Aziraphale, defected or not, is an angel - a principality, in fact. Lower caste angels, made to receiver orders, and created to guide and protect. But there's something he's always done wrong - he always protected the wrong thing. The wrong idea. The wrong person.
He's been wrong a lot. But most times he's been wrong, he'd like to believe it was with the right intentions.
He doesn't have time to react. Before he knows it, the Duke has him by the throat and off his feet, unneeded breath forced out of his lungs. He grips at his arm, eyes wide, finding himself facing a reality he's seen many times, but never quite as clear -
This is it.
He stares at those black, hateful eyes. He digs his nails into the torn fabric of his sleeves and he stares, as Hellfire licks the walls and tears the place asunder. As the colorful lights and loud music are nothing but recent memories, and a place of joy and laughter and community become a scarily accurate example of the very pits of Hell. And he can't see Crowley anymore.
He can't hear him.
And he hopes he ran. He doesn't think he did. But he hopes, for a second, that this could mean something. That he did something. Maybe something right.
It burns.
His eyes turn up to the ceiling. He can't tell if it's the fire or something else, but everything's starting to blur. To go white. But he sees the ceiling, darkened lights reflecting the light of the flames.
He blinks. And he imagines the ceiling collapsing.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2019-08-19 10:45 pm (UTC)He's been wrong a lot. But most times he's been wrong, he'd like to believe it was with the right intentions.
He doesn't have time to react. Before he knows it, the Duke has him by the throat and off his feet, unneeded breath forced out of his lungs. He grips at his arm, eyes wide, finding himself facing a reality he's seen many times, but never quite as clear -
This is it.
He stares at those black, hateful eyes. He digs his nails into the torn fabric of his sleeves and he stares, as Hellfire licks the walls and tears the place asunder. As the colorful lights and loud music are nothing but recent memories, and a place of joy and laughter and community become a scarily accurate example of the very pits of Hell. And he can't see Crowley anymore.
He can't hear him.
And he hopes he ran. He doesn't think he did. But he hopes, for a second, that this could mean something. That he did something. Maybe something right.
It burns.
His eyes turn up to the ceiling. He can't tell if it's the fire or something else, but everything's starting to blur. To go white. But he sees the ceiling, darkened lights reflecting the light of the flames.
He blinks. And he imagines the ceiling collapsing.
Lets hope he has good aim.