(no subject)

[anthony-crowley.livejournal.com]

Date: May 13, 2000
Setting: Manor Grounds
Status: Public (Writing Challenge Thread)
Summary: Remembrance of Things Past

Crowley had gotten into the habit of taking walks around the Manor when he was bored and Aziraphale was working. Some part of him resented the time the angel spent with paper and ink, telephones and accounts, but most of him realized that it was good for him. Aziraphale liked to be busy and useful; it made him happy which made Crowley happy, so he let it be and walked instead.

Since April showers were clinging stubbornly to May, he stayed inside, exploring the parts of the lower floors that he'd never seen, or at least he thought he'd never seen. Turning a dark corner, however, he promptly discovered he was wrong. This place looked familiar, smelled familiar. It was the part of the building that hadn't been destroyed in the fire two decades prior and it put Crowley in mind of a dark night and a baby in his arms. Stopping, he looked around. This was the corridor where he'd come all those years ago, bringing the infant antichrist to what he thought would be their doom.

He thought back to that night, remembering his panic and feelings of helplessness, the frantic plans and fleeting hopes spinning through his mind. He'd thought of Aziraphale then as he drove through the dark. The angel had been the first and only person he'd considered going to for help. He hadn't met John yet. The man would have only been in his mid-twenties. Odd to imagine that, really, him looking younger than Crowley. Crowley wondered vaguely if they'd have even had a friendship if he'd met the cocky young man back then, before deciding probably not.

Finding a door and pushing it open, the demon discovered that it did lead where he expected it to. On the other side was the small, neglected courtyard where he'd parked the Bentley and that man with taste in clothes like Aziraphale's had told him that he'd left his lights on and that they'd already started in room three. He smiled faintly, amused at how one small mistake can change the course of the world. The rain was beating on the garbage cans, a syncopated metallic rhythm and he went out into it, letting the cold water fall on him, spattering his sunglasses, soaking his suit and damping his hair. He wasn't in snake form and the air wasn't as fresh and clean and flower scented as it had been then, but it reminded him of the Garden, as so many things did. That was another instance where a chance occurrence changed the path of the world.

If they hadn't had that somewhat friendly conversation in the rain, where would they be now? Probably not friends and definitely not lovers. Crowley would have spent six millennia alone. It was a sobering thought. He tried to imagine not having all those times when he was lonely or bored or tired or distraught and ended up spending time with the angel. Between the challenge of tempting him to something, lots of alcohol, and intelligent, dryly humourous, and somewhat snarky conversation, he'd always felt better afterward. Except for the occasional hangover. What would his life be like without that? Probably a lot more demonic, he decided. And not nearly as interesting.

Not immune to the irony that his life had been just as unpredictable as any human's, Crowley stepped back inside, leaving the past behind. Dripping on the carpet and squelching as he walked, the demon moved back towards the populated end of the Manor, hoping to run into Aziraphale or John, Ellie, Gabriel, Adam, Belial, or anyone really. He was ready to make some new memories now.

Comments

[bipolar-uriel.livejournal.com]

Uriel looked at Chirpy, who was flying happily in circles under the shining sun. She always watched over him whenever she let him fly outside; Huginn and Muninn were always around, after all. They definitely would try to harm her pet should they get a chance to do so.

It was strange, being responsible for another being like that. Once her baby was born, her life would definitely change entirely – a child would certainly mean more responsibility than a bird. She was not used to such things – after all, sometimes she was unable to take care of even herself.

She remembered the times before the Fall. Back then, she had been hardly aware of her own existence. The only thing that had mattered to her had been the Presence, the warm, ever-shining flame she had held on the palm of her hand, her sole purpose of existence. There had been no threat to it, yet she had guarded it, because there had been nothing else she could have done. She had thought, and therefore she may have been, but she had only thought of the Presence, and thus she had only been through it. All in all, she had not existed, not in the way the word was usually interpreted.

Then, however, had come the Fall. The painful, horrible Fall, all those angels Falling – a whole third of the Host! – and suddenly, she had been all too aware of her own existence. For somebody had to be feeling all that pain, and with a sudden startle she had realized that it was her, that there was a being that was her. It had been impossible to ignore that fact when every fibre of her being had been screaming in pain. And there had been no Presence, either – for the first time ever since she'd been created had she had to acknowledge that something actually existed beyond that bright flame and the glory of the Lord.

It had been a painful experience in every meaning of the word.

It had returned, of course. Although slighty different from what it had been, the Presence had still been just as strong as always. There might have been a chance for her to slip back into her peaceful lack of awareness. However, she had failed to do so. Once she had become fully aware of herself and the world around her, she had found them impossible to ignore again in favour of simply guarding the Presence.

Still, she had done her best to cling to the only thing that had been familiar to her. Although the Presence was no more her whole existence, it had definitely been the sole thing that had defined her. Since somebody held the Presence, she had figured, that somebody had to exist, and that somebody had been her.

The more it had hurt when the next angel had Fallen.

From the Falls, a vicious cycle had begun. Whenever she lost the feeling of Presence, she clung even tighter to it when it returned, which naturally made the eventual new loss even more painful. In Presence she had been somewhat able to ignore herself and any possible needs and desires she might have had otherwise – when she had Presence, why should she yearn for anything else? However, whenever she was temporarily cut from it, she'd had to accept that she was something else than just a vessel, that she was something else than even just the Angel of Presence. There had been no Presence, but there had been her – and there had been pain.

As she sank deeper and deeper with every new Fall, the pain had slowly become even more important. While she had guarded her appearance, not wanting to let any of that pain to show to the world outside, she'd been unable to keep the pain from tearing at her from the inside. And, slowly, she had figured that she deserved the pain, somehow. For why else would her loving God have allowed her to be in pain when all she had done was following His orders?

[bipolar-uriel.livejournal.com]

And, finally, she had taken the final step. Well, steps. First there had been the Falling angel with an unholy knife, leading to her first attempt at taking her own life. And then... Then there had been her knives: only a replacement for her sword, at first, when she no more could bear to look at it, but later also something more. Something to use in her depression, to remind herself of everything she had done, of the fact that she still existed even beyond the psychic pain – even it was only in another kind of pain.

She had no idea when the mania had stepped into the picture. It didn't matter much, anyway. Manic episodes were a way for her to let out her feelings, which she usually was afraid to unleash. However, as far as she was concerned, they were merely a side-effect of her depression. It had been there first, ever since the first Fall, and even if she could, by some miracle, get rid of her manic phases some day, she had no doubt she would still be depressed from time to time. It had been pain and emptiness that had truly brought her into existence for the first time, and she had no doubt that they would also mark the end of her existence some day.

Not yet, thought. Not just yet.

She had a child to raise first.