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Aziraphale and this… creature have been walking for a while now.
He and Crowley had been in the park when it happened.
There was a sudden storm — flashes of lightning and thunder sending ice through their veins.
Neither Heaven or Hell had bothered them since their failed executions. Noone had bothered them for years, but the dread coursing through the angel’s body so real and so present that he could only assume the worst.
In his panic, he had ordered for Crowley to run and hide. He had made them separate, a stupid move really, but he couldn’t risk his beloved being taken Above.
He steeled himself and set out to look for incoming angels. There were none. There was nothing for a moment.
Another flash of light behind him.
Aziraphale turned just in time to see a red-headed figure enveloped by lighting.
He sobbed and screamed, choking on air that he didn’t need.
He ran. Sprinting and falling, trying to reach for his closest, dearest friend.
There was no time to think of his wings or how they could propel him faster. All Aziraphale’s frantic brain could think was “Oh God, not him, please don’t hurt him. Bring him back to me, please.”
When he finally reached the spot, Aziraphale couldn’t help but think something was wrong.
He’d seen the lightning.
It meant transportation or a swift smite. Crowley should be gone, and Aziraphale should be hurtling towards Heaven in vengeance.
He wasn’t gone.
The Crowley he knew hated threats from Above and Below. Each visit never failed to leave the demon in some state of unease.
Every visit prior to the apocalypse-that-wasn't rendered him an energetic, anxious, pacing mess. He’d calmed down over the years, but Aziraphale knew that fire and storms still left him tense. Always joking, trying to cover his fears with an uneasy (and unconvincing) smile.
Looking at Crowley now made the angel’s stomach drop.
Never, in the 6000 years of knowing Crowley, had the angel seen him wear that particular smile.
Crowley was fine-looked absolutely delighted.
Shakily, he concentrated enough to spread his awareness around the park. No ethereal beings other than Aziraphale. No occult beings. At all.
Aziraphale clears his throat, eyeing the strange thing before him.
‘Crowley’ turned, shoulders tensing before lowering in feigned calm. Another smile is plastered on the look alike’s face as he remarks on the weird change of weather.
Aziraphale stares for a moment, thinking of his options. It’s long enough to prompt a nervous chuckle out of the other, but short enough to be passed off as thoughtful glance.
“Yes, quite strange.”
He can play this game.
He knew Crowley was more than capable of saving himself, knew that the doppelganger knew where he’d be held.
He’ll play this fool for a sucker and pick up his beloved in time for lunch.
This being looked like Crowley, impeccably so, but it was embarrassingly obvious that they hadn’t spent too much time studying him before stealing his looks.
The “demon” made it a point to walk a few paces ahead (utterly lacking all the intricate hip work his husband usually puts into his gait), quickly stepping past corners, trying to shake the persistent beige man off his trail.
Aziraphale just smiled and waved each time ‘he’ looked over his shoulder. This got old relatively quickly.
It wasn’t anywhere near lunchtime, but the angel was losing his patience.
He wanted to walk by his husband. He wanted to take the other’s hand and gently peck his cheek and relish in the soft embarrassed ‘Ngk.’
Mind made up, Aziraphale follows ‘Crowley’ as ‘he’ darts into a dingy alleyway.
Crowley hates these types of places. Too much of humanity’s worst occur in dark, messy hideaways like these. He hated the smell and the puddles of unnamed, disgusting fluids that line it.
Silently, Aziraphale closes the meter distance between them in less than a second. He rests a gentle hand on his “love’s” shoulder and smiles softly at the being.
“You know my dear…”
The hand on the creature’s shoulder tightens and moves, forcing “Crowley” to face him.
“I don’t quite remember seeing your tattoo without its tongue out.”
His voice is deceptively sweet. Honeyed in a way that just barely sweetens malicious intent.
“Crowley” tsks in a voice that isn’t his own and jerks away from the angel’s grip. A ripple of light reveals a man-shaped figure.
He has long, black, slicked-back hair. The clothes he dawns is decidedly not typical of humans.
Aziraphale flicks his eyes to the being’s hands. Twin daggers to match the fierce look in green eyes.
The angel tuts disapprovingly but makes no move to attack or retreat. He does, however, scrunch up his nose when the poor imposter of his love has the gall to speak.
“That small of a detail? Really? You know him pretty well, what is he? Your boyfriend?”
Aziraphale frowns at the taunts, then smiles menacing and a tad too wide for the loving being he’s supposed to be.
“Dear child, I lied.”
There’s a gust of wind — the weird smell of ozone and electricity in the air.
“I knew you were fake the second I laid eyes on you at the park.” There’s a smile as he says this. The other doesn’t like it.
Aziraphale spreads his wings, vast and threatening, before grabbing the brat by his lapels and yanking him a few feet off the ground.
“Now, you pathetic swine, tell me…”
There’s a crackle in the sky, but Loki knows it’s not his brother. The previously blue sky darkens, electricity and adrenaline crawling up the imposter’s back.
He should have surrendered and gone with his brother back in the park.
He would take all of his brother’s swings and bolts of lightning if it meant he could get away from the man in front of him.
Looking down at him, the taunt Loki prepared dies in his throat, warping into a horrified gasp.
There’s wings, so many wings.
The face of the once timid looking man was now intermingled with a terrible mix of lion and eagle and bull.
And the eyes, oh god.
On each wing, each feather, each available spot of skin were wide ice blue eyes. All of them blinking and moving to look at different things at varying speeds.
The trickster let out a pitiful whimper when they all focus on him, all at once ablaze with anger and cold with malice.
“Where is my husband?”