Eustass Kidd for Pirate King

Crowley snarled at the ensemble of angels, spitting venom - quite literally - at any that tried to step forward. Had he not been quite so stressed out, he may have noted this group was not lead by Michael - in fact she didn't appear to be present at all - but by the archangel Chamel. he'd had run ins with her before, but she'd never given him more trouble than was strictly necessary, a nd often seemed more amused with him than offended. Finally, they group stepped back, leaving Crowley coiled tightly on himself, glaring. He could see Rapheal gesturing at him, but he wouldn't let them any closer than any of the others. Finally - strangest, it was /Uriel/ how moved. she pulled the strange pearl from Haniel, and marched forward, sphere thrust out in front of her like the worlds worse shield. Crowley would smash right though it if he had too - he'd warned her he was ready to bite, pulled back, ready to ... to... it wasn't a pearl he might be half blind and bleeding out, but Crowley knew his angel when he saw him. a far cry from the crumbling salt Crowley had seen him last, this tiny spark of Aziraphale was nestled inside the sphere of Haniel's light. it had hardened into a protective barrier - an egg almost - Crowley thought hysterically. he froze in place, watching Uriel very carefully. he wasn't sure he'd be able to stop her from dropping it - or worse, throwing it should she feel like it, so it was a stand off until he moved forward again, easing the pearl into the his coils between them.

the archangels have not all been gathered together since the fight that lead to half of Heaven being removed. There had been attempts, in the aftermath, to get them together to decide how to move forward, but there was always at least one the could not face seeing them all... and more importantly, seeing the empty space where others had been.

After, some even left the realm of Humans altogether. There had been fear that they would Fall too, but it seemed that it was their sorrow that turned them away from Her newest creation, and nothing against the Earth itself, and they retained their grace.

As more and more drifted away, it became clear that the archangels that remained would half to shoulder more and more responsibilities. After her defeat of Samuel, Michael easily filled the role of lead when it came to Heaven's role in guiding Earth, and most of the other angels either fell in line or drifted away. Losing so many of their ranks had turned the idea of dissent into treason, and minds that did not fall in line simply left.

Haniel, Chamiel, and Ariel still circled in and out of this part of the universe, but tended to d their own things, sent out with missives from te Almighty, but generally hands off with Humanity. Azrael and Raphael where constants on earth, but their duties where so all encompassing that they rarely had time to be consulted on the management of human issues. Azreal had arrived at the end of the world because they where expected to be there, but had no opinion on the matter either way.

Gabriel wasn't entirely sure Raphael had been consulted at all. the other three clearly had not, and he and Uriel found themselves arriving to a literal screaming match between them and Micheal, Sandelphon and Metatron. Well. a screaming match between Chameil and Micheal.

Not wanted to enter the argument - they would be seen as supporting Micheal's stance - and potentially alienating Haneil... or worse, alerting Micheal to potential second thoughts on this route of actions he's put into place ... Gabriel look the penance bowl from Uriel, as she reached out to Haneil with the gift they both shared.

Haneil perked up immediately at Uriel's brightness, looking over them in concern, but subtly, intuitively understanding Uriel's desire for discretion. Haneil nudged Chamiel's passions, launching her into a new tirade, and easily slipping away from the group.

"Uriel, Gabriel." Haneil greeted them causionly. He wasn't looking to rehash whatever argument was happening behind them, and regarded them both with some suspicion. Gabiel lead them away from being spotted by Micheal, uncertain himself. Finally, Uriel presented the vessel to Haniel, whose face immediately crumbled, hands delicately touching the small swirl of mist

"The poor dear, how has this happened?"

they offered nothing to begin with, and Haneil poured light into the mist, helping it stabilize. He did not let it go however, and once the angel in his hand was no longer slipping away, he turned his attention to Gabriel. "What can do this to an angel?"

There is something calling out to him in the dark.

Unfortunately, no matter how much he tried to follow the call, his own light washes the shadows away, the sound always just a step to far for him to catch up too.

He can't hear what it's saying, no matter how hard he listens. If he follows, it runs. If he stays put, it never comes closer, never speaks louder.

it's frustrating, to hear it murmured in the dark, so close yet forever too far away. He tries to smother his own light, tries to snuff out himself to dray the voice closer, but while it grows louder he still can't understand it.

knowledge lurking at the corners of his being, forever out of reach.

it's how Crowley finds him finally, his grace muffled almost into nonexistence - teetering on being forever lost - straining against his own nature to listen. the serpent shakes him back into awareness, spewing hateful words in his fear as he draws the ethereal nature back to itself.

the light flickers....

grace, while bright light, is not a flame. just as the fire that burns in him has no light. grace is a mist to his fire. too much grace will smother his flame. to much flame will dry out and destroy grace. they have walked a very careful line foe along time.

the grace is almost gone. Crowley has to extinguish his own infernal flame to the point of near nonexistence before approaching. he coaxed the mist, the brightness. if fight him - curses him, tells him to quiet, he's trying to hear.

he will hate himself later, when he realizes it was a trap, but now he does nothing but rage as Crowley drags his grace out, pulling it like the cloud of a nebula he once shaped.

the call fades in the light.

it's a competition between which is louder; the beating of Crowley's heart or the dripping of demonic blood.

He's still staked in place, the occult array active - even more powerful now that it’s been soaked with gallons of split fuel from Hastur's cronies - and dampening his own abilities just as much as the infernal nails driven into his fleshy form. One of the spikes that was driven though his shoulder has torn the limb completely free, but if Crowley can survive this circle, he can grow it back as soon as he's recovered. his limbs aren't real anyway, so he can grow them back as many times as he pleases, later.

Hastur, great big coward he is, already fled when the smiting began, and Crowley is left alone with the bright holy power of an angel.

His occult senses are too muddled by the combined power of his own pain the array. but he is a snake at heart and his sense of smell is second only to his ability to imagine new things. The air is heavy with pain and fear and death and rot. but more than that is the sharp wet taste of acidic grace, with a under taste of musty paper and damp wood.

and the hint of wet rabbit fur and there is another demon here!

Crowley tries to lift himself up, spitting blood from his throat has he tried to warn his angel - tried to raise an alarm before the other demon can strike - and there is one of the Legion standing over him, reaching out to grab a stake driven though his chest, and Crowley snarls, hisses, spits.

Legion yanks the stake free, and Crowley can feel the array unraveling around him like a dropped knit stitch, the force keeping him powerless also keeping the agony at bay, ad he weeps as nerves begin to re-knit and he can feel more acutely what has been done to him. the wards also fall away, and Legion scrambles aside as Aziraphale surges forward, a miraculous clean hand pressing against him, ethereal power seeping in to chase away the pain.

he's drawn up into gore spattered arms, head tucked under the soft jawline of his own guardian angel as his lifted with ease from his prison. He sees Legion skirting around in the corners, uneasy. But Aziraphale literally pays him no mind, and strides out of this awful place with a single backward glance. it's only once they are in the cool morning air that Crowley looks up. Aziraphale hasn't looked at him yet, not really, eyes and senses stretching out, high alert for danger. He can feel the tension ripping under his earthly corporation, high strung and bow tight.

it's legion his gives his attention to first, the young faced demon sticking to the shadows of nearly by trees. He says nothing, but the demon answers the question anyway, "I don't sense anyone watching..."

There is a torrent of power then unleashed with a snap of perfectly trimmed angelic fingers, as Aziraphale pulls down a miracle, his smiting leveling the old building that had just housed a flurry of demonic activity for the last few months. There is nothing Heaven can accuse him of, even dismissed from their service, no one can argue against the use of Heavenly resources to wash such a stain from the surface of Earth.

there is a second Legion now, and Crowley feels his own trebitation percolating, but the two are only clinging to each other, properly awed by the use of such power. Neither side usually has agents on earth with the ability to unleash such a torrent, and if's a terrifying enough thing to witness your own side preform such a move; never mind to be in the presence of a hereditary enemy who unleashed it with nary a thought.

They look properly terrified of Aziraphale, a look that Crowley isn't sure he's seen on the faces of either side; a shame really, because His angel is worthy of it. But it means something different to Aziraphale than it does to Crowley. The his beloved angel, such looks break his heart and make him feel small. They don't make him feel powerful, but instead make him feel like a monster. Crowley is careful not to let adoration ever grace his on features when in the presence of an unleashed Principality.

"I am indebted to you," Aziraphale says finally to the... trio... as he secures his hold on Crowley, a firm but gentle grip. the multiplying Legion - they always look more confidant in groups - blink back at him in unison, but say nothing to contradict him. It's a fragile, rare thing - a debt that spans both sides. But the legion are many lives the way neither tradition side are, and ti makes them more open

What's being offered here looks like a tit-for-tat that has been being played out among the two transitional sides side the very beginning, but the Legion are naylived enough to know this is something else. This is more than just a scratch-back situation, and more of an olive branch. While Crowley and Aziraphale maybe unique to both sides, they are not the only ones who have found a fascination with earth, just the only ones that have allowed it to overtake their loyalties.

it will be harder for other angels to follow this path, but demons are demons for the simple fact that they have done this already. they have done exactly what Aziraphale had done, and they had been horrible burned for it. But... but Crowley showed them that while they may have been burned once, it didn't mean that it meant they should never try again, and to fall back into line with the demented version of what they'd lost in the first place.

They had been rejected by Heaven, but had let that status quo rebuild itself in hell. Crowley simply showed them that they didn't have to. that they could rebel again. and they could keep rebelling, over and over and over. they could keep on saying that no. they didn't like this. try again.

and after six thousand years, some of them where starting to take those careful steps. they didn't understand humans the way Crowley and Aziraphale did. but they liked them. they thought they where fun and cleaver and interesting.

There would be Dukes and Princes and Lords that likes the status quo, and they would do everything they could to keep the rules in place. But that didn't mean they where right. and if Legion, or others decided they didn't want to play by the rules of Hell and more, Aziraphale and Crowley would be happy to try and help.

there would be rules - there where always going to be rules though. but... Earth was now a third side they could explore.

And if they didn't like that - well there where an awful lot of planets out there. They could make as Many sides as they needed.

Crowley didn't always have to drive out of town to skate.

He could still skate at his local rink; it wasn't so much that he was worried his team would mock or berate him. Worse. They might even be supportive. But Lucifer, one of his oldest friends, got... weird.. when he staked with other people. like. he didn't seem to mind that sometimes Crowley's pulled on a pair of blades with toe picks on them, but instead got offended that Crowley wanted to do this ... with other people than his team.

and Crowley would be happy to dance with any member of the Damion Lake Demons if any of them seemed interested in doing so, but none of them, Lucifer included, did. Sometimes Danica and Ligur would watch him skate, but they never really wanted to join him. so finally, Crowley just started to go away to do it.

Eventually, the ended with his skating with another group of misfits in South Harbor. Spike had, like Crowley, not always strictly liked to skate in slacks, and Salley refused to skate in a skirt. and shadwell just wanted a place to belong. competitively, they'd never get to skate. not unless some rules finally got overturned real fast ( the black and queer skating communities had been pushing back for a long time on the unfair, and usually blatantly racist and sexist guildlines)

[salley - agatha elwes, spike Bailey Patrick, Shadwell Scott Arthur]

Salley and spike tended to do their dances together, and Shdawell was a strange replacement for Crowley's last partner [gotta look up his naaaame] but a welcome one. he was a bit odd, had some funny feelings on the matter of the occult, but overall fairly harmless. the biggest issue with Shadwell was those who believed what he said, and either beat him up for it, or worse, acted on his voiced options. it had taken some getting used to, but Crowley had come to the option that shadwell was just as damaged by his up bringing as the rest of them, and while he sprouted off the party line as any invocation, just has he'd no doubt been trained to do his whole life, his heart wasn't into a single word he said.

unfortunately, some of the shit he said was indeed quite hurtful and fowl, and Crowley had restrained himself many a times from hitting his dance partner, how remained oblivious to it the whole while. it was things Crowley had tried to talk to him about, to get him to stop saying things he clearly didn't believe, but it was going to take someone more invest that him to break shadwell of a lifetime of vitriol.

good thing for the man, the woman who lived next door to him seemed to be of the same mind as Crowley. but with the fortitude and interest in the man to stick around

there is something to say about sleeping.

Turning off his thoughts and actually to the act of sleeping, not so much. Sometimes he can manage, but not usually.

Instead, he rests, laying peacefully in the soft sheets and warm blanketed, reading well into the night. there's something soothing about washing up, changing into pajamas and slipping between the sheets, indulging in a few hours of light reading, and letting the world slip away for a while.

even more lately, now that instead of curling up in an armchair for the night in his shop, he's been whisked off his feet for an evening of indulgences, and rode the elevator to a tastefully and fashionably decorated loft apartment in Mayfair. as the hours slipped into darkness, he curled up in a decadent bed, with the dozing warm form of his dearest friend beside him.

Crowley didn't need to sleep anymore than Aziraphale did, but he enjoyed it, much they way they both of them enjoyed a good wine, a nice play, or a stroll though the park. And there was something quite lovely about just enjoying the closeness of the other, one they had not be able to export for the past six thousand years.

the time on his pocket watch tells him it's half past 3, and he closes his book finally, dimming his reading light as he sets the two items on the bedside table. his reading glasses follow, and for a moment he basks in the still calmness of the room.

finally, he sinks down into the blanked, Crowley's sleeping form re adjusting his hold from where he'd been hugging the angel around the waist, to circling around his shoulders and pulling them closer. he was drooling just a bit, moving to use a soft shoulder as a pillow and remained deep in slumber.

Yes. there was something to say about sleeping.

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.