𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐍, ineffable husbands

bittersweet peace

Year ten: It was the tenth year and Crowley was barely ready for what his fate would pursue. It was bittersweet, really; he almost wished he wasn't going to be redeemed. Then again, he wanted to live with Aziraphale forever. It was a predicament that had an answer.

The immortal duo found themselves, once again, in their shared living room. What once was a terrifying and semi real picture had made itself an uncanny yet quite lovely home. In all fairness, Crowley didn't really understand how heaven could be better than this. This seemed to be the light of his life.

It was disgustingly domestic, the tranquility that they painted. The hours were decorated with small chats, talk of lives and past lives and future lives. They felt cloaked in each other's warmth, desperately praying to stay in this spot forever.

God didn't listen.

Crowley felt and watched as his body rose, seemingly useless in controlling his actions. He wanted to scream; there were pins and needles racing upon his damned body and the room swayed on wheels and gears. He was standing and swaying, feeling his mouth open and close while vibrations leaked through gaps. His ears heard church bells and choirs screaming and he wondered why, why this process hurt so horribly. It was a pitiful sight, but he couldn't help but feel more pity for his lover who was desperately trying to make sense of the situation.

Aziraphale tried to help, he really did, but his actions seemed to reverb across timelines and dimensions. Each hand he placed upon his skin burned and struck an oxymoronic lyric and all of his words droned to machines whirring and buzzing in his mind. If anything at all, he was making this worse; but neither could communicate through the roses and soil in their lungs.

And then there was black. He didn't get to see his face one last time.

˚₊‧꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Bees buzzed and bugs scattered around him. His eyes opened and he was laying upon a field of flowers, similar to a field he would know years in the future. Where was he?

It was odd, it was almost as if he had two minds at once. One mind knew what was going to happen and braced itself, while one mind was experiencing this for the first time. Neither could hear each other; it was a conversation between a boy and an old, old man.

The body rose. It appeared the newly mind could control it and the other was simply around for the free ride. It rose and it knew where to go, presumably.

It walked. The view from the stagnant mind was, surprisingly, not horrible. There was a path it was walking upon and the wild grass guided its wits to strangers and lovers alike. Trees stalked the body and the now setting sun hushed its goodbyes. It was as if it had been here before, not only in one mind but in both.

The path faded and a cabin appeared. So that's how the stagnant mind recognized the placement of the body.

The head looked down. In its left hand was a list, in its right was a set of knives made for stealthy kills. There was one name left. It was sickeningly familiar.

It crouched beneath the window of the cabin despite the mute mind's screams. It stayed for a long, long time, seemingly calculating when the sun ran down and the perfect time to commit the flawed crime. The mind wished it could close its eyes and vomit.

Night had fallen and it managed to open the window after searching through it. It tumbled in with a silent thud, staying on the ground to remain quiet. This process seemed to be drawn out for years, never ending and never reaching its climax.

How odd that Aziraphale was never the wiser, despite being in the next room. It walked through the seemingly spare bedroom it had landed, destined to be a home for a much happier pair later. It was crouching as well, never wanting to give off an impression, though it was too dark to see.

It opened the door. A pale man with snow white hair shifted in his spot on his bed. He rose and screamed garbled language, approaching it too quickly for his liking. The knife hit his throat before he could kill it.

The blood spurted from his throat in gushes of ribbons, seemingly craving to disobey gravity. It was a slow and painful death for him, sputtering as it watched him in the eyes, those hazel, hazel eyes...

It looked at the despair of the human it had killed. There was something so peculiar and unearthly about the demeanor of this victim. He pleaded at it with his dying, sobbing eyes, reaching a hand out in horrible vain. It was horrible vain, and once he realized, he let it fall again. The death was quiet with no sound echoing from his throat.

He faded into smoke. It screamed and killed itself with the very weapon it worked with.

˚₊‧꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

He faded back into reality, crying as Aziraphale held him in his arms. The static feelings disappeared and the bells faded in the distance. His mind screamed with the life of his horrible past and his eyes bled tears and wine. Of course, he had lived through his whole life, but that memory... it had lasted and echoed stronger than any memory he could fight.

Sobbing into the chest of his beloved, he found his mouth moving as it had before; it screamed without warning and without sense. There were gentle hushes and words soothed in his ear but this situation wasn't so simple. He had murdered him, he had slaughtered him and shortly himself and he was dirty and wrong and a horrible creature.

If this was what redemption was, he'd rather rot once more. As the scene dialed down and he came to the reality of his savior, his screams turned into cries and his cries turned into sobbing. He clawed at Aziraphale's skin to remind himself that he was alive and he tugged at his hair to remind himself that he had been forgiven.

They had been heaped on the floor for so long, with the hours accumulating and combining into a day. They were calm now, accepting the silence and refusal to speak of what had happened; it was a pitiful silence that was only broken by occasional hiccups.

"Crowley?" He was answered with a sad, sad hum. Aziraphale pointed to the door that usually led outside. Instead of the daylight that usually accompanied it, there was a blinding white stream creeping just under the door.