Lacey52



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  1. Public Bookmark *

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    “Crowley is no longer affiliated with you.” The angel manages to sound indignant, of all things. “I—that is, he even got it in writing. Signed by three of Hell’s kings. It’s all very official.”

    “Well, we’re not here in any official capacity,” Hastur says. “It’s more of a personal visit. Friendly chat, that sort of thing.”

    If he was indignant before, Aziraphale is outright angry now. “You’re not his friends. You hurt him.”

    “Of course we did,” Ligur says, as if the angel is particularly slow. And he might well be, if he needs this much spelled out. “We’re demons.

    “You tortured him,” Aziraphale presses, unrelenting. 

    “It’s Hell,” Hastur says impatiently. “It’s ninety-nine-percent torture on a slow day.”

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    15 Jun 2025

  2. Public Bookmark 33

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    The thing of it is, angels love very broadly. Anyone who knows Aziraphale[1] can see this. He loves fine weather and fine art, fine foods and fine wine, books and ducks and humanity as a whole. All creatures great and small, et cetera. He’s an angel. They’re built that way.

    Crowley, though. Crowley has lived in the world as long as Aziraphale, but he’s a demon. And demons can love, he’s learned, but it’s—complicated. It isn’t quite natural; it takes effort, time. Crowley is fairly sure he’s the only demon who’s managed it at all[2], and he’s only managed it four measly times.

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    15 Jun 2025

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    “You are everything you need,” Nanny had said before she left, a hand on his hair. Then, secret, soft enough that mom couldn’t hear, “What do you do when they push?”

    It was their familiar back and forth, from as early as his nursery school days, when the other children would make fun of his name or his accent. When he would come home with bruises or skinned knees and Nanny would make everything better with a frown and a snap of her fingers. What do you do when they push? she would ask.

    Standing there in the foyer with his arms wrapped around the only person who loved him, weeping into her shirt, Warlock knew what she was waiting to hear:

    Push back.

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    15 Jun 2025

  4. Public Bookmark *

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    Aziraphale remembers a winter afternoon in 1783, all but forgotten after that close call during the Reign of Terror a decade later, when Crowley burst into his flat with shining eyes and mussed hair and clothes still rumpled from travel.

    “They’re flying, angel!” he’d said, buoyed by his own disbelief and wonder and ecstatic, aching pride. “Two brothers in Annonay, they’ve built a balloon! They were only up for a few minutes, but they really flew!”

    And how, Aziraphale thought back then, has thought a hundred times since, how could he have Fallen? This bright and beautiful thing? As close to blasphemy as he dared venture in those days, Aziraphale would look at Crowley with love a vast and painful secret in his heart and wonder how.

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    15 Jun 2025

  5. Public Bookmark *

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    For now-- for a little while, at least-- there is time to rest. Crowley can press into the warmth of Aziraphale’s hands and know he is safe.

    Aziraphale can hold him and know the same.

    “Never you mind, my dear,” Aziraphale says, his heart full. “I’ll carry you the rest of the way.”

    It’s his turn, he thinks, to bear some of the weight.

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    15 Jun 2025