i’m doing it! i’m watching dr who for the first time ever!! and alright yes i get the hype, so here are some tenth doctor studies bc i’m a huge fan of drawing silly expressions.
Warnings: some depressive death themes; some angsty stuff
Request: This is just from my own head
A/N: This part is pretty intense, we’ve got a lot of confessions and reveals. But man oh man… I am so hopelessly in love with the Doctor. Just picturing him while reading this
Note: the large bits all in italics are what has happened in the past
Warnings: BLAST FROM THE PAST! Rewatching Doctor Who has given me a reignited obsession and an idea for a series. What could go wrong.
Request: This is just from my own head
A/N: This introduction is a bit long, but all the information is necessary. The coming parts will be set farther in the future, this prologue simply tells you how the reader met the Doctor and why she chose to travel with him.
There will be eight total parts. Four will be with the Tenth Doctor and four will be with the Eleventh Doctor.
My life was decided for me. Everything about me was rewritten, reprogramed, to be something out of my control.
The dying girl.
I never wanted to be the dying girl.
How terrifying to be labeled something so ironic, so final. Finding out my label wasn’t supposed to be a part of the plan. But here I am doing exactly what I’m supposed to be doing: dying.
The Doctor – the only good thing to come out of me discovering my destiny – he should be here. He would want to be here. He would need to be here.
But with me on my deathbed, I want to tell you how I got here. Perhaps it’s just to stall and see if the Doctor will appear to say goodbye. Knowing him he’s probably spending every last second trying to find a cure.
With a life predestined for me, I want to tell you about the things that fought against it.
When an angel is forced to lose its memory, there is close to nothing that can actually bring those memories back. The demon knew, but It’s not like he hadn’t tried to remind the angel; for centuries, Crowley, as he called himself now, had dropped subtle hints about his life before he fell or asked casual questions about Aziraphale’s existence before he was sent to Eden, but to no avail. He would either not remember anything, or, seldom, feel like he had forgotten something, as if it floated there in the back of his mind, but he could never quite grasp it.
As much as he missed the loving interactions they had shared in heaven, he was eternally grateful for the fact that, over the millennia, they had become friends again. Of course, Aziraphale had been hesitant befriending a demon, but they had met countless times over the years, both instructed by their respective head offices to stay down on earth and look out for each other’s actions while performing various duties, and, after a while, the angel had even started instigating their meetings, especially after the establishment of The Arrangement™. It had brought them closer together, which was all Crowley really cared about, but he also knew Hell would absolutely destroy him if they found out about any of it. He wasn’t afraid of Satan, or about what they would do to him - he was, however, scared of what they might try to do to the angel.
Indubitably, he knew heaven would not be generous or forgiving either if they found out, but against them, he could fight; he had hellfire and the rest of his demonic powers, but he had nothing on hell, nothing to defend himself with, nothing…
Until he had an idea.
⁂
1967
"You go too fast for me, Crowley.“
It had come as a surprise to him, Aziraphale’s presence in his car as he closed the door behind him, but not nearly as much as the angel’s following actions.
Crowley had known that he was playing with fire as he’d planned the heist from the church, but he’d known his cause was good - he needed the holy water to defend himself, more importantly, defend his angel. The plan had been done, thoroughly tested and thought through, the participants had all been clearly instructed and paid, and he would soon have had a way to fend off hell, should he ever have to (which, he had accepted, was just a matter of time). What he had not expected was the angel to intervene, at least not in this way.
His long, slender fingers closed around the tartan thermos, feeling the dangerous weight within. You go too fast for me. What did that even mean? Did he mean his driving, his racing tendencies whenever he rushed the Bentley through the crowded streets of London, or did he really mean what he thought he did? The gas pedal of the old car was pressed down to the floor as he flew across the busy crossroads, barely avoiding the busses that were passing in front of him. You go too fast for me. He couldn’t possibly be talking about them, could he? It had been thousands of years since the angel had first met him as a demon, thousands and thousands of years, how could he possibly go any slower?
Crowley wasn’t an angry being, not by default. He hadn’t turned into the vile, vengeful creature his fellow fallen angels had turned into, his mind had stayed in a similar place as it had always been in. Crowley could, however, get very angry when he was frustrated, and the thing that frustrated him most was his overly complicated relationship with Aziraphale.
The handle of the door to his apartment smashed into the wall behind it as the demon practically kicked it open, snapping his fingers to let it fall closed, leaving behind a massive hole in the wall.
"I know you said you were gonna test me! I know you did,” he shouted, his head angled upwards as his arms flailed uselessly next to him, “but this, this can’t be it! I can’t do this. He’s - it’s too much.” His closed eyes flashed with images of Aziraphale, his coy smiles, his fidgety hands, his blushing cheeks whenever he said something even slightly out of place, and his beautiful, glowing eyes…
"Test them, test me, give me war, give me difficult people, even angels to deal with, heaven, give me anybody else, not him, not -,“ he paused for a moment whilst his sweaty fingers closed around the bridge of his nose tightly, "not these… feelings.” He sank down on his throne, defeated and dejected as he leaned his head in his hands.
The silence in his apartment was overwhelming, no answer, no sign, there was nothing but almost painfully overbearing silence. Did he mean it? Was he going too fast? He mentally slapped himself. How could he have assumed, even after all these years, that an angel could seriously develop any kind of feelings towards a demon? He was surely just passing the time, happy to have at least some immortal company, even a demon would do for that. Just for that.
The only light source in the room suddenly flickered and caught Crowley’s attention, an antique silver desk lamp, a piece that had never really fit into the aesthetic of his dark, clean flat, with its playful swerving curves and elaborate adornments that would fit much better into a Rococo ballroom in 18th century France than in the demon’s gloomy apartment, but, of course, Aziraphale had given it to him as a gift, so he’d kept it around.
He rose his voice again, this time dripping with frustration: “What am I supposed to do here, huh? Give me a clue, because I’m bloody desperate.”
He flinched as the lightbulb exploded, tiny pieces of glass raining down onto the wooden table, his office now only lit up by the faint moonlight that crept through the big windows. His eyes snapped to the lit-up windowsill, the only thing the moonlight met directly, surrounding it with a mysterious glow. The dainty little plant he had kept there for the past couple of years, which had done wondrous things under Crowley’s special care, that had just a moment ago looked luscious and beautiful had now started wilting all of a sudden, quickly turning into a droopy dry mess.
Things like this happened more often than the demon would have liked to admit. Any time his emotions, mostly anger or sadness, threatened to overcome him, he noticed things happening around him that were vastly out of his control. It was mostly a case of objects vanishing, breaking, or, in this case, one of his favourite plants wilting away under his fingertips.
The demon’s eyes focused on the tartan thermos on the armrest in front of him. But he had helped him, nonetheless. The angel had given him something that would surely get him into big trouble if head office ever knew, he had disobeyed them to help Crowley. That had to mean something, right?
He jumped up, his head once more raised towards the high ceilings, as he spoke with determination: “I promise, if he ever says anything along those lines again, I’m gone. Off somewhere, where neither heaven nor hell can find me, without him.”
As he felt the tears form in his eyes, he sank back down on his throne, his face entirely hidden in his hands before he let the tears run freely.
"I promise.“
⁂
1978
If you’ve ever had a best friend, which, hopefully, you did, you know how difficult it is when certain situations force you not to talk to each other. It might be something as mundane as taking a test in school where the teacher forces you to be quiet, or it might be a serious argument you had, after which there’s just awkward silence between you and you both wish, the fight hadn’t happened.
Crowley had spent eleven years away from Aziraphale, keeping himself busy with any job hell could offer him, travelling as far away as he could from London, since every minute spent in the English capital alone was pure agony for him.
The flat he had moved into for the short times he did stay in London was a good one, one that he had now altered to look exactly like he wanted it to and very similar to his former one, but it certainly wasn’t the looks of it he wasn’t enjoying. It was the company (or lack thereof).
He knew the bookshop wasn’t too far away (one of the reasons he had left his previous flat), he knew he could just take a cab, take his Bentley or even walk over there, if the temptation ever got too much, but, as often as he struggled during sleepless nights in the dark apartment, he never gave in.
He probably didn’t even want to see him.
Over the millennia that Crowley had spent on earth, he had, much like Aziraphale had learned to indulge in food, slowly found the human practice of sleep more and more enticing, until he had almost made it into daily (or nightly) practice. It helped him structure his busy schedule, and actually relieved him immensely after the often long and rough days he had.
It was one of these typical late nights that he carefully parked the Bentley before wearily forcing himself up the four slides of stairs to burst into the dark but welcoming flat that awaited him. He hadn’t had the chance to process the fact that he had finally arrived home after about a month spent abroad, when he noticed a noise from his office, the recording of his own voice noisily resounding through the flat. ” - do it with style.“
He had owned the answering machine for a while, one of the earliest models of the invention, not ready to commit to the more modern machinery out there, but he hadn’t gotten a call in a long time now. Or had he? He wouldn’t have known, always gone, far away from home and, consequently, far away from his phone.
"Cr-Crowley? Good evening, this is Aziraphale. I suppose this will be another one of these blasted one-sided phone calls, but I really can’t stop calling you, I - I worry about… about you.” The angel’s voice was rough and troubled, and Crowley felt his heartbeat quicken instantly as he rushed into his office. Did he say he worried about him?
“As usual, I’ll start by saying: I hope you’re alright, and, if you are even getting these messages, I wish to tell you that I hope you’re good, you’re healthy and happy, wherever you are.” Crowley’s skin flooded with goosebumps as the angel spoke with such love and kindness, and he slowly took a few steps closer to the dusty black machine that stood on his even dustier wooden desk.
"Um… like every Saturday, I will be having my tea at the usual shop over by the theatre, and I’d love to invite you if you’re free…" There was a long pause and Crowley could practically hear the angel think. His hand was now hovering over the phone, so very close to picking up, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it, not, while his breath was so obviously caught in his throat and he felt like he could burst into tears at any moment.
"Maybe not there, I know you’re not too big on their pancakes. I’ll go wherever you want, I’ll pay, just… just call me back, please. I haven’t seen you in years, Crowley, I miss… Just call me back.“ And with that, the line was dead.
Crowley let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, stumbling a few steps back into his bedroom. I miss… Had he missed him? The demon felt his face heat up in a blush as he let himself fall backwards into the pool of black silk that welcomed him lovingly.
He had missed him. Aziraphale had missed him. And Crowley would go and see him tomorrow.
⁂
It had been a very restless night for the demon, because, even though Crowley had been awfully tired from his long and exhausting trip, he hadn’t been this excited in a long time. He would see Aziraphale today. He had missed him.
His heart was racing as much as his mind as he strode down the familiar road. The people around him were in a rush, hurrying past him through the bleak morning mist, thick woollen collars folded up high against the cold. Crowley, however, did not feel the cold as he meandered through the crowds, though his reptilian skin usually shivered at the tiniest decrease of temperature, today was different; even if he had felt the cold creep through his thin, black jacket today, he wouldn’t have paid any attention to it, too caught up in his own thoughts.
He’d have to play it cool; behave, like this was totally casual, and in no way affected him as much as it actually did. He was a demon; he didn’t care.
He froze his face in a permanent, neutral expression, and, as he pushed his fairly new pair of sunglasses back up his nose and crossed the corner to the street, where his destination lay.
The little cafe had always stood out, that was why Aziraphale had fallen in love with it in the first place, its exterior a bright, sun-yellow against the street’s general austere appearance, its interior dark and cosy, much like the angel’s bookshop. The red leather benches were old and worn out, the dark wooden tables scuffed and scratched, but it gave the place the kind of gentle, comfortable atmosphere you would crave on a misty morning like this one. Golden lights shone from the high ceiling down onto the tables below as Crowley reached the large window and stopped, his eyes hurriedly scanning the shop until they landed on the angel.
He was dressed just like he always was, in bright, neutral colours, his light blue button-down slightly contrasting against his yellowish bowtie, topped off with his usual light brown vest and jacket. His blond hair was the same, maybe a tad longer than he had last seen it, as it curled down the angel’s temple.
Aziraphale was focussed on the celestial newspaper he was holding, the cup of tea in front of him steaming hot before he extended a skilled hand over it, effectively cooling the drink down to an enjoyable temperature and took a sip, a content smile spreading over his face as he returned to reading.
Crowley’s eyes changed focus, now meeting his own reflection in the polished glass. He looked absolutely miserable. His shoulder-length auburn hair was messy, his pale skin dull and dry, and his thin lips were curled downwards into a bitter frown. He didn’t deserve this. Aziraphale looked great, happy, even, in this new life without him. Who was he to come barging back into a life of perfection, just to ruin everything again with his demonic presence? Just to go too fast yet again?
This was a terrible idea, he thought as he turned his head to leave, his eyes stumbling across a small potted plant on the windowsill just behind the glass: a pretty plant with large luscious leaves and a big white blossom on its top. As his thoughts drowned him in the shattering truth that, after now, he would never see the angel again, the plant’s leaves suddenly drooped down, its blossom wilting instantaneously and unnaturally fast down into a brown, flaccid mess.
Not again. He groaned internally, his mind clouded with frustration when suddenly, the car alarm behind him went off in a roaring siren, making him flinch in surprise and then curse silently, as he shut it back down with a quick gesture. This happened way too often these days.
He turned himself around once more, as he realised his foolish mistake; a sudden loud car alarm in the peaceful silence of a calm street with few cafes?
Hoping, the guest he was trying to avoid hadn’t heard him or the noise he had caused, he slowly raised his head back up, immediately meeting the eyes of the blond angel inside.
His eyes were wide open, as was his mouth, and within mere moments he had dropped his newspaper on the table, knocked over his teacup that shattered loudly on the wooden floor (for once not apologized profusely), and merely bolted through the heavy door onto the street.
The demon had been paralyzed from the moment their eyes had met, only following the angel’s movements behind his dark glasses, until he stood before him.
"Crowley…” Aziraphale walked towards him in slow, hesitant steps, as if he couldn’t believe this was actually happening, as if he expected him to disappear within the blink of an eye. He was only about a step away from him when he stopped.
"Crowley, my dear… I - I haven’t seen you in so long, are you alright?“ The angel’s eyes were glossy and his cheeks blushed unmistakably as his warm hands found Crowley’s arm under his long sleeves and clung onto him. The demon found his voice only moments after, focussing hard on maintaining a stable exterior when all he wanted to do is throw his arms around the angel and hold him close.
"I’m good, angel, I’m good. Are you? You look… tired.” Aziraphale never let his eyes leave Crowley, absolutely fixated on him, his smooth lips now curved into a bright smile.
"I’m marvellous, darling, especially now that I know you’re not - you know, I was beginning to think you had… “ The angel’s eyes looked through him for a second as his smile vanished, replaced by a distant expression and the hand that still grabbed onto Crowley’s arm trembled briefly before he regained his composure and his expression morphed into a coy smile once more. "Nevermind that. Can I persuade you to a nice cup of coffee? It’s on me, whatever you’d like!”
Aziraphale didn’t give him time to answer as he slid his arm through Crowley’s and led him inside. The warmth enraptured him immediately, from the outside as well as from the inside, and Aziraphale showed him to the table he had just been sitting at before leaving him to get them something to drink.
The demon felt his heartbeat slow down a bit as he forced himself to calm down, strenuously focussing on the outside of the shop as he waited. He watched the people walking past the glass, businessmen and women rushing through the cold beginnings of winter, hoping to find warm refuge somewhere close-by, and he began lazily miracling feeding pigeons out of the way of recklessly fast drivers. A twinge shot through his heart. Too fast.
“So, eleven years…” The angel’s voice brought him back to reality, and he felt the heat of the cup of coffee in front of him before he even saw it. Bringing his skinny fingers around the porcelain, he felt himself calm down even more, now able to properly give his attention to the talking angel.
"What have you been up to?“ "You wouldn’t want to know,” he muttered, as his inner eye showed him glimpses of well-done demonic work. “Oh. So you’ve been busy.” “So you could say.” The angel’s smile turned a little colder, and Crowley felt as if someone grabbed his heart tightly and was threatening to rip it out of his chest if he didn’t make the angel smile again.
"I’m sorry I never called you back, I never really spent much time around here, and…" The words refused to come out of his mouth correctly, and he jumped on. “What have you been doing? Is the bookshop still standing?” “Oh, yes!” Aziraphale’s face lit up instantly. “It’s simply splendid, although, the other day, one crude woman actually insisted on buying a book! Can you believe that?” The angel took a sip of his hot tea, and Crowley couldn’t help but smile. “You know, usually, bookshops do those kinds of things, angel.” “I know, I know, but me?” “I know.”
Crowley’s heart picked up the pace again as his hand reached into the astral plane, pulling out the gift he had brought and placed it on the table between them. “For you…” he mumbled as he observed the angels pupils dilate at the look of the elegantly packaged present. His hand moved over it instinctively, his fingers brushing delicately over the thin paper.
"I know you collect these, found this on a recent trip and thought you’d like it.“ Crowley took an overly casual sip of coffee as the angel picked up the book to unwrap it slowly, a small blush already visible on his cheeks. "You…thank you, that’s really very nice of you.”
Bit by bit, he carefully removed the wrapping paper, as if ripping it would hurt it, and slowly uncovered the beautiful old clothbound book. “Wilde, this is Oscar Wilde!” The angel looked at Crowley in shock as he discarded the wrapping paper absentmindedly and a big blush spread over his face. Crowley smiled again, his heart suddenly warm. “You have to tell me more about him some time, I know you spent some time with him.” “Oh, I will… A First Edition, this is marvellous.” Aziraphale flashed him a loving smile, sending butterflies surging through Crowley’s stomach. The book laid on the table as the angel carefully let his hands run over the spine, his fingertips delicately running over the old pages.
"You didn’t read this, did you?“ There was a sudden hint of apprehension and fear in his voice that Crowley couldn’t quite interpret as he shook his head. "You know I don’t read, angel.” “Oh, well then.” He returned his attention to the book, his eyes again full of glee. Crowley made a mental note to come back to this topic sometime.
"I’ve wanted this edition since it came out, but it was never available here, how did you…?“ "I was there and I saw it.” The demon didn’t even think to mention the awful lot of trouble he’d had to get into to acquire the book. “No further questions. Thank you, Crowley, that is incredibly thoughtful. I’ll make sure it gets a splendid place in the collection.” Crowley chuckled darkly. “The shop, you mean?” The angel looked back at him like he’d gotten caught with his hands in the cookie jar. “Yes, of course.”
The demon put down his now empty cup, placed his hands on the table and took in the moment. It was a practice he had adapted several millennia ago, a way of taking mental pictures to remember certain moments for posterity. Even though he would have never wanted to admit it, Crowley was a sappy person; he liked to wallow in memories often, enjoy the good times he’d had the pleasure of sharing with the angel.
Hugging the book to his chest with one arm, the angel’s cheeks were flushed, his eyes in pure enjoyment. Aziraphale seemed lost in thought as he brought his other hand downwards to rest on the table, his fingers softly brushing over the knuckles of the demon’s own hand on the table.
And his touch lingered for a second.
And Crowley felt happier than he had in a very long time.
