#hurt aziraphale
A crackling laughter is stuck in his throat, hard and sharp like shards of glass. Sometimes breathing hurts him so much that it feels like he’s choking on it, which is ridiculous, considering that he mustn’t breathe in the first place. It sits in his chest like a lump of ice, spreading from his chest, cold and hot and painful, and he couldn’t do much about it.
Aziraphale sobs, just once, because he has already shed so many tears that he has the feeling he ran dry already. His finger clenches the steering wheel. The night, this whole nightmare feels so unbearably long, and the Bentley seems too small for him alone. He sits in the driver seat until his whole corporation is numb and his muscles ache, and he hears Queen until his ears bleed.
Summary: After Crowley has kissed Aziraphale and vanished without an explanation, the angel doesn’t know how to deal with his sudden loss. He starts to indulge in sweet reminiscences (but in a completely unangelic way) when he receives unexpected visitors.
Read the second chapter here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32052745/chapters/80512795
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Custody Battle - Argument
The ritual of Propagation has succeeded, and Crowley and Aziraphale prepare to welcome the newest member of Our Side! But the Archangels have other plans. No young angel has ever been raised outside their closely guided care, and they have no intention of changing that.
Last week, Gabriel presented them with an impossible choice; in this week’s chapter, Aziraphale struggles to come to terms with it… by diving very deep into denial. And, on a lighter note, coffee!
(Note: this fic is rated M, mind the tags)
A gentle touch on his scalp brought Aziraphale back to reality, to the cottage. He was lying with his head in Crowley’s lap, his husband running his fingers through the angel’s curls, eyes full of worry. Crowley was talking. How long had he been talking?
“…make the wards more powerful, double them, triple them if I can get the right ingredients. Mostly herbal, anyway, I have so much of that shit in the garden. If we can hold them off a bit until I move a few markers, we can increase the radius, too, maybe all the way to the edge of the valley…”
Aziraphale shut his eyes, turning away. “Doesn’t matter.”
Crowley’s fingers froze. “What… what doesn’t…?”
“Everything. Nothing.” He managed to sit up, though that seemed to send a twinge through his side. “Whatever you think up, whatever we try. It doesn’t matter.” Aziraphale rubbed a hand across his stomach, and the muscles seemed to unknot, at least.
“S’not like you to give up,” Crowley pointed out.
“I’m not giving up. I’m facing facts.” He stared across the living room at the glass sphere that sat on the mantel, the keystone of the wards that protected them. “If twelve Archangels want to enter this cottage, do you really think we can stop them?”
Morning reblog!
