by Alice (+25 ). follows back from @wcndxrlnd.
doc | memes | open starters
“don’t be silly” no i think i will be, thanks
My favourite thing with GOmens angst is that a hurt Crowley will whine and thrash and complain loudly and whimper and look utterly, shamelessly pathetic. Meanwhile Aziraphale is like one of those animals who shows no symptoms and retreats into the corner to die quietly.
GOOD OMENS | 1.01 - In The Beginning
@azafell silently reached for the others hand, needing comfort.
they were standing nearly side by side in silence. nearly because the angel was ever so slightly in front of the other. cherubic hand extended towards him, warm and rosy. crowley's knuckles clenched and unclenched at his sides, whitening every time they tightened. he could see the sadness in the edges of the angel's face. that wasn't something he could stand very well. in fact, he avoided it at all costs. he would try words first. ❝ angel, it'll — it'll be alright. ❞ they were a feeble attempt as far as comfort goes. long fingers outstretched and their palms found each other's as the pads of his fingers landed on the back of aziraphale's hand.
❝ don't, ❞ he threatened half-heartedly, ❝ don't. say. anythin'. ❞ though, there was a crinkle of pleasure fighting to appear around his eyes barely visible due to his glasses.
He had reached for Crowley's hand almost without thinking - and certainly without harbouring any hopes of receiving the comfort he so desperately needed right now. He had signed up for a lonely existence when he volunteered to go down to Earth, so Aziraphale couldn't quite put into words why the events of today - and their conversation just now - had affected him so.
None of it made sense.
Testing Job...well...it had felt an awful lot like a plan he was supposed to be thwarting. How could She approve of something like that? It was cruel, and, above all, utterly pointless! He could stomach cruelty if it served a purpose, he supposed..., but this? What other choice did She leave him but to lie? To twist the ineffable plan?
Worst of all, it had had no effect. He hadn't so much as received a stern talking to. Should he not be punished for his disobedience? Had She even noticed? And if she hadn't...what did that mean?
Instead of voicing any of these questions out loud, Aziraphale did exactly as Crowley said and remained silent, though he was holding onto the Demon's hand as if his continued existence depended on it.
When he eventually did speak he sounded a lot calmer, though the usual pep in his voice was utterly lacking. "Do you think they'll notice if you're gone from down there for a little while longer?"
He really didn't want to be alone right now.
the great war had changed the face of london in ways he cannot begin to describe. the streets turned unfamiliar by entire buildings missing and others taking their place, unfamiliar storefronts and overwhelming poverty and desperation which accompany the great depression. he'd seen much of the same in his years in france, but somehow, before seeing it for himself, avoided imagining his hometown crippled and altered in the same way. it doesn't feel like the same london he used to know, but then again neither is he the same basil hallward who'd left it on a night train once upon a time.
still, it is entirely human to be lured by the familiar like a moth to a flame; perhaps this is why he stumbles inside the bookshop almost without a second thought, merely intrigued by the fact that at least something looks and feels the same. — he didn't use to be a regular here by any means, but on a handful of occasions he did browse the books here which proved rather unobtainable, anyway, as when ever he'd made up his mind to buy one of them, the owner was nowhere to be found, though he could swear he'd seen him before, stalking amidst the shelves.
"good evening, uh— am i interrupting? the door was unlocked." only now amidst the shelves does he realise how little daylight pours in here from the outside. it is rather late and he is rather lucky if the store is still open in more than just the literal meaning of the word. in fact, he wonders if this is the reason he's getting greeted in the first place, to be politely sent on his way — ah, that's also familiar but strange to him at the same time. a part of him prefered the french for their directness, even if one had to admit there was elegance to this, too.
the shopkeep does look familiar, too, but having hardly come properly face to face, he supposes this could as well be his son and basil would be none the wiser. in fact, it has to be his son — the blonde fellow from decades ago would have been entirely grey by now. "i am just looking, thank you." he pauses, looking between the other and the shelves. the other stares at him, almost as if expecting more. and basil finds himself giving more, fixing up the scarf neatly hiding the scar on his neck, the cuffs of his shirt, as he ponders out loud: "you must excuse me, i have been away from london for quite a while. the streets are all different... but the shop, it's —" he encompasses it in a gesture of his arm. "much the same. there's comfort in that. so much comfort in fact that i have not begun to browse the wares." he starts and ends in an apology. he can get back to his british ways quite easily, after all.
He doesn't look quite old enough to speak that way about London, unless of course he was referring back to his childhood. It would make a more likely - and an infinitely more reasonable - explanation for the discrepancy than assuming that he is, somehow, as immortal as the Angel. Only he would have remembered a child frequenting his shop, even if it was forty-ish years ago. He will have to phone Crowley.
"You're not interrupting anything - the shop was in fact still open. I'm afraid I have adopted rather erratic opening hours." Aziraphale replies, suddenly aware that he has spent an awful lot of time looking at the man. Convinced that he had been too obvious, the angel is quick to explain himself:
"I apologize for staring, dear, you just look a lot like someone I used to know-"
"- but don't let me impose, you're more than welcome to look around. I'll be in the backroom if you need anything. Making a frantic phonecall. But surely, if this was Basil Hallward, and he had something to do with...whatever was going on with him, someone would have noticed by now.
Thankfully Crowley picks up his telephone, and a few minutes later he is sure of two things. Crowley was none the wiser about why Basil was still walking around, but his lot had noticed the missing soul, so the news that he was didn't come as a surprise. A clever twist of the real events of that night had managed to convince Hell that the painters prolonged existence on Earth was, in fact, a carefully calculated decision and an unusually cruel punishment.
Unsure of how to proceed, Aziraphale remains in the back, carefully scanning the bookshop to assure Basil hadn't left.
old book pics under the cut.
Reading some of Oscar Wilde's fairy tales with a cup of tea and that is honestly very Aziraphale of me.
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ sentence starters for the wrong(ed).
The sender's muse has wronged the receiver's muse.
* ❛I had no other choice.❜
* ❛Give me a chance to make up for it.❜
* ❛I never thought it would turn out this way.❜
* ❛I made a mistake.❜
* ❛It wasn't personal.❜
The sender's muse confronts the receiver's muse after being wronged by them.
* ❛You had no right.❜
* ❛Did you, at any point, consider the consequences?❜
* ❛I won't forgive this.❜
* ❛I hope it was worth it.❜
* ❛I trusted you.❜
verse - The rebellion (also added to my doc)
During the rebellion, Aziraphale was appointed as a general because of his intelligence and strategic insight. His role in the War was mostly strategic, though he did, briefly, participate in the final battle as well.
While he certainly had qualms about taking up arms against his own kind, and was never quite clear about what, exactly, had instigated the War in the first place, his faith in the God’s ineffable plan assured he was dedicated to the cause and fulfilled his role to the best of his abilities.
It was Crowley who ultimately caused his faith to waver. When he came face to face with a rebel that was so much more to him than just an angel, he found he couldn’t bring himself to do the right thing.
Once the battle was over, Aziraphale was left with more questions than answers, and a sense of guilt that seemed to have taken permanent residence inside of him. Feeling more and more out of place amongst his peers, he actually volunteered to go down to Earth. It wasn’t a job many angels were eager to take on. After all, it promised to be a lonely existence, essentially cut off from Heaven aside from the occasional briefing.
His role in the War plays a big part in his attitude towards things on Earth. His concern with doing the right thing and his conviction that it matters, flows from his own desperate need to continue believing in God’s plan. Because if the plan doesn’t matter, he loses all justification for his actions during the final battle.
he couldn't lie to himself that his anger wavered ever so slightly. it didn't show on his expression though. things between them had been tense lately with all the hullabaloo with the metatron, maggie and nina, and gabriel. there weren't many times he had directed it towards friend. ❝ reason shmeason. don't you ever get sick of the plan this, the reason that, and all other nonsense we use to explain it all away? ❞ voice nearly venomous as he spoke. ❝ don't try to soften me up with the 'my dear's, angel. those types of endearments only work when they are meant. ❞ immediately, the words are regretted. ❝ oh hell, let's drop the whole thing. nothing good will come out of it. ❞ the demon looks defeated. deflated. the anger only remains in the crease between his brows. the rest of him has done exactly as aziraphale had intended : softened.
"It's just a figure of speech, it's not supposed to mean anything." Aziraphale replied testily.
He was quick to jump to his own defense, even though - or perhaps because - there are precious few beings he would adress in such terms.
"- and what alternative do you propose? I don't exactly find comfort in the idea that it's all random, and that's - well we know better. There is no point pretending the plan doesn't exist, just because I,..." he quickly corrects himself, "you don't agree with it."
In hindsight, he really should have just dropped it. If they only had a couple of years left, he didn't want to spend them bickering, or worse, not speaking at all. They simply didn't have the time to be stubborn anymore, even if current events shook the foundations of the bridge they had spent the past few millenia building over the rift between them. With the end of the world in sight, they would both sooner or later be expected to fight on oppossing sides, and there was no ignoring that.
Oh Crowley heard him, but it was too little, too late. Aziraphale had made his decision and that was that. He had finally kissed the angel. The culmination of something that had been brewing within him for millennia, and he was so so sure was brewing in Aziraphale for millennia all the same. It was something so desperate, every inch of him willing him do say something, do something afterwards. Yet, all it culminated into was, 'I forgive you'.
He was ready to walk away forever, to give up entirely. He was ready to drown himself in oceans of alcohol. He was going to get into the Bentley and drive. Yes, he was going to drive far, far away. Just go.
Why then, did he stop still in his tracks by the door? His jaw was clenched tightly at his words, a disgusting cocktail of anger, sadness and disappointed stirred in him before he turned around on his heel at the angel's words.
He scoffed, thankful his glasses were back on to hide the anguish in his eyes. "Even if you wanted to?" He shook his head, the words shot through his chest sharp like an arrow.
"I wanted to, and I did tell Hell - every Duke, Lord, Nobleman and the bloody Queen's Mother knows I'm not on their side." He hissed through gritted teeth before sighing, shoulders sagging.
He shook his head, lips pressed together as he placed his hands on his hips, as though it would help to ground himself, to no avail.
Finally, even though he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to hear the answer, the words fell from his lips. "Aziraphale - do you want this? Do you want to be an 'us'?"
It wasn't a question he really had to think about. Not really - and yet, he didn't seem to find his voice right away. Because he had spend millinnia denying himself what he wanted. Mind - not all of it. He indulged in many human pleasures, but Aziraphale had always managed to justify those indulgences as either necessary, or at the very least harmless. Crowley was neither of those things - and both of them. Because now that he was threatened with losing him, the angel realised that Crowley was absolutely necessary to him, and while the idea that it was wrong and harmful for him to harbour such feelings for a demon was almost ingrained in him, it didn't correspond with his own experience. Quite the contrary.
He reached for Crowley's hand with both of his, his grip both delicate and possessive, an insurance Crowley wouldn't walk out on him even if all he seemed to be capable of was saying the wrong thing. When he finally did answer, his voice was barely above a whisper.
"Of course that's what I want,..."
For six thousand years, Crowley had been the only constant and comfort in his existence. It wasn't a matter of want - he needed Crowley like humans needed air to breathe.
"...what I need. but I... I'm an angel! Those things aren't supposed to...it doesn't matter what I want."
And yet, his fingers were digging into Crowleys hand harder with each word he spoke. Convince me, his eyes pleaded when he finally managed to tear them away from his hands, and they were glistening. He had never shown such weakness in front of the other, though this was hardly the first time his inner conflict surrounding the demon reduced him to tears.
the way some muses have to get used to being loved. the way some muses haven’t really had the experience before, properly, and they might even know that they deserve it, but it just hasn’t come up, they’ve been busy, they have had to do this on their own for so long and they got to be really, really good at it. the way some muses have to get used, to being loved.
I appreciate everyone who has been writing/plotting with me over the past week so much for giving me a chance to write and develop Aziraphale ♡.
Plotted starter for @ofginjxints [Crowley]
He had a choice to make, and precious little time to do it in before window closed on itself and the choice would be made for him. He was about to walk away! The problem was that, over the span of the past thirty minutes, Aziraphale had had a lot of information to process. Some might even say too much information.
"Crowley WAIT- ", the angel cried out, a slight tremble to his voice. For ages, there had been a war waging inside of him between what was right and what felt right. Today, the final battle in that war was being waged.
He didn't wait to see whether Crowley would stop, a few hurried steps closing the distance between them, hands reaching out and then balling into tight fists right before actually making contact. "-please...wait. I can't do this without you, but -"
- but I have to obey.
The words lay on the tip of his tongue, but he almost didn't dare utter them again. He couldn't begin to count how many times he'd used that argument. It was useless.
"Even if I wanted to...It's the Metatron! I can't very well say: 'Thank you for the opportunity to become Supreme Archangel, but no thank you!' I don't think it's really a question when someone like that asks you to do something."
starter for @azafell
"Shit. Shit!"
It was well past midnight as the Bentley tore through London, but Crowley knew that wouldn't matter. The angel enjoyed a good many human delights, but sleep was rarely one of them. Frankly, even if he was asleep, Crowley would have no qualms about waking him. Not tonight. Bigger things to worry about than a couple hours of shut eye.
It had happened so quickly. He'd been in his Mayfair flat, misting a ficus, and the next thing he knew, the shadows around him were growing, moving, coming for him, swallowing him up and then---
"Ĉ̵̢̗̦͓̖͚͜ r̵̙̼͓̓̄̿́ ö̵̟͇͚̳̱̞́͒ w̴̪͓͔̋̐̆͜ l̵̻̣̖̅͋̀̈́̽̂ ȇ̸̛̩̪̻̹̈̅̀͑ͅ y̵͔̭͛̅͜͠."
He'd found himself in Hell. No official summons, no warning. Of course no warning, Hell didn't do courtesy. One minute you're minding your own business, the next you're dropped in front of Beelzebub and the Dukes of Hell...
With a screech, the Bentley whipped into a parking space in front of A. Z. FELL & CO.
Practically leaping from his car, Crowley made haste for the front door. This time of night, it would certainly be locked, so he knocked. Perhaps 'knocked' was too polite a word for it. It was an incessant, anxious, yet somehow hushed pounding of his knuckles against the heavy wooden door.
"Open up, Angel," he hissed through gritted teeth. "It's an emergency!"
Aziraphale didn't sleep, but he had gotten into the habit of spending those hours humans usually spent sleeping quietly. Sometimes, he even dressed down in something eerily close to pyjamas. Usually, he spent the time reading, or, occasionally, watching television. Tonight, he was engrossed in one of Mr. Wilde's essays on dramatic theory titled The Truth of Masks.
When he first became aware of the knocking, he felt a wave of irritation wash over him but it was replaced by concern even before he realised who was behind it. There was an urgency behind it that all but shouted TROUBLE, so when Crowley's voice greeted - or rather commanded - him through the door, the Angel already had an appropriately worried expression on his face. He wasn't sure he had ever heard Crowley describe something as an emergency before.
He stepped aside to let the other in without hesitation, looking into the street as if he expected to ffind a pursuer rounding the corner. For good measure, he locked the door behind him and drew the curtains before he turns to the demon again, eyes scanning over his corporation to see if he's, somehow, injured.
“Crowley? - Are you alright?”
Perhaps there were more urgent questions to ask - such as: What's the emergency? - but it's the first thing that came to mind, and he had voiced almost without thinking.
“Is this the kind of emergency that we sit down to discuss, or should I expect unpleasantness to start coming this way any second?”