Happy Holidays, mildlydiscouraging!
Jan. 5th, 2019 05:33 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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go_exchangemildlydiscouraging, your Secret Author used your prompt to write this fic just for you!
Rating: General
Characters: Anathema, Newt, Crowley, Aziraphale
Prompt: Anathema, free of prophecy, goes to university and lives life for a while.
There and Book Again
University catalogues were scattered everywhere.
Different cities, different countries, different continents. Anathema had been careful to hide them from Newt, though. Who knew how he would react?
She leafed through a German catalogue. Huh. Chemistry sure seemed nice.
Adam sat at the table, slurping at his juice box and dangling his feet.
“You’re going away,” he said.
“I am,” she confirmed. She didn’t have to say where or why; if he wanted to know, he already did.
Adam looked into the distance. “Chemistry always did sound interestin’, you know. Blowing things up and such.” He suddenly looked up with a grin. “Good luck.”
“Thanks,” Anathema replied.
Anathema slammed shut the old leather suitcase she‘d previously used to move all her things to Jasmine Cottage and sat on it. Despite the intentional omission of a certain tome of prophecy, there didn’t actually seem be more room.
“Do you really have to go?” Newt asked.
Anathema turned toward him. He was giving her The Look that on anyone else would have passed for puppy-dog eyes. On him, it just looked watery.
“I’m afraid so,” she said, “I can’t just skip out. I've already paid the tuition and everything.”
“But…” Newt looked like he might cry.
“I promise I’ll write you,” Anathema said. 1 She finally managed to buckle the last strap and stood.
“Now, if you’d excuse me,” she said, lugging her suitcase off the bed, “I have a plane to catch.”
1 She didn’t.
With a few hours to kill before her plane took off to Hamburg, Anathema got off the bus, breathing in the city atmosphere. She looked around, with the strange sense of nostalgia one gets when leaving one’s home country with no intention of returning, then froze.
There, hidden among the loud and garish signs, hung one with Mr. Fell’s Books printed in elegant, loopy script, and in smaller, red letters, SOLD.
She had to squeeze past a big, black car while crossing the street. A sign on the door proclaimed Closed, but a little bell tinkled when she opened the door. The dusty bookshelves were half-empty. Most of the books were packed in unsealed cardboard boxes without any discernible system.
“Oh for Go—Sa—somebody’s sake, it says we’re closed, why can’t any of you cretins read—”
A man, or at least a man-shaped being in a dark suit and sunglasses rounded the corner.
“Oh. It’s you,” Anathema said.
He cocked his head to the side. “Have we met?”
“Yes. It was fairly dark and wet, and you gave me a ride, and your…friend fixed my bike and stole my book.”
“Oh. Yeah. About that.” The man turned around and hollered into the depths of the bookshop, “Angel! The girl is here, so would you just hurry up and get over here!”
A stuffy-looking man, who wore a plaid suit that had fallen out of fashion fifty years before it had been made, bustled in far too quickly for him to not have been eavesdropping.
“Dear girl! I didn’t expect you to come—”
At that moment, one of the straps holding Anathema’s suitcase burst. A tidal wave of clothes and other paraphernalia spread across the floor.
“Oh dear,” said Aziraphale.
“Bless it,” said Crowley.
“Well, fuck,” said Anathema.
Amidst the clothes strewn across the floor lay an ancient tome.
Aziraphale stepped forward and gingerly picked it up as Crowley and Anathema stuffed the clothes back into Anathema’s suitcase.
Crowley passed a hand over the scuffed leather surface and the clothes fit without a problem.
“Dear girl,” Aziraphale began, “I’m sure you’d like your first book back…”
“Keep it,” Anathema snapped. “Keep both of them. I don’t want them, never have.” She nodded at the man in the sunglasses. “Thanks. But I should go.”
“Wait,” the man said. He chewed his lip. “I—I have a car. Could I give you a lift to Heathrow?”
She gave him a long, cool look. “I’d appreciate that,” she said.
The man with the sunglasses hefted Anathema’s suitcase into the back of his car as Anathema watched him through the rear view mirror. He slammed the boot closed and dropped into the driver’s seat. He leaned over to rummage around the glove compartment in search of a tape and poked at the radio until it gobbled it up and started playing Radio Ga Ga. He pulled out of the parking space and sped down the street. He didn’t seem to be doing it on purpose; more like he was distracted and doing it out of habit.
Regardless, Anathema refused to be intimidated.
“You haven’t mentioned your name, have you?”
The man glanced sideways at her. “No. I haven’t. It’s Crowley.”
“Anathema Device. Nice to meet you.” She extended her hand and he grasped and shook it.
Crowley’s lips twitched in the approximation of a smile as he echoed the sentiment. “Nice to meet you.”
She waited for a few minutes before asking, “Crowley what?”
“Er, what what?”
“Like, is Crowley your first or last name? Do you even have a first name?”
He shifted in his seat. “It’s A.J. Crowley. Anthony J. Crowley.”
Anathema tried to get a first taste of the name. “Anthony J. Crowley? What’s the J stand for?”
He glanced at her again, amused this time. “Awfully nosy, aren’t you?”
“I've spent my whole life reading the answers from a book. It’s time to find my own answers, don’t you think?”
Crowley smiled. It was a little faint, but it was a genuine smile. “I suppose it is.”
Eventually, they slowed to a stop in front of her terminal and he got out of the car.
Anathema stared at the commotion around. She had never seen so many people hurrying about without even looking at each other. Some were saying goodbye to their families, others sitting on their luggage reading books. None of them were talking to each other.
“Yes, I know. It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?” Anathema turned and saw Crowley grinning at her. He had opened her door and was holding out a hand. She let herself be helped out of the car and stood on the sidewalk while Crowley hefted her suitcase out.
“Take care of yourself,” he said, straightening his jacket, “drink your milk, eat your vegetables, don’t sell your soul, that kind of stuff.”
“Sure. Thanks for the ride.”
“And do write, will you? Here—” he produced a red card and waved it at her “—we’re in the process of moving to a nice little cottage in South Downs. Horrible really, but I’ll make sure to check the mail at my flat once in a while, so...”
“I will,” 2 Anathema said and pulled Crowley down into a hug. He stood cold and stiff for a second before tentatively wrapping his arms around her, like he couldn’t believe she was hugging him.
When she let go of him, she swore she saw him blink a few times behind his sunglasses before his face settled on his usual flash bastard expression. She grabbed her suitcase and smirked.
“Good luck with your angel. Let me know if and when a wedding’s in the works so I can help with the planning,” she called.
Crowley sputtered. “He’s not m—I’m not—we aren’t—it’s not like that!” 3
But, as Anathema turned away, she saw him smile and heard him mutter thanks.
2 She did. Irregularly at first, but after a while they were exchanging letters on a regular basis. Crowley and Aziraphale even came to visit her a few times.
3 All of these statements, however incomplete, managed to be bald-faced lies. Of course it was like that.
After a battery of invasive safety procedures (did they really have to screen her handbag?), Anathema finally watched England recede from the window of her plane. She missed her bread knife. She was served a strangely tasteless sandwich and a tiny glass of tomato juice. She still smiled at the flight attendant.
“Um,” Anathema said, “Hello?”
Several heads turned towards her.
“Entshuldigung, aber ish—ish suche eine Wohnung?”
“It’s okay,” one of the girls assured her, “we speak English.”
“Thank God. I’m looking for flatmates.”
“...and that’s why I decided to become a witch!” the girl finished.
The rest of the girls toasted with their wine glasses and cheered.
“And what about you?” someone asked Anathema. “You seem like the witchy type as well.”
Anathema shrugged. “It does run in my family. Used to be my whole life, but things happened. I decided it just wasn’t for me.”
“Alright. Everyone got their goggles? Great, let’s go.”
Anathema swarmed into the lab with the other fifty first-years and searched the tables for the sheet of paper with her name on it. There it was, black on white on red brick. She picked up the key from an assistant in exchange for a fee, opened her cupboard and started removing her equipment to check it. A stand (slightly rusty), a sticky heater, a Bunsen burner...her fingers closed around old leather.
Anathema pulled out an ancient book, took a single look at it, got up from where she was kneeling on the floor, marched to the disposal room and dumped the book into the contaminated combustibles bin.
Anathema walked through the library, books weighing down the plastic basket in her hand. She picked out a last one and laid on top of the others. She hauled the basket onto the counter top and checked her watch while the librarian checked her books out.
“Oh my,” the librarian said.
Anathema looked up from her watch.
The librarian was holding a very large, dusty tome in her hands.
Anathema could just barely make out the name of the author: A. Nutter
“You know what actually,” Anathema said, “You keep it. Have a nice day. ”
She smiled, turned around and left.
Rating: General
Characters: Anathema, Newt, Crowley, Aziraphale
Prompt: Anathema, free of prophecy, goes to university and lives life for a while.
There and Book Again
University catalogues were scattered everywhere.
Different cities, different countries, different continents. Anathema had been careful to hide them from Newt, though. Who knew how he would react?
She leafed through a German catalogue. Huh. Chemistry sure seemed nice.
Adam sat at the table, slurping at his juice box and dangling his feet.
“You’re going away,” he said.
“I am,” she confirmed. She didn’t have to say where or why; if he wanted to know, he already did.
Adam looked into the distance. “Chemistry always did sound interestin’, you know. Blowing things up and such.” He suddenly looked up with a grin. “Good luck.”
“Thanks,” Anathema replied.
Anathema slammed shut the old leather suitcase she‘d previously used to move all her things to Jasmine Cottage and sat on it. Despite the intentional omission of a certain tome of prophecy, there didn’t actually seem be more room.
“Do you really have to go?” Newt asked.
Anathema turned toward him. He was giving her The Look that on anyone else would have passed for puppy-dog eyes. On him, it just looked watery.
“I’m afraid so,” she said, “I can’t just skip out. I've already paid the tuition and everything.”
“But…” Newt looked like he might cry.
“I promise I’ll write you,” Anathema said. 1 She finally managed to buckle the last strap and stood.
“Now, if you’d excuse me,” she said, lugging her suitcase off the bed, “I have a plane to catch.”
1 She didn’t.
With a few hours to kill before her plane took off to Hamburg, Anathema got off the bus, breathing in the city atmosphere. She looked around, with the strange sense of nostalgia one gets when leaving one’s home country with no intention of returning, then froze.
There, hidden among the loud and garish signs, hung one with Mr. Fell’s Books printed in elegant, loopy script, and in smaller, red letters, SOLD.
She had to squeeze past a big, black car while crossing the street. A sign on the door proclaimed Closed, but a little bell tinkled when she opened the door. The dusty bookshelves were half-empty. Most of the books were packed in unsealed cardboard boxes without any discernible system.
“Oh for Go—Sa—somebody’s sake, it says we’re closed, why can’t any of you cretins read—”
A man, or at least a man-shaped being in a dark suit and sunglasses rounded the corner.
“Oh. It’s you,” Anathema said.
He cocked his head to the side. “Have we met?”
“Yes. It was fairly dark and wet, and you gave me a ride, and your…friend fixed my bike and stole my book.”
“Oh. Yeah. About that.” The man turned around and hollered into the depths of the bookshop, “Angel! The girl is here, so would you just hurry up and get over here!”
A stuffy-looking man, who wore a plaid suit that had fallen out of fashion fifty years before it had been made, bustled in far too quickly for him to not have been eavesdropping.
“Dear girl! I didn’t expect you to come—”
At that moment, one of the straps holding Anathema’s suitcase burst. A tidal wave of clothes and other paraphernalia spread across the floor.
“Oh dear,” said Aziraphale.
“Bless it,” said Crowley.
“Well, fuck,” said Anathema.
Amidst the clothes strewn across the floor lay an ancient tome.
Aziraphale stepped forward and gingerly picked it up as Crowley and Anathema stuffed the clothes back into Anathema’s suitcase.
Crowley passed a hand over the scuffed leather surface and the clothes fit without a problem.
“Dear girl,” Aziraphale began, “I’m sure you’d like your first book back…”
“Keep it,” Anathema snapped. “Keep both of them. I don’t want them, never have.” She nodded at the man in the sunglasses. “Thanks. But I should go.”
“Wait,” the man said. He chewed his lip. “I—I have a car. Could I give you a lift to Heathrow?”
She gave him a long, cool look. “I’d appreciate that,” she said.
The man with the sunglasses hefted Anathema’s suitcase into the back of his car as Anathema watched him through the rear view mirror. He slammed the boot closed and dropped into the driver’s seat. He leaned over to rummage around the glove compartment in search of a tape and poked at the radio until it gobbled it up and started playing Radio Ga Ga. He pulled out of the parking space and sped down the street. He didn’t seem to be doing it on purpose; more like he was distracted and doing it out of habit.
Regardless, Anathema refused to be intimidated.
“You haven’t mentioned your name, have you?”
The man glanced sideways at her. “No. I haven’t. It’s Crowley.”
“Anathema Device. Nice to meet you.” She extended her hand and he grasped and shook it.
Crowley’s lips twitched in the approximation of a smile as he echoed the sentiment. “Nice to meet you.”
She waited for a few minutes before asking, “Crowley what?”
“Er, what what?”
“Like, is Crowley your first or last name? Do you even have a first name?”
He shifted in his seat. “It’s A.J. Crowley. Anthony J. Crowley.”
Anathema tried to get a first taste of the name. “Anthony J. Crowley? What’s the J stand for?”
He glanced at her again, amused this time. “Awfully nosy, aren’t you?”
“I've spent my whole life reading the answers from a book. It’s time to find my own answers, don’t you think?”
Crowley smiled. It was a little faint, but it was a genuine smile. “I suppose it is.”
Eventually, they slowed to a stop in front of her terminal and he got out of the car.
Anathema stared at the commotion around. She had never seen so many people hurrying about without even looking at each other. Some were saying goodbye to their families, others sitting on their luggage reading books. None of them were talking to each other.
“Yes, I know. It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?” Anathema turned and saw Crowley grinning at her. He had opened her door and was holding out a hand. She let herself be helped out of the car and stood on the sidewalk while Crowley hefted her suitcase out.
“Take care of yourself,” he said, straightening his jacket, “drink your milk, eat your vegetables, don’t sell your soul, that kind of stuff.”
“Sure. Thanks for the ride.”
“And do write, will you? Here—” he produced a red card and waved it at her “—we’re in the process of moving to a nice little cottage in South Downs. Horrible really, but I’ll make sure to check the mail at my flat once in a while, so...”
“I will,” 2 Anathema said and pulled Crowley down into a hug. He stood cold and stiff for a second before tentatively wrapping his arms around her, like he couldn’t believe she was hugging him.
When she let go of him, she swore she saw him blink a few times behind his sunglasses before his face settled on his usual flash bastard expression. She grabbed her suitcase and smirked.
“Good luck with your angel. Let me know if and when a wedding’s in the works so I can help with the planning,” she called.
Crowley sputtered. “He’s not m—I’m not—we aren’t—it’s not like that!” 3
But, as Anathema turned away, she saw him smile and heard him mutter thanks.
2 She did. Irregularly at first, but after a while they were exchanging letters on a regular basis. Crowley and Aziraphale even came to visit her a few times.
3 All of these statements, however incomplete, managed to be bald-faced lies. Of course it was like that.
After a battery of invasive safety procedures (did they really have to screen her handbag?), Anathema finally watched England recede from the window of her plane. She missed her bread knife. She was served a strangely tasteless sandwich and a tiny glass of tomato juice. She still smiled at the flight attendant.
“Um,” Anathema said, “Hello?”
Several heads turned towards her.
“Entshuldigung, aber ish—ish suche eine Wohnung?”
“It’s okay,” one of the girls assured her, “we speak English.”
“Thank God. I’m looking for flatmates.”
“...and that’s why I decided to become a witch!” the girl finished.
The rest of the girls toasted with their wine glasses and cheered.
“And what about you?” someone asked Anathema. “You seem like the witchy type as well.”
Anathema shrugged. “It does run in my family. Used to be my whole life, but things happened. I decided it just wasn’t for me.”
“Alright. Everyone got their goggles? Great, let’s go.”
Anathema swarmed into the lab with the other fifty first-years and searched the tables for the sheet of paper with her name on it. There it was, black on white on red brick. She picked up the key from an assistant in exchange for a fee, opened her cupboard and started removing her equipment to check it. A stand (slightly rusty), a sticky heater, a Bunsen burner...her fingers closed around old leather.
Anathema pulled out an ancient book, took a single look at it, got up from where she was kneeling on the floor, marched to the disposal room and dumped the book into the contaminated combustibles bin.
Anathema walked through the library, books weighing down the plastic basket in her hand. She picked out a last one and laid on top of the others. She hauled the basket onto the counter top and checked her watch while the librarian checked her books out.
“Oh my,” the librarian said.
Anathema looked up from her watch.
The librarian was holding a very large, dusty tome in her hands.
Anathema could just barely make out the name of the author: A. Nutter
“You know what actually,” Anathema said, “You keep it. Have a nice day. ”
She smiled, turned around and left.
(no subject)
Date: 2019-01-05 11:39 am (UTC)"All of these statements, however incomplete, managed to be bald-faced lies. Of course it was like that." --> this must be one of my favourite footnotes ever :)
(no subject)
Date: 2019-05-07 04:32 pm (UTC)There was just no way I was going to let those two go without giving them at least some screentime lmao.
Also there are just some things you can't shake, whether that is the habit of making questionable decisions, ending up in covens or ancient prophecies about the past end of the world.
That might be my favourite footnote in the fic as well. The footnotes were really fiddly (thank the mods for formatting btw) so I'm really glad you liked that one!
(no subject)
Date: 2019-01-05 12:47 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2019-05-07 04:32 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2019-01-05 01:53 pm (UTC)He glanced at her again, amused this time. “Awfully nosy, aren’t you?” hahaha!
"drink your milk, eat your vegetables, don’t sell your soul, that kind of stuff.” I absolutely love your Crowley!
And Anathema is so great! Well done!
(no subject)
Date: 2019-05-07 04:35 pm (UTC)Crowley was (and still is) great fun to write - he is that strange mix of cool, dorky and appreciative of unlikely virtues that makes him an absolute hoot to play with.
(no subject)
Date: 2019-01-05 02:19 pm (UTC)I love how she's still keeping contact with Aziraphale and Crowley
(no subject)
Date: 2019-05-07 04:38 pm (UTC)I don't think Agnes wants her to read the book as much as to do something (anything, really) about it - if she really wanted Anathema to read it or to follow her prophecies she would use them in viral marketing campaigns or time them on TV or radio so Anathema catches them at just the right moment. YMMV, though.
And I would have adored more interactions with A/C in the book, but if you can't get canon homemade is fine, right?
(no subject)
Date: 2019-01-05 07:56 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2019-05-07 04:45 pm (UTC)It's always interesting to see how characters make their way after the end of the story - do they heal, do they drown, do they dump everything out and start over?
Quite honestly, I mostly wrote Anathema studying chemistry because that's what I'm doing right now lol. However, chemistry can be like reading prophecies in that you know what comes out in the end but you still have to figure out how the mechanism works and what could potentially influence it.
Also soft Crowley is the best Crowley in my opinion and I am prepared to kill on that hill.
(no subject)
Date: 2019-01-07 04:56 am (UTC)"Oh dear," said Aziraphale.
"Bless it," said Crowley.
"Well, fuck," said Anathema.
...And, "Oh I love this," said I.
okay, first of all, telling a guy you felt pressured into liking that you'll write him when you move is actually the biggest mood of all time. anathema, girl, we've all been there. (also just a really lovely use of footnotes! the short comedic first one made the others even nicer, and a very sweet surprise, aw).
I loved crowley's odd tenderness, and I really loved anathema's first conversation with the girls—first of all, that they're talking about being witches, of course, and also "I decided it just wasn’t for me." is so heavy, in such a good way. it really made me feel, like, at least twenty things: a lot for once sentence.
and I really love the book turning up again and again! I love that it's both books, and then just the first; somehow that's much more resonant, like even if the physical contents of the prophecies no longer matter post-unapocalypse, it still matters that she have it and not forget the burden of being a Descendent.
that feeling she talks about toward the beginning, "the strange sense of nostalgia one gets when leaving one’s home country with no intention of returning," just really characterized this whole piece for me, and I loved it because it's such a specific feeling, and so complicated, and yet so simple that you can sum it up in a clause and immediately I'm like, oh, yes, I know that. it's comedic that the book keeps turning up, and it's wonderful to watch her try to move on, but tracking the differences in the ways she reacts, from trying to forget it entirely to trying to foist it on others to trying to destroy it to just. smiling and walking away. OOF, DUDE, I made myself emotional again just recounting it!
really this was just... SO amazing. I loved it so much, agh, it really is more wonderful than I could've hoped. thank you secret author! can't wait to find out who you are lol
(oh my god and just... imagining aziraphale's face when the book disappeared from wherever he'd been presumably reading it and into anathema's basket at the library is almost as great as the entire fic combined. you'll get it one day, honey. I believe in you.)
(no subject)
Date: 2019-05-07 05:10 pm (UTC)First of all: I am so very glad you liked it.
Footnotes are hard, and I tried very hard to put at least a little Pterry in there and I seem to have succeeded. Whoo!
Abandoning pastimes and sometimes entire identities that have been dictated to you your entire life can be so heavy and so light at the same time. Doing so without resentment requires a certain degree of confidence and maturity - you are not rebelling because you protest your life to that point, you are cleaning out old things and leaving them on the curb for anyone to take.
Agnes probably doesn't care about what's in the book so much as Anathema gets to decide what happens with it - the first one she lost/ got stolen by a certain angel. She might have control over the post-apocalypse part, but if she doesn't deal with her past first it will haunt her.
That very specific feeling when you're leaving and you know it will never be the same? How your heart aches for all the good times you had and the familiarity of the streets you saw change from year to year? How a part of you doesn't want to go because it will always stay under the floorboards or curled behind the heater and you have to cut it out, let it loose and leave it behind?
Yeah. I know that one.
When you throw things out, especially something so massive, it leaves behind an empty space and people tend to forget that. How many times do you think Anathema bought a stack of newspapers and sat in Jasmine Cottage, getting ready to go through them to match them to th prophecies only to remember she didn't do that anymore? That that wasn't who she wanted to be anymore? Of course she had to go and find something to fill that space, and once she had she stopped wondering if she should have thrown it out in the first place.
If your comment had been the only one I had received, I think it might have been worth it. I have gone back and reread it a few times and even now it makes me smile and makes something inside of me light up at least a little, often a lot, even on the darkest days. Thank you so much for the kind words.
(no subject)
Date: 2019-01-08 12:27 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2019-05-08 04:35 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2019-01-28 06:26 pm (UTC)“Bless it,” said Crowley.
“Well, fuck,” said Anathema. <This encapsulates their personalities so we'll xD I love Anathema just ditching Newt despite his failed, watery puppy eyes. That seems more realistic than how they hooked up xD “I will,” 2 Anathema said and pulled Crowley down into a hug. He stood cold and stiff for a second before tentatively wrapping his arms around her, like he couldn’t believe she was hugging him. <AWWWWW I hope she manages to eventually Dodge the book once and for all!!! I love chemistry :) Edit:. Sorry DW is messing up the formatting of my comment!!
(no subject)
Date: 2019-05-09 05:50 pm (UTC)Don't worry, despite the formatting your message is loud and clear :).
I am so glad you think I nailed their personalities, Newt might be sweet but he's still such a loser it hurts a little.
Who knows if that was really the last time she found that book or that book found her? Even more, does it matter if she ignores it?
(no subject)
Date: 2019-02-17 01:43 am (UTC)"drink your milk, eat your vegetables, don’t sell your soul," Good advice, I'll have to remember this XD
And OF COURSE it was like that!!!
The book is following her XD Run, Anathema, you've got this :D
(no subject)
Date: 2019-05-10 05:03 pm (UTC)Aziraphale is so amazingly unfashionable it's an art form or a train wreck, except it isn't nearly as fun to look at.
Crowley might actually be good at advice, being the prime tempter and knowing exactly where and why people fail. When he is not flustered out of his mind, that is.
Crowley trying to deny the obvious? It's more likely than you think!
And Anathema has certainly a few more tricks up her sleeve if that book won't quit.