FORM WITHOUT
It all started perfectly innocently.
Okay, well, that's a lie.
It started, actually, like this….
They meet halfway. There is a much
larger crackling, and a surge of backwashing electrons zapping madly back down
both ends of the open phone connection and threatening to black out
communications in both New York and London at once (which would, quite possibly,
trap them there although they couldn’t be sure as neither had ever experienced
it). They don’t care. They flow and sparkle and buzz around and into each other
like…well, there is no simile here.
When writers of erotica (as opposed
to pornography, in which this phrase never appears) type “they became one” it is
usually a romantic, if trite, bit of hyperbole and euphemism. In this case, it
was literally true. And they, to put it euphemistically, freaked out. Too much.
Unsustainable. The little death getting a little bit too big before showing a
glimpse of a state of being too huge to comprehend.
This is very hard to describe, but
if you can picture an infinitesimal and yet actually sizeless energy vibration
that is more or less Crowley having a quick dispute with a similar non-object
that is more or less Aziraphale, using something that both is and isn’t language
(the gist of the argument is “your place or mine?”), and all of this happening
in less than the blink of a flea’s eye, you will be in the neighbourhood of
close.
But when they decided upon New York,
they too were still only in the neighbourhood of close, rattled and agitated and
imperfectly-separated and as horny as unincorporated animate aether can be.
So you see, there was hardly anything “innocent”
about it. But the outcome was innocent, in that it was completely
unplanned and unintentional.
No, we’re not referring to the humourous episode
with interchangeable parts that made an angel and a demon into living Mr. Potato
Heads, nor to the subsequent raging acts of carnal delight in a
spatially-altered New York phone booth. Something much greater and more profound
took place during the overwhelming transference beforehand.
Try to think of the phone line as the world’s
biggest and most surprised super-conducting supercollider. In a controlled and
planned situation, using simple atoms that aren’t comprised of two
separate entities of angelic stock slamming into one another at slightly more
than the speed of light, one would get quite a blast of radiation and particles
spraying off in millions of directions. If handled properly however, such
situations can also produce antimatter which, when it comes into contact
with matter, will destroy them both but results in pure energy of the
highest possible calibre.
In this case, however… Well, it’s not something
any human scientist could predict.
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And so, another couple of days, another battle in
the U.S. Congress later, and Crowley is returning to his beloved England and his
belo- rather well-liked angel. And this is when they begin to realise that
their hasty and lust-fueled actions have wrought something unusual.
Crowley’s trip home was a slow walk across hot
coals. If he’d been in Hell he’d have done it with a saunter and a smile, but
this time he seemed to have lost his fashionable shoes and was tripping on each
coal and now his feet were on fire. Or, more specifically, his lower back. First
class was supposed to be about comfort. And he fucking well wasn’t comfortable.
Struggling not to snap (with fangs) at the flight
attendants, he fought to get comfortable in his first class seat. Deciding the
seat itself was to blame, he finagled a change (twice) with no better results.
Considering it was only a few days before Christmas, and the flight was
seriously overbooked, and he’d already managed to bump
God-only-(possibly)-knew-how-many humans just trying to get home for the
holidays even though their current moods would be better suited to homicides,
getting his seat changed around was close to a miracle. If he hadn’t been
feeling so utterly bitchy he would have just had a dozen drinks, jammed in the
earphones
● and fallen asleep for the entire flight. The attendants and other
passengers sensed innately, in the way one senses one should not prod a viper
with one’s bare foot, that it would be best to humour him.
The flight itself was a long ride in a very
prickly hand-basket. It seemed the pilots were deliberately seeking out air
pockets just to make him queasy. He might as well have flown back on his own
power, for all the trouble. And as they landed in London, he ignored the
warnings to keep his seatbelt on in order to make a mad dash to the toilet. For
the first time since the 14th century and a bad experience with some
under-cooked and probably plague-tainted beef, he threw up. Stunned enough that
he couldn’t think on it, he staggered off the plane and into Heathrow.
Where the expected angel was not waiting.
He stomped to the airport carpark, his back
still knotted and painful, and made the drive to Soho in record time. There were
several small crashes – between other drivers avoiding him, not
involving him – and he was in the foulest of moods by the time he swerved
into his usual spot in front of the store. Everything was slushy from snow and
ice, and he nearly slipped on the pavement as he stormed inside.
Fuming and taking Aziraphale’s name in vain, he
was ready to bite the angel and not in a fun, erotic way.
It took a moment to realise Aziraphale was
upstairs. Resisting the urge to knock precious books around in his current snit,
Crowley pounded noisily up the steps to the tiny bedroom where he found the
angel sleeping heavily. There was nothing more than a large lump on the bed, a
cocoon of five blankets, starting at tartan and moving through floral, stripes,
more tartan, and paisley. There was a thin layer of dust on the top blanket,
meaning Aziraphale hadn’t moved for days. Nor did he seem inclined to wake, even
when Crowley kicked him. Finally, the demon shoved his freezing hands beneath
the covers and directly against angel skin, and elicited a muffled grunt of
displeasure.
“Lemme ‘lone,” Aziraphale whined, “Don’ feel
well.”
“Oh shut up, and move your wide arse! You can’t
possibly feel unwell, you’re an angel!” Crowley seethed. “You
didn’t meet me at the airport either.”
“Tol’ ya, don’ feel well.” The angel snuggled
back under the blankets.
Crowley looked more closely at Aziraphale and saw
that his face was flushed. Putting a hand to his forehead, he found the angel
was a bit feverish. Could it be possible for them to get sick? He’d had
the nausea and the back ache… both of which seemed to have vanished now. His
mood was beginning to settle down. Suddenly concerned and solicitous, Crowley
asked, “Should I get some tea? Do you need anything?”
“Hmph, jus’ sleep,” Aziraphale murmured. “C'm'
under wi’ me… sleep.”
And Crowley realised he was very tired and
jet-lagged, so he undressed and crawled into the unfashionable igloo, cuddling
up to the warm and softly snoring angel. It was very cozy, and soon he was
asleep himself.
But he had a persistent dream of wading through
the Trafalgar fountains, and eventually conceded he had to wake up. In the most
god-forsaken hours of pre-dawn, he did something else in a toilet that he
hadn’t done in centuries, not since the first time he’d gotten pissing drunk
enough not to be able to sober up on his own. He actually spent a penny. Though
it was a bit more like a half-crown and change.
Too startled to speak, he slithered back into bed
and finally slept soundly. Whatever was the matter, they could figure it out
when the sun was up.
...
......................................................................
● Provided they didn’t
start playing Queen and/or Christmas carols at him, in which case there might
have been an emergency landing required when the earphones burst into flames.
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The next morning, Crowley awoke and poked his
head from the pile of blankets like a scruffy yellow-eyed turtle. The angel was
already out of bed and looking better, cheerily getting dressed and combing his
hair.
“Oh, good morning, dear,” Aziraphale smiled. “I’m
so sorry about yesterday. I simply couldn’t seem to wake up enough for anything.
I’m not sure, but I think that little trip through the phone lines exhausted me
rather more than I imagined.”
“Was thinking the same thing,” Crowley yawned. He
struggled out from under the blanket shell, then stretched gently. His back was
no longer in pain so he extended the stretch until he was nearly a foot taller
than normal. “Well, I was a bit off myself. The flight bordered on actual Hell
and I didn’t eat anything the whole way.”
“Then we ought to get breakfast,” Aziraphale
said, straightening his tie before the mirror. “I am absolutely ravenous.”
“Hmm, perhaps we can wait just a few moments,”
Crowley leered, stalking still naked toward his angel. “I mean, we don’t
actually need food.” He put his arms around Aziraphale from behind. The
angel hummed in pleasure until Crowley’s fingers brushed across his chest, then
he gave a tiny yelp and cringed away. Crowley frowned. “What was that about?”
“I don’t know. I’m sore for some reason.”
Aziraphale gently rubbed his own hands across his chest, noting the nipples were
extremely tender. He winced again, and looked Crowley’s reflection in the eye.
“Perhaps another side effect of the mix-up? Did I wind up with yours
somehow?” Both pairs of eyes flashed down to Crowley’s bare chest, and both
agreed he seemed to have his own.
“Well… let’s just give it some time, I guess,”
Crowley said a little dubiously. “’Til after breakfast anyway. I’m on the
peckish side myself.” He didn’t mention his strange trips to the toilet. It had
to be a fluke, caused by their experimental phone sex, and maybe the devilish
flight home. They’d surely be themselves again in no time.
Breakfast was odder
than usual, both of them craving a fry-up at a local dive. A little
surprised, they both wrote it off with a laugh, saying they must have
been hungrier than expected and sometimes it was good to have an old
traditional morning meal. They parted and went back to their own
homes. Crowley watered / threatened his plants and checked his voice
mail
●●
before deleting eighteen messages from solicitors, then settled on the
couch for a bit of mindless television. Aziraphale returned to the
bookshop, tidied the bedroom, folded all the blankets neatly away,
then went back downstairs for tea and books. Everything was ticking
along normally.
Afternoon approached
and Crowley phoned with the usual request: Meet at St. James for duck
feeding, then off to lunch at the Ritz.●●●
On his standard route to the park, Aziraphale’s
mouth began to water uncontrollably. His olfactory sense went into overdrive as
he passed an eatery, and he went inside to purchase something he’d never have
done otherwise, then continued to St. James in a state of confusion.
Crowley arrived to find the angel on a bench near
the road, and halted to gawk in sheer horror at the sight before him. Aziraphale
was eating fast food. Not just eating it, but shoveling it in. He had a sodden
Burger Lord Extra-Loaded Spicy BBQ Rib sandwich in one hand and an Triple-Thick
Whippy Chocolate shake in the other, and – dear Someone in Somewhere – was
dipping the sandwich into the shake. He had at least taken the time to tuck a
napkin into the neck of his coat, otherwise he’d have been covered in the same
greasy mauve goop smeared on his mouth.
And the most horrifying part was the dazed
expression of joy on the angel’s face. Crowley feared he’d been lobotomized. Or
worse yet, turned human. And possibly American.
“Oh my GOD, angel!” Crowley shouted, completely
forgetting himself in terror. “What are you doing? That’s fast food! Holy
crap, you’ve said yourself that fast food is worse than haggis and head cheese
combined! That you’d sooner lurk in the filthiest alley in Hong Kong eating
suspicious kebabs from a leprous-looking vendor that set foot in a Burger Lord!
For fuck’s sake, MY people invented fast food! You’re gulping down pure,
unadulterated evil! And you’re enjoying it!!”
Aziraphale’s eyes, which until that moment had
seemed distant but happy, refocused and stared at the items in his hand. Mouth
so full he couldn’t speak, he scrabbled for the soiled napkin at his chin and
spat hastily into it. “Oh my Heavens, I… I don’t know what came over me... I was
walking down the Strand on my way here, and it just called to me somehow. I
didn’t think, I just… it… sounded good at the time.” With the most horrid
distaste, he rose and deposited the bundle of offal in the nearest bin. He miracled the mess from his face and hands – and from inside his stomach, which
now felt violated – but he didn’t think he’d ever feel clean enough. Some stains
just didn’t come out.
No longer hungry and more than a bit revolted, he
looked at Crowley, who was still gaping. “Er, shall we… feed the ducks now?”
On auto-pilot, the
demon followed him to the pond. Aziraphale took the packet of bread
from his pocket
●●●●
and muttered,
This is all so very strange. Exhaustion, soreness, this bizarre
craving for anti-food stuffs
Im not sure whats going on. Perhaps I
have a book somewhere that might shed some light
“Oh yes,” Crowley drawled, “because so many human
authors have written about immortal beings getting their bits mixed-up during
disembodied trans-Atlantic phone calls.”
“All right, it’s far-fetched, but we’ll never
know… until… we…oh dear.” Aziraphale stopped at the water’s edge, his
face wrinkling in revulsion. He backed away swiftly, covering his nose and
looking quite ill. “Oh dear, I feel…” He all but ran from the lake. When he was
under the trees he stopped, wheezing and sweating.
“What’s happened?” Crowley joined him, patting
his back helplessly.
“I’m not sure… I just suddenly couldn’t take the
smell…”
“The smell of what?”
Aziraphale looked up miserably. “Ducks.” Then he
all but fainted on the cold, damp ground.
...
..................................................................
●● He’d
long ago replaced his phone with the latest model, thus doing away with the Ansaphone. It was
comforting to be rid of something that reeked metaphysically like bad perfume.
Eau de Hastur was a stench not even Revolutionary French aristocrats would have
worn.
●●● Sometimes the
predictability was so comforting, neither of them thought of it as a rut. After
all the real rutting had taken the place of variety in other areas of life.
●●●● The bread was still
uneaten simply because Aziraphale had forgotten it was on his person until that
moment.
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Crowley truly did almost run down multiple
pedestrians in his haste to get back to the bookshop. And once having installed
a limp Aziraphale in the back room, he could no longer deny the difficulties
he’d been dealing with either. Not after another session of kneeling before the
porcelain god. Aziraphale sat quietly amazed at the cacophony of retching and
cursing. His little toilet had never been so abused. Or used. When the demon
returned, pale-faced and angry, the angel bit his lip.
Crowley moaned, “Aziraphale, it’s serious. I’ve
barely eaten a bloody thing since I got back, and yet I’ve tossed my cookies
twice and somehow pissed a bucketful. And now,” he tugged at the painfully tight
waist of his trousers as his eyes glowed in fear, “I seem to have gained a
stone. In just the last hour. WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING?”
Quietly, Aziraphale murmured, “I don’t think a
book will help this time.”
“YA THINK??”
“It’s going to take a rather drastic measure to
sort this out. And it might be a bit dangerous for you. For both of us,
possibly…”
“Do it anyway!” Crowley yelled, “I can’t take
this anymore!”
Aziraphale nodded gravely, opened a drawer in his
desk and removed a piece of chalk. Toeing aside the rug, he began to draw on the
bare floor.
“Oh, wait, you’re--,” Crowley shook his head in
fear, “you’re contacting Upstairs about this? Oh fuck, wait just a --”
“I told you it would be drastic.” The angel
scribbled arcane symbols with great concentration.
“No, wait, I think maybe I shouldn’t be —“
“If we don’t, then we might never have an
answer.” Aziraphale said with resignation. “Do you think contacting your
people would be of any benefit? Do you think we’ll find an answer in any book on
the planet?”
“… No.” Crowley sat down and grimaced. “Shit.
Shit. Okay. I’ll just… hang on a second.” His fingers made a convoluted gesture
and there appeared in his hand a dagger carved with black sigils. “Just for
protection, you understand.” He grinned manically. “I can trust you. But
only because you’re not prone to killing me.”
Aziraphale sighed, nodded again, and completed
his circle. Standing within it, he cleared his throat hesitantly then spoke.
“Er, hello? Um, I was wondering if I might have a brief word with… someone. Not
sure who, in this case. It’s rather odd, really, and I don’t—“
He was interrupted in his babbling by a soft
green light from above, which gradually took on the form of an angel. In a
gentle voice, the angel said, “Greetings, Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern
Gate and Principality of England.” Turning her head toward Crowley, she smiled
without a trace of malice. “And greetings to you as well, former Serpent of Eden. I would
say your True Name, but I believe you might stab me for it.”
Fingers trembling on the dagger handle, Crowley
snarled, “Just ask her about this, Aziraphale. She’s a bit too holy for me to
tolerate long.”
“Yes, yes,” Aziraphale sighed. “Er, actually, I
don’t think I know you,” he said, furrowing his brow at the other angel.
“I am Armisael.“
“Armisael? Oh, but aren’t you… the governess of…”
Aziraphale gasped, gripping his chest and stepping backward. “No, no, it’s
simply not possible…”
“What? What?” Crowley snapped. “Governess
of what? Smiting angels who do the Boxspring Gavotte with demons? Just
back off, okay, lady?” He limply waved the dagger with very unconvincing
menace.
“No, you don’t understand--“ Aziraphale started.
“Ahem. I bring a message, actually,” Armisael
said with great pleasure. “Hail, Aziraphale, he who is the Lord’s agent upon
Earth. Hail also, Fallen one – whose Name I shall refrain from speaking –
disobedient to God but not all that bad really. Blesse—well, certainly unique
art thou amongst immortals. Fear not, for ye hast found favour with God …Yes,
even you, demon.”
“…This sounds remotely familiar,” Crowley said,
eyes narrowed. Aziraphale was now whiter than a sheet of parchment.
“Well, I’m not the one who delivered the
original speech, that was Gabriel, but I can riff from it, can’t I?”
Armisael smirked. “Moving along… And behold, together ye hast conceived and
shall bring forth a new being…”
Aziraphale was nearly bloodless and ready to
collapse on the floor. Crowley, having now caught the gist, was fast approaching
the angel’s whiter shade of pale.
The demon croaked, “What… the fuck… do you…
mean…”
Rolling her eyes, Armisael said reproachfully,
“You know perfectly well what I mean.”
“But… how… I mean it, really, how…?”
Armisael grinned in delight. “The Holy Ghost did
not so much come upon thee, as your own Spirits came upon each other. Er.
So to speak. Anyway,” she continued in an informal manner, “the power of the
Highest overshadows thee both, blah-blah, and there’s this – we’re not entirely
sure whether it’s holy or not –Thing which shall be born of thee both, et
cetera.”
Aziraphale’s knees hit the floor with a thud and
Crowley dropped the dagger, which fortunately vanished.
“I… we…” Aziraphale’s voice sounded breathless
because it was. “I’m… we’re… “
“Pregnant.” Crowley finished the sentence flatly.
“Close enough,” Armisael said gently. “It’s
nothing we’ve ever seen before. And it’s not physically within either of you,
even though its presence has caused some pretty amusing symptoms.” At Crowley’s
ferocious expression, Armisael modified the statement. “All right, not so
amusing to you. But as you’re both man-shaped, you’re not really equipped to
carry or bear a child, and so it’s sort of stuck between you.”
After a few seconds of disbelief and gnashing of
teeth, Crowley shouted, “Okay, so is this On High’s punishment for us playing at all
fours? A ‘reap what you sow’ thing? They sent you to speechify with
rehashed lines, instead of a burning bush booming out ‘Love thy enemy, but
kindly do not drop thy trousers to do so’ ? Didn’t have the budget for
special effects this time, did they?”
“For Pete’s sake…” Armisael began with a heavy
sigh, as it was clear the demon could go on all day.
But Aziraphale slowly raised his head to the
ceiling, gazing in wonder and terror at the Unseen. “When He sent you here to
tell us… did He at least… smile?”
Armisael smiled herself, and nodded.
And with that Aziraphale burst into tears, leapt
to his feet and grabbed Crowley around the neck in a fierce hug. “Oh, Crowley! It’s going to be all right!”
Struggling out of the suffocating arms, Crowley
gasped at the other angel. “You think you can just fly down here and tell us
we’re wedged up, and that we’ll just accept it like that brainless bint Mary?
I want a second opinion!”
Aziraphale gasped in turn. “Crowley, she was sent
by God to tell us!”
“She’s not a doctor!”
“You want Raphael instead?” Armisael raised an
eyebrow.
“I don’t want ANYONE!” Crowley shouted. “We’ve
just been put through days of insanity! It’s all bollocks and I want an
explanation that makes sense!”
Armisael sighed. “All I understand is that you
two disembodied yourselves briefly, overlapped in your true forms and,
essentially, mated. For real, not just putting your human bodies through
the motions of copulation.” Demon and angel blushed to the roots of their hair
and Armisael grinned again. “Of course this is all highly unusual. Not that your
‘playing at all fours’ it is exactly usual in the first place. Angels
don’t have much need for a sex drive, but you,” she looked at the
beet-red Aziraphale, “being down here in a corporeal form for so long, it was
bound to happen eventually. Though who’d’ve guessed you’d pick such an
interesting partner.” Crowley coughed as though he would bring up a lung. “For
whatever reason, He’s okay by it.”
More relieved than he could express, Aziraphale
ventured, “So what… What do we do about this?”
Armisael shrugged. “I was just sent to tell you
because that’s what I do -- deal with difficult pregnancies. And, as this is
probably the most complicated one I’ll ever see, I wouldn’t have missed it.” Her
delight made her glow bright green. “Now, would you like to see your child?”
“What?” Crowley choked at the same moment
Aziraphale gasped, “Yes!”
“All right, just calm down a second. Look inside
your auras. It’s between you.”
Demon and angel glanced at one another and made
an instant decision. They scooted just a fraction of a molecule outside their
human forms… and saw.
Between the glistening-blue-white form of
Aziraphale and the fluttering-smoky-red form of Crowley was Another. A numinous
flower bud clinging to them with misty tendrils, an opal of swirling crimson and
lapis and dark and light, waiting to unfold.
Oh… Crowley… Aziraphale’s form said
without words.
Yeah… Crowley answered. It’s…
Ineffable... Neither was sure who’d
thought that one.
They returned to their bodies, aware of the
presence between them now. Aziraphale removed a handkerchief from some pocket or
other, and began to sniffle. He knew he didn’t have the proper hormones for it
but he felt very motherly at the moment, and it was showing.
Crowley sighed with resignation and turned to his
angel. “All right, so we’re going to deliver a miracle unto the world, et
cetera. But what then? I’m bloody well not changing nappies, no chance in
Hel- okay, Hell. I’ve been put through quite enough already.” Then he
frowned, fresh panic in his eyes. “Oh… Hell. What happens when Downstairs
finds out about this?”
“They won’t,” was all Armisael said. And they
knew it was true.
Crowley relaxed as much as he’d been before.
Which wasn’t much at all.
Aziraphale wiped his cheeks and looked
beseechingly at the other angel. “Crowley’s right. What are we to do? I
mean, do we even know what it is?”
“Won’t be a nephil at least, thank Go- Okay, damn
it. God.” Crowley grimaced at the thought and the word.
“Hey, I don’t know,” Armisael shrugged. “New
territory here. An angel and a demon. No other such pairing has ever taken
place. Unless it was followed by discorporation to prevent anyone finding out.
That essence-scrambling trick of yours was a highly irregular and slightly
stupid thing to do. But it is certain… there was another factor at work.” She
glanced ever so briefly upward, then back at the pair. “The creation of this new
being wouldn’t have happened at all without Lov-“
“Oh no, no,” Crowley groaned.
Aziraphale’s eyes were shining like watery stars
and his lip quivered. “A Love Child.”
“I’m going to be sick again,” Crowley mumbled but
he permitted a bone-crushing hug from his significant other. As Aziraphale
nuzzled his neck, his resistance began to melt. “Oh fuck it. Fine. Whatever.”
The angel beamed. “But you still haven’t said what we’re supposed to do.”
“I think you’re about to find out.” Armisael
pointed to the space around them.
There came a soft chord like a universe taking
its first breath, if you can imagine what that sounds like. If not, then just
imagine the air tasting dusky-pale, or the scent of crystalline shadows. Think
of a tugging at the sleeve of one’s soul, the soft footstep in the chamber of
one’s heart, the gentle laughter of one’s mind as it realises a puzzle has
finally been solved.
And it was there hovering all around them. It had
hair of golden ashes, eyes of a lightning-laced storm cloud, wings of blue flame
and body of red starlight.
No one had ever seen anything like it before, and
never would again.
It smiled at them both with utter love and joy
and far too much knowledge. And vanished.
Moments passed in silence. Then, breathlessly,
Crowley said, “… All right. Where did it go?”
With a smile, Aziraphale answered, “Home. I
think.”
Crowley looked at him, bemused. “And where is its
home, exactly?”
Aziraphale smiled, touching the demon’s cheek. “I
daresay, one day we’ll find out.”
Armisael faded away, unconcerned about being
ignored, determined that all was well and they would sort things out between
them. The contract declaring that they would never, under any circumstances,
perform such actions again, she left on the desk for them to sign when
they were finished being sentimental.
~~ The End-ish ~~