An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: William Laurence & Temeraire, William Laurence & Tenzing Tharkay, John Granby & William Laurence, John Granby & William Laurence & Tenzing Tharkay
Characters: William Laurence, Tenzing Tharkay, John Granby (Temeraire), Emily Roland, Temeraire (Temeraire), Iskierka (Temeraire), Arkady (Temeraire), Excidium (Temeraire)
Additional Tags: RPG AU, Crack Treated Seriously, tem and iskierka bicker about who looks better, Again, ft. arkady
Series: Part 4 of Temeraire RPG AU
Summary:
don’t mess with the medic: or how i managed to give myself heavy+medic feels
blood, violence, needles, (it’s tf2), and just a *teeny* bit of angst
(posted a more edited version to AO3. I'm nezclaw there too)
Heavy hears a concerning amount of yelling from the Medic's lab and goes to investigate.
"... should try being a little more *careful* next time, hmm?" the medic hisses. Scout is bound to the examination table, surrounded by wicked medical implements.
"Hey Doc come on man! I was just looking for a band aid!" Scout protests, struggling against the straps holding him tightly against the table.
"Ach, zhat ist vhat zhey all say. Jusst a bandaid." Medic says, browsing his collection of vicious syringes. His accent is much stronger, the hard consonants gutteral and sharp. "But it ist never *jusst* a bandaid, ist es? Zhere'z alvays zomething else to vaste my time!" He tests the sharpness of one needle, and grins as he turns back to Scout. "Isn't zhat right, Scout?"
"Uhh no Pyro used up all the bandaids in the general first aid cuz they were the fun patterned ones and I cut myself while making lunch and Ma always told me to take care of cuts immediately or they'll get infected and I'll die from it and-" Scouts voice cracks as he babbles, eyes on the massive needle in the Medic's hand.
"Oh, vell vhy didn't you say so?" Medic asks, voice almost normal as he smiles at Scout. Scout has about half a second of hope that this was all a misunderstanding before the Medic grabs his bonesaw. "Clearly it needs to komm off! Don't vorry, zhis vill only hurt a lot!"
"Doktor, is not necessary to butcher little Scout. Why are doing this?" the Heavy asks, one large hand gently, yet firmly preventing Medic from chopping the Scout's entire hand off.
The Medic spins, grabbing an unidentified syringe in a power grip and wrenching his other arm away from Heavy in a surprising show of strength. His eyes are wild with rage, and he is practically frothing at the mouth.
"Er hat interrupted meine Arbeit for zhe LAST time!" he screams, lunging at Heavy, lapsing into his native tongue in his fury. (He has interrupted my work for the LAST time)
Heavy easily catches the Medics wild swing, and carefully removes the syringe from his grasp. "Heavy thinks Doktor should not operate while angry." He grunts as the bone saw catches him a glancing blow. "Nyet. Bad Doktor." Ignoring the blood flowing freely from the wound, he grabs the Medic by the back of his shirt, picking him up like a feral kitten.
"Schweinehund! Put me down! Jetzt! Schnell!" The Medic thrashes in the Heavy's grip, six feet of pure German fury, rendered helpless by the massive Russian.
"Doktor will calm down first." Heavy says firmly.
"Nein!"
Heavy ignores the Medic's enraged thrashing and carries him to a side room. The Russian man is easily able to carry the enraged German, even with one hand clamped over the gash the Medic managed to score with his saw. He shakes him slightly as he tries to get a grip on Heavy's arm.
"Biting will not help you." he says as the Medic manages to sink his teeth into the Heavy's arm when his previous efforts failed. "Had to help raise three baby sisters."
"*Let. Me. GO!*"
"Nyet. Not until you are calm." Heavy locks the door and puts the Medic down. Hopefully someone will be by to let Scout out of the restraints.
"I AM CALM!" Medic shrieks, frothing at the mouth.
"Da. And Heavy is girl scout." Heavy watches as the Medic paces around the room, snarling in German. Most of it Heavy doesn't understand, but he does catch "schweinehund" and "dummkopf" a couple times, which he's pretty sure are insults.
He leans against the door and wonders if this is going to be a regular occurrence. Maybe they should get some pillows for this room.
After a few moments the Medic charges at him, fingers bent into claws, and tries to gouge out Heavy's eyes. Heavy catches him and sits on him, to keep him from hurting himself or Heavy.
"OAF! RELEASE ME-(more german swearing)"
"Nyet. Perhaps story will help. Here is Russian story I would tell baby sisters when they were angry..." It is full of blood and gore. Medic stops his struggling partway through the telling.
"Is Doktor feeling better now?" Heavy asks, once he's finished the story.
"Ah... yes, I am. I'm quite sorry you had to see that." Medic's voice is a bit raw, but otherwise normal, devoid of overt malice. "Er.... Would you be so kind as to let me up?"
"Da." Heavy stands and helps the Medic up. The Medic straightens his glasses and coughs.
"Danke. I... appreciate it." he says, not meeting Heavy’s eyes.
"You promise you will not maim Scout?" Heavy asks, hand on the doorknob.
"I promise not to inflict unnecessary or excessive harm on the Scout," the Medic promises. Heavy chuckles at that phrasing as he opens the door.
Scout is still there. He screams when he sees the Medic.
"Here is your bandaid. Now get out of mein office." he says as he undoes the straps holding Scout down. Scout does not need to be told twice, and promptly disappears in a cloud of dust.
The Medic sits down in a chair, leaning forward and rubbing the bridge of his nose. He sighs. Then he pauses, nostrils flaring.
"I smell blood. Sind Sie bleeding?" (Are you bleeding?)
"Is nothing." Heavy says, despite the fact that Medic did manage to break skin while biting him.
"Don't be absurd if I can smell it from over here then clearly you need more at than just a bandaid." Medic replies sharply as he stands. Heavy shrugs.
"Did not want to upset you."
Medic tch's and approaches to inspect the Heavy, taking note of the gash in his side and the bite marks on his arm. Then he looks at the bloodied bone saw and the drops of blood leading to the room they were just in.
"Ah." he says, slightly awkwardly. "I will get the medigun."
He is quiet as he patches the Heavy up. "There." he says once he is finished. "Now if you'll excuse me... I need to spend some time with my birds." He looks weary, the lines in his face and the grey in his hair serving a sharp reminder that the medic is likely the oldest of them, though he remains in excellent shape. Heavy nods silently and leaves.
The Medic straightens his lab, mopping up the spilled blood and collecting his tools. Archimedes flies down and lands on his shoulder, cooing.
"And where were you when I had Scout on the table, hmm?" he asks mildly. Archimedes nibbles at his hair, preening him. He gives a soft chuckle. "I suppose you're still getting used to the new routine with the rest of the flock." He reaches up and gives him a little scratch on the head. Archimedes makes a contented noise.
Medic pulls out a bag of birdseed and heads to the dovecote with it. He scatters a handful or two and sits down to watch the birds do their thing.
It's calming. They don't have to deal with fools whose idea of a good time is blowing themselves up or putting themselves into organ failure. The soft coos and flapping of wings grounds him. It's easier when he was alone, usually then he could tell if he had a black mood coming on and could distract himself with his birds, or Archimedes could alert him when he noticed his mood dropping after reading some particularly moronic medical paper.
Anyway they did need to understand that just because he was their Medic it didn't mean he would put up with them coming to him for every little booboo. Though he did feel bad about gouging the Heavy. Heavy respected him.
There's a knock on the door.
"Hmm? Wer ist es? Möchten Sie?" (Who is it? What do you want?)
"Is Heavy. Have sandwich for Doktor." Heavy says, correctly guessing that the Medic wasn't telling him to fuck off and die in German. "Doktor is hungry after trying to maul Scout, da?"
"And nearly mauling you." Medic replies, but opens the door anyway.
"Is nothing." Heavy says, shrugging it off. "Have three sisters. Maybe if most of team tried, could hurt me, but one little Doktor? No chance. Can come in?"
"Ah, yes you may. Try not to step on the birds."
"Da. Heavy will be careful." The big man enters, birds scattering, and puts the sandvich on a table. "Nyet. Is Doktor food, not bird food." he says as he gently shoos the curious doves away.
"You didn't have to do that you know." Medic says, eyeing the sandwich and realizing the Heavy was right.
"Is good to take care of Doktor." Heavy says. "Is also good that Doktor can protect self if needed."
The Medic nods and takes the sandwich.
He is very hungry after attempting to maul Scout, and is quite surprised to find that Heavy had made a ham and sauerkraut sandwich with the *good* mustard. Very strong flavors, very German.
"Is good, da?"
"Ja! I see you were serious about taking care of your Medic." There is an odd emotion stirring in the Medics chest. Gratitude, perhaps? When was the last time someone had done something genuinely nice for him? He looks over at the Heavy, who is very, VERY carefully patting Archimedes on the head with one finger, a look of intense concentration on his face. Even if it was just to make sure the Medic didn't try to kill him. It still would've been easier to just avoid him, instead of seeking him out.
"You have sisters?" he asks he watches Heavy coax a bird onto his finger.
"Da. Zhanna, Bronislavia, and Yana. All younger. Had to break up many fights." He chuckles. "Zhanna was little terror. Often had to separate them to prevent serious injury."
"I see..."
"Seems technique works on mad Doktors as well as baby sisters." He smiles, gives Medic a pat on the back, and leaves.
Medic is left with a confusing mix of neurochemicals that he's not entirely sure how to handle. It comes as no surprise to anyone that the Medic was generally pretty bad at relating to other people. His birds generally helped him fill his necessary socialization requirements, usually by him projecting conversations on them. (It's free therapy!) Of course, that does mean he has an interpersonal skills rating of Bad.
He sighs, rubbing his face. His black moods always left him feeling like he'd been run through the wringer, leaving him exhausted. He rested his head on the table and closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, he found that his glasses had been removed and set aside, a trick he had taught Archimedes, and there was a pillow under his cheek, a trick he had definitely not taught him, largely due to the birds being too small to move his head. Suspicious.
Still, the nap had done wonders to reset his neurochemistry, though there was still an odd sensation when he thought about the Heavy. Whatever. He was here to be the teams medic, not make friends. Attachments would compromise the quality of his work. Of course, being friendly could enable him to experiment more... but there was a reason he only confided in his birds. It was easier, that way.
It would be a cold day in hell before he admitted how desperate he was for a hug. So he shoved his feelings deep down inside and pretended that nothing was bothering him. He had managed this long, he didn't need friends.
its long so under the cut - just something that’s been in my head for a while
--
Skye O’Riain laid the map out over the worn table with a sigh and tucked a strand of her vibrant red hair behind one ear. She studied her cousin, thought long lost to them with the arrival of the reapers, and the boy next to him with weary eyes.
Everything seemed to make her tired since the war ended. The strain of trying to keep her small community together was exhausting but on the O’Riain estate in the highlands of Scotland, they had been far luckier than most.
The Reapers hadn’t been interested in them, too remote and isolated for them to bother with their huge, murderous machines, and Skye and her family had watched on in horror as the reapers had gathered up the people attempting to flee the cities and turned them into monsters.
Three years it had dragged for, and then suddenly, the monsters were gone.
It wasn’t until months afterwards that she had learned how, and why, and who the people were that had been responsible for the fight back.
And privately, she held no small amount of pride in her chest to know that her cousin and dearest childhood confidant and partner in crime, had been a part of it.
“We cannae manufacture the parts you need here, Luca,” she told the boy pressed against her cousin’s side like a barnacle on a ships hull. He wasn't really a boy, twenty three, bright with curls that sprung into tight corkskrews in the damp Scottish air, but his youthful exuberance and lean frame made him appear younger than his years. “But I think I ken a way to get them for ye, if ye’re both up for an adventure.”
Her cousin looked at her curiously, the same shade of blue eyes looking back at her over the dark ginger of his beard. She still remembered him as a soft twenty something, clean shaven and wild, more like what Luca was now, and it was a harsh reminder of how many years were between them when she saw the lines on his face now.
Luca wriggled under his arm, and Blake- no, Ryan he went by now, smiled and draped his arm securely around Luca’s shoulder, pulling him in. Ryan had been back on the estate for two months, and Skye rarely saw them more than a few hairsbreadths apart. From an outsider, it looked smothering, boarding on a kind of unhinged co-dependence, but the contentment in her cousin’s face whenever he looked at his boy made any wary disquiet she might harbor fade far away.
“What kind of adventure?” Luca asked, eying the map. “If we don’t get the capacitors and osmium vacuum splitters, we’ll never get her space worthy.”
“Aye,” Ryan agreed. His gaze hadn’t left her face and she knew he’d already realized what she was about to say when her finger tapped the thick black lines on the map. “Ye thinkin’ about the tunnels, aren’t ye?”
--
Ryan and Skye explained that the tunnels were some kind of relic from pre-war, pre-space flight times but Luca didn’t pay the history of them much mind. They were dark, hard to navigate amongst rubble and debris in sections but a straight shot to the industrial area they needed to get to. They had brought Luca’s drones, a multitude of spawned Neebo copies scattered around them, lighting the way ahead and behind like oversized fireflies. It felt strange to be in the dusty tubes without the familiar weight of his turret on his back, helmetless and armorless. He had to keep reminding himself they weren’t at war anymore. There were no more reapers, no banshees or snarling husks to leap out of the shadows to grab at him.
Sometimes the nightmares still woke up, crying and shaking in Ryan’s arms, bordering on hysterical enough that for a time Ryan had once confessed he’d been scared to fall asleep, worrying that if he did, Luca’s nightmares would come back. They didn’t seem to bother him when Ryan was awake, running a soothing hand over Luca’s hip, buried deep inside him and keeping Luca filled. It was when the physical connection wasn’t there that the dreams crawled out of the darkness and picked at the fragile spaces in his brain.
Luca studied the back of Ryan’s head as he eased his way through the rubble, once again experiencing the same familiar surge of gratitude he sent out to the universe every day for allowing Luca to have this man in his life. Ryan seemed to sense his thoughts, throwing a questioning gaze over his shoulder.
“Ye alright, love?”
Luca quirked his mouth and let his heart shine plainly in his eyes. “Yeah. Just admiring the view.”
Ryan’s eyebrow lifted and Luca grinned. “Your ass,” he whispered loudly but he knew he hadn’t been quiet enough when he heard Skye scoff far ahead.
“No wonder he keeps ye around, Luca,” she called back over her shoulder. “Ye’re too good for his ego.”
“Hey,” Luca threw out a hand and caught Ryan’s eye, still grinning. Ryan chuckled and turned back, and if he took a few larger steps that showed off the curve of his thighs under his heavy cargo pants, Luca wasn’t going to protest. “Facts are facts.”
Skye’s laugh bounced off the tunnel walls. “I ken why you keep him around, cousin.”
“I keep him around,” Ryan told her mildly. “Because he’s sunshine. Dinnae remember what Mamó would say?”
“Oh, aye, I do. And she’ll be pleased as punch to know ye’ve finally taken her advice.”
Luca stepped over a chunk of concrete, scrambling down the other side after the two cousins. Neebo hovered at his shoulder. “Wait, what did she say? Mamó, that means grandmother, right?”
“Aye,” Skye answered before Ryan could. “Ryan been teaching you, lad. I dinnae expect that, but I’m pleased.” She waited for them to catch up then pointed to a new tunnel that offshot the one they were in. It was narrower and shallow enough that Luca was able to make out a ramp and a wide door in the Neebo’s dull glow in the distance.
Skye jerked her head. “We’ve come this far before, but there’s been no way to gain access. Security seems to be powered by an independent source, enough that it’s kept us locked out.” She looked at Luca pointedly. “There’s a panel by the door.”
--
Between Neebo and Luca, the faltering, outdated security protocols on the massive blast doors didn’t have a prayer and they creaked open on screeching, angry rollers. For a long moment, Luca cringed, holding his breath and sure that the doors would jam halfway, only for them to eventually slide all the way open.
“Huh,” he said, mildly surprised. Beyond the entrance, lights were flickering on inside, revealing a huge warehouse stacked high to the ceiling with rows of boxed up supplies and equipment. Ryan and Skye followed him up the ramp but Luca paused just inside as he sent his swarm of drones in to run their scans.
“There’s so much here,” he said quietly as the drones reported back to the glowing readout on his wrist. “You’d think a place like this would have been picked clean by scavengers by now.”
Skye paused beside him, looking up. “There’s not many people left, even less with use for these.”
She squeezed his shoulder but turned to address Ryan. “Ye boy here is a wonder, Ryan. We might actually have a chance to make a difference now.”
Skye moved off as Ryan joined him. Luca eyed him curiously. “What did she mean by that?”
Ryan shrugged, but he caught Luca’s chin in his tattooed hand and held him in place to press a kiss against his lips. Luca leaned into it eagerly, as always. Skye’s praise had made him preen but it was Ryan’s praise he craved the most.
“Did I do good?” he whispered, referring to his hack.
Ryan smirked, drawing back still holding Luca’s chin. His eyes were warm as he held Luca’s gaze. “Aye, boy, ye did more than good.”
--
Skye watched as the truck rumbled to a stop on the street outside. Another one of her cousins hopped out, a younger man that hailed from their father’s side, twice removed with a shock of deep red hair and a multitude of freckles across his face.
“Noah,” she waved to him and he trotted over. “Ye made it in good time.”
“Aye, we did.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder as more of the O’Riain clan climbed out of the truck. “Where do ye need us?”
--
Luca scanned down the list of parts, genuinely surprised to find everything they needed was now tucked away safely onto the transport that would carry them back to the estate. It seemed too easy. They had everything they needed to get Ryan’s languishing ship refurbished and flight ready.
When he said as much out loud to his boyfriend, Ryan growled something under his breath and tugged Luca against him. “Our ship, boy. I dinnae know how many times I have to remind you.”
“Our ship,” Luca repeated and the words sent a thrill right through him. With the war over, he didn’t want to allow himself to think too far ahead. He couldn’t imagine a future without Ryan and they had both left the Alliance behind. Terra Nova had been an idyllic retreat but Ryan had grown restless with the need to know about his own family.
Luca would have refused to let him come alone, even if Ryan hadn’t asked.
He cocked his head, a small smirk on his lips Ryan suddenly tried to kiss off him. “Our ship,” he laughed again, pushing a hand against Ryan’s beard in an effort to keep him at bay long enough to speak. “Okay, then she needs a name.”
“Ye’re the one with the nicknames, love,” Ryan said. He pulled Luca into the shadows of one of the rows and dug a hand into the back of Luca’s hair. “Why don’t you choose?”
“You’ve had her for years,” Luca protested. It was hard to think with the way Ryan was crowding him, the familiar, heavy throb of him obvious to Luca even through the material of his pants and the cool concrete wall at his back. Fuck, Luca loved the way Ryan went from zero to one hundred in a heartbeat. He was the only one who could ever match Luca for speed.
Luca shoved a hand between them, rubbing over the hard length there and savouring the way Ryan rumbled out an approving little sound. “And you seriously haven’t thought of a name?”
“Waitin’ for the right time,” he whispered, and he offered Luca a gentle little nip against Luca’s neck that Luca knew would be the prelude to marked skin if he didn’t push Ryan away.
He didn’t bother.
Luca arched his neck further, giving Ryan better access. His mind was still bouncing between the ship in the hangar back at the O’Riain estate and the way he was craving Ryan’s taste on his tongue. His breath came in short pants as he struggled to focus under the soft assault of his lover’s mouth.
“Nessie,” he blurted suddenly, his memory caught on a local legend Ryan had whispered to him on their first night in Scotland. “Let’s call her Nessie.”
Ryan’s laugh vibrated against Luca’s skin. Blue eyes flashed, indulgent.
Statement of Stanley Rider, Regarding a Change in his Office Building
Note: This work is locked to unregistered users due to AI scraping problems on AO3
This is a collection of materials about the story of a man named Stanley. They are stored in a box in the back of an archive, where no one has looked at them since they were recorded and properly labeled. Why don't we take a look, hm?
***
Jon found one of Stanley's letters from when he first got stuck in the office building
Rating: G
Tags: Statement Fic (The Magnus Archives), Original Statement (The Magnus Archives), The Freedom Ending (The Stanley Parable), Stanley Remembers Resets (The Stanley Parable), I don't know how else to tag this, No beta we kayak like Tim, The Magnus Archives Season 4, no big spoilers in this one, but i am assuming you've listened to all of tma, so proceed with caution if not, for the rest of the series that is
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Wrote a little thing based on @smilebackwards fic make do and mend
Rating: G
Words: 1,379
Summary:
As Viktor was about to sit down, something on the shelf caught his eye. A new toy—or, well, new to them, by the looks of it—sitting innocently with their ever-growing collection of toys that needed to be repaired. A boat, very similar to the one he had when he was a child. Viktor walked over to it, and moved to pick it up, but stopped at the last moment.
“Jayce,” he said softly, holding his hand almost reverently over the toy boat. “Who brought this in?”
“Hm? Oh, that one?” Jayce replied as he set down the tools in his hands and glanced over. “Michael, I think his name was. Said it kept sinking and the propeller wouldn’t work.”
Jayce had finished tidying up his work station and was about to take a seat and start eating, but Viktor took no notice. He was lost in his thoughts, reliving that fateful incident that led to his meeting Singed and Rio; a boy with a bad leg trying and failing to keep up as the current swept his only, beloved toy boat away from him.
Or
Viktor finds the toy boat a boy brought in for them to repair and pours a lot of love into fixing it
Statement of Stanley Rider, Regarding His Discoveries in His Changed Office Building
Note: This work is locked to unregistered users due to AI scraping problems on AO3
Summary:
This is a collection of materials about the story of a man named Stanley. They are stored in a box in the back of an archive, where no one has looked at them since they were recorded and properly labeled. Why don't we take a look, hm?
~~~
Jon is finally able to record Stanley's second statement.
Rating: T
Tags: Statement Fic (The Magnus Archives), Original Statement (The Magnus Archives), The Countdown Ending (The Stanley Parable), Coward Ending (The Stanley Parable), Powerful Ending (The Stanley Parable), Suicidal Thoughts, briefly i promise, it is the powerful ending, No beta we kayak like Tim, The Magnus Archives Season 4, still no big spoilers but same warnings apply to this one as the last, proceed with caution if you aren't caught up with s4
Story idea possibly too meta but Crowley and Azirephale responding to Poor Francis dying and them reflecting on human religion. Possibly a them praising human ritual and love etc. Crowley appreciating the tumblr shit post 'Holy shit JD Vance Liz Trussed the Pope' and how we all knew what it meant and the weirdness of language. Might be a bit heavy but I could see them sitting in a cafe somewhere watching the world go by just being cosy with each other and just talking.
HI sorry for taking long enough for a new Pope to be elected! Life got kinda stressful like, right after I made that post and I wanted to give this idea the attention it deserves. I still feel like I didn't quite do it justice, though, and please keep in mind that I only know about the timeline through tumblr memes and I am Not Catholic.
There was a nagging in the back of Aziraphale’s mind, a gut feeling that something was going to go lopsided.
“Crowley,” he said, the worry evident in his voice. “Something’s Wrong.”
Crowley’s head gaze shot to Aziraphale from where he’d been watching the humans walk by on the window outside. “Something’s wrong or something’s Wrong?”
“Something’s Wrong,” Aziraphale repeated. He couldn’t quite put a finger on it yet.
“They’re not back, are they?” Crowley asked, all attention on Aziraphale now.
Aziraphale hesitated, trying to assess the feeling further. “No…No, that’s not it. It’s more like…someone’s died. Someone important.”
Crowley scrunched his nose as if he’d just taken a sip of a particularly bitter coffee. “Yeah…I can feel it too. Like a bitter aftertaste.” Crowley took out his phone and started searching divine and occult news alerts for anything that might be what they were feeling.
Aziraphale was watching him keenly, and saw when his scrolling stuttered and he started back-tracking. He clicked on something, and quickly skimmed it, then just stared at his screen.
“Francis is dead.” He announced succinctly.
“Fra—not Pope Francis?!” Aziraphale exclaimed.
Crowley nodded. “Pope Francis. Just now from a stroke and heart failure.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale replied sadly. “But he was one of the good ones,”
Crowley hummed in agreement and continued scrolling, presumably looking at more to do with poor Francis’ death. Aziraphale looked out the window, quite upset about this new development. He had quite enjoyed Francis’ company, and had even played a small part in his election to Pope.
They sat quietly for a few hours, taking in the news. Crowley was engrossed in his phone, keeping an eye out for any updates from either the higher news channels or the human news channels. Aziraphale could only hope that the new Pontiff would also be one of the good ones. Now that he was no longer technically allowed to meddle in human affairs—at least, not without attracting unwanted attention—there was no telling who the conclave would elect next.
Crowley made a noise that sounded like he was choking on something, and Aziraphale turned his attention back to him to find that was exactly what had happened, and Crowley was currently coughing, trying to recover from whatever had shocked him so.
“What happened?” Aziraphale asked, concerned that something else had come to light about Francis’ death, or that someone else had died.
“Remember Liz Truss?” Crowley asked, and Aziraphale blanked at the seeming non-sequiter. What did she have to do with poor Francis?
“The former Prime Minister, yes. What does she have to do with anything?” Aziraphale asked, fishing for any sort of connection.
Crowley glanced back down at his phone screen. “There are people saying JD Vance Liz Trussed Francis.”
“JD Vance? The Vice President of the United States?” Crowley nodded. “He…’Liz Trussed’ Francis?” Crowley nodded again, and seemed to be waiting for him to puzzle it out on his own. Aziraphale racked his brain for what that could possibly mean. “Referring to…Elizabeth’s death?” He did remember the jokes that Liz Truss being elected as Prime Minister where what caused Elizabeth’s death a mere two days later.
“Yeah. And everyone knows what it means.”
“Yes.” Aziraphale replied contemplatively. “Humans have always been weird like that.” For centuries, Aziraphale had heard jokes referencing other historical events, and had always wondered at humans’ ability to make a joke out of everything, and one so unintelligible to those who don’t understand the reference.
Then again, he and Crowley aren’t too dissimilar. He’s found on more than one occasion that one of them will make a reference in public to something that happened thousands of years ago, and had gotten strange looks as a result.
“I do hope poor Francis was comfortable,” Aziraphale said absently. "And I hope this isn’t another link in the long chain of horrible things from the last few years,”
Crowley hummed. “I’m sure he was. I hope they treat the leader of one of the largest religions in the world nicely.” Aziraphale was almost certain they would. They weren’t usually rude to the humans there, and Francis was certainly a special case.
“As for the chain,” Crowley continued, “I hope so, too. If I know Them—” A different ‘them’, Aziraphale knew, “—at all, They’ll try to take advantage of it and sew chaos.”
“I think the humans are stronger than that,” Aziraphale said decisively.
Crowley gave him a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”
“Humans are stronger than that.” Aziraphale repeated. “They won’t be so lost without a leader that they succumb to the forces of evil.”
Crowley nodded, and lifted his mug in a toast. “Regardless, here’s to a speedy election,”
Aziraphale scoffed. “Anything is speedy compared to Gregory X’s election,”
Crowley smirked. “You make a good point, angel.” He raised a toast once more. “Then to a speedy and uneventful election,”
Aziraphale joined his toast. “To one which doesn’t result in new words,”
The two of them sat, as they often did, reminiscing on old times, telling stories of Francis which they both long knew well. There, like this, in their little corner of the coffee shop, they wiled the day away.
This has gotta be one of my favorite lines I’ve written thus far:
“Ought not a prince know how his people see the heavens?”
It’s from a fic where I subject The Characters (Laurence and Tharkay) to one of my favorite things (a favorite pastime of mine), which in this case is stargazing and man did I write a banger!
