Aziraphale (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
temptationaccomplished) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
diatu2019-11-18 09:06 pm
temptationaccomplished) wrote in diatu2019-11-18 09:06 pm
you're the first one when things turn out bad
Who: EVERYONE, you're all invited. Or invited to happen upon this, if you missed the invite, and spot it happening in the Great Hall.
What: Aziraphale wants to show off his best friend, so he's invited you all to a tea party.
Where: The Great Hall
When: Tuesday after classes
Warnings: Tyzias is a menace, there's no reason to think anything at ALL about The Arrangement, and if the invite was any indication, the ineffables probably cannot be contained
Due to circumstances which will not be discussed (but, namely, that Pallidus cannot be in indirect sunlight), and using weather as an excuse, Aziraphale's planned tea party out on the lawn has been moved indoors.
He's gone all out. There is plenty of tea (with optional sugar and cream), biscuits (by which we mean crisp cookies), some small cakes that are rather adorably decorated, a fruit pie or two, and treats provided by Sunset Shimmer. (And possibly booze, if Tyzias did decide to bring some). Casual though the gathering is, he's set a proper table to hold their food, with a table cloth, a few candles, some nice napkins. This is not slipshod work. This is the work of someone aesthetically living in a past century who feels like he has waited a good millennia for this moment and is going to do this right.
And what This is, is introduce his demon best friend to polite company. As Crowley put it.
It's true, though. Except where Tyzias is concerned, anyway.
In the center of the table is a small, homey potted plant. Nothing particularly extravagant. Leafy and green and moderately well-cared for, recently purchased, and even more recently labeled with a tag that says "For: Crowley." The "for" was added secondary, after it occurred to Aziraphale that it looked a bit like he'd named the plant Crowley. Which he had not.
Aziraphale, aka Mr. Fell, is playing the anxious, bustling, gracious host as best he can, while being utterly preoccupied with his friend: a tall, gangly ginger who he introduces to everyone as "Crowley." Any assumptions one might make about the two apparently middle-aged, man-shaped beings is entirely one's own assumptions. But if Aziraphale is glowing with joy and affection, and eager to tell stories about the two of them, that's just how it is.
When things settle down and everyone has been served tea and introduced, he might try to show off some silly card-tricks: absolutely typical sleight-of-hand like humans perform, and not performed especially well. He's doing this mainly to annoy Crowley and seems to delight in that, even if he is a little genuinely embarrassed at how rusty his skills have gotten.
Come, join in, mingle. Hang out with your fellow classmates and enjoy some treats. We're coming up on the end of a year and, like a harvest festival, it's time to make new friends, rekindle old bonds, share in some good food, and party before the winter.
What: Aziraphale wants to show off his best friend, so he's invited you all to a tea party.
Where: The Great Hall
When: Tuesday after classes
Warnings: Tyzias is a menace, there's no reason to think anything at ALL about The Arrangement, and if the invite was any indication, the ineffables probably cannot be contained
Due to circumstances which will not be discussed (but, namely, that Pallidus cannot be in indirect sunlight), and using weather as an excuse, Aziraphale's planned tea party out on the lawn has been moved indoors.
He's gone all out. There is plenty of tea (with optional sugar and cream), biscuits (by which we mean crisp cookies), some small cakes that are rather adorably decorated, a fruit pie or two, and treats provided by Sunset Shimmer. (And possibly booze, if Tyzias did decide to bring some). Casual though the gathering is, he's set a proper table to hold their food, with a table cloth, a few candles, some nice napkins. This is not slipshod work. This is the work of someone aesthetically living in a past century who feels like he has waited a good millennia for this moment and is going to do this right.
And what This is, is introduce his demon best friend to polite company. As Crowley put it.
It's true, though. Except where Tyzias is concerned, anyway.
In the center of the table is a small, homey potted plant. Nothing particularly extravagant. Leafy and green and moderately well-cared for, recently purchased, and even more recently labeled with a tag that says "For: Crowley." The "for" was added secondary, after it occurred to Aziraphale that it looked a bit like he'd named the plant Crowley. Which he had not.
Aziraphale, aka Mr. Fell, is playing the anxious, bustling, gracious host as best he can, while being utterly preoccupied with his friend: a tall, gangly ginger who he introduces to everyone as "Crowley." Any assumptions one might make about the two apparently middle-aged, man-shaped beings is entirely one's own assumptions. But if Aziraphale is glowing with joy and affection, and eager to tell stories about the two of them, that's just how it is.
When things settle down and everyone has been served tea and introduced, he might try to show off some silly card-tricks: absolutely typical sleight-of-hand like humans perform, and not performed especially well. He's doing this mainly to annoy Crowley and seems to delight in that, even if he is a little genuinely embarrassed at how rusty his skills have gotten.
Come, join in, mingle. Hang out with your fellow classmates and enjoy some treats. We're coming up on the end of a year and, like a harvest festival, it's time to make new friends, rekindle old bonds, share in some good food, and party before the winter.
no subject
...
Fifteen minutes?
Either "Dancing Queen" is a lot longer than what most people think, or Tyzias has been put it on repeat several times in a row.
Tyzias, surprisingly, has been a surprisingly professional bartender--no pranks, no taunting, just a sympathetic ear, good service, and a bemused smile at Fell's ramblings. Look, she might be an ass, but she isn't enough of an ass to take advantage of a drunk man.
She's even laughed at a few of Fell's ancedotes! That's progress, right? Tyzias has been matching him drink for drink, but isn't nearly as drunk as Fell is. (Those two livers finally coming in handy.) As he launches into another story, Tyzias pauses, does some mental math, mutters "fuck it," and pulls an unlabeled bottle out of nowhere as she is wont to do.
It's nondescript, purposefully so. The bottle isn't labeled, and is a murky brown, which does not pair well with the dark purple inside. The liquid almost seems like it's crackling with electricity. Almost. Must be a trick of the light.
Tyzias pours herself a shot and leaves the bottle on the table, not quite realizing that Fell may take that as an invitation.
no subject
After a while, he's even lulled into a sense of comfortable familiarity by the music... (once he gets past the other gibberish, awful noise her turntable is spewing out) ...well, and if one can be comforted by memories of being trapped in a cage of metal and leather and gasoline, going 90 in central London, the sound of Brian May on the guitar...no matter what the actual album. He's almost got it in his mind to request if she has any of that Velveteen Underground nonsense, just to surprise Crowley. But that wonderful, detestable serpent didn't deserve it.
Instead, he finds himself distracted by a bottle she's left on the table. He picks it up, giving the contents a sniff and squinting through the glass, then down the neck through the opening. In the ever-changing light of the disco-glow-stick room, it's difficult to tell just what kind of liquor it offers.
Well, one little shot wouldn't hurt, he thinks, helping himself by pouring it into his cup...
no subject
"Whoooooooa there, friendo." Tyzias reaches towards the teacup, sweating. It almost looks like it's melting in the strobing lights of the party, but that can't be right. Can it? "You, uh. You definitely don't have the- you just can't handle that shit, alright? It's dangerous."
The brew was made from the nebulae of the Interdimensional Cloud being combined with Tyzias's Melody-infused blood for a lark. It's a miracle that it hasn't exploded already, really.
no subject
"I assure you," he says, raising a finger as if to scold her. "Contrar-ily to whatever you think, I am made of far hardier stuff than I think you or anyone else here," he swings the finger around in a gesture to encompass the room, "realizes. I handle dangerous shi-things all the time. I do. Honest. Only been discorporated once."
fr it would straight up kill a mortal but azzy would be fine come morning
"You don't fucking understand," Tyzias says through gritted teeth. She begins gesturing wildly, giving Aziraphale the perfect opportunity to drink the shot if he's so inclined. Oops. "This shit would melt through the floor and cause major structural- are you even listening, it would literally turn you inside out-"
no subject
He downs it in one go.
And looks at the cup as if it has betrayed him. Vile.
"I'm afraid that's just not my cuppa tea." He then pats the table and pushes his seat back, standing unsteadily.
The room swims in a Rain Bow of color and light and he thinks perhaps she might appreciate the story of its creation since she has so many of them, but his seat must have grown legs. Because instead of returning to it, Aziraphale finds himself on the floor with a dumbfounded laugh.
1/2
no subject
(1/2)
(2/2)
Crowley's on his feet and at the scene before he can even consider whether she's being literal, much less serious at all. Sunglasses are bumped slightly askew, so a very observant person might wonder if they saw something gold and gleaming underneath. Or, at least, a glance at posture might suggest that Crowley's been in situations where 'your boyfriend's dying' was an actual thing to tangle with.
He relaxes for one minute and - if she thinks this is funny he is going to do something very not nice -
Crowley looks at the spot where Aziraphale is giggling bewilderedly on the floor. He raises his eyes slowly to Tyzias, staring blankly.
"He's drunk, idiot."
no subject
"Oh, no," he says. Aziraphale is usually the one called names, though they're generally far more derogatory. Crowley is usually the one who catches everyone's eye...regardless of their orientation. Unable to see Tyzias, his hazy vision lands on Crowley instead. And lingers just a moment too long, squinting up at him in the dark, assessing him. His giggles give way to a slow smile: one a touch sleepy and a bit of something else. "Crowley's much too old to be called that."
no subject
Tossing a microphone at Crowley, Tyzias continues. “It’s your lucky fucking day, though! Since you’re here, the resonance of your world’s Melodies should be enough for me to pull this off. We don’t have a lot of time, so I need you to do exactly what I’m going to say. Understood?” In this moment, Crowley can see a glimpse of what Aziraphale gazed into that night: something deep and dark and ancient and terrible in Tyzias’s eyes, full of burning intent and purpose. It’s easy to get lost in them for a moment, fall into her purple irises as if careening through the stars... it’s almost like looking into the eyes of the Big Man Downstairs.
no subject
But Tyzias's words are catching up with him, and he can hear in her voice that something is very fucking wrong. And that's before he catches a look at the thing behind her eyes, and grabs hold of a chair like he's worried he'll be forcibly thrown to the ground.
He has at least a dozen questions. Adrenaline promptly takes all of them and chucks them into a bonfire. He grips the microphone hard, not giving it a second glance because yes, obviously. He'll sing the complete Shirley Temple songbook as Beelzebub's personal dancing bear, if that's the way to make Aziraphale be not gone.
"What if he's not human? The - thingy, music, whatever you're talking about, does it work right if he's not human?"
no subject
Tyzias doesn't miss a beat when Crowley asks his question. She always had her suspicions—exacerbated by Fell's drunken ramblings—but it didn't matter now. "It'll be fine. Melodies are complicated shit that I don't have time to explain, but they'd work even if he was a fucking cherub or leprechaun or whatever. Now. I can tell just from looking at you two that you have different tastes in music, but..." Tyzias finally finds whatever she's been looking for, pulling a guitar from nowhere. "Are there any songs that you two both like? Or hold emotional significance for both of you? Or even one that you two were listening to while getting absolutely sauced?"
no subject
When Aziraphale is safe and well, and he's strangled Tyzias and brought her back to life, Crowley's going to have to figure out if she's actually more powerful than them. That's 'back of his mind' business, though, and he'll unpack it later.
Front of the mind has to be reserved for an occult mixtape, somehow. Crowley's got the musical library of all human history to sort through, and a dim memory of the music of the spheres. There's a lot of songs that are About Aziraphale. Songs he's heard and enjoyed With Aziraphale, in spite of their different tastes. But one shows itself almost immediately, and it's the only possible choice.
He tells her.
sorry for incoherent tag i am turnning low on people fuel
Pulling what look like electrodes out of literally nowhere, as she's wont to do, Tyzias tosses one to Crowley before hooking the other up to her now-keytar. "Plug that into the microphone and put the cuppy end on his chest. Then start singing."
no subject
"This'll be sorted in a few minutes, all right? I'll take care of everything."
Crowley hopes there'll be a day that rescuing him can be something romantic again, a flirtation, a chance for a demon to do good for someone very important. Right now, though, it's all they've got.
He rises and gives Tyzias the signal to play. And it could only ever be this song. The exact moment that nothing hovered over their heads or lurked below their feet. The moment he felt with an ineffable certainty that a toast 'to the world' meant the same thing for both of them.
The moon that lingered over London town
Poor puzzled moon, he wore a frown
How could he know we two were so in love?
The whole darn world seemed upside down
When the song is done he's holding the microphone in a white-knuckled grip, looking down to Aziraphale to assess the results. Then over to Tyzias to see if it was enough.
no subject
Golden energy surges through the electrodes, pumping Melody into Aziraphale's system—which is quite a pleasant, tingly feeling, all things considered. Purple nebula intertwined with harsh, hissing static floods out of his mouth as the smooth gold overtakes the Calamity. Before it can seek another host, Tyzias's hand snaps forward, grabbing the ribbon and absorbing it into her veins.
She staggers backwards, breathing heavily... and gives Crowley a thumbs up.
sorry
Instinctively, he leans ever so gently into Crowley's touch (he isn't even fully aware, but it must be Crowley's--it can only be Crowley's touch) and suspects the demon is working on the promised hangover cure. Such a darling. He should just carry Aziraphale off and tuck him into bed like he would a child. Sleep, which has never been one of the angel's particular interests, sounds wonderful right now. Hold me as I fall asleep, he thinks, and lets himself be manhandled. Is Crowley undressing him? When had they gotten upstairs? No matter. He trusts Crowley to take care of it all.
And then, instead of removing his shoes and drawing up the covers, Crowley begins to sing.
His Crowley has always had a nice voice. It's gentle and soothing, when he wants it to be; it can slither like a snake and wind around your heart. Sleep hangs heavy behind his closed eyes, and he lets the music overtake his senses. He was never dying, never thought he was close to discorporation, so it would all be a surprise to know that they two are trying to save him from his own foolishness. Maybe he'll be interested in knowing that later, when that golden melody formless isn't singing through both his body and his uncorporeal form, rich and thick like honey.
A gasp leaves him along with a pleased little shiver, tingling like he's returning to his corporation after a little jaunt in Crowley's, and without opening his eyes, he trails a hand down to cover his fluttering heart. He feels warm and flushed and a touch indecent, like after a nice dream.
"Mm, that was lovely."
no subject
Right. Okay.
"All right. Up you go." Crowley loops one arm around Aziraphale to help him to his feet. Once he's upright and standing, the demon raises a hand and snaps dramatically. He glares at the room when it dares to stay unchanged.
"Right! Party's over, hope everyone had a lovely time, and no, I don't do birthdays. You!" He points to Tyzias, unflinching. "You're cleaning up. You know why." If the spell has left her unable to deliver, he either doesn't notice or expects her to figure it out. Oh, looks like someone flipped a table over. Good, not his problem.
"Come on, angel." And if he gets no protest from Aziraphale, he's steadying him and making their way to the door.
no subject
"I'm very sorry about all this," he calls out apologetically as he allows himself to be ushered out. He finally manages to be a bit concerned about the room as they leave--spotting an overturned table, the empty cups and plates and...is that a bottle of ranch dressing?? Dear lord, why?--but not enough to stay and help clean up. He's an angel, after all, not a saint--and, besides, he's currently on the arm of a very dashing demon.
Then, with the same ease with which he suggested Lunch? as his own executioner was taken off to death in his stead, Aziraphale puts his tired head on Crowley shoulder, looks up innocently at him and suggests: "Back to mine?"
no subject
He blushes, visibly.
"Yeah. Your place sounds great. Night's still young."