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

Current Music: 14 July

Entry tags:

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.]]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

"Gkh-" Aziraphale emits a soft, strangled hiss, his hands moving automatically to Lucifer's foot, as though he has any strength to move him. The weight pressing down on him is unbearable, crushing him, driving him into the earth. Pathetic. What a miserable way to go, grasping helplessly, writhing in the dirt under the foot of the Devil. He can't even muster any pity for himself. This was so unbelievably stupid. Were he to survive this, Crowley would probably kill him.

Dizzily, he wonders what it would have been like if he and Crowley had actually had to face the Devil back home, if Adam Young hadn't intervened. Would it be anything like this? Probably. Possibly quicker. Or possibly worse. All they'd had was Crowley's ridiculous little tyre iron, and... and his-

Oh, you bloody idiot.

With one hand he tightens his grip around Lucifer's shoe and lets the other fall away, fingers splaying open to catch it as it manifests from out of the ether with a crackling spark and a whiff of ozone, flaring up abruptly. He holds Lucifer down against his chest and sweeps the blade upward, sharp and quick and deft; the angle is awkward but he manages to get a solid slice along the Devil's side, leaving behind the smell of burnt fabric and hair.

Lucifer notices the blade manifest in Aziraphale's hand too late to avoid the cut; it splits open his side, burning like a brand, like his hands did on the angel's skin. He jerks away reflexively, taking a few steps back and clamping a hand over the wound. The bleeding doesn't worry him, because human blood is easy enough to replace, but there is Grace-light leaking between his fingers, too. It isn't deep enough to be life-threatening, and he doubted that Aziraphale could even manage to score a killing blow with a blade from a lower choir, but it could certainly do damage.

He'd had an angel blade all along, and he'd waited until now to use it?

This revelation puts him on the defensive, wary.

Surprise, ~~motherfucker~~ Lucifer. You're dealing with a competent moron.

Fortunately, the lateness of the revelation works in Aziraphale's favor, the deep pleasure of seeing Satan looking wary and startled giving him just enough energy to climb back to his feet. All the pain coursing through him he lays aside for now, and he lunges forward with a broken, unbalanced flap of his wings. It's not as graceful as it would be if they'd been unharmed; in fact, it's not graceful at all. He flies at Lucifer and slashes again and again, growling like an enraged, wild animal, throwing everything he has left into this.

Taking advantage of Lucifer's momentary unguardedness, he seizes the Adversary by his vessel's shirt and drives the fiery blade into his gut, holding him on the end of it like a speared fish.

"This is not your world," he snarls, "and he is not yours. Our will is our own now, not bound to you or anyone, and as long as I am in this universe I will use every bit of it to strike you down."

And he plunges the sword, throwing all his weight behind it, deep into Lucifer, pushing it through him nearly up to the hilt. He holds it there, gritting his teeth with the effort, then wrests it back out again and releases his grasp, stepping back and standing for a glorious moment with his feet planted, sword blazing at his side, and his bloody, broken wings spread behind him.

Edited 2014-09-11 07:42 (UTC)

Most of the slashes catch Lucifer around the arms, cutting his vessel down to the bone; the wounds are painful, deeply and bone-jarringly so, but it is nothing that he cannot bear. Aziraphale either has been holding back this whole time, keeping a reserve for a moment like this, or this is his last desperate ditch, but either way, he has managed to put Satan at a disadvantage.

He feels the tip of the sword press against his stomach before it plunges deep, slicing smoothly into his gut, the holy fire searing hot against the freezing Grace housed within this flesh. A rattled sound of pain is punched out of him, short and hard, and the only thing that hurts worse than the blade going in is it coming back out again. He stumbles, slumped but not brought to his knees, arm wrapped around the gaping hole in his vessel that oozes blood and light.

Clearly, he has made a tactical error. Thankfully for him, though, the blade of a principality could harm him, but it couldn't kill him.

Lucifer straightens, and his Grace flares for a moment; the slashes to his arms heal themselves, flesh knitting together into a smooth whole once again. The wounds to his side and stomach will take longer, are far more serious, but he ignores them for now. Aziraphale looks like he is posing for victory, but the Devil is all too pleased to show him that he hasn't won here.

He draws back his hand and backhands the angel straight across the face.

He is stopped suddenly from visiting further wrath on his kin, however, from a sudden flare going up in his mind, the only familiar Grace in this wretched city. And it isn't just any Grace-- it is Gabriel, unmistakably.

"Well, Aziraphale," he says, "you're in luck. Something's come up, so I won't be able to finish playing with you. I'll take a rain check."

I O U one beating.

He grabs two fistfuls of space and pulls, disappearing with a heavy beat of wings.

It's less of a victory pose and more of manic attempt to stand up and look ready for more, though inside he's roiling in agony. He knows he won't survive more of this. When Lucifer comes toward him, damaged but undeterred, his stance falters and his heart proverbially sinks. Maybe if he rallies, just keeps stabbing at him, maybe - maybe at least he can do some serious damage before Lucifer ends him.

He takes the slap with as much dignity as he can in this situation, though he staggers slightly at the force of it. He's so very tired, and every part of him hurts, it's almost more than he can bear just to keep the sword tangible.

And then, abruptly, inexplicably, Lucifer lets him go. Ducks out, as if having suddenly received an important call. Well, then. All right. He's not raining down destruction and he's not killing anyone, or making Crowley round up prisoners. Tentatively, Aziraphale considers this a win. Or at the very least a successful draw.

And that's about it for him. The sword sputters and dies, vanishing from his hand, but he doesn't have the wherewithal to disappear his wings. He drops like a stone, knees hitting the singed grass, and then he tips backward until he's sprawled on the ground, wings splayed beneath him, hands open. He can't think, can't move or heal himself, can't search for Crowley. He can only lie there, broken, bleeding, drifting into deep, dark unconsciousness. He's so tired. So very, very tired.

Edited 2014-09-11 08:54 (UTC)

It's awful to watch, and Crowley hates himself a little for it, crouched here and just watching, feeling faintly ill at the sickening crack of Aziraphale's wings, the meaty thwack of blows delivered with inhuman force. But he can't interfere, he can't. The idiot angel's got himself into this, and Crowley'll do no good barging in and trying to break things up. He's under no illusion that the Devil would expend such an effort on him; He'd probably just discorporate Crowley with a thought and then resume with his beating of Aziraphale.

So he watches, holds himself back as Lucifer gets Aziraphale up against the tree, as Aziraphale screams, an awful, ragged sound. Crowley's heard screaming like that more than he'd like over the centuries, and it makes him itch horribly to hear it from Aziraphale.

His breath catches when Lucifer drops him, Aziraphale collapsing in a sad, mangled heap in the grass, and Crowley holds it, hoping-- hell, praying, even though he daren't direct his pray at any specific entity-- that that'll be it, that Lucifer will be content leaving Aziraphale like that. He looks a wreck, he can't even haul himself up, surely, surely that's enough.

And then the Devil steps on him.

All Crowley can see for an instant is the press of a shoe, the twist that's all it would take to break Aziraphale's neck, the terrifying thought that discorporation here might mean actual death, and he's scrambled to his feet before he can think, his own wings out, huge and bristling. Fuck it. Fuck it, he might be cowardly and self-serving, but he can't just sit there and watch his, whatever, his friend, his enemy, his stupid bloody angel, get himself killed by the Devil.

It is perhaps fortunate that it's at precisely that moment that Aziraphale remembers he has a flaming sword. The laugh of relief that bursts out of Crowley sounds more than half like a sob. And then the fight is all a flurry of flames and then Aziraphale's got Lucifer skewered like a kebab, eye-searing light leaking out along with the blood, and then-- amazingly, impossibly, Lucifer's gone.

Crowley chokes on his own disbelief for a moment, and then stumbles over to Aziraphale, his wings still out, flaring up to shade them as he skids to his knees.

'Aziraphale! Angel, fuck, you stupid--'

He hisses, distress and annoyance, and leans down in a rush to splay his hands over Aziraphale's chest. Healing, strictly speaking, shouldn't be part of a demon's purview, but matter is matter and flesh is flesh, and Crowley exerts all his energy now into knitting up the sinew and bone of Aziraphale's twisted and torn wings, his mashed nose, all the places where Crowley can feel him bleeding internally. He doesn't know what the fuck Lucifer did to him when he grabbed him by the neck, but the skin there's gone rough and dark as if from frostbite. Fuck.

Crowley holds it for as long as he can, his jaw clenched, breathing hard through his nose, before the drain of the effort is too much, and he slumps forward, hands sliding to bracket Aziraphale's torso. The angel is passed very thoroughly out, and Crowley's face contorts for a moment. Just as well; better to heal like that.

He doesn't bother looking around to see if anyone's around to see when he scoops Aziraphale up into his arms and vanishes the pair of them back to his flat.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

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

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

TW: stabbing/impalement

no subject

no subject

no subject