Icon by @ThatSpookyAgent. Call me Tir or Julian. 37. He/They. Queer. Twitter: @tirlaeyn. ao3: tirlaeyn. 18+ Only. Star Trek. The X-Files. Sandman. IwtV. OMFD. Definitionless in this Strict Atmosphere.
Aziraphale’s phone rings. He answers, expecting it to be Crowley. But to his surprise, it’s a demon he’s never met.
“I’m Crowley’s replacement,” the demon says. “He’s not done anything impressive lately, and Downstairs doesn’t like how ineffective he is at keeping you in line. So now he’s shuffling paperwork and scooping up hellhound shit while I do his job for him.”
“Ah… I see,” Aziraphale says icily. “Well, I most assuredly do not look forward to working with you.”
The demon laughs. “Feeling’s mutual.”
Twenty-four hours later, the demon is very surprised to find himself discorporated in his sleep. He can’t explain what happened, he has absolutely no idea.
“Don’t let it happen again,” Beelzebub says, annoyed, and sends the demon back up.
After a mere three days, the demon ends up discorporated again.
A new replacement is sent up. This one lasts for a week and a day.
A third replacement is sent up. This one lasts for exactly four hours.
Three demons are sent up next time. Two manage to stay alive for at least five months. In that time, they botch four very important temptations, and the citizens of London inexplicably find their daily lives much improved in thousands of little ways. Traffic and pollution are nonexistent, injury and illness are miraculously avoided. Church attendance is up five hundred percent, and every politician and CEO is struck by the urge to donate as much money as possible to charity. There’s a general feeling of contentedness and goodwill in the air that wasn’t there before. It feels downright heavenly.
Suddenly, Beelzebub is having a very hard time finding anyone to take Crowley’s post. Bribes and threats make no difference. The rumors have spread and only grown more disturbing in the telling. Not one demon is willing to go up there and face the cold, calculated, merciless wrath of the angel known as Aziraphale.
Crowley absolutely loses it when someone gets around to telling him. “Y’know, I could’ve warned you,” he says gleefully. “Been working with him for thousands of years. I know exactly how much of a bastard he can be.”
After running the numbers and seeing how many souls they’ve lost to Heaven in the past year, Beelzebub gives up and concludes that trying to replace Crowley is a massive waste of resources Hell can’t afford.
After one year, Aziraphale receives another phone call. He answers, with bated breath, and nearly shouts for joy when he hears a familiar voice.
“Hi, angel. Lunch on me?”
OP this is exactly, completely, my kind of Aziraphale characterization I’m in love with this little fic
gerard way grew up during the reagan administration. they grew up getting called a girl and not understanding how it made them feel. they grew up finding salvation in learning about trans people. they grew up idolizing women and queer folks and never being able to openly say it in interviews. and now look at them.
like. jokes and panic and horny posting aside. this actually means so much to me. it means so much to trans people. just the fact that they could put on a costume and have fun but never in a diminutive, mocking way. they weren’t making fun of the dress. they were twirling and prancing and swinging their hips and LAUGHING. they have that freedom now. to not only have that femininity but to play in it. be light in it
this was so healing. this was so joyful. this was so fun and light and silly and deep and real. they know of course they know and they know we know and they delight in it. don’t they
Apparently if you find a tagged Horseshoe crab and report it to Fish and Wildlife they’ll send you a certificate with info about your crab AND a pewter horseshoe crab pin! Keep your eyes peeled 👀
ALT
