Vaguely Downwards

Broken Wings - Open

Mon, 10 Mar 2008 09:42:17 GMT

Crowley returns to his flat, physically and mentally exhausted. It's been a tough night, and it's not about to get any easier. Maurice comes to greet him at the door; he bends down painfully and picks the kitten up, holding him close. "Hey, cat," he whispers. Maurice bats a paw at Crowley's face, then wriggles out of his grasp and darts off to lay down on the couch.

Crowley follows, slumping face-down. Carefully, he releases his wings, tensing as a wave of pain hits him. His wings are bent and twisted, the feathers sticking out at odd angles. He draws in a deep, shuddering breath, and then keys a message into his PINpoint:

Need help. Wings broken.

He sends it to everyone in his contact list, and then passes out as the pain becomes unbearable. A few feathers fall to the floor, and Maurice busies himself with batting them around the living room.

Unashamedly Stolen from Ali

Sun, 09 Mar 2008 21:14:20 GMT

- I _____ Crowley.
- Crowley is _____.
- Crowley likes to ______.
- I want to _____ Crowley.
- Crowley can ______.
- Someday Crowley will ______.
- Crowley reminds me of ______.
- Without Crowley, it will be _____.
- Right now, I bet Crowley is thinking about _____.
- Crowley makes me want to _______.
- If I could spend the day with Crowley, I'd _____.
- Crowley is made of _______.
- If I could be Crowley for a day, I'd ______.
- Crowley's alter-ego is __________.
- I want to give Crowley ______.
- If I could set Crowley up with someone it'd be ________.

Wed, 27 Feb 2008 19:19:36 GMT

Blast. Blast, blast, blast. Blast, blast, blast, blast, blast, blast, blast. Why do these things always happen to him?

He returns to Azi's bookshop, desperately trying to keep from bursting into song in the middle of the street, although truth be told, since this is Soho, he's pretty likely to go unnoticed. Daleks. See if he ever goes back to the Nexus. Ever. He should have known that Daleks would be a bad idea. Hell, he did know that Daleks were a bad idea. But Daleks singing His praises? It was too good to resist.

Damn it. He can't stop himself alternately whistling and humming as he tries to sneak in to get back to dusting. It's only a matter of time before Aziraphale comes to ask him where he was and what he was doing and why he's whistling. Blast it all.

Fri, 15 Feb 2008 00:28:25 GMT

Guess who's back from vacation! Crowley PINpoints to his flat, suitcase in hand, and throws open the door. "Honey, I'm home," he calls, although he doesn't really expect anyone to be there. It's late, so Aziraphale's probably already taken care of the plants and the cat. Oh well. He's got some gift-giving to do.

For Victor, there's an Aztec solar calender.

For Ali, there's a pair of hand-made earrings and some Valentine's chocolates, and a newspaper with an article claiming a sighting of El Chupacabra with a photo that looks suspiciously like Hastur.

For Aziraphale, the promised bottle of tequila. Then there's the honey he promised he'd get. And, because Crowley couldn't resist, a sculpture of Quetzalcoatltl.

He sends a message via PINpoint to Victor and Ali and then calls Aziraphale's shop.

[text]

Tue, 12 Feb 2008 07:46:05 GMT

Mexico. Warmth. Sun and sand and sea. A good place to be in the middle of winter. I'm trying not to get too drunk - promised Aziraphale I'd behave. Somehow I wound up in the Nexus after a few bottles of tequila and made a complete fool of myself.

Getting drunk is also good for stirring up troublesome thoughts.

Hastur, or Quite Possibly Ligur

Fri, 08 Feb 2008 00:52:33 GMT

Crowley's not sure what to do about this LOL. He's an angel, dammit, not a demon. In fact, he's so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn't stop to think about what might happen if he goes to see if Aziraphale would have any idea how to get him out of this mess. If he'd actually stopped to think about it, he might not have rushed over to the bookshop in the Bentley like a bat out of hell. He might not have parked rather messily on the curb. And he might not have burst into the bookshop shouting for the angel at the top of his lungs.

But he does. "AZIRAPHALE!"

Tea!

Tue, 22 Jan 2008 02:14:49 GMT

It's been a while since Crowley's had anyone over to the flat. And it's been a while since he's seen Aziraphale.

So he's invited the angel over... no, can't think of him as the angel anymore. He pauses as he sets out the tray of scones, remembering what the other Crowley had said. Balance. He doesn't really think that Aziraphale's going to fall, just because he went back...

Definitely not. Not really. He hopes.

Nothing much has changed since his ascension; he's been mostly going around doing a good deed here and there, sending a blessing or two to those who needed them. Not too much different from what he did before. And it's nice. He doesn't have to worry about looking over his shoulder for Hell's agents - and the holy water doesn't have to kept in a safe in the wall.

He puts the kettle on, digs around in the cupboard until he finds the tin of biscuits he's been meaning to open, and sets them out next to the scones. Everything's more or less ready.

Sun, 13 Jan 2008 21:32:02 GMT

Crowley spent the last few days in the Nexus, going from shop to shop to shop, buying as much chocolate as he could possibly hold, and also a rather expansive collection of little glittery stones. It had emptied one of his bigger bank accounts, but, he figured, he didn't have any other use for it.

Now all he had to do was put everything together in one big package, or maybe several smaller packages, and then deliver it all to Ali. It's going to take more room than the Bentley has. Finally, after much agonizing, he decides to take a fraction of the stuff and leave the rest for when he really needs it.

The PINpoint takes him to her front door, where he stands a little awkwardly, wondering what exactly he's going to say. Then he shrugs and knocks, ready to face Hell itself if need be.

Fri, 11 Jan 2008 18:21:46 GMT

What do you do when you make a big mistake?

Okay, not fallingly big, but big nonetheless. I thought I couldn't actually, you know, do anything bad anymore.

Or am I really not redeemable? I'm just gearing up for another Fall, I know it.

....bugger.

Fri, 04 Jan 2008 03:16:34 GMT

Alcohol is good for a lot of things. In Crowley's case? It's good for keeping his mind off troublesome, inconvenient details, like the fact that sooner or later, he's going to have to face Heaven.

He's invited Aziraphale back to his flat, figuring that's the best place to make sure no one interrupts his drinking. He's sure that Aziraphale will try to keep him from drinking too much, but he's already planning to get in as much as he possibly can.

"So," he says to the angel, after pouring them both a glass, "What's the plan?"

Sun, 30 Dec 2007 23:40:28 GMT

Bugger the Nexus. And bugger getting drunk with strange creatures from other worlds.

I've got to catalogue books for Aziraphale all this week, and that means I'm stuck at the bookshop.

Just bugger it. You know what this means? I'll be spending New Year's Eve - when I could be partying - with the angel.

[For Azi's Eyes Only]

Wed, 26 Dec 2007 02:21:10 GMT

Crowley needs help. Serious help. He knows that he shouldn't have taken those LOLed rings. But he didn't know they were LOLed. What was he supposed to do, let the chance to grab free stuff just slip right by? Not a chance in Hell. Or Heaven.

And now, here he is, desperately trying to figure out how to PINpoint straight to Aziraphale's bookshop, to ask the angel for help. Because the rings are stuck on his fingers, and now matter how hard he tries, he can't get them off. To be honest, the LOL could have been much worse. It could have changed his gender. It could have shrunk him down to about two inches tall.

But no, the LOL was neither of those things. He's got two extra pairs of wings. That's all. Granted, one pair is on his head, and the other pair on his ankles... and he does look rather like one of the Seraphim.

Finally he gets the PINpoint working, and he drops right in the middle of Aziraphale's back room.

Crowley's Got WINGS! Very OoC and Very Off-Topic (not that there was one)

Tue, 25 Dec 2007 15:15:32 GMT

I knew I shouldn't have slipped that Red Bull into his tea... Er, ahem. Yes. Well. ...don't hurt me, Crowley!!!! *ducks*

[Crowley storms into view, all three pairs of wings fluttering wildly. Behind him, Richard follows closely.]

Richard: I don't see what all the fuss is about, I really don't! So you've got a weird pair of wings on your head and a pair of bird wings on your feet, and they make you look like one of the Seraphim. So what? You'll get over it!

Crowley: It's not a matter of whether or not I'll get over it! It's a matter of me having to go to Aziraphale asking for his help getting these blessed rings off my fingers!

Richard: Well, that's just what you get for picking up LOLed items in the Nexus. Really, Crowley, for your first-ever LOL it's not that bad. You could have been turned female - and you don't want to see the icons I had lined up for that.

Crowley: *stares*

Richard: And furthermore, it's currently 3 o'clock in the morning, dear chap, and Ireally ought to be toddling off to bed so the Hogfather will come and visit me tonight!

Crowley: The non sequitors. They burn us, precious.

Richard: What did you expect from me at three in the bloody morning?

Crowley: I don't see what you're so fussed about. You don't have TWO EXTRA PAIRS OF WINGS GROWING FROM INCONVENIENT LOCATIONS!

Richard: Well, really, when you put it like that... Honestly, Crowley, you knew my mind was going right in the gutter with that one.

Crowley: I do my best.

Richard: Why are we even having this conversation again?

Crowley: Because I'M ANGRY!

Richard: Oh, Crowley. Only two people get to use the capslock like that. Death, and Harry Potter.

Crowley: FURTHERMORE-- Wait, what?

DEATH: ONLY I GET TO TALK LIKE THIS. YOU HAVE TO USE THE CAPSLOCK BUTTON.

Harry Potter: AND I'M AN ANGST-RIDDEN TEEN, SO I GET TO USE THE CAPSLOCK OF DOOM(tm)!

Richard: You see?

Crowley: What the? Where did they come from?

Richard: Ah yes. I forgot to mention. We are currently inside the Musecage.

Crowley: Both of us?

Richard: Yes, precisely.

Crowley: Inside the Musecage.

Richard: I thought I had made that clear.

Crowley: You and I are inside the Musecage, which is inside your head.

Richard: Oh, absolutely.

Crowley: How does that even work?

Richard: Have you ever read the Discworld series by Terry Pratchett?

Crowley: I'm never reading anything by Terry Pratchett ever again! I know what you do with that copy of Good Omens!

Richard: Yes, yes, I read through it even though I've probably memorized it by now, I eat while reading it, I smoke while reading it, and I've probably even bathed while reading it.

Crowley: You just can't do that to a book!

Richard: Hey. Watch it. You keep talking like that, I'm going to think that you really do want redemption.

Crowley: *splutters* I mean, it's my world. That's where I'm from!

Richard: Actually, dearest, you are straight out of my head. Yes, you are based almost 100% upon the original Crowley, but as you'll notice, I've taken certain liberties with your character. That's what we do, Crowley. That's what we muns do.

Crowley: Look, I can accept that I'm one of a million Crowleys in the multiverse. I can accept that a few of them never fell, that some of them never befriended Aziraphale, that some of them actually did experience Armageddon. What I cannot accept is the thought that you control me!

Richard: But that's the beauty of it, Crowley. Don't you see? Here in the Musebox, you have free will. Why do you think you were able to post in dear_mun? I certainly wasn't going to let you run off that way and rant about how unfair I am.

Crowley: I never said you were unfair. I just said I hated you. And I still do, in case you're interested.

Richard: You know what? You know what? Shut up. Just shut up. We started this conversation last night. I've slept. For five hours. Yes, that's right, five hours, because Alex had to wake everyone at 9. My brother and I never open presents until at least noon. Because we sleep until noon. I have a headache.

Crowley: Oh, you poor thing.

Richard: I'm not talking to you anymore.

Happy Hogswatch, everyone.

[An Announcement]

Fri, 21 Dec 2007 23:23:23 GMT

Next week and the week after that, my internet hotspot is going to be closed for the holidays.

However, I will be at Alex's family's house for Christmas and they've got some internets, so I'll probably be on a little over the holiday.

After that, though, it depends on whether or not I can find a place to connect, so I may or may not be on for a while. And poor Crowley deserves a holiday vacation, whether he celebrates Christmas or not.

So Happy Holidays to everyone, and if you see Crowley burning the mistletoe I put up, just threaten him with the Pistol of Holy Water.

[Definitely Out of Character, for Crowley At Least]

Tue, 11 Dec 2007 00:37:12 GMT

Heyla. Crowley's mun here. Just wanted to share a little Christmas fic I wrote a couple of days ago.

Aziraphale sat in the back room of his book shop, browsing through various copies of old books, new books, any book he could get his hands on. Anything to take his mind off the events of the past year. His tea, on the table beside him, was cold. It didn’t matter. He could warm it with a touch if he wished.

And he did. A small, insignificant miracle in a world so full of miracles that humans had begun to overlook them entirely. He paused in his perusal of his texts, thinking about it. In the early years, it had been burning bushes and water into wine. Now, it was smaller things. Flowers poking up through the cracks of concrete, rainbows in the murky London sky. Insignificant, overlooked.

There were other miracles, too. Some of them he had a hand in, others he didn’t. Small things. A wallet stopping a bullet. A passer-by pulling a stranger out of the way of a speeding lorry. Nothing as grand and impressive as bushes that spoke as they burned, or flocks of angels appearing in the sky to herald the birth of His son.

Of course, in this day and age, an age of electronics and all manner of interesting means of communication, it was easier to forgo the big stuff. Humans didn’t pay much attention to the big stuff anymore. Anyone who claimed that a bush had talked to him would likely find himself in a loony bin.

The angel sighed and frowned, gazing at a point somewhere beyond his book. Hell was empty, and all the demons were here. Crowley quoted that quite a bit, claiming that Hell was responsible for less than half of humanity’s overall misery, that they were doing it to themselves. Aziraphale wished he could understand why. Didn’t they realize what a perfect world they’d been given? And yet they frittered away, wasting their time with unimportant things, squabbling and quarrelling and fighting amongst themselves as if they were no better than beasts.

Winter was, as far as he was concerned, a rather bleak time. He preferred staying shut up in his shop to braving the snow and the wet and the cold. The trees in the winter depressed him. They looked like bony hands, scrabbling for a hold on the sky. The grass was hidden under blankets of snow. The only good thing about winter, Aziraphale considered, was Christmas.

For Christmas he would brave the weather outside, to stroll along the streets and see the shop displays, the lights, the collection tins for the poor. Crowley said that Christmas was nothing but a holiday of crass materialism, and maybe he was right. A little right, anyway. Aziraphale had only to look around at the people searching for the perfect gift for their loved ones, and he knew that they cared, that the joy of giving would be well matched by the joy of receiving. Peace on Earth, and goodwill to men.

It was nearly that time already. Crowley would be shut up in his flat, desperate to avoid the cheer and merriment of the holiday. Or else he’d be causing massive blizzards to shut down the airports, causing frustration and feelings of ill will. Aziraphale put his book down and walked out to the front door of the shop to steal a glance at the sky. Gray. But he thought that maybe he caught a glimpse of the sun, which cheered him up greatly.

Humming a tuneless song under his breath, he went back into the back room and packed things up, replacing books on shelves and tidying up. His coat was on the back of his chair; he put it on and took his gloves from the pocket, pulling them on tightly. They were snug, and warm. And they matched his scarf, which he took from an inside pocket and wrapped it around his face and neck.

The cold outside didn’t bother him too much, now. He was warm and his coat was rather effective against the wind. He wandered down the street after locking up, passing small shops and displays that proclaimed each shop was selling “The Season’s Hottest Gift!”. He chuckled and shook his head. The greatest Christmas gift of all was spending time with family and friends, and no shop sold that.

There a crowd of small children gathered around one of the many Santa Clauses in the city. Aziraphale caught their conversation as he drew near, and he pretended to be interested in the shop window while he listened to them.

“You’re not really Santa Claus,” a little girl said. She was bundled up like a little cotton ball, all puff and poof, and she had mittens with a matching hat. It had a bob on top.

“S’not really Santa Claus who brings presents anyway,” the little boy beside her stated. “It’s your mum and dad. I know, because I wasn’t asleep last Christmas, and I saw them putting the presents under the tree. Dad ate the cookies.”

The Santa Claus chuckled. “I’m just one of Santa’s helpers,” he told the little girl. Then he turned to the boy and added, “How else do you think Santa could get presents to all the boys and girls in the world?”

The little boy shrugged. “So why didn’t Suzy get anything for Christmas but socks and a new dress?” he asked. “Her parents don’t have any money, that’s why. They couldn’t afford to buy her anything.”

“And what about the boys and girls who don’t believe in Jesus?” the little girl asked. “Do they get presents too?”

Aziraphale stepped away from the shop window and knelt beside the girl. “Of course they do,” he told her. “God loves all of his children, even the ones that don’t believe in Him,” he said with a smile.

The little girl shrugged. “You’re weird,” she said.

“We weren’t talking to you,” the boy snapped. “We were talking to Santa Claus, who is in fact, a phoney.”

Aziraphale stood and brushed the snow from his pants. “The spirit of Christmas isn’t about who believes in what, or who gets what presents,” he continued, as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “It’s about love and the feeling of being part of a family.” He smiled again, rather angelically.

The two kids just shrugged again and continued down the street. The Santa Claus watched them go. “At least they didn’t try to pull on my beard again,” he said, tugging at it. “It’s real, in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t, really,” Aziraphale replied. There was something about the man that seemed otherworldly. “Are you the real Santa Claus?”

The man winked. “What’s it look like?”

Aziraphale studied him. He was round and stout and had long, curly white hair and a white beard, and that was about it. His suit was nicer than most Santa suits, and the white fur trim seemed to be real, instead of the faux fur that other Santas wore. “What are you doing here?” Aziraphale asked conversationally. “Shouldn’t you be at the North Pole, making toys with your elves?”

The old man laughed. It was a deep, booming laugh, not precisely a ho, ho, ho, but definitely the sort of laugh you’d expect a Santa to have. “That’s a good one,” he said, grinning widely. “I’m just spreading the holiday cheer. Got to give the little tykes something to look forward to, eh?”

“Well, yes, but why London?”

“Why not?”

Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to shrug. “I hope you have better luck,” he said.

“Thank you.”

They shook hands and Aziraphale continued his walk, enjoying the glow of the snow in the streetlights and the twinkling of the Christmas lights in the windows. He wandered down to the lake where he and Crowley fed the ducks; it was frozen over and the ducks were gone, either hiding or flown south for the winter.

One question plagued his mind as he stared at the frozen expanse of the lake, with its familiar circumference of trees and bushes dusted with a light coat of snow, looking like so many sugar-frosted sweets. One question: what do you get for a demon who has everything? The question had been bothering him for the past few days, and he still had no answer for it.

Anything too Christmas-y was out of the question; if there were so much as a hint of angels or the Birth in the present, Crowley would no doubt throw it out, with little thought for how Aziraphale would feel. But what if it were something a little more materialistic? That was right down the demon’s alley; he’d appreciate anything technical or new or flashy and bright. Something with lots of complicated instructions and flashy lights, something that made little bingely noises when you turned it on. But then again, anything that complicated was probably the demon’s work anyway.

So what to get for Crowley? Books didn’t interest him, he didn’t need a Miracle Cleaning Kit for the Bentley - he kept it in top condition himself. But he did like Handel, and he liked Vivaldi. Aziraphale smiled. He knew what to get for Crowley now.

The silly demon would just have to remember not to leave them in the car for more than a fortnight.

I'm slightly better at writing Aziraphale than Crowley :P And I have no Azi icons, so grinning Crowley will have to do for now.

Mon, 10 Dec 2007 06:16:28 GMT

Crowley's hands are beginning to get cold. They're getting pretty close to teh North Pole, after all. And look, down there! It's a couple of polar bears.

Tue, 04 Dec 2007 04:02:52 GMT

So now he's back in London, with a human in the passenger's seat, whose from a world entirely different from this one. It's certainly different, but it's something to kill time until he finds Aziraphale.

"So... cafe? Pub? What do you want?" Crowley asks.

Tue, 04 Dec 2007 00:56:17 GMT

Bugger. Bugger it all.