bigapplesauce | I Thought of Angels, Choking On Their Halos [open]

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I Thought of Angels, Choking On Their Halos [open]

Lucifer falls.

This is old news for everyone involved. He fell from Grace, he fell from Heaven, and after the so long awaited confrontation in Stull Cemetery, he and his once-beloved brother and the promise of violence, he fell back into the Cage in the body of Sam Winchester.

Now, when he falls, he feels a shift around him like the universe cracking open at the seams; there is the smell of ozone and a lightning-snap that’s louder than even Sam’s fearful internal monologue, louder than the terror that pounds his frantic mortal heart at the sight of Perdition yawning wide beneath him. He is yanked sideways, sudden lateral movement that would be dizzying if he had a center of balance to upset, a rip-tide pulling him in and down and through the rabbit-hole, shadow-thin and darkling deep.

The body that is supposed to be his—that has had his name written over and across and around every fiber of its being since its conception—is suddenly far away, and he is wrapped in the old, familiar skin of a vessel he’d left dying in Detroit, flesh given freely rather than claimed by divine right. And then he is a streak in the sky that hits water and sinks like a stone.

Under the water, cold and getting colder from the seed crystal that is his freezing Grace in its mortal house, he can feel the vast emptiness where Heaven should be above him and isn’t; the universe is silent and it is deafening, a tinnitus ring where there should be angels’ voices. Lucifer grabs two fistfuls of space-time and pulls, moving himself from under the water to standing in the shallows at the bank, and behind him the lake’s surface is already frozen over thick like it’s the dead of winter. The water around his feet is sluggish and barely liquid, filmed over top with a thin frozen layer that breaks and flows around his ankles.

Someone approaches him with a towel, and there is no Hell below him and above him only sky, and he makes no reply; he banishes the water from his clothes with a thought before he puts his fist right through the man’s chest.

[[ooc: So this is going to be the hottest of messes; see mod comment for post instructions and fun stuff like that.]]

[[TW: gore, major character death.]]

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Lucifer approaches, steady and implacable, walking as though he owned the earth and everything upon it; he had altered his path for nothing before this. He felt them when they arrived, these two celestial beings, familiar for the fact that they are angels of a sort and still curiously foreign. One has too much Hell clinging to him to be from anywhere but the Pit, and the other... simply doesn't feel right, not at all like his other brothers.

He will set his scheduled slaughtering on hold for the moment, to confront this issue. Either they will make trouble of themselves or they won't, and whichever way they choose will dictate whether or not he adds angel blood to his current collection of stains.

When he is close enough, their distress is practically palpable and he would expect nothing less.

"Enjoying the show?"

Aziraphale may have had a point; Lucifer, when He approaches, looks-- very plain. Certainly He holds Himself like He's the Lord of the Earth as well as Below, like He expects anyone He passes to fall to their knees, but the body He's wearing is merely that of a middle-aged man, handsomish but unremarkable, a little shorter than Crowley, jaw unshaven. The times Crowley had seen the Boss back home, He had always worn a form that was radiant, muscled and beautiful like a Renaissance painting, almost too much to look at. Pride goeth, etc etc.

But however different, He is still, without question, the Adversary, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Father of Lies, Great Beast that is Called Dragon, etc. Fuck. Crowley was never very high up in the rankings of Hell; he'd done most of his dealings with Dukes of Hell like Hastur and Ligur, and the clerks and other underlings who worked under them. It's been a long, long time since he's been face-to-face with his Lord, and that time, he hadn't been fresh off the kind of rebellion Hell would not look kindly on. Bugger.

He dithers, and his posture gradually does a kind of awkward melt to the side, hands shoving themselves into his pockets to keep them from fidgeting. 'Ah, absolutely. Lord. Most impressive. It's a-- surprise! to see you here.'

Crowley is painfully aware of Aziraphale at his side. He just hopes that Satan isn't in a mood to do any angel-smiting, because then Crowley may well be compelled to do something stupid, and then he'll definitely die.

Aziraphale's head turns, slowly, very slowly, until his deer-in-headlights eyes are fixed on Crowley, who is unaccountably dithering. In spite of everything, the whole momentousness of this moment, he can't help but feel a little snide disbelief. Really, Crowley. Is that really what you're going to do.

Not that Crowley can be blamed, exactly. What are they supposed to do? He'd like to think he could stand up to Lucifer on behalf of these people, but without Heaven to back him, what is he? Just one angel, and one hopelessly, embarrassingly simpering demon.

He bites back the urge to say something, setting his jaw and forcing himself to look at the Adversary, as much as it twists him up to do so.

You're thinking of his other vessel, Crowley-- these are the old clothes, metaphorically speaking.

Lucifer looks at the demon-slash-fallen angel for a few long, probably uncomfortable, moments while he does his simpering and kissing-up; not that he hasn't been on the receiving end of this sort of thing plenty of times, but usually it's from demons, not his brethren. Demons are... well, they're worse than humans, really, and considering that the Devil looks at them like they're a particularly persistent cockroach infestation, that doesn't exactly say much.

"Be silent."

He turns away from him then, towards the angel instead.

"I don't seem to remember your name, brother." At least Aziraphale could meet his eyes without fidgeting. "Remind me of it."

Crowley shuts up. He knows he's acting like an idiot, but what else is he supposed to do? Awkwardly, he attempts to pull himself up into something that looks a little more like his usual posture without trying to look like, you know, he's trying to be taller than Lucifer.

A tiny bubble of hope (coexisting uncomfortably with a little shudder at brother) manifests itself in his chest at Lucifer's question to Aziraphale, which he quickly tries to quash. Not that Lucifer would necessarily know the name of the Enemy agent who tried to thwart His plans, but there is definitely something encouraging about the Devil not knowing who Aziraphale is. Or who Crowley is, apparently.

Better the Devil you know? Perhaps not. Crowley swallows, eyes behind his dark glasses flicking between Lucifer and Aziraphale.

It is only with every available remnant of mustered strength Aziraphale has that he manages to answer without stammering: "Aziraphale."

He wants to contest the accusation of being a brother, but he probably shouldn't, the way He shut Crowley down like that. Aziraphale feels himself mentally capitalizing and represses a shudder of disgust. What a bloody coward.

He does not, meanwhile, share Crowley's relief at not having been recognized. The damage that has already been done is enough to set him well on edge, if not over it. It has to stop, to be stopped, somehow, though he hasn't got quite that far ahead in the plan he doesn't have. He doesn't mind being taller than Satan, even if just by an inch or two. Perhaps it's that realization that causes him to add, "And I'm not your brother."

Well, so much for that.

Lucifer's expression, which had been fairly neutral throughout the proceedings, went cold and hard when Aziraphale denied their kinship; fallen he might be, but he was still an angel. And he was still elder, he was still the Morningstar, he was still an archangel, and what right did this little principality have to speak back to him in such a way?

"You should watch your tone around me, Aziraphale."

No backtalk, baby brother, or big brother Lucifer might just have to teach you proper manners.

"You'll find I have very little patience for insolence."

Crowley feels the distinct urge to sink into the ground when Aziraphale, the utter idiot, decides it's a good idea to backtalk the Devil. For fuck's sake, he realises the angel's angry; Crowley's more than a little narked himself, but he's sensibly refraining from expressing any of that until they're not face to face with the Devil. Does Aziraphale have no sense of self-preservation whatever? He lets out a long breath, hissing sharply between his teeth, and stands a little straighter, angling himself just slightly in front of Aziraphale.

'I believe what he meant, Lord,' he interjects as diplomatically as he can and faintly hating himself for it, 'is that, uh, we're not from this universe. That is, this is a different universe, and you yourself are in all probability also from a different universe, and so, um, technically...'

He trails off limply, and then waves a hand in Aziraphale's direction. 'He's got terrible manners.'

Aziraphale matches the coldness of Lucifer's expression out of some terrible combination of instinct and pride, though internally he is absolutely panicking. He feels the air go out of him a little at Lucifer's response - now you've done it, you've pissed off the Devil - but Crowley's interjection, his insinuation into the situation and almost between them, in fact, is even worse. Aziraphale bristles a little at being explained, apologize for, though he knows it's the only sensible course of action Crowley has, some part of him remains wholly nauseated by the whole ordeal.

"That is what I meant," he agrees, desperately quashing down his desire to continue making an absolute ass of himself. "We are... not related. Different universes, cosmologies, that whole... bit."

He refuses to actually apologize, or to acknowledge the mention of his 'manners'. Aziraphale will be only as polite as he has to be to survive this meeting, and not a jot more.

Lucifer does not look at Crowley when he interjects, but instead raises one hand and grasps the fallen angel by the chin-- not roughly, but firmly-- and coaxes his head down that inch or so of height that raises him above Satan's own vessel. He slid his thumb along the lovely jawline, his smooth cheek with its fine cheekbones.

"I told you to be silent," he says, and only then fixes Crowley with a gimlet stare. "Do I have to say it again?"

He releases Crowley's chin. Not winning too many brownie points with the big boss there, serpent.

"Does it matter?" He tilts his head and glances upward, a look towards the Heaven-that-wasn't. "And considering the situation we're in, this is probably as close as you're going to get."

His gaze comes back to Aziraphale again. "Speaking of things that are close... what's an angel doing being spoken for by one of mine?"

'Aa--ngk-'

Crowley all but swallows his tongue when the Devil's hand is suddenly on his chin, hard. Or not even that hard; a firm grip like you'd give an errant dog, no need for real force, just a reminder of who precisely is master here with the faith that nothing further is needed. It's depressingly accurate; he's gone entirely still, and doesn't resist in the slightest when Lucifer drags his chin down.

The Devil's fingers are unnaturally cold, and Crowley can feel the power that lives in them. The slow, deliberate stroke of his thumb over Crowley's cheek is worse; he suppresses the urge to shudder, but there's nothing to be done about the goosebumps he feels lifting on the back of his neck and under his sleeves.

He swallows and shakes his head minutely, grimacing awkwardly. 'Ah, no, Lord.' It's less than a breath, only even that because he doesn't quite dare not answer. Crowley hates this.

When Lucifer's attention turns to Aziraphale, so does Crowley's. He keeps the down-tilted angle of his chin to try and catch Aziraphale's eyes with his in a silent attempt to entreat him not to do anything stupid.

Aziraphale's whole body jerks when Lucifer reaches out and touches Crowley. At first he thinks the motion is going to be aggressive, perhaps going for the throat, but instead it's paternal, condescending, and almost affectionate, which turns out to be far worse.

He grits his teeth and waits, never taking his eyes off Lucifer. He can feel Crowley eyeing him, practically radiating an aura of shut up shut up shut up. He wants, desperately, idiotically, to do something, but he knows he can't, should not. It galls him to admit, but the best way out of this is to play the Devil's game.

"We're counterparts," he explains stiffly, only moderately relieved by the release of Crowley. "In our universe there is an Arrangement. Angels and demons working in pairs, to keep things balanced. That's just how it works." He arches an eyebrow, not quite challenging, but unwilling to look demure. "I suppose we've grown used to speaking for each other, over the centuries."

What a curious reaction; an angel, so protective of one of the fallen that he'd nearly act against the Morningstar. Angels are supposed to smite their estranged brethren, not protect them against the proprietary touch of their lord.

That, and Crowley is one of Lucifer's fallen; it is his right to touch him as he sees fit, and not within some little principality's to argue.

He listens to Aziraphale's explanation, indulging him in what sounds like the most ridiculous set of circumstances he's ever heard; Heaven would never abide by such an agreement, and neither would Hell. Merely siding with the humans was enough to warrant Falling. Allying with the enemy would warrant destruction, swift and sure, regardless of whether Above or Below found out first.

"Well," he says, "that's very sweet, but your arrangement is over."

No capital.

Lucifer would not suffer allegiances to anyone other than himself.

He looks to Crowley, subservient as Aziraphale is not. "I have work for you."

At the Devil's words, Crowley flushes cold. There's no capital A in the arrangement when Lucifer says it, dismisses it as nothing even worth his attention, a quaint distraction when Crowley should be bending his attention to greater things. He says it's over, and so it should be, like snapping a string.

It is, frankly, terrifying.

Though he's done his duty for the thousands of years he's been on Earth, reported regularly to Hell, dealt with higher-ups, etc etc, he's always been more or less on his own. A punishment here, a commendation there, but not-- not this. Lucifer has the ability to sever his relationship with Aziraphale here and now, in a very permanent way; to make Crowley into nothing more than a lackey, and there is absolutely fuck-all Crowley can do about it.

He swallows, and straightens his shoulders, though he feels his stomach rattling around somewhere near his feet, dreading what work the Devil might have for him. 'My Lord?'

"There's a ritual I want to try," he says, as easily as though he is simply discussing what he needs to pick up from the market. "I'll need sacrifices. Not many-- a few dozen should suffice."

What's the lives of a few dozen wretched little humans? There are seven billion of them. Plenty to spare, and if their deaths bring him even just the smallest bit closer to finding a way back to his proper universe-- preferably outside of his Cage-- than it's been more worthwhile than their entire lives. In death, they are useful; in life, they are just so many vermin.

"Bring them here, and try to keep them from making a fuss."

"NO." Aziraphale barely even realizes he's spoken until it's already happened and he's taken a sharp step forward. And now it's too late, he can't take it back now. His palms itch but he hurtles onward, because he cannot allow this. Lucifer has no right to be here sacrificing anyone, he murdered Daine's friends, and now he's trying to take Crowley away. And deep down Aziraphale knows that he is, regrettably for everyone involved, the only person who can even try to stop it.

"I," he blurts, the reverberating rage his voice had previously carried now reduced to an awkward quiver. "I won't let you."

He doesn't look at Crowley, doesn't put himself between them just yet, though the urge is strong. He's just an angel trying to protect the living. That's all.

The Devil turns, slowly, to regard Aziraphale, his expression neutral.

"And I do not need your permission."

The idea itself is ridiculous. This little angel is becoming a nuisance; he had been considering allowing him to go unharmed, since he is one of his little brothers, of a sort, but after this insolence? The sheer presumption that he might dictate what Lucifer could and could not do? Clearly a lesson in manners is necessary.

He lifts his hand, lets the power of his Grace well up and lash out; the force of it hits like a sledgehammer, triggered by an almost lazy flick of his fingers like he is brushing away dust.

Edited (gdit tense) 2014-09-10 06:23 (UTC)

A few dozen for sacrifice. Lame excuses trot themselves into Crowley's mind and summarily out again, dismissed as pointless. That's not-- that's not what he does. People die, and they might die tainted with sin because of Crowley's doings, but he can't just... pen them up like sheep to be slaughtered. Except that he'll have to, if he doesn't want to be killed himself. Killed outright, maybe, in this universe with no Hell for him to return to and petition for a new body.

But Crowley doesn't have much time to decide on how best to react, because Aziraphale is doing something incredibly stupid. There's a part of Crowley, a tiny part, very deep down, that is something like impressed by Aziraphale's unstinting gall, his righteous, angelic anger. The greater part is divided neatly between fury at his idiocy and fear that Lucifer is just going to smite him into a paste.

His eyes have gone wide behind his sunglasses, but otherwise he holds himself quite still, reigning back his stupid, stupid instinct to, what? Fling himself at Aziraphale to make him stop? All he can do is watch as the Devil slowly, in his own good time, turns his cold regard on him.

For a moment there's nothing, and then Lucifer flicks his fingers, the laziest little gesture like he's dismissing an errant servant, and Aziraphale goes flying through the air like he's been hit by a wrecking ball.

'Shit!' Crowley hisses, sucking in a hard breath. 'Angel--!' And then he shuts his teeth with a click. Nothing, nothing, he must do nothing, he can't react, can't give any sign, but inside he is fucking terrified. It's never been a possibility, but abruptly it is, and he doesn't know what he'll do without Aziraphale. Which is ridiculous and embarrassing, but entirely true.

Lucifer watches Aziraphale go flying, and there is satisfaction to be gained from disciplining a mouthy, insubordinate angel. He may not be Aziraphale's direct superior, per se, but he is an archangel, and he deserves more respect than he has been shown.

And speaking of the insubordinate... there is a fallen angel next to him that seems unable to grasp the concept of staying quiet. Really, it's so hard to find good help these days.

"What part of be silent escapes you?"

His Grace flares up again, freezing cold and implacable, and he sweeps his hand back smoothly towards Crowley. The blow this time is not directed outward but rather down, towards the earth, like the angle of a parent striking an unruly child. The Devil does not pull his punches; this one lands like the fist of an angry god, which is more or less close enough.

Aziraphale is thrown, like a bloody ragdoll, a good solid distance back, hitting the earth heavy and hard. The wave of force Lucifer just threw at him is shattering, leaving him breathless and shaking. His glasses are completely broken; he doesn't need them anyway, like Crowley's, they're just for show. He pulls them off and tosses them aside, looks up, redirecting his gaze to Crowley, just barely in time to see him struck down. One well-placed blow and he crumples.

And that's all it takes, really. He surges back to his feet with the aid of suddenly manifested wings, beating loudly against the air, and he lunges, skipping the distance and reappearing midair directly in front of Lucifer, throwing a punch and landing it sharply across his cheekbone. He hears his knuckles crack. He settles back down on the ground, planting himself firmly before Crowley, fixes the Devil with cold, hard eyes and says, absurdly, "Don't ever touch him again."

That is not what he meant to say. He's fairly certain he meant to say something much less ridiculous. Something relevant to the issue of human sacrifice, maybe? Or the already-murdered innocents? Something that is not actively defending a demon from his own master. And sounding like a complete twat on top of it. But it's too late now, and in any case he just punched the actual Devil in the sodding face so it's all moot, isn't it?

Edited 2014-09-10 07:36 (UTC)

Crowley hits the ground hard, so hard he is actually driven into earth by a few inches. It sends his vision tunnelling inward in black and white flashes, his sunglasses snapping under the impact, the bridge cutting into his skin; he can see, faintly, when he opens his eyes again, the red of blood tracking its way down the side of his nose. Fuck, he's thinking, fuckfuckfuck, I'm dead, and Aziraphale's probably dead too, what the hell kind of demon am I?

But no further blows come, no remonstrance from the Devil nor any promise to teach him what it is to obey his master.

Instead, absurdly, as Crowley lies with his face in the dirt and his head ringing, there comes the great clap of wings, angelic wings, too loud to be anything else, and the sudden whoomph of displaced air, and the crack of a blow landing, and Aziraphale's voice, cold and ringing with the many dimensions he occupies outside of this one-- chiding the Devil for daring to strike Crowley? Oh, shit.

He wants to punch Aziraphale in the face himself, somewhere between the urge to laugh hysterically and weep from fear, but he does neither. All he can do, serpent that he is, cursed from the beginning to crawl on his belly in the dirt, is roll out of the way and snap up to stare, petrified and unbelieving, at the sight of Aziraphale with his wings out, squaring up to the Devil with his fists up like he expects a fair fucking fight by Queensbury rules.

Edited 2014-09-10 07:49 (UTC)

The blow rings across the Devil's face, snapping his head to the side and making him stumble a pace; there are abrasions on his cheek from the strike, and when he regains his footing he presses his fingers against the injury and feels it throb, just for a moment, before it disappears. The injury is nothing but a scratch on his vessel, but the greater issue is the insult of it. Crowley is forgotten, no longer even a cursory part of the proceedings.

The audacity. The sheer, unrepentant audacity of this small angel is more than Lucifer has ever had to bear before, and he will not suffer it. He has given Aziraphale more than enough warnings, has told him that this impudence would not be tolerated, and he has not heeded it.

He is bold and brazen, all splayed wings and righteous indignation. Lucifer could smite him into dust and starstuff where he stands.

But that? That would be too gentle a fate for him. No: there is an example to be made here.

With a beat of his wings, Lucifer bends space around himself and reappears behind Aziraphale and his disheveled wings; it is time to give baby brother a lesson in fighting, and show him why it took Heaven's most powerful warrior to cast down the Adversary. He grabs the angel by the wings, reaching down to the base of one and at the first joint of the other, twisting it hard until it locks.

"Learn your place, Aziraphale."

And then pulls until he hears the snap of bone.

Edited (freaking. tense.) 2014-09-10 08:22 (UTC)

The pain rips through him in a furious explosion of nerves, he's never felt anything like this before, no one has ever - would ever - he's screaming, he realizes distantly, and scrambling to turn around, get his hands on Lucifer, but he's pinioned by the grip on his wings, so frantic and helpless that he can't even think to manifest his sword. He's all desperation; once the bones are broken there's no point in being careful, and he wrenches himself free, only worsening the damage, whips around and throws another punch, landing again, putting the weight of actual angelic force behind it now. He doesn't quit this time; lets loose a wrathful roar and strikes again and again, as hard and fast as he knows how. The agony of his broken wings sears hotly through him, muddling his reflexes, so he fights like a brawler, clumsy and wild and raw. He knows his place, he thinks angrily. His place is with Crowley, in some other universe far away, or, apparently, in this one. No Devil, especially not this Devil, is going to make him believe otherwise. And if defending that means fighting that Devil to the point of his probable death, then so be it.

Edited 2014-09-10 17:37 (UTC)

Usually, an angel with broken wings would drop; the pain is unimaginable, to say nothing of the violation, and Lucifer knows this intimately. But instead of acting as other angels had, Aziraphale keeps struggling against him, thrashing despite the fact that it would worsen the injury, fighting his grip tooth and nail. With his hands busy with Aziraphale's wings-- he does not want to get struck by them-- he cannot defend against the other angel's wild blows, and he is, after taking a few, forced to release him.

He pushes with his Grace again, to knock Aziraphale back and break his aggressive onslaught. The damage to his own vessel is minimal, and he isn't concerned about it-- Aziraphale is far worse, with his broken wings-- but this should take the other angel off-balance and leave him open. Lucifer knows how to make an angel hurt. He knows how to make him suffer. It's really just a matter of getting his hands on him for long enough to make him scream.

Aziraphale tries to brace against the wave of energy being thrown against him, but he can't stand up to it. It knocks him back until he collides with a tree, the impact sending new electric bolts of pain through his wings. He doubles over, barely able to catch himself from crumpling. His knuckles are bleeding. Crowley, where's Crowley? There, off to the side. Watching. Oh bugger, nevermind. Aziraphale can't look at him, not right now.

Anyway he doesn't have time to worry about it. Lucifer's coming for him again. He raises his red-streaked hands to catch the blows. His vision is blurring slightly but his reflexes are still good enough to defend himself. He's reasonably sure, anyway. 12% sure.

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general and progressive content warning for blood, violence, pain, et cetera