Friday, August 16, 2002 3:08:31 AM
hidoko Matsumoto (aka v0id)
email: voidmatsumoto@yahoo.co.uk
archive: if you really want, please ask. Scheduled to be at http://xz0ne.cjb.net
pairing: Crowley x Aziraphale, teaser appearance of Marilyn Manson (without the Spooky Kids).
notes: Er… As a matter of fact, it was originally meant to be satire. Well, mood changes, so I reckon it's less of satire now, although I should still stuff some of that interesting ingredient in. But um, well, for those who can't stand real people appearing in fanfictions, please don't read this. This is a Marilyn Manson in an alternate universe. It never really happened on this plane, unless the real one claims so. No blasphemy (or slander) intended. …And yes, I suppose I could claim to be somewhat of a fan of his, ltoo. Just a random confession.
Disclaimer: copyright of
some characters belong to neilgaiman and terrypratchett…
angst, NC-13, violence.
"If you have sins let
me take the punishment/If you want to kill someone then let's kill him/If
you hold a knife out to me/I think I will shed my blood without further
thought"
--taste of love, L'Arc~en~Ciel
It was quite widely rumoured
that the angel Aziraphale loved his other half, and would have given anything
to bring him back, so much to the extent that he had gone insane and slain
many demons in the Great War.* It was a sad story, they had said, and shook
their heads in empathy. A great many had fallen along with their other
halves-- it took alot to stand your own ground and not budge.**
The Metatron understood this—his
other half was Beezelbub; that he remembered clearly. Before the two of
them stood on different sides, they had been wandering the universe, hand-in-hand,
smiles meeting smiles.
And Metatron knew all too well
what it was like to dream. It was a bad thing, a cry from your deepest
inner soul to wake up, to stop sleeping and dreaming. A cry that tells
you that if you continue living in that escapist realm, you would be blown
sky high, never to return to the plane, a soul lost in a black hole.
Metatron had been there.
And so had Crowley. He had followed
a dream from long ago, when he had slept for two centuries straight, to
the path that would have led to the black hole. He had been tempted to
take it, but for the first time, he resisted.
There was one particular thing
about black holes. You could not see an ounce of light in there; all light
would have formed endless blackness, like colours of the rainbow contaminating
each other till all was black.
The dream of the beginning
of the universe…
He wished that he hadn't remembered
it so clearly, but apparently it was pretty hard to rid himself of it.
The first thing he'd done that century when he woke up was to search for
Aziraphale, and invite him to lunch. They had talked. Back then Aziraphale
had a different body; although he was a blonde then, his hair was a dirty
blonde that somehow fit into the industrial revolution all too perfectly.
And his body frame was slightly smaller and thinner. His eyes had never
changed, though. They remained as blue and as clear as tinted glass balls
with the sky reflected in them.
It was also the first time
Crowley had killed someone in the name of the angel. The first time that
he had even given consideration to the thought of losing Aziraphale completely—to
the abyss of sin.
Shortly after lunch, Crowley
had pretended to disappear. He withdrew his aura so that Aziraphale could
not sense him, and dropped in after a few cups of morning coffee. At that
precise moment, Aziraphale had been tending his bookstore.
His body was looking perfect,
the way it always did, mainly because it was Aziraphale's soul that was
in there. The fact that minions of Good and Evil had male bodies on earth
was due to a very practical reason—women had no place since the ancient
times. Men were less susceptible to witch-hunt than women. Men usually
were killed while the women were raped in wars. And men were mostly the
ones doing all the deflowering in Victorian times. In short, they supposedly
suffered less inconveniences.
But Aziraphale's being male
had only attracted the attention of certain people who had certain interest.
This had occurred shortly after
the publication of the Diary of Mary Anne and the convention at Hyde Park,
both of which Crowley had found amusing to learn of.
A demon could voyeur for hours
on end, perhaps years even, whatever was needed of him. He watched as Aziraphale
hurried about his own business, dusting books here and there, visiting
the publication firm two blocks away, and perhaps humming an ancient tune
every now and then.
Aziraphale had always been
harmless.
He wouldn't thwart Crowley's schemes unless Crowley invited him to.
Watching, from behind street
corners, and occasionally on rooftops. Crowley had named himself that for
a very good reason.***
Aziraphale was visiting a Stevenson
then, with a first-press Jerkyll and Hyde in hand.
Two men came in. Both were
of strong in human terms, and they had been watching Aziraphale for quite
some time, too. Crowley had known of them, but had not chosen to do anything
about them, partly because they seemed pretty harmless to him. Even more
so than Aziraphale, because they were humans.
But humans were capable of
evil worse than what Hell could have. Hell was quite like a modern underground
scene (although it was, more or less, literally so, what with the magma
and all that)—its minions had a set of principles to follow. Humans were
like an underground scene without the scene. Some of them had no principles.
They had followed Aziraphale
from his bookstore through the streets, until they reached an alley near
the middle of nowhere. The lights were dim where they stopped him, in the
alley. Told him to stop, they wanted to "examine" him closely. And he did,
in confusion. Crowley noticed that these men were dressed in what bourgeosie
would have worn, and also that Aziraphale wasn't particularly rich.
"Incongrous faggot," They had
said, and laughed.
Aziraphale was shoved against
the wall, and he had gritted his teeth and started counting to three. Crowley
knew that the angel had a habit to be kind even to aggressive people, and
that generally meant that he would only wish them away once they actually
lifted a fist or held out a knife. This sort of thing had happened before,
and Aziraphale never suffered more than minor bruises.
But this wasn't anything of
that sort. Large hands groped Aziraphale. The angel let out a cry of surprise,
and gradually was rendered helpless, not because he wasn't strong—because
it was all too unfamiliar a realm for Aziraphale to tread.
That realm was a landmine that
turned all vaguely humane into meat chunks.
Crowley watched as the angel
was near to being defiled, until he could stand it no longer.
Aziraphale's whimpers echoed
into the shadows as Crowley swooped down, blood dripping from his claws.
"No, Crowley—" Aziraphale had
exclaimed with wide eyes, but blood had seemed black as it rained onto
the angel's pale skin.
"They would have caused you
to be fallen," hissed Crowley, his eyes glinting in the dark. "They deserve
more than death."
"I thought… I thought…"
"Don't blame it on me. Who
do you think I am? Hastur or Ligur? I didn't fall for the same reasons
as they did."
The angel convulsed slightly,
and began crying.
It was then that Crowley couldn't
have described how it felt. It was the exact same moment pieced from shards
of dreams, where he had been sleeping, to form the reality that wove around
him at that moment. He stood there, dumbfounded for a moment by the immense
déjà vu, then allowed himself to be overwhelmed by the overpowering
emotions.
These emotions hadn't come
from Crowley's self, ever.
He felt… violated. As if the
touches on Aziraphale's body burned on his own, and those handprints had
been embossed into his own soul, scalding the very essence of his consciousness.
And he felt ashamed, at the thought of having to face God with that body,
of having to explain and perhaps confess what happened. And he felt like
he was being thrown away by the world—by the universe—by his other half.
Crowley couldn't have felt
those emotions. He was the one who had chosen to fall, long ago, when he
discovered the logical fallacy in everything. The Arrangement, the Great
Plan, everything. He couldn't have felt violated, because he had already
tainted himself a long time ago.
And yet he did, as he stood
there, fingers stained with the blood of two human beings.
He touched Aziraphale's cheeks
gently, and held the angel tight. Then his own feelings emerged. It was
regret, perhaps.
"It was… all my fault."
"No, Aziraphale…"
"I killed them… I watched them
die. Their blood was the same as those fallen angels'… And they had no
chance to even cry out…"
So this was the memory that had lain
nestled in Aziraphale's mind, haunting him all along. Crowley shivered,
as his wings felt like they were being torn apart all over again in that
Great War…
"Forget it, Aziraphale, it's
all over."
"I tore their wings… Even though
Metatron told me to… I can't forget the cries, Crowley, how can I forget
it?"
One of them was me, Crowly
would have said, if he could, your Other Half.
He said nothing. He drew Aziraphale's
body close to him.
The angel glanced up with tearing
eyes, and said, "Kill me, Crowley. I want to know what it is like to die."
Crowley felt pain, and he wasn't
even sure if it was his. If ridding Aziraphale of his shell meant that
all his sins would be purged… It would have hurt him to know that Aziraphale
would be condemned, and for the first time, being a demon, he prayed. Prayed
for Aziraphale's redemption.
"I'll kill you, Aziraphale,
but there is a price to pay," he whispered hoarsely, "I'll let you know
what it's like for the angels whose wings you tore."
Aziraphale's eyes slid close,
and he nodded.
Crowley's fingers trailed across
Aziraphale's porcelain skin, leaving trails of burn mark underneath, and
where there was contact Aziraphale's human form was scorched red hot. It
burnt, and Aziraphale cried, and cried, and cried…
Crowley didn't stop.
Somewhere in the same part
of his soul where dreams were experienced, he felt Aziraphale's relief
soothing him.
Heal me, the voice seemed
to be saying, because I lost the other half of my soul. If my suffering
could redeem us both to holiness, please…
And Crowley had laughed, velvet
tearing in silence. Meanwhile, tears seeped from slits of gold.
Bryan remembered vaguely standing
in the middle of the field, when a star fell. He'd wished that he could
show them all, show that he was worth something. And he happened to be
standing there when the star fell.
It was said that light took
billions of years to travel to earth.
And one of the stars that fell
billions of years ago was the an angel, who had chosen to follow Lucifer.
Bryan knew that from then onwards,
he would be perfect. He would be whom he wanted to be. All that anyone
ever wished they were.
The ultimate antichrist.
~~~~
* It was partly true. The angel loved
his counterpart. The partly false bit was where he had gone insane and
slayed many angels. The Metatron had chosen Aziraphale because he was one
of the strongest angel, first-class in sword handling, simple as that.
** Such as years of practising kungfu.
*** No, Crowley wasn't a fan of The
Crow. He was, however, a closet fan of Batman.
C&C welcomed.^_^