Misc.

good omens 1

There was only darkness.

Only darkness and cacophonous noise. 

There was only darkness and cacophonous noise that pounded your through your skull like someone clanging two pots right next to your ear.

In Hell, Aziraphale screamed.

He didn't know why he was there, or who he was, or why his whole body felt like it was on fire, but in that moment, Aziraphale wanted to die. 

He stayed curled up in a ball on the cold metal floor and screamed until exhaustion overtook his body and he fell asleep crying, blood seeping onto the floor around him. 

The guards outside his cell briefly looked in to see that he hadn't died, and when they saw he was only crying they rolled their eyes and put their headphones back in to drown out the sound of the stupid bastard whining on the floor. After all, if an angel fell, it was all their fault right? Not that any of it mattered, he wouldn't remember anything anyways. 

---

When Aziraphale woke again, who knew how many hours later, he was still in the same curled up position, still chained to the floor. He lay there on his side, tears dripping from his eyes over his nose and onto the floor, trying not to focus too much on the pain coursing through his body. He didn't know how, but there were two giant open wounds on his bad, and the cuff chained to his ankle was rusted with spikes on the inside pressing into his leg. 

He didn't know where he was, or why he was in a pitch black prison cell, or how he'd gotten there, he didn't even remember his own name. Aziraphale wept in the dark, scared and freezing, not knowing what to do, or what was to become of him. 

Aziraphale lay in Hell for six days, neglected. On the third day, they gave him a bowl of water and food scraps of some sort, like he wasn't any better than a mongrel. 

By the fifth day he barely had any energy left to cry. 

He still didn't know who he was and lay on the floor for hours on end, drifting in and out of sleep, wishing it would just end already. 

The guards switched twice a day. He learned that much. There would be footsteps, the screeching of the peephole opening and closing to see if Aziraphale was still inside, and then nothing again for what felt like eternity.

On the sixth day, however, shortly following the switch, something new happened. Aziraphale shifted, wincing. The guards were speaking to one another. Something told Aziraphale to stand up, so he did, waiting anxiously. 

One of the guards walked away.

A minute later, his cell door opened.

Standing in the doorway in an all black military-esque uniform and a sharp looking gun, was a man with bright red hair slicked back hair. 

Aziraphale stood in the pool of light coming from the open doorway like a deer stuck in front of a car in the middle of the road, terrified. 

"Come on." the man said, snapping his fingers. Suddenly the chains were gone. 

"What?" he said. His voice was hoarse and throat dry. Aziraphale looked like living death. The man grabbed his wrist. 

"Let's go! We don't have the time."

And they were running. And Aziraphale still didn't know what was going on. His feet hurt against the icy floors and he felt like he might throw up at any second. 

"Wait!" he tried calling as loud as possible, to no avail. 

"You can thank me later," the man called behind him. It only made Aziraphale more scared. 

"Wait!" he said again. Was this guy planning to kill him? What was he doing? Where were they going?

"Shut up, I said thank me later," he said, turning into an empty, abandoned corridor. Aziraphale had had enough. He stopped running and pulled his wrist back, backing up against a wall, crying.

"Please!" He shouted, a helpless beg at best, a painfilled cry at worst. "Please I don't know what's going on, I don't know my own name, I just want to know where I am-" he gasped between helpless sobs. The man's expression softened and he came forward, holding out a hand. Aziraphale just became more frightened. 

"Please don't kill me, I'm sorry, I don't know what I did, I'll do anything, anything you want, just don't hurt me. Please," he begged, curling back against the wall, sliding down and huddling in a corner. 

"Aziraphale," the man said, shocked at what he was hearing. He knelt down in front of the shaking figure and held out a hand once more, only receiving a flinch in response. "It's me...Crowley." 

"No- no please- I'm sorry," he whimpered.

"Aziraphale,"

"I don't know who that is, and I don't know who you are, so please just, don't hurt me."

"I would never- I would never hurt you, but we have to go if you want to live." Crowley said, a lump forming in his throat. The guard would be coming back soon, and they didn't have much longer. 

The walls were narrow and dark and everywhere was frigid and cold and Aziraphale remained glued to the wall he was sitting against, barely able to look Crowley in the eye. 

Crowley knealed back down reaching out and cupping Aziraphales face.

"My lord, what have they done to you?" Crowley whispered, breaking a little bit inside.  He couldn't fix this, and that hurt worst of all.