faemused | Another Year, Another Open RP Post

Currently offering: Crowley, angel!Crowley, Haleth. Will update this if that changes. If you want one of those three, have at it.

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From:

duckshaveears

Crowley went to bed in not the best of moods.

Things could be worse, mind. Armageddon had come and gone, for a value of 'come and gone' that equalled 'had sort of happened except not really and it's all just bloody ineffabble again innit'. He was free from Hell's shackles and Aziraphale was free from Heaven's mindfuckery and humanity was free to go on being blessedly, damnably, fantastically human, and the world turned on.

But the world turning on meant all the usual irritants, wars and plagues and famines. This year was apparently plague, and while it was no 14th century (thank Somebody for that) it wasn't exactly a walk in the park either. Not least because they weren't supposed to go walking in parks. Not in company, anyway, and what was the point of a walk in the park on your own with no one to talk to but ducks? So if Aziraphale was going to stand firm about not meeting at all until things eased up, Crowley might as well be asleep. Not like there was much else to do lately.

And if while curled up between dark sheets and a comfortable mattress (or the walls, occassionally, or the ceiling) (which were also dark) he sometimes let himself dream of good wine and better conversation, or of watching an angelic tongue licking cake crumbs off of angelic lips, or of another body curled up against his and sighing in relaxed contentment, well. That was no one's business but his own.

Months passed, and Crowley slept.

From:

lendedahand

[So they’re in Kirkwall, for reasons. And it seems as though there’s been a bit of a murder spree going on... because Kirkwall, and of course they’re the first ones to discover a body because... their luck.

This odd unfortunate fellow seemed to be without a head, and in nothing but his smallclothes. Regular Tuesday in Kirkwall really, not the somewhat odder part was the fact that he had a tattoo of a crudely drawn fish, and someone had thrown cheese over the corpse.]

Well... He’s certainly not getting ahead in life.

[...]

I’m sorry, there’s so much to work with here. I’m not even sure where to start.

From:

confoundthemighty

For the first time in his long existence, Aziraphale found himself in the exact same position as most of humanity.

The world failed to end, and for a little while Aziraphale felt frankly dazzled by the possibilities ahead of him. Heaven left him alone, and he was still fully himself, wings and homely miracles and all, not a page out of place in his bookshop. There were so many things he could do with no one watching, with no fear of retribution. There were books he could read in a comfortable armchair by daylight rather than furtively with all the doors locked.[1] There were human hobbies he could devote space and time to without shame. There were chances now, his to discover, his to take.

Then came lockdown.

Everything stopped. No theatre, no cinema, no customers to chase away. No restaurants, no crowds. The plague[2] emptied streets and schools and all manner of communal spaces. Though it buoyed Aziraphale’s heart to see how human beings offered one another remote support, it was undeniably a blow to anyone with even the slightest desire for a non-solitary existence, and the angel was not immune.

Aziraphale baked. He read. He went through his closet, making a conscientious effort to change his clothes every day, the way humans did—first his more modern wear, then the older pieces he still owned. He taught himself the rudiments of skills no other angel had ever thought to investigate, like origami and BASIC.[3] He set up a projector in the back of the bookshop and watched a handful of films with cocoa and popcorn.

(And at times, alone in the silence, he would let himself listen to the ever-present whispers of human thought, would send out miracles to try and lessen the building miasma of despair. He couldn’t fix it all, and knew he would both burn himself out and probably incur the wrath of Heaven trying, but he could give little sparks of light to humanity the way they gave them to one another, so he did.)

It felt increasingly empty, though. The plague raged; the quiet persisted. Summer withered on the vine; autumn rotted on the branch. Aziraphale’s human hobbies were less satisfying by the day. Even his furtive good deeds felt less fulfilling. He ate less often—he didn’t need to, after all.

There was a brittle chill in the air by the time Aziraphale allowed himself to look at the truth face-on: I am desperately lonely, and I said no to the person who could have changed that.

Strangely enough, without Armageddon looming over him—without any sense of what, from here on out, constituted the inevitable—Aziraphale found that his nerves managed to metabolize into a spike of frantic courage within less than twelve hours of this revelation. Just enough courage to try Crowley by phone, mind, but his heart raced all the same as he listened to the line buzz.

[1] While Heaven didn’t officially have any book-banning policies, Aziraphale’s former superiors and coworkers had made it clear they strongly disapproved of certain authors and subject matter. Romance novels and cookbooks were the primary recipients of such disapproval, though he had heard disparaging remarks aimed at titles ranging from The Picture of Dorian Gray to the Dungeons and Dragons Monster Manual.

[2] It is tempting to pin the origin of the disease on Pestilence, who despite handing off their crown to Pollution had had a very active retirement as an anti-vaccination lecturer. However, as much as they would like to take credit for it, this one was an accident of nature.

[3] Aziraphale’s first program was as follows:
10 PRINT “LET THERE BE TEXT”
5 CLS
20 GOTO 10
He was extremely proud of it.

From:

questionablewit

[Sometimes Hawke wonders if these things just happen in Kirkwall, or if these things just happen to her, or if it's some bizarre combination of the two. Adding in the fact that these things often just happen to the Inquisitor and that all three factors are in play today, and really it would've been more of a surprise for them not to run across a headless corpse today.

The cheese, though, is a surprise.]

Can you say something smells fishy if it's just a drawing of a fish? No, this would be something looking sketchy, wouldn't it...

[She kneels by the corpse, head tilted as she examines it.]

What kind of cheese would you say this is, anyway?

From:

duckshaveears

To say Crowley slept deeply was inaccurate. The difficulty of waking him depended whether he was having an enjoyable afternoon nap, a solid night's rest, a lazy doze, hangover recovery, or something more akin to winter hibernation. His current state was definitely closest to the latter, given that his corporation had been turned down to its lowest survival setting for a solid half a year or more.

It's not surprising, therefore, that it took him a little while to wake up.

His arm was moving for the phone before his brain had even registered it was ringing, with that unconscious, ineffectual, flailing, thwacking motion all too familiar to anyone who has ever set a morning alarm. [1] This accomplishing nothing, the phone kept ringing. It took several more tries before his hand (a little more awake than the rest of him, which wasn't saying much) managed to catch hold of the phone and pull it under the covers with him.

"Nghwhahrg?" his mouth said, completely without assistance from his brain.

[1] Crowley had not invented those alarm clocks that start moving as soon as they go off, requiring the hearer to get physically out of bed and chase them, but he had put a note on the soul who had (who was clearly earmarked for Hell) stating that when they arrived Below they should be assigned to the Department of Diabolical Ideas.

From:

confoundthemighty

“Crowley!”

Yes, the sound was a garbled mess that in no way resembled words, but it looped around Aziraphale’s heart and pulled tight.

The past few months’ worth of aloneness had been every bit as hard on the angel as it had been on humanity. Even with miracles at his disposal, even with the encouragement he scattered to the souls wounded by forced separation, Aziraphale had been finding it harder and harder to hold on to a good mood. The emptiness in the bookshop (and London, and the world) had grown deeper and starker every day.

One inarticulate noise, and Aziraphale was moved to a greater joy than he’d felt in nearly a year.

“Oh, I—did I wake you?” His own mouth was fully prepped for takeoff, even as his brain still struggled. “Terribly sorry, only, you did say you’d set an alarm, and I thought—”

From:

duckshaveears

It's Aziraphale's voice. Of course it is, he set up his phone to only accept calls from Aziraphale; all others numbers would be rerouted directly to the customer service line for Sofology to listen to their hold music, and serve them right for daring to interrupt a demon's well-earned (or at least desperately bored) rest.

"Azrfphf."

Crowley attempted to interrupt, but while his vocal chords were willing his tongue was still a bit behind. He yawned and stretched, head finally emerging from under his duvet, and tried again. "Whenssit?"

That one was almost a coherent sentence. Progress!

(The part of his vast consciousness that was more or less perpetually focused on Aziraphale had noted 1) the significance of the angel's calling him at all, 2) the apparent delight with which he'd spoken Crowley's name, 3) the unusually choked nature of the rest of his speech, which was 4) largely relieved babbling, and was putting together a number of conclusions which would be available for perusal as soon as the rest of him caught up)

From:

confoundthemighty

“What? Oh—November.” Aziraphale was mildly horrified to realize his vision had gone blurry and his cheeks were wet; he nearly dropped the phone fumbling for a handkerchief.[1] “Unfortunately the humans haven’t quite finished with the vaccine yet, it’s a few weeks off, but—well. I thought...”

He forced himself to take a deeper breath, to let the first surge of joy begin to settle.

“I wanted to say hello,” he managed, too happy to be shocked at his own audacity.

[1] He didn’t really need to carry a handkerchief for himself, but over his long career offering comfort to human souls, he had discovered there were certain things that were particularly comforting to the unhappy. Had Aziraphale been able to carry steaming mugs of hot cocoa in his pockets, he would have kept those right alongside the handkerchief.

From:

lendedahand

Sharp.

[He spits out almost immediately, but then goes into a strained silence as though he was fighting to hold something back. Lasts all of 3 seconds before he blurts it out finishing off with a snort of laughter.]

It must have been grating on him.

From:

grumpycatanthir

Doriath... is a disaster. It was always going to be one, of course, but no one ever listens to Caranthir, what does he know.

(He knows this was a stupid plan is what, if only because it will utterly ruin his carefully negotiated trade routes)

He's not at all surprised that the resistance is more fierce than Celegorm and Curufin were espousing. The Oath may drive them, but it's not supposed to make them idiots. It doesn't mean he doesn't fight as furiously as ever - he needs the Silmaril back as much as any of them, after all - but it does mean that maybe he's not as careful as he should be.

The sword thrust doesn't even hurt, at first. There's a moment when he simply blinks down and thinks oH.

He really hates stomach wounds. They take so long to kill you. He's very grateful for the angry Sinda who cuts his throat, not that he'll be saying that, or anything else, anytime soon. He's a little sorry that this will hurt his brothers, but it's not as if anyone will really notice he's gone, anyway.

(Not until their budget starts to shrink)

The Halls are a nice surprise - he'd rather been expecting the Void. What's even more surprising is who's waiting for him.

.............

He's in trouble, isn't he.

From:

duckshaveears

November? Fuck, he had overslept. Crowley vaguely remembered his alarm going off in July, hitting a snooze button until August, blearily looking at the news and deciding everything was still too crap to be worth being conscious for, and settling back in. Aziraphale had told him they'd see each other when it was over, which it manifestly wasn't[1], and there hardly seemed anything else worth being awake for. Even the mudslinging and backstabbing of the American Presidential election didn't sound appealing for once.[2]

Still, November was pushing it as naps went. Crowley groaned and stretched again, gradually coming awake. "Ngh, right. Hi." Something was poking at his awareness, demanding attention. Aziraphale, yeah, but why was he calling and why'd he sound like that? "Y'alright, angel?"

[1] Regardless of what the Tory government tried to claim, and while Crowley could claim some responsibility for the creation of the House of Lords, Boris Johnson was free of any demonic influence. Probably.

[2] It was hard to beat an election season for pride, wrath, covetousness, and a whole host of sins both petty and deadly.

From:

confoundthemighty

Angel. It’d been months since he’d heard that nickname, even at a distance. The fussier part of Aziraphale’s brain was utterly mortified at how the word made his lower lip wobble; his heart was a fluttering mess, straining under the weight of longing the last six months had concentrated so acutely.

Absurdly, despite how desperately he missed Crowley, he was momentarily glad the demon couldn’t see him. Not out of any concern that Crowley would mock him or dismiss him, but simply because he wasn’t certain how he felt about anyone seeing him so profoundly moved.

“Quite all right, thank you, it’s... been a very long year.”

This was technically true—time had telescoped in a way he’d never experienced, not even in the most tedious ages and places. Silence had become a yawning, sluggish presence sprawled across the doorway of his shop and making itself at home in corners; hours could be filled with activity, but only ever alone. He’d lived centuries that had taken up less of him than the previous six months.

“I wouldn’t, ah... wouldn’t try catching up on the news all at once. And you may not want to do it sober, when you get to it.”

From:

duckshaveears

"Wasn't planning on it."

The sentence comes out a bit grunted, as he says it while also attempting that delicate maneuver known as Sitting Up. He more or less succeeds.

Truthfully he hasn't planned on anything yet; he's only been awake for two and a half minutes, there hasn't been time to plan anything. But it's a safe bet to assume that he won't read the news sober. Possibly he won't read it at all. There's only one question worth knowing the answer to, and the only person who can answer it is on the other end of the phone line.

"'m I allowed to come over yet?"

From:

confoundthemighty

“Well—”

Every one of Aziraphale’s reflexes was prompting him towards a firm no—it was against the rules, after all, and even if he wasn’t working for Heaven anymore, a sense of duty to humanity still anchored many of his actions. Hard not to want to work towards the common good for the sake of someone you love, or in this case, billions of someones. He shouldn’t say yes.

But now that he’d finally, finally heard Crowley’s voice again after the most uncertain six months of his entire long existence, he couldn’t bear to say no either.

Fortunately, over a very long career of finding ways to say yes without getting either of them in trouble, he had a far more expansive vocabulary than yes or no.

“I think,” he said, after a shaky inhale, “that it’s high time you started setting a terrible example for humanity again, Crowley. And I think you ought to start by flouting social distancing guidelines. In fact, I suggest you compound this prospective bad behavior by bringing records to play at an excessive volume, and enough alcohol to make you a general neighborhood nuisance.”

From:

duckshaveears

This was the thing about Aziraphale: there was rarely a straightforward answer. Most of his nos could be worked around, tempted into changing, turned into loopholes. Most of his yeses first had to be cajoled into being, arranged, carefully coerced. A firm no did happen now and then; a definitive yes almost never. It could get frustrating.

But damn if it wasn't a thrill every time he got to see Aziraphale bending the rules of both virtue and language in order to make a yes out of no without admitting it directly. Greedy, sneaky, bastard of an angel.

"You've got a point there." Crowley almost purred the words, now definitely feeling more awake. "I'm well overdue for a spot of wiling. And Soho is a prime location for troublemaking. Not like Mayfair." The cogs in his head were spinning properly now, considering options: which albums, which wine, what to wear.

From:

confoundthemighty

That tone of voice, Aziraphale thought as he struggled to keep his knees from giving, was manifestly unfair in its mere existence. Even though he rather prided himself on being able to control and hide his response to that tone, six months of profound isolation had worn him down; he had to grip the edge of an end table to steady himself.

This would likely be a visit with more than its share of temptation, even if Crowley didn’t set out to do anything more than get Aziraphale to overindulge in wine. With a world’s worth of freedom laid at his feet after the failed Apocalypse, half a year’s worth of worldwide loneliness had begun some nearly chemical change in the angel.

He’d had plans, once. Plans to start slowly, to drop a few gentle words here and there, to grow whatever already existed between them inch by inch. Plans that involved the theatre, and lingering dinners, and walks through the city. Plans that he couldn’t bear to think of as irretrievably shattered.

But right now, another plan was sparking into being in the angel’s mind, one far more improvisational and even a little wild.

“Soho is more than overdue for some bad behavior.” Aziraphale straightened, adjusting his bow tie out of sheer fussy habit. “I haven’t had my dinner interrupted once in the past four months. Entirely too quiet.”

[ooc: I had a wild thought about this thread right before I left for work. How would you feel about seduction/temptation via tapas and tiny bites of dessert? :D I know he likes to taste things but not necessarily eat a whole meal, and oh my do I have ideas for flavor profiles. And a touch-starved angel who’s been baking for months.]

From:

duckshaveears

"Can't have that." Crowley kicked off his sheets and swung himself off the bed. "At this rate, from the sound of it, you might end up letting actual customers in, just to shake things up a bit."

He sauntered over to his closet. There were more accessories than actual clothes in there¹, but still several of the current year's best options fashion-wise.². Mentally he picked out a few of his current favorite pieces, then snapped his fingers. His pyjamas vanished, replaced by the items he'd deemed acceptable for the moment. He looked himself over in the mirror and smirked. "I'll do what I can to spare you from such a terrible fate. If you want a disruption around, you should have the best."

Which was him, obviously. He said it with pride. Crowley was unemployed, but he was still a demon.

¹ Most particularly a large assortment of wristwatches, including the first official prototype of the Dick Tracy radio watch, which he would never admit to owning but privately gloated over possessing.

² Decade's, at least. Crowley wasn't really as clued in to hte minutiae of fashion as he pretended to be, largely because he knew fashion's biggest secret: wear black and act like you're the coolest person in the room and a surprisingly large number of people will believe it. That and the right sort of sneer did 90% of the work for him.

From:

confoundthemighty

“Agreed.” The word tumbled out fond and warm before he could stop himself; Aziraphale found it both easy and a touch terrifying to let it go.

He could do this. He could make this work. All he needed was a little time[1], and the courage of his convictions. Already the menu was blooming in his mind’s eye, phantom tastes skittering along his palate—an earthly inspiration as powerful as any divine revelation he’d ever had or been a vessel for, a surge of determined fire up his back.

A quick glance at the pocketwatch that obligingly turned its face up to him as he palmed it revealed that it was nearing four-thirty in the afternoon. Numbers flashed through his brain, processed nearly quicker than human thought.

“Shall we say seven o’clock? Just to make for optimal disruption of the neighborhood. I’ll make dinner.”

Not just dinner, his pounding pulse sang. This would be a temptation worthy of a Serpent, with meaning in every bite. An invitation in flavors, a message written directly onto a forked tongue. His whole life he’d been a half-baked hedonist—enjoying only the pleasures he knew he could get away with—but he had centuries’ worth of meals and secret thoughts to draw on for inspiration, and now there was a wild absence of fear in him.

Already he knew exactly what he’d be making as an amuse-bouche.

[1] While Aziraphale had never gotten the hang of messing with time directly, he had certainly gotten quite proficient at making himself or objects move quicker or more slowly through time. During lockdown he’d gotten enough practice that he could now hand-beat egg whites, sugar, vanilla, and lemon juice into a fluffy meringue in less than ten seconds. Granted, the meringue always tasted a little startled when he did this, but he didn’t mind.

From:

duckshaveears

That quiet Agreed tripped Crowley up for a moment, partly as he'd expected some denouncement (wasn't that what they did?) and partly for how much...affection...the word contained. It sounded like affection, at least. Sometimes it was hard to tell over the phone. What the Heaven had been going on with Aziraphale during the last several months while he'd been sleeping?

Two and a half hours suddenly seemed a long time to wait. But there was no question he had things he could attend to in the meantime--checking that none of his plants had dared expire on him, for one thing--so he made a small noise of agreement, followed by another of amused surprise. "You'll make dinner, will you? Since when do you cook, angel?"

From:

confoundthemighty

There was a faint prim noise on the other end of Crowley’s line—not quite a scoff, but with a touch of the same indignance. “Since shortly after I began baking,” he said, as if it ought to be perfectly obvious. Then a tinge of embarrassment slipped into Aziraphale’s voice: “If you must know, it was the goat cheese soufflé that did it. I’d resolved not to cross over so I could focus on a single skill set, but once I got started—well. It passed the time, while everything else was... unavailable.”

The less said about that at the moment, the better. Crowley would be here tonight, if nothing else—there would be sound and warmth and company in the bookshop. There was a light at the end of the tunnel, and like a human he was sprinting straight for it, shutting out the dark possibility of failure.

“At any rate—see you at seven? Bring an appetite. And whatever music you like. Except not disco, there was a—bit of a fiasco in the neighborhood, and if I never hear ‘Waterloo’ again it’ll be too soon.[1] Ciao, my dear!”

Already half a dozen delivery people were en route to the bookshop, confused but carrying the ingredients the angel didn’t have to hand, all about to be inexplicably several hundred pounds richer.

[1] A would-be good samaritan attempted to cheer up a particular corner of Soho with music through wireless speakers. This plan backfired terribly when said speakers were hacked by a prankster and made to blast ABBA for three straight days. As you can imagine, during lockdown three days of non-stop ABBA felt like three decades to everyone within the speakers’ radius.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley lets out a bark of openly delighted laughter as Aziraphale talks of goat's cheese soufflés. That's the angel he knows.

He barely has time to make a wordless noise of assent before Aziraphale is off, apparently to engage in a noteworthy amount of cooking.

Well then. Let it never be said that Crowley doesn't know how to rise to the occasion.¹

Six fifty-nine that evening finds Crowley smoothly dressed in a new suit with a red-lined black satin face mask to match², his hair freshly trimmed, waiting on the doorstep of the bookshop. Under one arm are a few carefully chosen records, and in his hand is a large bouquet of two dozen mixed roses, white and yellow and deepest red, because Crowley is nothing if not an opportunist. At precisely seven pm, he rings the doorbell.

¹ As a demon, 'rising' is not usually one of Crowley's during point, but there are exceptions.

² The face masks have more potential for spreading envy and avarice than he'd realized, all those months ago. He'll have to think on that later. Though humans are probably a few steps ahead of him again. Still, could be fun.

From:

salutosinedelectat

[ From here.]

Well. How curiously specific.

[ You don't have to look at him to hear the grin.]

From:

grumpycatanthir

The Haladin have, after much politicking, finally settled in their new lands. At last, they can turn their thoughts from survival to prospering. There is no reason for the Lord of Thargelion to worry, or to visit or... well. To be anywhere in his cousin's lands, to be honest.

Except that he is.

By himself, even.

Persumably, the scouts suggest, he HAD an escort, that he has, for some reason, left behind.

From:

takesnoshit

A son of Feanor in the Halls is an unusual sight; their Doom should land them in a very different location. Perhaps the only thing more unusual is the sight that greets Caranthir upon his arrival: a small, mortal woman, her features plain but strong. Against all reason, she looks the age she was when they first met, rather than the age she was when she died hundreds of years ago. There is a gold ring on her left hand, and she wears clothing of familiar design.

Haleth leans against a pillar, her arms crossed over her chest. "You're early," she chides.

From:

takesnoshit

Lord Caranthir's approach doesn't go unnoticed. Haleth has an hour's advance warning, though little more. Some of the Haladin are clearly bewildered by this abrupt arrival, and more bewildered that he comes alone. None of the other Firstborn who have visited have acted thus, not even Finrod Felagund, more fond of the race of Men than most of his kin.

But Caranthir has never been like other Firstborn, or indeed like anyone else, in Haleth's experience.

When she is told of his imminent arrival she merely nods and orders that food and lodging be made ready for their guest, in case they are needed. Some worry that there is no time to prepare anything by which to show honour to a Prince of the Firstborn, and fret over their lack of preparation; she halts such concerns. The Caranthir she remembers had little interest in such entertainment.

As the Haladin rush off to make ready what they may, one sourly laments that the Prince and their own Chieftain have that in common. It is muttered under his breath, but Haleth hears. And smiles a little, for it is true. She and Lord Caranthir had been much alike, in some ways. It will be interesting to see if they are still so.

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