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nihstel. For the prompt: He's trying a new skin, and this one hurts.
Title: Searskin
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Good Omens
Characters/Pairings: Crowley, touch of Aziraphale. Gen, character study
Summary: He had earned his name in transformation. And no-one had figured out, until too late, the joke in that
Wordcount: 1000-odd
Warnings/Notes: Some distressing imagery, perhaps. Set just post-almost-Apocalypse, and pre-Eden
Disclaimer: Not mine
nihstel. For the prompt: He's trying a new skin, and this one hurts.Title: Searskin
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Good Omens
Characters/Pairings: Crowley, touch of Aziraphale. Gen, character study
Summary: He had earned his name in transformation. And no-one had figured out, until too late, the joke in that
Wordcount: 1000-odd
Warnings/Notes: Some distressing imagery, perhaps. Set just post-almost-Apocalypse, and pre-Eden
Disclaimer: Not mine
Searskin
He had earned his name in transformation.
Most of them had, in a way. There were none in Hell who yet wore the name they had held on high. There were none with the right, and none with the desire. That was just ... how it was.
But he, he had earned his specifically in the changing of his shape. His first assignment, his first job, new and naked and seared by Hell. To infiltrated the cursed Garden, to sabotage those who had been chosen over them.
At the time, he'd just been trying to do the job. In the chaos of Hell, freshly burned from the Fall, from the landing, as battered as any of them, but far less willing to fight for his new place. He'd just wanted to do what he was told, and have done. And a trip to Eden, away from the fresh and vicious infighting of Hell, had been just what the doctor ordered.
But he couldn't have just strolled in. Obviously. He'd known that, watching Eden, watching the Garden and its Guardians. He couldn't just keep his shape, fly in, try not to be spotted by the flaming sword. It just wasn't practical. Convincing people to do what you wanted while you were constantly looking over your shoulder just made the wrong impression, and made life difficult all round.
So he'd ... changed.
He'd rewritten himself, from the angelic form that had Fallen from Heaven, to something else. Something base, something unthreatening, something fragile and silly and beneath notice. Quite literally. Because that was the only way he could see to get in, and it was the only way he could see to stay in, long enough to do the job, and with the cauterised wounds of his lost Name still weeping his old form raw, he had been more than willing.
That first change had been like no other, before or since. It wasn't the casual trading of corporations, shrugging on a new skin when the old one fell apart, or was torn. That had its own pains, but they were old, familiar. Barely noticeable, now. And barely noticeable then. After the ... the tearing of the first.
The serpent hadn't been a corporation, you see. It hadn't been a skin thrown over his old one. If it had been, it wouldn't have lasted so long, wouldn't have haunted him so thoroughly through the aeons since that even now, even here, he still wore the vestiges of it. The serpent had been ... something else.
It had burned like Falling, that transformation. Seared like the ripping of a Name, the remaking of a self. Which, in a way, was fair enough. That was what it had been.
He had folded himself into a new form, turned the essence of himself inside out, and shaped it to some new thing. Not completely. His old form, his truest form, had been made by Him, and could not be destroyed. There was never an escape from that. But he had reshaped what he could, the nameless demon at the gates of Eden, folded and transformed, and what emerged ...
Had been Crawly. Had been Crowley. The Serpent of Eden, who wore snake-eyes and the remnants of that first skin through all the ages of Earth, afterwards.
And it had been a mockery, at first. His name, his form. Because the serpent was a ridiculous-looking thing, could not fly or stride or prowl, lowest of the low, crawling on the earth. That had been the point, infiltration, people, you can't go round trumpeting your magnificence and try to keep a low profile at the same time, but still. It had been ... a mockery, a joke, and it had hurt.
He wondered now, though. Standing in the aftermath of an almost-apocalypse, in the closest thing to that first, unFallen form he had worn in aeons. Standing beside an angel, beside humanity. He wondered ... if it hadn't been more of a joke than any of them had realised.
He'd been willing to tear himself apart, remake himself from the ground up, in order to do that first job. To infiltrate humanity, and the beginnings of the grand design. He had gone that far, and in the end just to point out the odd pertinent fact to a passing human.
He wondered if maybe, right now, the forces of Hell shouldn't have taken that as more of a hint than they had. He wondered if he shouldn't have taken it as more of a hint.
The snake, afterwards, had become a symbol of transformation. Rebirth. Wisdom. And it had been funny, the whole way through, six thousands years being alternately annoyed by the persistence, and amused by the irony, and for six thousand bloody years, he hadn't gotten it. Hadn't seen the bloody joke. For all his drunken musings to the angel, what if they'd been supposed to do what they'd done, all those centuries ago in Eden, he still hadn't. Gotten. The joke.
He'd earned his name in transformation, and in the most spectacularly painful and bloodyminded incident of going native the spheres had ever seen.
Then.
Crowley leaned back against the hood of the jeep, holding up a pair of shaking hands to watch the adrenalin flood out of them. The angel beside him, propped against his shoulder, smiling distantly and shakily himself. Crowley leaned back, with the wings behind him, and the serpent in his eyes, and the stupid bloody tire iron leaning against his calf.
And he wondered, through the rush of annoyance and amusement directed Upwards, if he was the only being in the Universe who knew just how suspect His sense of humour really was. And, too, if the next transformation, the next skin, was going to hurt as bloody much as the past three had.
"You know what, angel?" he asked, laughing over the faint ringing in his ears, into Aziraphale's bemused look. "Irony hurts like a bitch."
And for that, Crowley knew exactly Who to blame.
He had earned his name in transformation.
Most of them had, in a way. There were none in Hell who yet wore the name they had held on high. There were none with the right, and none with the desire. That was just ... how it was.
But he, he had earned his specifically in the changing of his shape. His first assignment, his first job, new and naked and seared by Hell. To infiltrated the cursed Garden, to sabotage those who had been chosen over them.
At the time, he'd just been trying to do the job. In the chaos of Hell, freshly burned from the Fall, from the landing, as battered as any of them, but far less willing to fight for his new place. He'd just wanted to do what he was told, and have done. And a trip to Eden, away from the fresh and vicious infighting of Hell, had been just what the doctor ordered.
But he couldn't have just strolled in. Obviously. He'd known that, watching Eden, watching the Garden and its Guardians. He couldn't just keep his shape, fly in, try not to be spotted by the flaming sword. It just wasn't practical. Convincing people to do what you wanted while you were constantly looking over your shoulder just made the wrong impression, and made life difficult all round.
So he'd ... changed.
He'd rewritten himself, from the angelic form that had Fallen from Heaven, to something else. Something base, something unthreatening, something fragile and silly and beneath notice. Quite literally. Because that was the only way he could see to get in, and it was the only way he could see to stay in, long enough to do the job, and with the cauterised wounds of his lost Name still weeping his old form raw, he had been more than willing.
That first change had been like no other, before or since. It wasn't the casual trading of corporations, shrugging on a new skin when the old one fell apart, or was torn. That had its own pains, but they were old, familiar. Barely noticeable, now. And barely noticeable then. After the ... the tearing of the first.
The serpent hadn't been a corporation, you see. It hadn't been a skin thrown over his old one. If it had been, it wouldn't have lasted so long, wouldn't have haunted him so thoroughly through the aeons since that even now, even here, he still wore the vestiges of it. The serpent had been ... something else.
It had burned like Falling, that transformation. Seared like the ripping of a Name, the remaking of a self. Which, in a way, was fair enough. That was what it had been.
He had folded himself into a new form, turned the essence of himself inside out, and shaped it to some new thing. Not completely. His old form, his truest form, had been made by Him, and could not be destroyed. There was never an escape from that. But he had reshaped what he could, the nameless demon at the gates of Eden, folded and transformed, and what emerged ...
Had been Crawly. Had been Crowley. The Serpent of Eden, who wore snake-eyes and the remnants of that first skin through all the ages of Earth, afterwards.
And it had been a mockery, at first. His name, his form. Because the serpent was a ridiculous-looking thing, could not fly or stride or prowl, lowest of the low, crawling on the earth. That had been the point, infiltration, people, you can't go round trumpeting your magnificence and try to keep a low profile at the same time, but still. It had been ... a mockery, a joke, and it had hurt.
He wondered now, though. Standing in the aftermath of an almost-apocalypse, in the closest thing to that first, unFallen form he had worn in aeons. Standing beside an angel, beside humanity. He wondered ... if it hadn't been more of a joke than any of them had realised.
He'd been willing to tear himself apart, remake himself from the ground up, in order to do that first job. To infiltrate humanity, and the beginnings of the grand design. He had gone that far, and in the end just to point out the odd pertinent fact to a passing human.
He wondered if maybe, right now, the forces of Hell shouldn't have taken that as more of a hint than they had. He wondered if he shouldn't have taken it as more of a hint.
The snake, afterwards, had become a symbol of transformation. Rebirth. Wisdom. And it had been funny, the whole way through, six thousands years being alternately annoyed by the persistence, and amused by the irony, and for six thousand bloody years, he hadn't gotten it. Hadn't seen the bloody joke. For all his drunken musings to the angel, what if they'd been supposed to do what they'd done, all those centuries ago in Eden, he still hadn't. Gotten. The joke.
He'd earned his name in transformation, and in the most spectacularly painful and bloodyminded incident of going native the spheres had ever seen.
Then.
Crowley leaned back against the hood of the jeep, holding up a pair of shaking hands to watch the adrenalin flood out of them. The angel beside him, propped against his shoulder, smiling distantly and shakily himself. Crowley leaned back, with the wings behind him, and the serpent in his eyes, and the stupid bloody tire iron leaning against his calf.
And he wondered, through the rush of annoyance and amusement directed Upwards, if he was the only being in the Universe who knew just how suspect His sense of humour really was. And, too, if the next transformation, the next skin, was going to hurt as bloody much as the past three had.
"You know what, angel?" he asked, laughing over the faint ringing in his ears, into Aziraphale's bemused look. "Irony hurts like a bitch."
And for that, Crowley knew exactly Who to blame.
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