#(do you think dowlings would want someone who looks the way crowley usually looks to watch their kid?)

[akhmatowa]

extremely subjective whining ahead

one of my pet peeves is this fandom's unshakeable belief in Crowley Is So Good With Kids. just because he didn't want to kill a child in s1???? there's a very big difference between "doesn't want to have a child's blood on his hands" (he was perfectly fine with that blood being on aziraphale's hands instead) and "is so motherly and loves kids and is constantly hanging out and playing with them".

yes, he sang lullabies to little warlock, but if your infernal boss had hired you to babysit his kid and if the fate of the entire world was at stake, you'd be singing your ass off too. these were extraordinary circumstances and this doesn't mean that his dream pastime is putting preschoolers to bed!!!

#connected to the second point is my annoyance at fandom believing that just because he dressed Like That while playing nanny #(do you think dowlings would want someone who looks the way crowley usually looks to watch their kid?) #he would also dress Like That when off the clock. that demon has human man gender dysphoria if he's not dressing as the coolest dude on the #block he's going into cardiac arrest. but whatever not gonna open that can of worms #fandom wank #masha.txt

[sammininoofthelord]

Fifth chapter of the 5+1 "5 times Aziraphale shielded Crowley from the rain, and one time he didn't."! Only the +1 left!

Collab with @zeckarin-blaise

Time for a bus ride!

You can read it on Ao3 by Zeckarin or bellow

**

Aziraphale stepped onto the bus, held out a note to the driver, and looked around while waiting for his ticket.

No one on this floor. Crowley probably waited for him on the top of the bus, like usual.

He offered the driver a smile, sent a discreet miracle his way (the poor man seemed exhausted and could use a little blessing to brighten his week), and took the stairs to join his friend.

Here was Crowley, arms folded, looking out the window with a scowl.

Oh, dear, thought Aziraphale. He had expected this. The weather had chilled considerably in the last few days, and the cold, unrelenting rain that had been falling all week long had forced nanny Ashtoreth and her charge to stay inside.

Warlock was a very lively child, and needed to exert himself a lot, usually by yelling and running around the grounds for the better part of the day, activities he would gladly engage in inside the house if obligated.

Thaddeus and Harriet Dowling had a lot to say to that, and trying to get Warlock to engage in more quiet activities was no easy task, and ended more often than not in impressive bouts of tantrums.

Did Aziraphale feel a little guilty at having stayed inside the small cottage allowed to the gardener on the far side of the grounds for the last five days? Yes, he did. But one could hardly expect him to work outside in such terrible weather, after all*.

Plus, the gardener wasn’t supposed to wander inside the ambassador’s house, with the exception of the staff’s kitchen for meals, so he couldn’t have helped Crowley watch after the child even if had wanted to**.

*And he had a lot of catching up to do on his readings.

** If being the key word.

 

“Hello, Crowley,” he said with a smile as he took the seat right behind the demon.

Crowley only grumbled something unintelligible (which was probably for the best).

Aziraphale grimaced, but decided to bravely go on. They were meeting to update each other on their mutual progress, after all. 

“How are things with the… ah… mission ?”

Very slowly, Crowley turned his head to meet his eyes over his sunglasses. The yellow, dilated pupils were a frightful sight.

Oh dear , repeated the angel inwardly, Warlock must have surpassed himself this time.

“There’s no way,” snapped the demon, “that you can succeed in turning this little beast towards the light.”

Aziraphale tutted. “Come now, dear boy, you are exaggerating. The boy is a little, ah, lively at times, but he is a sweet child overall.”

“Lively?” hissed Crowley through gritted teeth. “Lively? He stole a bucket full of soapy water while Sybil was mopping the second floor, and he put it on top of his bedroom’s door and called out for me. I got drenched . With dirty water.”

Aziraphale let out a small gasp of dismay.

“Oh, no! Someone could have been hurt!”

His friend answered with a glare. “I beg your fucking pardon? I’ve been hurt! I just told you so!”

The angel patted his arm in apology. “So sorry, Crowley. I did not mean to disregard your suffering. What did you do?”

Crowley huffed. “What do you want me to do? Couldn’t punish him for it, could I? I’m supposed to be the bad influence here!”

“You did not congratulate him, I hope?” asked Aziraphale with a slight frown.

Crowley shrugged. “Probably should have, but I don’t like getting wet, especially when I’m wearing a bodice and petticoats. That little trick ruined them.”

“Now, now, dear, it isn’t that bad. You always miracle your clothes anyway.”

Crowley scowled, but didn’t answer. The angel, after all, had a point.

He wasn’t done complaining, though. The beginning of winter was the worst time of the year, his inner snake rebelling against the arrival of the cold, and in his view, if he was in a foul mood, then everyone else should share it, starting with the smug angel right behind him who had probably spent the best part of last week drinking cocoa in front of a fire*.

*He had.

 

“Why are we meeting here anyway?” he growled, puckering his lips at a dry piece of gum plastered to the back of the seat facing him. “We could have taken my car. Thiss…” he waved around “is dissgusssting!”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Must we have this discussion every time? We need to stay inconspicuous, Crowley, and the Bentley is way too recognizable.”

“Neither of our sides would be able to tell the difference between her and a stagecoach , angel. They know nothing about humanity! And how inconspicuous are we here? Anyone could hear us!”

Aziraphale withheld a fond smile. Crowley obviously had had a very challenging week, and the weather was not helping. The poor dear needed a warm fire and a thick rug to sprawl onto and nap in his serpentine form, as well as some good wine and a compassionate ear to listen to his woes.

Thankfully, Aziraphale knew just the place. “Come on, dear, let us walk a little, I am sure it will do us good.”

The demon stopped in the middle of his rant and squinted his eyes at him. “Walk? In this weather?”

“Yes. I am afraid I feel rather restless after spending so much time sitting down lately.”

Crowley gaped. “Gh--h--wh--you’ve got to be kidding me!” he growled, standing up to follow him down the stairs, “ I was the one running everywhere all day long and having to wrestle the kid to sleep every night, and you had a hard time sitting down ?”

“It was dreadfully boring, I’ll have you know,” said Aziraphale haughtily, stepping out of the bus and unfolding his umbrella to cover them both.

Crowley huffed. “You never get bored, angel. I once saw you stand under a tree for two days without batting an eye just because you were thinking about dates you just ate.”

“They were very good dates!” protested his friend, before looking into the distance with a wistful smile.

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “You’re thinking about it again, aren’t you?”

The angel blinked, then blushed slightly. “Of course not!” he cried in a way-too-high voice.

“I can’t believe it. Here I am, living the worst day of my existence, and instead of commiserating with me, which, I have to add, would be the angelic thing to do, you’re thinking about fruits you ate seventeen centuries ago!”

“I am certain your day is not that dire, my dear,” only said the angel, turning at a corner to head towards Soho.

Crowley only grumbled, shoving the tip of his fingers into his pockets and squaring his shoulders against the cold. “I have no idea how it could get any worse.”

“Oh! Look at this!” exclaimed Aziraphale, pointing to a shop’s window excitedly.

Crowley frowned and turned, searching for whatever had caught his friend’s eyes.

“I don’t see any--” he started, looking back to the angel, only to see him walking away.

“Oi! What the fuck are you doing, Aziraphale? I’m getting wet here!” he shouted, catching up.

Aziraphale stopped and waited for him, eyes twinkling. “See? You could be getting wet. Again.”

He snapped his fingers to dry the few drops that had dared to land on the demon.

“Not that we can have that . Not after that awful prank young Warlock pulled out on you. Come now, dearest, the bookshop is not so far, let us warm up there.”

Mollified both by the endearment and the prospect of spending his off day napping in the backroom, Crowley followed, looking to the other side of the street where a man was running after his hat. The demon wiggled his fingers, and the headgear ended in a large, dirty puddle on the pavement, right before a passing car ran over it, it’s owner shouting at it angrily.

A smirk finally found its way on Crowley’s face.

The day didn’t look so bad anymore.

#good omens #good omens fanart #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #crowley #anthony j crowley #fanart #digital drawing #good omens fanfic

[pengychan]

[Good Omens] Winging It - Isaiah 40:31

Summary: Shockingly, attempting to destroy an angel without consulting God first comes with consequences. There is more than one way to fall, and a thousand more ways to inconvenience an angel and a demon who just wanted to be left in peace. Characters: Gabriel, Crowley, Aziraphale, Beelzebub, Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon Rating: T  

Prologue and all chapters are tagged as ‘winging it’ on my blog.

A/N: well, shit hits the fan and the end is near.

***

As the boy who was most assuredly Not The Antichrist - but who had nonetheless been their charge for about the first eleven years of his life - walked towards the front door of the bookshop in Soho, entirely unaware of being stalked by a man with a pocket knife, Aziraphale stood in the bedroom of a lovely cottage in the South Downs, not far from the Devil’s Dyke.

He knew it was rather rude, being roughly seventy-five miles away from the place where you happen to have an appointment in about five minutes’ time, but surely it was not too much of an issue, given that they would be right back in the bookshop by crossing the threshold of a rather miraculous door they had installed between the two places. And besides, Crowley had really wanted to show him something. 

That something being a luxurious, huge and hugely gaudy canopy bed with gold-plated columns and red velvet drapes that wouldn’t have looked too out of place in Versailles, before revolutionaries took most of its contents to an uncertain fate. As a piece of furniture still occasionally turned up in flea markets, Aziraphale wouldn’t put it beyond the realm of possibilities.

Said bed now occupied the greater part of the bedroom that Crowley had insisted they ought to have in the cottage, against Aziraphale’s suggestion to turn it into another room for his books. 

“We already have the loft for those, and the bookshop on the other side of the door,” he’d pointed out. “We need a bedroom.”

Aziraphale, who had actually last slept sometime in the nineteenth century and solely out of boredom while watching an especially poor performance of Troilus and Cressida - in itself far from Shakespeare’s best work, and the lead actor’s lisp had done it no favors - had been slightly taken aback. “But, my dear, we don’t need sleep,” he’d said, getting a snort out of Crowley. 

“We don’t need to eat either. So what?”

Aziraphale had to concede he had a point, although he didn’t quite see the allure of laying in a semi-comatose state for several hours while hallucinating the same way he saw the allure of a slice of red velvet cake, and agreed that the cottage would indeed have a bedroom. It was only fair considering the space he had for his books, so that was a compromise he did not regret. 

Telling Crowley he was welcome to choose whatever bed he liked himself, however, was something Aziraphale did regret. He knew that Crowley’s taste when it came to furniture ranged from dreadfully minimalistic to unbearably garish, but this - the golden columns, the red heavy velvet - was… a little too much. 

“Well, what do you think?” Crowley was asking, looking as proud of himself as he had after moving that golden monstrosity he called a throne right next to Aziraphale’s old trusty armchair in the loft, entirely ignoring the way Aziraphale’s right eyebrow had twitched. 

This time, it was the left eyebrow to twitch. 

“Well, it is-- rather…” Aziraphale raked his brain for a polite way to put it. “Eye-catching.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Crowley grinned, even prouder. Aziraphale suspected his euphemism had been a little too subtle. “I remembered what you said when I came to save your butt in France.”

“... That I wanted crêpes?”

“That you had standards. French royalty standards.”

“Well, it was not quite royalty level, more along the lines of a noble--”

“This beauty comes straight from Versailles.”

Ah, of course. Of course it did. 

“Or, well, not so straight. It went around across Europe quite a bit. But here it is, as you see.”

“Yes. I… I do see.” Aziraphale managed a smile. No harm done, he thought - he didn’t have a habit to sleep as Crowley did, so he would hardly ever need to be in that room at all. He would just entirely forget about that bed. Out of sight, out of mind. 

“The mattress is new, clearly. You’ll like it. Real plush.”

Aziraphale blinked. “That sounds nice, but I am not in the habit of sleeping.”

“You should try. Nothing better than some time spent in a semi-comatose state while vividly hallucinating.”

A chuckle. “You’re not making it sound very alluring.”

“Ah, I should up my temptation game. I’m out of practice. When was the last time I tempted you into anything?”

“This morning, actually, you--”

The chiming of the grandfather clock downstairs - a very tasteful eighteenth century clock Aziraphale had long debated whether to move in the cottage or keep in the bookshop - cut him off, and reminded him of… well, of the time. 

“I believe Warlock should arrive any moment now - we should head back,” he said, and they did. It looked like the boy might get there before Gabriel popped in to return the book, and if that turned out to be the case… well, Aziraphale really hoped he had enough sense to put the book in a bag or something like it. If not, they may need to have a few words.

There were things an eleven-year-old boy really didn’t need to see.

***

“Ugh, c’mon, they knew I was coming…” Warlock Dowling huffed, taking a couple of steps away from the door of the bookshop which had stayed closed, no matter how hard he knocked. He glanced at the sign in the window; it made just as little sense as it did the first time he read it. 

I open the shop on most weekdays about 9:30 or perhaps 10am. While occasionally I open the shop as early as 8, I have been known not to open until 1, except on Tuesday. I tend to close about 3:30pm, or earlier if something needs tending to. However, I might occasionally keep the shop open until 8 or 9 at night, you never know when you might need some light reading. On days that I am not in, the shop will remain closed. On weekends, I will open the shop during normal hours unless I am elsewhere. Bank holidays will be treated in the usual fashion, with early closing on Wednesdays, or sometimes Fridays. (For Sundays see Tuesdays). A.Z. Fell, Bookseller

Warlock briefly wondered who A. Z. Fell was, really - the founder? A co-owner? It definitely was not Brother Francis’ name, but he had claimed to be the owner, which was a leap from working as a gardener but not a claim Warlock had any reason to doubt. Brother Francis did not lie, after all. He hated lies and got really cross with him whenever he caught him lying, usually after Nanny-- after Crowley suggested he did.

“Pair of weirdos. Always been,” Warlock muttered, but it wasn’t really a complaint; they were a fun pair of weirdos to grow up around, or else he wouldn’t have tracked them down in London. After checking through the window to see if anyone was in, and seeing, no one, Warlock reached in his pocket for his phone and began looking for Crowley’s number. 

Focused as he was on the screen, he failed to notice the man approaching with a hand in his pocket, eyes fixed on him and pupils blown so wide his eyes looked entirely black. On the opposite side of the road Hastur, Duke of Hell, retreated from the mortal’s mind with a smirk and prepared to enjoy the scene with eyes just as black.

***

“... So no, I really doubt the London Dungeon holds prisoners anymore, but it would be an interesting thing to--”

“Silence,” Beelzebub spoke suddenly, stopping abruptly in their tracks and causing Gabriel to almost bump into them and drop the book, something for which Aziraphale would probably be very, very cross with him. He frowned. 

“It’s not my fault that they have stopped using the dungeons, if that’s such an issue I suppose we could change plans and--”

“Something’s wrong.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t you sense-- ah. No, you can’t anymore,” Beelzebub muttered, and looked around with a scowl. “A demon is at work. It was my order that no one was to approach the traitors.”

Gabriel blinked. “Maybe it’s Crowley--”

“It’s not,” Beelzebub all but snarled, staring at someone some distance away. Further down the pavement stood a man that looked… wrong, for the lack of a better word; something not human who made a passingly decent job at masquerading as human, but not quite good enough. Gabriel may not be able to sense demonic or angelic presences anymore, but he could see as much.

“Hastur,” Beelzebub scoffed. 

Ah, Gabriel was vaguely familiar with the name - Hastur, Duke of Hell. Not someone he’d be pleased to meet anywhere in general, but seeing him there was especially worrying. He recalled Michael mentioning that out of all demons, he held a particular grudge against Crowley. Was that grudge really so great that he would ignore a direct order from Beelzebub to find Crowley in Soho and… and do what, exactly? “What is he doing here?”

“I’m about to find out. Wait here,” Beelzebub muttered, and walked - no, marched - directly towards the demon. “Hastur, Duke of Hell. What in Heaven are you doing here?”

Their voice caused the demon to recoil and turn his attention away from… whatever they had been staring at on the other side of the road. He was already deathly pale, but he seemed to grow just a tad paler as his gaze rested on a decidedly annoyed Prince of Hell planting themselves before him, arms crossed and clearly looking for a very good explanation why he would defy a direct order not to be anywhere near the traitorous demon that holy water could not destroy.

As he stammered some sort of reply, Gabriel let his gaze wander across the street. A man was walking towards the bookshop coming from the opposite direction, and he was… wait. Wait, he looked familiar - Gabriel had seen him before, a few months earlier, near the church where Daniel’s funeral service had just been held. He’d given him his coat because it was raining and talked briefly with him, and he had found it funny because his name was… his name…

“Noah!” Gabriel called out with a smile, walking towards him. “How are you doing? How’s your--” 

The next word - dog? - died on his lips when he got to look, to really look, at Noah’s eyes. They looked no more human than those of the Duke of Hell currently getting a tongue-lashing only a few steps away, and they were fixed dead ahead of him as he kept walking, giving no sign of having heard or seen him. Walking towards the bookshop… and towards a boy fumbling with his phone right in front of it, back turned to them all.  Something was off. Something was wrong. 

A demon is at work, Beelzebub had said. Gabriel opened his mouth to cry out, to demand that Hastur, Duke of Hell, released that mortal from whatever hold he had on him - but before he could force out a single word, Noah’s hand came out of his pocket and something gleamed in the sunlight. 

There was no time to cry out. No time for words, no time to think, no time to demand action from anyone other than himself. Gabriel knew there was one thing he ought to do now, one thing only. Ever since finding himself without plan or purpose, choices had not always come easy to him - the terror of choosing wrong often paralyzing him. But this one came with no effort: it was no choice at all. As a dark shadow fell on a boy he didn’t even know, Gabriel dropped the book he had come to return, and ran. 

“NOAH! STOP!”

Noah did not turn, but the boy did. He lifted his gaze from his phone to glance over at Gabriel, clearly confused - then his confusion turned into alarm when Gabriel suddenly grabbed his arm and yanked him away. 

“Hey! The hell?” the boy yelled, just as the knife descended on the spot he’d been standing only an instant before, narrowly missing the back of his neck. He tried to pull away from Gabriel’s grip, turning to call out for someone to get that madman off him  - and froze when he finally saw the man standing behind him, eyes all black and lips pulled back in a snarl, swinging something at him.

Somewhere in his brain, he registered it was a knife. He tried once again to scream - mom, he thought, but if he’d managed to force out his voice he probably would have said something more along the lines of ‘shit’. Gabriel, from his part, didn’t try to speak again; he could tell Noah was beyond hearing him. 

So he yanked the boy back once again, and threw himself between him and Noah. The result was, all things considered, extremely predictable.

Four and a half inches of steel buried themselves into Gabriel’s gut with a wet sound that went almost entirely unheard. There was a sense of heat, the pressure of a handle against his flesh and, at first, no pain. Gabriel found himself staring straight into pitch-black eyes for a moment before the pupils shrank to a normal size again, revealing the human eyes, light blue and filled with confusion. Somewhere behind Gabriel, the boy screamed and turned to bang on the door of Aziraphale’s bookshop. 

People around them stopped walking to turn, not quite having caught up what was going on but slowly getting there. On the other side of the road, a panicked Duke of Hell disappeared in a cloud of smoke as soon as the Lord of the Flies turned to see what the commotion was about. 

Gabriel tried to speak, to call out for Beelzebub - don’t hurt him, he didn’t know what he was doing - but a gurgling sound was all that left him, and something dripped down his chin. 

“What…?” Noah muttered, blinking at him, and looked down. “Oh-- oh God, oh Jesus Christ, oh shit-- !” he cried out, voice high and panicked, and staggered back with the knife still in hand, dislodging from Gabriel’s flesh with another wet sound.

Blood came rushing forth, coldness set in, and so did pain. Gabriel’s knees folded, and he hit the ground just as the bloodied knife did. Noah stepped back again, shaking like a newborn calf. 

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry-- someone call an ambulance, I’m sorry, oh God…!”

Don’t bother calling out for God. They don’t answer. Not for me.

“Gabriel!” Beelzebub’s voice filled his ears, drowning out all the rest. There was a hand on the back of his head, lifting it, and he opened his eyes again to see them looking down at him, wide-eyed and scared in a way he had never seen them.

And Gabriel was scared, too, filled to the brim with the most primal, human terror - the most ancient sort of despair known to man. He suddenly knew why even Yeshua had faltered that night in the Garden of Gethsemane, pleading to escape the fate before him and avoid what he knew was unavoidable.

I don’t want to die.

He tried to speak, choking on his own blood. Somewhere behind him, a heavy door was thrown open and Aziraphale’s voice reached him as though from miles away. 

“Warlock! My boy, what is-- oh. Oh dear, what…?”

“What the Heaven is going on?” Crowley’s voice was a couple octaves higher than usual, and suddenly there was silence, time itself stilled; the crowd all around them, Noah, even a bird flying past right above them remained fixed in time like so many statues. The boy was talking frantically to Crowley and Aziraphale, but Gabriel was unable to pay his words any mind. His gaze remained fixed on Beelzebub, and on Beelzebub only. 

“Heal me,” he choked out. He felt cold all over, even with the wound itself throbbing in heat and pain the way the wounds on his back had, the day his wings were torn off. “Please.”

“Hastur will pay for this, he-- I-- of course, you idiot, be still--” their hand hovered above the blood-soaked shirt, and suddenly they hesitated. Their gaze found Gabriel’s, and held it. “... Sacrifice,” the Prince of Hell murmured.

“What…?”

“You sacrificed your life for another. That’s it. It’s your ticket back home, Gabriel.”

Home. Back in Heaven, where he belonged. Not quite in his old position - a mortal soul - but still, home. Except that… except that if he returned there as a mere mortal soul...

“No,” Gabriel wheezed. “No. I can’t. I-- would never-- be able to leave it-- again.”

“You never wished to leave it in the first pla--”

“Never see you-- again--” Gabriel coughed, and let out a weak groan at the excruciating pain. He could taste blood in his mouth, feel it down his throat, pooling down on the pavement around him; he felt his strength draining away with it. The back of Beelzebub’s free hand wiped some of it off his chin; the other still cupped the back of his head.

“... You will die either way in the end. You do not wish to reside in Hell and I will not force you.” Their plan of leaving behind Hell for good seemed to be far from their mind now. “This may be--” the Prince of Hell paused, and let out a shaky breath. “This may be your best chance, Gabriel.”

“No. Not now. Not yet,” Gabriel managed a smile. His vision was growing blurry. “I will take… all the time I can get. With you.” However little it may be. Such short life spans, but I will make it worth it. I must. I only get one shot. “So don’t-- let me die-- yet.”

For a moment Beelzebub only stared, their hand hovering above his wound. They swallowed, and opened their mouth to say something - only that someone else spoke first. Aziraphale.

“Oh, oh dear, what a dreadful mess-- Gabriel? It’s all right, hold on, I will heal you--”

“Keep away from him!” Beelzebub buzzed furiously, shooting a glare at Aziraphale, at Crowley, at the boy who was currently glued to Crowley’s side, staring with wide eyes at the scene before him and at the crowd frozen in time. The angel reared back, but did not give up. 

“I mean to help him. Heal him.”

“I can heal him myself!” the Prince of Hell snapped, and pressed their hand on the bleeding wound. Pain shot up Gabriel’s body and he ground his teeth, waiting for relief, for healing, for the end of suffering… but none of it came. 

Beelzebub pulled away a now bloodied hand, taken aback, struggling to comprehend what they were seeing. “It’s… it isn’t working. It won’t heal.”

Gabriel closed his eyes, despair sinking in his chest.

No. It cannot be. Not now, God, please. Don’t do this to me. Don’t let me die now that I have learned to live. Don’t take them from me again.

“... May I try, Lord Beelzebub?” Aziraphale spoke again, ever respectful, but the hesitation in his voice made it plain that he didn’t think they could succeed where Beelzebub had failed. Gabriel squeezed his eyes shut, and felt something trickling down his temples. 

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why--

GABRIEL.

That voice, in the back of his mind and yet everywhere. Gabriel hadn’t heard it in such a long, long time, but hadn't forgotten it. His chest shuddered in a gasp, and he tried to speak again, to respond to the call - whether to cry, to beg, to curse he didn’t know. Before he could force out a single sound, another voice rose. Very familiar and decidedly concerned.

“Uuh, angel? Any idea what that is?”

“What-- oh. That might be our cue to move out of the way. Move away-- you too, Warlock, move back, my boy…”

What…?

Gabriel opened his eyes and looked up at the sky. Precisely above him, the blue of it was gone; clouds of blinding white had gathered in a circle, and within that circle was only light. The air around him seemed to crackle, and he knew what that meant. Gabriel tried to speak, to warn Beelzebub, but he could only cough up another mouthful of blood. On his tongue, he could now taste something else.

Ozone. 

From a distance, once again came Aziraphale’s voice. “Lord Beelzebub, you ought to let go and--”

“No.” Beelzebub’s grip on Gabriel tightened, vicious and desperate at the same time. The air crackled, the clouds swirled, and Gabriel’s vision began to fade. His hand weakly gripped their jacket, but he was unable to do anything else. Beelzebub’s face was but a blur, but ah, their grip was unyielding. His eyes slipped shut, his head rolled against their chest. 

“I refuse to let go. God cannot tell me what to do and neither can you.”

Don’t take them from me again. Please, please, please--

“Brother Francis, what the hell--”

“We’ll explain later, my boy - step back now, cover your eyes - don’t look, Crowley, make sure he doesn’t look--”

The crack of thunder covered his next words, filling the world, drowning out all noise. Gabriel felt the grip around him tightening, heard Beelzebub choke out something that sounded a lot like ‘you idiot’, and he opened his eyes. 

And then there was only light.

***

In the instant before lighting struck, three things happened in quick succession.

First, Crowley pulled Warlock’s face to his chest to make sure he wouldn’t be blinded as many mortals had been before Heaven learned to somewhat tone it down; second, Crowley turned his back to the scene to avoid looking himself, and shield the boy while he was at it. 

And third, Aziraphale’s wings unfolded to shield them both.

There was no heat, which was rather typical of Heavenly things: light without warmth, utterly unlike the darkness and heat - humid heat rather than raging flames, but all the more uncomfortable - that Aziraphale had experienced in his first, and hopefully only, visit to Hell.

Shielded by Aziraphale’s wings, Crowley kept his eyes tightly shut behind his glasses and Warlock’s face pressed against his shirt for several more moments after the last echo of the deafening thunder faded. 

“Is it safe to turn, angel?” he asked, while Warlock kept muttering against his shirt a litany of words that mostly sounded like ‘what’, ‘the’ and ‘fuck’, in the order. 

This time Aziraphale didn’t bother to make a mental note of talking with the boy about his language. Aside from being relieved the boy had not been stabbed, turned into salt, incinerated, blinded or deprived of his sanity, Aziraphale suspected they would have different, more pressing matters to discuss very shortly. “I’ll check. Don’t look yet,” he replied, and finally looked back.

The crowd of mortals was still around them, frozen in time, unscathed and unaware. The clouds were gone, quick as they had come - but there was a sphere of light before him, crackling with electricity where Beelzebub and Gabriel had been until moments earlier. In that light, there was… something. At first Aziraphale couldn’t make it out, but as he stepped closer and the light began to dull, he could see something all right. 

And that something was a pair of folded wings. 

At first, Aziraphale thought he must be looking at the wings of a demon and wondered how Beelzebub could survive the full might of the Lord; then, as the light pulsed and faded little by little, he realized that was not it. The wings were not the pure white of angels, but neither were they midnight black. Deep brown with a golden sheen, mottled with darker brown, black, specks of white. The wings of an eagle.  

And they did not belong to Beelzebub.

One last crackle of pure energy, and the pulsing light dissolved. Aziraphale worked his jaw a moment, mouth dry, before he finally called out.

“... Gabriel?”

The wings shifted, and slowly parted. Gabriel was kneeling on the pavement, eyes blinking open as though he struggled to comprehend what was happening. In his arms, held tightly against his chest, was the Prince of Hell; their eyes were screwed shut as though they were waiting to be smited still, but they were in one piece - shielded from the full might of God by the Archangel Gabriel himself, who seemed to be just now beginning to process precisely what had transpired. 

“What…?” he muttered, and the sound of his voice caused Beelzebub’s eyes to snap open. They pulled back from his chest, on their knees themselves, and looked up at Gabriel - and at the wings spread behind him. They opened their mouth to say something, closed it, opened it again. 

“You have wings again,” they finally said. “But they don’t look like--”

Gabriel didn’t so much turn to look at them. “You are all right,” he muttered, and cupped their cheek with a long breath, smiling widely. “Thank-- whoever there is to thank, you’re--”

Beelzebub’s hand grasped the collar of Gabriel’s shirt before he could say another word, and yanked his head down in a sudden kiss. It was definitely not something Aziraphale had expected to happen and neither had Gabriel, by the looks of it, but he seemed… far from displeased. Actually he leaned into it rather enthusiastically, arms slipping around the Lord of the Flies’ waist. 

Aziraphale stepped back, feeling just a touch awkward.

“Angel, is it safe to look or no--” Crowley finally spoke up, and turned without waiting for an answer. A rather unwise move, that. His gaze fell on the scene before him, and he let out a groan. “Uuuugh! No it’s not safe, not it’s not, for Satan’s sake it’s seared in my brain now, why didn’t you warn...”

He turned again and took a few steps away, rubbing his eyes beneath the glasses. Warlock, on the other hand, remained exactly where he was - eyes shifting slowly between Gabriel’s brand new wings and Aziraphale’s own, still in full display.

“... Brother Francis, I don’t mean to be rude or anything,” he finally said. “But what, pray tell, the fuck.”

“Well…” Aziraphale hesitated a moment, knowing he couldn’t count on Crowley stepping in for an explanation for at least another ten minutes, busy as he was trying to jab his eyes out of their sockets. In the end, he said nothing and turned to survey the scene.

Time stood still and so did every single living being in sight, including the man who had wielded the knife, a horrified expression frozen on his face. Gabriel and Beelzebub didn’t seem to plan on letting their mouths part ways anytime soon, still on the very spot where Gabriel had nearly bled out to death minutes earlier. A few steps away, in the middle of the road, was Aziraphale’s antique pornography book. 

With a sigh, Aziraphale went to pick it up and tucked it under his arm, making sure to hide the cover from Warlock’s sight. 

“I believe,” he finally spoke, “that we all could use a nice cup of tea right about now.”

***

"But those who hope in the Lord shall renew their strength. They shall soar on wings like eagles; they shall run and not grow weary, they shall walk and not be faint." -- Isaiah 40:31

***

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#good omens #ineffable beurocracy #ineffable husbands #archangel gabriel #beelzebub #crowley #aziraphale #warlock dowling #winging it

[trashboatprince]

I figure that at some point at least one or two angels came down to check on Aziraphale about his business with watching over Warlock. I know that the angels didn’t seem all that interested in the plan, but it doesn’t hurt to see what is going on with the lessons, yeah?

Summery: Aziraphale is enjoying the unmonitored freedom he has at the Dowling estate, his relationship with his favorite demon is going strong, until he gets an unexpected visit from one of his superiors.

How do you tell the Archangel Michael that you’re working in the same area as your so-called adversary?

I headcanon the angels having their signature weapons hidden on their person through marks and tattoos, so they don’t have to carry them around. If Aziraphale still had his sword, he’d have it on his body somewhere as a golden tattoo. I bring this up cause it’s mentioned in this.

This is also posted on ao3 under the title Of Heavenly Tree Trimmings and Hellish Nursery Rhymes

On with the fic!

--

Brother Francis gave his carnations a hard stare, just as Ashtoreth taught him, a warning that one must not displease an angel, for they are known to rain Heaven’s wrath down upon those who do! He then smiled and gave them a good misting from the hose.

It’s been a rather lovely week, he’s noted. The summer heat wasn’t terrible, Warlock was doing well with being rather good this week and rebelling against Nanny’s change in naptime hours, which Francis wasn’t going to touch, as it was funny. Just part of his attempts at thwarting a wily, in his mind.

He hummed to himself as he moved to go and tend to the rose bushes, only to tense up when he smelled something in the air.

A smell that was fresh, clean, with a hint of ozone, and metal.

“Oh no.” He dropped the hose and turned sharply, looking towards the house.

He could see Thaddeus on the patio, stepping towards the yard with a figure that the angel knew all too well. Dressed in a clean pantsuit, with laced sleeves and hair styled in a specific way, was the Archangel Michael.

She smiled as she listened to Thaddeus speak, nodding and chatting with him in return. Aziraphale panicked, why was she here!? He hadn’t expected to see one of his superiors show up, and if he had, it was always Gabriel! Once in a while it was Uriel, but she usually just dropped a report in front of him and walked away, but Michael never came to Earth where Aziraphale was!

At least, she hasn’t done that in a long, long time. This had to be serious, but why was she talking to Francis’ boss?

Did… did she come here to send Aziraphale to Heaven for something?

Or did she know about Crowley?

Aziraphale panicked, he couldn’t go to Crowley! He was already spotted; he couldn’t warn the demonic nanny! And Michael was smart, she would know Crowley was somewhere nearby. After all, she was the angel who took down Lucifer! She had her spear on her at all times, hidden on her arm as a tattoo, painted gold. Just a flick of her wrist and it would be embedded in Crowley without so much as a flinch.

He tensed up, watching them approach, but he smiled despite himself as the American. “Good afternoon to ya, Master Dowling.” He bowed his head. “And a good afternoon to yer companion here.”

He could see Michael looking at him with a neutral expression on her face, but her eyes betrayed her. She was disgusted with his appearance, but she understood that he had to blend in.

“And a good afternoon to you as well, Brother Francis.” Thaddeus returned the greeting. “I was just showing Mr. Archer here around the estate. He stopped by to discuss things with me and asked about the garden.”

“Ah, no need to introduce me, Mr. Dowling.” Michael smiled, his voice just slightly deeper. “I already know your gardener. I recognized his work from outside of the meeting room, he used to work for me.”

“Oh?” This caught both Thaddeus’ and Aziraphale’s attention. “Ah! Didn’t expect that, haha! Small world, am I right?”

There was a sharp ringing sound and he pulled out his phone. “Oh, gotta take this. I’ll leave you two to catch up! Do come back inside so we can finish the deal when you’re done.” He smiled at Michael before answering. “Mr. President!” He greeted before stepping away.

Once he was out of earshot, Michael turned to smile coldly at Aziraphale, making him feel small. “Aziraphale, you look… filthy.”

“Comes with the job, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale replied, his mouth dry. “But it allows me to keep an eye on the boy, he’s rather adventurous, always wanting to be outside.”

“Hm.” The Archangel stepped around him, looking around the garden. “Interesting. Any news to report?”

“Well, he’s doing well with his lessons! He prevented the death of a spider this morning, and he told off his nanny-!” He froze up, which cause her attention.

“That sounds rather evil.” Michael frowned.

Aziraphale swallowed, laughing nervously. “W-well, the nanny, she’s a troublesome lady..! Thinks things have to be done in such a way to get her approval…!”

Michael just looked at him, glancing at the house. “What does this nanny look like?”

“Like… a nanny you’d see from a while back, she claims to be old fashion, though I can’t say much myself.” He tugged as his smock.

“I wonder…” The other angel mumbled. “Do you smell it, Aziraphale? In the house?”

Aziraphale frowned. “Smell what? I don’t go in the house often, I’m usually out here, got a little cottage I live in too.”

“So, you don’t smell the evil?”

He tensed up, eyes widen, before he laughed a bit. “Oh, yes..! I’ve smelled it, but I just suspect it to be the child! You know how new powers can be, can’t quite be controlled!”

“I’ve heard that none of us should be able to detect his smell, do you think that there is someone evil in the house? Trying to do what we’re doing? I wouldn’t be surprised if the forces of Hell had come to a similar conclusion of influencing the upbringing as you did.”

There was a tone of suspicion on Michael’s voice and Aziraphale was glad he couldn’t breathe for real cause he’d suspect that he’d be having trouble doing so. Did she know? Did she suspect that Crowley was there?

He glanced towards the house, eyes wide when the backdoor opened and outstepped the demon in question, pushing a stroller with a giddy, two-year old Warlock strapped in. She didn’t seem to suspect that Michael was there, but if she did, then she was doing her best to not show it. Usually Crowley would tense up and try to bolt when other angels were about, but that would be suspicious.

He wished that Crowley had stayed inside, but it was the time of the day to take Warlock outside to play, and Ashtoreth kept to a tight schedule.

“Well, well,” Michael spoke up, “this must be the nanny you were speaking of. Aziraphale, maybe you need a lesson on evil again, because I can just sense it, there’s something dark about her…”

“That would be the aesthetic she radiates, lots of humans are into it, I do believe it is called ‘goth’.” Aziraphale spoke, trying to keep Michael from questioning things, and- oh dear, the Archangel was making her way over to Nanny.

Aziraphale hissed and followed quickly, seeing Michael step in front of Ashtoreth, who paused in pushing the stroller. She glanced up; eyes perfectly hidden behind her shades. “Excuse me, can I help you?” She asked softly, her voice accented as always for her persona.

“I just wanted to introduce myself.” Michael smiled, speaking sweetly, Aziraphale bit his lip as he watched the two. “I’m Michael Archer, I’m just visiting, speaking with the gardener. We know one another.”

A slight shift of her head had Ashtoreth looking at the gardener, before she looked back at Michael. “I see, I suppose you are a former client he worked for. I am Nanny Ashtoreth.”

“Ashtoreth?” Michael asked, looking at the redhead with a suspicious stare. “Isn’t that name a little… demonic? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Not at all.” Ashtoreth replied, her grip on the handles of the stroller was tight. “It is a family name, old, yes, and associated with a demon, but I have embraced it as something to be proud of, at least by which the goddess Ashtoreth is associated with. You yourself share a name with an angel, and our mutual friend here shares a name with a saint.”

That didn’t stop Michael from looking at the other, her nose twitching. Aziraphale unconsciously repeated the action, sniffing the air. He smelled Michael, along with a strong scent of flowers, of a musk that clearly meant perfume was used. It was Nanny’s usual smell, just a bit stronger. He could just barely smell the more demonic scent hidden beneath it.

“Do you often wear sunglasses?” Michael suddenly asked, stepping closer.

“Often enough, I have a bit of trouble in bright lights.” Ashtoreth replied.

“May I see them? Sorry, they look rather nice, I’d like to see if they’d be worth a purchase.” She smiled at the demon, who kept a neutral face in a way that Aziraphale had never seen Crowley do in the six thousand years they’ve known each other.

Quietly, Ashtoreth reached up and removed the shades, Aziraphale nearly jumping to action when he could sense the holy energy coming from Michael’s arm. Without saying a word, Ashtoreth turned her head up, opening her eyes to show perfectly normal brown eyes. There was no indication that they were snake-like in anyway.

Michael was handed the shades and quickly looked them over, the holy energy quickly gone. “I’ll think about it,” She spoke before handing them back, Nanny was quick to put them on, “well, I must get back to that meeting with your boss. Lovely meeting you, Miss Ashtoreth.”

She turned her attention to Aziraphale. “I shall see you in due time, Francis.” She patted his shoulder before making her way to the house. The two watched her until she vanished inside and Ashtoreth walked quickly into the large garden, to get out of sight, Aziraphale following.

Once they knew they were completely out of sight, away from prying angel eyes, Crowley snapped her attention to Aziraphale, looking quite shaken. “That was Michael.”

“I know.”

“Archangel fucking Michael!”

“I know, my dear…”

“Why was she here!? Does she know!?”

Aziraphale quickly shook his head, putting his hands on her shoulders. “No, no, she has no idea you’re Crowley. From what it seems, she must see you as just some nanny who likes witchy stuff, like the rest of the staff seems to think. Dear, you’re shaking like a leaf!”

A chair was suddenly behind the nanny as she was gently sat down onto it. Aziraphale moved behind her, removing her hand to put his suddenly-clean hands on her head, carefully rubbing at her hair. He knows his demon well, knowing that the panic and stress would give her a migraine, especially after having to use a miracle to make her eyes appear so human-like. It was something Crowley loathed to do, as it blinded her in the process, she couldn’t see with her pupils like that, she wasn’t the kind of snake with wide ones.

She seemed to relax carefully at his touch, but her hands were clenched on her lap. “She was going for her weapon.”

“I would have stopped her.” Aziraphale replied as he placed a kiss to her head. “But you stopped her with your fake eyes. I also noticed you covered your smell.”

“I sensed her before I ever saw her inside, I had to work fast, practically bathed myself in perfume.” Crowley hissed out, trying to force herself to relax. Her eyes turning to Warlock who was giggling as a butterfly flew around his head. “I’m suspecting you’ll be going up to Heaven tomorrow.”

Aziraphale sighed loudly. “No doubt about it, best to give all of them an actual update. I’ll explain that you’re just some human woman with an interest in looking like you worship Satan, but don’t really do so.”

There was a quiet hum from Crowley as she nodded. “Best of luck, angel.”

“Thank you, and best of luck to you as well, I’m sure you’ll need to report to Hell tomorrow, just in case.”

“Uuuuuhhhhhhgggggg…” Crowley flopped back, looking up at Aziraphale with a pout, which earned her a chuckle from the angel. “Wanna get shitfaced tonight in your cabin?”

“Oh, you have no idea how badly I was hoping you’d suggest that, my dear nanny.”

END

--

Michael is suspicious, but not sure. Give her a few more years and she’ll learn the truth.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #brother francis #aziraphale #nanny ashtoreth #anthony j crowley #john's drabbles

[n1ghtt1me-stars]

Part 10 (1)

Warlock saunters vaguely through life (Warlock saunters vaguely into their lives part 10) - this work is around 20,000 words so will be uploaded in eight parts every week

work on ao3, part one, part two, part three, part four, part five, part six, part seven, part eight, part nine  

The five years after the non-apocalypse passed quickly and peacefully.

And Warlock really didn't want anything to change.

In school, he had very few friends - really they were more acquaintances than friends - other quiet people he sat with in the library and the computer suite because everyone knew that they wouldn't disturb each other. Warlock wasn't even a hundred per cent certain on all their names.

After his last GCSE exam, he went straight home. It was physics and Warlock was pretty sure he lost all the marks except on the parts about Space, as Crowley had helped him revise that topic. There was talk about a party that all his year was invited to, but it felt presumptive to assume he was a part of that group.

The tube had become part of his everyday routine: headphones in, head down and praying that it wasn't crammed (though it usually was).

There was a well-done-on-your-exams cake waiting when he arrived home. Crowley and Aziraphale stood proudly behind the table with the cake on it. Smiling, Warlock walked over and gave them a hug. Neither of them really understood human school though they celebrated each achievement and somehow cake became a part of it.

Aziraphale began to plate some slices of cake while Crowley turned to him and asked, "How was school, dear?"

"S'alright," Warlock replied. "Hated the test but my physics teacher gave us sweets afterwards. I think she pitied us."

Crowley laughed and Warlock continued with descriptions of his classmates' looks of despair. Aziraphale chimed in with "Oh those poor dears. Were exams one of mine or yours?"

Leaning back in his chair as he thought, Crowley eventually said, "I can't remember. I think I did it but it could have been a favour."

"I swear," Warlock said, "if you didn't give me cake, I would be really annoyed right now."

**

Later that evening, Warlock laid on his bed on his phone. Somehow, he had become friends with Adam and his lot. Not so much Wensleydale and Brian (Warlock did get Wensleydale's help with physics as well though it didn't pay off). He spoke a bit with Adam who really liked plants, and Warlock had grown up in Crowley's garden so they had some common ground.

Mostly, Warlock messaged Pepper. They both did ICT as a hobby and as a GCSE (Brian also did the exam but only because he thought it would be easy). Pepper was also into social justice and Warlock knew the best way to be heard in both Britain and America through his father’s complaints.

(They also both liked romantic comedies and were too ashamed to admit it to anyone else)

Is Adam still prepping for the party? Warlock sent Pepper after their rants about exams died off.

Of course. Been planning this since his fifteenth. Warlock can feel Pepper rolling her eyes. He's even made a truce with Johnson because he can get drinks for the after-party.

 That's dedication. How's he hiding it from his parents?

 Convinced Anathema it’s a rite of passage. She's going to distract all the adults including your parents after the barbecue so we can go to the treehouse.

Sounds fun. And it really did. Since his eleventh birthday, it had become a tradition to throw a joint party with Adam. His parents were usually abroad so they travelled to Tadfield for roughly a week.

 To you maybe. Adam’s been setting up rubbish bags and threatening to fight anyone who litters in his woods.

 Haha so glad I don't help plan these things

Wish you did, Pepper quickly replied before sending another message, it's annoying that you can't come during Christmas or Easter

 I know. Two more years and then I don't have to go back to my parents’ house.

Only two years. Can't believe we're all growing up. Pepper sent.

Yeah, neither could he. Growing up was a surreal thing. Changes happened without you noticing; he doesn't know when the last time he called Crowley Nanny was. He remembered being teased for having servants and stopped referring to Nanny in school. And then, it bled into his home life. Warlock wasn't sure if Crowley noticed because he never said anything, but it made Warlock a little sad thinking about it.

 I know. Think Adam will mature once we turn 16?

 Nope. Still be thinking he's the centre of the universe till someone knocks him down a couple of pegs

Warlock laughed aloud at that. Adam was regularly self-centred, but he meant well most of the time. Once, when they were thirteen, he didn't talk to Warlock for weeks after he couldn't come over for Christmas despite him explaining why. It took Pepper hitting him for Adam to apologise.

The year after, Adam posted a book about coding to the Dowling house. Warlock still wasn't sure how he got that address.

Before he could reply to Pepper, she messaged again that her mum needed her so she'd talk tomorrow. It was only ten so Warlock doodled in his notebook a bit; he could do rough sketches of a variety of plants and flowers without thinking. For his art GCSE, most of his coursework had been based around plants because he could use Crowley's garden as a source. A few years ago, Crowley had expanded to a greenhouse on the roof (which Warlock was pretty sure was closed off to tenants) and it was so beautiful and full of lush plants in there.

It was definitely one of Warlock's favourite places.

A couple of weeks later (most of it was spent catching up on sleep), Warlock packed for their trip to Tadfield. Technically, he wasn't a military kid like the others he grew up with who moved every few years. But, on the other hand, as a diplomat's son, he went on more short-haul trips so packing was a breeze.

Going through his mental list, he packed his clothes effectively so he could take his tablet and laptop. He knew Aziraphale would be taking enough books for the week so he didn't have to worry about that.

Suitcase ready and his phone on charge for the car journey, he went up to the roof. He passed Aziraphale prepping packed lunches in the kitchen: most likely simple sandwiches if he was trying to make something without magic.

It was a rare clear day and Warlock could see miles of the city all around from the rooftop however he couldn't hear the busy streets. Apparently, plants needed a calm, clean atmosphere (even though they were already in a greenhouse) so the roof was quiet and smelled of clean air and not the usual scent of exhaust fumes.

Pushing open the door to the greenhouse, Warlock was met with a warm wall of humidity. Crowley stood over some vibrant green ferns with his water sprayer, inspecting for any damage and threatening them.

"You all better grow well when I'm away," he said as the leaves trembled. "or you'll know what'll happen. I don't think any of you can survive a fall from a roof."

Warlock gently stroked a shaking leaf and it stopped trembling. As if communicating with the others, all the plants went still and Crowley turned to glare at him. "You and Aziraphale are way too nice to them."

"Yeah," Warlock said, "We're the ones who are too nice."

Crowley waved the spray bottle at him before giving the plants one last glare. Walking out of the greenhouse, Crowley asked, "Are you ready to go?"

To be honest, his stomach was turning. Each year, it was terrifying to be celebrating his birthday with people he only saw once a year and only knew because he was standing in the background when the world nearly ended.

"Yep, can't wait," Warlock said. He must have sounded convincing because Crowley told him to put his stuff in the car before going to find Aziraphale.

**

They stayed in the same rented cottage every year that was always empty despite it being the height of summer. Like the flat, it was a lot smaller than the house he grew up in, but Warlock preferred it. Every floorboard creaked and the chairs felt like they would collapse whenever someone sat on them but it was never empty.

Unsurprisingly, they arrived before lunchtime because of Crowley's driving, so they had the sandwiches at the cottage. Warlock had several messages from Pepper demanding he come into the woods as soon as possible because Adam is getting stressy about the party and someone needs to distract him.

Leaving Aziraphale and Crowley to sort out the cottage, Warlock jumped the fence in the garden as it was the quickest route into the woods. He only came once a year, but he could walk this path with his eyes closed. It was cool beneath the shade of the trees, yet the light that filtered through made the whole area a nice golden hue. The air had a similar feel to the greenhouse: clean, fresh and the furthest thing from the city air.

The first thing he heard was Adam's voice. "Hang the paper chains evenly in the branches," he shouted. Warlock walked into the slight clearing in time to see Pepper glare at Adam. "Please," he added reluctantly at her look.

No one was really sure if Adam still had his powers, but Adam swung round to lock eyes with Warlock as if he just knew he was there.

"Warlock!" He shouted and smiled widely. However, Warlock's response was cut off when a weight slammed into the back of his knees. Stumbling forwards, Warlock stopped himself from falling as Dog continued to jump and bark at him. For some reason, Dog was always overly enthusiastic around him and no one else.

"Hey," Warlock said as Dog ran over and sat down at Adam's ankles. "How are you?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Adam said. "It's good you're here actually, you can help Wensleydale with the paper chains. He has no idea how to spread the colours evenly."

Looking over at the tree, Warlock could see what Adam meant. There was a large patch of red on one side of the tree, a couple of stands if blue next to it (where Wensleydale was precariously sitting) and other colours in a pile on the floor. If left to his own devices, all the colours would end up in distinct blocks which would just look weird. "Sure," Warlock said, "I'll save the tree."

"Thank you," Adam said earnestly. Suddenly, he shouted "Brian, no!" before running off to deal with another impending disaster.

On his way over, Warlock said hi to Pepper who was setting up some solar-powered garden lights. "We'll have to take some of that red down," he said to Wensleydale who was clambering down from the tree.

"Yeah," Wensleydale said sadly. He cleaned his glasses on his shirt and put them back on to stare at the paper chains. "I guess it would look better if they were mixed together."

"Yeah..." Warlock said as he studied the colours. "If you get back up in the tree, I'll pass them up and we can spread them out?"

"Sounds good," Wensleydale replied and he climbed the tree again. As they worked, they chatted mostly about the recent exams because that was the only common ground they had.

"How did your RE go?" Wensleydale asked. Warlock was grateful that they had quickly moved on from the physics paper.

"Alright I think," he said as he passed up a green chain. "But it didn't help that Aziraphale kept telling me about misprinted bible quotes. They were all I could remember in the exam."

"Oh, I read about some of those. I think my favourite was 'Thou shalt commit Adultery'."

Laughing, Warlock said, "Nah, 'the unrighteous shall inherit the Kingdom of God' is definitely the best one. It's amazing how these were so wrong with just little mistakes."

Finally finished with the tree (which now looked like an explosion of colour instead of a paint-by-number), Warlock realised that his stomach was growling. Brian and Pepper disappeared a while ago once they had finished their jobs and Wensleydale quickly left as well, claiming he was tired from scrambling around the tree. That just left him and Adam, who was trying to get Dog to stop playing with a scrap piece of paper that he was intent on tearing to bits.

"Dog, drop it!" Adam said. Warlock laughed as Dog ignored him. "Drop it," Adam continued sternly, "or no treats for dinner."

Dog dropped it and Adam looked at Warlock smugly. "I'm pretty sure he only stopped because you mentioned treats," Warlock said and Adam's expression faltered slightly.

No," he said stubbornly. "Dog understood the threat."

"Sure he did," Warlock said, filling his voice with sarcasm. "Well," he added, "I'm hungry so I'm going to ..."

"Come to mine," Adam interrupted. "My mum will be preparing dinner soon."

"Uh..." Warlock couldn't see a valid reason to refuse, except that being around the adult Youngs was weird, but he couldn't admit that to their son. "Sure," he said, "let me just message Crowley."

"Awesome," Adam said, and, as soon as Warlock put his phone back in his pocket, grabbed his arm and started dragging Warlock to his house.

*

Excluding all the supernatural elements, Warlock wondered if there was anyone else in a similar situation where the child was the one to know that they were adopted and not the adult.

He couldn't help thinking about it as Mrs Young pulled him into a hug and Mr Young gave him a firm handshake. Really, he looked nothing like Mrs Young who shared the same light hair and soft face with Adam, and the only similarity he had with Mr Young was the dark hair colour that his mum also had. Adam, though, did actually look like their son despite not being related.

The situation was strange and Warlock usually tried to ignore it, especially around his family because his father could not find out he wasn't biologically his.

It would be the straw that broke the camel's back; it would be all the excuse his father needed to disown him.

"Sit down," Mrs Young said, ushering Warlock and Adam to the dining table. "I'm making bangers and mash so I hope you're hungry."

"They're vegetarian by the way," Adam said to him.

"Yeah, that's fine," Warlock said. He knew that Adam went vegetarian a while back and that his parents followed his example. Anyway, you could never go wrong with sausages and potatoes.

Warlock could hear the sound of ceramic plates being set out and the kettle whistling in the kitchen. Despite his reservations, Warlock did love being in Adam's house. It was loud and full of life and reminded him of the times when he, Aziraphale and Crowley tried to make a new dish together (with varying degrees of success). It was also the furthest thing from the empty estate that he used to live in.

Once everyone was sat down and eating, Mr Young turned to him and asked, "So, what exams did you do Warlock?"

"Uh, ICT, RE and art," Warlock said, "plus English, maths and combined science of course."

"A good range," Mr Young said, meeting Warlock’s eyes as if he was genuinely interested, "Your parents must be proud."

"Yep," Warlock said, quickly shoving a forkful of mash into his mouth so he didn't have to say anymore. He was pretty sure his father's lecture on why he should do more useful subjects like politics or business lasted an hour when Warlock told him his chosen options.

Thankfully, Adam started talking about the party. He omitted the part about the truce and Johnson bringing alcohol but he waved his cutlery around as he spoke about all the decorations and the games they' were going to play in the woods.

"I'm thinking that we play games that we used to play as kids," Adam said, as though he never stopped playing those games. "Forty forty in is good in the dark..."

"How do you play?" Warlock asked.

Adam turned to look at him with wide eyes, "You've never played?" Adam said. Warlock looked away slightly from his shocked look. As a child, the only game he could remember playing was soccer (well football here, that was probably the only American thing about Warlock) when some of his mother's friends brought their children round. Names of games like 'bulldog' and '123 home' were suggested if he remembered correctly but soccer was the only thing they all knew so they didn't have to waste time explaining it. He never had regular friends to develop these kinds of games with.

"No..." Warlock eventually said, focused on the food in front of him as he cut the sausages into tiny, regular pieces. "I've never heard of it."

"That's fine," Adam said, his cheerful mood not at all affected. "You can be on my team and we’ll destroy the others."

"We never played in teams," Mrs Young added. "If you was IT, you had to do it alone."

"Well, in my version there’s teams and it's more fun when you have someone to work with."

"Okay dear, finish your food," Mrs Young said, gesturing to Adam's half full plate which he had been ignoring whenever he spoke.

They finished in relative silence and Warlock helped Mrs Young carry the plates into the kitchen as Adam took Dog out into the garden. "You're such a polite boy," she said, "not like the chaotic demon I raised." Warlock laughed though it was more at the fact that she didn't know how right she was. "Are you excited for the barbeque tomorrow?" she asked.

"Yeah," Warlock said. "Thank you for hosting it again. They're always brilliant. This will be the fifth one-- won't it?"

"Oh its no trouble," Mrs Young said, dismissing his praise with a wave of her hand. "I can't believe you're all growing up so fast. Soon, you'll be at university and then adults. First, it was Adam's sister and now Adam. Oh God," she paused and wiped her eyes, "I better stop before I start weeping."

Warlock scuffed his feet against the floor. "It's alright," he said, feeling like an intruder. Adam had told him late one night in a rare honest conversation that his older sister visited less and less and that it made his mother upset. In return, Warlock told him how his parents had been distant growing up and he disliked people like his sister, who selfishly took their parents' love for granted.

Adam didn't argue with him. He only said that he was glad Warlock was with Aziraphale and Crowley now.

"Go hang out with Adam," Mrs Young said as she shooed him out of the kitchen. "I'll get Arthur to help me."

Leaving her shouting for her husband, Warlock went into the garden where he found Adam laying on the recently-mowed grass with Dog. The sun was just setting, turning the sky red (Warlock hoped that meant the weather would be good tomorrow for their birthday). Sitting down next to him, Warlock saw that Adam's eyes were closed but he knew that Adam was aware that he was there. He waited in silence until Adam opened his eyes.

From his position sitting up, Warlock had to lean over slightly so he could make eye contact with Adam. "Are you going to stay there all night?" he asked.

"Maybe," Adam said with a smirk. Honestly, Warlock wouldn't be surprised if Adam actually did as he always seemed to belong more outside.

"In that case," Warlock said as he stood up, "I'll be heading back to sleep in a proper bed."

Adam groaned but scrambled quickly to his feet. "I'll walk you back," he said. There were grass stains all down his back and loose stands in his hair. Warlock tried to help by picking some of the pieces out but stopped quickly when he felt Adam still beneath his hand.

"You don't have to," Warlock said, feeling slightly guilty for disturbing him.

Adam waved him off. "I want to," he said, smiling brightly.

Adam took them along the main road instead of the through the woods even though it was longer. Surprisingly, Adam kept quiet (only interrupting occasionally to ask questions) when Warlock spent most of the walk talking about some new plants Crowley had gotten recently and how they were so pretty Warlock had already drawn them many times trying to capture them right.

Finally, they reached the cottage. Pausing at the gate to say goodbye, Warlock was shocked when Adam pulled him into a quick hug. Adam pulled away too soon for Warlock to hug him back and said, "You're so going to love your present tomorrow."

"I bet my present for you is better," Warlock said almost automatically as his brain was still processing the hug.

Adam laughed and said, "Doubt it," before running off.

When Warlock woke up the next morning, his memory of his conversation with Adam was crystal clear while the rest of the evening after that was a complete blur in his mind.

Next part

#warlock tags along #warlock grows up #warlock saunters vaguely into their lives #good omens #good omens fanfiction

[disaster-bay-leaf]

don’t you dare | ineffable husbands oneshot

On the second night of the Rest of Their Lives, Crowley was getting drunk alone in his apartment. Well, had been getting drunk. Currently, almost ten hours later (about 2 PM), the demon was asleep on his living room table.

“Where are you?! I can’t find you, Aziraphale!”

The fire pressed at him from all sides, burning with a feeling long forgotten after the Fall.

”For Heaven’s sake!”

Bright bursts of light blinded his sensitive eyes.

”Someone killed my best friend!”

He sagged to his knees, the smoke choking him, stealing the breaths he technically shouldn’t need.

”BASTARDS!”

He heard Hastur’s awfully grotesque laugh.

Aziraphale’s face flashed in the fire.

“It’s your fault.”

Crowley couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream, his eyes burned like hell.

Water streamed down his cheeks.

Aziraphale’s voice once again reached his ears.

“All your fault.”

”You misplaced the Antichrist.”

”You wanted to kill Adam.”

”Just shut up and die already.”

Darkness was slowly creeping at the edges of his vision, suffocating him, drowning him, both hot and freezing, hell and heaven, and Hastur was still laughing and Aziraphale was still talking with that-, that-, that accusing and hurt tone of voice that reminded him of the argument in the park.

“There’s no our side. It’s over.”

”Your fault.”

”I don’t even like you.”

”We’re not friends.”

The darkness almost entirely drowned out the light of the fire.

“How could you even for a moment hope that I could love you ba-”

He jerked awake and yelled in distress, not caring about his surroundings or who heard or what he destroyed. His hands burned with hellfire as he slammed them into the table, his eyes shut to block out the horrible orange light. His plants trembled in fear. And then he was screaming, repeating that dream over and over in his head, his hands smashing the empty wine bottles to bits. He sagged into the floor, very much alike to the dream, and tore at his short hair in frustration, his throat sore from the screaming, sobs tearing at it and making it worse.

He’s dead.

No.

He’s alive and we stopped the Armaggedon.

The fire consumed him.

No, no, no! It wasn’t even hellfire!

He slowly calmed himself down, the rational part of his mind slowly winning over the frantic, nightmare-and-PTSD-driven part. He tried to force himself to stand up, to see what he’d done, how much damage he made, but he couldn’t find the energy. He dropped onto the floor and curled into a trembling ball on his side, pathetic (in his mind) tears slowly strolling down.

It is worth noting that Crowley rarely cried. Precisely speaking, it happened only four times since the Creation of Angels. When Lucifer fell, when he himself fell, when he thought Aziraphale died in the fire and now, a day and a half after the End of the world.

He stayed like that for a couple of minutes (At least he thought it was minutes. Celestial beings can have trouble with keeping up with the construct of time in certain situations. In a human concept of time, Crowley was laying on the floor for two hours.) and was trying to mentally prepare himself to stand up when he heard the door open.

Oh shit.

What was he doing here?

There wasn’t time to miracle the mess away (and that had nothing at all with the fact that he felt so drained inside. Nope. Nothing at all). He quickly scrambled to the chair and cast an illusion, covering the room.

Just in time as Aziraphale walked in with a happy smile on his face, carrying two wine bottles and a small snake plant in his hands.

Shit.

Crowley smirked and leaned across the throne-ish chair, faking calmness.

“Angel! Well, colour me surprised, what exploded for you to come here?”

Aziraphale made an expression that expressed a feeling generally connected to an eye roll. He couldn’t roll his eyes of course, it was considered rude.

“Does something need to explode for me to visit my friend?” He miracled himself a chair. Crowley didn’t play at making meaningful expressions and just rolled his eyes.

Shit, he forgot his sunglasses.

“Usually it’s me who comes to the bookshop.”

”We stopped the Armaggedon two days ago, I think there can’t be anything more unusual, my dear.”

Crowley snorted, inwardly still gathering himself after his... moment.

”Point made. Any reason for buying a snake plant? The subtext is kind of obvious.”

Aziraphale smiled kindly and opened the first vintage bottle of wine.

”I passed by the florist’s on my way here and I thought I’d buy another plant for you to terrorise. You should really stop treating them like that, dear.”

The plants in the room beside them couldn’t agree more, but in fear of Crowley’s reaction they stayed unnaturally still.

Crowley looked at his angel - the angel, the demon’s subconscious corrected the author - with a raised eyebrow and accepted the wineglass that Zira passed to him. Bad idea, a voice in his head said.

”You do know that I know that you managed to keep the gardener’s position at the Dowlings’ only by miracles?” He took a sip from his glass as Aziraphale blushed a bit and drank from his. “My plants grow on their own perfectly, that says something, angel.”

Unknowingly to the demon, he still wasn’t entirely sober after the night of drinking. That greatly affected the illusion he casted. It shuddered a bit with the additional dose of alcohol.

Aziraphale frowned slightly for a second, but the shudder was too small to notice.

"Yes, but they are also the most frightened plants on the planet."

"Oh, shut up, angel. At least they're nice."

They took another sip of wine and the illusion shuddered again. This time, the angel noticed.

Zira put his wineglass down.

"Something's wrong."

Crowley smirked at him, trying to pass as completely normal (well, as normal as the demon could be).

"What? No, angel, nothing's wrong, maybe you're just a bit paranoid."

But Aziraphale wasn't put off easily.

"There is some sort of... charm put on this room."

"What charm? C'mon angel, don't be stupid. I think I'd notice something like that in my own living room, for Somebody's sake."

The angel frowned and raised his hand, ignoring the demon completely.

"An illusion of sorts."

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!

Crowley forced as much of his power into the illusion as he could, but when Aziraphale's hand sliced through the air it all ended up as a futile effort. The angel was much more sober than he was and not so exhausted. The illusion shattered.

SHIT!

Zira took a shaky breath. Crowley turned away before he could see his face. That's when he felt something on his back.

Crowley was still tired after averting the Apocalypse-That-Didn't and the nightmare, the crying, the drinking and keeping up the illusion used the majority of his energy. In other words, he found himself with his wings snapping back from the ethereal plane. And a major nosebleed.

Aziraphale went still for a while. Crowley stood up, trembling slightly, his back and wings still facing the angel.

"Crowley... dear... what happened here?"

A lot, that was obvious. The table had scorch marks all over it and was covered in tiny pieces of green glass. Some of the bits had red stains on them. Wine? Blood? Maybe both.

Crowley didn't answer. Aziraphale slowly stood up and reached out to the glass. He withdrew the hand as soon as it touched it. He looked at the demon.

"Crowley?"

"Ah, yes, I mean, no, nothing happened, perfectly normal that is." The demon's voice sounded a bit strangled. He still didn't turn around.

"Crowley."

"I'm telling you. It's. Nothing. Just an accident."

Aziraphale moved closer to his best friend.

"It doesn't look like an accident, my dear.

"Crowley.

"Look at me, Crowley, please."

The demon didn't react.

Little did Aziraphale know that Crowley's mind was currently drowning in endless possibilities of how the next few moments will look like. Sometimes his imagination didn't help at all.

Drops of thick red blood hit the floor in a steady tap. The angel carefully put his hand on Crowley’s shoulder. The demon stilled, much like his plants, and it took all of his remaining strength not to flinch.

“You’re bleeding, dear. Please let me see your face.”

Aziraphale slowly moved past the fallen angel’s beautiful black wings. Crowley moved his face away.

“Crowley, please.”

The angel carefully raised his hand to grip lightly at the demon’s jaw. He pushed Crowley’s face towards himself.

Aziraphale breathed out. The demon wouldn’t meet his eyes.

No wonder that Crowley didn’t want the angel to see his face. He had several cuts on his cheeks, his eyes were red and swollen and blood oozed with a wide stream from his nose.

”Oh my Someone... Crowley, dear, what happened?”

The demon curled his hands into fists so hard that he tore through skin. He looked straight in Aziraphale’s eyes. And he looked pissed.

”What happened?! WHAT HAPPENED?!”

He started hitting the angel’s chest repeatedly.

“Do you want to know what happened?! Please, let me indulge you! First, you tell me that we’ve never been friends, that you don’t even like me, then that you fucking chose fucking Heaven which treats you like shit, then when I’m apologising you still chose Heaven, but that’s understandable, I’m just a fucking demon of course! Then, suddenly, you leave me a fucking message that you know when the Antichrist is, but when I went to your bookshop it was on fucking fire! How the Heaven I could have known that it wasn’t Hellfire? HOW THE FUCKING HEAVEN?! I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD! NOT DISCORPORATED! FUCKING DEAD! AND THE LAST THING I WOULD HAVE SAID TO YOU IS THAT I WOULDN’T THINK TWICE ABOUT YOU! So then I’m getting drunk and you, you fucking bastard, appear without a body in front of me AND DON’T EVEN GET THAT I WAS TALKING ABOUT YOU, YOU FUCKING IDIOT! THEN WE WOULD BOTH HAVE DIED IF NOT FOR ADAM! AND THEN BOTH HEAVEN AND HELL WANTS US DEAD! AND THE TRIALS WHICH WEREN’T EVEN PROPER FUCKING TRIALS BUT STRAIGHT UP EXECUTIONS AND THAT BASTARD GABRIEL TELLS ME, WELL YOU, “shut up and die already” AND DO YOU KNOW HOW FUCKING HARD IT WAS FOR ME NOT TO KILL HIM RIGHT AWAY?! So, YES, I DO HAVE BLOODY NIGHTMARES! ARE YOU FUCKING HAPPY NOW?!” At the end he was just yelling weakly through tears and hitting Aziraphale’s chest with all the strength he had left (which wasn’t much).

The angel was quiet. He actually didn’t know what to say. He let his demon hit him all he wanted and held him up when his knees finally gave out. They sank to the floor, Crowley still sobbing, but now the angel was crying too. He started to brush his hand through Crowley’s auburn hair and repeating:

”I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry.”

And then:

”I was such an idiot not to notice, you were never just a demon, you’re brilliant and wonderful and you don’t deserve an idiot like me, who didn’t even notice when his best friend was hurting so much. I’m so so sorry, I know I was awful and a bastard and you were absolutely right to call me that and a lot worse.”

Crowley held to the angel like he was an anchor in a storm.

“Don’t say that,” he mumbled into Aziraphale’s suit.

”It’s true.” ”It’s not. Sorry for dropping this on you.”

At this point Aziraphale took the demon’s face in his hands and forced him to look at him.

”Don’t apologise. It’s me who should be apologising to you on my knees for what I said to you. So don’t you dare apologise. I was a damn coward for not realising it earlier and I’m so sorry for it, my dear.”

Crowley looked at him in wonder. There was a second of silence and Aziraphale was getting more and more nervous, when:

”Did you just say ‘damn’ or am I imagining things?”

Aziraphale was at loss of words for a while.

”Did you just-“

”You know, that was really moving, your speech, I mean. You calling yourself an idiot and a bastard? Not that you’re any of these, but wow. Well, maybe you are a bit of an idiot. But, yeah, if you ever pull that kind of shit again, I might for real go to Alpha Centaur-“

Crowley was cut off by something totally unexpected, something he gave up on hoping for around 1960s maybe. Aziraphale bend down and kissed him fiercely.

”Don’t. You. Dare.”

And even God had to smile.

#ineffable husbands #fanfic #fic #fanfiction #good omens #crowley #a. j. crowley #aziraphale

[ineffable-bureaucracy]

The Rest is Silence

A/N: First, I want to promise you all that I’m not abandoning Fallen, or even taking a break from it! I kept meaning to start posting this that I’ve been working on as a more serious project, but kept forgetting, so now I’m finally getting around to it! I’ll be working on both routinely so neither should end up neglected because of the other. All that said, please enjoy!

Pairing: Ineffable Bureaucracy

Word Count: 3219

Summary: Gabriel finds Beelzebub on a very peculiar mission, and somehow, they manage to convince each other that they should be raising the Antichrist, not Deirdre and Arthur Young.

___

Prologue

A child had been born. This same child had been swapped out with another child, the wrong child, and sent with the wrong family. A close eye would be kept on said wrong child by an Angel and a Demon, but that is not the story we are here to tell.

The story we are here to tell revolves around the right child, who was given to the wrong family. He was being watched over, from a distance, by a different Demon, who was well aware of the misplacing of the children. She still did nothing to fix it, although all it would have taken her would have been a snap of her fingers.

Beelzebub watched Adam Young for a few months or so, before she was caught. Strangely enough, she wasn’t caught by someone on her own side, or a human, but rather, an Angel- an Archangel, to be precise. Gabriel had been going for a jog when he noticed the Demon, and decided to stop and speak to her. It wasn’t often anyone saw Beelzebub outside her office, and Gabriel wanted to encourage this kind of behavior in her.

“Lord Beelzebub!” he called as he approached her. She turned to him and shushed him, although she didn’t turn him away. Currently, Beelzebub was sitting on a bench, watching as the Youngs pushed Adam along in a stroller. Gabriel didn’t understand why she was watching in such an invested manner. (A note: Beelzebub did not attempt to conceal the fact she was watching the Young family closely. The only attempt she had made to conceal anything was the removal of the Hell rot that usually spread across her face, and the large fly that usually sat upon her head.) “What are you doing?” Gabriel asked the Prince of Hell.

“Watching that family,” she replied bluntly. Gabriel followed her gaze as he sat down on the bench. He didn’t sit with her, just near her.

“Who are they?” he questioned. He had also begun to watch them, and made no attempt to conceal that, either.

“The Youngs.” The peculiar way she spoke essentially turned the ‘s’ at the end of the word into a ‘z’, as it often did. “Crowley mucked up the delivery of the Antichrist.”

"How so?” Gabriel asked with wide eyes.

“He gave the child to the wrong family,” Beelzebub huffed. “He was supposed to go to the Dowling family, but he ended up with the Youngs, and the Dowlings now have the Youngs’ son.” Gabriel nodded as they watched the Youngs walk about.

“And now you’re just… watching them?” he clarified, and she nodded.

“Someone has to,” she pointed out. “No one else wanted to. I think they’re all scared of him.”

“He’s still just a baby,” Gabriel scoffed.

“For now,” she said. “In eleven years, he will start the war to end everything. I just want to make sure nothing happens to him before he can do that.”

Gabriel was quiet for a moment while he thought. “Wouldn’t it be smarter to take care of him yourself?” he suggested. Beelzebub gave him an odd look. “Instead of just lurking around and watching him like a stalker?”

“Demons lurk,” she pointed out simply.

“And Angels get involved.” He was silent for a moment. “I’d just raise him myself. Or, you know, have someone I trust do it for me.” Gabriel didn’t make a habit of doing things he could have someone else do for him. Beelzebub found that a little slothful of him, which she in turn found ironic, but she didn’t mention it. It wouldn’t be like her to turn him away from temptation. She stayed quiet while she thought things over.

“How would you go about getting the baby?” she finally questioned him. He looked thoughtful.

“I’d just get someone to distract the family, then I’d grab the kid and get out of there,” he answered. Beelzebub smirked.

“Isn’t that theft?” she asked bluntly. Although, there was something about her tone which made it sound as though she was joking. Gabriel then thought about that. However, Beelzebub had decided she wanted him to help her get the baby. “No, you could easily argue he was given to the wrong family, and we’re just retrieving him,” she said. He nodded.

“Since he was never supposed to be there in the first place?” he questioned. She nodded. “It would just be fixing your guy’s mistake.” Another nod. What Beelzebub was effectively doing was talking Gabriel into believing this was the right thing to do. What Gabriel was effectively doing was falling right into her trap.

“Well, when you put it that way, I almost have to do it,” she mused. “Get my master’s son back.” Now was the part where she let him think it was all his idea to help her. That was the point of her ‘when you put it that way’. “Too bad I don’t have any distraction…”

“I could distract them,” Gabriel offered. Bingo, she thought. Beelzebub almost smiled at him.

“You’d do that for me?” she teased, although she kept a very deadpan expression. Gabriel rolled his eyes and chuckled a little.

“I’m doing it because he ended up with the wrong family, and who knows if he’d turn out the way he’s supposed to with them raising him?” he answered seriously. “At least with you I know he’d get the right kind of influence.” Beelzebub buzzed in a way that suggested she was chuckling.

“I’m not sure I’ll tell him right away who he is,” she said, “but you’re right about the influence.” It sent a shiver down her spine to admit an Angel had been right about anything. And the fact that it was Gabriel of all Angels made it worse, as did his smug smirk.

“I’m right, hm, Beelzebub?” he teased. His voice gave the impression that he may have been leaning over to elbow her playfully, but everyone knows you don’t touch Beelzebub unless Beelzebub says you can touch her. So he didn’t. Not even the Archangel Gabriel would test her on that.

Beelzebub got up and popped out of the park, literally, gone to take care of something before they took Adam. Gabriel looked a little shocked at her sudden disappearance. About ten minutes later, she returned, with a baby. “This is the Youngs’ original child,” she explained. “The one to whom Deirdre Young gave birth. I’m going to switch him with the Antichrist while you distract them. This way, they never know the difference, and he izz out of their control.” The ‘z’ sound her voice typically made stretched out as she grew nervous. They would be facing some very serious consequences if they were caught. Gabriel nodded.

“So this was the ‘superfluous’ one, then?” he asked, standing and walking over to the little baby Beelzebub was holding. It felt strange to see her holding a baby, but he still smiled. Angels liked babies. Anyone looking on would simply fancy them the very odd parents of a rather normal looking baby, but likely wouldn’t question it any further. Once he’d finished looking at the baby, he jogged over to the Youngs and played the part of the lost American tourist, out on a jog. Beelzebub was quick to sneak up behind them, switch the babies, and sneak off. When he saw her safely holding Adam a good distance from them, he thanked them and jogged off to join her. Gabriel was fairly certain no human American would have been able to make heads or tails of their directions. He caught up to Beelzebub. She was holding the baby and rocking him, quietly whispering something. He leaned over her shoulder to look at him.

“He doesn’t look any different than any other human,” he pointed out, although it was obvious.

“Neither do we, unless we want to,” Beelzebub replied. That was the end of that, as she did have a point. Now, this would have been a tender moment, had it not been an Angel and a Demon gazing down upon the freshly stolen Antichrist. “Can you hold him for a moment?” she suddenly requested, interrupting the almost sweet scene. “I’m going to go fix the rest of this mess.” Gabriel nodded, and she gently passed him the baby, before popping away again.

Now, Angles liked babies, but that did not mean they had the first inkling of an idea on how to care for them. So, Gabriel was left standing in the middle of a park with Beelzebub’s new baby, and had no clue what to do with him. He held Adam the way Beelzebub had, rocking and bouncing him just slightly. That’s when he got to thinking about her plan, and realized there were some slight issues.

Where would she take him? Returning to Hell with him would be an awful idea. After all, he was clearly not a full Demon, nor Angel, and going to Hell or Heaven before he died might hurt him. Even if both his parents had been Demons or Angels, that wouldn’t make him one. That would only make him a Cambion or a Nephilim, respectively (although he would be one either way, since those are defined as having one or two parents who are either Demons or Angels), and Cambions and Nephilims are no more suited to Hell or Heaven than a human. So, that left Gabriel with the same, unanswered question. Where would Beelzebub take the little Cambion baby?

He knew Aziraphale had a bookshop with a flat, but that would mean revealing the situation to him, which they didn’t want to do. Crowley had a flat in London as well, but they couldn’t go there for the same reason they couldn’t go to Aziraphale. Beelzebub popped back up next to him.

“Thanks,” she said, taking Adam back. The whole switch around had just been undone, thanks to Beelzebub, and everyone had their respective babies.

“Where are we going to take him?” Gabriel asked her, not acknowledging her thanks. Angels rarely did. Helping others was second nature to them.

“‘We’?” she questioned, lifting her brows in confusion as she looked up at Gabriel. He hadn’t even noticed that he’d subconsciously signed on for this- helping her raise Adam- but he had.

“I just figured it’d be better for him to have some good influence, or else he might rebel against the whole Plan,” Gabriel replied quickly. He felt like he needed to cover that little slip up. And, although Beelzebub hated to admit it, he was right again. Why did he have to keep being right?

“Okay. So, where are we going to take him?” she repeated. “I don’t know. He’s only a Cambion, not a Demon, so Hell’s out.” Heaven was out immediately, considering she wanted to stay with him. She thought for a moment.

“We could get a flat, or a house,” Gabriel suggested. “Raise him here. Surely one of us could be down here when the other isn’t, at least.”

“I don’t see any other options,” she conceded. “A flat or a house it is.” Beelzebub scrunched up her nose a little at the thought of sharing a flat or a house with the Archangel. She’d rather raise Adam by herself.

“Are we changing his name?” Gabriel inquired.

“No.” That was all she said on it, and he didn’t push her. The matter dropped.

So, a Prince of Hell and an Archangel found what the Archangel considered to be an affordable house in Tadfield, just outside London, and the odd family moved in. Ironically, they had moved in close to the Young family, and across from, well, a priest. Gabriel had no qualms with this, but it made Beelzebub a little nervous, and understandably so. Demons and priests didn’t tend to get on very well. So when the priest showed up at their new house to welcome them to the neighborhood, while Gabriel was being ‘debriefed’ on the situation with Aziraphale and the Dowlings, Beelzebub was the one who answered the door.

“Yes?” she asked, looking very unamused and rather impatient. Her face was blank, like it often was.

“Hello,” the man at the door said with a warm smile. His presence was making her skin crawl, and she was sure she had gooseflesh under her sleeves. It’s worth mentioning that it was summer, and Beelzebub still wore black pants and a black, long sleeved shirt.

“Hi.” Beelzebub looked him over. “Neighbour?”

“Yes. I am Father John-” Beelzebub cut him off.

“Of course you are,” she huffed. “Aren’t all you priests called John?” No, Beelzebub, not all priests are called John.

“I- I don’t think so,” he said a little awkwardly. Beelzebub chewed on her lip and gave him a strange look. “I don’t suppose you’re also called John?” He was attempting to be funny, but it was a rather poor attempt. Beelzebub shared this sentiment.

“That was a lame joke,” she told him bluntly. She was beginning to get irritated. “My name izz-” This time, she was interrupted by a conspicuously well-timed Gabriel returning to the flat. He had heard what she was about to say, and came up with something in a split second to stop the impending nightmare.

"Bee!” he called. That sporadic new nickname had just saved the very flimsy cover they had. Beelzebub turned and looked him with wide, angry eyes. She did not approve of this new nickname. “Hi, honey.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and kissed her head, which made her look even more disturbed. Gabriel looked at Father John and gave him one of his winning smiles. “You must be our new neighbor? My name is Gabriel.”

“It’s good to meet you, Gabriel,” Father John said, smiling back. The men shook hands, and Beelzebub squirmed out from under Gabriel. Adam chose that moment to start crying, and she was happy to use that as an excuse to exit the situation. Gabriel continued to talk to Father John, and being an Angel and a priest, respectively, they got on very well. Beelzebub rocked and fed Adam, singing a downright creepy lullaby to him.

“Hickory dickory dock,” she began. Gabriel stopped in the middle of a sentence to listen to her, and Father John listened in as well. “Mankind is on the clock.” Gabriel pressed a hand to his forehead in exasperation, and they kept listening. “But don’t you fear, the end is near. Hickory dickory dock.” Neither of them much liked that version of the song. Father John swallowed nervously.

"Interesting lyrics,” he commented politely. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard that version…”

“No, I think she just came up with that,” Gabriel muttered. He bit his lip. “Bee can be… well, she had an interesting childhood?” Obviously, Beelzebub had never had a childhood, as Demons were once Angels, and Angels were simply created, but Gabriel had to come up with something. “Have you ever seen The Addams Family?” Also obviously, Gabriel was not a fan of The Addams Family. He had only watched a little of it to appease Aziraphale, who would not stop prattling on about it. John nodded understandingly. Once Adam had been placated, Beelzebub returned, and fixed John with a passive stare.

“Oh,” she said simply. “You’re still here.” Beelzebub walked past them and into the kitchen. Gabriel sighed.

“It took me a while to get used to her sense of humor,” he said, trying to cover for her. Beelzebub really couldn’t have cared less if he covered for her or not. “Would you like to come in?” One thing Angels were, if nothing else, was polite. Demons were decidedly not.

“No, he wouldn’t!” Beelzebub called from the kitchen. Gabriel pursed his lips and sighed.

“Bee’s really stressed out from the move,” he covered again. “Hard to do with a new baby.” Father John nodded, although he wasn’t sure he believed the Angel. Gabriel was just fighting to keep Beelzebub from accidentally revealing herself as a Demon.

“I’ll just… I’ll come round another day,” Father John offered.

From the kitchen came a decisive, “No!” Gabriel sighed again.

“She’s not usually like this,” he told Father John. “I don’t know why she’s being so rude!” He elevated his voice for the latter part of the sentence so Beelzebub could be sure he was talking to her. She chose then to make a reappearance, and she wore a smile that was almost sickly sweet. Definitely too sweet to be real.

“Gabriel, honey,” she said, going to him and resting a hand on his chest, her other hand on his arm. Beelzebub batted her eyes at him, and his pulse increased nervously. The Prince of Hell never acted this way, and certainly not towards him. He looked concerned. “Stop being so annoying, won’t you?” She patted his chest, and turned to look at Father John, now giving him that nerve wracking smile. “Pleazze leave.” Father John gulped and nodded.

“It was lovely to meet you,” he said.

“Yes, it was,” Gabriel agreed. Beelzebub shook her head.

“It wazzn’t. Go away.” With that, Father John left. Beelzebub closed the door and huffed.

“What on earth was that?” Gabriel demanded immediately.

"Priests make my skin crawl,” she replied honestly, leaving him in the doorway.

“You didn’t even give the guy a chance!” he countered. “For all you know, he could have been nicer than other priests you’ve met, and now he’ll never want to talk to you again.”

“Good, that wazz the point,” she buzzed.

"What do you have against priests anyway?” Gabriel questioned. He followed her deeper into the house.

“I already told you, they make my skin crawl.”

"Okay, yes, you’ve said that, but what about them?” he pressed.

“They’re holy men,” she explained slowly, as if she were speaking to a toddler. “Just like walking on consecrated ground hurtzz a Demon’zz foot, being around priestzz makezz our skin crawl.”

Gabriel calmed down considerably then, his brows creasing as he thought about the implications of what she had said. “Wait, do you mean all of that is literal?” he asked. Beelzebub nodded. “You actually have physical reactions to some of this…” Gabriel hadn’t really thought about that before, but he had earned another nod from her. He took a few steps towards her, and she let him, although she did look up at him a little nervously. She didn’t know what he was going to do. He put his hands on her arms, and looked down into her eyes. “I’m sorry, Beez,” he said quietly, and she looked down and away.

"Don’t call me that,” she muttered. “Juzzt, don’t. You don’t get to do that.”

"Why not?” he asked. “What difference does it make, what I call you?”

"You lozzt the right to call me anything other than my name when you gave the order for me to Fall,” she said sharply, looking back up at him with anger in her eyes. “You threw me away. Don’t try crawling back now that you need me.”

“You know I didn’t want to do it,” he argued as she finally pulled away.

“I need to check on Adam.” Just like that, she was gone. Gabriel sighed. She had just been in there, the baby was fine, and didn’t need checking on again.

This was going to be a long eleven years.

#ineffable bureaucracy #the rest is silence #prologue #gabriel #beelzebub #gabriel x beelzebub #beelzebub x gabriel #adam young

[qqueenofhades]

so i've seen lots of art where aziraphale is cupping crowley's face as he kisses him, and that has given me a lot of emotions, and i was wondering if you could write a little something based off of that? only if you feel like it, i'm sure you're super busy!! thank you so much

Okay I’m sure you wanted something passionate and tender and post-apocalypnot with them, and that was originally what I was intending to give you, but then my voracious need for Nanny/Gardener Shenanigans took over and this was the result. They’re idiots and I hate them.

It has been six months since Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis joined Ambassador Dowling’s official London residence, and things are going… well, they’re going. Young Warlock, aged five, is generally pleased with his new caretakers, though the first time he refused to take a bath and threw a temper tantrum in the corridor while the Finnish Trade Minister decorously pretended to have gone temporarily deaf, he was taken firmly in hand and instructed never to do that again. Nanny sounds softly Scottish most of the time, but there was something in her voice just then which made an Impact upon the youngster. Warlock had the unaccountable feeling that if he did in fact repeat the spectacle, he would be eaten alive in his bed by a swarm of eldritch horrors, all of whom looked like the former US Vice President. He has never done it again.

The Dowlings are thus also very pleased with the corrective influence that Mrs Ashtoreth (is she a Mrs? They’ve never thought to ask, aside from a vague sense that she may be married to the gardener) has exerted upon their son, at least when they’re around. Thaddeus Dowling is constantly off doing important manly things with important manly men, Harriet Dowling is presently off on one of her passive-aggressive visits to America to see her parents, and Warlock, as usual, has been left with the help. He wanders out to the garden in search of Nanny, so they can play Hide and Seek The Great Hellbeast. (Nanny’s games are odd, he is vaguely aware of that, but they have fun. Usually.)

Instead, what meets young Warlock’s eyes is the sight of Brother Francis leaning on a spade and trying to look like a seasoned man of the earth. Nanny is regarding him with one exquisitely plucked eyebrow arched, as she says, “Angel, you really don’t know the first thing about gardening, do you?”

Warlock stops short. They have not seen him, and he wriggles behind the gazebo, peering out with heart pounding. Nanny sounds strangely like a middle-aged English man, of which he has met countless thanks to his dad’s job, and she is inspecting Francis’s valiant attempt to plant begonias with the look said men usually get when asked to comment on what HM Loyal Opposition did yesterday. She – he? – shakes her head, causing her elegantly marcelled red curls to swing in a way that momentarily distracts Brother Francis completely. “There’s no way you’re shouting at these enough.”

“I’m the nice one.” Brother Francis also sounds distinctly unlike himself. Rather than his usual hayseed drawl, he is speaking like another middle-aged English man, and a considerably prim and fussy one at that. “Besides, I’m not actually gardening, my dear, you know that. Do you think the boy is asleep yet? We could go pop off and have a bit of tea in the shade.”

Nanny glances around, but manages not to notice Warlock. Then she says, in a darkly significant sort of voice, “How do you think it’s going?”

“You’re the one who spends the most time with him,” Brother Francis says, putting down the spade and any pretense of actually doing anything significant with it. He removes his hat as well, and – Warlock isn’t certain what, but something happens to his face, with its bushy sideburns and buck teeth. He resembles someone else altogether. A nice sort of fellow, but a stranger. “I suppose we must allow that the Antichrist will seem quite normal at first.”

Nanny considers that, tapping her fingers on her arm. Then she says, “Got a commendation yesterday. Apparently they thought that once he met the former US Vice President, he was entirely set for being evil.”

(Aha, Warlock thinks. Knew there was something dodgy about Hallibubbleton.)

“I don’t think so,” Brother Francis clucks. “Gabriel seems equally convinced that it would have had the opposite effect, but in reverse. I just – Crowley, are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Course it’s a good idea.” Nanny – Crowley? This is all very strange – seems miffed that not-Brother Francis would even ask. “We went over this, remember?”

“Yes, well.” Brother Francis offers up a weak-chinned smile. “I mean, you do seem to be rather good with him, you know. Very nice.”

This has a surprising reaction that takes Warlock quite aback. Crowley grabs the hapless gardener by the frock, pulling him sharply against her. “Aziraphale,” she growls. “What have I told you about that? I am not nice! I am influencing him to be EVIL! And you’re supposed to be influencing him to be GOOD! There is nothing NICE about any of it! Or me!”

Aziraphale looks less alarmed than you would think. Warlock gets a sudden suspicion about what might be going on here. Absolutely none of what they’re saying makes any sense to him, but he knows when adults want to sneak off and start kissing, which looks set to break out at any moment (disgusting). Apparently they are in fact married, though he still doesn’t know why they’re calling each other these funny names and arguing about this. To make sure things don’t get any more out of hand, he steps out from behind the gazebo. “What’s an Antichrist?”

Crowley and Aziraphale, if that is who they are, freeze on the spot. They exchange a look of pure terror only achievable to a pair of morons who have been caught red-handed and have no idea what to do now, and Crowley does apparently the only thing that occurs to her. She jerks hold of her husband and kisses him – to Warlock’s vast chagrin, this being the one thing he was trying to avoid. This goes on just long enough for Aziraphale’s hand to float up, seemingly of its own volition, to cup her face, until Crowley pulls back. “I have told you, you auld daftie,” she informs the stunned not-a-gardener, once more speaking in her Scottish caretaker-of-children voice, “not to drink before lunch, don’t you remember? You come out with all sort of nonsense when you do.”

Aziraphale utters a sound like a bladder that has been stepped on. Crowley – no, it’s just Nanny, and Warlock is already curiously hazy on remembering everything he just heard – adjusts her curls and puts back on her hat, clearing her throat. “Young man,” she says sternly, heels leaving sharp imprints in the turf as she strides toward Warlock. “What have I told you about eavesdropping?”

“That I should be bad and do what I want, because one day I’m gonna rule the whole world and know everything,” Warlock pipes up helpfully. “Wasn’t it?”

Nanny gets the look of someone who has once more played herself. Brother Francis still has not recovered, but manages to shoot her a silent HA.

“Yes, well,” Nanny says feebly. “Come along.”

She takes hold of Warlock’s hand and marches him off, leaving one angel in considerable distress behind her. Aziraphale’s brain is currently making a sound like a fork in a garbage disposal, as that is an extremely literal hell of a way to have your first kiss with someone you’ve been unconsciously and then consciously pining after for six thousand years, and his fingers can still sense their inadvertent curl around Crowley’s cheek. That was – that was – that was –

Well, Aziraphale thinks at last, picking up the spade, even as his hands continue trembling. At least Crowley didn’t mean it. It was just to cover up their apparently ill-chosen moment to discuss the Plan. That was all. It’s fine. And as long as Warlock is struck with a convenient bout of amnesia, no harm done.

They are absolutely nailing this.

#good omens ff #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #anonymous #ask

[isauntervaguelydownwards]

There’s a Silky Moon Up in the Sky

There’s a demon rocking a babe to sleep, turning in place and skirts ever so softly brushing the floor with every sway of her hips. In the doorway stands an angel, watching she who should be his adversary, holding the child who will bring about the end of everything he knows, sees the two of them crowned in silver moonlight, and his heart is full to bursting.

The child, small as he is, snuffles into her neck, tiny hands grasping at her collar - she’s got one arm wrapped under him, the under over, hand (so gently it almost hurts to look at) holding the back of his head, thumb stroking the downy hair in soothing motions. She’s humming as she sways, an old lullaby no now living human knows of, and Aziraphale feels a sharp pang of longing for towns turned to ash thousands of years ago.

She senses him, must’ve, because the humming stops and luminously golden eyes, slitted pupils for once not hidden behind dark glasses, open before narrowing at him. The arms holding the child tighten, and she turns, places herself between him and the babe. Aziraphale falters, almost reconsiders, but still reaches out, imploring, and when she doesn’t pull back he takes a step further into the room, and then another.

Crowley, meanwhile, only watches the angel come closer, can’t help but draw herself tighter around the child - the Antichrist, the Destroyer of Worlds, the child they’ve committed to stopping. The child she already loves like she’s loved no other. The child they’d discussed killing. She won’t let any harm come to him, not because he is the Antichrist and she a demon, but because he is a child and she can’t help but loving him - the smell of him, the gummy smile he gives when seeing her in the morning, the snuffling breaths he takes when just about asleep. 

Aziraphale reaches out, hand hovering over her shoulder, the other hanging by his side. She gives him a long, searching look, before taking a small step forward, letting his hand come to rest where it was headed. He raises the other hand, brings it to her hip, the child hidden between them. She knows it’s for her own benefit more than anything, knows that he hasn’t yet formed the attachment - for an angel, he finds it difficult to start loving; for a demon, she finds it difficult to stop.

“I will not let any harm come to you, either of you,” he says, and for a moment she sees why he’d been trusted to guard the Eastern Gate. There’s a righteous fury burning in him, but no demon has feared fire since the fall - ashes do not burn, and fire can only turn fire brighter. She would never fear him for her sake, and now she won’t fear him for the child, either. She loves him, she truly does, but for the sake of a child she would forsake him. He knows that, even if he doesn’t know the depth of her feelings for him.

Years pass. She settles into her role as the nanny, the governess, moonlighting - quite literally - in the garden; Aziraphale may have guarded The Garden, but he never quite figured out the point of green thumbs. Like him, she has a day a week off, any day of her choosing - she always picks Sundays, and so does Aziraphale; both of them claiming, independently of each other, it’s for church. The household staff, as well as the couple Dowling, all has their own thoughts about what the governess and the gardener get up to - most if not all has seen the gentle hand he lends with the child, has seen the slightly smitten smile she sends him when he’s not looking. 

They do spend their days off together, but not as the household staff thinks. Three years on, it’s getting harder and harder for Aziraphale to convince Crowley to leave the child where he is, to not kidnap him - it’s getting harder and harder for him to think that not kidnapping him is the right course of action, too.

“The bastard slapped him yesterday, angel!” She is incandescent in her rage, has a hard time controlling her corporation - voice growing ever more sibilant, a sinuous twist to her limbs that usually isn’t there. He, himself, is ready to pick up a long-since forgotten sword, but someone has to keep a cool head in this situation, and she is critically unable to. “We swore we would keep him from harm!”

“We can’t take him, dear, they’re keeping track of him, they would know,” he implores, ready to fall to his knees and pray her forgiveness. He loves the child, of course he does, but not - not like she does, and not like he loves her. “In a heartbeat I would take him if only it was safe.”

She knows he is right, knows it isn’t safe for any of them - she and Aziraphale would have to live, looking over their shoulders, and Warlock is the Antichrist. Protected from occult entities, yes, but they would know if he disappeared and would leave no stone unturned. She wilts, like the flowers he tend to.

“He hit my child, Aziraphale, and I can’t protect him,” she says, quietly, as if hoping he won’t hear. He stands so close it would be impossible to stop him hearing, just as impossible as it is to stop him from gathering her into his arms when she breaks down crying. He sways, trying to soothe, like he has seen her sway with the child countless times. She cries herself to sleep in his arms, and his heart is breaking. He loves her more than he’ll ever let her know, would do anything for her, but he will not let her risk her own existence for the Antichrist. 

He won’t have to.

Three years on, the countdown to the apocalypse ticking past the five years marḱ - but only barely, it’s a late Saturday evening when Crowley, still in full Nanny getup, comes bursting into the gardener shed. Aziraphale, not expecting her until the morning after, stands up in a hurry, just barely getting his bearings before she’s in his arms. Her arms are locked around his neck, she’s pressed against him from head to toe, the round glasses she’s wearing are digging uncomfortably into his neck, and she’s talking, babbling something at a speed more like what Warlock usually manages than her usual well-thought out sentences. He registers all this, somewhere in the back of his brain, but all he can focus on is how she feels, pressed against him like this, in the first embrace she’s ever initiated. 

“Are you even listening, angel?!” she interrupts herself to say, pulling back slightly to see his face. She notices the way his arms tighten around her at first, reluctant to let her pull away, filing that information away for a day when matters at hand aren’t quite as pressing.

“Oh. No, sorry dear, I don’t think I was.” He shakes himself out of the distraction, releasing her from the embrace he had unwittingly let go on a bit longer than either of them meant to. “What were you saying?”

“Warlock has chicken pox, Aziraphale,” she says, hands coming up to clutch at his lapels, eyes wide with excitement behind the customary dark lenses. His own eyes widen to match as it dawns on him.

“Chicken pox…? But that means…” he mumbles, hands on her hips, thumbs absentmindedly rubbing circles into the velvet of her dress. She notices it, tucks it away with the tightening of his arms, saves it for a day when things are as they should.

“That means Warlock isn’t the Antichrist. It’s the wrong child, angel.”

Aziraphale has a brief flash of panic - they’ve lost the Antichrist - before it hits him again. If Warlock isn’t the Antichrist, then - he’s just a human child. A human child disappearing, that’s not something Heaven or Hell can track. A human child is - easy, to fake.

“Well. Well. We will need a golem, an escape route and - we’ll need an excuse for Above and Below, when they figure it out,” he trails off, pulls away, turns around - expecting her to follow, knowing she will. She doesn’t, not immediately. Instead, she stands, handfallen. She watches him, a cautious hope growing in her heart, showing on her face. 

Abruptly, she loves him even more. This angel, who she has loved and indulged for six thousand years, this angel who so steadfastly holds to Heavenly edicts - this angel who is now planning to kidnap a child, simply because she loves that child. A favour, a gesture, she did not have to ask for, because he knew. 

They plan, through the night. They have some time yet, Warlock will need to be healthy before they can go on an outing - where Warlock will go out with Nanny, and where Nanny will come back with a child that looks like Warlock. Once ‘Warlock’ is returned to the Dowling residence, Nanny will sadly have to resign, effective immediately - her sister, you know, fallen deathly ill, and it is far to Inverness. 

What happens is this:

Warlock and Nanny - the woman who has raised him, the woman he’s called mummy more than his actual mother - will go to the zoo. When Nanny lifts Warlock up, to let him see the lions better, she starts whispering to him - knows that the two of them are under supervision, has seen the bodyguard out of the corner of her eye. When she tells him you’re not going back, Warlock starts crying, clutching at her even tighter. 

What no one knows is that for the past three years, Warlock has written in every letter to Santa (said in every prayer, whispered in the ear of every stuffed animal, wished on every dandelion he’s seen) that all he wants is for Nanny to be his mummy for real. 

It happens like this: 

Crowley brings Warlock into a restroom, says the child is having a bit of a meltdown - in the restroom, there’s Aziraphale, holding a sleeping child that looks identical to Warlock - down to every last cell, the child is. A golem, a miracle all on its own, that will grow and age and behave just like Warlock. 

Demon and angel, co-conspirators, hereditary enemies and friends above all, will switch children - a look-alike brought back to the Dowlings, and the real child, the child who Crowley adores above all else, will be brought to a flat in Mayfair.

At the Dowlings’, Nanny will make her excuses, resign and leave, all in the space of a few hours. A few days later, so will the gardener - the household staff will smile in secret, titter with each other over tea, and to a one, none is surprised.

When Warlock, the real child, wakes up again, it is in a small cottage in the South Downs, just outside Bepton. He’ll go to school in Bepton, he’ll make friends for the first time, and he’ll come home to a house full of love.

Three weeks later, when Warlock has settled and started truly believing that this, this is real, and when demon and angel both have a true hope that they actually got away with it, Crowley tucks the child into bed, kisses his forehead, and by the time she reaches the door he’s fast asleep.

She stops in the doorway, turns around, and for a moment she just - watches. There is a prickle of celestial energy, and she knows, without looking, that Aziraphale has come to a halt just behind her, not much more than a hair’s breadth between them.

“Maybe, we only get five years,” he finally breaks the silence, the ominous sentence not one she wanted to hear but she’s not surprised he’s saying it. She’s not ready for how he continues it. “But if I get to spend the five years with you and him, it will be the happiest five years in my existence.”

She’s not aware she’s moving until she’s already turned around and buried her face in his neck, hands clutching desperately at the arms of his jacket. With surprise, she realises the weird noise is coming from her, a keen high in her throat. He wraps his arms around her, makes sure they won’t wake Warlock, and lets her cry.

She cries, proper full-on sobbing, the kind of ugly crying even humans are ashamed of, and he lets her, not saying anything, only letting out small, soothing noises. 

When she pulls back, wiping at her cheeks, glasses long since discarded, he smiles at her, fondness tinged with slight nervousness.

“I love you, my dear, and if you do not love me the same, just know that I will no matter what be by your side.” Now, Aziraphale expected a lot of reactions to that - but not that her tears would begin anew. He decided to take it as a good sign that she threw herself into his arms again, instead of turning away.

“I have loved you, Aziraphale,” she begins, leaning back slightly to wipe at her face - again, she can’t remember when she last cried like this. It’s rare she uses his name when speaking to him, rarer still the way she locks her eyes onto his - less rare is how fascinating, lovely and bewitching he finds her, serpentine eyes and all. “I have loved you since the day you lifted a wing to shelter a demon from the first rain, and I haven’t ever stopped loving you.”

She raises her hand, tacky with drying tears, and lays it softly, so softly his heart aches, against his cheek. Thumb stroking his cheekbone, slow motions back and forth, for a long moment they just look at one another. Later, neither will know who leaned in first, who first gasped and who first deepened the kiss, but in a cottage in the South Downs, a bit outside Bepton, an angel and a demon are kissing, the first time of many.

In the days and years to come, times will be hard; an Apocalypse is approaching. But for now…

A demon tucks a child into bed, stroking his back and humming ever so softly - a lullaby not heard for so long no now living human remembers it, she sits on the edge of the bed until he falls asleep. When she rises, as quietly as she can, it doesn’t take more than a few steps to bring her into the arms of the angel she loves. 

Standing in the middle of the room, the two ethereal beings locked in an embrace and crowned in silver moonlight, the demon cannot bring herself to regret her fall, for it has brought her happiness above all else.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #good omens fanfic #fanfiction #my writing #type: text #genderqueer crowley #gq crowley is the hc yall can pry from my cold dead hands

[kanna-ophelia]

Hear the Serpent’s Hiss

31 Day of Ineffables Day 6, Sleigh Bells. 

 And my very first Radio!Good Omens fic. i.e. Crowley has a sexy voice and Aziraphale is at his most waspish queen-ish. baby!Warlock era. 

 On AO3

On Wattpad

* * *

Aziraphale could hear a voice like melted chocolate, a deep rich dark sweet voice designed for temptation, coming from behind the yew hedge. He could catch the words "sin", "destruction" and "evil".

Ah. That would be the new nanny, then.

He padded on quiet feet, much more padded than gumboots should really be, around the corner, and listened to the temptations of Hell.

"You're a booful Prince of darkness, aren't you? You're the prettiest, cutest, most booful devilspawn ever! Oh, you like that, don't you precious? You like a big raspberry on your adorable ickle tumtummy, my prince? Yes, you do, yes you do, you lovely gigglepot Lord of destruction you. Do you like kisses too, dragonlet? Does oo like kissy-kissies?"

Aziraphale stood quietly, just long enough to store up a lifetime's worth of mockery material in his memory. It was unfortunate that his lifetime was probably going to last just over ten years. Then he cleared his throat.

Crowley stopped tickling the giggling Antichrist and sat up.

"I see you and Warlock are getting along," Aziraphale said mildly, sitting down on the blanket beside him and holding his arms out for the baby.

"I can't help it," Crowley said, handing Warlock over. "He's the son of my Dark Lord. I'm probably genetically predisposed to bow down and worship him."

 "I thought the whole point of this project is that, if we have genes at all, he's genetically an angel. Just like you." Crowley ignored that, and Aziraphale contemplated the child in his arms. Over the last few months Warlock had started to look less like an underdone poached egg, and more like a human being. Aziraphale still didn't really understand the appeal. "What dark liturgy is I am going to eat your darling wicked tummy all up from, again?"

"Plenty of cannibal cults in the old days," Crowley said defensively.

"Well, you would know." Aziraphale tickled the baby under his chin. "You are a very, ah, nice baby," he hazarded doubtfully.

Warlock spat up all over him.

"Sorry," Crowley drawled. "I shouldn't have thrown him about so much." He drew a sigil in the air, and the sweet smelling vomit vanished. "You just wait until he starts solids properly."

"Thank you." Aziraphale continued to cuddle the child, but turned him to face away, snuggling him in his arms. He looked up to see Crowley watching him with a curious expression, glasses shoved up, on his head.

"Should you expose your eyes like that?"

"Probably not." Crowley didn't lower them. "Don't you ever come to the house?"

"No real reason to come in."

"I'll have to come to the garden more often. So you can counterbalance me a bit."

"Crowley, Warlock's not even a year old. He can't understand a word of the nonsense you're babbling."

"You never know. When did you last meet an Antichrist? He might be thinking even now, When I'm Lord of all I survey, that prissy queen is going to be crushed under my hooves for refusing to come to see me and Nanny. Hey, angel, something has has been bothering me."

Aziraphale tensed. "Hell has noticed my presence?"

"No, not that I know of. It's just that irritating nun said she wanted to count the Antichrist's little toesy-woesys. Stupid, huh?"

"Unwise, possibly. Why are you thinking about it now?"

"I counted them three times yesterday."

"Were you expecting the number to have changed? I should think your side would make sure he had nothing to make him stand out."

"It's worse than that." For once, Crowley was looking nervous and ashamed. "Once I counted them, I kissed them. Do you think Warlock really is hypnotising me?"

Aziraphale bounced the baby, gently, so as not to set off another stream of vomit. Crowley was looking genuinely terrified. Funny, how after six thousand years someone could still surprise you.

"That skirt really does suit you."

"Thanksss. I like it." Crowley shifted uncomfortably. "Look, I'm serious. If he brainwashed me, our plan is doomed."

Warlock was gripping Aziraphale's finger with the tiny strength of a six month old baby, and Aziraphale was aware of a stirring of warmth that was to do with the devil's child, with Crowley's worried frown and expensive stockings, with ten years stretching ahead. Even if they were the last ten years, they might be quite pleasurable. "I don't think we need to worry about that."

"Right. Well, Christmas."

"Why? It's a busy season for us both, but I think we could be forgiven for focusing on Warlock instead, under the circumstances."

"That's exactly what I mean. It's Warlock's first Christmas. It's crucially important."

"Crowley, he's a baby. He has no idea what Christmas is."

"We don't know that. We have to start right." The dark, honeyed drawl was back in Crowley's voice as he sprawled back on the rug and looked speculatively at Aziraphale. "You'd make a far better Father Christmas than me. I'm hardly a saint."

"Neither were most saints if I recall. In any case, I'm not sure I approve of the tradition. It seems to foster greed, deception and teaching rich children that they are morally superior to poor children and therefore deserve more material goods."

"Exactly," said Crowley, with so much pride in his voice that Aziraphale glared suspiciously at him. "That's my side, anyway. You, on the other hand, get to foster joy and give him good, improving presents. Picture books about the joys of giving and kindness. Come on, you love books."

I love--Aziraphale looked down at the Saturnine dark face, the wickedly gleaming yellow eyes and, as usual, put the thought away for another time. Some unspecified point in the future when he would feel like examining it.

"You can never start an improving library too young," Aziraphale mused.

"Come on. Let yoursssself be tempted," Crowley hissed.

Aziraphale swatted him lightly but, in the end, he always gave in.

"Besides," Crowley went on, "Warlock deserves the bestest Christmas in the entire world, don't you, my gorgeous prince of darkness you." He tickled Warlock's tummy, and the Antichrist squealed with delight.

* * *

So it was that Aziraphale, dying internally from mortification, found himself materialised in Warlock Dowling's room.

"I'm not putting the guillotine in a baby's reach, whatever Crowley thinks," he grumbled to himself. "Let alone the books."

He carefully lined up next to the cot the books, dolls (to encourage nurturing) and classical music CDs he had chosen for his godson, as well as the variety of toy guns, weapons and monsters Crowley had chosen. Then he peeked on the Antichrist, who gurgled in his sleep.

"Sleep well, little Warlock. May you be at least in part the angel you have the potential to be." It wasn't a blessing, exactly. He wasn't quite sure what effect blessing the Son of Satan might have. "And be good for my demon. I think he loves you. Which means I will try to love you as well."

Crowley, on a camping bed in the corner, muttered in his sleep as if in response. Aziraphale walked over to him, seeing his face in the moonlight. A quite ordinary face really, handsome in a foreboding way--well, pretty, Aziraphale supposed, at the moment, although "pretty" was an odd word to fit Crowley, so perhaps not--but not too much so. A face which, apart from the eyes, was designed to fit in. To look ordinary, when he was anything but.

And always, always, the first and greatest tempter.

So it wasn't, Aziraphale reasoned, entirely his fault if he cradled the sharp jaw in his hand for just a moment, and pressed a feather-light kiss on his forehead.

Crowley's eyes opened, luminous yellow in the dark.

"Well, this is new," he drawled.

Aziraphale had too much dignity to panic. "Yes, it is."

"C'mere." Crowley pulled his face down and kissed him, long and hard and deep, as if it was something he had always wanted as well. It felt strange and unthinkable and natural and familiar to have those lips and tongue on his, those dear hands holding his face, and oh Aziraphale loved him. Ridiculous to pretend otherwise, now that Crowley was kissing him and bells were ringing in his head.

He pulled up eventually, and Crowley smiled up at him.

"Sssatan, I never thought I'd be kissing Father Christmas. That beard is the least sexy thing I can imagine. Don't wear it next time I kiss you."

"Who said there is going to be a next time?"

Crowley actually looked alarmed, and Aziraphale kissed his forehead again. "Go back to sleep, dear. Don't want the Dowlings wondering why their Nanny is snogging Father Christmas in their son's room."

Crowley flashed sharp teeth but turned over to settle back to sleep. "Don't forget to ring the sleigh bells."

"Crowley, really--"

"You promised. You're an angel. Keep your promises. It's in the rules."

"All right, then."

Aziraphale went over to the cot and leaned down. Warlock opened big eyes that Aziraphale knew were blue, and smiled at him. Aziraphale felt a stirring of tenderness. "You're lucky I have a weakness for Hellspawn," Aziraphale told him, "although it probably won't count in my favour in the final reckoning if we fail at this."

There was a sound between a snort and a chuckle from the bed. "We won't fail. I'm not letting a little thing like Armageddon ruin our partnership."

"I'll hold you to it. Good night, Crowley."

"Night, angel."

With a martyred sigh, Aziraphale clambered out of the window and rang his bells. "Hope it makes you happy, you serpent," he muttered, then softened.

"Good night, my demons," he said. "I will protect you if I can. I will protect all the world, but especially you two."

Then he went back to the gardener's cottage alone and oddly content, the bells jingling in his pocket.

* * *

Notes:

Title and quote from Blue Öyster Cult , Demon's Kiss:

So children, you'll hear the serpent's hiss At the moment you feel A demon's kiss

I didn't end up using much of the prompt in the end--but I suppose that's just what it was, a prompt. @drawlight​

#31 days of ineffables #day 6 #sleigh bells #radio good omens #AziCrow #Aziraphale/Crowley #Ineffable Husbands #ineffable husbands fanfic #air conditioning #holiday fic

[freyjawriter24]

Advent Omens: Snow

Here’s my response to yesterday’s Ineffable Advent Calendar prompt from @drawlight. Enjoy!

-----

It was a cold a frosty December that year in Tadfield. It was the first time in eleven years that it hadn’t snowed heavily in and around the village in time for Christmas day, but it was still beautifully picturesque, and hardly any of the residents seemed to mind (or even notice).

Pepper noticed though. And Brian. And Wensleydale. And Anathema, who had decided to make her residence in Jasmine Cottage a little more permanent and who had heard the local children’s stories about the amazing things they got up to at Christmastime.

Adam didn’t so much notice as consciously decide that’s how it was going to be. It was a decision made a few months earlier, around the time of a certain altercation at an airfield. And now it was coming to life – winter in Oxfordshire, minus any antichrist influence. Cold, damp, pretty, frosty, and decidedly un-snowy. Just as it was meant to be.

Aziraphale and Crowley had decided that Christmas Day itself was probably more of a time for families to be together without outside interference – particularly interference of a celestial nature – but they’d accepted Adam’s invitation to a Christmas Eve lunch. The other kids were there too, and somehow Anathema and Newt had also blagged places at the table, which made for a very crowded dining room.

“Now, obviously we’ll all be having a big roast tomorrow, and lots of leftovers for the next few weeks, so I thought we’d have something a little different today,” Deidre was saying.

“I did the holly leaves”, Mr Young said proudly.

“Yes, dear,” his wife continued. “And I did all the rest of it. If you want a medal, I’m getting myself a trophy.”

Adam’s dad smiled in a way that suggested that this was an old joke. “Seems fair to me.”

He cut into the vegetable pie with its vaguely holly-shaped crust decoration and served everyone a slice as the children started dishing out chips and passing the ketchup back and forth. The food was good, Aziraphale thought – not his usual fare, considering where he usually dined – but he hadn’t eaten anything homemade in a while, and the healthy dose of love contained within it always made for a pleasurable dining experience. Crowley picked at a few chips and pried the pastry holly leaves off the top of his slice of pie to make them swim in ketchup, before swapping his plate for Aziraphale’s empty one while the humans weren’t looking.

“What’s for pudding?” Adam asked as soon as he’d finished eating.

“Come on, we’ve got to let our stomachs settle for a bit first, son.”

“Yes, no pudding for at least half an hour,” Mrs Young said, standing to clear the plates and motioning for her son to help her. “But it’s apple crumble.”

The kids all grinned and jumped up to help empty the table, leaving Anathema, Newt, the two celestial beings, and Mr Young there together. The latter was loosening his tie slightly when a frown came over his face.

“How did you two say you know us?”

If this question had been directed at Newt and Anathema, it would have been easier to deal with. It wouldn’t even need to be asked, really. Tadfield was a small place, and the mere fact that Anathema might be alone at Christmas would have warranted her being invited over to someone’s house, and why not theirs? And Newt would of course be invited too – he needed feeding up before driving them both all the way back to his mum’s house, after all.

It was, however, directed at Aziraphale and Crowley. Two people who did not live in Oxfordshire, did not have any sensible link to the family, and did not really have a proper reason for being there, other than having sort of helped save the world with Adam a few months ago.

But they’d rehearsed for this. Pepper had come up with the idea – her mum was known as the local, er, ‘interesting’ person, and so the adults were more likely to go along with it.

“We’re Pepper’s godfathers,” Aziraphale said, trying to keep his voice even.

“Her mum wanted us out of the house so she could get some last-minute things ready for tomorrow,” Crowley lied easily. “Deidre said she’d be happy to host us since Pepper was coming here too.”

“Yes, and thank you for the hospitality,” the angel added quickly.

The man’s frown lingered for a moment, then cleared as he accepted the explanation offered. “No, not at all. Always nice to have a full house around Christmas. Makes it seem extra festive.”

The children were chattering excitedly in the kitchen, and the next moment they came running over, Brian cheerfully crowing something about ‘making snowflakes’.

“We’ve got some paper over here,” Adam said, and the boys dived on the stack under an ancient printer that was sat in the corner while Pepper ran to get some scissors from Mrs Young.

A few minutes later, the entire sitting room was filled with paper shards as the children folded and cut and unfolded large almost-uniform snowflakes to decorate the windows with. Aziraphale and Crowley were for some reason put in charge of the four of them while the other adults hid in the kitchen, attempting to find some common ground to talk about.

“I’m going to go over to see Warlock on Boxing Day,” Crowley said quietly, while the others were preoccupied by seeing how much paper they could find already buried in Brian’s hair. “Might see if I can get him away from that family for a bit.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” Aziraphale asked immediately.

“Only if you want to, angel. I know you think he’s better off not having –”

“I want to.”

The words were said gently but earnestly. Crowley looked up at him, and saw the fierceness in those soft blue eyes.

“You’re right,” Aziraphale continued. “I said we shouldn’t interfere too much, now that we know the truth. But he’s already not had a normal childhood and he looked so... unhappy in the park, and I think...” He took a deep breath. “I think it would be nice if we see him regularly, at least. Maybe give him the choice to come and visit us now and again.”

The demon looked back down at the snowflake he was cutting out, checking his sunglasses were on firmly as he did so. “Thank you, angel.”

“Not at all, my dear.”

The children had now gotten distracted by Dog, who was trying to steal the finished snowflakes and shake them apart in his mouth. Mr Young called out that they should take him outside if he was going to be a bother, and so suddenly it was just the two of them alone in the sitting room, surrounded by shards of paper, cutting out snowflakes together.

“Are you going to go as Nanny?”

Crowley made a pained, garbled noise. “I... haven’t decided. I kind of want to tell him the truth. Do you... do you think he’d understand?”

Aziraphale pressed his lips together in thought. “Perhaps. It might take him a while, but I think he’d get there. Humans are resilient, children especially.”

“I just... don’t want it to go wrong.”

His voice was so small and scared that Aziraphale couldn’t help himself. He put down the paper and scissors in his own hands, gently took Crowley’s off him too, then folded the demon carefully into his arms.

“It’ll be ok, my dear. I know it will.”

They stayed that way until the call for dessert came through, and then Aziraphale ate one-handed, his other one squeezing Crowley’s under the table.

-----

It didn’t go wrong. It went unexpectedly smoothly. Mr and Mrs Dowling were surprisingly receptive to the idea of their son’s old nanny taking him away for short holidays now and again, and Warlock was impressively accepting of the fact that Nanny Ashtoreth was actually a six-thousand-year-old demon called Crowley.

“Can I still call you Nanny, though?”

“Of course you can, my darling,” Crowley said, affecting Nanny’s accent for the last two words. Warlock grinned, and hugged her.

“I’d prefer you call me Aziraphale, though,” the angel said.

“That’s fine,” the boy said. “You look nicer as yourself than as Brother Francis, by the way. I understand why Nanny liked you so much now.”

Both the celestial beings went slightly pink at that, but Warlock either didn’t notice or ignored them both. “So, can I get some chocolate log now?”

-----

When the snow actually finally fell in March the following year, Crowley went and picked up Warlock from his parents (well, parent singular – Thaddeus was in America again for work) and drove the three of them up to Oxfordshire to play with the Them.

The Tadfield kids were impressive with their snowman-making skills, having had years of perfect snow to practice with, but it was Warlock who had figured out how best to make a snow demon rather than a snow angel, and he made sure Crowley and Aziraphale had a go at making both.

As Adam and Warlock discussed their various experiences growing up as the antichrist and the rest of the Them threw snowballs for Dog to chase after, Aziraphale moved close to Crowley’s side and slid their gloved hands together.

“I think that all went rather well, in the end.”

Crowley snuck a finger up under his sunglasses to wipe away a small tear.

“Yeah, angel. It did, didn’t it?”

#advent omens #31 days of ineffables #snow #good omens #My writing #Aziraphale #crowley #christmas #drawlight #adam young #the them #anathema device #newton pulsifer #warlock dowling #sorry I'm a day late again #i might try and do two today to catch up #loving this so far

[taizi]

so take another breath

good omens pairing: adam & warlock word count: 1465 title borrowed from “icarus” by bastille part 5 of the is there a better bet than love? series read on ao3

x

Warlock magicks up another ball for Dog and gives it a hard throw down the hill. The terrier tears after it like a mad thing, folded ear flapping in the wind, and Adam shades his eyes against the melting summer sun to watch him go.

“Nice one,” he says approvingly.

As far as Antichrists go, Adam is alright. He’s easier to get along with than anybody at Warlock’s school ever was, anyway.

Dog’s breakneck pace takes him past the stupid little picnic table Aziraphale miracled up for the afternoon. He closes in on the plastic ball where it rolls to a stop against a tree stump and snatches it up in victorious jaws.

Their parents are down there, too. Crowley’s lounging to one side, drinking two-hundred pound wine like it’s going out of style while Mr. Young talks his ear off about vintage cars, and Aziraphale and Mrs. Young are deep in enthusiastic conversation. It looks like they might be stuck in The Middle of Nowhere, Oxfordshire for awhile yet.

Warlock rolls his eyes and sits in the grass next to Adam.

The Them didn’t come along today. Warlock’s glad for it. He likes them well enough, and Pepper is cooler than all the rest of them put together, but he feels outnumbered around all four of them. Sometimes he feels outnumbered when it’s just him and Adam.

“What are you thinking?” asks Adam. It’s nice of him to ask, when he could probably just find out by looking a little harder than usual.

Dog is coming back, dropping the slobbery ball in Warlock’s lap and sparing him scraping together an answer for as long as it takes to send him hurtling back down the hill in pursuit once more.

He’s thinking it’s odd, that this life could have been his. He’s thinking it’s odd that he hates the idea.

If Adam hadn’t come along, if the Dowlings had been left alone, then Warlock would have been raised here, in Tadfield, as Albert or Baldwin or Oscar Young. He would have gone to school with Brian and Wensleydale and Pepper, and he would have had a mom who baked birthday cakes with his name written in crooked icing, and a dad who went over homework with him that neither of them understood and he maybe would have been a pretty happy kid. He maybe would have turned out like Adam.

But he wouldn’t have his parents. Even though Aziraphale can’t cook, and Crowley would rather climb the walls than look at homework for very long, Warlock would still pick them over the Youngs or the Dowlings. He’s pretty good at maths on his own, anyway. That's why he majored in it.  

“I’m thinking it’ll be a miracle if the bookshop’s still standing when we get home,” Warlock says, leaning back on his hands. If he gets muddy, it will only take a thought to clean himself up again. “Considering who we left to look after the place.”

“Nanael’s there, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, but so’s Grem,” Warlock points out. It’s hard to say Gremory’s name without rolling his eyes and most of the time he doesn’t even try. “She’d start a fire just to have something to talk about later.”

“Bookshop’s fireproof,” Adam says matter-of-factly. “Made sure of that this time.”

Warlock looks at him sideways, weighs his options, then decides that it’s way too late to pretend he has a healthy dose of self-preservation in face of someone who could rearrange his entire existence with a blink.

“Fireproof doesn’t mean Gremory-proof. Those guys spend so much time reading weird grimoires they probably know plenty of stuff you don’t.”

The Antichrist tips his head back with a grin. “That’s pretty cool. Y’know, I could probably fix it myself. How many years have you been sneaking around behind their backs at this point?”

Warlock scowls. “None of your business.”

“I mean, I guess not.” Except Adam’s business is whatever he sticks his nose into and they both know it. “I won’t always be around, you know. A hundred years from now I won’t be able to offer again.”

“A hundred years from now we’ll have figured it out for ourselves,” Warlock snaps, sitting up straight. “Nanael’s close, I know they are.”

“I didn’t mean to fight,” Adam says peaceably. He never gets riled up. “I was just saying.”

Feathers ruffled, Warlock slumps back down again. “Well, quit.”

Dog was waylaid by a sausage that rolled under the picnic table. He’s begging for more scraps now. Adam brings his fingers to his mouth and whistles, which is something Warlock has never been able to figure out, and the Hellhound comes running right away.

He left the ball behind, so Adam just tussles with him for awhile. The terrier ends up in his favorite spot, pressed against Adam’s side in the sun-hot grass, a small and trusting thing.

“You wouldn’t have to be gone,” Warlock says after a moment, surprising himself. “You could still be here, if you wanted to be.”

“If I wanted to be,” Adam agreed. “I wouldn’t, though. Not when everyone I love is human. Not when they’d all be gone without me.”

He says it very easily, like it’s not even worth thinking about. Warlock has always envied how certain Adam is about everything, from as far back as the first time they both met, when Adam took one look at him and said in a self-satisfied way ‘you and I will be good friends.’

“You do, though,” Adam goes on. “Want to, I mean. You said ‘we’ earlier, when you were talking about the future."

A prickle of unease works its way into Warlock's stomach, the way it always does when he looks too far ahead.

He doesn’t think Aziraphale would approve of this conversation, given how much of Crowley’s existential dread (and Murmur’s general dread) that Warlock has inherited; but Aziraphale is down the hill playing human the way kids play house, and Adam probably wouldn’t let him overhear, anyway.

So Warlock says, “Of course I do. Your family may be human, but mine isn’t.”

Adam considers him, the shadow of something much older than the two of them in his eyes. “You can’t take it back once you make up your mind.”

Protective of the ones he loves, of his place in their lives, Warlock loses his temper. His words come out in a tone sharp enough it makes Dog lift his head.

“I don’t care what you say, Adam. You may have nearly ended the world or saved it or whatever, but you can’t boss me around. Crowley’s my Nanny and Aziraphale’s his angel, and the two of them, and Nanael and Grem and Murmur, are more my family than my mom and dad ever were. If I want to stay then I’m going to stay.”

The air is thin and dry, like brittle paper, heat building around them in a dangerous way. Adam’s curls are sticking up with static electricity from simple proximity to Warlock in a snit, but his expression is caught between amused and fond.

“I’m really not trying to fight,” he says. It bleaches the venom out of Warlock like a poultice, like the easiest thing in the world. Warlock resents it a little bit, at the same time he's grateful.

I’ll miss him when he’s gone, Warlock realizes. The thought settles in to stay, uncomfortably heavy, somewhere close to his heart.

He scowls anyway, and pulls up some grass just to feel the satisfying give beneath his hands, and they sit together in the silence of two almost-brothers who almost-entirely understand one another.

“You could stay if you wanted to,” Adam says after awhile, an unnecessary olive branch. “If you really wanted to, you could do it. You could stay forever. I mean, you’ve got a pretty good start.”

They were born at exactly the same time, and Adam will be thirty in another year, but Warlock is still nineteen. He rather feels as though he’ll be nineteen until he gets bored of it.

“I could make sure of it, if you’d like,” Adam offers kindly.

Warlock doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he nods.

Adam turns his hand, and reality turns with it, and they both feel a little bit better when it’s done.

“C’mon,” Adam says, standing with Dog tucked easily into the crook of his arm. “Mum made hummingbird cake.”

The heat has dissipated, typical English gray sponging across the sky and cooling all the sun-touched planes of the countryside. It won’t rain, not when it would ruin the picnic, but petrichor is thick and syrupy in the air as if it already had.

Warlock sinks into the chair next to Crowley, soaks up Aziraphale’s fond smile, and looks forward to the future.

#good omens #warlock dowling #adam young #aziraphale #anthony j crowley #the introduction of gremory and murmur whom im SO excited about #my writing #gomens fic #is there a better bet than love #yall nanael is here to stay

[n1ghtt1me-stars]

Part 10 (2)

Warlock saunters vaguely through life (Warlock saunters vaguely into their lives part 10) - this work is around 20,000 words so will be uploaded in eight parts every week

work on ao3, part one, part two, part three, part four, part five, part six, part seven, part eight, part nine, part ten (1)

The Youngs has gone all out for their sixteenth birthday; there was a mountain of vegetarian-fake meat to be cooked (which Shadwell was glaring at) and an impressive spread of salads, rice and coleslaw. The decorations were similar to the ones in the woods and roughly twenty-five people (including an angel, a demon, a witch, a wannabe computer engineer, a former-seer, and some distant relatives of Adam) were milling around under the afternoon sun.

Well, technically, they were Warlock's relatives but no one could know that so he stuck close to Crowley to avoid them.

Aziraphale had gone off to talk with Madam Tracy and Shadwell. Warlock was pretty sure he had done this to annoy the Sergeant as Aziraphale looked smug when he looked between him and Crowley and muttered darkly under his breath.

Leaning against the fence, Warlock was happy to stay with Crowley for the entire party if he could. Usually, Crowley liked to cause some mischief at other gatherings but he appeared content with causing Adam's grandparents to glance at him with disgust and fear. Warlock probably looked just as suspicious with his long dark hair.

"I should tell her about your plants," Warlock eventually said as one of Adam's grandmas, who was wearing a floral dress and had a large daisy in her hat, cut her eyes at Crowley for the hundredth time.

Crowley huffed in slight laughter. "I'm sure that'll go down well. She seems like the type to spoil her plants."

So far, it had been a good sixteenth birthday. For breakfast, Aziraphale made crepes and then he and Crowley gave Warlock his gift. It was just some new games and drawing pencils but he could feel his throat close up before he could say thank you because they didn’t have to get him anything really. He hugged them both tightly instead so they still got the message.

All too soon, they had to go to the barbecue. The food, as always, was great — but Warlock felt out of place as he received some presents next to Adam from those who were at the end of the world in front of Adam's family. He couldn't help but wonder if Adam hated sticking to this tradition and would prefer to have his own party.

As the sun was finally setting, Warlock saw, from his place against the fence, Mrs Young slip into the kitchen. Adam noticed as well and jogged over to where Warlock was standing alone as Crowley had gone to annoy the grandparents by walking around with his arm over Aziraphale's shoulder.

"Are you ready?" Adam asked as he grabbed Warlock's arm to drag him into the crowd.

Warlock couldn't help but smile slightly as he replied, "Do I have much choice?"

"Nope," Adam said just as Mrs Young came back outside holding a cake with exactly sixteen lit candles. Adam had told him that Mrs Young had baked it herself and it looked great to Warlock. It was two single-tiered cakes, one shaped as a 1 and the other a 6, and they were covered in green fondant icing.

Around them, everyone sang 'Happy Birthday' loudly. Warlock ducked his head under all the attention while Adam seemed to revel in it. When the song finished, by some unspoken agreement, Adam blew out the eight candles on the 1 cake as Warlock took the ones on the 6. Everyone cheered as if it was they hadn’t done the same massive feat every year. Despite that fact, Warlock still felt unbelievably happy as he blew out the candles.

Mrs Young cut the cake into equal pieces for all the guests. Slipping away as Adam was surrounded by his relatives, Warlock ended up eating his cake with Pepper.

"Having fun?" He asked her.

"Mmhmm," Pepper hummed as she tried to quickly swallow her piece of cake. "You?"

"Yeah it's been good," he said, picking at the last few crumbs on his napkin.

Pepper patted his shoulder, "Don't worry," she said, "we'll be leaving soon."

Just as she said that, Anathema started ushering the adults inside as Adam announced their plans to head into the woods. As Pepper dragged him towards the back fence, they passed Aziraphale and Crowley who gave them a knowing look.

"Have fun," Aziraphale said brightly as Crowley gave him a stern look.

"Don't do anything stupid," he said and then made his way inside with Aziraphale.

"Did you tell them?" Pepper asked. Thankfully, she didn't sound angry, only curious.

Warlock sighed, "No," he said, "I don't think we could have hidden it from them."

"Makes sense," she said as they joined the others at the fence. They all climbed over the fence and then walked into the woods to properly celebrate their birthday.

**

Greasy Johnson (Warlock thought he should stop calling him that), three of his friends and some other people from Adam's school were there when they arrived. Music was already playing from a couple of portable speakers and whoever was hooked up to them had good taste. Everyone looked comfortable with each other, even if there was some apparent tension between Johnson's and Adam's lot. That's when Warlock remembered that these people had probably been in the same schools since they were children. Warlock lingered behind the others as Adam walked towards the cluster of teenagers.

Everyone's attention was on Adam as he greeted them, "Glad you could all make it. Please help yourself to the drink but be ready to run if the neighbourhood watch shows up."

Laughing, they all split off into smaller groups. One of Johnson's friends went over to where a small table held the bottles and cans of alcohol; Warlock could see things like half-full bottles of Vodka and whiskey, many cans of cheap beer and cider, and mixers like coke and lemonade. Johnson's friend started distributing drinks to people as they came over. Warlock huffed in silent laughter as he spotted the paper cups for the spirits; Adam had really planned this out.

It wasn't long before it went dark and the garden lights switched on. They were small, like fairy lights, and did just enough that Warlock could recognise people if they were two inches away from him. A lot of people seemed fascinated that he was from London but Warlock felt annoyed as he was repeatedly asked the same question: "How on earth did you become friends with Adam and his lot?"

Most of the time, he laughed and pushed down the feeling of being an outsider. He said something along the lines of: "My guardians are friends with Anathema and like to visit her."

It was a good excuse because then people asked him about all things occult and he could have fun making up bullshit to fool those who were really drunk. Eventually, though, people were drunk enough that they started dancing and Warlock watched from the sidelines. He hadn't seen any of the four in a while so he sipped his drink (which was a very weak vodka and coke) and tried to not appear as awkward as he felt.

"Happy birthday," a gruff voice suddenly said. Warlock snapped his head to the side and saw that, at some point, Johnson had snuck up on him. Either Warlock was more lost in thought than he realised, or Johnson was a master sneaker despite being so big.

Warlock found it hard to ignore how much Johnson looked like his father; they had the same tall and wide build, similar facial structure and washed-out blue eyes. Honestly, Johnson looked more like his father's son than Warlock and it was disturbing to hear him speak with a strong British accent than an American one like his father.

"Happy birthday. Are you having fun?" Warlock replied, hoping that Johnson didn't see him jump out of his skin.

"Yep," he said. After a pause, he reluctantly said, "Adam knows how to throw a good party."

Warlock hummed in agreement.

"So, your parents know Anathema? Are they as weird as her?"

Warlock didn't know why Johnson was trying to make conversation with him, but it felt rude to try and ignore him, so he said, "They're not my parents but yeah, they're probably weirder than her."

"Oh, are you adopted?" Johnson asked. Warlock knew that, out of the three of them, Johnson was the only one who grew up knowing he was adopted. It was hard to decide whether he should feel jealous of that fact or not.

"No, not really. My parents just travel a lot and they thought it was better if I stay with some...uh, family friends and go to a local school in London." That sounded a lot better than 'my parents actually think I went to boarding school for the past five years but, really, my Nanny kind of kidnapped me instead.'

"Makes sense," Johnson said. He took a mouthful of beer and continued, "You know my mum recognised your surname, Dowling. Said your dad is some important American politician?"

To be honest, Warlock wasn't really sure what his father did other than go to a lot of meetings. He had tried to explain it several times over the years to Warlock to prepare for his imaginary career in the military or politics. "I guess he is," Warlock eventually said, "I don't really know what he does though."

Johnson nodded in understanding. "I get that," he said. "My mum is part of the local council and all it seems to be is meeting after meeting. I don't think they actually get anything done."

Laughing, Warlock realised that he was actually enjoying himself. Johnson told him about his tropical fish and, in return, Warlock described some of the plants in Crowley's greenhouse. Distracted by the conversation, he didn't notice someone approach until Adam cleared his throat right next to them.

"We're about to play forty forty in with teams of two," he said, once he had their attention. "Warlock, you're on my team."

"Sure..." Warlock said though it didn't sound like Adam was giving him much choice.

Johnson, on the other hand, seemed to be just as stubborn as Adam. "Are you being serious?" he asked, "Why do you want to play such a childish game now?"

"It'll be fun," Adam replied, meeting Johnson's stare head-on. "It's dark and everyone's pissed."

Scuffing his foot against the ground, Warlock waited as the two of them stood for what felt like forever in a silent stand-off. Warlock wasn't surprised when Johnson was the one to back down. "Okay," he said slowly, "I guess it'll be a laugh at least."

"Good," Adam said. "Mind getting people ready?"

Johnson nodded and walked off. Warlock watched as he spoke to his friends who then started organising people into groups of two. Everyone started shouting excitedly and grabbing their friends. Someone turned the music up. Through the chaos, Warlock spotted Pepper pair up with Wensleydale but he couldn't see Brian anywhere.

"Are you alright?" Adam asked. "Johnson wasn't being a dick or anything?"

Adam's gaze was intense as if he was looking for some invisible hurt. "He was actually being alright," Warlock said.

"Johnson's never nice," Adam huffed, but he dropped the subject as Johnson shouted over the crowd to explain the rules. Warlock learned nothing about the game except that the front of the tree was home, you couldn't escape and that Johnson and one of his friends were 'it'.

Therefore, he was unprepared when Johnson began to count down from twenty and the crowd scattered.

*

Adam grabbed his hand and dragged him through the woods. They weaved through the trees until they could no longer hear anyone else, at which point, Adam pulled them down so they were sitting behind a large bush.

"Ok so," Adam whispered, "these are the rules. At least one of us have to get back to the tree without being seen by those that are it. When we touch the tree say forty forty in and then we'll be safe. If one of the it people see us, then we race back to the tree and if they get there first, they'll say forty forty Adam and Warlock out and we'll be out until the game finishes and we start again with different people being it. Got it?"

Not really, Warlock thought. "So we just have to get back to the tree without being seen?"

"Pretty much," Adam said. "We'll wait until the crowd disappears because they'll be a lot of people trying to get in early and sneak in later."

"Wouldn't it make sense to sneak in early?" Warlock asked. That's what he would do: blend in as people made a mad dash because there's no way Johnson and his friend could name everyone in time.

Adam, though, shook his head. "Rarely ever works," he said. "And anyway, Johnson will be expecting me to try and be the first one to the tree."

That was probably true; anyone would expect Adam to be the one making the reckless charge to show off. Warlock believed that Adam could still succeed, but there was no point risking it if he didn't even want to.

"How long are we waiting for?" Warlock asked, looking at his watch that currently read eleven-thirty.

"Say..." Adam tilted his head from side to side, "ten minutes ish."

Honestly, this sounded like quite a dull game. In the distance, Warlock heard screams of excitement and Johnson shouting out names. Surprisingly, Adam seemed content to wait until the 'right moment' while Warlock was itching to do something.

After a few minutes, Adam spoke up again. "So," he said, "did you enjoy your birthday today?"

"Yeah, it was good." Warlock hesitated before ploughing on. "But it's weird, you know, being around people who I'm technically related to but don't know."

"What do you mean?" Adam said. He scrunched up his eyebrows and looked at Warlock. "You ain't related to them."

Now, Warlock was completely confused as well. The game went out of his mind as he tried to process what Adam just said. Was he being serious? he thought Or making a weird joke?

"What..." Warlock finally said, "on earth are you on about? Don't you remember the whole baby swap thing?"

"Oh, you don't know," Adam said. "Sorry," and he smiled, "I just assumed you did."

"Knew what?" Warlock asked. He was getting sick of the way Adam kept talking as if it was some massive thing that everyone knew.

"When I... you know," Adam said cautiously in the face of Warlock's irritation, "disowned Satan I guess. Reality changed. I became Arthur's and Deirdre's actual son and you are the Downing's real son."

Warlock's mind ground to a halt as he tried to comprehend what Adam was saying. It felt as if reality had shifted (which, in a way, it had) and suddenly he could not be sure what was true or false. "Are you saying the Dowling's are my real parents?" At Adam's nod, Warlock continued, "and that you've known this for the past five years and just, what, forgot to tell me?"

Hesitantly, Adam nodded again.

Warlock released a harsh breath but tried to hold back his emotions so he at least understands the situation first. "And what about Johnson?" He asked. "He's still adopted?"

"Uh," Adam said, "I don't know? He could still be your parents' kid as well or just random abandoned child."

"You don't know."

"Look," Adam said, "I was eleven. I didn't think it through that much. Things just went the way I wanted them to go." Jutting out his chin, Adam asked, "Why does it matter anyway? Crowley and Aziraphale are your parents. We're your family. How does this make any difference? The Dowlings are still horrible people."

"Of course it makes a difference," Warlock said, though he realised he was now shouting. "And...they ain't that bad, my parents. They want what is best for me."

"No, they don't," Adam said in that dismissive way that he used when he thought he was right and wanted the argument to be over. "They want you to be the perfect miniature version of themselves that they can use to make themselves look better."

"You don't have the full picture," Warlock said but his voice was now very weak. He needed to leave as soon as possible and be alone somewhere quiet.

A squeal erupted from nearby and there was the sound of crunching leaves as someone ran past. Adam said, "It's probably a good time to make a run for it," as if he hadn't just dropped a massive bombshell that Warlock was still working through.

Warlock shook his head and got to his feet. His knees felt weak and he stumbled forward over a large root that he missed in the dark. Adam rushed to his feet and reached out a hand to help steady him, but Warlock evaded him. "I need to go home," he said.

Adam looked like he wanted to argue but he backed down when he saw Warlock's face. Warlock didn't even want to think about what he looked like: probably pale, drained and his eyes must be completely vacant. "Okay," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Warlock nodded absently even though he couldn't promise that and walked away. The shadowy figures of the trees felt like they were closing in on him and the leaves crunched sharply under his feet. This was not the same bright, welcoming woods that he was setting up the party in yesterday. Right now, it was more like a prison that he could not escape.

Without thinking, he kept walking in the direction he thought was the right one to the cottage. Errant thoughts raced through his mind, too quick to fully dwell on. The implications of what Adam has just revealed to him were too great.

In the crowd, Warlock had felt warm but now there was a chill seeping into his bones and making him shiver slightly. Thankfully, it wasn't long before he recognised the path to the cottage. It was hard to be sure in the dark, but it felt familiar. Eventually, he spotted the lights of the cottage. He jumped the fence, went through the back door and tried to sneak upstairs to his bedroom without Aziraphale or Crowley noticing.

Unfortunately, he forgot that they weren't normal. Most parents would have been lying in bed at two-thirty in the morning (asleep or not, depending on how protective they were) and would have checked that it was their child sneaking in and not a burglar and then checked on them in the morning.

Aziraphale and Crowley, on the other hand, were sitting in the living room and sharing a bottle of wine.

Warlock cursed his luck. He was in no state to talk at the moment.

Crowley spotted him first. "Did you have fun, dear?" he asked.

Warlock forced a smile. Yep," he said, "it was great." He then faked a yawn and said, "I think I'm going to head to bed."

They bought his act and said goodnight. Warlock pulled himself through his bedtime routine before laying down and planning to get a good sleep so he could deal with everything in the morning.

Sleep eluded him and he ended up fiddling on his tablet for a while before he felt drained enough to fall into a restless doze. It was afternoon when he woke up fully and went downstairs to have lunch. He was no less tired and in no way more prepared to deal with anything.

Crowley told him that Adam visited earlier. Warlock grunted in acknowledgement and said he talk to him later today.

He didn't. And, not the day after either.

However, Adam really was a master of getting what he wanted, and, on the third day, he told Crowley what happened. Warlock found himself sitting opposite Crowley in the living room while Aziraphale made tea.

Warlock swallowed nervously. This would be a hard conversation, but he had to find out the whole truth.

"Did you know?" He asked Crowley, meeting his eyes head-on. He waited anxiously for the answer.

#fanfiction #good omens fanfiction #Warlock Dowling #warlock tags along #warlock saunters vaguely into their lives #warlock grows up