Aziraphale (
bibliophale) wrote in
applesaucedream2014-11-24 12:49 am
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he'll appear outta nowhere but he ain't what he seems [closed]
[ooc: Aziraphale is having his very first nightmare, and it's about Lucifer - not the REAL Lucifer, just a figment of his newly discovered imagination, but Aziraphale won't realize that right away. This thread is going to be unpleasant. Cruelty, light violence/torture, culminating in some zombie gore. Tag-specific trigger warnings to follow. If you want to follow about how it will impact his relationship with Melanie without having to read this stuff, there's a companion waking-world post just over yonder. Tread with care, friends.]
There's something wrong.
He's in his shop, but it's changed somehow, it's more like the one he used to have back in England. Or was it always like this? Well, of course it was. Is. He's here, isn't he?
But he's not sitting and reading or drinking, like he should be. The shop is a shambles, more than it usually is. Shelves knocked over, books strewn about, lights flickering ominously. The floor is wet, faded old rugs soaked and wood glistening underneath. That'll be because of the fire, of course. He hadn't been here for that, or he thought he hadn't, but now...
He tries to move and finds that he can't, at least not how he'd like, because his arms are bound to the wall, spread in a parody of spanned wings; his actual wings are folded back and trailing uncomfortably against the floor, while his feet can't quite reach it. Panic seizes hold of him as he tries to free himself and cannot - not even with divine power, he cannot - and he remembers why this is so familiar and realizes what must have happened.
This is what Crowley did to him.
The wards must have failed. Or he found a way past them. Lucifer lied to them, which should come as no surprise. Or if he doesn't intend to kill Aziraphale when he's through here, then he will uphold the agreement by only the thinnest interpretation, the letter of the law.
He raises his head slowly, facing the figure who has always been there, if he'd only noticed before.
There's something wrong.
He's in his shop, but it's changed somehow, it's more like the one he used to have back in England. Or was it always like this? Well, of course it was. Is. He's here, isn't he?
But he's not sitting and reading or drinking, like he should be. The shop is a shambles, more than it usually is. Shelves knocked over, books strewn about, lights flickering ominously. The floor is wet, faded old rugs soaked and wood glistening underneath. That'll be because of the fire, of course. He hadn't been here for that, or he thought he hadn't, but now...
He tries to move and finds that he can't, at least not how he'd like, because his arms are bound to the wall, spread in a parody of spanned wings; his actual wings are folded back and trailing uncomfortably against the floor, while his feet can't quite reach it. Panic seizes hold of him as he tries to free himself and cannot - not even with divine power, he cannot - and he remembers why this is so familiar and realizes what must have happened.
This is what Crowley did to him.
The wards must have failed. Or he found a way past them. Lucifer lied to them, which should come as no surprise. Or if he doesn't intend to kill Aziraphale when he's through here, then he will uphold the agreement by only the thinnest interpretation, the letter of the law.
He raises his head slowly, facing the figure who has always been there, if he'd only noticed before.
no subject
"From the sixth to the ninth hour, darkness fell upon all the land," he reads aloud, "And at the ninth hour, Yeshua cried out in a loud voice, 'Eloi, eloi, lena sabachthani?'."
He lowers the book, looking past it to where Aziraphale stands in his mockery of a crucifixion.
"Oh, small angel," he says, head tilted curious and birdlike, "so strong in faith, why has our Father forsaken you?"
He closes the Bible gently and sets it aside, taking care not to lose any of the pages that are loosened from the seared binding.
"Are these your trials, Aziraphale? Your forty days in the desert, with no temptations whispered in your ear, but only suffering?" He approaches slowly, taking his time. "Or perhaps-- punishment, not a test. And you will know my name is The Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee. The beginning of the end, as reward for your rebelliousness. For taking up the sword against the Heavenly Host."
When he is within arm's reach, he reaches up and taps Aziraphale lightly on the lips, just a brief moment of contact.
"They say mimicry is the highest form of flattery. Should I be flattered?"
no subject
Every word he speaks is a little barb, from the quotation of scripture to each stinging question. Taunting and tormenting. Aziraphale wants to fight back, to show strength even when cowed and captured, but he feels insurmountably tired. Weary and empty and afraid.
He twitches away when Lucifer reaches out to touch him, jerking his head angrily aside, but it is only a small spark of indignation. The rest of him still feels abnormally sluggish, incapable. What is the matter with him?
"I have nothing to say to you." His voice is all wrong. Strained and hoarse. He keeps his head tilted down but raises his eyes to meet the Adversary's. He feels, strangely, like he knows what is about to happen.
no subject
They both know what is about to happen. It seems to be an inevitability-- whenever Lucifer and Aziraphale meet, there will be bloodshed. This little Principality has set himself so firmly against the Adversary that he will continue to weather his assaults even long after he should have given up. It would be admirable, perhaps, if it wasn't also slightly foolish.
"But I suppose you're set on making yourself my opposition. The martyrdom of the Angel Aziraphale: it would make for a lovely fresco, I'm sure."
He picks something up from the floor near his feet; a length of pipe that looks like it must have come from the plumbing, knocked loose during the conflagration. It's a few feet long and feels solid in his hands.
"Let's get this started, shall we?"
He steps back a few paces to give himself room and lets fly at knee height.
no subject
He gasps softly, looking up, dogged, angry, fearful, and stupid.
"I am greater than you," he whispers, mostly to steel himself. "I am more than you."
It's not true on a physical, metaphysical, metaphorical, ecumenical, or really any scale apart from Aziraphale's own moral one. That's enough for him. That's what he tells himself.
He wants to show defiance, even when he knows he should not. There is so little he can do, and no point to any of it now, but pride, angel, Crowley's always been right about that, the sin that will destroy him.
Before he can stop himself, as though just thinking of the possibility makes it happen, he lifts his head and spits in Lucifer's face.
tw: Lucifer is honestly just a creep even when he's not real
And that's before the Principality got the terrible idea of spitting at the Devil.
It hits Lucifer straight on the bridge of his nose and for a few very long moments, there is complete and utter stillness, as though the whole universe is holding its breath. Lucifer's eyes are closed and his expression is coldly, rigidly neutral.
Then, he moves forward, impossibly quick and stuttered like he moves in snapshots; his face is clean again and he has one hand clamped tight over Aziraphale's lying mouth. He does not temper his Grace but allows it to burn cold, cold cold in his fingers, his palm. His face is mere inches from the Principality's, and his eyes and face are, if it's possible, colder than the digits pressed to Aziraphale's skin.
"Haven't you had enough warnings about pride?" he says, close and low, "Are you so eager to join my ranks that you'd run down the path of Falling? I'll be waiting for you, Aziraphale. I'm at the end of every road, I'm the destination to every journey, and when you finally make your way to me I'll be sure that Hell embraces you with every open arm. I'll make sure there's a spot in the deepest pit with your name all over it."
He leans close enough that his breath is chill against Aziraphale's neck.
"I'll be the God of you, Principality, more surely than our Father ever was."
tw the saddest most pitiful Aziraphale
He moans, soft and desperate, muffled beneath Lucifer's hand. He looks into Lucifer's eyes and tries to tell himself again and again that he will never give in, his will will never break. It is becoming more difficult to believe.
tw: ZOMBIE VENGEANCE
Is that really Aziraphale?
She creeps towards the voices, bare feet making little noise on the sodden carpeting. A shard of glass lies in her path, glistening in the inconstant light, and she bends to pick it up. It's not a good weapon. It's good enough. She holds it carefully, not wanting to cut herself, as she peers around a slumping bookshelf.
There's her angel, up against the wall, his wings - his beautiful wings - looking ragged and broken as they trail along the floor. And there's someone else with his hand over Aziraphale's mouth, hissing threats. How dare he? How dare he?!
She doesn't think about how strong someone would have to be to be able to treat Aziraphale this way; all she thinks about is stopping him. Tightening her grip on the glass - it bites into her palm, but she doesn't think about that, either - she bolts from her hiding spot, a little pale streak of fury. In one second, she's behind the person pinning Aziraphale to the wall; in the next, she's slashing at the backs of his knees with the glass and leaping clear.
There's blood on the glass, now. She can smell it, and a yawning pit opens in her stomach. She drops the glass, jaw aching, breathing hard. "Leave him alone!" she demands.
no subject
The pain that lances across the back of his legs breaks his concentration and his hold; he falls onto one knee, his hand pressing to the injury and infuriated at the blood that he finds there, flowing sluggishly and tacky to the touch. He twists to see behind him, to face the thing that dared attack him as he forces the wounds to start to heal.
no subject
His voice is still broken and wrong but it bursts out of him anyway. "No, no!" he screams, straining against his bonds with renewed focus. It can't be Melanie, how did she get out, how did she get here? Lucifer is going to destroy her, or worse, if he discovers what she is, he could - he might - Aziraphale can't even bear to think what Lucifer might do to her, with her. He fights to get free with every tattered shred of remaining strength and it's not enough. "Melanie, get out of here, now! Run!"
tw: om nom nom
She can still smell the blood; it makes the box inside her rattle viciously. She cannot leave Aziraphale here to suffer.
So she opens the box.
There's still a part of her that is just Melanie, a part that watches with mingled fear and shame as she launches herself forward with a low growl, plowing into the other man's chest and knocking him back onto the floor. A part that wishes Aziraphale didn't have to see this, even as she sinks her teeth into the man's throat, chewing and swallowing with automated urgency.
no subject
Lucifer hasn't destroyed her. She has overpowered him. He doesn't understand, he can only stare, unable to even feel alarm or revulsion in the face of his bafflement. She isn't strong enough for that, even like this, she shouldn't be able to-
But, he thinks sluggishly, but she doesn't know that.
This isn't Lucifer. It never was. It's him. It was a spectre he dreamed up, because he is dreaming, why didn't he feel that before? and to Melanie he is only a man, no more powerful than she.
Mingled with relief, knowing that none of this is happening, that Lucifer still doesn't know about her, is horror, nauseating, powerful horror, at the realization - that he is dreaming, having a nightmare on his own, and that she's really here. He can feel her. She's seen this happen.
With a sudden surge of awareness and willpower he forces his consciousness to rise back up against the unwelcome weight of sleep.
And just like that, as though it were nothing, he wakes up.