The Known/Unknown Quantity

Chapter 81: The Realm of Ghosts

Chapter 81: The Realm of Ghosts

"I don't recall looking this vicious, angel," Crowley managed, finding himself pinned by the same commanding stare of this solidest of wraiths.

"No," Aziraphale assured, at last freed, and finding his friend caught too. "This is not how you were, or ever will be."

"Then what is it?" The thing's bright green eyes welled with so much distain, loathing, sick humor. As if Crowley were a bug and it was deciding whether it was worth the effort to squash him, and might, if the act delivered any sort of entertainment.

"It's the you that reviles my precious snake, sweet boy."

Crowley grip the sword, and it erupted in blue flame.

The old Crowley of the Cosmos did have green eyes. But not these. Not these hard, cruel, insufferable spheres reflecting back at him. He had to fight the urge to stand back, and the thing saw it and actually grinned at his pitiful display.

"You dressed it in my After-Paradise Collection," he croaked, indicating the dark rags. The angel made no response.

And as if to press the point, the wraith pulled its hood back, exposing its long snaking coils.

"Hair and all."

Then, beaming fiendishly back, it glided away from them to confront the poor shadow waiting down the hill. The sword nearly dropped to the ground.

Crowley once more locked eyes with Aziraphale, who still hung on.

"Are you ok?"

"I---I think so. I need to—"he reached out and brushed Crowley's cheek. It was then his shoulders sagged and he sighed.

"I'm the real one, not an afterimage," the demon reminded him, gathering himself together, "I haven't left your side."

"Just needed a touch stone moment." The angel rose his chest and blinked up at him. "I'm alright now." And they exchanged glances, and looked on.

Crowley raked his nails through his hair," Mph! Ok, I'm calling him Willard."

Aziraphale did a double-take. "Willard? You're naming the thing?"

The demon shrugged his head to one shoulder," Eh, helps to disassociate. Here, name yours."

Perplexed, the angel turned his attention to the bright figure waiting for Willard to greet him. "Reginald," he said with a reminiscing smile.

The demon glared at him, not asking that question. "Oi, can't be a nice name. Has to be someone that, dunno, annoys you." The angel returned a loaded look. "You know what I mean."

Aziraphale sighed with his eyes and tried again, then said," Chaz."

Crowley coughed. "Chaz?"

"That rude young man from the States? Remember? At the coffee shop in the Carolinas?" Aziraphale made a face. "Spelled my name on the cup just Az, even after I properly instructed him on the spelling."

Crowley grinned and pointed the tip of the blade at him. "You only pretend to hate that nickname."

"There's no pretending about it, and stop waving that thing around like a sozzled privateer!" He brought up a finger and meaningfully shoved it down. "You'll cut me, for heaven's sake."

"Won't cut you, angel. Your flame."

"Then what about you? That's the Old War fires, or did you forget already?"

And, to prove a point, the demon ran his fingers across it, nearly stopping the angel's heart.

"Not the sort of thing you forget," Crowley explained. "It's your fire. It will never hurt me."

The angel just gaped.

"So, Chaz."

"What? Oh yes, Chaz."

"That'll do."

"Oh, no, this won't do."

The last sentence sounded like Crowley's voice, but that wasn't the source. It came from down the hill, and acted like a reset button against their nervous chatter. They both froze.

It sounded like Crowley if he were Satan ready to torture Gabriele. It crawled, slithered through the bowels of the earth, carrying the echoing wails of lost souls absorbed into the murky edges of its utterances. It rose and fell, and sang and tantalized, paused and vibrated. It did unseemly things to the hindbrain and the spinal column, and left bubbles in the fluids inside your head that refused to pop and probably shouldn't.

In short, it sent shivers down their spines, and returned their focus to the play.

"I see Willard has made it down the hill," Crowley uttered morosely. Leaving one hand on the sword, he reached over and held the angel's hand. "Remember the script."

"Yes," Aziraphale answered forebodingly. "This is where the action begins."

"Hold on for dear life, and remember: you know what to expect."

"The same to you, sweet boy."

"....right...."

Chaz leaned up to look at Willard with expectant adulation. Crowley hated that look on the shade. Aziraphale had never displayed that much surrender. No, that much longing to be mentally gutted.

It looked alien and made Crowley's chest burn.

Willard grazed the kneeling figure with a malicious sneer. "This will not do," it repeated in a rumbling, oily chuckle. His long fingers raised the angel's expectant face. "No, we need to get rid of that—"

"Angel, you have that wall up, yet?" Crowley hissed through clenched teeth, feeling his muscles coiling, acid rising in his throat. The burning in his chest moved into his tightening limbs.

Aziraphale blinked," What?"

The demon hollered," The Wall. Now would be a good time—"

Willard placed his thumb on the third eye....

"Now, angel!"

...and dug in, squelching it.

"NNNNOOOOOO!!!!"