![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
For ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sablin27. From Shadow Play, a very dark Good Omens/Supernatural crossover. Um. I ... am not particularly coherant, about this one. It ... came from too far down. *shrugs uneasily*
sablin27. From Shadow Play, a very dark Good Omens/Supernatural crossover. Um. I ... am not particularly coherant, about this one. It ... came from too far down. *shrugs uneasily*[Okay. Um. You have to understand, this might not make a lot of sense. This is one of those stories that came from somewhere ... rawer. Though ... tableau vivant, shadow play, mummers. Those should give you ... the places a lot of it came through. The ... aesthetic, the associations, where some of the images, at least, are coming from]
The path down to them was tiered, steps carved into the rock of Hell. An amphitheatre, a mausoleum, a stage. [A quick cycle of associations. Amphitheatre, plays and also bloodsport, suffering for entertainment. Mausoleum, statues, tableau vivant, death. Stage, the play, the display, life] Demons had gathered in crowds, once, only a few years ago. Too busy now. Too panicked and pained and grasping. [Apocalypse tends to distract people] His footsteps were the only ones to echo in the cavernous silence, his movements the only ones to catch an eye, beyond them. They didn't hear. They didn't look. They no longer cared who came to see them in their silent little world. [The only defense against an audience you cannot see and cannot affect is to pretend they are not there] They cared for nothing, now, except each other. [... Um.]
But they looked when he stepped past the barriers. Past the ring of seats, past the invisible line that marked the audience from the players. When he stepped onto their stage, they looked at him. [Another actor is something different, though. You can't ignore them]
The Fallen turned, his hand slipping into the angel's, a finger flashing against his companion's palm to whisper to the blind man what he saw. [I'm not sure what Crowley taps. Morse, maybe. Some restrained version of the deaf-blind alphabet. Something else, something private. But when touch is all you have, and you're 6000 years familiar with someone, you work something out] Golden eyes, ancient and afraid, coldly vicious, protective, seared across Crowley's figure, passed over him and judged him in one fell swoop, and the Fallen surged upward into a crouch. An animalistic gesture, a serpent coiled to spring, and his wings arched above his back in proud, battered defiance. [This ... In some ways, this is horrible, when you compare the primal, fearful thing he is now with the deliberately sophisticated demon he was. But ... he's both the bird and the snake, here. The charmer and the charmed. Cross serpents and wings, you get a lot of interesting associations. Including ... Quetzalcoatl, for some interesting but possibly not relevant associations - things float up out of the stew in the back of my head. The image here ... primal, but conflicted] When Crowley stopped, only a few feet away, the Fallen pulled himself slowly to his feet.
The angel, still sitting calm and quiet at his lover's feet, squeezed the hand he still held, and smiled serenely into nothing. That expression seized hold of Crowley's gut more powerfully than any threat. [Aziraphale, on the other hand, is serene, blank ... empty. Contrast and pain. A fearful thing, in another way entirely]
"What would you give me, if I offered you your freedom?" he heard himself ask. His voice sounded strange, as if coming from a distance. As if the silence had partially swallowed it, this thing that had no place in this world, in this play. [... I used to do some stage work, when I was a kid. The hall we had didn't have microphones. You had to ... project. If you weren't meant to be in the play, you didn't know to do that, so ... your voice was too quiet to be heard. If you weren't meant to be there, the play wouldn't listen to you. It'd swallow you] "What price would you pay, if I told you I could let you go?"
The Fallen stared at him, something incredulous whispering over his face, something darkly sardonic flickering in his eyes. His angel smiled, suddenly, a real smile, bright and laughing as fingers moved against his palm. [... Crowley, despite it all, even silent, is a sarcastic SOB. There's something ... vaguely joyous about that. *smiles lopsidedly* Some things endure, and often the most ... simple, strange - things that shouldn't matter, like a lopsided sense of humour. But they do matter. Heh]
"Nothing," the angel rasped softly, in a voice scarred and used. [Lots of things can scar a voice. *mouth turns down*] "We have nothing, my dear. There is nothing left to sell."
Crowley swallowed, oddly nervous. A demon speaking to something close to gods, to icons of something not meant to be touched. The power was his, was always his, but they ... were untouchable. [... Enjolras at the barricade, if you've ever read Les Mis (BOOK, not film/musical). Enjolras and Grantaire in that little room, at the end. It doesn't matter that they're about to die. In another sense entirely, they are untouchable. Images, ideas, they do matter].
And yet ... he yearned. And he had come to act.
"And if I had something in mind?" he whispered, a broken, lustful thing. "If I had something to ask? Would you give it, if I guided you to the Gates of Hell, and let you go?" [... There are hints, here of Orpheus and Eurydice, except it's both of them that are Eurydice, and him that's Orpheus, and also Hades. It's ... there's influence, here, but it's tangled up, indirect. You can pick it apart yourself, if you like]
"Something you cannot simply take?" a voice asked, sly and exhausted, bitterly sarcastic. Crowley started, a little, stared in something close to horror, close to fear. The words had passed the angel's lips. But they were not his, not in his voice. [This ... I'm not sure if I properly conveyed this, since Crowley has never heard Crowley's voice. But that's what's coming from Aziraphale's lips. I'm not sure ... I'm not sure if Aziraphale is simply imitating it for himself, to grab hold of the memories a little tighter, to give Crowley a voice in truth, or if something else has happened entirely, and it's genuinely Crowley's voice, just using Aziraphale as a mouthpiece. I think almost certainly the former, though you can see why it might ... look like the latter, to an outsider in the right frame of mind. And, well, either way, the effect is more than a little creepy. Also, kinda heartbreaking]
"You speak for him?" he asked, aghast. Intrigued. He ignored their question for the moment. "You ... you give him your voice?" [Really creepy, really]
The angel blinked, pale eyes staring at a point somewhere past Crowley's ear. He smiled, very gently. "Why not?" he said, his voice his own once more. "He sees for me. He gives me his eyes." [Yeah. I think it is Aziraphale just imitating for himself, because he definitely doesn't actually see through Crowley's eyes. It's more ... the both of them are giving and taking what they can, between themselves. Pulling each other through as best they know how] He moved his hand around his companion's, a soft caress of thumb against scarred knuckles, and the Fallen stared down at him in possessive adoration. No. In love. [... I like that, looking back. The instant impression, then the correction. The image, then the reality. Because it's the looker who decides what they mean. They've been a display for so long. He thought they meant one thing. Now, part of the play, he's beginning to see what they really mean] "And you have not answered his question, my dear. Please?"
Please. Softly murmured, an encouragement, not a plea. A gesture of gentility, and that luminous dignity that clung around them. [I love that phrase. 'Luminous dignity'. I love the shadow play sensibility of light and shadow layered across each other, the light of dignity layered over the shadows of pain. I love imagery, the conveying of meaning through indirect means, how the words we use to describe things change, genuinely change, how they appear, at least as far as we perceive them. This story ... image vs reality, the shifting layers, both willing and involuntary ... I've no idea where this came from, but I love what I got to work with, here - how the display chains the watcher, not just the forced participants] Crowley swallowed once again. But he could not pass up this chance. He could not leave this yearning unfulfilled.
"Not by force," he rasped, feeling his hands knotting unconsciously into fists, feeling the flush climb across his cheeks. But he had to continue. He had to ask. "I have plied my trade for centuries, I have begged, bribed, coerced and stolen, looking for what I want, but it can't be taken. It can't be forced. If I ... If I ask you, if I give you your freedom ... will you give it to me? Will you give me what I want?" [And ... he's still forcing them. Still coercing them. He knows it, somewhere deep. He does know it. But ... he's started to see. To understand. Enough to ask. Enough ... for them to pity him]
Something changed, then. Something rippled through them, across them, something intense and contemplative as they considered him, and he almost flinched. [They've seen so much, these two. 6000 years is just a number, until you realise that. Until you think about what they've seen. Read the stories in the bible. Read history. Read GO. They've been watching, and questioning, and acting, and seeing, for such a long time, such that Aziraphale can ask the right questions to make Heaven back down, and Crowley can come so close to the answers that Azrael must wipe his memory. What they've seen ...] Almost curled away beneath hot golden eyes and a blind, pale stare that saw too much. Far too much. Something flickered through them, a curiosity that they had not showed for anything in this world since they were brought here, and a strange kind of pity that Crowley had never seen anywhere else. Something moved them, and the angel slowly stood. [And they understand him. So very, very well. Because he was human, once. He went through Hell. They know who he is. They pity him, for that. For what he's realised about himself]
"What do you want?" he asked, very quietly. Almost gently, and the Fallen at his side had stepped forward, just a little. A lithe and naked movement towards a demon, a controlled act of terror, and the head with those mutilated lips had tilted high, a silent sort of pride. [Crap, crap, sorry. Someone naked and in pain, acting anyway. Proud anyway. Sorry. That ...] Crowley felt his heart convulse, and reached out before he thought, stopping an inch from that pale skin only as the Fallen flinched, and quivered before his hand. He let it fall, and felt something wither inside him. [... Sorry. I can't ... um. I can't. Take from that what you can. I ... can't really elaborate, here. Sorry]
"Nothing," he whispered hollowly. "Nothing. Just ... a kiss." Yes. Only a kiss. Anything else was not his to touch, and even the most profane of his kind had understood that. He had been ... he had been so very foolish, to hope ... [He understands, there. That he's still forcing them. That no matter what they give him now, it's not real. It's still something he took, not something they gave. He can't have what he wants. Not from them. And it kills him, because he did hope. And ... it makes it almost worse, sometimes. That he hurt them out of hope, and understood it wouldn't work] "A kiss, from each of you. And I will take you back to earth, and ... and never cross your paths again. I swear it. I promise." And it was odd, how his voice seemed to shake, how that oath carried all the weight his deals had not. It was odd, how little he cared. [For his own sake, as well as theirs, I think. Could you bear to remember, what you tried to have, and found you could not touch?]
They turned to each other, curved against each other, those hands twitching in silent communion as the Fallen stared at him, and the angel frowned into his black abyss. For a long moment, they were silent, statues carved in pain and shadow while they spun judgement between them on his request, and whispered the verdict on each other's skin. Then they turned once more, shoulder to shoulder, and looked at him. [... Image, image, carving light and shadow, statues, tombs, stillness, potential, pain, judgement, intimacy, a closed loop, inviolate, ruined. Images are so fucking deep, sometimes. I get lost in them]
"Yes," the angel murmured, with a gentle smile. [They pity him. He's forcing them, and there's no hope for them, not really, they don't believe that anymore, and they pity him. Because they know what he is, and what he can't have, and they are untouchable for that. They can give him some little something, and it is gently meant, it is cruelly given, both Aziraphale AND Crowley, because they have something he only barely understands, and he can't touch, and they can give it. They know what he is. They pity him] "Yes," his Fallen echoed through him, with a twist of his bound mouth. They reached out, with the hands not held between them, and offered open palms to him, opened the circle of their play for just one moment. Just one request. [And the play was a thing against them, a violation against them, it IS a violation against them, but it wounds the watchers, too. It always has. And if he steps inside, it wounds him too, deeper again. They know that. You have to understand, at this point, they do not believe he will free them. It's as much vengeance, and as much mercy, and as much hollow. They are ... such beautiful, terrible things, in this. Gods. So very much] And Crowley, stunned and desperate, reached out and stepped inside. [And he has to step inside, even though he's already realised he can't have it, even though he already knows it's not real, because hope, because in this place hope is such a killing thing, and at the same time all that keeps you alive ...]
[And I do not know where this story came from, but it ripped something right out of me, tore something up to the surface, and ... I'm not coherant, when it comes to this story. Sorry. I'm really, really not. I'm sorry]
The path down to them was tiered, steps carved into the rock of Hell. An amphitheatre, a mausoleum, a stage. [A quick cycle of associations. Amphitheatre, plays and also bloodsport, suffering for entertainment. Mausoleum, statues, tableau vivant, death. Stage, the play, the display, life] Demons had gathered in crowds, once, only a few years ago. Too busy now. Too panicked and pained and grasping. [Apocalypse tends to distract people] His footsteps were the only ones to echo in the cavernous silence, his movements the only ones to catch an eye, beyond them. They didn't hear. They didn't look. They no longer cared who came to see them in their silent little world. [The only defense against an audience you cannot see and cannot affect is to pretend they are not there] They cared for nothing, now, except each other. [... Um.]
But they looked when he stepped past the barriers. Past the ring of seats, past the invisible line that marked the audience from the players. When he stepped onto their stage, they looked at him. [Another actor is something different, though. You can't ignore them]
The Fallen turned, his hand slipping into the angel's, a finger flashing against his companion's palm to whisper to the blind man what he saw. [I'm not sure what Crowley taps. Morse, maybe. Some restrained version of the deaf-blind alphabet. Something else, something private. But when touch is all you have, and you're 6000 years familiar with someone, you work something out] Golden eyes, ancient and afraid, coldly vicious, protective, seared across Crowley's figure, passed over him and judged him in one fell swoop, and the Fallen surged upward into a crouch. An animalistic gesture, a serpent coiled to spring, and his wings arched above his back in proud, battered defiance. [This ... In some ways, this is horrible, when you compare the primal, fearful thing he is now with the deliberately sophisticated demon he was. But ... he's both the bird and the snake, here. The charmer and the charmed. Cross serpents and wings, you get a lot of interesting associations. Including ... Quetzalcoatl, for some interesting but possibly not relevant associations - things float up out of the stew in the back of my head. The image here ... primal, but conflicted] When Crowley stopped, only a few feet away, the Fallen pulled himself slowly to his feet.
The angel, still sitting calm and quiet at his lover's feet, squeezed the hand he still held, and smiled serenely into nothing. That expression seized hold of Crowley's gut more powerfully than any threat. [Aziraphale, on the other hand, is serene, blank ... empty. Contrast and pain. A fearful thing, in another way entirely]
"What would you give me, if I offered you your freedom?" he heard himself ask. His voice sounded strange, as if coming from a distance. As if the silence had partially swallowed it, this thing that had no place in this world, in this play. [... I used to do some stage work, when I was a kid. The hall we had didn't have microphones. You had to ... project. If you weren't meant to be in the play, you didn't know to do that, so ... your voice was too quiet to be heard. If you weren't meant to be there, the play wouldn't listen to you. It'd swallow you] "What price would you pay, if I told you I could let you go?"
The Fallen stared at him, something incredulous whispering over his face, something darkly sardonic flickering in his eyes. His angel smiled, suddenly, a real smile, bright and laughing as fingers moved against his palm. [... Crowley, despite it all, even silent, is a sarcastic SOB. There's something ... vaguely joyous about that. *smiles lopsidedly* Some things endure, and often the most ... simple, strange - things that shouldn't matter, like a lopsided sense of humour. But they do matter. Heh]
"Nothing," the angel rasped softly, in a voice scarred and used. [Lots of things can scar a voice. *mouth turns down*] "We have nothing, my dear. There is nothing left to sell."
Crowley swallowed, oddly nervous. A demon speaking to something close to gods, to icons of something not meant to be touched. The power was his, was always his, but they ... were untouchable. [... Enjolras at the barricade, if you've ever read Les Mis (BOOK, not film/musical). Enjolras and Grantaire in that little room, at the end. It doesn't matter that they're about to die. In another sense entirely, they are untouchable. Images, ideas, they do matter].
And yet ... he yearned. And he had come to act.
"And if I had something in mind?" he whispered, a broken, lustful thing. "If I had something to ask? Would you give it, if I guided you to the Gates of Hell, and let you go?" [... There are hints, here of Orpheus and Eurydice, except it's both of them that are Eurydice, and him that's Orpheus, and also Hades. It's ... there's influence, here, but it's tangled up, indirect. You can pick it apart yourself, if you like]
"Something you cannot simply take?" a voice asked, sly and exhausted, bitterly sarcastic. Crowley started, a little, stared in something close to horror, close to fear. The words had passed the angel's lips. But they were not his, not in his voice. [This ... I'm not sure if I properly conveyed this, since Crowley has never heard Crowley's voice. But that's what's coming from Aziraphale's lips. I'm not sure ... I'm not sure if Aziraphale is simply imitating it for himself, to grab hold of the memories a little tighter, to give Crowley a voice in truth, or if something else has happened entirely, and it's genuinely Crowley's voice, just using Aziraphale as a mouthpiece. I think almost certainly the former, though you can see why it might ... look like the latter, to an outsider in the right frame of mind. And, well, either way, the effect is more than a little creepy. Also, kinda heartbreaking]
"You speak for him?" he asked, aghast. Intrigued. He ignored their question for the moment. "You ... you give him your voice?" [Really creepy, really]
The angel blinked, pale eyes staring at a point somewhere past Crowley's ear. He smiled, very gently. "Why not?" he said, his voice his own once more. "He sees for me. He gives me his eyes." [Yeah. I think it is Aziraphale just imitating for himself, because he definitely doesn't actually see through Crowley's eyes. It's more ... the both of them are giving and taking what they can, between themselves. Pulling each other through as best they know how] He moved his hand around his companion's, a soft caress of thumb against scarred knuckles, and the Fallen stared down at him in possessive adoration. No. In love. [... I like that, looking back. The instant impression, then the correction. The image, then the reality. Because it's the looker who decides what they mean. They've been a display for so long. He thought they meant one thing. Now, part of the play, he's beginning to see what they really mean] "And you have not answered his question, my dear. Please?"
Please. Softly murmured, an encouragement, not a plea. A gesture of gentility, and that luminous dignity that clung around them. [I love that phrase. 'Luminous dignity'. I love the shadow play sensibility of light and shadow layered across each other, the light of dignity layered over the shadows of pain. I love imagery, the conveying of meaning through indirect means, how the words we use to describe things change, genuinely change, how they appear, at least as far as we perceive them. This story ... image vs reality, the shifting layers, both willing and involuntary ... I've no idea where this came from, but I love what I got to work with, here - how the display chains the watcher, not just the forced participants] Crowley swallowed once again. But he could not pass up this chance. He could not leave this yearning unfulfilled.
"Not by force," he rasped, feeling his hands knotting unconsciously into fists, feeling the flush climb across his cheeks. But he had to continue. He had to ask. "I have plied my trade for centuries, I have begged, bribed, coerced and stolen, looking for what I want, but it can't be taken. It can't be forced. If I ... If I ask you, if I give you your freedom ... will you give it to me? Will you give me what I want?" [And ... he's still forcing them. Still coercing them. He knows it, somewhere deep. He does know it. But ... he's started to see. To understand. Enough to ask. Enough ... for them to pity him]
Something changed, then. Something rippled through them, across them, something intense and contemplative as they considered him, and he almost flinched. [They've seen so much, these two. 6000 years is just a number, until you realise that. Until you think about what they've seen. Read the stories in the bible. Read history. Read GO. They've been watching, and questioning, and acting, and seeing, for such a long time, such that Aziraphale can ask the right questions to make Heaven back down, and Crowley can come so close to the answers that Azrael must wipe his memory. What they've seen ...] Almost curled away beneath hot golden eyes and a blind, pale stare that saw too much. Far too much. Something flickered through them, a curiosity that they had not showed for anything in this world since they were brought here, and a strange kind of pity that Crowley had never seen anywhere else. Something moved them, and the angel slowly stood. [And they understand him. So very, very well. Because he was human, once. He went through Hell. They know who he is. They pity him, for that. For what he's realised about himself]
"What do you want?" he asked, very quietly. Almost gently, and the Fallen at his side had stepped forward, just a little. A lithe and naked movement towards a demon, a controlled act of terror, and the head with those mutilated lips had tilted high, a silent sort of pride. [Crap, crap, sorry. Someone naked and in pain, acting anyway. Proud anyway. Sorry. That ...] Crowley felt his heart convulse, and reached out before he thought, stopping an inch from that pale skin only as the Fallen flinched, and quivered before his hand. He let it fall, and felt something wither inside him. [... Sorry. I can't ... um. I can't. Take from that what you can. I ... can't really elaborate, here. Sorry]
"Nothing," he whispered hollowly. "Nothing. Just ... a kiss." Yes. Only a kiss. Anything else was not his to touch, and even the most profane of his kind had understood that. He had been ... he had been so very foolish, to hope ... [He understands, there. That he's still forcing them. That no matter what they give him now, it's not real. It's still something he took, not something they gave. He can't have what he wants. Not from them. And it kills him, because he did hope. And ... it makes it almost worse, sometimes. That he hurt them out of hope, and understood it wouldn't work] "A kiss, from each of you. And I will take you back to earth, and ... and never cross your paths again. I swear it. I promise." And it was odd, how his voice seemed to shake, how that oath carried all the weight his deals had not. It was odd, how little he cared. [For his own sake, as well as theirs, I think. Could you bear to remember, what you tried to have, and found you could not touch?]
They turned to each other, curved against each other, those hands twitching in silent communion as the Fallen stared at him, and the angel frowned into his black abyss. For a long moment, they were silent, statues carved in pain and shadow while they spun judgement between them on his request, and whispered the verdict on each other's skin. Then they turned once more, shoulder to shoulder, and looked at him. [... Image, image, carving light and shadow, statues, tombs, stillness, potential, pain, judgement, intimacy, a closed loop, inviolate, ruined. Images are so fucking deep, sometimes. I get lost in them]
"Yes," the angel murmured, with a gentle smile. [They pity him. He's forcing them, and there's no hope for them, not really, they don't believe that anymore, and they pity him. Because they know what he is, and what he can't have, and they are untouchable for that. They can give him some little something, and it is gently meant, it is cruelly given, both Aziraphale AND Crowley, because they have something he only barely understands, and he can't touch, and they can give it. They know what he is. They pity him] "Yes," his Fallen echoed through him, with a twist of his bound mouth. They reached out, with the hands not held between them, and offered open palms to him, opened the circle of their play for just one moment. Just one request. [And the play was a thing against them, a violation against them, it IS a violation against them, but it wounds the watchers, too. It always has. And if he steps inside, it wounds him too, deeper again. They know that. You have to understand, at this point, they do not believe he will free them. It's as much vengeance, and as much mercy, and as much hollow. They are ... such beautiful, terrible things, in this. Gods. So very much] And Crowley, stunned and desperate, reached out and stepped inside. [And he has to step inside, even though he's already realised he can't have it, even though he already knows it's not real, because hope, because in this place hope is such a killing thing, and at the same time all that keeps you alive ...]
[And I do not know where this story came from, but it ripped something right out of me, tore something up to the surface, and ... I'm not coherant, when it comes to this story. Sorry. I'm really, really not. I'm sorry]
Tags: