I only started reading and writing fanfiction after S2, and my first fic was partly an attempt to get back into writing after being out of it for over 10 years and partly a fix-it for S2.
But while I'm very proud of the two novels and one short story I wrote in my Sinners and Saints in Soho series, I'm going to post about the other two stories.
That Isn't Supposed To Happen (Rated T; 128K)
This is my reverse omens, and also probably my absolute favorite version of Aziraphale. I know a lot of people don't like to see a demon Aziraphale and an angel Crowley, but I really worked hard to capture the essence of their personalities while still keeping to their book/S1 natures.
Azira is outwardly confident and a right bastard who loves books and good food and also happens to be the world's best pickpocket (thousands of years of practice will do that) but he's terrified of losing Crowley's friendship.
Crowley is still snarky and wears black and drives his black Bentley too fast and has little tolerance for mean people, but he doesn't yell at his plants, and his inherent kindness doesn't have to be hidden.
And other than brief uses of Furfur and Muriel, there are no references to S2.
The third woman of the entourage was still near me watching her friend interact with Mrs. Dorn. Her watchful stance reminded me of being a lady-in-waiting in various courts over the centuries. I turned to her, pasting on a smile, and held my hand out. "How do you do? I'm Azira."
"Audrey Faulkner," she droned, not even bothering to look at me or my outstretched hand.
After a moment, I lowered my arm and clasped my fingers together. I could feel what Crowley liked to call my "bastard streak" rearing its head. Sometimes the temptation to cause a little mischief was too good to resist. "Are you here for the sale, too?" I asked. "I heard Mr. Dorn was an avid collector of Zhukovsky. I'm hoping to add a few of his books to my collection."
"That's nice, Ezra," she said, still not giving me any attention.
"Oh, no, notâit's Azira," I said, wringing my hands and ducking my head. My performance was wasted on this woman, but I liked to amuse myself. "Have you ever read any Zhukovsky? I find some of his earlier works to be a little on the tedious side myself, but I do hate having an incomplete collection. Naturally, it's best in the original Russian, but I don't actually expect to find that. Of course, his translations of other works are often considered far superior to many of the originals, though I don't know if I'd be willing to say that about Byron's works. Did you know heâByron, I mean, not Zhukovskyâonce claimed that heâand by that I mean Zhukovsky..."
I continued the one-sided conversation for another ten minutes, rarely pausing for breath, and watched with barely concealed glee at her slowly growing panic when she realized she might be stuck listening to me until the sun exploded.
My actual record was just over two hours before the human decided to fake a heart attack to get me to stop talking. The Enlightenment era's overemphasis on politeness provided me with so many hours of entertainment.
My Heart Was Always Yours (Rated M; 143K)
This one was inspired by an incomplete work by TheOldAquarian called Lest They Be Flatmates in Disguise, in which neither realizes the other is an angel/demon while sharing a flat.
It gave me the idea of a fake marriage story in which Aziraphale immediately decides to betray Heaven when Supreme Archangel Uriel (in this story, Gabe & Beez already decided to run away together; it's the only reference to S2 I use) orders Aziraphale to hunt down Raphael's trumpet to start the Second Coming. Aziraphale needs a fake human husband to get into the black market auction where it's being sold. Enter, the handsome red-haired plant shop owner down the street.
At the same time Aziraphale is getting orders from Uriel, the demon prince Belial (who's the Fallen Raphael) wants Crowley to find the trumpet. Neither Aziraphale nor Crowley have ever met before and both think the other is human. Cue shenanigans as they try to keep their respective natures from each other.
This one alternates between Aziraphale and Crowley's POVs.
My first instinct was to tear [the envelope] up, pretend I never saw it. Of course, if it was that easy to ignore a summons from Hell, I would have been doing it since the first moment I slithered up to Earth. So I slipped a nail under the seal and sliced open the envelope, closing my eyes against the nauseating sensation of being pulled down to Hell. The feeling was akin to one of those carnival rides that uses centrifugal force to keep the occupants pressed to the walls.
When I opened my eyes again, I was in a large, lavishly-decorated room that held just the precise amount of wrong to remind the occupants that they were in Hell.
A gold throne in the center stood upon a marble dais carved with reliefs of tortured souls writhing in agony. Candles guttered in sconces, but they were few and far between and served more to create unsettling shadows than to provide light. Around the edges of the room were tapestries, each depicting acts of torture so revolting all but the most hardened of demons could look at them. I kept my gaze firmly turned away and instead focused on the figure sitting upright on the throne, their molten red eyes scowling at me from beneath a mop of hair, the color of which would be best described as diseased mucus.
I gripped my hands behind my back to hide their shaking and bent at the waist. âMy lord prince, Belial. To what do I owe this honor?â
The Prince of Wrath rested their elbows on their knees. They wore a gold-embroidered blue robe that might have been nice at some point in the past, but was now stiff with reddish-brown stains of indeterminate origin. âYou are Crowley, the permanent liaison to Earth, are you not?â
I straightened. âI am, my lord prince.â As if they didnât already know the answer to that.
âI want my trumpet back.â
We stared at each other, both of us waiting for the other to speak. When the demon prince didnât seem inclined to continue, I hesitantly said, âI donât have a trumpet, my lord prince. I do have a guitar, but I bought that from Brian May. I donât think itâs yours, but if you want it, I'll retrieve it for you.â I didn't want to lose my guitar, which all the band members had signed, but losing it was better than having my skin peeled from my body, Belial's favorite type of torture.
