'You're My Best Friend' by Queen played, as Azirafell sped down the busy street in his car, going over sixty miles per hour, dangerously swerving corners, and steering out of the way from oncoming traffic. It was now the early afternoon, with heavy, dark clouds in the sky so it seemed - it will probably rain, heavily no doubt. He had to find out what Crowley had called about, about what he had wanted; maybe to run away together? Get back together? Maybe, he found out information?
"Oh, you make me live!"
He was trying to call the angel with his radio, but he wasn't picking up; it rang, and rang, and rang. - Honestly, it was worrying the demon. Crowley usually picked up after a few seconds, as he always had his phone in his back pocket, or in his hand, and if not, he would call on his landline.
"Whenever this world is cruel to me."
He glanced down to the station on the radio; FIRE CRO137, and he scowled at it. Usually, his car listened to the situations around him, involving him, and played music to match with said situation, and it never listened to what the demon actually wanted to play. It was annoying, though Crowley loved the music. What was his music trying to say?
"I got you to help me to live!"
He waited for an answer, and yet again, got an automated response by some female voice operator, "please hang up and try your call again."
"You make me live now honey."
The first thing Azirafell noticed was; a bright red firetruck swerve around the corner, its sirens wailing and screeching; the next was the bustling people of Soho crowding and chattering amongst themselves about whatever-they-were-talking-about; the last thing he noticed, was Anthony's Eden, up in flames and smoke, red and orange waves of fire lulled and raged out the windows, and black, grey smoke seeped into the air, making it thick and choke like.
"Ooh, you make me live!"
Azirafell, agitated and worried, swung his car door open and stormed out, slamming his door shut. He stormed over, the hooves wedged on his feet slamming on the ground. It was a bit more difficult to get to the shop, since the policemen and firemen were keeping everyone away from the fiery chaos. He dully noted it was now raining, soaking his clothes and hair.
"Are you the owner of this establishment?" Shouted a fireman, who was older and more built then the others. He walked over to Azirafell, a purpose in his step.
"Do I look like I run a florist?!" Yelled Azirafell over the raging fire, and talking. "Don't be moronic!" He insulted, disdain on his face.
The fireman looked thrown off, "I really wouldn't know about that, sir! Appearances can be very deceptive! For example, I am a fireman! However, upon meeting me socially, people unaware of my occupation often suppose I am, in fact, a chartered accountant or company director! Imagine me out of uniform, sir, and what kind of man would you see before you? Honestly?"
Azirafell stared at him, annoyed. Honestly, if the situation wasn't more dire, he'd respond with, 'oh, I would have said an accountant too,' just for distraction, while thinking, 'seriously? Do your job, and put out the fire! For fuck sake, what's wrong with you?!'. However, this is a dire situation, one that involved his husband and his husbands plant shop, and so instead he said, "a prat!" He rushed forward, pushing past people going to the door.
"Hey, you can't go in there!" The fireman yelled, trying to stop him, finally doing his job.
The demon snapped his fingers. The glass doors swung open harshly, nearly coming off the hinges, the glass smashing slightly, and he strolled in, the doors slamming shut; closed behind him.
He stood in the inferno, the whole shop ablaze. The fire was hot, nearly melting his skin, leaves and small pieces of paper flitted about, as the radio slowly melted from the heat, "you know I'll never be lonely. You're my only one And I love the things..."
Azirafell looked around, eyes squinting in confusion and worry, the smoke filling the shop, and coating his glasses, "Crowley!" He called, tripping over slightly, as he pushed himself off the door, running forward, "Crowley, where the Heaven are you, you idiot?" He yelled out, loudly.
There was no response, just the cackle of of burning leaves, soil, twigs and paper, as well as splintering glass, and the crash of collapsing timber.
"I can't find you!" Azirafell shouted, looking around, up and down, around, "Raphael?!" He tried, hoping it would catch the angels attention. He looked around the hot, fiery room, as things flew about from the fire and he got no response, his searching was now mad and crazed, the music melted, all he could hear now was... was his own damn music taste; Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's 'Requiem in D Major 3rd Movement Lacrimosa'.
"Crowley, for Go—" he can't say that, he's a demon! "For Sa—" No, Crowley's an angel, he can't say that! With nobody else's sake to call out to, he yelled out in distress, "AHHHH! For Somebody's bloody sake, where are you?!" He shook in fear and anger, looking around, urgently, desperately, looking for the angel, looking for help.
The shop window smashed from the outside, and suddenly, and unexpectedly, a jet of water struck him in his chest, knocking him to the ground, harshly.
His glasses flew to a far corner of the room, melting and burning into a puddle of hot plastic. Grey toned, pale blue eyes with rectangular horizontal pupils were revealed; wet and steaming, dazed yet still frantically looked around the shop. His face, and hair was terribly ash-blackened, no longer blond nearing white, and he was now on all fours in the blazing plant shop. Azirafell cursed Crowley, and the Ineffable Plan, and Above and Below. He cursed them all...
Azirafell's eyes landed on familiar symbols drawn on the floor, and he stared at it, then to the shop, then back... that was a Heavenly symbol... with a groan, he looked around a frown on his face as realisation hit him like a bag of bricks, "you've gone." It was a Heavenly attack, how could it not be? How could it be anything else? He choked out a sobbed, "somebody killed my best friend... my husband..." He sneered suddenly, and screeched out, "BASTARDS!" His voice growing hoarse, and dull, almost scratchy. He shook in anger, and he grit his teeth together. No doubt both Heaven and Hell could hear his wails of anger and despair, but what was he without Crowley? What was he without the one he worshipped? He looked around, and screamed, "ALL OF YOU!"
He looked down, and saw a tattered, slightly burned book on the floor, it was all kinds of dogeared, and torn, yet was still mostly unharmed. No, not a book. The Book. The Book that American woman with a bike named 'Phaeton' dropped in his car. He noticed his serpent necklace dangling out of the book, and he gently took it, pulling it out. It burned the pads of his fingers slightly, but he didn't care, instead he shakily pulled it over his head and let it dangle on his neck again, just as it had been before their break up, just as it had been since 1970, and hastily, with gritted teeth, he stuffed the book into his inside pocket jacket.
He looked up with gritted teeth.
The floor above him collapsed.
Azirafell had lost Crowley, and the world was ending in a few hours. He was in Hell's bad books. Not that Hell has any other kind.
"Find me somebody to love."
The fiery doors opened automatically, and out strolled Azirafell, walking through the flames, holding his melted and ruined glasses at a distance.
The chattering of worried people, officers and firemen stopped seeing the man. The fireman, who had been telling anyone who would listen what had happened, ("I couldn't stop him. He must have been mad. Or drunk. Just ran in. I couldn't stop him. Mad. Ran straight in. Horrible way to die. Horrible, horrible. Just ran straight in...") stared in shock. Yet, they saw the expression on his face, and stayed where they stood.
Thunder crashed, as a wave of anger and sin washed over London like a dark cloud. People began fighting, people began swearing, people began stealing, eating, sleeping and fucking... cars crashed, buildings crumbled, people bled.
"Find me somebody to love."
In the midst of the dark storm cloud of fury and sin was Azirafell.
The fiery doors slammed shut behind, and the fire rolled up the building.
Azirafell stood there, accepting the pelts of rain that smashed down onto his dirty skin, too angry and numb to care. He held out his glasses, and sneered at them, "I really shouldn't litter, should I?" He asked himself, with a frown. "Correction, I probably should litter. I am a demon, after all." He reasoned rather pathetically, swaying were he stood, and stared at them. "But nobody's really keeping track anymore." He dropped the glasses to the floor, before strolling to his car.
"Find me somebody to love."
He began driving, speeding down to road as the shop window exploded behind him. He gripped the wheel, his knuckles turning white, ringing the leather slightly, and just stared ahead of him.
"Somebody somebody somebody somebody."
He felt numb, his face was resting in a dead and bleak, blank look. Crowley was gone. There was nothing, he couldn't feel his fingers, or feel himself blink... he... he didn't feel like he was in his corporation anymore. He was just... nothing...
"Somebody find me. Somebody find me somebody to love."
Numbly, he reached over to his passenger seat and opened the small glove compartment. It revealed multiple glasses, and he hastily picked one, and shakily pushed them on his face and up his small, button nose. He was numb, dead... Hell was a better haven, then living in a world, Above or Below, without Crowley... without Crowley... without Crowley...
"Anybody, anywhere, anybody find me somebody to love love love! Somebody find me, find me love."
So, this is what the end of the world felt like...
Crowley stumbled, arriving in... Heaven, is this? Gasping and panting for air he didn't need. He looked around, it was a white room, incredibly well lit and felt void of... everything, if he's honest. Yes, this is Heaven. He gripped his goat necklace, or well, tried too, but it wasn't there. His entire outfit was white, and any other possessions that didn't fit the clean, and simple white clothing, and sterile aesthetic, would go... he needed that necklace! It's the last thing he had of his (ex)husband!
"You!" Shouted a male, with a... a beard? It looked more like sideburns if he was being honest, well actually it looked like whiskers, and he was in an all white military outfit. There were angels behind him lined up in a single file line. "You're late, Archangel!"
"Yep!" Crowley turned, his voice echoing, and stared at the Quatermaster Angel, and he swallowed, "ngk..." He slowly walked forward with a limp, he was in pain. He held his leg, "actually, I... uh, I-I didn't mean t' be 'ere... ngk, yet." He reasoned, seeing the Angel set down a... the... his uniform, one he's not worn since The Rebellion. It was an all white robe, with a light, pale gold band for his waist and the sleeves went up to his elbows, short, yet bell like shaped, with a golden trim— not important, he's not wearing it. "Still sortin' things out..." He pointed to the spinning globe that was to the right of him, "on Earth."
The Quatermaster Angel looked to him, trying to remain calm and respectful, "Raphael, isn't it?" He asked, placing a golden star necklace with glowing points on top of the clothing. "Archangel of Healing, Star Maker, and former Angel of the Easter Gate. Your whole platoon is waiting for your command." He held out the uniform, shoving it into his arms.
Crowley held the clothing, and looked over to the line of angels, no soldiers, in uniform and ready for battle. Ready for War. He numbly took his clothing, he has to lead and command an army?! He's never done that, he stays out of Wars best he can, and the two times he did fight was to... to help someone... who was he helping again?
"Raphael." Hummed out the Quatermaster Angel, "Raphael... why is that name so familiar, besides being an Archangel..." He skimmed through his file, he's read something somewhere. Crowley shook his head in fake confusion, as the Quatermaster Angel read over the file, "hang on. Raphael. You were issued with—"
The Archangel winced, realising he was found out. "A flaming sword, I know!" Crowley cut off, and leaned forward, shaking his head, "it ain't my fault! Someone else got to it first and she was havin' a bad day, and—"
The Quatermaster Angel looked up at Crowley, "you were issued with a body! Where is it?"
Crowley swallowed, and looked to his hand to see it fade to nothing and then back, including the ring he's had for over six thousand years, "I wasn't ready to step int' the portal!" He waved his hand, his ring catching the light of the bulbs, "and the body... discorporated." He giggled nervously, his laugh sounding like a hiss.
"Discorporated?" Asked the Angel, eyes wide in annoyance. He was unable to hide his irritation to the Archangel, even if he was supposed to be showing respect to one.
"It was six thousand years old." Crowley defended, and it did make perfect sense, at least to him. And, it would make sense to Azirafell too.
With a sneer, Quatermaster Angel walked forward, "I count them all out, and I count them all in again." He walked forward, his teeth gritted in anger. Crowley listened, feeling sick suddenly, either from nerves and being yelled at, or... is this what happened when you discorporate? "And then you turn up, late for Armageddon, no Flaming Sword, not even a body!" The Quatermaster let his irritation and anger show, "you pathetic excuse for an Archangel!" He was shaking in anger now, and well... Crowley wasn't going to stand for that.
Raphael glared, "silence!" He yelled out, in a commanding voice. A voice he's not used since... ever, he never used that tone, ever! But, he did like the way the angel paled, and tensed up, shaking ever so slightly. He sighed, 'remember who you are, calm down, You're not Raphael..' Crowley glared, "I am pathetic..." The Quatermaster stared in fear, and well masked annoyance. "'M not fightin' in any War," he slammed the clothes down, and glared at the line of angels, whose's heads snapped to him in shock.
"D-don't be a coward..." Whimpered the Quatermaster, looking at Crowley who seemed to be taller now, holding more power than usual. "Y-you need to get into position and I won't say anything more about the body you discorporated." He tried, as if assuring him and hiding things would make the former Archangel ease up on him. "We can take the sword out of your celestial wages."
"I was in the middle 'f somethin' important!" Snapped Crowley, no he didn't care about any of this! "I demand t' be returned!"
"Without a body?" Asked the Angel in shock, "that's ridiculous." He walked off behind the stand, to get back to work and to shy away from the Archangel.
Crowley paused, a small, thoughtful frown on his face, his eyebrows pulled together, and asked quietly and curiously, "it is?"
"Obviously." Came the curt reply. "What are you going to do? You can't possess them."
Crowley frowned, he always knew his entire angelic life was backwards, because, "demons can." Same stock, backwards life... his eyes lit up with an idea.
The Quartermaster looked up, "you're not a demon. You're an Archangel." He watched Crowley slowly walk up to the slowly, spinning bright blue globe that hovered in the air, the Archangel stared in wonder and thought. The Angel yelled out, "what are you—? Where are you going?!"
"How d'y'control it?" Crowley asked, looking to the Angel, who squared his shoulders, putting his pen down. Crowley frowned. He looked to it again, "oh, well."
"Get away from that thing!" Tried the Quartermaster, moving over quickly.
"I'll figure it out..." Crowley reached up, and pressed his finger to the globe, pulling back as it made a noise of air. and slowly his body turned to white smoke, and light. He stared at it in thought, "as I go." He looked behind him, as it pulled him in and he let out a loud, "wahoo!"
BEFORE THE BEGINNING
ONE YEAR BEFORE THE FALL
Raphael was on his knees, his long, white robe with a golden hem, and black sash with golden-star like dots bunched up around him, his long, red and curled hair tucked behind his ears, as he gently ran his golden glowing fingertips through white, tender feathers, caressing an angel's sore wings. The angel was young, with short, shaggy brown hair and dark brown eyes. His mind, however, was on other things, rather than the angel in front of him.
Raphael's mind was on, what he called, Alpha Centauri, a cluster of stars and nebula's, one that he made, one that he created from scratch. He's still working on it, and had to figure out how to get that stars to shine brighter, make it look less cluttered. If he's honest, he hates being an Archangel, despises it even. Now, it needs to be known, he doesn't hate healing people, but he doesn't heal anyone unless the situation is dire, or if someone seeks him out, as the angel usually tugs at his golden heartstrings. He prefers doing anything, but he actual job, he begged to work with the Star Makers, he promised to lead them. It worked, and he now mainly works in the higher atmosphere; he's the best Star Maker out there.
"Raphael?" Came an overly friendly voice. Raphael looked up, and saw Gabriel, his purple eyes glowing, wearing a purple robe. "What are you doing here, brother?"
"Gabriel!" Smiled Raphael, "I came to visit, see how everythin's goin'! I'm just healin' this angel!"
Gabriel looked down, a sneer on his face as he caught eyes with the quivering angel, "injuries are you defining trait." He spat out, noting the training wings on the robe. A soldier in training...
Raphael rolled his eyes, smoothing out the angel's ruffled feathers, "come along, let's get y'back t' the Training Room, with Archangel Michael." He gently, and carefully took the angel to the Training Room, with Gabriel following next to him.
Archangel Gabriel looked to Raphael, "how is... what's-it-called-again, coming along?"
"You mean Alpha Centauri?" Asked Raphael, eyes lighting up in joy. He had yet to see Gabriel's already bored, and disappointed expression. "Very well! I'm hopin' it will be closest t' this 'Earth' that God wants to make! The constellation is, obviously, gonna be a Centaurus! The rotation is gonna be about 1.2 months, and I need to add more stars, but I can't seem to—" He paused when he looked to his brother, Gabriel was no longer listening. He fell silent.
The angel pushed the white, large double doors open, "here we are." He bowed, as if asking to be pardoned, and went to the training floor.
Raphael looked around, the room was large, and rectangular, it was spacious, all white and clean, and crisp. The ceiling was held up by white columns, and to get to the main floor, you walk down three marble steps. Speaking of the main floor, all the soldiers in training stood around in a large square, holding swords. They were all training swords, with a few real ones but even then, the real ones were dull.
They were watching two angels in the middle of the room; Archangel Michael, using a Flaming Spear. He was fighting a soldier, a soldier in training as seen with the robes. However, the difference between the angels and this one was, the angel was holding a Flaming Sword, and the angel with the sword was winning. Now, that is unusual... Michael is never easily defeated.
Raphael stared at the angel in wonder, his hair was blond, nearing white, short and fluffed up. His skin was pale, and he... well, he was rather chubby, but looked like he's be perfect to hold - soft! But, what Raphael noticed most was; his eyes. They were blue, a lovely bright, sparkle, with glittering eyes. That was it! That's how to make Alpha Centauri's stars bright! He could do two, close together! That's how he could finish off the cluster of stars! That's how to make it better! Those eyes were his inspiration! Those eyes, those spectacular eyes...
The white haired angel blocked an oncoming attack from Michael, and he kicked his leg out to slam his foot into his stomach. The Archangel retreated slightly, and dodged a well aimed attack - almost hit.
Slowly, Raphael moved forward, entranced by the white haired angel. It was like he was put under a spell. He placed his hands on the white column, and leaned onto it, fingers digging into the concrete, and he pressed his forehead to it. He kept staring at the angel, his mouth was hanging open slightly. His eyes never left angels concentrated face.
The angel slashed his sword, and Michael dodged, "good hit, Aziraphale." He grunted out, not at all happy the angel was winning.
'Aziraphale', it was a lovely, angelic name... Raphael leaned forward, eyes wide.
Suddenly, this 'Aziraphale' looked up and paused. He stared at Raphael, eyes wide slightly, he stared at the Archangel's attractive high cheekbones, with his bright red, curled locks of hair with gorgeous golden eyes, with a lovely tall frame, and seemed to be rather flexible, with long, slender legs. He lost his stance slightly. With that distraction, Michael attacked, and pinned Aziraphale down on the cold ground, the white head grunted, slamming to the floor.
"Nice work, Aziraphale." Michael complimented, nodding to the angel. He stood, and helped pull the white haired angel up.
Aziraphale nodded, and bowed down to Michael, however, his eyes never left Raphael's and Raphael's never left Aziraphale's. Gold and blue...
Michael saw, and looked up, his eyes fell onto his brothers, "ah! Raphael! Gabriel! Nice to see you both, I'm glad you came to visit." This was directed to Raphael.
All the soldiers in the room straightened up suddenly, their shoulders squaring back in respect, besides Aziraphale who kept staring at Raphael as if he's... he's seen The Almighty Herself...
"Michael, it's good to see you brother!" Gabriel greeted with his signature sickening, sweet smile.
Raphael hummed, "yep, nice t' see ya." He was staring at Aziraphale, "uh, 'Aziraphale', was it? I, uh, sorry for starin' at you, it's just... you have, real pretty eyes." He admitted shyly, waving his fingers to his own eyes, one arm wrapped around his stomach, and his shoulders up to his ears. He was... shy...
Everyone in the room stared at him in shock, horrified; an Archangel, complimenting a low level angel?! A soldier nonetheless?! Unheard of! Gabriel and Michael looked mortified, and disgusted at the same time, it was a rather impressive facial expression.
Aziraphale's face turned bright red, and his ears turned pink, flustered. He smiled shyly, and said, directed to Michael, "my apologies for loosing focus, but my eyes caught side of the most luscious, red locks I have ever seen." However, he kept staring at Raphael, who turned as red as his 'luscious, red locks'.
Shyly, the Archangel twirled a curl with his index finger, "ngk, thank you..." That was a new noise...
Michael, who was furious, pointed to an empty spot between the soldiers, "Aziraphale! Get in line!"
Aziraphale nodded, and strolled off into position, never looking from Raphael.
Raphael stayed in the Training Room, wanting to watch Aziraphale, who was planning to show off in front of the Archangel.
TWO MONTHS LATER
Raphael stared up at the his creation of Alpha Centauri, and he stared at the second star. It was a debate between him and a few Star Makers whether or not there should be a second star, but Raphael had snapped saying, 'this is my creation, I'll do what I want!', mainly because he was inspired heavily by Aziraphale's eyes.
Aziraphale... he keeps going back to watch the soldier train, and had heard from Uriel and Michael that they were now training him to be a Principality, as requested by The Almighty. Yes, a Principality, and that deserves the capital 'p', most people would assume Archangel's were the highest an angel could be, but in actuality, it seemed a Principality was either higher, or on par with Archangels. Again, this was a conversation between the Archangels; Sandalphon, Uriel, Michael, Gabriel, Lucifer and Raphael, and The Almighty explained why a Principality was higher than an Archangel or on par with one; their task is to oversee groups of people. They are the educators and guardians of the realm of 'Earth'. They are angels that guide and protect nations, or groups of peoples, and institutions (such as the Church when it came to be). The Principalities preside over the bands of angels and charge them with fulfilling the divine ministry. And, to bequeath blessings to the material world. There are some who will administer and some who will assist. Aziraphale fit all these descriptions perfectly, and now it was to test Aziraphale to see which he fit more, if any. He was to be the first of many Principalities.
"Brother!" Came a cheery voice.
Raphael smiled, "Gabriel!" He turned, and paused, surprised and shocked.
There was Gabriel, of course, in his usual purple robe and purple eyes, a fake smile on his face and all six wings out, that was not the shock. No, it was the other angel. Aziraphale. He was in the middle of testing and training; which category does he fit? Administer or assist? Guard and oversee, or preside and charge? The angel, or Principality-in-training, wore a golden crown with blue sapphires on, and his wings were out and covered with armour so it seemed, he wore a blue robe, that had bell sleeves and the white rim of the robe dragged on the floor, with a white and golden sash across his shoulder, and golden armour in the places that needed said armour. He donned a holster, with his Flaming Sword in, that wasn't flaming now for safety reasons.
"Hello, Aziraphale." Raphael greeted, cheeks flushing a light pink and he smiled.
Aziraphale blushed, his blue eyes sparkling as it wandered the area for danger, as he is trained to do, and he bowed, "salutations Archangel Raphael."
Gabriel patted Aziraphale's back, "amazing, isn't he?!" He walked forward, with Aziraphale staying behind, but ready to defend the Archangels if needed. "So, how is it coming along?" He asked, looking up to the two stars.
"Fine, I think?" Smiled Raphael, and looked to his work, "so, is it too bright?"
With a sneer, Gabriel shook his head, "I believe it's too clustered." He reasoned, staring at the two stars. He too heard the debate, and had heard of the complaining, all the Archangel's had, as Raphael never stopped complaining.
"C-clustered?" Raphael asked, his broken heart dropping to his stomach, hurt. He looked to the stars, and frowned.
Aziraphale frowned, and looked to the stars and his surroundings. The stars, they were close, and together, with a lovely shade of pastel, cornflower blue, and the sky, it was the blackest black to exist. The nebula's were purple and silky. There was... there was gorgeous red, as red as fire and rage, with long, beautiful curled and silky string, that stretched and bounced back to place. There was a shining, stunning, warmth golden glow, that flickered to soft, calming hazel, as gold hit the lighting and shimmered, swirling up two long, slim Creations. It was tall, and thin, slender and skinny, yet seemed to be slithered, and flexible, loose and seemed as smooth as velvet, yet well toned and strong. The high, sharp and angular structure of this Creation was enough to cut angels, and gave defined features of striking prettiness. Tanned slightly, like a sun tan, while smelling of hazelnut, with the scent of clouds and clearness, like a breath of fresh air and lemon, and a bit of grapefruit. It gave the angel a warm feeling, with nerves that fluttered in his chest and stomach, and managed to force a smile on his face. Yet, even so, Aziraphale felt sad, as yes, it was a gorgeous sight, full of love and beauty, it was also a forbidden sight, a sight he could never have... he could never have Raphael...
Archangel Michael had warned, 'soldiers don't bond with Archangels', and he did the unthinkable, 'why?' He had question the Archangel; why? Why couldn't he bond with Raphael? And, what did he get? 'Don't question! Get back to training!' Apparently, asking questions was bad, apparently it showed doubt. Why was asking questions bad?
He looked to Raphael, and he coughed lightly, "if I may, Archangels?" The two looked to him, and Aziraphale slowly walked forward, "I like it, I believe however, the stars are too close together. You could spread them, and allow them to rotate around each other, so it never touches, but almost touches... just out of reach..." He trailed off, seeing the Archangels stare, and he shrunk down. He never was good at explaining what he meant...
Gabriel stared at the blond, realising than and there, Azirphale would in fact be higher than him and Raphael asked, amazed, "you like it?"
Aziraphale nodded, yes he likes it very much...
"Brother..." Gabriel warned, looking to Raphael.
Raphael stared at Aziraphale with a lovesick expression, "why're y'here Gabriel?"
"We need you back, you are an Archangel Raphael." Gabriel reminded, "you're missing meetings, and information." (The tone for 'meetings' and 'information' gave the impression it shouldn't be talked about out in the open, that it was something dangerous. (It was, it was to do with Lucifer and his friends, one of which was Aziraphale. (Lucifer was very interested in the soon-to-be-Principality, and had immediately struck a friendship with him.)))
Raphael raised his golden, glowing fingers, "the stars need me." He reached out, and pulled one star down, and dipped his thumb into his pouch, and rubbed it against the stars. He glanced to Aziraphale's eyes, his eyes were still looking around, on edge ready for a fight. His eyes, they were paler then this star, not teal, but not cerulean, he swears, Aziraphale's eye colour had no name. There was flecks of neon, light and glowing blue, and so he tried to mimic the glow.
Gabriel sighs, "right... come along, Aziraphale." Gabriel commanded, waving his hand, walking to a launch pad that was on the floor, it was surrounded by candles and with symbols drawn on the floor, of swirls, and circles, and squares.
Aziraphale bowed, nodding his farewell to Raphael and went to follow, until a warm hand, with long, slender and curled fingers cradled his upper arm, squeezing his bicep, and the soldier blushed, looking up to see Raphael, who was just as red as Aziraphale, "ngk..." He kept eye contact with the soldier, "actually, I need you to stay here." He looked Gabriel, who stared at him in horror, "his eyes are the true stars here."
The soldier's entire face went bright red. An Archangel of such power wanted him here?
Gabriel nodded, tense and said, "yes, of course..." He didn't want Aziraphale here, he wanted the solider to come back with him, to keep testing him, "however, I believe he should come home, don't you brother?"
Raphael frowned, right. Testing and evaluating Aziraphale. However, the soldier said, "no. I believe I should stay here, and you can inform them that Archangel Raphael requested my help. Who am I to deny help?"
"R-right." Gabriel agreed, tensing up more, and shakily walked off, that gave the answer to all this evaluating.
"What was that about?" Aziraphale asked, looking to Raphael confused, and then frowned.
The Archangel was standing in respect, and smiling warily, "who knows?" He too was slightly nervous, Aziraphale was higher than him now, and who knows how She would take it? Who knows how any would take it? An Archangel, a low level angel, and a Principality, a higher level angel, bonding in a way?
"Okay...?" Aziraphale smiled, "so, what do you need me for?"
Raphael smiled, easing up, remembering that this was just Aziraphale, it's still the angel he met two months ago, the same who is an amazing fighter, with a heart of gold. He gently titled the angels chin up softly, his finger curled beneath the angels soft, smooth as caramel, pale double chin, "lets make some stars, darling."
Aziraphale stared, eyes soft and amazed, so kind and gentle, "okay, Archangel..."
3 MONTHS LATER
Raphael held what looked like a grey, potato sack, and he strolled into the Training Room. He now wore a ring, a golden ring, a ring that strangely looked like a ring a certain blond haired angel used to wear. He travelled between the Upper atmosphere and his birth place, mainly for one reason and one reason alone. He pushed open the doors, and smiled, he saw soldiers training, as usual, with higher ups training them.
And, there stood Principality Aziraphale and Archangel Michael, overlooking the training of soldiers. Aziraphale was promoted a day after he commanded Gabriel to go, and now officially owned a Flaming Sword; honestly Raphael was incredibly proud of the white haired angel. A Principality?! Higher than the Archangels?
Soldiers looked up the Principality, and there were more in the making, and Aziraphale trained them personally, while Michael trained them in basic fighting skill.
Raphael took a deep shaky breath, and walked over to to the two and smiled asking, "brother," he greeted, and then bowed, "Principality Aziraphale."
Michael nodded, "brother."
Aziraphale bowed, "Archangel Raphael, you may rise."
"May I borrow you, Principality Aziraphale?" Requested Raphael, feeling incredibly nervous.
Aziraphale stared at Raphael with a soft smile, who gave an equally gentle smile back. "Of course you can," he looked to Michael, “can you finish up here?"
Michael nodded, not like he could disagree, "yes, of course."
Azraphale bowed to Michael, who bowed back, and walked out, followed by Raphael. Aziraphale stayed in front of Raphael, his sword held in resting position, yet was still prepared to defend the Archangel if needed, slightly in front of him. He is a Principality, he is to protect beings.
The hallway was white, and clean, sterile as usual, yet filled with angels going form one place to another.
"How is Alpha Centauri, Archangel Raphael?" Aziraphale asked, keeping formality.
Raphael smiled, "well Principality Aziraphale, I need to tweak a few stars, and their brightness." He held up the bag, "stardust." He said, "though I do like the colours I've used for the nebula's!" He admitted. Aziraphale eagerly listened, eyes soft with a loving smile on his face, he was genuinely interested.
Aziraphale helped Raphael onto a small stand, surrounded by candles and with symbols drawn on the floor, of swirls, and circles, and squares. He stood next to the Archangel, and noticed the hallway was now empty, they were alone.
Raphael noticed too, and smiled, "how is training, darling?"
Aziraphale's face turned as red as a Raphael's hair, "you wily serpent, archangel!" (There is no need to capitalise now, it's just a fond nickname.)
With a laugh from Raphael, a blue light engulfed them and with a tingle, they were now stood on Alpha Centauri. It was both bright and dark, with lovely stars all around, and bright blues and a few purple hues.
Raphael gently tipped Aziraphale's face up by his chin, and smiled softly, "just needed to see the twinkle in your eyes, darling." He leaned down, and kissed the Principality's smooth lips, and relished the shy squeak. He pulled back with a chuckle, and fished out the stardust from the small sack.
Aziraphale sheathed the sword, and moved over, wrapping his arms around Raphael's slender waist from behind, burying his face in the Archangel's six, soft wings, two pointed up, two pointed down and the other two pointed to the side. He inhaled the smell of air, and starry fire from Raphael's wings, and he smiled, "I missed you, Crowley."
"I missed you too, Aziraphale." Crowley smiled, leaning into Aziraphale. The Archangel looked more, and more like a snake each day, and the nickname 'Crawly' had been whispered amongst the ranks, including the Archangels, and so, Aziraphale trained those angels into near death, including Michael at times, even Uriel, and had told Crowley; his name's amongst people changed between 'Raphael' and 'Crawly', despite Raphael asking them not to. He rather... not liked 'Crawly', but it fit better then 'Raphael', so asked to be called 'Crowley', nobody does besides Azriaphale, and his siblings did too (probably because Aziraphale had threatened them. Outright threatened them. (He was falling out of Heavens good book, slowly but surely)). He was thankful for it.
Crowley worked in silence for a while, glancing to Aziraphale's hypnotic, shinning eyes every so often to reference back to, though he would get distracted from them, getting in lost in the lovely, bright pools.
Aziraphale stared at the stars in wonder, watching them form and stay in the sky, "Lucifer was discussing this place..." He admitted, "he's planning to attack Alpha Centauri if God doesn't answer his inquiries." He warned.
Crowley, not bothered or phased, asked, "do y'really wanna hang out with 'em?" It was a discussion amongst the Archangels; Lucifer was a bad angel, asking questions, demanding answers and rebelling against everything God stands for, and seemingly, going against this 'Ineffable Plan'. There was fear of a rebellion from him and his friends, and Aziraphale... well...
"All we want is answers, Crowley." Aziraphale sighed, looking down, looking at the soft muscles down Crowley's back. "We're not harming anyone, Lucifer wouldn't actually do anything - it's just talk."
Crowley laughed, bitterly, "for now."
Aziraphale frowned, "we're just curious, about what She's planning, and doing, and why. Why were we made? Why is She making this 'Earth', are we not enough? Why can't we know about this Plan of Hers? Not to mention, the food isn't the best."
Crowley laughed, a bright, snake-like smile on his face, "you're not meant t' be eatin'!"
"Why not?!" Asked Aziraphale in complete, and utter confusion, eating was the best!
"Best not to question it, darling." Crowley reasoned, leaning over and kissing the Principality's cheek.
THE ATTACK ON ALPHA CENTAURI
5 MONTHS LATER
The off-white tent was large, and well lit, shielding Archangels Raphael, Gabriel and Uriel. They were situated on Alpha Centauri.
Aziraphale was wrong; Lucifer did attack. It wasn't all talk.
Raphael held his glowing hand over an angel's back, "I want t' fight Gabriel!" Demanded the Archangel, he was healing angels, they were hurt and he had to help them, he felt terrible and sick. He felt to blame. Lucifer and his army was attacking his creation, and yet they were all defending it, when they weren't involved. He wanted to fight and help! Even if he was a terrible fighter! Even if he didn't like fighting, even if he didn't like hurting people.
"No! You heal angels! You don't fight!" Gabriel retaliated, watching as the now healed angel ran out. He knew Raphael was meant to fight if needed, but he was more to lead then actually fight.
"She won't allow this for much longer," scowled Uriel, assuring her older brother, as she was younger than him by a few minutes.
Raphael knew she was right, why would She allow angels to attack and rebel? He went back to work, and healed another angel, who's arm was out of place. The angel was a young soldier, they were shaking in terror and fear, their pupils dilated. They had seen things, terrible, terrible things; Alpha Centauri was half destroyed, on fire and smoking, stars collapsed and tilted, with muted colours, angels fighting with Flaming Weapons and plain old swords.
The flaps to the white tent were thrown open, and in stumbled Archangel Michael, his golden uniform scuffed, and scraped, with golden blood coating it, his long, ginger hair wild and crazed, his pale lipstick smudged, and his eye shadow running down his face, and he fell to his knees. Injured. In pain. "It's Lucifer, he's planned it all, he's well protected," he groaned. Gabriel helped him stand, and helped him to the medical bed. Michael groaned, "he's staying out of the action more than anything..."
Raphael sent the angel out, with a bit of reluctance and he wandered to Michael, however his thoughts were on Aziraphale. His Principality. Yes, his. Aziraphale was 'hired', in a way, to work for and with Raphael, to protect him and Alpha Centauri... well, Aziraphale hired himself, and who was anyone to disagree with the Principality. But, Lucifer is his friend, as was Baal, Lucas and Habor, and even Danica though she was a pain, apparently. There is every chance that Aziraphale is helping his friends, going against what he was meant to do. Is he even fighting? Or his he hiding? Or, worse, is he hurt or dead?
"Michael, brother, is Principality Aziraphale okay?" Asked Raphael, pressing his warm and glowing hand to his head. "I need to know if he's doing his job. And, and, and that's... all that matters..." He lied, terribly. If he told the truth; that he was worried for his darling, who knows what Michael would say or do once he's healed.
"Aziraphale is fine, he's fighting and taking down Lucifer's soldiers, as if cutting through glass." Michael assured, seeing Raphael glance outside, through the flapping flaps and into the red, fiery atmosphere. "He's the best one out there." He complimented, "leading the army into glorious battle. He made me come inside."
Gabriel sneered, and scoffed bitterly, "shocking." His brothers looked to him, and so he said, "he is 'besties' with Luci." He spat out, as if reminding them, he had grown bitter that Aziraphale had become higher than him. He had grown bitter that Lucifer listened to Aziraphale, took his suggestions to consideration, (though didn’t always follow through. For example, this situation; Aziraphale was against the attack, and Lucifer went ahead.)
Raphael felt his heart speed up, racing and pounding against his ribs and chest, and his eyes softened gently. He was touched. Yes, it was his job, but he knew if Lucifer said 'attack Gabriel', the white haired angel would do so. Aziraphale is going against his friends. Any time Aziraphale does, anything he falls more and more in love with him!
Without hesitation, he grabbed Michael's Flaming Spear, and ran out of the tent, ignoring the yells and protests of his brothers and sister.
He saw the destruction of Alpha Centauri, and he saw the stars cut from the sky, wires snapped and tilted. Yet, he didn't focus on that he fought his way across the land, well... no, not fought, he weakly blocked and pushed at worst. He was looking for Aziraphale, "where is he?!"
Suddenly, an angry yell sounded, and Raphael turned. There was Baal, sword in a weak position, in a position to easily be stabbed, and Aziraphale, with an injured arm, and his Flaming Sword held up, in a position to take a deadly hit.
"Traitor." Snarled Baal, as they backed up, dodging the sword barely.
Aziraphale slashed his sword at Baal's head, "I'm not a Traitor, I'm doing my job! Protecting Alpha Centauri and Archangel Raphael!" Though, even Baal could here in that sentence that those were the only jobs he was doing.
Baal yelled and back hitting their sword, but Aziraphale easily blocked, and blocked, and blocked and struck, a slice straight across Baal's face, and they cried out in pain, covering their face, which burned and bubbled. He was winning, he was doing his job, being loyal.
Ebal yelled, and ran at Aziraphale, their black curled, fuzzy hair like ears whipped in the wind, sword raised, and Raphael slammed his back to Aziraphale, spear raised and blocked the attack. Aziraphale paused and looked behind him, and Crowley caught his gaze, "I've got your back."
He fought (blocked) back to back with an injured Aziraphale that day, the first time he ever fought really, and he later healed the Principality in his personal chambers, he took care of the white haired angel.
"Why did you protect me, darling?" Crowley had asked, his golden glowing fingers had been on Aziraphale's arm. Why did you go against your friends? This isn't your Creation, darling...
"Why didn't She protect you, Crowley?" Aziraphale had asked back, and had been glaring up at the sky.
2 MONTHS LATER
It was happening. It was finally happening. A Rebellion. A Rebellion between Lucifer's Army, and God's Army, one that everyone had to fight in, without a saying.
Raphael, who still wasn't the best of fighters, was slow and sloppy, working his way through the Traitors, blocking more than fighting. Word had gotten to him that Aziraphale was apart of the Rebellion, the original Principality, he was protecting his friends, siding with them, he was now a Traitor, and so Raphael was fighting (blocking) his way through the sea of angels and Traitors, tying to find and get to Aziraphale.
He's already seen multiple angels, or Traitors as they're known now, struck by a blinding light, with a loud crash and bang. He had seen multiple Traitors fall through the floor, off the side of the flooring, he saw them plummet, down, down, down, through the sky. Their wings burning, on fire, slowly singeing feathers and skin, turning black. It was followed by pain filled screams and cursing. Honestly, Raphael was terrified, for everyone, mainly Aziraphale.
He's passed angels who were on the ground, injured and bleeding out golden blood, eyes glazed over and rigid. Their bodies merely fought over, and ignore, yells of pain and agony, with weapons covered in warm, gold liquid.
At this point, Raphael has no idea who was winning, or who was loosing. He didn't want to know!
Suddenly, he was tackled and he landed on the floor on with a yell of pain. He looked up to see pale orange eyes, and Raphael gasped out, "Lucas, please don't..." He wriggled, barely budging the Traitor. He couldn't. He's not a fighter...
"'Please'," whined Lucas, sarcastically. "Pathetic,” he spat, eyes pulled into a hateful glare. He raised his golden blood covered dagger above his head, ready to strike the Archangel.
Raphael tensed, and struggled weakly, he was prepared to turn to his snake form and flee, and possibly Fall for it, but suddenly, a figure slammed into Lucas, pushing him off the side of the flooring, sending him spiralling through the sky, down, and he screamed in pain and terror.
Aziraphale helped Crowley up, and cupped his angular face, running his thumb over the high cheekbone, "are you okay?!" He saw an angel running at him with a yell, and so he took the force of the tackle, and stayed standing, running his sword through the angels stomach without mercy. Aziraphale dropped the now dead angel, and he looked to Crowley, "archangel?"
Crowley suddenly hugged him, holding the (possible ex)Principality close, holding his (possible ex)lover close, "please." He whispered, and Aziraphale clung you him like a life line, his fingers digging into the Archangels back. "Please, please stop, darling," he begged, shaking. "Please, you can stop and we can sort this... we can go home, back to Alpha Centauri," he waved his hand to the stars, "please! Please, please, please darling..."
Aziraphale looked down shakily, "I never wanted this!" He admitted, voice croaked, and pulled away, gesturing with his Flaming Sword to the battle around them. "Never! I only wanted answers! Better food! They're my friends, and yes, some things I agree with, but not this! Never this! I'm just standing up for what I believe in, Crowley!"
"I never wanted this..." He whimpered out, squeezing the handle of the Flaming Sword. "I just, had nothing to do and they asked for help, and..." He looked up, helplessly and shaky, with golden tears running down his white cheeks, "God! When did we lose your reason?! Save us my God if you're there!” He gestured to his friends, and Crowley, "God can you not feel the terror?! It’s like a fire, in the air!”
A bolt of white, blue tinted lightening struck down on them, aimed at Crowley, well it would have, had Aziraphale not pushed Crowley out of the way to safety. The Principality lost his footing, and fell backwards and over the edge of Above. He stabbed his sword into the ground, gripping the handle and shaking eyes wide, "please, God!" He begged, dangling off the edge, legs flailing, eyes tearing up with golden tears.
Crowley's eyes widened, "Aziraphale!" He ran over, and held his hand out to grab him, reaching out. He's so close! So close! - Too late!
Lightening struck Aziraphale, and the ex-Principality had no choice but to let go of the sword, falling through the sky, hair and clothes whipping wildly in the wind, "Crowley!" His wings, they burned, fire, pain, stabbing, his eyes stung, and his stared at Crowley, as a pain filled scream escaped his lips, a scream that would leave his throat raw.
"Aziraphale!" Crowley screamed out, eyes wide full of golden tears and terror, leaning over the edge, still reaching. He would have followed the white haired angel Down, he would have Fallen with him, willingly, had it not been for Gabriel holding him back. He couldn't fly to him fast enough... “No!”
Aziraphale's angelic memories were gone the moment he hit Hell, gone, wiped. Who was he? Who was anyone? What was he before he Fell? Was he alone Up there? Satan, why does he want him personally? He has no clue, and he'll more than likely, never remember or regain those memories, however he's always known one thing, one thing for certain, one thing for sure, something he's known since before the Fall, something that carried with after the Fall.
"I never asked to be a demon."
Azirafell sat at a bar, on a small single, wooden table, and an empty whiskey glass held up, looking to the bartender. He had just asked for the 'same again!', and the bartender walked over, slamming down a bottle of... oh, has he been drinking wine? Not whiskey? Who cares, it does the same thing. Get him uncontrollably fucked.
He was explaining his woes, looking up to a bartender, who thought the now grey haired male was just drunk, and having had a rough day. He had no idea, of course, just how bad of a day it really was. He walked off immediately after.
"I was just minding my own business one day," Azirafell slurred out, looking up to the sky drunkenly, "and then..." He swayed in his seat with a sneer, "oh, lookie here, it's Lucifer and the guys!" He cheered, drunk and sarcastic. He looked to his left, "oh, hey," he shrugged, "the food hadn't been that good lately." He looked to the right, "I didn't have anything on for the rest of that afternoon!" He looked down, voice choked and thick with tears, "next thing, I'm-m-m, ah, uh, doing a-a million-light-year freestyle dive into a pool of boiling sulphur!" He wailed out, voice broken and bloody tears down his face. (Not that anyone saw the blood of course, even in his drunken state he made sure of that. (Technically, demons don't cry. They aren't meant to, at least.))
He grabbed the bottle, and began trying to open it, and lightening stuck, and rain thundered. He looked up and paused, a frown on his face and he squinted, "uh... Crowley?" He whimpered out with a drunk groan, seeing a wobbly figure, transparent and warped in the seat in front of him, and it reflected onto his glasses. I mean, it looked like Crowley, but he could be wrong, "are you here?" He asked, seeming a bit more sober, as he pulled up his glasses, placing them on his forehead, fully squinting his blue goat eyes. He was less sad now, maybe Crowley was there! Or, it might be a drunk hallucination, even so he’ll grasp onto it.
"Good question." Sniffed the warping figure of Crowley, "ngk, not sure. Never done this before." He admitted, warily as he looked around. "Can y’hear me?!" He yelled.
Azirafell's eyes were wide in shock, and his glasses fell over his eyes again, loosing the friction from his frown lines, "of course I can hear you!" He let go of the bottle of alcohol.
"I've made a mess ‘f things." Crowley sighed, defeated so it seemed. He seemed choked up, (and he was, he didn’t trust his husband. He trusted Heaven instead, and it made him sick.) He asked, "did y'go to Alpha Centauri?" All nice, and soft, kind, just the way he always his.
Azirafell shook his head with a drunk, pursed lipped wince, "no, I changed my mind." He was calm, relishing the angels kindness. He paused. "Things happened," he explained, his features turning soft and sad, seemingly heartbroken and he held back a sob, "I lost my husband." He admitted, choked up, lips pulled into a sad, pain filled grimace, as fresh tears formed, rolling down his cheeks in hot, sulphur smelling pelts. They rivalled the rain outside.
Crowley reached up, and held his goat necklace that had now appeared back on his neck, right were it should be. “'M sorry t' hear, darling," he shook his head, eyes closed. "Look, back at the shop there's a book I need y't' get..."
Suddenly, Azirafell's face crumpled to one of sadness, regret with a hint of distress all over again. Worse than before, somehow. "Oh, listen," he rested his chin on the palm of his hand and leaned forward, (screw his gentleman-like manners!) "Your florist isn't there anymore, my dearest." He informed, sadly, and softly, as if that was the saddest thing to happen at the moment. As if that was the end of the world. As if that was worse than loosing a husband. He was worried it would break the poor angel.
"Wot?" Asked Crowley, in heartbrokenly soft confusion.
"I'm really, and truly sorry, my love. It burned down." Informed the demon regretfully, being as soft, and gentle as possible. His voice was wavering and quivering.
The angels face fell more, voice broken slightly, “all 'f it?"
Azirafell sniffed, "uh, nu, em, erm, uh, yes." He was again, cradling the drink to his chest, "what-what was the book?"
Crowley took a deep, shaky breatj, "the one the lady with the bike dropped." He explained, voice clearly wavering at the thought of his home and his plants, dead and gone. "The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of—"
"Agnes Nutter!" Choked Azirafell in a triumphant yell of delight, pulling out the book from his jacket, "yes, I took it!" He held the book out to the ghostly figure, it was burned and tattered, and he pointed to the title, jabbing his finger into it. His voice was croaked and scratchy, choked and despaired. He practically shoved it in the angels face.
"You have it?" Asked Crowley with a smile, looking around, not able to see.
"Look, souvenir!" Cheered the demon, drunk and hazy, still pointing to the title, his eyes basically screaming; 'be proud of me!'
"Look inside. I made notes, and y'r necklace is 'n there!" Crowley smiled, hands clamped around his own necklace, there was hope yet.
Azirafell looked down, and looked through the notes, flipping through the book carelessly, "I'm wearing it again!" He pulled out the necklace from his neck, showing it off proudly to whoever dared to look, "whenever I see you again, I'm going to kiss you I swear!" He pulled out a folded piece of paper and began unfolding, looking through the notes. Luckily, they weren’t too damaged.
Crowley blushed, "it's all there. Kids name, address. Everythin' else. Worked it all ou'."
"You brilliant angel, you! Look," Azirafell said, looking up, eyes soft. He need Crowley, "wherever you are, I'll come to you. Where are you?" He asked, desperately squinting, trying to figure out what exactly he was looking at, trying to figure out where his husband was.
Crowley looked around, eyes glazed, "ngk, I-I-I'm not really anywhere. I've been discorporated." He explained with a frown.
"Oh." Nodded Azirafell in remorse, still drunk.
"You need t' get t' Tadfield Air Base." Explained Crowley.
Azirafell looked down at the map, and saw the airbase circled with a pencil, and asked, "w-why?"
"World endin'." Crowley answered, and the demon looked up. "That's where it's all gonna happen. Soon now." He seemed sad, "I'll head there too. I just need t' find a willin’ body." He sighed, "harder than you'd think."
"I'm not going to go there." Mumbled Azirafell, a dazed sneer on his face, and a shake of his head.
"I need a body." Sighed Crowley, "shame I can't share yours!" He laughed lightly, swallowing.
Azirafell made this goat, whine noise of discomfort, one that sounded like a groan.
"Angel, demon..." Smiled Crowley, shyly and nervously, even he knew it was a bad idea.
"Probably explode." Finished Azirafell, drunkenly.
Crowley shook his head, letting out a, "bluh! Yeah, uh, ngk, hmm... meet y'at Tadfield."
Azirafell drunkenly nodded, "right, we're both gonna have to get a bit of a wiggle-on." He said, looking down to the angels notes.
"Wot?" Came Crowley's confused, echoed voice, his nose scrunched up.
"Tadfield Air Base, right?" Asked Azirafell, confused as he looked up suddenly, watching the angel fade away into nothing.
"I heard that." The angel sneered fondly. "It was the 'wiggle-on'." And, he was suddenly gone.
Azirafell leaned back in his chair, and raised his hands as if to say; 'what's wrong with the term 'wiggle-on'?!' He looked around the room, as if searching for answer, before deciding; he needed to sober up.
The door bell rang, and Madame Tracy, in her green flower dress and with her styled, lovely red haired wig, rushed over to open it. There stood two women, and a man, battling off the rain, and wind. Madame Tracy smiled, and greeted them "enter all seekers after wisdom." They piled in. "Only if you are prepared to part the veil, and receive wisdom from those who have gone before." She hurried out noticing the pink umbrella inside out, and she shut the door to get a move on with the session, fighting to keep it shut.
"We are here to receive your wisdom, Madame Tracy." Panted Mrs. Ormorod, she wore a dark green hat on her head and was rather short, covered head to toe in rain.
Madame Tracy nodded, and walked on. She got them seated around a table with a crystal ball on, and thunder rumbled, as the smell of boiling sprouts filled the air. "Oh! Very good weather for a séance." Smiled Madame Tracy, with a delighted gasp, holding onto her seat.
"Did you have them do it special, the weather," asked the other woman, Julia, waving her hand around. "With your psychicness?" She wore too much silver headdress in her hair, and green eye shadow, as she believed it gave her a gaunt and haunted look.
"No, dear." Answered Madame Tracy, shaking her head.
Julia kept smiling, as Mrs. Ormorod shoved past her, sitting down, setting her small black leather bag down. She noticed none of them moved, and impatiently said, "they're waiting for us!" Everyone began sitting down, and the small lady in the green hat said, "our Ron and the spirits, they're waiting!"
"And we are looking forward to hearing what they are going to say to us, after we've made our donations." Assured Madame Tracy, hastily.
Immediately, Mrs. Ormorod, Julia and Mr. Scroggie, the third guest, who was thin and pallid, began fishing out money from their pockets, bags and purses.
Crowley had to find a host to inhabit.
Madame Tracy sat with her eyes closed, her eyes shut as she sat in silence, holding hands with Mr. Scroggie and Mrs. Ormorod. She learned the hard way that two minutes were reasonable, anything longer or less felt wrong, or like a scam - she was going through her shopping list in her head. She made a noise, "oh. Pfft." She titled her head, as if blowing dust off her shoulder.
Mrs. Ormorod leaned forward, "she's going under." She assured, seeing Julia's confused look and Mr. Scroggie's curious gaze. "Nothing to be alarmed about. She's just making herself a bridge to the other side." The two guests, who didn't come as regularly as Mrs. Ormorod, nodded as if they understood, watching as Madame Tracy jerked her head, this way and that. "Her spirit guide will be along soon."
Suddenly, Madame Tracy sighed, and yelled out, "oh! Are you there, my spirit guide?!"
Julia and Mr. Scroggie were intrigued and amazed. Mrs. Ormorod jumped in shock.
"Ah, begorrah..." She answered herself in a Scottish accent, her voice soft and childlike, her face black, "'tis me. Little Colleen O'Leary."
Mrs. Ormorod leaned forward to explain, "Colleen died in Dublin in 1746 when she was nine years old." Explained the woman, as Madame Tracy sang quietly. "But she was very psychic!" She looked to Madame Tracy, "Colleen. Hello, dear. Is my Ron with you?" She asked, "I've got so much to tell him!"
Madame Tracy also learned to bring Ron out last, as Mrs. Ormorod went on, and on, and on, and didn't stop. She gasped, and flinched wildly, jerking, "oh! Ah, Colleen wants to know if there's anyone named Mr. Scroggie here?" She asked in her normal voice, staring into the ball, as if thinking.
Mr. Scroggie smiled all kind, and friendly, "actually, that's my name." His eyes were watery, and hopeful.
Mrs. Ormorod rolled her eyes.
"Yes." Agreed Madame Tracy, looking to him. "Well, Colleen wants to know if you've ever known anyone named... " She stared into the ball, "John." She tried.
Mr. Scroggie paused and shook his head, "no."
"Or it could be Jim." Offered Madame Tracy, not noticing Mrs. Ormorod get more, and more annoyed at the lack of Ron.
"Tom?" She tried again.
"Steve?" She shook her head.
He paused, eyes lighting up as if he recognised the name, but then said, "no."
"Dave?" She offered, seemingly bored.
"I knew a Dave from Hemel Hempstead." Said Mr. Scroggie, with a smile reminding one of fond memories.
"Yes!" Agreed Madame Tracy quickly. "So, you see, that's what he's saying. He's saying Hemel Hempstead. He wants you to know that he's doing very well," her voice turned grave, "beyond the veil."
Mr. Scroggie looked shocked, and rather doubtful, puzzled too, "I saw him walking his dog the other day and he looked perfectly healthy!"
"People go very suddenly." Julia said, voice stern and was siding with Madame Tracy. "Like my Mum."
Mrs. Ormorod said, voice stern and snappy, "your Mum can bloody well wait her turn, Julia Petley!" She was unaware of Madame Tracy hunching over, cheeks puffing out in a gag. "I've been coming here for seven years. I do have seniority." She looked to the wig wearing ginger, "now, you tell my Ron—"
Suddenly, an elephant noise escaped Madame Tracy's red, painted mouth, loudly. She groaned, inhaling harshly, as the lightening and thunder picked up outside. She screamed.
"Is it our Ron?!" Asked Mrs. Ormorod, in slight fear.
Julia looked alarmed, while Mr. Scroggie looked excited.
"No, it's something real!" Madame Tracy said, in shock and amazement, fear as well. She squealed, and panted, then snarled sticking out her tongue, the pursed her lips together blowing. Then she began singing 'Can Can' by Offenbach. She panted and heaved, howling in high pitched voice. They looked tense, and worried, she belched.
Suddenly, she took a sharp intake of air, opened her eyes and asked, in a southern, flashy and serpent like voice; "Sprechen sie Deutsch?"
Julia looked incredibly confused.
"Is that you, Ron?" Mrs. Ormorod asked, soft and careful.
"Ron?" Scoffed the voice, the male voice. "Nah, ain't Ron." She let out a male, serpent laugh.
"Well, I want to speak to Ron Ormorod." Mrs. Ormorod demand, looking at Madame Tracy in surprise and annoyance. "He's rather short, balding on top. Can you put me through, please?" She snapped, spitting out the words like venom.
Julia and Mr. Scorggie looked to her confused and amazed, how was she so calm after that?
"Ah, ngk, there is a spirit matching that description tryin' to get our attention." Said the voice, mixed with Madame Tracy's voice. "I'll hand you over, but y'need be quick." The ending was more of a mans voice now. "I'm tryin' t' stop the Apocalypse!"
"Right." She agreed, shuffling in her seat. She seemed reluctant to agree with the spirit.
It thundered again, lightening struck. Madame Tracy let out a squeal, tensing up, "dining at the Ritz we'll meet at nine precisely—" She sang out in a male voice.
She let out a horrid screech, head thrown back, then paused, frozen and tense, lips forming a small circle. Hyperventilating, eyes darting around wildly, a mans rough voice came through, "hello, Brenda."
Mrs. Ormorod looked shocked, "Ron? What... you sound like... you." For all the years she's been coming here, Ron has always sounded like Madame Tracy, not Ron.
Julia looked confused, and Mr. Scorggie was intrigued.
Madame Tracy stared at nothing, or well Ron, stared at nothing, and he said, "I am me, B-Brenda. It's c-c-cold here." He said, stuttering, tense his muscles solid as a rock.
Mrs. Ormorod nodded, letting out a deep breath, "right, so I went to our Krystal's wedding last weekend." She said, going into her long tale, getting on with the session. She looked to Julia and Mr. Scroggie, "that's our Tracy's eldest. And they start serving Korean food. Well, I can take a joke as well as the next woman." She laughed. The other two looked bored.
Ron gagged out, cheeks puffed, "Brenda!"
"I'm getting to the good bit." Assured Mrs. Ormorod in a snappish tone, "so, I hold up the kimchi and I say, 'What you expect me to do with this, then?' Whereupon, without even the grace to look ashamed..."
Madame Tracy was gagging and shuffling and all sorts, heaving, and finally, Ron roared out, "BRENDA!" The room shook, and the thunder and lightening picked up.
Mrs. Ormorod, who liked Ron previously as he always listened and said he was happy beyond the veil, asked shocked and rather horrified, "yes, Ron?"
"Y-Y-You never g-gave me a-a chance," stuttered Ron. Julia looked terrified, like she was ready to cry. Mr. Scroggie was amazed. "To g-g-get a word in edgeways when-when we were married! And now I'm dead!" He yelled out, tone rough and harsh. "Oh! There's only one thing I want to tell you!"
"You've never spoken to me like this before." Grumbled Mrs. Ormorod, missing Mr. Scroggie's excited look. She looked to him, and said, "Ron, remember your heart condition." Something she'd always say to get him to calm down when he used that tone of voice with her.
"I don't have a heart anymore!" Shouted Ron, and he began laughing madly, rocking back and forth in the chair. The thunder and lightening went crazy. "And Brenda?"
"Yes, Ron?" Asked Mrs. Ormorod in horror.
Madame Tracy gave out wheezes, and stood up, shoved her face into Mrs. Ormorod's face, and screamed in Ron's voice, "SHUT UP!" His yelling matched with Mrs. Ormorod's shrieks of fear, and Julia joined in with the yelling in fear, Mr. Scroggie was having a grand old time! Ron's voice turned to a high pitch squealing, and howling and, Madame Tracy fell into her seat, as stiff as a board, pulling her hand down with a deep breath.
Everything fell silent, and still, and became tense, filled with fear. You could suffocate.
Suddenly, she looked around, and said in the serpent like male voice, "wasn't that sweet?" She smiled, or he smiled, uh someone smiled. "Right, well, uh, great meetin' ya'll." She jerked her hands up, "out!" They stared at her, and suddenly Madame Tracy and the man said, waving her hands, "show's over!"
Mrs Ormorod, angry and confused collected her bad, and Julia pushed herself out of the chair nervously, also getting her bag.
"World to save! Can't lollygag!" He, or she, or someone barfed suddenly, "can't believe I just that! That's all Azirafell!"
Mr. Scroggie smiled, and got up, shaking her hand, "well, that's very good value. Very entertaining!"
"Glad you enjoyed it." Grumbled Madame Tracy, unsure of what was going on, on what had just happened.
The guests now gone, she picked up her red kettle and began making herself and Sergeant Shadwell (who was shell-shocked, asleep in the other room) a cup of tea. She was confused as to what had happened, that's never happened before, ever! She looked over, and caught herself in the mirror, only...she did a double take. It wasn't her, it was... a tall, red haired male with golden eyes, with high, strong cheek bones, skinny and rather angular features, with a golden goat necklace worn with pride.
She set down the kettle, and walked over, the figure moved too, they stared at each other. She wore a confused frown, he wore a confused frown... until he smiled, all friendly and waved happily, showing off golden bracelets swirled up his arms. That threw her off.