Murphysscribe - Murphy's Scribbles

the urge to write is like a cat meowing for dear life for someone to open the goddamn door, who then shows utter disinterest in said open door

thinkin about the chosen one story told from the pov of the person standing next to them again. thinkin about the one who has to stand by and watch the chosen one become a weapon, a sacrifice, an offering to the machinations of plot and can do nothing but make sure they’re fed and rested and soothe them when they wake up screaming from nightmares. thinkin about the fierce devotion that has to exist to follow someone to the end of the world just so they don’t have to die alone. thinkin about the terror they’d feel every step of the journey knowing it’s not their place to change how the story plays out. thinkin thinkin thinkin.

We get, rightfully imo, pretty sad and somber and naval-gazey about Discworld and Sir Terry on the 25th of May but I need everyone who might be discovering this series through this annual outpouring of love and sadness that these books are mostly just really fucking funny. Like, they're heart-wrenching and poignant but really they can only pull that off because they're also the funniest books ever written. There's a line near the end of Hogfather that, when I read it, made me feel more deeply connected to, like, the concept of humanity then I ever have before, but the book was only able to deliver that because the rest of it is about what if Santa Claus got kidnapped and a Big Skeleton had to take over his job? It's a patently ridiculous series but that is absolutely also where it's power comes from.

When You Fall Asleep

Ace Omens Hugfest prompt - "an accidental hug"

Rome, 41 AD

“Would you like any more oysters?” Aziraphale asked, leaning forward to acquire a bowl of grapes. “Or are you all set?”

“Nnnh, this m’ set. I don’t, er. Eat big meals all that often.” Blinking slowly, Crowley pushed his tiny dark glasses up onto the top of his head. They knocked into his silly silver laurel wreath, and he hissed in irritation. “Guh. Here, hold this.”

He wrenched the wreath off and put it on Aziraphale’s head. It slid to one side and bumped into his ear, threatening to topple off.

With a chuckle, Aziraphale adjusted the wreath and fluffed his hair up to accommodate it. “Very stylish. What is with your outfit, anyway? I don’t think togas are supposed to be black, are they?”

“M’ not gonna be caught dead in white, am I?” Crowley snapped, snatching the jug of wine. “Probably literally caught dead. D’ya have any idea what Hell would probably do to me if I showed up wearing white? Besides, blood shows on white. S’ not exactly a good thing for a demon to be wearing.”

Aziraphale frowned, confused by the sudden outburst. “I know you’re a demon, but it’s not as if you’re running around stabbing people. Are you?”

“No! I’m the one getting stabbed, usually. And beaten, cut, whipped, whatever.” Crowley’s irritated expression slid to deeply glum. “It’s better when I can stay on Earth. I like Earth, even when I’m having to deal with bastards like Caligula. At least it’s not… I can get away from it all, up here.”

“Ah.” Unsure what to say, Aziraphale twisted his hands together. He eyed Crowley, suddenly quite chilled. “And you had to go to Hell recently?”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

Even Aziraphale, who sometimes struggled with such things, couldn’t miss the heavy sarcasm in Crowley’s voice. Swallowing hard, he slid a little closer on the dining couch. “I’m sorry. Is there, um… anything I can do to help?”

Crowley shrugged and poured his wine. He largely missed the cup, pouring wine all over his leg. “Shit. M’ not very coordin… whatever. Maybe had too much to drink.”

He drank more anyway, then clumsily topped off Aziraphale’s cup as well. Aziraphale drank, a trifle lost. He was quite intoxicated himself, and that made it rather difficult to determine the right course of action. But there must be something he could do.

“Are you injured anywhere?” he asked, leaning to look at Crowley’s toga. He didn’t see any bloodstains, but it was black, after all. Much harder to see blood, indeed. “I could heal you.”

“Nuh. Not hurt anymore.” Crowley swayed, reaching for the jug again. He let out a derisive snort. “Too bad we didn’t run into each other yesterday. Coulda used it then.”

“Oh! Oh dear.” Stricken, Aziraphale clutched his hands together again. “Oh, I didn’t realize you’d been hurt so recently. I’m sorry. You really ought to be resting, rather than me pestering you to spend time together.”

Something odd tugged at Crowley’s expression. He took another drink, then set the cup down and leaned back. His dark glasses fell off his head and vanished amid the pillows. “Nah. This is, er. A good distraction. Hanging out and everything. It’s loads better than just sitting around being all blah. And we can argue and stuff! I like when we get all…”

He did some sort of complicated flailing gesture with both arms, as if trying to demonstrate the enthusiastic verbal sparring they’d engaged in earlier. Then he overbalanced, toppled over, and slammed into Aziraphale’s side.

“Oh!” Aziraphale automatically caught him, pulling his limp body closer. “Crawley— Crowley, are you quite all right?”

“Nnnnyeaaah,” Crowley mumbled, eyes closed. “I just. Just. Er. Drinking.”

“Yes, you certainly have been drinking.” Concerned, Aziraphale hugged him closer. Then he realized he was hugging a demon, and wondered if he ought to stop.

But no. He didn’t want to stop. And Crowley was certainly too drunk to straighten up. Really, Aziraphale was more than slightly drunk, and therefore possessed lowered inhibitions. It was quite reasonable to hug a demon, under those circumstances.

Crowley had been rather tense all day, a fact Aziraphale had noticed earlier without realizing the cause. Now, though, Crowley went quite liquid in his arms, like a cat fitting into an oddly shaped container. “Oh. Wow. You’re really ridiculously warm, you know that? S’ like. Like. Sunning on a really soft rock or something.”

“Quite a compliment,” Aziraphale teased softly. “And you look rather thoroughly intoxicated and on the verge of dozing off.”

“Nnnhrgnmph.”

Smiling, Aziraphale cradled the demon to his side, Crowley’s head on his shoulder. Crowley had somehow gone even more liquid now, his lips slightly parted, eyes still closed. His breaths slowed, deepening. Perhaps he really was falling asleep.

Remarkable, that Crowley could feel safe enough to sleep here after being hurt so recently. The trust was quite an honor, really, and Aziraphale gladly settled in to watch over him.

you will live and you will say the wrong things and make mistakes and people will love you anyways.