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He’d been so distracted with Hastur, he hadn’t even noticed Micheal come up from behind him; not until he felt the blessed blade of their sword punching though his corporation and occult body simultaneously.
It /burned/
He had to laugh though, dread mixing with the odd realization that it wasn’t the worst thing he’d felt; falling had burned so much more; Her grace being purged from him for all eternity was nothing like this pin prick of pain.
The thing way. The thing was, he wasn’t sure he was going t survive this one.
He hadn’t thought would of survived loosing her grace, until he did. The Sulfur had been a painful balm to the burning inside of him after, a fire of it’s own that destroyed any nerves left to feel the pain.
He’d always privately thought it funny that the angels where given flaming swords to fight creatures born of fire. To see flames burning from his chest, finally showing the fire he’d felt in him for six thousand years, finally brought out for all to see, if not for the blessed blade fueling it
Hastur had sprung away, as careful to avoid the fire begging to consume Crowley as he'd avoid the water that had washed Ligur away. Micheal twisted the blade, calm in their curly as apposed to the glee on Hastur face, before withdrawing the blade.
The holy flames left when they did, leaving only the black ichor of a punctured true form to drip out like thick tar, slow black molten lava. Little flames burst out on his clothes where the split touched, the wood under his feet sizzling and flickering where he’s begun to bleed out
His human lungs began to fill with it, a burning of it’s own, and when it threatened to start bubbling up his throat, he banished the organs away in an attempt to chance a lingering peace in his rapidly approaching death.
He fell to his knees, hands bracing on the fine wood grain under his fingers, the smell of smouldering wood bothering him more then the darkness gathering in the corners of his vision. His ears willed with the roaring of his own blood, and he lurched to his feet once again, trying to pull away from the false real memories fighting for his attention.
This wasn’t the bookshop.
This wasn’t the end of the world
Aziraphale wasn’t gone.
But if he didn’t pull it together, he was going to be alone. Forever. His angel who thought of suicide pills and had finally given up his horrible hateful family – his whole species! – and had chosen the mayfly lives of humans and had chosen Crowley.
Aziraphale wouldn’t go back to heaven anymore – even if they would take him back, he couldn’t choose than anymore. And no way in burning hell was Crowley going to let him face that alone.
His human corporation was burning. Melting. Cooking. But for not it was still fleshy, and Crowley had something no demon or angel, not even Aziraphale, had – creativity in spades. He once helped create starts from dust of the universe.
Pulling a new form together now was a cake walk. The materials at his pull far more advanced than the once he once had to work with, and he gleefully spun it together, pulling pieces of Hastur away to patch in the of his own, pulling parts of Micheal form away from them to reinforce it.
They wanted to work together to try and destroy him; he'd use the both of them then to [...]
His angel is her now; Crowley cowers. Can he tell? Can he smell the rot of Hastur on him? The stagnation of Micheal? Can he see the raw burning edges to Crowley's real form, fire still leaking out at the gaping wound the archangel's blade tore though him?
Must do. Aziraphale places a palm on the newly knitted flesh over the black hole raging inside him; a cool nudge of ethereal power brushing against occult (edges). A glacial lake, a mountain spring, the cold chilly arctic plunge of grace. Crowley wondered if that’s what holy water feels like, before the (power) ebbs away, leaving only the human wrath of the angel beside him.
They don't talk, not yet, instead existing together in the aftermath of too close a call. Crowley things on a long ago made rush across town, accompanied only by a dial tone. He holds Aziraphale close, chasing the feeling from himself as much as driving from his friend before it can fester; his angel came charging in at the ready, had known something had gone amiss. Had he been told, or had he piece it tighter on his own. He was clever enough for it, but Crowley pray it was not the case, prayed that Aziraphale had not been alone with that discovery.
It /burned/
He had to laugh though, dread mixing with the odd realization that it wasn’t the worst thing he’d felt; falling had burned so much more; Her grace being purged from him for all eternity was nothing like this pin prick of pain.
The thing way. The thing was, he wasn’t sure he was going t survive this one.
He hadn’t thought would of survived loosing her grace, until he did. The Sulfur had been a painful balm to the burning inside of him after, a fire of it’s own that destroyed any nerves left to feel the pain.
He’d always privately thought it funny that the angels where given flaming swords to fight creatures born of fire. To see flames burning from his chest, finally showing the fire he’d felt in him for six thousand years, finally brought out for all to see, if not for the blessed blade fueling it
Hastur had sprung away, as careful to avoid the fire begging to consume Crowley as he'd avoid the water that had washed Ligur away. Micheal twisted the blade, calm in their curly as apposed to the glee on Hastur face, before withdrawing the blade.
The holy flames left when they did, leaving only the black ichor of a punctured true form to drip out like thick tar, slow black molten lava. Little flames burst out on his clothes where the split touched, the wood under his feet sizzling and flickering where he’s begun to bleed out
His human lungs began to fill with it, a burning of it’s own, and when it threatened to start bubbling up his throat, he banished the organs away in an attempt to chance a lingering peace in his rapidly approaching death.
He fell to his knees, hands bracing on the fine wood grain under his fingers, the smell of smouldering wood bothering him more then the darkness gathering in the corners of his vision. His ears willed with the roaring of his own blood, and he lurched to his feet once again, trying to pull away from the false real memories fighting for his attention.
This wasn’t the bookshop.
This wasn’t the end of the world
Aziraphale wasn’t gone.
But if he didn’t pull it together, he was going to be alone. Forever. His angel who thought of suicide pills and had finally given up his horrible hateful family – his whole species! – and had chosen the mayfly lives of humans and had chosen Crowley.
Aziraphale wouldn’t go back to heaven anymore – even if they would take him back, he couldn’t choose than anymore. And no way in burning hell was Crowley going to let him face that alone.
His human corporation was burning. Melting. Cooking. But for not it was still fleshy, and Crowley had something no demon or angel, not even Aziraphale, had – creativity in spades. He once helped create starts from dust of the universe.
Pulling a new form together now was a cake walk. The materials at his pull far more advanced than the once he once had to work with, and he gleefully spun it together, pulling pieces of Hastur away to patch in the of his own, pulling parts of Micheal form away from them to reinforce it.
They wanted to work together to try and destroy him; he'd use the both of them then to [...]
His angel is her now; Crowley cowers. Can he tell? Can he smell the rot of Hastur on him? The stagnation of Micheal? Can he see the raw burning edges to Crowley's real form, fire still leaking out at the gaping wound the archangel's blade tore though him?
Must do. Aziraphale places a palm on the newly knitted flesh over the black hole raging inside him; a cool nudge of ethereal power brushing against occult (edges). A glacial lake, a mountain spring, the cold chilly arctic plunge of grace. Crowley wondered if that’s what holy water feels like, before the (power) ebbs away, leaving only the human wrath of the angel beside him.
They don't talk, not yet, instead existing together in the aftermath of too close a call. Crowley things on a long ago made rush across town, accompanied only by a dial tone. He holds Aziraphale close, chasing the feeling from himself as much as driving from his friend before it can fester; his angel came charging in at the ready, had known something had gone amiss. Had he been told, or had he piece it tighter on his own. He was clever enough for it, but Crowley pray it was not the case, prayed that Aziraphale had not been alone with that discovery.
