Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

[questionablewit]

Want to tag someone? Tag someone. Put the character you want in the subject line.
Leave a starter, or leave a prompt and I'll start.
Brilliant ideas and clueless flailing all welcome.
AUs and cross-canon, drama and comedy and shipping.
Just throw stuff at me. It's all good.

Comments

MOM

[redtailedhawke]

i just laughed for 15 minutes straight pic.twitter.com/zAMgWglksE

— madison meyers (@madmeyers) September 17, 2017

[leandrahawke]

[ooc: All right babe do you want flashbacks or Fade pain]

book letters for Faramir

[importuned]

[Really, the last thing Ophelia wants in the world is to see another letter.

But it would be far worse, she suspects, to venture out of the safety of her room in an attempt to get to the Library. More than that, it would be far worse to have to hold her head up and insist that nothing was wrong long enough to find a quiet alcove to be alone.

The scratch of her quill across the paper doesn't quite drown out the echoes in her mind--"I loved you once." "I loved you not." "We are arrant knaves, all. Believe none of us."]

Elskede--

I had hoped to tell you that I should soon return to see you, but now I fear it may be some time afore we shall meet again. Do not fret for my absence; I assure you I am quite hale and safe.

[But not 'well.' Not 'happy.' Not all the number of things that might normally fill in that little spot of assurance to Faramir when some little inconvenience prevented her from joining him.]

My lord the Prince of Denmark [Not 'Hamlet,' not now. The title aches enough without the name.] remains unwell. My lady the Queen hopes that friendly faces will bring him to himself again.

I do not know how friendly he finds mine, but perhaps it will ease her suffering.

[And what a hell it would be, to be thrust back into Hamlet's life by her father. What new hole would he rip into her heart when she was forced to see him again? What would he do if they were ever left alone again?]

Know that I miss you more than my heart can bear. You remain daily in my thoughts and nightly in my prayers, and I remain, as ever,

your Ophelia

Melda = beloved, he'll tell her that sometime in the other thread

[whattheydefend]

[Faramir has never known how to reach the Library. He goes to sleep and wakes there, or steps through a doorway and finds himself somewhere entirely different from where he meant to be. By now he accepts it as a thing entirely out of his control, for all that he mislikes the fact, and rarely more than now. Bad enough that he cannot go to her; worse that he cannot even go to the place where they might meet. It is as though they are seperated by two worlds, as if one were not enough.]

Melda--

While I am ever glad to know you are safe and whole, I think there is much you have not said, and that worries me much. Can you not tell me what has happened to upset you so? It must have been extraordinary to disturb a heart as valiant as yours.

[Faramir is skilled at reading between the lines. The Prince is called by full title, not by name, and it is no great jump of logic to know that he is the heart of whatever ails her. Hamlet has not been spoken of between them in great depth, for Faramir could well perceive the tangle of complicated, unresolved emotions there, and judged himself not impartial enough to aid Ophelia in untangling them. And even before they met she was distincing herself from Hamlet, by her father's wishes, and seemed...not entirely unhappy to be doing so, if saddened by the necessity.]

I am returned to Ithilien, and much on the move. I think there will not often be leisure for conversations such as we have sometimes managed in this book. But I will look for your letters every day, and think of you every minute. As I already do.

I would we were together in the garden, surrounded by nasturtiums. Whenever I close my eyes, the calm of that place and your presence enfolds me. Victory in battle--they were too late to help my brother, but I hope they will aid us, in the various battle we wage, I on the field and you in the court. But the only complete victory would be to be reunited with you.

Take utmost care, Ophelia, and do not neglect yourself even as you try to ease those around you. And know that I am ever and always,

your Faramir

big brother

[warden_enchanter]

cousin

[warden_enchanter]

THE BABE WITH THE POWER

[redtailedhawke]

baby sister

[redtailedhawke]

dear god I pick *all of these*, forgive the rusty af voice, I default to circle mage Beth

[circlesister]

Bethany has not seen her sister for three years, not since That Night--it always has capital letters in her head, and for good reason. For so many good reasons. Keeping in touch has been almost impossible. Marian's had to stay on the move, especially given her company. And Bethany has laid low, not that anything is new there. Varric always knows where they both are, and can be trusted to send updates, to tell them both the other is all right, for some value of "all right". But Bethany hasn't sent any letters. She doesn't know what to say that wouldn't hurt.

Then Varric was taken from Kirkwall--if not exactly by force, not really peaceably either--and now he's somewhere up in the Frostbacks. It actually makes it easier for Bethany to keep in touch with him, since she's in Amaranthine. It's a good place for an apostate, the Templars gone but still an armed force of Grey Wardens around, more than willing to turn a blind eye to magic that does no harm. Her cousin is the Arlessa here, but Bethany has never seen her, though curiosity was part of why she came.

She lives quietly, helps other mages when she can, when she finds any. She practices her own skills, learns all the things she was never able to learn while being so closely guarded by...by everyone, truthfully, it wasn't just her sister. Just, mostly her sister. She works a lot with children. She goes to the Chantry every week, though her beliefs have changed since she was younger. There are a few particular sisters there who she's befriended and talks to, ones who are safe to discuss more unorthodox ideas with. No one's looking for her here. No one's even really looking for apostates, not with so much chaos going on and a great rip in the sky.

And then Varric sends word, so very secretly, that Marian will be coming through Amranthine on her way to Skyhold to meet with the Inquisitor.

So of course Bethany is waiting when her sister's ship docks. That was never in question. She has no idea if Marian is expecting her, but she's there waiting when the gangplank is lowered.

anniversary shenanigans for Faramir

[freo]

Ithilien is beautiful. Vastly different from Rohan, with its forests, streams and wild green loveliness. Faramir had promised Éowyn a garden in the Houses of Healing; at times, to her, it feels like this whole land is their garden, so verdant and lush it still appears to her, even after a year of marriage. It had taken her a while to get used to her new home, certainly. She was born a child of vast, open plains, and not being able to see the horizon in all directions had been very strange to her at first-- perhaps even a little intimidating, at times.

But now, she can no longer imagine leaving this place, nor the home they have made together with Faramir; a symbol of their union, equal parts of them both. She cannot picture anything more perfect, still wondering at times just how did she ever get so fortunate as to have all this. That garden, always evolving and taking up more space, is not the only thing that has flourished this past year-- Éowyn herself has taken the role of the Lady of Ithilien and Emyn Arnen, along with that of a healer, and made it her own with aplomb, more contented and happy with her situation than ever before. That is not to say she has abandoned her sword entirely. The Lady Wraithslayer is still an opponent not to be underestimated.

All that their bliss together is missing still is a child, but perhaps it is better that had not come to pass before, Éowyn thinks. Even after a year, there is still work left to be done, and a babe in the midst of the construction and development may have been an additional strain. In addition, the land had long been neglected and overrun with evil creatures and outlaws; cleansing it had been no simple feat, and efforts are still ongoing to a degree. But matters are more stable now-- and perhaps soon they would be blessed with an addition to their family. They certainly did their best to make it so, their passion for each other hardly lessened much since their wedding night...

For their first anniversary, they had stolen some time together, away from the demands of being the Lord and Lady for a while. They had once discovered a pretty glade hidden in the woodlands, with a idyllic pond big enough to swim in; that is where their travels have lead them even now.

And here she now stands, at the shallow end of the pond wearing naught but her shift, arms crossed as she surveys the water with deep suspicion written across every inch of her face. Éowyn does not know how to swim. Swimming was not a pastime one engaged in back in the Mark. There was only Snowbourn, and none attempted swimming in its oft frigid, rushing waters where it would have been deep enough. Faramir on the other had is a natural in the water, and had for a while now attempted to persuade her to allow him to teach her this skill-- useful in Ithilien. She has resisted his efforts just as long, the thought of going into deep water wholly unsettling to her.

But last night, caught up in the exhilaration of stealing away with Faramir for a while (and perhaps due to one glass too many of wine) she had finally agreed to give it a try. She actively regrets it now, faced with the reality of the pond before her. The water is clear enough, but she cannot see to the bottom in the deeper end of it.

"Is the bottom muddy? Are there fish or critters in there?" Both things apparently distasteful and undesirable to her; the mighty slayer of the Witch-king.

The picture was irresistible and I'm so happy about it.

[whattheydefend]

It has been two years since the war ended, and Faramir still wakes every morning wondering if he dreams. Not wholly, for if all were but a dream he would not need to deal with paperwork, nor conniving council members who think more of their own good than of Gondor's needs, and there would not still be skirmishes with the Haradim and the remainders of Dark Lord's forces.

But even taking all those imperfections into account life is good beyond all his dearest wishes and hopes. The White Tree flowers and a king reigns from the throne, ruling with both wisdom and justice. He himself is given Ithilien to rebuild, and already it reclaims itself from the long years of harm done by war and darkness. Only two years since the war's end, but already Gondor heals, and Faramir with it.

As for his more private life, that is a joy greater yet, a blessing he sometimes feels is beyond his deserving and strives never to take for granted. For a year he and Éowyn have been wed, free to love one other by night and wake by each other's sides in the morning, sharing their lives and work. If the past year has healed him, it has transformed Éowyn, who has taken all her mixed roles and skills and woven them together into a seamless, unique whole in a way that's been a wonder and a privilege to watch.

Which is not to say that his most adored, most beloved wife is entirely without some quirks of character...

"A little muddy, aye," Faramir says, working very, very hard to restrain his amusement as his otherwise fearless wife glowers at the clear water as though expecting it to bite her. "And there will be fish, but only deeper down and much further out; only small ones will come this near the shore. Tiny minnows, barely noticeable. And they eat plants, not feet, I promise you."

He coaxes her with as much care as he ever used to entreat reluctant horse or wild beast. He himself is not standing so far out, only up to his knees, a few feet away from her, hand outstretched.

Mooooooooooooom

[canien]

This is wrong.

Even with there being a familiar feel, Canien can tell something is off. Shouldering bow, full quiver of arrows at her back and daggers at her side, she moves deftly through the woods that feel so much like the home she'd left when she'd said good bye to her mother. Too much to be coincidence.

Caranthir hated coincidence.

A forest that she's not been back to since that winter, though she's kept discrete tabs on it and the Haladin. It seems to welcome her back now, tree branches murmuring softly and leaves rustling in greeting, tugging at her heart as she allows herself to miss her mother.

She rests a hand against a tree trunk, pausing to breath and think. Surely no one would recognize her now, if she does go back to the village. And maybe she would get some answers. Even now she knows the way too well to get lost, so she turns her path to step softly through the trees and bushes without disturbing a thing.

The clothes on her back label her a hunter. No house nor symbol mark her, and the small pack with a simple bedroll at her side indicates a life alone and away from the comforts of a home.

Kiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiid

[takesnoshit]

Haleth is chopping wood.

There are others who would do the task for her, of course, if she asked. But it's a useful chore. It helps keep her muscles strong, and she would as soon care for her own needs herself, rather than let any of her people do such menial tasks for her. Her pride does not require them to dance attendance on her.

She frowns just a little at the thought, and brings down the axe a little harder, then stands, wiping her brow. She is a woman in the prime of her life, perhaps nearing forty, well-muscled and hale. Her features are strong rather than beautiful, and her clothing is entirely practical, made for use rather than beauty. But it is extremely well-made and well-cut, of excellent fabric, with little touches here and there that speak of Eldar work rather than Haladin. Her hair is long and brown, ruthlessly pulled back, but with a few beads braided in here and there.

The newcomer moves as silently as an Eldar, almost, but Haleth is most skilled at hearing such movements, and knows this forest better than her own skin. She turns to face the approaching stranger, her stance shifting just a little, into something not aggressive but ready. "Who comes?" she calls. "Speak, if you would not be silenced."

inquisition-era meet-up, before hawke goes to skyhold?

[boozeandbooty]

[ ooc: i'm rolling with any hawke background/major decision/romance, it's all good! but i was kind of hoping maybe we can get some shippiness going on between these two eventually, maybe some old unacknowledged feelings or fwb thing during da2, something like that? but i'm seriously good with gen as well. everything and anything goes! ♥ ]

After Kirkwall, they all scatter to the winds; except perhaps Aveline and Varric (for a time). And then, the whole world goes tits up. The Conclave fails spectacularly as the Temple of Sacred Ashes explodes and the sky is torn asunder. Mages and templars are at each other's throats worse than ever before, demons pour out of thin air as rifts open up all over. The Inquisition is formed, and all over Thedas the scales of power shift as the fledgling organisation gains in strength, influence and followers week after week.

Isabela knows which way the wind blows. The Inquisition arguably has the best chance of putting things to rights again, of fixing the hole in the sky. So, after a sly elven spy of the organization (Charter, was it?) delivers an official-looking message into her hand in Highever -- along with a letter from a very familiar dwarf -- the pirate rolls her eyes, curses Varric's name, and signs up as an agent. Turns out, being an agent of the Inquisition isn't all that different than being a Raider Captain-- or Admiral, actually. She still gets to plunder and pillage, but the loot (anything from information to gold to supplies to freed hostages) mostly goes toward the Inquisition war chest. Not that she doesn't make sure she gets her own share, and the Inquisition is generous enough in that regard. So much so that Isabela can in good conscience claim it's in her best interests, financially, to lend a helping hand to the organization. Of course she wants to see the world saved, but she also has a reputation to protect, here.

She takes her ship and raids her way across Ferelden and Orlais in the Inquisition's name, while the organization leaves the rubble of Haven behind and relocates to Skyhold.

She couldn't have possibly foreseen that a chance stop to rest and resupply in some small, shitty coastal town near Jader would bring her face to face with a dear old friend she's heard not a peep out of in way too long. The tavern Isabela sniffs out (almost literally) bears some resemblance to the Hanged Man and other such holes in the wall-- maybe why she takes such an immediate liking to the place. She drinks and gambles the day away; and gets into a fight when she cheats in Wicked Grace. The stupid lummox takes offense and kicks up a fuss. Isabela punches him in the face after the name-calling goes too far.

It goes from there. The rest of the idiot thug's gang jump in on the fray, and Isabela is only too happy to take them on, spurred on by the drink and adrenaline. Leaving her daggers in their sheathes, she punches, kicks, breaks bottles over some heads-- and laughs a little too gleefully all the while. The rest of the patrons either flee or continue to mind their own business despite the fisticuffs going on near the bar. A few of the thugs get their licks in as well and Isabela's lip is bleeding and one cheek is already bruising, but she laughs on despite it all.

Brandishing a broken bottle by the neck over her head, she whirls around after the thugs have all been felled, having caught footsteps and assuming it means reinforcements. But instead of malodorous bandits, Isabela only sees one woman standing in the doorway of the tavern; even after all this time, Isabela would recognize Hawke in a heartbeat.

"Maker's balls!" she exclaims through a wide grin, pausing to spit some blood out of her mouth and onto the grimy floor. "We really should stop meeting like this, sweet thing."

RIGHT yes hello there sorry so late. And sounds good. =)

[questionablewit]

Hawke has been nowhere. More accurately she's been everywhere, but as far as the world's been concerned, she's been nowhere. Other names, odd jobs, being just another displaced Ferelden refugee with nowhere to go back to who now works as a sword for hire...it's not hard, not even with a bloody great mabari at her side. Stories about the missing Champion of Kirkwall abound (and even songs, blight it, to say nothing of Varric's book), and sometimes she gets a strange look or two. But mostly she manages to lie low, for once.

The strangest part has been getting used to being alone. Hawke's never been alone before, never in her life. She had her family around her even when they fled to Kirkwall, and then she gradually built up her motley band of misfit friends there, and then when everything went to shit they all splintered. By choice or necessity, reluctantly in most cases, but the end result was Hawke alone. She's used to it now. At least, that's what she keeps telling herself. And she still has Teo. Though that's a little more like saying she still has her left foot or her right ear.

She knows she's invited to the Conclave. Word gets around, especially when you're still in touch with Varric. A hundred horses couldn't have dragged her to that meeting. But when the sky explodes, she almost wishes she'd gone, if only for the chance that she might know what in the Void happened there. Curiosity will get her in real trouble someday.

Varric writes, and she writes back, pretending to be just another one of his informants. It's not a lie, it's just not the whole truth. He tells her about the Inquisition. After he's gotten to know the Inquisitor a little better, he even suggests she consider showing up. People aren't interested in the Champion anymore; it's the Herald of Andraste who's got everyone's attention and hopes weighing her down.

Better her than Hawke, who still refuses. Until all the red lyrium starts showing up everywhere. Until all the Grey Wardens disappear.

Until Corypheus.

Hawke's been doing her own investigations all along, with a little help from Varric and other people who owe her favors. But Corypheus, that's another matter. She can't ignore him. He's her responsibility, at least in part.

So like it or not, she makes her way towards Skyhold. Unobtrusively, on foot, alone except for her dog, passing through any number of ratspit places on the way, which is what she's been doing ever since the left Kirkwall. She's been in this one once or twice, because there's a tavern with ale that's actually worth drinking, and coastal towns always have odd jobs to do for someone who doesn't care if their hands get a little dirty.

The bar brawl wasn't part of the plan, and when she opens the door and sees it her first instinct is to shut it again and walk back out. But Teo suddenly yelps happily, and then she hears a familiar voice. The grin that stretches Hawke's face is real, and it's been far too long since she's worn one, but she doesn't think about that. She could help, but Isabela clearly has everything nearly settled, so Hawke just leans in the doorway and enjoys the show. It's always a pleasure to watch Isabela work, for many reasons. "This is only the second time," she calls back, grinning. "It's not a tradition until three."

One of the toughs who landed near the door groans and looks like he's thinking of getting up. The mabari by Hawke's side looks down at him, mouth spread in a canine grin, complete with lots of teeth. The tough decides unconsciousness is the better part of survival just as Hawke steps over him and grabs Isabela in a fierce hug. "I see you haven't changed. What was it, cheating at cards or someone using truly unbearable pick-up lines?"

[ooc: I default to an Andersmance with breakup for maximum fucking up Hawke, but that wouldn't get in the way. Regardless she'd always have flirted with Isabela (how can you *not*?) and I'm happy for them to have had a one night fling back early in the day if you like. For the future, let's see how the sparks fly. ;) BTW assume circle mage Bethany and general maxed friendships everywhere, and enjoy Hawke's mabari.]

for Enjorlas and/or Grantaire

[questionablewit]

[It'd been supposed to be a small event. Outdoors, early evening, in a local park. Enjorlas talking, and he could get passionate whenever social change and justice were the topics, but still, it wasn't supposed to be a big event.

It turned into one. No one was sure how. Word got around. Still not a problem until the police showed up, suspicious of all the noise. They didn't try to drive anyone away at first, but their presence definitely made things...tense.

Later on, no one would really be sure just how it started. Gavroche, a number of people claimed, though it was even odds as to if he'd bitten the policeman or a cop had cuffed him for fun. Or maybe it'd just been one snide insulting look or remark too many, on one side or the other. Maybe nothing had sparked it and it just happened.

Regardless of why, things turned into a brawl. Which would still not be all that worrying to most of the people there; to a lot of them brawling was entertainment for a good Saturday evening, and there was alcohol around for the spectators. But one of the smaller gutter kids had gotten pushed over and then half-trampled, and Anders had seen it, and that's when everything really went to shit.

Rumors flew afterwards about how someone had brought fireworks or maybe a bomb. Some of the more superstitious claimed an angel or demon had appeared demanding justice, frightening some of the viewers and converting others.

The most observant, or those who knew them, would have seen Anders' skin, his eyes, even his clothes, all cracked and glowing from within with an uncanny blue light, heard his voice deeper and echoing and inhuman, saw the righteous rage as he lifted his hands (also glowing) and began attacking any policemen in sight. Three went up in blue, screaming fireballs before Hawke was able to get to him, her expression grim and focused as she kicked him in the abdomen and captured his attention.

After that theirs was a small, two-person duel in the midst of the larger fray, with Anders inhumanly roaring and not recognizing anyone, and Hawke silent and more deadly than anyone had ever seen her be before. She's a good fighter, everyone knows that; she supports herself and Anders and his odd, underground clinic with the odd jobs she takes, finding things that shouldn't be found or handling dangerous situations or threatening people who really need to be threatened, the scary ones who deserve it. But no one had ever seen her moving as fast as she did that night, or as efficiently, until even the thing inhabiting Anders was driven to its knees. Her last blow struck him in the small of the back, winding him, and when he looked up it was just Anders again, confused and with a dawning expression of horror.

She grabbed his arm and they ran before anyone could get themselves together enough to ask questions, much less stop them. And oh, how the questions are asked, once they're gone. Once the cavalry arrives and everything is broken up, broken down, people arrested or sent home or called in for questioning. The city as a whole dismisses it all as another drunken brawl, those students, you know what they're like, kids these days, don't know what the world's coming to.

But anyone who looks for Hawke and Anders at his clinic finds it shut, and neither of them is anywhere to be found.]

[deblayer]

[The thing about a fight--particularly a fight like this, particularly a fight that falls so quickly into something utterly unanticipated in scale and damage--is that it takes the entire team's attention. The medical students needed to start a rapid triage. The law students needed to start recording. The least jangled brains needed to throw their associated bodies between the beginnings of new scraps in an effort to keep the overflow contained.

There's no way to keep proper track when things go wild. There's just the headcount as the dust begins to settle.]

Are you hurt?

[songofstaying]

Anders ~things~

(Because yes I need another slow as all get out thread)

For Steve

[endsinafight]

[Continued from here.]

[He hasn't seen Steve face to face in weeks, which really, is a drop to the hat compared to seven decades without seeing him. True to his word, he hasn't uttered a word to Shuri about his impending arrival even if it feels almost strange to keep it from her. When he's not working out in the field or allowing the kids to be entertained by him in whatever way they find amusing, he's usually in her lab. He's taken to bringing her lunch a couple times a week.

Aside from Steve, she's really the only friend he has. Most of the time he's content just to watch her work, occasionally asking a question or two out of curiosity because the girl is smart in ways he'd never known. She reminds him of Rebecca. It dawns on him one day, out of nowhere when they're talking and she tilts her head back and laughs and he has a very clear memory of his little sister laughing at something he'd said.

So he doesn't tell Shuri but he feels a little guilty about it. Mostly, though, Bucky's just anxious for his best friend's arrival because it's been a long, long few weeks, and he never feels completely whole when Steve's out there somewhere, doing God knows what and hopefully not getting himself killed in the process. It's something that he's always had nightmares about, but lately those nightmares have kicked into high gear, and he knows it's probably his screwed up brain trying to work things out, but it sets him on edge. He'll feel better once he actually lays eyes on the other man.

The day of his arrival finds him hurrying through breakfast, feeding the goats, straightening up his hut and putting a pot of stew on to simmer for later.]

[stillcantdance]

[Truthfully, Steve was kidding about not informing Shuri. He knows she wouldn't hurt either of them. Surprise-throw them across a room using their own kinetic energy against them, yes, but actually hurt, no.

And he'd let her throw him halfway across Wakanda if she wanted, out of gratitude for all she's done for Bucky.

Still, it's fun to surprise her and T'challa also, and it's certainly pleasant to be treated as a welcome surprise rather than a problematic one. They invite him to stop by the palace, and he will--but he'll see Bucky first.

Steve doesn't have to ask directions; he knows the way. By the time he's leaning on the door frame looking in, that stew is smelling pretty good.]

Next time you want me to come visit? Just promise to cook dinner. I'll come running.

for grumpycatanthir

[takesnoshit]

Haleth turns the spit, dusting the birds skewered their liberally with herbs. They have already been well-marinaded, but this herb is one best added during the cooking itself, to better bring out the flavor. Her attention is divided, a large portion of it listening for near-silent footsteps in the night, or the sound of hooves, but her eyes stay fixed on her work.

It is three years since she parted from Caranthir, after deliberately goading him into an argument she enflamed to be as bitter as possible. With his temper and her knowledge of him, it had not been difficult, for all his love of her. And at the time it had seemed the best thing, a way to break connection between them completely, and to perhaps also break his love for her. A cruel thing to do, and she had known it at the time. But a mortal love was a milestone he did not need around his neck. Her own heartbreak she could carry, and even the knowledge of having caused his; both were lighter weights than the pain of a doomed love between Eldar and Edain. Or so she had judged at the time.

It is one year since an impossible daughter from an impossible future wandered into Haleth's life, upending all Haleth's assumptions and calling that judgement into question. Many questions asked, and only some answered.

It is three months since Haleth sent a message with the aid of Finrod Felagund, asking Caranthir if he would meet her at a point midway between their homes. It is a month since she left the Haladin to ride for it, leaving her nephew in charge. He is young, but wise and strong, and however this excursion turns our the experience will be good for him. They are in a peaceful place, and he had advisors to keep him from misstepping too badly.

It is a month since Haleth set out, riding alone, as she always has stood alone, save perhaps for a period of a few months when an Elven king courted her, before she broke his heart.

And now she sits, roasting birds on a spit above a campfire, calmly waiting to see if he will meet with her.

[grumpycatanthir]

The fight had been vicious and angry, and despite being somewhat aware that she had been deliberately provoking, his temper has never been his best feature. He has stayed away as much out of shame at the way he reacted, the things he said, as for any other reason.

Finrod's message caught him by surprise, and he considered not going for a long time.

But.

Haleth is mortal

He might never have another chance to apologise.

He rides slowly into the clearing, and wonders what he is supposed to say.

"Haleth?"

[sohoangel]

After a text conversation that revealed a few too many things about Aziraphale than he intended, the angel finds himself at the same sushi restaurant-slash-karaoke bar, only this time he has Crowley for company.

The chef, already on a first name (or one name, in this case) basis with Aziraphale, has a bottle of sake brought to the table, along with a variety of his signature rolls. At the other end of the bar, the karaoke machine is occupied by a group of young women happily belting out "I Will Survive". The restaurant is lit up in cool neon colors, at odds with Aziraphale's usual appearance, although no one pays attention to that except perhaps the angel himself, who is feeling oddly self-conscious in Crowley's company.

"Well," he says, after a long sip of sake. "You wanted to ask me about the dancing?"

[duckshaveears]

It's a mix of very familiar and very surreal. The sushi and sake, and the fact that Aziraphale is already on intimate terms with the chef, that's per usual for their evenings out.

The lighting is less usual, however, and the background music is definitely new. The intention of their taking part in the background music later on? Past new and into straight out borderline inconceivable territory. Tread carefully. Here There Be Dragons. All that.

It's probable that this is a terrible idea, but Crowley is nothing if not curious and devil-may-care (unavoidably), and this story will hopefully be worth any price he might pay later. "I absolutely do," he says, taking his chopsticks in hand and adding a generous portion of wasabi (the proper, real thing, none of this horseradish nonsense, no wonder Aziraphale liked this place) to his soy sauce. "Talk. What gentleman's club, where, when, and especially what dancing?"

for anathematics, let me know if editing needed. =)

[theniceone]

It's been a lovely outing, all things considered. It was Adam's idea originally--far as Aziraphale can sense the boy is wholly, simply human now, but the angel has some suspicions to the contrary. He keeps those to himself, because he chooses to trust Adam's judgement.

But it has been pleasant, getting them all together to celebrate a few weeks after the fact. Himself and Crowley, Adam and the Them, Anathema and Newt, even Marjorie and Shadwell, all having a picnic. No one's said why, not directly. Wensleydale had suggested a toast (with his Ribena), and all of them had toasted any number of things, including cheese sandwiches, giant squid, clouds, those googly-eyes that were so useful for sticking on things to make them look silly), and he'd rather lost track of them all after that.

To the world Crowley had said, back at the Ritz. To Aziraphale, that summed it up perfectly, and it feels like what they were all celebrating.

Crowley, however much he might protest later, is having a whale of a time entertaining and being entertained by Them--hardly surprising given what a devilish streak they all have. Aziraphale watches them run and beams with contentment. Shadwell is taking advantage of an opportunity to talk to (for a value of talk that equals bellowing) his former private, with Marjorie looking on in fond indulgence, and Anathema...

...is joining Aziraphale on the picnic blanket! How nice. He smiles up at her. "Do join me, my dear." He holds up the plate on his lap, which still has a few petit fours remaining. "Cake?"

s o f t

[anathematics]

It really has been a lovely day. Things still feel a little less muddled with these particular voices creating a tapestry around the edges of her thoughts. The oddity of The Rest Of Her Life is a little less faintly overwhelming, a little more reasonable.

Everything was sort of infinitely reasonable in comparison to what they've all been through, after all.

So it really has been lovely to be able to breathe here for a while, letting an afternoon spin idly by. And it really is quite lovely to set herself down on a blanket next to Aziraphale, attention flitting across this comforting collection of familiar faces before coming to rest on the angel's.

"How can there possibly be any left?"

Not that she won't have one. Sweets are good to nibble at the beginning of a pensive mood.

for salutosinedelectat, feel free to switch to brackets if you prefer.

[duckshaveears]

[ooc: continued from this thread]

True to his word, Crowley is lingering outside the Ritz in half an hour. Which for Crowley means he's found an empty stretch of wall near the entrance and is leaning against it for all he's worth while he waits.

There is a major difference, however. Usually he'd be trying to look cool, which traditionally means looking bored. But he doesn't. It's small things that make it clear, the slight quirk of his mouth or tilt of his head or the lack of a certain degree of slouch in the way he's leaning. Maybe it's only obvious to someone who knows him well. But he doesn't look bored at all. He looks happy.

He'd deny it, of course, if anyone pointed the fact out to him. But it's there, as it was another night at the Ritz not that long ago, when, exuberant with relief and celebration, they'd toasted a world that hadn't ended.

It's an artistic lean, unhurried, but content. Like if he needs to wait there for several hundred years, it's no trouble. Some things are worth waiting for.

https://youtu.be/HXSFTe7tbqY

[salutosinedelectat]

It's not that Aziraphale is too late, but he's not early, either. No, he took his time, dedicating some of it to fussing merrily, to preening, for all that he looks practically the same. Perhaps a slight difference to his blonde curls, while all the rest just seems to be about the same level of care as he always gives, despite his rather worn clothes.

There's an air of gentle giddiness to him. All too personal, almost certainly entirely unnoticed by every person he walks by, but it's there, in him, and he doesn't even notice the curl to the corner of his lips as he goes along.

He spots the lanky demon, the usual spot, permanently marked by that one evening not that long ago.

"Hullo, my dear." All polite cheerfulness. "Were you waiting long?"

because this was so much on my mind I had to do it

[confoundthemighty]

Moving Crowley into the space above the bookshop means that in fact Aziraphale has to spend quite a lot of time in Mayfair.

It’s the kitchen, mostly—or, to be honest, the lack thereof. The floor above the shop needs minor renovations [1] to accommodate appliances and a new sink. They’ll likely be moved in around the New Year, which seems strangely appropriate. Even though the idea of New Year’s is a human construct and the date has changed over the millennia and between traditions, there’s a symbolism to it that Aziraphale appreciates.

And whether by day in the shop or by night in the most comfortable bed in London, he’s rarely alone anymore.

It’s bliss. It’s messy, gorgeous perfection, and he loves every minute of it.

They’re constantly tripping over one another’s things—clothes, shoes, books, the now-flowering plants. Every meal is now a shared meal; every bottle of wine or liquor is split evenly between them. Aziraphale teaches himself how to make French toast, and crepes, and omelets; Crowley sits him down in front of the enormous flatscreen television and twines around him while they watch a number of films Aziraphale’s never seen before. Some Like It Hot, Young Frankenstein, Murder on the Orient Express, both Star Wars trilogies.[2]

(They make love, shag, fuck, and Aziraphale learns that the difference between those things isn’t merely semantic. He learns that his own body feels strong and solid when Crowley’s thin frame is held in his lap, male or female; he learns that there’s no safer place in the world than pinned under his demon. He learns he very much likes to be on his knees with one of Crowley’s hands in his hair, regardless of what fills his mouth. He learns that sometimes he needs to have his wrists tied to the bedposts, especially when they experiment with Crowley’s serpent form.)

Every day is a gift. Every time Crowley’s arms tighten around him and he whispers, tell me again, Aziraphale says what’s in his heart, without fear. I love you. I want you above the shop with me. I’ll never leave you again.

Somehow it doesn’t quite feel like enough.

And as autumn starts to frost over, an idea comes to him.

He has to carry out his plan in bits and bobs, which is no longer as easy as it might be if he lived alone. Crowley is almost always underfoot, sometimes literally, and once or twice Aziraphale is sure he’ll need a miracle to keep the entire endeavor a secret. But somehow he manages, and at last in the second week of December there’s a final phone call telling him it’ll be ready tomorrow.

That night, as they lie tangled and catching their breath, Aziraphale manages to scrape together enough of his brain to bring it up.

“Tomorrow evening,” he says, voice a little throaty. “I want to take you out. Dinner and a show.”



[1] Well, minor for a celestial being and a good crew blessed with luck.

[2] “Why are we only watching episodes four through nine? Isn’t there something important in one through three?”
“Trust me, angel, you don’t want to watch those. I know you, and I know you don’t want to see the reason George Lucas is going to Hell.”
“That bad?”
“Worse, if you can believe it.”

I love it

[duckshaveears]

Everything is different, and Crowley couldn't be happier about it.

He doesn't admit that, naturally. He complains about books being left everywhere ("Not every flat surface is a shelf, angel!") and Aziraphale complains about how Crowley and his long limbs are always stretched out across a narrow aisle to trip him up ("Must you use my coffee table as a footrest?") and they bicker like they always have, millennia of now-and-again practice put into suddenly constant use. Aziraphale compliments him and Crowley hisses a denial, Crowley says something disparaging about Keats and Aziraphale rolls his eyes at him.

But now whenever Crowley refuses to be called 'good' or 'nice' Aziraphale can kiss him until he stops arguing, and whenever Aziraphale rolls his eyes Crowley can laugh and wrap arms around him from behind and nibble at his ear to placate him, and they both smile like idiots all the time and couldn't care less.

(and at night, during those dark intimate hours when the world sleeps they tangle and twine and join and undo each other, and sometimes the fears that Crowley no longer finds it as easy to blithely ignore catch up to him, and Aziraphale chases them off with words and caresses, and they make every kind of love from filthy to worshipful until Crowley collapses into sleep with an arm around his angel's soft waist while wonders how on Earth he ever got this lucky)

Months pass, and it just keeps getting better. And then suddenly it's Christmas season. Red cups at Starbucks, that obnoxious Paul McCartney song all over the radio, the works.

Crowley lies happily winded on his back, Aziraphale snuggled up to him. He absently strokes the angel's spine (still tacky with drying sweat, about which Crowley is distinctly smug) when this announcement is made. "Sure thing, angel," he says agreeably. More often it's him arranging events out but he's more than willing to have the tables turned in him. "What and where? Do I need a pretty frock?"

A Princess and a Not-Quite-Dragon

[confoundthemighty]

Of the many, many, many enjoyable aspects of exploring the delights in human sexuality, one of the greatest thus far has been something humans tend to describe simply as “play”.

It’s an apt description: pretending to be people other than themselves, in circumstances other than their own, often feels like both the best sort of play-acting and the best sort of game. And the sex that ensues is always fantastic—not that it’s ever less than good, mind, they just tend to be more adventurous with these games than at other times.

Today is no exception.

From the way Crowley acted when he first brought up the idea—casually careless, his usual endearing attempt at diffidence—Aziraphale could tell he’d been thinking about it for a while. Not surprising, really; it’s the sort of romantic thing that sticks in one’s head like a particularly vivid painting. A bit fairy-taleish, too, which may be why Crowley hesitated to bring it up, and why Aziraphale immediately loved it.

It’s taken them a little while to get round to it, though. There have been other delights. But now, in the middle of a dreary, rainy week, seems like the perfect time to try it.

As ever, Aziraphale has taken a great deal of care with the costuming: a soft kirtle in the palest blue, beneath a white velvet surcoat with gold embroidery, the only jewellery a plain gold circlet perched in her curls. She is, after all, meant to be a princess of the royal blood.

(She hasn’t been a woman since the mid-1400s, and that only briefly. In private, without needing to negotiate things like shoes and ridiculous social assumptions, it’s far more comfortable than she remembers. And, she has to admit, she rather likes the way her face looks when it’s more feminine, especially since she’s miracled out her hair to shoulder-length.)

Their bedroom is lit softly only by the grey light of a rainy day. She’s sprawled herself fetchingly across the bed, skirts spread against the covers, eyes closed as if in some enchanted sleep, the very picture of innocence ripe for temptation.

Which is the whole idea.

for salutosinedelectat

[duckshaveears]

[Continuation of the Train to the Afterlife thread of doom, picking up from here.]

"Every blanket," Crowley confirms, heedless of all posh teasing. "All of 'em. And the tea towels, even. Make a giant warm nest on the couch and hole up in it until we forget what cold feels like."

A plan not unlike what he's doing now, truthfully, as he snuggles further under the blankets, resting his head on Aziraphale's chest. He's never liked being cold but has a whole new level of distaste for it now.

Their hands are still joined together, resting now on Aziraphale's stomach. He's got no plans to let go. He does yawn, however, his jaw stretching impressively wide.

[salutosinedelectat]

Their hands are simply meant to stay locked together for the foreseeable future, resting comfortably on the angel's stomach. He brushes his thumb idlt over Crowley's fingers every so often, even well after his grandiose plans of a gigantic blanket nest are voiced.

Aziraphale lets his head rest back, closing his eyes, Crowley's yawn bringing up one of his own. He shifts, carefully, settling down as comfortably as he can, the gentle, familiar weight of Crowley's head resting on his chest being no small part of it.

"Then we really should bring out the best wine." Make it a celebration.

for confoundsthemighty

[duckshaveears]

[ooc: continued from here]

To say nothing of how uncomfortable and inconvenient it'd be at certain times. Like when you're between my legs.

I prefer snakes Great observers, snakes. Pity there aren't more of them around here.

You should. He's a twerp. And how often will you have an opportunity like that?

But you won't get to stretch out too much in the bath. Or hadn't I mentioned I was going to be in it with you?

[confoundthemighty]

[The next few texts are much quicker--someone's switched from paws to fingers, it seems.]

And that would be such a shame, since we both love it when I use my mouth on you.

I'll summon up a hairball tomorrow. Tonight is blocked off for a well-earned bath.

You hadn't, but I like the way your mind works. And of course this means you'll be very thoroughly groomed too.

for salutosindelicat, dammit Skree it turned frikking epic again

[duckshaveears]

Crowley should have realized it would all go wrong when he tried to do something nice. That was definitely his mistake. Never do nice things. He might not work for Hell anymore but he's still a demon and therefor a fount of wickedness, mischief, sin, and vice in general, and therefore has no business doing nice things.

Except, it'd been for Aziraphale.

It isn't even that he likes doing nice things for Aziraphale. He doesn't. ^[1]Oh, the angel deserves nice things, Crowley won't deny that. All things great and small and cute and cuddly and beautiful and wonderful and okay, fine, so maybe, just maybe he's done Aziraphale a few kindnesses in their time. Maybe.

But for selfish reasons, ultimately. Because he is ^[2] addicted to the smile Aziraphale wears whenever Crowley does something nice for him. Crowley likes that smile. So it's purely selfish and not for the angel's benefit at all. Crowley is the one who benefits. He's justified it to himself like that for centuries--millennia now, really--and the logic is as sound as ever.

It's also now completely moot.

Several months ago, the world failed to end. Several weeks after that, Crowley and Aziraphale managed to actually get their act together (at the same speed, on their own side) and start something that might, just might, possibly, be considered a relationship. With kissing and everything.

And Crowley's never been happier, and judging by how often Aziraphale wears the smile Crowley used to go to great lengths to try and coax out of him, neither has Aziraphale.

So Crowley thought he'd do something...nice. The sort of thing humans in relationships do. A date. Dinner, flowers, an evening out.

Which is how he's ended up sitting at a performance of An Ideal Husband next to Aziraphale, watching actos and actresses exchange Oscar Wilde witticisms in the name of art and theatre.

It does not explain why he's got his arms folded over his chest and has been gradually looking more and more scowl-y as the play's gone on. Granted, one of the main themes is forgiveness for past mistakes, which is always going to be something as a sore point.

This was a bad idea and it's biting him and he's trying to hold his tongue and just enjoy the play, or at least enjoy Aziraphale enjoying the play, which was always going to be the real point of the evening for Crowley. But it's proving hard going.

And that's why Crowley shouldn't be caught doing nice things. Obviously. It only leads to trouble.

...fucking Oscar Wilde.

^[1] As a professional fount of wickedness Crowley spends a lot of time lying, especially to himself.

^[2] Also was, has been, and always will be

aw dang can't hold all these words

[salutosinedelectat]

He's happy, all things considered. He thought he knew what happy was, what it felt like, but it didn't feel like this. It's not just what he has with Crowley now - though that is clearly no insignificant part of it and comes from a long, long line of events; a web, really, an intricate web that would take far too long to fully follow -, but the fact that so much pressure has been taken off his shoulders. The kind of weight that had always been there, so he stopped noticing it. Believed it had to be there, so it was just part of him. Now, it's gone, and he's learning to move around without it, effectively stumbling around life like a newborn deer, even if the terrain is so familiar.

A date. He was delighted at the idea. Being who he is, he put far too much effort on preparing himself for an outing that was only different than their usual ones by context. He'd even got, surprisingly, a new vest (though, nobody panic, his beloved, at least two century old piece is safety put away in his shop and will return to his person when this is all over), along with some advice from his very patient barber.

He was even more delighted when it turned out that Crowley had got them tickets to one of Oscar's plays. He's seen many, of course, many versions of as many of them as he could get to, but it never lost its spark. It was always a different experience to see new actors bring his words and his ideas to life, to breathe new energy to his witty remarks and his commentary, his insidious jokes. It warms Aziraphale's heart to see his works survive to this day - there are many minds whose names are still uttered, many from long, long before Oscar's time, but, having seen the waves of humanity pass by, they're all just drops in a bucket. Rather shiny, lovely drops, most of them, resplendent or poisoned depending on what they have done, but they're barely a handful of them when you think about it.

So that made it all the more special, really, that the angel's friends words kept being repeated, his ideas newly interpreted, his name still known, even after it had been stripped away from him and what he had created, for a time. Aziraphale wishes he could have known, that he could have seen the impact he made.

The angel is lost in these thoughts as he watches the story he's watched so many other times. A swell of emotion that may well seem out of place for the scene, but the lack of lighting helps conceal it, and he's Fine. He thinks to hold Crowley's hand - in fact, he looks, searching for it on the arm rest, only to find it hidden away in the demon's crossed arms, and to notice the scowl on his face.

He doesn't understand. And he wonders if there's something he's missed.

Gingerly, he places a hand on Crowley's elbow, giving him a quizzical look.

Spoilers: I know little of Spain and nothing of alcohol and am BSing everywhere.

[duckshaveears]

There's a madman in Seville, the rumors say.

Not so interesting in and of itself. There are madmen everywhere. This one's caught the public interest, however. Maybe he's just fun to tell stories about. The stories certainly spread. He's been there for weeks, apparently, drifting from one cantina to another and drinking enough to drown himself and telling the most astonishing stories. He answers any question he's asked, and while the answers often don't make any sense they're certainly interesting to listen to. A learned man, he must be, debating philosophy or theology or mathematics or even smaller things like why crabs walk sideways. He has enough knowledge to astound the wisest, even when he's so drunk his words slur together.

The call him the angel because he never has a beard, stays as smooth-faced as a boy. The first time someone addressed him as angel his head whipped around in a mix of fear and hope, and then he laughed until he cried and begged for another drink. That's another funny thing: he always gets it. Somehow no one refuses him, even though no one's ever seen him with any coins. No cantina turns him away, and every camarero, even if they intend to say No, no, you must leave, you are bad for business and will kill yourself with all this drinking and I don't want your death on my conscience, go home and sleep it off, somehow they always find themselves handing over another bottle of wine instead. Fortunately he doesn't seem to mind the cheap stuff. He doesn't seem to mind anything, not his scraggly hair or the lice he scratches at or the dirt matting his clothes, he only minds not having a drink in his hands. Strange fellow, the Angel of Seville. At night he sleeps in the streets or wanders, singing off-key hymns, and whether it's holy or blasphemous no one can tell, and when asked he says he can't tell anymore either.

They see him angry only once, when a man is beating a Jew in the street. The Jews and Muslims have mostly all been driven away or forced to convert to Catholicism by now, in accordance with the royal decrees of Ferdinand and Isabela; whatever faith they practice in their hearts, or secretly in their homes, in public they must put on the faces of Catholics and be as devout as their neighbors, more. The Inquisition has eyes everywhere. Perhaps this Jew was less cautious, or not pious enough in his new faith, or just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But after two blows fall on his back there's a roar of fury, ferocious enough that even the man with the whip falters, and the Angel of Seville grabs the whip and makes as though to break it, rip it apart with his bare hands.

Then he stops, shudders. Tells the Jew to go, and in a voice as quiet as death hands the whip back to its owner and demands that he be given the stripes instead. Kneels on the ground and presents his own back instead. The first blow barely lands at all, the man with the whip is too shaken to use force, but the angel growls. The next blows fall harder, harder, and after twelve have fallen--twelve, for the apostles, the followers of Christ--the angel stands and thanks him in a voice that doesn't shake despite his bleeding back and shredded tunic, and walks down the street looking for another drink. The man with the whip looks at his hands as though they've betrayed him, and it's said he later burns his whip and takes orders and spends the rest of his life doing penance.

There are many stories of the Angel of Seville. But the angel, if angel he is, looks like any other drunk: dirty and wretched, stinking beyond belief, sitting in a corner and drinking straight from the bottle, while the camarera rolls her eyes from behind her bar as she cleans the wine mugs. "You'll come to a bad end," she says knowingly, "if you don't mend your ways. The devils will eat your toes and feast on your heart, and when you beg to be released to Heaven's kindness they will refuse you at the gates."

The angel laughs, and laughs, and laughs, and possibly he's sobbing instead of laughing, but the sound make everyone cringe, and the camarera curses him and returns to her work.

also BSing everywhere but with a handcrafted joke here just for you

[confoundthemighty]

The word “auto-da-fé” means “act of faith”; consequently Aziraphale is bitterly unsurprised that it’s the word assigned to the Inquisition’s public displays of cruelty.

He’s been making his way through Spain for about three years now, undermining these glorious works whenever he can. Aziraphale has always been excellent at casual blasphemy, and here in Spain there’s a near-endless supply of opportunities. It fills him with a spiteful glee that fuels his endeavors and his imagination—and distracts him from keeping count of all the human measurements of time that have passed since he last saw Crowley.

Heaven’s earthly agents keep him busy. Especially the Grand Inquisitor, Torquemada—the hammer of heretics, the light of Spain, the savior of his country, and one of the greatest human adversaries he’s ever faced. Even the Serpent can’t tempt Torquemada; he’s already been seduced by the blinding glories of Heaven. There is no glittering treasure and no carnal satisfaction that can overshadow the zeal in the Grand Inquisitor’s soul. He longs to do a great work for the Almighty, to purge the unfaithful from Spain, and the righteousness has rotted him from the inside in a way that seems to please the forces of Good.

(They must be pleased, he reasons, because he’s heard no stories of angels or heavenly visions condemning the path the Crown and the Inquisition have begun to blaze in a very literal sense through the country. There are a few brave and foolish humans who do protest, here and there, but then Aziraphale has long since learned that there are always a handful of humans in any era or part of the world who are driven by faith not in the Almighty but in doing the right thing.)

But a Great Seducer has hundreds of ways to make Torquemada’s job harder. Aziraphale undermines constantly. When he catches whispers that the Grand Inquisitor wants to ban heretical literature, Aziraphale introduces several printers and booksellers in back rooms over bottles of good wine, helps to facilitate several underground means of distribution for books the Inquisition deems too far from God. Quite a few butchers who refuse to give up halal or kosher practices find a friendly white cat outside their back doors, meowing prettily for scraps—and keeping a lookout for officers of the Inquisition. Sometimes on a Saturday if a particularly zealous soul is out looking for evidence of incorrect worship, a wisp of white smoke hovers over the chimneys of conversos who have forgotten they must now light fires on the Sabbath like their neighbors. Sometimes inside the houses of the conversos the residents suddenly become aware of music somewhere far away, a lute or a harp.

From city to city he slinks, whispering and wiling, scattering strange demonic luck in his wake. He can only keep so many from the bloody claws of Heaven’s engines of destruction, but for a little while at least Aziraphale can turn all his attention to the kind of thwarting that’s mostly preservation. If Heaven is so keen to get rid of undesirable thoughts and worshippers (or at least sanction their destruction), Aziraphale will make sure they survive, all across Spain.

(This is not to say that his efforts are entirely focused on keeping the undesirables out of danger. In every city he’s visited, some Inquisitor or local stoolpigeon has ended up wandering into a dark alley, beaten and robbed and often stripped of any evidence that might have convicted a converso. In Valencia an entire tribunal falls ill for a week after a dinner meeting [1]. Couriers carrying messages between Inquisitors find themselves lost in dark and unfamiliar places, sometimes wandering for weeks.)

Aziraphale moves often, purposefully, every journey a thwarting. Seville, being the seat of the Inquisition, is ripe for mischief to make against Torquemada. He’s been here before, but he likes to keep his knowledge as current as possible while he’s on an active project like this one. So he employs a trick he’s learned from humans: he seeks out someone chatty and an excuse to sit and listen.

*

Fernand, unlike many men in his trade, is respectable enough to keep a shop. Not a big one, but it’s a comfortable place, and he can even afford to hire an assistant. Local boy. Smart kid. He can even read and write—and so can Fernand, though he doesn’t always let everyone know that.

The man in the silver spectacles who walks in that morning shines on his doorstep like a new coin. He wears almost all white, except for stylish touches of gold and red, and his smile is broad and sunny. Fernand asks whether the gentleman is troubled with a toothache or in need of bloodletting, but the fellow smiles wider and tells him no, nothing so drastic. Merely a haircut.

They chat amiably as Fernand works. Or rather Fernand mostly chats, and the gentleman listens, occasionally asking questions. It seems he’s back in Seville after an absence, and wants to know what he’s missed. Fernand has plenty of stories from the last few months: weddings, births, affairs, people who’ve vanished after Inquisitors came sniffing around. And then of course there’s the madman, the Angel Of Seville.

The gentleman’s sunny smile melts away as Fernand relates how the angel wanders from cantina to cantina, how his wildness is a puzzle to everyone around him. Before Fernand quite knows what’s happened, the gentleman has seized him by the front of his shirt—and even with the silver spectacles in the way, Fernand can feel his gaze burning.

“Take me to the angel,” the gentleman says in a strange voice, “and I swear to you the good name of the best barber in Seville will live forever.”





[1] There is a very small amount of arsenic naturally occurring in apple pips. By some miracle, a large quantity of pips end up in the pepper grinder at the Inquisitors’ table. Smaller amounts of what science has yet to identify as E. coli also end up in every dish. Whether this is due to sixteenth-century food hygiene practices or perhaps has something to do with the white cat lurking outside the kitchen is up for debate.

For Zirafell

[duckshaveears]

Things are perfect.

Truly, they are, even by Crowley's exacting standards. They're better than they've ever been. He's free of Heaven's restrictions and can do as he pleases. The word hasn't ended, humanity goes on, music and drama and daytime television all continue. His plants are thriving, his Bentley is miraculously restored, and somehow when the world remade itself he had a few extra first presses of limited edition vinyl albums he didn't have before. It's all brilliant.

And not just for Crowley. Zirafell is no longer bound by Hell, and if millennia of necessary paranoia mean he's still anxious more often than not...well. He's here. He's *here*, and no excuse was needed. No Arrangement need or fancy pastry bribe. All right, there was a promise of alcohol, but only because they enjoy sharing it. He's here, sitting on an armchair Crowley long ago purchased solely for his use, and he's sitting there being comfortable and reading as though this is his own space. Just for the pleasure of being here, in Crowley's company, even if they aren't actively doing anything right now. Just spending leisure time, which they suddenly have in abundance.

It's perfect.

So it's a bit odd that Crowley, lying back on the couch and ostensibly playing match-3 games on his phone, doesn't seem to have touched the screen for several minutes, or even focused on it. Also that he keeps batting his foot against the cushions absently.

[salutosinedelectat]

Things are perfect. That is to say, as far as he can tell, they seem to be perfect. Perfect is an idea that is often spoken but hardly accurate, and even less so when your instincts have been molded in such a way that Perfect often equates Too Good To Be True.

And yet, he may dare say it - or, at least, think it. Against all survivalist instinct, against all odds, against all of the things they've seen, specially the ones from not that long ago. Yes, he may dare take the leap to say something so preposterous, so finite, so very stark in its definition. Things may be, unless proven otherwise (hopefully not proven otherwise) actually, legitimately, perfect.

His fear of Hell lies dormant under a gentle layer of relief. The pits and sulfur and flame seem to distant now, here, after everything. The show ended with a bang and the finale played itself out. The curtain's been dropped, and they now sit backstage, taking off the greasepaint and putting their costumes away. Now is the quiet, and he couldn't be happier.

The demon's never needed an invitation. As far as he's been aware, one or two extended invitations centuries ago were valid for as long as he was allowed to stick around. That agreement in itself was a bit more one sided than maybe others would have assumed, but he always thought it worked for them.

So he sits, in this chair, with this book, somewhere where he may dare call...comfortable. Nice, even. He may one day even call it something else, something more important, but those will have to do for now. There's only so much Daring he can spare in a given period of time. And whether all of these concepts have to do with the amenities and physical comforts spared by the other person in the room, or their actual presence under the same room as the demon, well, they'll just have to wait and see.

Books tend to have a sort of entrancing effect on the demon - good books, anyway, the strange and interesting especially, whatever that might mean for a creature such as him. Point being, once he's began running his eyes through the pages, his corporation and the tome might as well be fused together, stuck in a process that isn't to be interrupted, no matter the reason. And, yet, he finds his attention lacking tonight. The literature betrayed by such vague distractions, which he has the full mind to make up for at a later point. But something wanders the depth of his min, peeking out every so often with curious eyes. He can't quite put his finger on it, but it does draw him away from his reading enough to take note of the shuffling born from the angel's foot against the cushions.

As such, in a rare turn of events, the demon plucks his eyes away from the pages and lays them on the restless figure laying on the nearby sofa, observing him for a moment before finally breaking the silence.

"Something on your mind, angel?"