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Something that's been hovering in the back of my head for awhile. Just a scraplet, a sketch
Title: Desperate Measures
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Good Omens
Characters/Pairings: Crowley, hints Crowley/Aziraphale
Summary: Desperate times call for desperate measures
Wordcount: 713
Warnings/Notes: Abuse of italics, only a sketch
Disclaimer: Not mine
Title: Desperate Measures
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Good Omens
Characters/Pairings: Crowley, hints Crowley/Aziraphale
Summary: Desperate times call for desperate measures
Wordcount: 713
Warnings/Notes: Abuse of italics, only a sketch
Disclaimer: Not mine
Desperate Measures
Desperate times called for desperate measures.
Which was trite, and infuriating, and whenever Crowley stopped panicking long enough to remember who said it, he was going to have words with them about it, but the fact of the matter was that whoever they were, they had a point. Desperation made people -demons- do any number of insane, foolhardy and otherwise stupid things, the only kind word for which was 'desperate'.
Crowley, being a demon, was going to skip kindness, and go right back to 'stupid', thanks. Stupid, yes. Insane, yes. Desperate, oh, so very much yes. But he hadn't a choice.
Well, no, of course he had a choice. He had any number of choices, not least of which was 'pretend you never knew the bugger and go hide in Indonesia or someplace until the whole thing blows over'. That was the right choice. That was the demonic choice. And failed Apocalypse or no, Crowley was a demon. Fallen, cast out from Heaven and Eden in quick succession. Definitely a demon, and he really, really needed to remember that before he did something really, incredibly stupid.
Like what he was about to do right now. Like what he was going to do. Because, stupid or not, undemonic or not, after five thousand years and one apocalypse, Crowley had no choice. He had no choice.
The angel was in Hell. His damn stupid bloody angel was in Hell. Captured, kidnapped, taken as a POW. However you wanted to put it. Because Aziraphale was stupid, and also insane, and Crowley didn't care how desperate Heaven was, and how much of the right thing to do it was to go to Hell and attempt to rescue a captured archangel, because the key words in that sentance were 'Hell' and 'captured', and most importantly, 'archangel'. As in, one of Heaven's own heavies, and he hadn't been able to spring free from the trap, so what bloody hope had Aziraphale ever had?
And what bloody hope did Crowley have, now? But he still didn't have a choice. He couldn't leave Aziraphale there. He couldn't leave him.
Crowley had some advantages angels, even archangels, didn't. He had some advantages, however little comfort they were shortly going to turn out to be. He knew the lay of the land. He knew the sneaky ways in and around, and out again, courtesy of long centuries of ducking the bosses. He looked like a demon, even if currently a disgraced one. He didn't have a bloody holy aura to stick out like a nuclear explosion in bloody Hell. He could lie and cheat and sneak, and generally behave like the dirty coward he was, and thus hopefully actually reach the captured angels in one bloody piece, hopefully with no-one any the wiser.
And then ... Then he had ...
Swallowing faintly, crushing one bloodied feather absently in his hand, he reached out. Paused, fingers bare millimeters from metal. Desperate measures. Desperate bloody measures, and he'd need it, even if only to hand it off to someone who knew how to use it when he got there, and it'd certainly give him the element of bloody surprise ...
He swallowed a hysterical giggle. Surprise. Oh yes. If he survived the next few seconds, he'd be bloody surprised. Demon. He was a bloody demon, and this was not going to work, it couldn't work. He wasn't going to survive long enough to help himself, let alone the angel ...
Desperate measures. Desperate ... measures ...
Please, he begged. Prayed, to Someone he'd not spoken to in centuries, to Someone he had in fact done his level best to avoid at all costs. Someone he shouldn't dare speak to, even now. Someone he had no right to speak to. But. Desperate measures, no time, and no choice. Please, he prayed, with every scrap of desperate sincerity he had left. I know You don't like me, and this is unorthodox at best, and You've no reason in the world to help me with anything, but ... Please. Let me last long enough to help him. Let me have just that long. Please.
And then Crowley, demon, Fallen, Serpent in the Garden, reached out the last few millimeters, ignored the blinding rush of flame, and closed his hand on the hilt of a holy sword.
Desperate times called for desperate measures.
Which was trite, and infuriating, and whenever Crowley stopped panicking long enough to remember who said it, he was going to have words with them about it, but the fact of the matter was that whoever they were, they had a point. Desperation made people -demons- do any number of insane, foolhardy and otherwise stupid things, the only kind word for which was 'desperate'.
Crowley, being a demon, was going to skip kindness, and go right back to 'stupid', thanks. Stupid, yes. Insane, yes. Desperate, oh, so very much yes. But he hadn't a choice.
Well, no, of course he had a choice. He had any number of choices, not least of which was 'pretend you never knew the bugger and go hide in Indonesia or someplace until the whole thing blows over'. That was the right choice. That was the demonic choice. And failed Apocalypse or no, Crowley was a demon. Fallen, cast out from Heaven and Eden in quick succession. Definitely a demon, and he really, really needed to remember that before he did something really, incredibly stupid.
Like what he was about to do right now. Like what he was going to do. Because, stupid or not, undemonic or not, after five thousand years and one apocalypse, Crowley had no choice. He had no choice.
The angel was in Hell. His damn stupid bloody angel was in Hell. Captured, kidnapped, taken as a POW. However you wanted to put it. Because Aziraphale was stupid, and also insane, and Crowley didn't care how desperate Heaven was, and how much of the right thing to do it was to go to Hell and attempt to rescue a captured archangel, because the key words in that sentance were 'Hell' and 'captured', and most importantly, 'archangel'. As in, one of Heaven's own heavies, and he hadn't been able to spring free from the trap, so what bloody hope had Aziraphale ever had?
And what bloody hope did Crowley have, now? But he still didn't have a choice. He couldn't leave Aziraphale there. He couldn't leave him.
Crowley had some advantages angels, even archangels, didn't. He had some advantages, however little comfort they were shortly going to turn out to be. He knew the lay of the land. He knew the sneaky ways in and around, and out again, courtesy of long centuries of ducking the bosses. He looked like a demon, even if currently a disgraced one. He didn't have a bloody holy aura to stick out like a nuclear explosion in bloody Hell. He could lie and cheat and sneak, and generally behave like the dirty coward he was, and thus hopefully actually reach the captured angels in one bloody piece, hopefully with no-one any the wiser.
And then ... Then he had ...
Swallowing faintly, crushing one bloodied feather absently in his hand, he reached out. Paused, fingers bare millimeters from metal. Desperate measures. Desperate bloody measures, and he'd need it, even if only to hand it off to someone who knew how to use it when he got there, and it'd certainly give him the element of bloody surprise ...
He swallowed a hysterical giggle. Surprise. Oh yes. If he survived the next few seconds, he'd be bloody surprised. Demon. He was a bloody demon, and this was not going to work, it couldn't work. He wasn't going to survive long enough to help himself, let alone the angel ...
Desperate measures. Desperate ... measures ...
Please, he begged. Prayed, to Someone he'd not spoken to in centuries, to Someone he had in fact done his level best to avoid at all costs. Someone he shouldn't dare speak to, even now. Someone he had no right to speak to. But. Desperate measures, no time, and no choice. Please, he prayed, with every scrap of desperate sincerity he had left. I know You don't like me, and this is unorthodox at best, and You've no reason in the world to help me with anything, but ... Please. Let me last long enough to help him. Let me have just that long. Please.
And then Crowley, demon, Fallen, Serpent in the Garden, reached out the last few millimeters, ignored the blinding rush of flame, and closed his hand on the hilt of a holy sword.
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