Aziraphale (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bibliophale) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
bigapplesauce2014-07-08 08:49 pm
bibliophale) wrote in bigapplesauce2014-07-08 08:49 pm
a little later on the first day of the rest of the world [closed]
"What about," Aziraphale is saying, "about. Wait. Wait. What-" He sloshes back the rest of the contents of his wineglass, spilling a bit on his tie. Oh bother. He cleans it up with a wave of his hand. "-about... cimna- cim- cimnanonom. That's a ridiculous word." He giggles, now thoroughly sidetracked. "You know what I mean though, right?"
The odds are unlikely, but it doesn't matter. A moment more and there's a physical crackle in the aether, Aziraphale can feel it trembling through his skin and he sits up sharply. "What-" he stammers, but there remains no one at whom he can finish his sentence. Crowley is gone. Crowley is gone.
Aziraphale sobers himself up in an instant, wiping away every trace of alcohol along with the side effects. He stands up and stares at the old couch, still indented with the shape of the vanished demon. He reaches forward and touches it gingerly, like he expects to feel evidence of the Event that's just taken his friend. He only feels the vague warmth of a just recently departed body.
"What in the world," he murmurs to himself, then stumbles out of the back room and into the main part of his reconstructed post-arson shop. He has half a mind to assume this is some sort of ill-conceived prank, but the ill-conceived part doesn't fit Crowley at all. There hadn't even been a good setup.
At a loss, he attempts to contact the Authorities, who fail to answer him, either because They're quite busy, or because he's temporarily on a no-call list. Not implausible, given the whole Armageddon thing. Oh dear, might this have something to do with that? Some sort of retribution? A lesson to be taught? He hopes not. If that were so he'd be next.
Well, what is he meant to do now?
This is a question that goes unanswered for days, then weeks. Aziraphale waits, wanders, even takes some marginally inadvisable measures in his increasingly frantic effort to locate his counterpart. When They do eventually get around to contacting him, the Authorities are no help at all: They have no idea where Crowley's got to, and are a little irritable about it, like somehow this is Aziraphale's fault. He bristles at the notion of a replacement and neglects his own work, gradually beginning to neglect himself too, even allowing his physical form to change in tune with the stress he's under. He can barely remember a time without Crowley, and his inability to cope shows in the facial scruff he doesn't bother culling and the increasing narrowness of his face and body.
Later - he's lost track of exactly how much time later - he's finishing off another miserable bottle of wine by himself when he feels that sensation again. Crackling, tingling, just as before. He gives a violent start, looking around in the throes of hysterics, when the scene changes. It's him this time, compressed, unmade, rearranged, and deposited elsewhere. Really elsewhere.
In midair, as a matter of fact.
"WHAT," is all he gets the chance to shriek before he plummets, much too startled and too drunk to produce his wings before he plunks like a stone into the lake.
[[ooc: UPDATE: gonna have Aziraphale just go straight to the Rebel Base, so this thread is actually no longer open. I'll probably do another open type thread soon.]]
The odds are unlikely, but it doesn't matter. A moment more and there's a physical crackle in the aether, Aziraphale can feel it trembling through his skin and he sits up sharply. "What-" he stammers, but there remains no one at whom he can finish his sentence. Crowley is gone. Crowley is gone.
Aziraphale sobers himself up in an instant, wiping away every trace of alcohol along with the side effects. He stands up and stares at the old couch, still indented with the shape of the vanished demon. He reaches forward and touches it gingerly, like he expects to feel evidence of the Event that's just taken his friend. He only feels the vague warmth of a just recently departed body.
"What in the world," he murmurs to himself, then stumbles out of the back room and into the main part of his reconstructed post-arson shop. He has half a mind to assume this is some sort of ill-conceived prank, but the ill-conceived part doesn't fit Crowley at all. There hadn't even been a good setup.
At a loss, he attempts to contact the Authorities, who fail to answer him, either because They're quite busy, or because he's temporarily on a no-call list. Not implausible, given the whole Armageddon thing. Oh dear, might this have something to do with that? Some sort of retribution? A lesson to be taught? He hopes not. If that were so he'd be next.
Well, what is he meant to do now?
This is a question that goes unanswered for days, then weeks. Aziraphale waits, wanders, even takes some marginally inadvisable measures in his increasingly frantic effort to locate his counterpart. When They do eventually get around to contacting him, the Authorities are no help at all: They have no idea where Crowley's got to, and are a little irritable about it, like somehow this is Aziraphale's fault. He bristles at the notion of a replacement and neglects his own work, gradually beginning to neglect himself too, even allowing his physical form to change in tune with the stress he's under. He can barely remember a time without Crowley, and his inability to cope shows in the facial scruff he doesn't bother culling and the increasing narrowness of his face and body.
Later - he's lost track of exactly how much time later - he's finishing off another miserable bottle of wine by himself when he feels that sensation again. Crackling, tingling, just as before. He gives a violent start, looking around in the throes of hysterics, when the scene changes. It's him this time, compressed, unmade, rearranged, and deposited elsewhere. Really elsewhere.
In midair, as a matter of fact.
"WHAT," is all he gets the chance to shriek before he plummets, much too startled and too drunk to produce his wings before he plunks like a stone into the lake.
[[ooc: UPDATE: gonna have Aziraphale just go straight to the Rebel Base, so this thread is actually no longer open. I'll probably do another open type thread soon.]]