faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

i just laughed for 15 minutes straight pic.twitter.com/zAMgWglksE
— madison meyers (@madmeyers) September 17, 2017

[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

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.

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.

[ 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."

Edited 2019-01-21 14:40 (UTC)

[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.]

Edited 2019-01-31 18:34 (UTC)

Anders ~things~

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

[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.]

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.

Edited 2019-07-12 23:01 (UTC)

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?"

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?"

[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.

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.”

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.

[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.

[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?

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

Edited (html failures) 2020-03-10 16:58 (UTC)

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.

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.

MOM

book letters for Faramir

big brother

cousin

THE BABE WITH THE POWER

baby sister

anniversary shenanigans for Faramir

Mooooooooooooom

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

for Enjorlas and/or Grantaire

no subject

For Steve