𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐍, ineffable husbands

soothing lullaby

TW FOR MENTIONS OF SUICIDE

Year six: Neither of them spoke about that night. Crowley's pride was too strong, and Aziraphale didn't seem to care that much that it happened. Maybe he assumed it would happen at some point anyway. It was appreciated that he kept his mouth shut, however.

Six long years seemed to pass near the speed of a long blink. Where at first the demon hated seeing that stupid idiot's grin, now he seemed to miss it when he couldn't find him. They found themselves talking more and more, sometimes about the past, sometimes about the present, but never about the future. It was still indeterminate if there was one.

Out of force of habit, he found himself in the fields outside the house again. The flowers hummed a welcome back song, the trees nodded in approval. There was something almost nostalgic about the field; if he could ever remember, he could say it resembled his human life. He never would be able to.

He sat down, fiddling with flowers and humming a tune he didn't know. He could somehow piece notes and rhythms together without thinking; it had been a while since he listened to a hymn or song. He didn't question what his mind was making up.

"You're humming." Of course, the peace and quiet had to be ruined. He opted not to respond to Aziraphale and kept humming.

A voice that wasn't the flowers nor the trees or the sky followed along in a sort of harmony. He frowned in confusion, looking toward the other person. Tilting his head, he paused his song. How could this be something he knew? His mind was telling him what to sing.

"What's wrong? Do you not remember?" God, he was confusing.

"Remember what? A melody my mind's making up?" When in doubt, answering questions with more questions surely made a conversation easier to follow.

"You don't remember, huh? It's a hymn we'd sing in our past life. I thought you were...." He trailed off. "Nevermind. But I remember us living in the same village, didn't we?"

Crowley looked at him dumbfounded. He was wrong. This conversation was getting harder to follow by the second. "I don't know. I thought I was just humming nonsense." They both trailed off, observing the sky together. Then the angel started to sing.

"Once there was a maiden so fair
Who's love ran off, she didn't dare
To follow his path; she wept alone.
She cried in her room,
She built her own tomb,
A stone for her and her alone.
Oh cry, fair maiden,
Cry for your love,
You'll never find him
'Til you're flying with doves."

The air was silent for a short while; nobody made a sound. The hymn of sorts made the sky silent with love, and the trees hushed to hear more. The grass welcomed the sound. His voice and his voice alone could fill the void that was his heart.

"...That's rather morbid, don't you think?" Crowley lied in the field of flowers, while the angel opted to stay sitting up. "A metaphor for suicide?" He was trying to fill the silence without compliments. Truth be told, he wanted him to continue. It was strange how his brain remembered a single melody, but never the words. Was it all slowly coming back?

He could hear Aziraphale's eye roll from above. "It was the middle ages. Everything was morbid." It wasn't as if he soured the mood, but it certainly shifted. He wasn't sure if he wanted it to.

"Your voice is soothing." The words left his mouth stupidly. He closed his words off in case more slipped out. He laughed at the compliment. What was so funny?

"Why thank you. I never considered myself a good singer." He turned to look up at him, admiring him from below. To think of it, he was a very attractive person. The sky seemed to give him more life.

He continued singing, albeit softly. He didn't mind. Laying his head back down, he could nearly envision the story as it was sung. A woman lost her husband due to suicide, and battled her inner emotions about it until she was of old age. It wasn't until she was on her deathbed when she could finally accept what happened, and as she looked back upon her life, there was nothing but sorrow to look back on.

He closed his eyes, absently humming along. He didn't quite remember the song, but he could faintly recall a memory absorbing his senses.

˚₊‧꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

He sighed as he rested against the door to his room. There was blood splattered on his hands and his clothes were ripped and tattered. She hadn't gone down without a fight. Looking at his fingers, he found his nails were chipped. The day had been painfully, painfully long.

He opted to wash up in the morning. It wasn't as if he had visitors, anyhow. Slinking into his poor makeshift bed, he sighed as he tore off what remained of his shirt, depositing it onto the ground. He took a last glance of the handcrafted, mildewed wooden walls around him. His father made it himself. His face had been forgotten.

Bundling under the horrid, itchy cloth he had managed to afford, he hummed his favorite song to himself. It had always comforted him after work. He tried to push the poor woman's screams out of his mind; it never worked. But the song was nice, anywho.

His eyes closed on his own, and a frown followed it. He had an assassination for a man named Aziraphale in the morning. For some reason, he wasn't looking forward to it.

˚₊‧꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Crowley sat up. Aziraphale stopped singing. He had just remembered something. His eyes widened. Still smelling blood, he looked around. He was back, making music with the flowers and the trees with the sky to applaud. The grass shook beneath his palms. The grass shook? He looked at them himself; they were violently shaking.

He had just remembered something. The angel grabbed said shaking hand, politely smiling at him. Did he know? It didn't seem like a second of time had passed. How would he know?

"Crowley." His perfect voice snapped him out of his morally crude thoughts. "Your horns are gone." The program was working. He was slowly being given redemption.