pearwaldorf | (no subject)

I thought I had a place for this in a fic, but it appears I do not, so I guess it's going here.

(content notes: violence, murder, traumatic flashback)

“Well hopefully it was for a good cause? Something that made the bothersome things worth it?” He believed he was doing the right thing at the time.

The old wound in his leg twinges, as if to say You sure about that, buddy? Strange that he can’t remember the name of the angel he took the stab for, although xir face remains. Xir eyes were big and frightened, seeing one of the rebels charge at xem straight-on. Aziraphale interposed himself, parrying the blade away from its intended victim but into his own limb. Xe reached out, half-instinctively it seemed, like xe couldn’t help but give aid and/or comfort.

“Go, you nitwit!” Aziraphale shouted at xir. “RUN!” And so xe did.

Aziraphale looked up into the face of his attacker. It was somebody he knew, at least by sight. They were a Power, a guard at the north gate of Eden. They didn’t have much cause to speak to each other, but even through sheer circumstance and repetition connections can be created. They nodded to each other in greeting whenever Aziraphale passed through the gate on Heavenly business, and to see them in such a vastly different context made his heart hurt.

“Why?” He asked.

The Power grinned, but there was no mirth in it. “Why not?” They raised their (not flaming, but still very sharp and pointy) sword.

Aziraphale parried again. “I won’t kill you. I can’t.”

“Then you’re going to die.” Not discorporate, or get punted into the (literally) eternally endless queue for a new physical form; die, like the plants and insects and animals on the newly created Earth.

A flash of light glinted off their blade. They were fast, but Aziraphale was faster, he discovered when his sword started crackling with the odor of something burning.

It was like nothing he’d ever smelled, until the night he went to Crowley’s and spotted a still-steaming heap of clothing next to his desk. He excused himself to the bathroom, opening the window and gulping in the night air like he could purge the memory away through sheer will. The tile wall was cool against his forehead.

A knock. “Angel? You all right in there?”

He pulled a handkerchief out of a pocket dimension and put himself to rights as best he could, then unlocked the door. Crowley looked at him and furrowed his brow a little, but said nothing.

“I’m fine, dear boy. It’s… it’s been a trying day.”

“C’mon, then. The bed’s big enough for both of us.”