Good Omens fic! Sort of.
Apr. 22nd, 2004 09:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
clo_againNow see I've been bouncing this idea around for a week or so and tonight finally settled down to start it. However I've never actually written *anything* like this before I don't think, so I thought I'd post what I've written to get any opinions on it that I can. It *feels* like it could be of epic proportions, or at least have multiple fics set in the same universe but then again, I'm new to this fandom and decided second, third and possibly fourth opinions would be a good idea.
So, around the first 2,000 words or so, totally unedited, just as a trial:
Title: Tears of Heaven
Rating: R
Pairing: None really as of yet, though knowing me Crowley/Aziraphale is a definite probability.
Summary: The Apocalypse happened. End of story? Maybe not. Set after the conclusion of the book rather than being AU.
~
Tears of Heaven
Sometime during the twenty-first century, the world came to an end. One averted Apocalypse resulted in an uneasy truce for a while but nothing lasts forever. The Heavenly host descended; the Hellish army rose and the human race was systematically destroyed in less than a year. A few desperate survivors went into hiding in hopes of both armies wiping themselves out, which they did, along with every major city and most none-major ones on the planet once called Earth. Dust filled the sky; the sun vanished and over 6,000 years of history vanished in less than a decade. Angel fell side by side with demon; immortal blood soaked into the soil rendering miles of land sterile. Planet life died; animal life shortly after. At the end of it all a lone angel stood by the side of a lone demon on a blasted, empty plain and said nothing. There was nothing to say.
Nobody ever knew which side won.
~
It was raining. This was nothing new. It had been raining almost constantly for the last three years, alternating between pelting drops the size of golf balls and worse, a light, teasing drizzle that falsely promised sunshine not far away. Dust mingled with the falling drops so nothing was ever clean no matter how much water washed over it. For the few remaining remnants of Earth’s population, being wet, cold and dirty was a way of life. It was survival of the fittest and if you wanted to be warm and dry, well…. six feet under you’d stop caring about either.
For the cloaked and hooded figure walking through what used to be St James’ Park, the rain was unpleasant but tolerable. It tricked down his face, down his neck, soaking his tattered clothes until he shivered ceaselessly. Strands of pale golden hair clung damply to his face, fell over his blue eyes with the crows’ feet wrinkles around the edges. He looked like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. He looked like a man with a death wish.
This was London, post-Apocalypse. There was always someone around to grant a wish like that.
The men moved out of the shadows, of which there were plenty with the sun obscured by clouds of rain and dust. They encircled the newcomer in silence, grim men with grimmer expressions. Their eyes spoke of endless nights fighting to survive, of pain, of blood, of death. The weapons they held were make-shift at best; what little useful materials left after the War beaten and battered in shapes to bruise, to stab, to kill. No guns; the demons had seen their usefulness first and days later the angels had the same idea. A flaming sword was impressive but a divine-powered gunshot could shatter a wing from as far as a mile away. Within a year all such weapons were gone. Humanity was reduced to the basics; metal shards, glass, the occasional dagger. It didn’t matter how they looked as long as they could draw blood.
Such weapons glinted dully in the hands of the men closing swiftly in on the intruder. He stood quietly, let them get close with no more than the slight shifting of his weight. At the last moment one of his attackers paused, sensing something was wrong. His comrades kept going. The newcomer smiled bitterly at them from under his hood.
Within seconds most of them were dead.
The cloaked man moved with superhuman grace and strength, blocking blows or simply moving so they fell where he’d been moments before. Blood splashed his hands; his arms, his clothes but it was them or him and no matter how strong a death wish, defence of life is a strong, primal instinct that cannot be ignored. When, less than a minute later, the stranger faced only one attacker brandishing a club of barbed wire he raised his chin and met the eyes of his victim. The man who once had had a family, a little girl named Ceri and a pretty wife with red hair and sparkling eyes saw his own death in that dead, empty gaze and dropped the club. It hit the bare, rocky ground with a clatter that almost obscured the sound of the man’s neck breaking. He dropped beside his weapon a second later.
The newcomer watched the blood of his victory mingle with the puddles for a moment, streaming away down to the flooded river. Crimson swirled briefly around his ankles before the dirty rain washed it away. The stranger pushed back his hood and turned his face upwards, letting his tears be hidden by the dust-filled drops and the dark shadows of London at noon under a dark sky.
“It’s good to be home,” Aziraphale whispered bitterly.
~
He was quiet as he walked through London. He’d left soon after the War, unable to stand the shattered buildings and worse, the shattered people. London was unrecognisable. Big Ben was a hollow tower with the roof sagging, looming against the skyline as a mockery of everything it had once stood for. The clock was long gone. The British Museum was a mountain of rubble; well-picked over for the ancient swords and spears it had once displayed so proudly in glass cases. Aziraphale’s shop wasn’t even dust at the bottom of the crater where Soho used to be. He stood at the edge looking down, his ragged cloak rippling in the wind that howled grief through the hollow ruins still left standing. There were no birds, no trees. Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure why he’d come back. Nearly everywhere else was the same, though in the countryside a few defiant trees struggled to drag life from the blasted earth. There was nothing calling Aziraphale back to London apart from an ache in his heart that spoke of happier times; of eating at the Ritz; narrow yellow eyes watching him; pale skin and long fingered hands. Everything that meant he should have stayed as far away as possible. He gave the hole where his home used to be one final look and turned to leave. He should never have come back.
A figure, robed and hooded in black was standing in front of him.
Aziraphale shut his eyes briefly, a dangerous move in front of anyone now. His old words taunted him; Evil never sleeps and Virtue is ever vigilant! All he wanted to do was lie down and not have to do any of it anymore. Sleep seemed like a welcome prospect if he could find some that didn’t contain screams and fire and blood.
“I’m tired,” he said honestly. “I’m cold. I’m wet. And I’m not someone you want to mess with. Please. Go away.”
The stranger shrugged and turned away but instead of leaving beckoned Aziraphale to follow. The former angel growled in disgust.
“If you think I’m stupid enough to fall for that you should be dead by now.”
Another shrug, and the stranger turned back, holding out a hand. Aziraphale tensed ready for a weapon but paused when all he saw was a scrap of paper protected from the rain by a battered plastic bag. He leaned warily in, flattening the plastic to see through it better.
For a moment he thought he must have read it wrong. His eyes blurred with rain or tears; he blinked them away impatiently and read it again. There was no mistaking the distinctive, slanted cursive.
Trust him you idiot.
It was signed with a swirled black snake. Aziraphale swallowed hard and uselessly wrapped his arms around himself to try and still his shivers.
“Tell him thanks but no thanks,” he told the stranger politely. “I’m leaving now. Good day.”
It took an enormous effort to turn and stumble away. Part of him knew this was half the reason he came back; to end it. He knew that scrap of paper held the answer to everything he’d searched for the world over. He could end it tonight in the flash of sharp metal and spurting blood that was more real to him now than miracles and hymns had ever been. All it would take was one swift stab, metal through flesh and it would end.
Part of him didn’t want it to.
He kept going, picking his way through the debris and rubble. He knew if he looked back the man in black would have vanished to relay his message. It didn’t matter. He still knew London well enough to hide for one night before leaving. He couldn’t travel as far without rest as he used to and the faces of the men he had killed earlier still haunted him. He stumbled through the pattering curtains of rain through what had once been streets; there the empty shell of a car, here a few rotted bones of a dog that might once have been a treasured companion. Aziraphale was a silent, broken figure walking through a silent, broken city. He didn’t look up until he reached an old bunker he knew in the depths of the old Palace Gardens. He unlocked it with a rusty key and slipped inside, locking the door again behind him. He ate a few stiff, old strips of unidentifiable meat from the safe set into the wall and drank three swallows of clean, precious water from a flask hanging by a chain around his neck. It was alarmingly light as he screwed the lid back on. Forcing it from his mind he curled up on a pile of rags in the corner and closed his eyes to and endless parade of bloodied faces and blank, staring eyes that whispered in soft, ceaseless voices... Murderer.
He was woken after only a few hours by something scratching at the door. He slid off his ‘bed’ as quietly as possible and brought out the weapon he kept hidden most of the time. It gleamed with a sickly corpse-light in the utter darkness of the bunker. Aziraphale moved to one side of the door and raised it ready over his head.
The door swung open with a tortured shriek of metal, but before Aziraphale could strike something hard crashed into his stomach, driving him backwards to the floor. He landed with a thud that drove the breath from his lungs in a huge whoosh and brought a strangled groan through his clenched teeth. Freezing metal pricked the skin of his throat and he felt a trickle of blood creep over his skin. Cold fingers prized the weapon from his hand and he let them drop it with a clatter.
A hiss of a match; a moment later warm yellow light blossomed in the darkness. It illuminated Aziraphale’s thin, smudged face with dark circles under the eyes and dried blood across one cheek. It illuminated the miserable bunker, the broken sword Aziraphale had dropped and a pale demon with dark hair and shining golden snake eyes. In one hand he held the match; in the other half a broken sword; the end wrapped in cloth for a makeshift hilt. It cut a little deeper into Aziraphale’s throat as the demon pressed down harder.
“Hello Aziraphale,” hissed Crowley.
~
Apologies for any lack of italics and so on; I'm rushing so I've probably missed some. Opinions are welcome. More un-related Good Omens fic should be appearing as soon as it's edited.
Love, peace and jelly babies,
Clo
So, around the first 2,000 words or so, totally unedited, just as a trial:
Title: Tears of Heaven
Rating: R
Pairing: None really as of yet, though knowing me Crowley/Aziraphale is a definite probability.
Summary: The Apocalypse happened. End of story? Maybe not. Set after the conclusion of the book rather than being AU.
~
Tears of Heaven
Sometime during the twenty-first century, the world came to an end. One averted Apocalypse resulted in an uneasy truce for a while but nothing lasts forever. The Heavenly host descended; the Hellish army rose and the human race was systematically destroyed in less than a year. A few desperate survivors went into hiding in hopes of both armies wiping themselves out, which they did, along with every major city and most none-major ones on the planet once called Earth. Dust filled the sky; the sun vanished and over 6,000 years of history vanished in less than a decade. Angel fell side by side with demon; immortal blood soaked into the soil rendering miles of land sterile. Planet life died; animal life shortly after. At the end of it all a lone angel stood by the side of a lone demon on a blasted, empty plain and said nothing. There was nothing to say.
Nobody ever knew which side won.
~
It was raining. This was nothing new. It had been raining almost constantly for the last three years, alternating between pelting drops the size of golf balls and worse, a light, teasing drizzle that falsely promised sunshine not far away. Dust mingled with the falling drops so nothing was ever clean no matter how much water washed over it. For the few remaining remnants of Earth’s population, being wet, cold and dirty was a way of life. It was survival of the fittest and if you wanted to be warm and dry, well…. six feet under you’d stop caring about either.
For the cloaked and hooded figure walking through what used to be St James’ Park, the rain was unpleasant but tolerable. It tricked down his face, down his neck, soaking his tattered clothes until he shivered ceaselessly. Strands of pale golden hair clung damply to his face, fell over his blue eyes with the crows’ feet wrinkles around the edges. He looked like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. He looked like a man with a death wish.
This was London, post-Apocalypse. There was always someone around to grant a wish like that.
The men moved out of the shadows, of which there were plenty with the sun obscured by clouds of rain and dust. They encircled the newcomer in silence, grim men with grimmer expressions. Their eyes spoke of endless nights fighting to survive, of pain, of blood, of death. The weapons they held were make-shift at best; what little useful materials left after the War beaten and battered in shapes to bruise, to stab, to kill. No guns; the demons had seen their usefulness first and days later the angels had the same idea. A flaming sword was impressive but a divine-powered gunshot could shatter a wing from as far as a mile away. Within a year all such weapons were gone. Humanity was reduced to the basics; metal shards, glass, the occasional dagger. It didn’t matter how they looked as long as they could draw blood.
Such weapons glinted dully in the hands of the men closing swiftly in on the intruder. He stood quietly, let them get close with no more than the slight shifting of his weight. At the last moment one of his attackers paused, sensing something was wrong. His comrades kept going. The newcomer smiled bitterly at them from under his hood.
Within seconds most of them were dead.
The cloaked man moved with superhuman grace and strength, blocking blows or simply moving so they fell where he’d been moments before. Blood splashed his hands; his arms, his clothes but it was them or him and no matter how strong a death wish, defence of life is a strong, primal instinct that cannot be ignored. When, less than a minute later, the stranger faced only one attacker brandishing a club of barbed wire he raised his chin and met the eyes of his victim. The man who once had had a family, a little girl named Ceri and a pretty wife with red hair and sparkling eyes saw his own death in that dead, empty gaze and dropped the club. It hit the bare, rocky ground with a clatter that almost obscured the sound of the man’s neck breaking. He dropped beside his weapon a second later.
The newcomer watched the blood of his victory mingle with the puddles for a moment, streaming away down to the flooded river. Crimson swirled briefly around his ankles before the dirty rain washed it away. The stranger pushed back his hood and turned his face upwards, letting his tears be hidden by the dust-filled drops and the dark shadows of London at noon under a dark sky.
“It’s good to be home,” Aziraphale whispered bitterly.
~
He was quiet as he walked through London. He’d left soon after the War, unable to stand the shattered buildings and worse, the shattered people. London was unrecognisable. Big Ben was a hollow tower with the roof sagging, looming against the skyline as a mockery of everything it had once stood for. The clock was long gone. The British Museum was a mountain of rubble; well-picked over for the ancient swords and spears it had once displayed so proudly in glass cases. Aziraphale’s shop wasn’t even dust at the bottom of the crater where Soho used to be. He stood at the edge looking down, his ragged cloak rippling in the wind that howled grief through the hollow ruins still left standing. There were no birds, no trees. Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure why he’d come back. Nearly everywhere else was the same, though in the countryside a few defiant trees struggled to drag life from the blasted earth. There was nothing calling Aziraphale back to London apart from an ache in his heart that spoke of happier times; of eating at the Ritz; narrow yellow eyes watching him; pale skin and long fingered hands. Everything that meant he should have stayed as far away as possible. He gave the hole where his home used to be one final look and turned to leave. He should never have come back.
A figure, robed and hooded in black was standing in front of him.
Aziraphale shut his eyes briefly, a dangerous move in front of anyone now. His old words taunted him; Evil never sleeps and Virtue is ever vigilant! All he wanted to do was lie down and not have to do any of it anymore. Sleep seemed like a welcome prospect if he could find some that didn’t contain screams and fire and blood.
“I’m tired,” he said honestly. “I’m cold. I’m wet. And I’m not someone you want to mess with. Please. Go away.”
The stranger shrugged and turned away but instead of leaving beckoned Aziraphale to follow. The former angel growled in disgust.
“If you think I’m stupid enough to fall for that you should be dead by now.”
Another shrug, and the stranger turned back, holding out a hand. Aziraphale tensed ready for a weapon but paused when all he saw was a scrap of paper protected from the rain by a battered plastic bag. He leaned warily in, flattening the plastic to see through it better.
For a moment he thought he must have read it wrong. His eyes blurred with rain or tears; he blinked them away impatiently and read it again. There was no mistaking the distinctive, slanted cursive.
Trust him you idiot.
It was signed with a swirled black snake. Aziraphale swallowed hard and uselessly wrapped his arms around himself to try and still his shivers.
“Tell him thanks but no thanks,” he told the stranger politely. “I’m leaving now. Good day.”
It took an enormous effort to turn and stumble away. Part of him knew this was half the reason he came back; to end it. He knew that scrap of paper held the answer to everything he’d searched for the world over. He could end it tonight in the flash of sharp metal and spurting blood that was more real to him now than miracles and hymns had ever been. All it would take was one swift stab, metal through flesh and it would end.
Part of him didn’t want it to.
He kept going, picking his way through the debris and rubble. He knew if he looked back the man in black would have vanished to relay his message. It didn’t matter. He still knew London well enough to hide for one night before leaving. He couldn’t travel as far without rest as he used to and the faces of the men he had killed earlier still haunted him. He stumbled through the pattering curtains of rain through what had once been streets; there the empty shell of a car, here a few rotted bones of a dog that might once have been a treasured companion. Aziraphale was a silent, broken figure walking through a silent, broken city. He didn’t look up until he reached an old bunker he knew in the depths of the old Palace Gardens. He unlocked it with a rusty key and slipped inside, locking the door again behind him. He ate a few stiff, old strips of unidentifiable meat from the safe set into the wall and drank three swallows of clean, precious water from a flask hanging by a chain around his neck. It was alarmingly light as he screwed the lid back on. Forcing it from his mind he curled up on a pile of rags in the corner and closed his eyes to and endless parade of bloodied faces and blank, staring eyes that whispered in soft, ceaseless voices... Murderer.
He was woken after only a few hours by something scratching at the door. He slid off his ‘bed’ as quietly as possible and brought out the weapon he kept hidden most of the time. It gleamed with a sickly corpse-light in the utter darkness of the bunker. Aziraphale moved to one side of the door and raised it ready over his head.
The door swung open with a tortured shriek of metal, but before Aziraphale could strike something hard crashed into his stomach, driving him backwards to the floor. He landed with a thud that drove the breath from his lungs in a huge whoosh and brought a strangled groan through his clenched teeth. Freezing metal pricked the skin of his throat and he felt a trickle of blood creep over his skin. Cold fingers prized the weapon from his hand and he let them drop it with a clatter.
A hiss of a match; a moment later warm yellow light blossomed in the darkness. It illuminated Aziraphale’s thin, smudged face with dark circles under the eyes and dried blood across one cheek. It illuminated the miserable bunker, the broken sword Aziraphale had dropped and a pale demon with dark hair and shining golden snake eyes. In one hand he held the match; in the other half a broken sword; the end wrapped in cloth for a makeshift hilt. It cut a little deeper into Aziraphale’s throat as the demon pressed down harder.
“Hello Aziraphale,” hissed Crowley.
~
Apologies for any lack of italics and so on; I'm rushing so I've probably missed some. Opinions are welcome. More un-related Good Omens fic should be appearing as soon as it's edited.
Love, peace and jelly babies,
Clo
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no subject
Date: 2004-04-23 08:12 am (UTC)^__________^
Date: 2004-04-23 11:16 am (UTC)Much Good Omens fic should be appearing soon. I blame you for encouraging me. ;-)
Re: ^__________^
Date: 2004-04-23 11:40 pm (UTC)*slinks back* And, YAY MORE FIC TEEHEE!
*slinks off, now with doubly sly hand movements*
Re: ^__________^
Date: 2004-04-24 11:50 am (UTC)Just hope they don't gnaw/stab me to death before I finish. ;-)
*wanders off to continue writing the fic*