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 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.

He crosses the distance between himself and the injured angel with smooth strides, his control and posture a sharp contrast to Aziraphale's pained dishevelment. He is clearly waiting for the next strikes, hands raised in some feeble, and frankly amusing, attempt at defense.

As though Lucifer really even needs to dirty his hands with touching Aziraphale.

But there is a sort of visceral satisfaction to the physical act of destruction, and he is going to make an example of this unruly angel. Some things you just have to do by hand.

He pushes again, to slam Aziraphale back into the tree he's braced against, taking advantage of the fact that the very thing he's using to keep upright is also a firm striking surface for his damaged wings. And then he's close enough to curl his fists and aim for the face, the stomach, to beat Aziraphale's meatsuit bloody and shake the angel inside it around harder than a margarita.

Aziraphale's head snaps back with the push, striking the tree, the pain of his ravaged wings momentarily blacking out his vision. It swims back in spots, through which the terrifying calm of Lucifer's face becomes vivid and too close.

Lucifer lays into him, and he can barely keep up, struggling back against him, occasionally landing a blow in return but mostly failing to keep blows from touching him. He can taste blood now. The point where his wings meet his back is just a mass of pressure and agony, out from which more waves of pain ripple through him. He should surrender. He should beg for mercy. But he's stupid, and defiant, he will not stand down to the Devil.

He manages to catch Lucifer's arm and strikes harder than before, reining in as much power as he can, aiming to knock Lucifer back.

Whatever mercy Lucifer had for Aziraphale had already been used up when he'd given his earlier warnings; even if the angel had begged for it, there would have been no reprieve.

That lucky catch manages to surprise him, though, as does the returning strike, and he reels back several paces at the sudden shock of pain across his face. Aziraphale has more strength left in him than he'd been expecting; desperate, defiant strength, the kind left in a being fighting for his life and determined to survive, even if he's barely hanging on by his fingernails.

Enough of this.

Lucifer lunges forward again-- not to throw a punch, but seeking to get his hand around Aziraphale's throat.

Aziraphale meets the grasping hand but cannot hold it back; he wraps his fingers around Lucifer's wrist, pushing back even as the sudden pressure forces a grunt and a gasp out of him. He can feel his clothes catching and tearing against the tree as he's pressed back against it.

And then he feels the pain. Not all at once. At first he thinks it's just shock, the extreme coldness of Lucifer's skin startling him, but it's more than that, the touch at once freezing and burning his skin. It is excruciating. His grip on Lucifer's arm tightens and he writhes with raw desperation, kicking and flailing like a cornered animal, and he screams and screams.

Lucifer feels no pain where his vessel's skin touches Aziraphale's, but from the way the angel screams, it must be agonizing for him. The Morningstar nearly drops him, his grip faltering just a little in surprise; no other angel has ever had this strong a reaction to his touch. He has never burned one of his brethren simply from putting his hand on them.

There would be time to think about the implications of this new fact later; right now, he has an unexpected and convenient advantage, and he will use it. His grip tightens on Aziraphale's throat and he reaches up with his other hand, cupping his cheek almost tenderly despite the screaming.

"Did you think defiance doesn't have its price, Aziraphale?"

"Hhhn-" Aziraphale moans rather pitifully, looking up at the Adversary with a desperate expression. He wants to retort, but he can't speak, let alone muster any courage. He's going to die, isn't he? He's really going to die. And there's no Heaven to take him back. He'll just be gone.

He doesn't need the air Lucifer is cutting off, but the burning is still so unendurable. His knees buckle and he feels himself collapse, now held up only by the hand around his throat.

He feels Aziraphale's weight on his arm when he collapses, a pathetic, broken-down mess of an angel who had one foot in the grave already. It would be easy to destroy him when he couldn't even speak, nevertheless fight back or escape; it might be mercy, even. His dark eyes are so wide and fearful and Lucifer touches his temple, his hair in a mockery of comfort.

And then lets his grip go, dropping him unceremoniously to the ground.

Aziraphale hits the ground hard, choking, gasping, clutching at his throat. His skin is beginning to heal already, but the damage has been done, sourceless pain moving percussively through him. He lies there on the ground, trying to get up, to do something, don't just lie here like an idiot, but he can't move, he needs this moment to pull himself together, and he's not sure he'll have enough time before it's over.

Lucifer looks down at him for a moment, watches him gasp and clutch and writhe; he is a sad, pathetic excuse for an angel. Not only that, but he is too stupid to live if he had thought that fighting the Devil would have ever ended in his favor, so really? He's doing the universe a favor right now. He's ridding it of one unbearably foolish being who'd practically committed suicide by Satan.

He raises his foot and brings it down on Aziraphale's collarbone, putting the weight of his vessel's body behind it.

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

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

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TW: stabbing/impalement

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