***
Title: Stale (oneshot)
Author: Verna S.
Archive: …mmm… you'll have to ask me first.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: The characters and settings portrayed in this piece of writing are not my intellectual property but rather belong to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. I would never attempt to use this writing for profit of any kind, and would never dream of sueing either of them for any reason. People who do that aren't real fans. In the odd chance that either of them come across this (which I most sincerely doubt): Mr Gaiman—hello, Sir! Feel free to read this if you like. Enjoy your fan-enjoyment binge thing. I think it's incredibly sweet you do that once every four months or so before getting all scared and like, "Why!?!" and go back to avoiding it again. As for Mr. Pratchett: turn back! Close this window on your browser! I realize you do not wish to read fanfiction for legal reasons, and respect that. My writing is not worthy of being used by either you or Mr. Gaiman even as Esme Weatherwax makes use of the Almanak… (unless it were printed on really *thin* paper)….
***
Azirapahale was an angel.
He was also, for the record, an immortal.
People have interesting opinions on immortality. Some think it must be an exciting adventure, complete with breathtaking duels involving samurai swords or drinking blood.
They imagine car chases, and great battles of great wars. They imagine life-threatening situations that cause great bonds to be forged between enemies. They imagine….
They imagine great immortal sex.
This was something that Aziraphale knew to be more or less false, for a number of reasons. First of all, sex was something intended for humans, and humans alone. It was created as a way for them to continue creation, the lifeblood of their species. The act of creating continuing being rather important, certain measures were taken in an attempt to encourage the propagation of life.
Of course, several thousand years allowed for a lot of changes to be made. Creatures evolved, and in turn so did their ideas. The act of intercourse, in a way, evolved.
The angel sighed, flipping through an early edition of Thomas Hardy's Far From the Madding Crowd. He debated whether to sell it. It was, in relation to his other books, rather recent.
Sex was so *deified* by humanity now. It was the new religion.
*And*, a naughty little voice inside him said, *why not*?
***
Crowley lay on his back staring up at the blue sky over London. It was a very weird day. Not remarkable, as such. Children cried below as they skinned their knees. Lovers fought. Businessmen cut one another off in order to check call waiting on their cellphones. Cars crashed into telephone poles.
A normal day, really.
And yet….
The sky was so *blue*.
Bluer than anything.
Blue… like the angel's eyes.
His thoughts didn't turn to Aziraphale so much as they slunk into a familiar pattern. There was a chunk of his mind already conveniently marked out and dedicated to Aziraphale, practically shielded off from the others and labelled "Angel" for convenience.
He recognized, with a tinge of sadness, that things were getting boring.
The fallen angel sighed. He didn't *live* in his flat so much as stay there when he was in town… for a reason.
It was time to pack up again.
***
The thing about immortality is, people have got it all wrong.
Sex is good because life is brief. Human life is directed, guided by passions which are fueled by an intense need to satiate themselves while they were still able, sometimes in order to find some sort of fulfillment in their lives… sometimes not for reasons even they might understand. Relationships come and go quickly; or else life does; or both. Everything is fraught with a tense sort of longing, a grasping, fleeting sort of feeling.
It had been good at first. When they had just been starting to get to know one another. Everything had been new, exciting. Not exactly like humans had in their stories—there were tinglings and gasps and pleasant rushings of blood to certain areas—but there had also been elbows banging in unpleasant places, miscommunication, fatigue, shortness of breath, ennui. And then, eventually, even inexperience and exploration had given way to experience and predictable responses. The tinglings, all too soon, were replaced with a vague sort of expectation, until one day being touched was about as exciting as touching oneself.
And the conversations! Being together was one thing, but being together, always together, for centuries—one thought differently then. Every word in every language held a hundred different nuances, some belonging to the growth of human speech and others merely references to other events and conversations that had been shared.
You began to fall into patterns. Individuality gave way to Predictability. And things… got less exciting.
They'd tried mitigating this at first by trying to pull things off on one another. Major projects were built on by either side in hopes of making things exciting when the other found out. A few great rows had done much to renew old passions, but only temporarily. The millenia waxed on, and even that tactic began to wane. On Time went, on *they* went, desperate for anything resembling those first few decades, or even that First golden time.
Sometimes all they really needed was a break from one another.
***
It came up that night, over dinner. They'd met at the Ritz hotel, at nine precisely.
"'m thinking of going away for a while."
Aziraphale looked up from his steak tournedo, his face a study in nonchalance. "Oh?" He said noncommitally. "For how long, exactly?"
"I was thinking… maybe three, four centuries."
This came as a bit of a shock. Fifty years was normally enough. The angel concentrated on his beef filet some more, the slight tremor in his chubby hands the only clue that would have signaled to the casual onlooker that something might be amiss. "Rather a long time, I think."
The demon snorted. "Nobody asked you."
***
The notion was further developed early that following morning, over drinks. The clink of glass on glass and the stench of strong ale. Yellow and grey shadows and light flickering across walls only a fraction as old as they were, yet already far worse for the wear, crumbling, cracked.
"…jus' don't see why it has to be so *long*…."
"Because… because… *becaussse*, angel…."
"…yesh?" Gin tended to do that to the bibliophile's perfect pronunciation. It was endearing. And predictable, predictable, predictable….
"'s all circles again. Patterns. Same old places, same old *stuff*. 'S gotten *stale*, 's why. Getting sick of…."
"Of me. Just say it. You've gotten sick of me."
"…yeah. I mean," he said, catching himself, "..not just of you. Of all this---"
The point was expouned upon, during futher drinks.
"So. When I come an' *find* you, where'r'ya gonna be?"
A lengthy pause. "How's your pu… pu tong… guo…Chinese?" Aziraphale managed eventually.
The demon considered this. "…bloody *awful*," he admitted quite happily. Re-learning such a difficult language in order to woo his angel might be interesting. His mind coiled and re-coiled over the notion, liking it. "Lotsa… old books in China. Whole lotta…," the demon spread his arms expansively "… culture."
"…need a quite a bit of… of… work over there," the angel sighed, not looking forward to the misery he was going to witness, the depressing sights that awaited him. He took another long drag of what he expected to be whiskey, but the demon had quite naughtily changed into cheap champagne when he wasn't looking. He coughed and hiccuped, eyes watering as his tongue throbbed and bubbles mercilessly tickled his nose. "An' specially their… hospit… Hos…."
"…hospitals?" The demon supplied helpfully from his spot on the floor.
"…yeah." The angel collapsed ungracefully and settled somewhere beside him. Hands stuck out and ruffled glossy black hair softer than silk.
The recipient of the strokings leaned into the touch, closed his eyes and snuggled into the other being's lap. The strong smell of alcohol combined with the warm heat coming from Aziraphale was pleasant against the dust and chill that permeated the air. "Was wonderin' why you was lettin' that place go…."
The angel sniffed indignantly. "One does one's best… one cannot be everywhere at once."
"Haven't been there since the… singing dynasty? 's that what they call it now?"
"The *Song* dynasty, my dear."
"I'll stick to Eastern Europe… Middle East… not too far 'way, you know, just in case."
"Alright."
"It'll be fun to see you in a kimono, angel."
A simple smile. "That's Japan. You *pervert*."
The demon sat up, looking his angel in the eyes. "Don't get like that."
"Like what?"
"Y'know."
"No, I don't. 'mreally intrest'd what it is yer'r talking about."
" 'S not my fault, you know. 'S just the… the lulls."
There was another lengthy pause.
"Y'know. It gets all exciting. And then… 'snot as exciting when nothin's going on."
The angel nodded. Removing useless glasses, massaging the bridge of his pale and very Nordic-looking nose. "I might have a different body then," he said by way of conversation.
The demon grimaced. "You gonna make yoursssself prettier next time?"
"Maybe," the angel said peevishly, "I'll be a *woman*. Fat chance you'll have of … of finding me then."
"You *wouldn't*!" Crowley's face was a mask of horror.
"I *would*."
Thin arms slinked around a thicker frame. " …yer jus' teasing me."
The angel shrugged. "Maybe, dear boy. As for *this* body…" he sniffled, "…didn't know it turned you off so much. Could have *told* me. The thing is…."
"Yesssh?"
"The thing is, the thing *is*… suppose I thought things would be more interesting if I weren't so *perfect*."
"Yer'r always perfect."
Outside, Rain fell.
Upstairs, God shrugged.
On Earth, Glass shattered.
Two immortals shagged. Roughly.
It was going to be a long time before they saw one another again.
And for a few fleeting moments, that sense of urgency was there. And the sex was *good*.
Not great.
But good.
END
Title: Stale (oneshot)
Author: Verna S.
Archive: …mmm… you'll have to ask me first.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: The characters and settings portrayed in this piece of writing are not my intellectual property but rather belong to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. I would never attempt to use this writing for profit of any kind, and would never dream of sueing either of them for any reason. People who do that aren't real fans. In the odd chance that either of them come across this (which I most sincerely doubt): Mr Gaiman—hello, Sir! Feel free to read this if you like. Enjoy your fan-enjoyment binge thing. I think it's incredibly sweet you do that once every four months or so before getting all scared and like, "Why!?!" and go back to avoiding it again. As for Mr. Pratchett: turn back! Close this window on your browser! I realize you do not wish to read fanfiction for legal reasons, and respect that. My writing is not worthy of being used by either you or Mr. Gaiman even as Esme Weatherwax makes use of the Almanak… (unless it were printed on really *thin* paper)….
***
Azirapahale was an angel.
He was also, for the record, an immortal.
People have interesting opinions on immortality. Some think it must be an exciting adventure, complete with breathtaking duels involving samurai swords or drinking blood.
They imagine car chases, and great battles of great wars. They imagine life-threatening situations that cause great bonds to be forged between enemies. They imagine….
They imagine great immortal sex.
This was something that Aziraphale knew to be more or less false, for a number of reasons. First of all, sex was something intended for humans, and humans alone. It was created as a way for them to continue creation, the lifeblood of their species. The act of creating continuing being rather important, certain measures were taken in an attempt to encourage the propagation of life.
Of course, several thousand years allowed for a lot of changes to be made. Creatures evolved, and in turn so did their ideas. The act of intercourse, in a way, evolved.
The angel sighed, flipping through an early edition of Thomas Hardy's Far From the Madding Crowd. He debated whether to sell it. It was, in relation to his other books, rather recent.
Sex was so *deified* by humanity now. It was the new religion.
*And*, a naughty little voice inside him said, *why not*?
***
Crowley lay on his back staring up at the blue sky over London. It was a very weird day. Not remarkable, as such. Children cried below as they skinned their knees. Lovers fought. Businessmen cut one another off in order to check call waiting on their cellphones. Cars crashed into telephone poles.
A normal day, really.
And yet….
The sky was so *blue*.
Bluer than anything.
Blue… like the angel's eyes.
His thoughts didn't turn to Aziraphale so much as they slunk into a familiar pattern. There was a chunk of his mind already conveniently marked out and dedicated to Aziraphale, practically shielded off from the others and labelled "Angel" for convenience.
He recognized, with a tinge of sadness, that things were getting boring.
The fallen angel sighed. He didn't *live* in his flat so much as stay there when he was in town… for a reason.
It was time to pack up again.
***
The thing about immortality is, people have got it all wrong.
Sex is good because life is brief. Human life is directed, guided by passions which are fueled by an intense need to satiate themselves while they were still able, sometimes in order to find some sort of fulfillment in their lives… sometimes not for reasons even they might understand. Relationships come and go quickly; or else life does; or both. Everything is fraught with a tense sort of longing, a grasping, fleeting sort of feeling.
It had been good at first. When they had just been starting to get to know one another. Everything had been new, exciting. Not exactly like humans had in their stories—there were tinglings and gasps and pleasant rushings of blood to certain areas—but there had also been elbows banging in unpleasant places, miscommunication, fatigue, shortness of breath, ennui. And then, eventually, even inexperience and exploration had given way to experience and predictable responses. The tinglings, all too soon, were replaced with a vague sort of expectation, until one day being touched was about as exciting as touching oneself.
And the conversations! Being together was one thing, but being together, always together, for centuries—one thought differently then. Every word in every language held a hundred different nuances, some belonging to the growth of human speech and others merely references to other events and conversations that had been shared.
You began to fall into patterns. Individuality gave way to Predictability. And things… got less exciting.
They'd tried mitigating this at first by trying to pull things off on one another. Major projects were built on by either side in hopes of making things exciting when the other found out. A few great rows had done much to renew old passions, but only temporarily. The millenia waxed on, and even that tactic began to wane. On Time went, on *they* went, desperate for anything resembling those first few decades, or even that First golden time.
Sometimes all they really needed was a break from one another.
***
It came up that night, over dinner. They'd met at the Ritz hotel, at nine precisely.
"'m thinking of going away for a while."
Aziraphale looked up from his steak tournedo, his face a study in nonchalance. "Oh?" He said noncommitally. "For how long, exactly?"
"I was thinking… maybe three, four centuries."
This came as a bit of a shock. Fifty years was normally enough. The angel concentrated on his beef filet some more, the slight tremor in his chubby hands the only clue that would have signaled to the casual onlooker that something might be amiss. "Rather a long time, I think."
The demon snorted. "Nobody asked you."
***
The notion was further developed early that following morning, over drinks. The clink of glass on glass and the stench of strong ale. Yellow and grey shadows and light flickering across walls only a fraction as old as they were, yet already far worse for the wear, crumbling, cracked.
"…jus' don't see why it has to be so *long*…."
"Because… because… *becaussse*, angel…."
"…yesh?" Gin tended to do that to the bibliophile's perfect pronunciation. It was endearing. And predictable, predictable, predictable….
"'s all circles again. Patterns. Same old places, same old *stuff*. 'S gotten *stale*, 's why. Getting sick of…."
"Of me. Just say it. You've gotten sick of me."
"…yeah. I mean," he said, catching himself, "..not just of you. Of all this---"
The point was expouned upon, during futher drinks.
"So. When I come an' *find* you, where'r'ya gonna be?"
A lengthy pause. "How's your pu… pu tong… guo…Chinese?" Aziraphale managed eventually.
The demon considered this. "…bloody *awful*," he admitted quite happily. Re-learning such a difficult language in order to woo his angel might be interesting. His mind coiled and re-coiled over the notion, liking it. "Lotsa… old books in China. Whole lotta…," the demon spread his arms expansively "… culture."
"…need a quite a bit of… of… work over there," the angel sighed, not looking forward to the misery he was going to witness, the depressing sights that awaited him. He took another long drag of what he expected to be whiskey, but the demon had quite naughtily changed into cheap champagne when he wasn't looking. He coughed and hiccuped, eyes watering as his tongue throbbed and bubbles mercilessly tickled his nose. "An' specially their… hospit… Hos…."
"…hospitals?" The demon supplied helpfully from his spot on the floor.
"…yeah." The angel collapsed ungracefully and settled somewhere beside him. Hands stuck out and ruffled glossy black hair softer than silk.
The recipient of the strokings leaned into the touch, closed his eyes and snuggled into the other being's lap. The strong smell of alcohol combined with the warm heat coming from Aziraphale was pleasant against the dust and chill that permeated the air. "Was wonderin' why you was lettin' that place go…."
The angel sniffed indignantly. "One does one's best… one cannot be everywhere at once."
"Haven't been there since the… singing dynasty? 's that what they call it now?"
"The *Song* dynasty, my dear."
"I'll stick to Eastern Europe… Middle East… not too far 'way, you know, just in case."
"Alright."
"It'll be fun to see you in a kimono, angel."
A simple smile. "That's Japan. You *pervert*."
The demon sat up, looking his angel in the eyes. "Don't get like that."
"Like what?"
"Y'know."
"No, I don't. 'mreally intrest'd what it is yer'r talking about."
" 'S not my fault, you know. 'S just the… the lulls."
There was another lengthy pause.
"Y'know. It gets all exciting. And then… 'snot as exciting when nothin's going on."
The angel nodded. Removing useless glasses, massaging the bridge of his pale and very Nordic-looking nose. "I might have a different body then," he said by way of conversation.
The demon grimaced. "You gonna make yoursssself prettier next time?"
"Maybe," the angel said peevishly, "I'll be a *woman*. Fat chance you'll have of … of finding me then."
"You *wouldn't*!" Crowley's face was a mask of horror.
"I *would*."
Thin arms slinked around a thicker frame. " …yer jus' teasing me."
The angel shrugged. "Maybe, dear boy. As for *this* body…" he sniffled, "…didn't know it turned you off so much. Could have *told* me. The thing is…."
"Yesssh?"
"The thing is, the thing *is*… suppose I thought things would be more interesting if I weren't so *perfect*."
"Yer'r always perfect."
Outside, Rain fell.
Upstairs, God shrugged.
On Earth, Glass shattered.
Two immortals shagged. Roughly.
It was going to be a long time before they saw one another again.
And for a few fleeting moments, that sense of urgency was there. And the sex was *good*.
Not great.
But good.
END