#AND THEN AZIRAPHALE SNAPS AND BRINGS OUT HIS SWORD | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sparkly-key · 6 months

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A missed rendezvous pt. 5

Furious over how Heaven treated Crowley, Aziraphale lashes out.

Written for Whumptober Day 19 - "I'll take one final step, all you have to do is make me." | Floral Bouquet | Psychological | "I'm not as stupid as you think I am." I love it when Aziraphale gets to be a BAMF.

Content warnings: gore, excessive violence, references to torture, character death.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

On AO3

HOURS EARLIER

Aziraphale did his best to still his trembling hands as he steered the Bentley into the miraculously available parking spot in front of his bookshop.

He’d already snuck inside earlier, discreetly collecting what he needed as he kept a cautious eye on the outside. His plan would be no good if he was caught too soon.

The Bentley’s radio flickered to life, the gauge lighting up.

“Keep yourself alive, come on

Keep yourself alive

Ooh, it'll take you all your time and money honey

You'll survive, shake”

It was bebop, but Aziraphale appreciated the sentiment. He patted its dashboard comfortingly. “I’ll bring him back, my dear.”

He squared his shoulders and slid out of the car.

“Aziraphale!” he shouted, bounding over to the bookshop door. He raised his hand to his brow to shield his eyes and pressed against the glass panes, peering to see inside the darkened shop. “Aziraphale, where are you?!”

He jiggled the doorknob. “C’mon, Aziraphale, let me in – Ngk“

Somebody slammed his head again the glass, their hand tight around the nape of his neck. The fractured pane cut his temple. He winced slightly as his head ache, playing up the pain for his captor.

“Knew you’d turn up, demon,” Sandalphon growled, pinning him against the door. “I even let Uriel handle your little boyfriend just so I’d be the one to collect you.”

“What didya do to Aziraphale?” Aziraphale hissed, struggling halfheartedly against the hold.

He tensed at the Archangel’s humorless laugh. “Only convinced him it’d be worth his time to stick around and chat.”

Aziraphale twisted in his hold, slamming into Sandalphon. The bald man stumbled back into the sidewalk, a sneer spreading across his face.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t make this easy,” he snapped as Aziraphale glared at him.

The seeming-demon scrambled for the Bentley, letting himself get within Sandalphon’s reach. He was expecting something, so the punch to the chin didn’t stun him as much as he made it look like, stumbling back against the bookshop. His jaw stung.

“Bloody right I won’t,” Aziraphale growled, charging at the Archangel.

He hoped it wouldn’t hurt Crowley’s ego too much when he learned how quickly the famous tempter lasted against Sandalphon, but the end was far too important to botch things up by getting accidentally smited by the Archangel’s heavy hand. It ended with Aziraphale limp in the corner of his bookshop’s stoop, feigning dazedness as the rope twisted around his wrists.

The hood was unnecessary, in his opinion.

NOW

Aziraphale grimaced at the pain from the wound in his side and Crowley’s panicked yell.

He slumped forward, carefully choreographing his position to hide his hands as he utilized Houdini’s lessons. (He may be a prisoner, but he would be damned if he revealed his tricks).

“You bloody bastard,” Crowley snarled across from him, struggling in his chains.

Aziraphale grit his teeth, forcing himself to stay silent when Sandalphon removed the sword.

It had been a shock to see him covered in bruises and blood, even if it was Aziraphale’s body covered with them. His heart had fractured, torn between rage at Heaven’s cruelty and sorrow that Crowley had had to endure this.

(This is what the side of goodness and light did. When Hell had left him physically unscarred.)

Sandalphon stepped over Aziraphale, the blade covered in blood at his side.

“I’ll fucking kill you,” Crowley hissed. “I swear to –“

SMACK

Aziraphale bit back a snarl of anger.

“You’re pathetic,” the bald man snarled. “It’s sickening, seeing you carrying about when a demon’s death should be celebrated. They’re the enemy, Aziraphale – have you become so corrupted that you can’t see the righteousness of our cause?”

How long had Sandalphon been out of battle if he thought killing a demon was that easy? (He’s dangerous from a distance, as evident from Sodom and Gomorrah, but up close? Had he fought since the Great War?)

“Gabriel, please tell me I don’t have to put up with this sniveling coward any more?” Sandalphon called.

Aziraphale undid the last of the knots, the rope coming undone in his hands. The sheathed dagger pressed against the inside of his wrist, ready to slide out with a practiced flick.

“I suppose we’ve done all we can,” Gabriel said with a sigh. “Just be careful when you dispose of the bodies – we don’t want angels to start asking questions.”

Carefully, Aziraphale rose to his feet, fighting against the wave of nausea and lightheadedness from the bleeding mess of his ear. He glanced to the side to see the Supreme Archangel carefully removing the brand he’d threatened Aziraphale-as-Crowley with from the flames, his grip careful on the handle made from holy wood.

He met Crowley’s gaze – he wished they were actually his, Aziraphale loved his golden eyes – over Sandalphon’s shoulder as the Archangel drew back his sword.

Heaven had structure, a hierarchy, and status had power. The dagger Aziraphale brought was angelic, imbued with God’s grace and capable of harm.

But the sword he wrested from Sandalphon’s grasp was made for an archangel, its power matching.

“How careless of you to lose your blade, Archangel,” the Guardian of the Eastern Gate drawled as Sandalphon spun. He squared his shoulders, the blade feeling familiar in his hand. (He had given his up, centuries ago, and rarely cared to wield another. But circumstances called for it. And he was a Principality, despite all the jokes.)

“Blasphemous,” Sandalphon snarled, raising his hand to smite Aziraphale. (Later Crowley would tell him it looked wrong, to see himself, but not himself, look so natural with a blade – but not as wrong as it would have looked for him to see Aziraphale with it. “You’re so soft,” he would murmur fondly.)

Aziraphale lunged, wavering a bit from the blood loss, but Sandalphon’s blade found purchase in his chest, impaling him.

The Archangel’s mouth fell open in shock as he stumbled forward, golden blood filling it.

Aziraphale’s gaze hardened. “Then She can call me so herself.”

He withdrew, shoving the bald angel’s lifeless body at the charging Gabriel.

The Supreme Archangel’s wings unfurled behind him, lifting Gabriel into the air in time to avoid Sandalphon. His saber appeared in his hands, his violet eyes shining. His gaze landed on Aziraphale, face bloodied but footing firm, and then flicked to Crowley, his face twisting in rage.

Bang!

The shot echoed through the cavernous space, followed by Gabriel’s noise of surprise. He glanced down at Aziraphale, a petite derringer barely visible in his hand. “How –“

Human bullets might not wound an angel in Heaven, but Aziraphale was sure the Supreme Archangel had never been shot before.

“That’s a warning, Gabriel,” Aziraphale said, tossing the gun aside. “Leave us alone – Leave Earth alone – and this all ends now.”

“You’re a fool – You too, Aziraphale – Do you honestly expect Heaven to just walk away from Armageddon? Abandon the Great Plan?” The brunet snarled, his face twisting in rage.

“Then I expect I’ll have to give them a reason not to,” the disguised angel warned coldly.

Gabriel dove for him.

Aziraphale raised his hand, uncertain if it would work, and spoke a word of command that called a column of lightning from the ceiling and struck Gabriel.

It felt … right … to call upon God’s power, a comfort that he feared would have abandoned him (What if the Great Plan was the Ineffable Plan and he’d mucked it up all along?).

The brunet fell to the floor, his burnt wings trailing behind him.

“That … was unnecessary,” he grunted, his eyes filled with fury and confusion. (Aziraphale kept forgetting. This was Crowley, doing these terrible things, in the angel’s mind.)

Aziraphale charged, the blade high. Metal rang as Sandalphon’s blade clashed with Gabriel’s. He grunted with the effort it took to hold off the Supreme Archangel, shoving his opponent back.

Gabriel opened his mouth, his hand raised, but the blade Aziraphale had kept hidden up his sleeve lodged in his throat.

He sputtered, his hands flying to cover the gushing wound.

Aziraphale drove Sandalphon’s sword through Gabriel’s gut, twisting mercilessly. The Supreme Archangel fell to his knees, violet eyes wide as the light within them faded.

Aziraphale stilled, his chest heaving, as he stood above Gabriel’s corpse and then his knees crumpled.

“Angel!” Crowley cried out behind him, chains rattling as he struggled.

“’M fine … my dear,” Aziraphale assured him, feeling exhausted. He forced himself to rise, easing the sword from free from his victim.

His eyes lifted to the pillar of Hellfire towering over them.

“We need to go,” he grunted, hurrying back to Crowley. With his fading grace, he forced the shackles around the demon’s wrists open.

Crowley sagged forward. Aziraphale quickly caught him but his injuries causing him to stumble slightly. Crowley grabbed his shoulders to steady himself, and pulled away as his hand touched Aziraphale’s bloodied skin.

“Aziraphale, oh –“ the demon groaned. “You – idiot. You shouldn’t have come!”

“Not right now, my dear,” Aziraphale told him dryly as adrenaline faded and the pain became more obvious. “We need to get out of here.”

He eased Crowley to the ground gently, shooting the demon a demanding look as he started to rise out of protest, and drew the chalk from his pocket. With shaky, hurried hands, he laid out the symbols around them, drips of blood adding unintentional power to the transportation sigil. As the final lines connected, Aziraphale sat in the center, pulled Crowley close, and activated it.

#whumptober 2023 #good omens #Aziraphale #Crowley #Gabriel #Sandalphon #cw: gore #cw: excessive violence #cw: character death

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superwho-am-i-kidding · 3 years

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This One

Here's to @lookitsstevie and another fantastic piece of art!

“We’ve got it!” Aziraphale heard the call from the upper deck. He snapped his journal closed and hurried out of his cabin. The men were hard at work hauling up the screaming nets. Heaven had assigned him captain of a ship, with the goal of ridding the area of the undoubtedly demonic sea monster that had been terrorizing it. Ships couldn’t pass through the narrow channel to shore without losing a decent number of sailors to the allure of the siren.

Aziraphale was told it had to be a demon lurking in the dark waters, keen on destroying all ships that passed near it. He felt a deep anger bubble up in his chest. How many innocent lives have been lost for the amusement of this monster? Heaven was counting on the success of this mission. They were losing too many men destined for a life of the cloth. Aziraphale made his way through the jeering sailors, spying the serpentine tail thrashing violently in the net.

He felt the smugness of the capture vanish when he saw the tangled hair and frightened eyes. There was only one being in creation with that combination of red and yellow. “Crowley?” The demon’s gaze snapped towards the sound of his name, eyes locking with the angel’s. This lapse in attention allowed one of the crew members to impale Crowley’s tail to the deck of the ship with his sword. He wailed in pain, torn between thrashing to escape and remaining still to avoid further pain. “What are you doing?!” Aziraphale gasped, rushing forwards.

“We’re torturin’ the monster,” one of the men smiled. “Wicked thing needs to suffer for what he’s done.”

“Don’t!” Aziraphale gripped the hilt of the sword and gave Crowley a sympathetic look before pulling it free. The demon whimpered, his injured tail instinctively curling towards his chest. The crew frowned at Aziraphale. “Don’t hurt him until he tells us what we want to know. Bring him to my cabin for interrogation. Gently!” Aziraphale gasped as some crewmates stooped to drag Crowley by his injured tail. “I don’t want him unconscious before I can begin,” he explained hastily.

The crew still frowned at him, rolling their eyes at the insistence of kindness. They hauled him into the cabin, still rougher than Aziraphale would have liked. After they deposited him, net and all, onto the floor, they left. Aziraphale locked the door behind them, hurrying to the side of the injured demon. He helped untangle Crowley from the nets, taking extra care when freeing his tail.

“What are you doing?” Aziraphale hissed.

“At the moment, I’m bleeding out,” Crowley wheezed, finally able to sit upright.

Aziraphale made a grunt of frustration. He grabbed the injured part of Crowley’s tail, though still gently, and pushed some power towards it. His stomach twisted when he saw his bottom hand through the wound. The large tear slowly knit itself back together, accompanied by Crowley’s soft hisses of pain. “There.” Crowley quirked up half of his mouth in a quick thanks. “Now,” Aziraphale sat back on his heels, “what in the world are you doing?”

Crowley shrugged. “Causing trouble. The usual.”

“Killing people has never been your scene, Crowley,” Aziraphale reminded him. “You’re more of a minor nuisance.”

“Gee, thanks,” Crowley muttered. “Really know how to compliment a guy.” Aziraphale gave him a hard look. “I don’t kill them. There’s a hidden island between the rocks.” The angel’s radiant beam of relief made Crowley flush. “Turn that thing off, will you?”

Aziraphale softened his look, “I’m glad to know they haven’t gotten to you down there.”

“Nah,” Crowley shrugged. “I’m hard to get to.”

Aziraphale slowly looked the demon over, making sure there were no other injuries he missed. His gaze lingered around the long, red curls. “I’ve never seen your hair so long,” Aziraphale commented. “I like it.”

“You wot?” Crowley’s eyes widened, trying to stop himself from blushing.

“I like it,” Aziraphale repeated. “It suits you. Though,” he leaned forward and brushed a portion behind Crowley’s ear, “I like it a lot better when I can see you.” He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

After a quick mental reboot, Crowley batted away the angel’s hands. “Shaddup.”

“Cap’n?” one of the deckhands pounded on the door. “We ain’t heard screamin’ yet. You alright in there?”

Aziraphale hurried to his feet. “Oh, yes!” He unlocked the door and opened it. “All tickety-boo. In fact, he’s not even evil! He hasn’t killed anyone.” The crew gave each other looks and Aziraphale regretted speaking. “Oh, dear.” He slammed the door shut before they could surge forward. “I believe I’ve rather made a mess of things,” he muttered, trying to turn the lock.

Crowley raised an eyebrow, frowning when he heard the men shouting. “The Captain’s been bewitched! Kill them both!”

“How do you propose we slip out of this one, dear?” Aziraphale gasped, the door nearly buckling behind his back.

Crowley looked about the cabin. “Do those windows open?”

“Of course they open.” Aziraphale looked aghast when the implication hit him. “We are not jumping into the ocean! This is a new coat!”

The demon muttered to himself, slipping to the window and pushing it open. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

“I like this one,” Aziraphale pouted.

“Then I’ll miracle it new, okay?” Crowley looked at the door, grimacing when it began to splinter. “Look, we don’t really have a whole lot of time to argue! Either we get discorporated, or we get wet.” Aziraphale let out a small whine. “Angel, come on. You and your coat will be fine, I promise.”

The angel met the shining gold eyes that were filled with sincerity. He sighed, “Alright. But you also need to buy me lunch.”

Crowley grinned. “Anything you want. Come on.” He grabbed Aziraphale’s hand before he could think about it, helping him stand on the bench and climb out the window. The angel sat on the ledge for a moment before looking back and letting go. One hand held on to his hat as he fell. Crowley shook his head, watching to ensure the angel came back above the waves. His head snapped around when the door broke.

“There it is! Kill it!”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale called out, the water muffling his voice. He spit some out, coughing as he tried to call to Crowley again.

The demon wiggled his eyebrows at the crew, hissing at them before pushing himself through the window. He hit the water and looked up, sending a wave to the seething men above him. He turned, swimming back to where Aziraphale had been. “Aziraphale?” Crowley called, not seeing him anywhere. He dove beneath the water, spying the angel floating slowly along. “Aziraphale, hold on!”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale turned, his eyes matching the water around them. “Terribly sorry, my dear, I must have frightened you.”

Crowley frowned. “Uh…”

“I pleasantly remembered we don’t need to breathe!” Aziraphale’s eyes glittered with excitement. “And I took the opportunity to witness some of the life down here.”

Crowley noticed his tail had begun to instinctively curl around the angel’s body, ready to haul him to the surface. Aziraphale was still holding on to his hat, and Crowley let out a chuckle. “Don’t change, Aziraphale.” He let the water float him closer, their eyes meeting as their noses bumped together. “Don’t ever change.”

#CUTE FLUFFY FLUFF #that's a surprise #good omens #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #a z fell #anthony j crowley #my writing #a j crowley #good omens fic #this one

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topaziraphale · 3 years

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Love to imagine that there were a few close calls with Gabriel where aziraphale had to pretend to smite crowley, which involved a lot of aziraphale pinning him down and a lot of sword bearing. Crowley very quickly finds out he has one hell of a kink ;)

“Of course I’m letting you win,” Crowley answers, banishing the dirt and wrinkles from both his and Aziraphale’s clothes with a snap of his fingers. Then, on a whim, he clears off any lingering sweat beading on his skin. He can’t do anything about the flush on his face and neck, or the way his legs are still wobbling. “Can’t have you losing in front of your own lot, can we? They might try and help you out, y’know. Might be worse for me in the long run, ‘s only selfish.”

Aziraphale’s frown deepens at the implication. “Oh. I assume this means I’ll have to let you overtake me when your people show up, then?”

“Er, you won’t. Have to. Do that, I mean.” Crowley stammers. Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. “They won’t crawl all the way up here to talk to me,” he elaborates, “they’ve got the radio and telly for that.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says again, fumbling with the lowest button on his waistcoat for a moment. “Yes, quite right.” He smiles nervously. “Erm...” Crowley pretends he doesn’t notice the blush subtly rising on Aziraphale’s cheeks and the tips of his ears. “Well, knowing that, I must say that is very—”

“—no—” Crowley groans in annoyance, knowing exactly where that sentence is going, throwing his head back and grimacing.

“—kind of you to do, to let me win even though it’s all a ruse,” Aziraphale continues, his smile changing from nervous to irritatingly fond and knowing. “Rather considerate.”

“Fantastic,” Crowley grumbles, his face burning brighter for a different reason now. “Really made my day with that one, you did.”

In the short silence that follows, Crowley sniffs and looks down at his shoes, pretending to inspect them for any clumps of dirt. He realizes, belatedly, that neither of them cared to fix the messy state of the greenery and soil beneath them. It clashes with the rest of the neat, freshly mown blades of grass in this conveniently empty section of the park — a stark reminder of what just happened. The sight of it makes Crowley shiver. Suddenly his resolve to stay cool and collected vanishes into thin air. He hastily looks back up to find Aziraphale fiddling with the chain of his pocket watch, and he gulps.

“Er,” he starts awkwardly, nearly freezing when Aziraphale makes eye contact with him. “Right, anyway, I just remembered I have something to do. It’s important. I’ll pick you up later, shall I?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. He spins on his heel, turning his back on Aziraphale and shoving his hands in his pockets, making his smoothest attempt at nonchalance as he starts walking away. “I’ll meet you in the front of the bookshop.”

“What? Wait,” Aziraphale calls. “You’re leaving already?”

Crowley stops in his tracks, shock still, his breath hitching in his chest. He couldn’t have been found out. He wasn’t that loud, was he? Aziraphale doesn’t know, can’t know. If he knew…

“Won’t be long,” says Crowley, gritting his teeth, hoping he doesn’t have to outright lie, hoping Aziraphale doesn’t push. “An hour, at most. We won’t miss our reservation.”

“I… er, very well,” Aziraphale eventually says, sounding confused and a little hurt. “But, before you go, I need to ask you about… just now.”

There’s a brief moment of silence, and Crowley holds his breath, chills cold as ice sliding from the back of his neck down along the knobs of his spine as fear builds in his lower gut. When Aziraphale speaks up again, his voice is slightly deeper than normal.

“I hurt you this time, didn’t I?”

Crowley blesses under his breath. It takes all he has in him not to react outwardly, to lose his carefully constructed neutrality right then and there. Instantly, his mind plays back the stunt Aziraphale pulled only minutes ago.

It’s practically routine for them at this point, really; it’s a way for them to get out of a damning situation in a pinch. If someone from work unexpectedly shows up, they pretend to be mortal enemies, doing what mortal enemies are obliged to do should they ever cross paths: fighting to the death. (Discorporation, in these cases — and even then, they only need to make the viewer think that a discorporation has taken place, should it ever go that far.) It’ll be seen as two adversaries busy with work, and whoever it was that checked in will usually leave within a minute or two to let them get back to it.

They were taking a leisurely walk and having a (slightly heated, in the angel’s case) conversation about some of the menu changes at the Criterion, when Aziraphale suddenly kicked Crowley’s feet out from under him, pinning him face-down into the ground with his knee pressed onto his back. He had yanked his hair, forcing his head up, and swiftly brought the edge of a sword — having manifested the weapon from thin air — onto Crowley’s exposed neck. Crowley was hard in his trousers before he even realized what was happening, before he could even guess that Gabriel or any other one of those wankers was probably nearby, watching, and that Aziraphale was faking the attack like he had done many times before to keep them both safe.

But for a moment, Crowley didn’t know that.

As Crowley had grabbed fistfuls of dirt and grass and writhed under the perfect weight of Aziraphale’s body, he had thought it was real, and that Aziraphale really was going to smite him this time, and that he was truly at his mercy, finally getting everything he wanted. It was too much, the ringing in his head from falling to the ground, the pain in his spine, the white-hot burn in his scalp. Crowley couldn’t move and the sword was cold and sharp on the delicate skin of his neck and Aziraphale put his lips to his ear to whisper something and it sounded harsh and commanding and he whimpered—

“Crowley?”

Crowley blinks back to himself, his eyes wide behind dark lenses. He hears Aziraphale’s footsteps approaching him, the soft crunching of the grass beneath two Oxfords deafening amongst the low rumble of blood rushing through his ears.

“No,” he blurts out, his voice thin. “I’m fine, it’s fine.”

The footsteps stop. His entire body is trembling now, every inch of skin charged as if with electricity, surely to go off at the slightest touch. He clears his throat, vaguely wondering how much of a disaster it would be if he had to look Aziraphale in the face during all of this.

“I’m fine,” he repeats in a more natural tone. “Don’t make a fuss over it, you didn’t hurt me.” You did. “Same as always, nothing different about it this time.” Hurt me again. And again and again, until my throat is raw from screaming, until my face is wet with tears. Make me beg for it.

“It most certainly was not the same, you had no idea I was even going to attack you,” Aziraphale comments, sounding just this side of stern. Crowley’s stomach curls with something too close to pleasure from the tone of voice. Aziraphale sighs. “Are you quite sure I did not hurt you by accident?” he asks gently, because it’s just like him to have concern for Crowley’s well-being, even at the worst possible times. He takes one step closer, the space separating their bodies no bigger than an arm’s-length. Crowley can feel his stare burning right through his soul, can almost feel the heat radiating from his body. “I only ask because, ah, when you cried out, just then, you seemed…”

Alarms blare in Crowley’s racing mind.

Cried out, cried out.

Aziraphale did hear him.

And now he’s asking about it.

Crowley goes from half-hard to fully erect so quickly that it makes him dizzy, his dick throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Aziraphale only has to take a couple steps toward him and circle around to his front, and then he’ll have full view of the state Crowley is in. Then Crowley would have to explain himself, and he would be mortified, he’d be so humiliated, and the fear of it only makes his cock harder. There’s just not enough self-preservation in his current, lust-crazed state of mind to not want anything more than that.

“— truly distressed,” Aziraphale continues, pronouncing the words with the same caution one would use when walking on a tightrope. Crowley hears the faintest of wavers in his voice only because he’s known the bastard for too long. “I was afraid I used too much force this time.”

You could have used more. Used all of it. Put me in my place. Burned me with your light until I’m nothing, until I’m dust at your feet. Please, angel…

Crowley holds his breath again, the muscles in his neck tightening and his jaw aching with the effort it takes to kill the moan forcing its way up into his throat. His legs feel like jelly. The temptation to fall on his knees and admit it is palpable. He might as well come clean. Even if nothing happens now, Aziraphale will bring it up again later. That’s just how he is. Better to get it over with…

“No,” he croaks. He’s blushing so hard that the skin on his face and scalp itches furiously. “I wasn’t, I didn’t…”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Truly?”

“For Heaven’s sake, Aziraphale, I told you I’m alright,” Crowley snaps. More than alright. Crowley knows he’s going to revel in the ache for days, but he also knows, acutely, that he’s only jeopardizing himself more the longer he stays in this blasted park. He’s sure he wouldn’t be able to survive another round of questions; he can already feel his admittedly weak resolve slipping in the face of those warm, seaglass eyes, beckoning him to spill his guts and spew the awful, contemptible fantasies of being taken right there in the dirt, like he deserves, with a sword trained on his back and the angel’s name in his mouth. The only thing keeping him from doing it is his knowing how said angel would react — with an upturned nose and a look of disgust only reserved for the lowest of scum. He can’t do that to him, can’t be that to him.

“Oh, right then, that’s good,” Aziraphale’s voice suddenly pulls him out of his reverie, sounding disappointed, “that’s a relief.”

Crowley then hears the telltale rustle of clothes as Aziraphale fidgets, probably adjusting his waistcoat, before he calls out, “Well then, don’t let me keep you, dear fellow. Do mind how you go.”

“Same to you,” he says back, feeling moderately guilty.

He snaps his fingers, bringing himself to his flat. He lands on his back on his luxurious bed. The cool satin sheets do nothing to calm his rapid pulse or the lick of shame that follows as he claws at his belt, the zip’s teeth not daring to catch as he shoves his trousers down and takes himself in hand. The guilt instantly melts away, but the shame stays, however it only proves to spur him on even more.

Aziraphale will forgive him by the time they meet back up for dinner.

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((I originally meant to use a couple lines of dialogue as an answer to this ask but then it turned into a small little fic, thingy, yeah. Huge thanks to @divinehedonism for beta reading this for me!!))

#SURPRISE I BET YOU THOUGHT YOU'D SEEN THE LAST OF ME #hiiiiii anon your ask has been in my drafts for months but i never forgot about you!!!! i was just nervous to post a little fic lol!#good omens nsft #nsft #bottom crowley #top aziraphale #derpy answers #derpy writes #high chance of me posting this on ao3 later #it literally took me 3 months building up courage to post this now i see why a/c took 6k years to hold hands lol #minors dni #don't think in my absence i won't check new followers i got for ages in bios #if ur a minor here might as well leave and save me the trouble of blocking you if you'd be so kind

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holycatsandrabbits · 3 years

Text

Love’s Endless Light: A Good Omens serial romance

READ FROM THE BEGINNING

Chapter 5: Shadows Fall

1143, Florentine Republic

Aziraphale stared at Crowley, his mouth falling open with surprise. “Excuse me?”

Crowley fidgeted and frowned. “I said we have to fight. Hell wants me to confront you about the whole Constantinople thing—”

Aziraphale gave an affronted gasp. “You told them Constantinople was my fault?”

“Well, I had to put something in my report, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but Crowley, I wasn’t even there!” Aziraphale’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The Arrangement—”

“Well, I’m not going to bloody tell them about that, am I? It’s not like I can say, Hey, forces of Hell, sorry the temptation went badly, but the miracle I performed for my angelic best friend went fine, so really, I’m not as bad a screw-up as it looks.”

Aziraphale blinked at Crowley, fighting down an unhelpful blush. Best friend was an awfully lovely phrase, especially coming from someone like Crowley, who was altogether lovely himself. They were standing in a clearing amid a grove of trees, and the leaves cast dappled shadows over Crowley’s beautiful scarlet hair. He was dressed in black, as usual, with a dagger at his hip, looking rakish and as inconveniently handsome as ever.

“Wait,” Aziraphale said. “So now we’re supposed to fight?”

“Yeah. Like physically.” Crowley put on a rather tempting smile, but it didn’t have his usual finesse. “Look, angel, it won’t be so bad. You can give me a cut on my arm—”

“Out of the question!” Aziraphale exclaimed.

Crowley looked exasperated. “Come on, you’re an angel, I’m a demon, it’s not that complicated. We have a nice little skirmish, I’ll tell Hell we nearly discorporated each other, and they’ll be satisfied. I mean, it might actually work in our favor, making it clear to our sides that we don’t get along, that we’d never dream of doing each other’s assignments—”

“I can’t,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley sighed, looking at Aziraphale with concern. “It’s no big deal. Not like I asked you for holy water or something.”

Aziraphale felt faint. “Crowley, I’m a guard. I wasn’t made to be able to— to hurt people.”

“You fought in the War in Heaven,” Crowley said slowly, as if Aziraphale might not remember, as if Aziraphale could stop thinking about the War for even one day. When Aziraphale did not answer, Crowley’s tone gentled. “Okay, angel. I’m sorry. I tell you what, I can wound myself—”

Aziraphale had caught Crowley by the wrist before he’d even consciously realized that Crowley had grasped his dagger. Crowley looked shocked, but Aziraphale did not let go. “Drop it,” Aziraphale instructed, and Crowley opened his hand to let the dagger fall.

“It’s, um,” Crowley said in a strangled voice, “it’s just as well we don’t fight, I guess. Since you’d obviously win.”

Aziraphale should have let go of him, but he couldn’t bring himself to. Crowley’s skin beneath his fingers was softer than the smoothest parchment, and Aziraphale found himself helplessly wondering what Crowley’s wrist would feel like beneath his lips if he dared inscribe a message there with a kiss. “Tell them I lost,” Aziraphale breathed. “I’ll wear a wound, and—”

A flash of fire and a clap of thunder suddenly shook the clearing, and two demons pushed up through the ground. “Just in time!” one of them exclaimed, seeing Crowley disarmed, and before Aziraphale could say or do anything, they rushed at him.

Aziraphale was also wearing a dagger, but he didn’t reach for it. Instead, he backed up, released his wings, and summoned his angelic glow. Though the demons held swords, they halted their advance, looking at him nervously. Aziraphale suddenly felt like a cat making himself look big in the face of a threat, and it did not help that when he glanced at Crowley, he could see the demon being delighted by exactly that thought.

Crowley retrieved his dagger and held it in what was probably supposed to be a menacing manner, and spoke in what was probably supposed to be a casual tone. “What are you guys doing here?”

“We came to help you!” one of the demons called back, not taking his eyes off of Aziraphale. He appeared to be some sort of bumble bee hybrid with a fuzzy body. “Hell wants this angel punished for what happened in Constantinople.”

Crowley made a growling noise. “I don’t need help.”

The other demon grinned. “Is that why he disarmed you?” This demon was rather monstrous, short and muscular, with a long worm-like tail that lashed about on the grass. He looked at Aziraphale with pure hate.

Aziraphale didn’t pray, not about something like this. But he did make a very fervent wish.

The demons lunged at him, and Aziraphale brought up his dagger, blocking their swords. The bumble bee one was a good fighter, watching carefully, trying to learn Aziraphale’s timing. The beastly one appeared to be more show than skill, doing a lot of useless lunging. Behind them, Crowley looked pale and worried. He held his dagger up, but hadn’t made a move to join the fight, which was wise, because of course, he’d surely enter it on Aziraphale’s side.

When the bumble bee got in a good thrust that cut through Aziraphale’s shirt, Aziraphale could hold out no longer. He let the dagger in his hand burst into holy flame. The bee demon was surprised enough that Aziraphale disarmed him and sent him sprawling.

The beast demon, predictably, rushed Aziraphale, undaunted by the flaming dagger. Aziraphale twisted out of his way and stomped on a faint discolored spot on his tail as he went past. The demon gave a cry of anguish and fell to the ground, curled up in pain. He looked up at Aziraphale with confusion and outrage in his eyes. “How did you know where to kick—”

It was at that point that Aziraphale found that his desperate wishing had not helped anything. The hate in the demon’s eyes faded into surprised recognition. “You,” he said quietly.

“Go,” Aziraphale instructed, with enough angelic might that the ground shook. The two demons scrambled up and fled into the forest.

Aziraphale let the flaming dagger flare out. He could not bring himself to look at Crowley, but he noticed him approaching gingerly.

“Are you okay?” Crowley asked.

“Of course.”

It was an obvious lie, and Aziraphale regretted it immediately, as he realized Crowley was going to try to solve the situation with humor.

“Gosh, angel, good thing we didn’t run into each other in the War in Heaven. I’d have been no match for you. You must have really made an impression on the one with the tail if he remembers you after all this time. Well, looks like you made an actual impression on his tail. Was it with your flaming sword?”

“Crowley, you don’t understand about the War,” Aziraphale whispered.

“It’s no shame to have fought,” Crowley said reassuringly. “That was your job.”

“My job is to guard.”

“But you were created a fighter, Aziraphale, obviously.”

Aziraphale still hadn’t looked at him, and he couldn’t now, because his eyes were wet. He turned the dagger around and held it out to Crowley, handle-first. “Say you disarmed me. Hell won’t punish you then.”

“Angel,” Crowley protested. He did not take the dagger, so Aziraphale dropped it on the ground and snapped his fingers, miracling himself somewhere far away.

READ FROM THE BEGINNING

Read on Ao3

Updates Fridays on Ao3 and Tumblr.

Want to create fic, art, or other works based on this series? Please do! Just dm or tag me.

My previous Good Omens serial: Mr. Fell’s Bookshop

My Carrd

*********

Image text: Love’s Endless Light by Dannye Chase (HolyCatsAndRabbits) Chapter 5

As Aziraphale and Crowley slowly fall in love over the millennia, Crowley discovers that Aziraphale is keeping a very dangerous secret.

#Dannye writes #good omens #Love's Endless Light #good omens fan fiction

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angel-and-serpent · 4 years

Text

Aftershock

Unbeknownst to almost everybody, the world had almost ended. It was the kind of thing one should really be informed about, really. Nevertheless, mankind carried on, ignorant of how close they'd come to their end. An earthbound angel and demon, however, were only too well aware of how close their brush with annihilation had been. Not just humanity's, but their own. They had been condemned to death by holy water and hellfire respectively.

And yet here they were, back on earth once again. Not just amongst people, as they had been from the beginning, but with each other.

The walk from the garden bench was charged with emotion. Despite this, nothing of much interest was said between them as they made their way to their destination. They idly chatted, still trying to wrap their minds around the full enormity of what had just happened. They walked side by side as they always had, despite the insurmountable victory they had accomplished. They had yet to put into words what they were thinking, as their thoughts raced by too quickly to be comprehended.

The impressive exterior of the Ritz came into view up ahead. The familiar sense of excitement grew inside them; the mixed emotions of joy and fear of being together in public.

Once the initial reaction had passed, however, Aziraphale did something he rarely did: he entertained new thoughts. The realisation had just begun to sink in.

There was no reason to hide anymore.

A spark inside Aziraphale began to turn into a blaze.

As they entered the lobby together, Aziraphale felt something in his chest rise up. There was the entrance to the restaurant, just as they'd planned. However, his heart tugged in a different direction, one he'd quashed countless times. With each step, his instinct told him otherwise. That same instinct had told him to give away his flaming sword, to shelter a demon under his wing, to protect a unique child in his moment of need, and how to decipher a prophesy to save them both. It had helped him so much over the years, so why shouldn't he just...?

The restaurant host at his podium was within sight. All they had to do was walk over, order a table for two, and...

No.

Not today.

Aziraphale's feet stopped. Crowley noticed the emptiness at his side and turned. "Everything alright, angel?"

Yes. Yes, it truly was.

The host had recognised him across the lobby.

"Ah, Mr Fell!" He called with familiarity. "Will it be a table for two this afternoon, gentlemen?"

Aziraphale opened his mouth to answer... but the words would not come out. He paused for a moment, wringing his hands in contemplation. Crowley looked at him curiously and wondered if he should speak for him.

Finally he replied. "Uh, n-no thank you, John, my dear chap. I'm afraid I've... just remembered some rather, uh, pressing business I should really attend to first. Perhaps later. Cheerio!"

As he turned around to back out, he faced Crowley and gave him a brief yet very distinct look. Crowley understood, to some extent: 'This is important'. He gave the host a shrug, and followed Aziraphale back out to the lobby. If Crowley was unsure what he was doing before, he was even more perplexed when Aziraphale crossed over to the other side. The side they'd never gone to before.

"Excuse me, miss?" Aziraphale asked politely, if somewhat nervously. Both the concierge and Crowley looked up at him.

"Good afternoon, sir. What may I help you with?" asked the woman behind the sleek desk.

Aziraphale barreled on. "I'd... I'd like a room. Please."

He turned slowly to look directly at Crowley, through his glasses. He looked at him expectantly. "...For two."

Crowley's mouth fell open. He looked at Aziraphale, dumbfounded. Aziraphale raised his brows expectantly at him.

"Wonderful, sir. Will that be two beds or-"

"One bed," responded Crowley. He slammed down his very dark and shiny credit card on the counter. He replied to the concierge but faced Aziraphale while he spoke. "The largest, nicest one you've got!" He grinned dashingly, biting his lip.

Aziraphale's heart soared in his chest and he could barely contain his smile.

If the concierge saw their delight, she was too polite and professional to acknowledge it. Instead she tapped away at her keyboard and searched the monitor. "Let me see what we have. I'm afraid we don't have much available for walk-in bookings, but I'll see what I can do..."

Aziraphale flicked his fingers where only one person in the lobby might have seen it.

"Oh, well here we go! We've had a last minute cancellation for a two room suite with king sized bed. Will that be suitable, sirs?"

Both of them were lost for a moment, and had to be asked a second time.

"I'm sorry? Um, uh, YES! Yes, that would be lovely!" Aziraphale managed to get out.

"And how many nights will you be staying?"

They looked to each other, Aziraphale for permission and Crowley for confirmation.

"Let's make it... a week?" Crowley replied. There was a slight noise from Aziraphale's direction that might have been a gasp or a surprised huff.

"Allllright, sirs, bear with me one moment, please, while I put your details into the system. This won't take too long. Would you like your luggage brought up to your room?"

Crowley answered, "No luggage."

Aziraphale nudged him. "Nonsense, dear. Our, uh, suitcases are in the car. No need to bring it up now. We'll bring it up ourselves later, if that's alright?"

"Yes. 'Course," Crowley quickly recovered.

"That's not a problem," replied the concierge, not letting on in anyway if she truly understood the situation. "You can always call through to us at the front desk if you need anything or have any questions. The bellhop will show you to your room. Here's your keycard and a brochure to our available amenities, including opening and closing times of the restaurant."

Aziraphale was about to inform her that he was already well acquainted with the restaurant's times, but he was in a hurry to be on their way.

They followed the bellhop who led them to the lifts. The doors opened and the three of them stepped into the car. The bellhop stood in front of them by the buttons. To Aziraphale and Crowley, two immortals who'd been on earth since time immemorial, it was the longest ride they'd ever had to suffer through.

Aziraphale and Crowley hadn't made eye contact since the front desk. They still stared dead ahead, and silent as could be. What wasn't said was felt, though; the space between them was electric.

Aziraphale saw movement out the corner of his eye. Without even looking down, he knew what it was. Crowley's little finger was secretly reaching for him. Surreptitious as always, but shy and tentative as well. Aziraphale needed this affirmation, too, that this was really happening, and that they were together in this. He, also, extended his own trembling little finger. He felt it brush against Crowley's, desperately ready bridge the gap between them and to entwine-

The elevator car lurched as they reached their floor. Their hands snapped back at their sides as a reflex. The bell chimed, and they stepped out.

They were led down the hall and to their suite. The bellhop showed them inside, pointing out the rooms' features. Crowley sauntered around slowly, regarding the rooms with practiced disinterest. Aziraphale assured the young man that everything looked tip-top, and was perhaps a little too eager to bid him on his way. Finally, he closed the door which locked soundly.

Aziraphale paused at the door, as if he was waiting for someone to come bursting through and interrupt them.

It never came.

They were alone.

They had their privacy.

They had their freedom.

Unsure of what to do next, Crowley sat down on the end of the bed. The silence between them was deafening.

Aziraphale turned to face Crowley.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice unsteady and hushed. "But if I didn't do that... I might have lost all my nerve!"

The space between them evaporated immediately. Crowley instantly threw his arms open wide and Aziraphale rushed into them. They clung to each other tightly; not a space for even a breath between them. However, some things don't need breath. Angels and demons, for example, or expressions of true love.

A lot can be accomplished in a week. God created the World in six days and rested on the seventh. For an angel and a demon, they can slough off the shackles that held them back from being themselves. Walls can be broken down around guarded hearts, and the love within them can finally be allowed to flow freely. They can make the world they always wanted for themselves.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #aziraphale and crowley #good omens ficlet #ineffable fluff #good omens fanfiction #crowley and aziraphale #my writing #jumping on the bandwagon #me writes too #good omens fanfic #good omens fan fiction

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lady-divine-writes · 4 years

Text

Good Omens - Dodge and Parry (Rated NC17)

Summary: Crowley discovers that he is rather enamored of his angel's bruises ... especially the ones that go farther than skin deep. (2006 words)

Notes: I wrote this for Kinktober 2020, the prompt 'bruises'. So I was going to write a piece about bruise worship, which this sort of is, but it went much deeper. I will try to come up with something kinkier and more fun another time XD

Read on AO3.

“How does that feel, angel?” Crowley asks, soaking his washcloth completely, then wringing it out over Aziraphale’s scalp. “Too hot? Too cold?”

“Neither.” Aziraphale hums happily with eyes shut. “It’s perfect. Sublime, I should say. Like soaking in a nice, warm cup of tea.”

“We’ve added enough dried flowers and wot not that you could just be,” Crowley comments, swiping a hand through the water, swatting at a cluster of rose petals, lavender, sweet jasmine, and chamomile.

“Hmm. Then you could drink me,” Aziraphale says, sinking deeper into the steaming water.

“Ngk … I … I could …” Crowley stumbles, but he recovers, a triumph since that remark from his angel almost had him choking on his tongue. “But let’s save the sweet stuff for later, eh? We’ve gotta get you fixed up.”

“Yes … let’s. Then … I can do you …” Aziraphale mumbles, drifting off, his cheeks rosy from the warmth and the company. Crowley soaps up his cloth and runs it over Aziraphale’s arm, sliding past a mark that has blossomed considerably since he last saw it. He runs the cloth over it again and it seems to darken, the cream-colored suds rinsing into cloudy water and revealing a plethora of purples swirled together, related to one another by hues, tiny freckles sprouting along the fringe like shy violets.

A galaxy of them really.

Crowley isn’t normally fond of scars and bruises, especially on his angel. Aziraphale bears many types of blacks and blues, with varied stories behind them. Older scars on Aziraphale’s corporation - ones following mortal paths and having faded to silver - come by way of other angels who delight in his suffering. Crowley has seen every one of those, categorized their existence, set their placements to memory. A touch of his fingertips tells him when they were created … and by whom.

Crowley has gathered a list of enemies on his angel’s behalf, and that list is long.

Very long.

Not all of angel’s bruises are visible to the naked, mortal eye, but they’ve dimmed his aura considerably.

Crowley never thought the humans’ quarantine would get to Aziraphale. Being locked inside, forbidden to go out and socialize, leaving him heaps of time to read his books, seemed like a dream come true. With no one coming into his shop to browse, there was nothing keeping him from doing his crossword puzzles till his heart’s content. And it seemed that way for the first few months.

But it didn’t stay that way.

More and more, Crowley would catch his angel sitting in a chair by the window, staring up at the sky, sighing deeply as if for a long lost love, which seemed utterly preposterous to Crowley since every book Aziraphale could ever want lay in a stack beside him. Aside from that, he had his music. And cake! Why, they’d been baking cake every single day! So much cake, in fact, that any poor soul who so much as poked their head out of their door received a cardboard baker’s box packed to bursting with confections, passed along at a socially safe distance courtesy of a long, wooden shepherd’s crook.

And thanks to a wonderful service with a mildly vulgar name, whenever Aziraphale so desired, a delivery person dropped by with a box of his favorite sushi, which Crowley generously tipped for.

But Aziraphale still wasn’t happy. And he was becoming less happy by the day.

Something had changed.

He mentioned several times to Crowley that he felt hemmed in; that lately, being locked inside made it difficult for him to breathe. He longed to walk through the park, soak in the sunshine (when it made itself available), and feed the ducks again.

Crowley didn’t understand it. Aziraphale despised exercise to such a degree that if he sat at Crowley’s kitchen table, preparing to sup, and discovered that he’d left the butter in the fridge, he’d rather do without then to get up and fetch it.

It wasn’t until days later, when Crowley found a stack of newspaper clippings hiding underneath Aziraphale’s ledger, that he began to catch on:

Covid cases increase rapidly as next steps planned

'Tier Three' Covid restrictions in announcement on Monday

More than 80% of positive UK cases in study had no core symptoms

It wasn’t the toll quarantine was taking on Aziraphale. It was the toll this disease that caused the need for a quarantine was taking on the humans he was so fond of. That time spent staring at the sky, Aziraphale spent praying, wondering why the Almighty would let this continue, let so many of Her beloveds die and for what?

From the expression on his angel’s face after, Crowley assumed he got no answers.

It was like the Ark all over again, only without the refreshing rain, and with no rainbow in sight.

Determined to take his mind off of it, Crowley arranged a private movie marathon for his angel at his flat. They sat on his sofa with homemade snacks and watched some old Errol Flynn movies. And it worked! After a while, Crowley started watching Aziraphale more than the film, his angel that much more entertaining. Aziraphale had started the way he watched every movie - sitting primly upright, hands folded in his lap, eyes glued to the screen. But over time, he’d started to inch forward, lean in, muscles twitching to recreate the fight scenes - the swipes of a sword, the parries, his feet shuffling enthusiastically in place to mimic the steps of the actors’ retreats like they were performing a gavotte.

Encouraged that this was a way to break through Aziraphale’s melancholy, Crowley recommended they dig out the old fencing foils and have at it, sans protective gear in honor of old Errol. Besides, they didn’t need it.

“Oh! No, no, no!” Aziraphale argued at first, even with a smile on his lips. “I couldn’t! It’s been so long!”

“Nonsense!” Crowley retorted, heading for his closet. “You were an expert swordsman centuries ago. I’m sure you’ll do wonderfully now. It’s like riding a bicycle.”

“And how’s that, dear?”

“Once you fall off, you get right back on.” Crowley tossed Aziraphale a foil, which he caught without looking, and Crowley smirked knowingly.

Crowley didn’t give Aziraphale a chance to back out, didn’t salute him like at the beginning of an official duel. Crowley came at him like a buccaneer, crowing and catching Aziraphale off-guard. But Aziraphale fought back. He wasn’t upset by Crowley’s abrupt start. On the contrary. He laughed at Crowley’s antics, especially when he tried to evade by climbing over the sofa, and then onto an end table. His joy was infectious. It rang through Crowley’s flat, made the plants (which had initially recoiled at the sound of clashing metal) stand straighter, wave their leaves and cheer. It rose up inside Crowley as if the joy were his own, making him laugh, too.

Laugh till he snorted, which he hadn’t done in a long time.

But it didn’t last as long as Crowley had hoped.

Aziraphale got lost somewhere in the fight, lost in thinking, his mind drifting in all directions while he dodged and parried by rote. His face grew tense, his expression morphing from concentration to anger … to vengeance. He went after Crowley with clouded eyes, as if everything pent up inside him - the sadness and the anxiety - had found a weak spot in Aziraphale’s armor.

And now, it was starting to break through.

Crowley didn’t know who Aziraphale saw when he looked at him. Those world leaders who didn’t take this pandemic seriously, who didn’t act quick enough, who were greedy.

Beelzebub and the Dukes of Hell, whom Aziraphale credited for the speed in which this disease took hold, and the blind, stubborn stupidity of those who refused to do their part to stop it.

Gabriel, who has long since laughed off any correspondence Aziraphale has sent him regarding the matter, rejecting the last dozen with a very snarky ‘Return to sender!’ emblazoned in gold across the envelope.

Or the Almighty, who has the power to stop this but who has refused, and doesn’t have the decency to tell him why.

Or maybe he simply saw Crowley, who treated the whole thing like a joke, not only taking a nap for the first few months but then extending it, leaving Aziraphale alone when he might have needed him most.

Aziraphale attacked, closing in on Crowley fast, fighting with more fist than blade, and Crowley defended.

They struck one another at the same time - Aziraphale bringing his wrist down on the bridge of Crowley’s nose, Crowley’s guard-covered fist coming up to block and accidentally clocking Aziraphale on the jaw.

Both stumbled back, seeing stars.

Had they been human, Crowley’s nose would have broken, and Aziraphale’s jaw would have shattered. As was, Crowley’s nose ended up a bit crooked till a minute ago when Aziraphale snapped his fingers and set it straight. Aziraphale’s jaw still sported an indigo bruise reminiscent of a mum.

“Oh … oh my dear boy! I am so sorry!” Aziraphale apologized profusely when he saw Crowley’s nose, blood pooling underneath.

“Wot?” Crowley sniffed, wiping his Cupid’s bow with the back of his hand, examining the stain left behind with swimming eyes. “Oh, this? It’s nothing. Barely a scratch. Think nothing of it.”

“But … but …” Aziraphale stuttered, on the verge of tears. He dropped his sword, almost dropped to his knees, too, but Crowley hurried forward and gathered him up, wrapped him in his arms and held him.

“It’s all right,” he whispered, hugging Aziraphale tight. “It’s going to be all right, angel.”

“Do you … do you really think so?”

“Yes,” Crowley said with a sigh. Whether he did or not didn’t actually matter. But no one, angel or human, was going to get through today and on to the next if they didn’t believe it was at least possible. Crowley had to hold Aziraphale together, even if he did it with lies. He had to keep the one angel left on earth who still cared going. “I do.”

That’s when Aziraphale’s tears began to fall.

Crowley held him.

An hour went by, and Crowley held him.

Crowley declared Aziraphale the winner, and as a reward, offered to give him a bath and miracle him healed.

But when he got his angel naked and saw the bruises glowing on his skin, he hesitated. He shouldn’t be attracted to them. He shouldn’t find them appealing. On top of being physical damage to Aziraphale’s skin, some of them were bred out of despair. They should have repulsed Crowley, but they were actually glorious, like a small corner of impressionist art brought to life and tattooed on his skin.

Because not all of these new bruises, exploding with vibrant color and depth, were bad. They happened when Aziraphale was still smiling, still laughing. When his leg banged the corner of a table during a particularly rowdy retreat. When he tried to follow Crowley vaulting over the back of the sofa, misstepped, and landed on his knee. When their foils tangled together and Crowley accidentally kicked Aziraphale in the thigh in his effort to separate them. Aziraphale had watched Crowley fly backward, land on his heel, and spin three times like a ballerina, stopping in a perfect arabesque, just to then trip over air and land in a chair. Aziraphale threw his head back and laughed so hard, he walked right into Crowley’s (blunted) sword, the flat tip leaving its circular shadow behind.

Those bruises …

Those are bruises of pleasure.

They run deeper than skin.

And Crowley is quite satisfied by that.

Crowley almost regrets his promise to rid Aziraphale of them.

But being the one who gets to heal Aziraphale is an honor all its own.

However, he realizes with a grin, there is a way to get them back.

He’ll memorize these, too. Their exact locations.

And freshen them up later with his mouth.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #kinktober 2020 #ineffable lovers #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #aziraphale #Crowley

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whatawriterwields · 5 years

Text

Am I Wrong?

The bookshop’s window looks out onto the street. Aziraphale stands there, feet planted firmly on the dusty wood of the floor, shoulders back, head erect. Hands clasped behind his back. A soldier at attention, though he can’t stop his hands from fidgeting, hard as he tries. He stares out at the cars and the pedestrians passing, one after the other, back and forth, back and forth. He watches the pattern repeat until he can hardly stand it, until he wants to scream. His eyes burn, but it’s not enough to produce real tears.

He’s used to this feeling, this twisting, swirling sensation in his gut. He’s been known to stand this way for hours, days even, before finally breaking down and crying, and then trying to forget about it. As his hands tremble now, and he fights to keep them still, he hopes this one will pass more quickly.

But this time he’s interrupted. Though he’s turned his bookshop’s sign to CLOSED - though he’s had the wild thought, as he always does in these episodes, that he should close the damn thing down and leave London for good - the door swings open around noon, and a familiar voice calls out to him above the bell.

“Angel?”

His heart leaps, faintly, at the sight of Crowley’s red hair making its way toward him through the shelves. For a moment he thinks about moving away from the window, opening a bottle of wine with the demon, and whiling away the afternoon and the evening with pleasant conversation. Laughing about customers and hearing horror stories about Crowley’s plants. But then the thought crumples. Aziraphale deflates, and turns back toward the window, eyes burning a little stronger. That’s just like him, to think of distracting himself with pleasure. How stupid of him. How selfish.

Read on Ao3

Crowley appears by his side. “What are you doing here? I fancied a lunch date.”

Aziraphale forces a little smile. “That sounds fine, dear.”

“Fine?” Crowley raises an eyebrow.

His lips twist into a half-grimace, and he focuses his eyes on the people passing by on their side of the sidewalk. It’s not many people - the day is overcast, and it’s a weekday, and most people are at home or at work - but it’s enough. Enough to remind Aziraphale why he should be at work too.

“Something’s bothering you,” says Crowley. “Tell me.”

Oh, that would be easy, wouldn’t it? To confide in Crowley, to heave all his inner turmoil on the demon’s shoulders, to let him carry the weight Aziraphale was made for. That would be convenient enough. Aziraphale swallows, tasting salt on his tongue, and stares away. “It’s nothing.”

“Don’t be daft. I’ve never heard you that unenthusiastic about food.”

And that comment, though it’s said in a lighthearted tone, a gentle tone, even - though Aziraphale knows Crowley is only teasing, and that Crowley loves him, and that Crowley doesn’t mind going out to restaurants and watching Aziraphale eat everything on the menu - because of those things, in fact, that comment makes Aziraphale’s shoulders sag, and he covers his face with his hands as they begin to shake.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley is taken aback. “Hey, hey -” he puts an arm around Aziraphale, using the other hand to draw Aziraphale’s damp fingers from his eyes, to brush the brimming tears away - “what did I say?”

“N-nothing.” Aziraphale pulls away from Crowley’s arms. He doesn’t deserve comfort. “I’m…”

“What? You’re what?”

“I’m all wrong.” He gestures helplessly out the window, too overwhelmed to try disguising the catch in his voice. “Do you see the people out there? The people who walk by my bookshop every day, and have for hundreds of years, and did before I came here and started this ridiculous business?” He locks his eyes on a man with his head bowed against the wind, and points. “That man just lost his job. He’s trying to care for his son, but he’s barely making ends meet, and he’s been praying every night for a miracle to change his fate.”

Crowley’s eyes widen. “How do you know that?”

Oh, Crowley doesn’t know, of course he doesn’t. Aziraphale has never told him what the world is like for a principality. That’s one secret he’s never confided. “I know them all, Crowley. I can know every human’s suffering if I want to.”

“What?”

“See that woman?” He motions, somewhat wildly, to an elderly woman several paces behind the man. “She hasn’t talked to any of her family members since her brother died. She tries to work up the courage every day, but she just can’t stop thinking about which one of them is next, and maybe it’s her but even worse, maybe it isn’t, and she’s terrified of letting herself cry about this first loss when she’s got to keep herself strong for so many more.” Aziraphale dashes more tears from his eyes.

Crowley’s mouth is hanging open. He seems utterly lost for words, but that’s just fine - Aziraphale isn’t done, he isn’t close to done.

“I’ve been in this shop since the eighteenth century,” he says, “and I’ve seen every kind of suffering under the sun. I’ve seen people break down and cry in the middle of the street. I’ve seen arguments end decades-old relationships. I’ve seen people dying, out there in the cold during the worst winters, and no one caring enough to help them.” He clutches his head, running his fingers through his hair, his breaths shaky, uneven. “But most often I just see the pain in their minds. And it doesn’t show up on their faces. And I can read exactly what’s happening to them - I can see how badly they need the world to just stop being so unfair, and for some great cosmic order to right their lives, and for things to start making sense.”

Aziraphale lets his arms fall. “All while I’m here, in my bookshop, wealthy as can be, able to go out to lunch whenever I like, never needing to worry about money or dying or how I’ll keep warm when winter comes.” He wants to let his legs give out under him. He wants to fall apart. “All while I’m reading books and eating crepes.”

There’s a moment of silence. Aziraphale doesn’t look up at Crowley; instead, he turns and leans his forehead against the window. He can still see people passing. He sees the ones in their cars, too, and it takes him no time at all to pick out the ones hurting. To see their stories unfurling out from behind them like so much shredded ribbon.

“You...” says Crowley at last, “what are you saying?”

“I’m saying I’m a bad angel, Crowley,” Aziraphale snaps. “I’m saying I was supposed to be a warrior against the forces of evil and injustice, and I don’t know how. I’m no good at fighting. I’m saying -” his hands are still clenching and unclenching, feeling, Aziraphale knows, for the flaming sword he still senses like a phantom limb - “I’m saying that I’m frivolous, and shallow, and selfish.”

“Oh, come on.” Crowley reaches out for Aziraphale again, hands going to his shoulders, comforting - and once more Aziraphale sidesteps them. Why is being kind so easy for Crowley? Why does comforting come so natural to a demon? Why can’t Aziraphale reach out to the person driving that car out there, who’s fallen off the wagon for the third time, and give him some of that healing warmth that flows from Crowley without a thought?

“I care so much about books,” Aziraphale whimpers. “I read them over and over, and I collect them, and sometimes I just sit in the middle of them and stare at them and feel so happy I can’t even explain it. And I want to care that much about all these people. I want to - really, I do. But it’s so exhausting.” He can feel another sob building in the back of his throat. “It never ends, their pain. And when they come in here I don’t know what to say to them. I don’t know how to help. I’m useless.” He has that wild thought again, that reckless, wits’-end thought, that maybe it’d have been better if his bookshop stayed burned. “All I can think about are these stupid books.”

And he sobs again, and again, and leans against the window like it’s a lifeboat keeping him above a flood. Like it’s another little raft that keeps him from harm when the humans around him are drowning.

“I don’t know how to help,” he sobs. “I’ve been here six thousand years and I don’t know how to help them.”

And he feels so weak, so pale and fragile here in this place that’s supposed to bring him joy, that he barely notices when Crowley touches him once more. When Crowley’s fingers press to his cheek again, turning his face, slowly, tenderly toward him.

“Aziraphale,” he says, quiet. “Look at me.”

Reluctantly Aziraphale raises his eyes. Crowley’s sunglasses are off. His golden serpent’s eyes are on full display, spread without whites around them. They’re filled with something Aziraphale can’t quite name.

“You’re not a bad angel,” Crowley says. “No one should be forced to carry the whole world’s suffering. That’s too heavy a weight for anyone.”

“I could be doing it better,” Aziraphale mutters. “I could be - I don’t know - I could be rescuing people from war zones. I could be going out distributing food to the hungry. I could be miracling jobs for every underemployed family. I could be out shouting down bigoted preachers - in fact I could have been doing that for hundreds of years, as they don’t seem to be getting any less bigoted as time goes by. I could have used some divine miracle to stop the Inquisition, if I’d caught it in time, if I’d been more vigilant. I could have stopped the Terror.”

“You can’t possibly blame yourself for every terrible thing humans have done to each other.”

“What else can I think? They commend you. They ought to have punished me.”

“Come on.” Crowley tilts Aziraphale’s chin up. “We both knew they were idiots for thinking I started the Terror and the Inquisition. We both knew it wasn’t possible for a single demon to do that much damage. How can anyone have expected a single angel to stop it?”

“So many people died.”

“People die, Aziraphale. It’s what they do.” Crowley moves his hand to the back of Aziraphale’s neck, still gentle. “It’s not your fault.”

Tears are running more freely, now, from Aziraphale’s eyes. “But it’s my mission -”

“Was your mission.” Crowley’s thumb runs over Aziraphale’s damp cheek. “It was a terrible mission, given to you by angels who didn’t care about you. It was a mission that just set you up to be a disappointment. But you’re free now.”

“And what am I supposed to do?” Aziraphale wants to pull away, but he doesn’t have the strength anymore. He needs Crowley’s hands. He needs his breath. He needs his comfort, pathetic creature that he is. “I want to help. I want to be good. I don’t want to spend another six thousand years here not making a difference to anyone.”

And Crowley smiles, a smile so slow and so easy and so tender it’s like watching the dawn break in the sky.

“Angel,” he says. “You’re an idiot.”

Aziraphale blinks.

“You know I’m a demon, right?” Crowley nods down at himself. “You know not a single person in six thousand years has ever been kind to me, except for you?”

Aziraphale glances away, cheeks going red. Crowley’s exaggerating. Though his earnest expression, the way he ducks his head to make eye contact again, belies any sort of teasing intent.

“You gave me hope in goodness again,” Crowley said. “When you gave away your sword. That’s not nothing, is it?”

“I…”

“You think you haven’t mattered? Angel, you’ve mattered to me for all six thousand years you’ve been on this planet. You’ve mattered more than the sun. You’ve mattered so much you convinced me to stop Armageddon, and it’s not because you were some grand warrior out fighting injustice. I met enough of those types in Heaven.” Crowley jerks his head, as if to dismiss the legions of God’s army in a single gesture. “It was because you loved.”

“What do you mean?”

“Loved, not the way they talked about in Heaven - not the way they meant it when they said God’s made of love.” Crowley takes Aziraphale’s face in both hands and holds it steady. “Listen to me. You loved because things brought you joy. Because you were happy, in this world, and that was incredible to me.”

Aziraphale hiccups. It’s hard for him to keep his mind on the gaping chasm in his gut when Crowley is looking at him like that. When Crowley is holding him so near, and still smiling that close, loving smile.

“You’re an idiot,” Crowley murmurs. “You’re so good, angel, and you’re a light in this world without even trying to be one. You have no idea how much happiness you can bring just by loving books. It’s not wrong to be the way you are.”

“Oh, Crowley -”

“Shh.” Crowley draws Aziraphale in, wrapping his arms around him and fitting his head against the crook of his neck. “Hey. It’s all right to cry. Get it out.”

And Aziraphale cries; he stops trying to maintain his soldier’s stance and leans fully into Crowley, letting Crowley support him. Crowley pets his hair. The feeling is so nice, so wonderfully soothing; he shouldn’t enjoy it, he shouldn’t be thinking about Crowley when he’s supposed to be thinking about the world, but somehow he can’t help it.

Maybe Crowley’s right. Maybe he doesn’t have to.

“The world needs people like you,” says Crowley. “So you aren’t a warrior. Who needs another force for violence anyway? Humanity’s better off with you watching over them than anyone else.”

“You really think so?”

Crowley pulls back, and his lips meet Aziraphale’s, softly, so softly. Aziraphale can’t help the smile that blooms in his mouth at Crowley’s touch.

“I know so,” he says.

For a long moment they stand in silence, Aziraphale taking slow, steadying breaths, Crowley with his arms still around him, rubbing soothing circles into his back. For a long moment Aziraphale works to let go of the shame he let overcome him.

Then the bookshop’s doors jingle again, and the two of them break apart.

Aziraphale’s eyes widen. Someone else has entered the shop, someone he doesn’t recognize - a young girl, a teenager, with short dyed hair and large earrings. She looks a little small for her clothes, like she’s shrinking into herself, like she’s lost. It takes her a moment to turn her head in their direction.

When she does, her gaze drops immediately to their joined hands, before she looks up at their faces. Aziraphale catches the trace of a smile in hers.

“Hello,” he says, voice still wobbling slightly. “My apologies. I was just - ah - well, I’d been having a hard morning, and my -”

He looks over at Crowley, who gives him an encouraging look.

His eyes move back to the girl, and he reads the lost look in her shoulders with hardly any need for a miracle - came out to her parents, they’re not pleased, she left the house to clear her head, but she doesn’t know what’ll be waiting for her when she comes home.

“My partner,” he says, voice a little stronger, “was giving me some good advice.”

The girl’s smile widens into something more substantial. “Uh. No problem.”

“Would you like to - er - look at a book?”

“He doesn’t like it when you buy them,” Crowley stage-whispers to her. “Just look and put them back, though, and you’ll be fine. And don’t get any smudges on the covers.”

The girl lets out a tentative laugh. “That’d be great. I’m just… looking for some light reading, you know.”

Suddenly the spark of an idea enters Aziraphale’s head. With a little bounce in his step, suddenly, he disentangles himself from Crowley and moves toward a particular shelf, beckoning the girl to follow him.

“How do you feel about classical poetry?” he asks.

She shrugs. “I don’t know much about it.”

“Well, there’s a delightful poet from ancient Greece I think you might like. I’ve got a book of her work around here somewhere…”

Crowley watches from the window as Aziraphale rummages happily through the volumes. The girl is starting to relax, peering over Aziraphale’s shoulder to see what he’s looking for. Aziraphale can feel the bright grin growing on his cheeks, but he can’t stop it. And he doesn’t want to. It’s been a long time since he’s had the chance to talk about Sappho.

Tonight, when the shop closes again, Aziraphale resolves, he’s going to take Crowley out for dinner.

#good omens #good omens fanfic #ineffable husbands #ineffable husbands fanfic #aziraphale! has! low! self! esteem!#angst and hurt/comfort #enjoy a little angsty break from my usual tooth-rotting fluff #more fluff to come soon #robin writes fanfic

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pengychan · 3 years

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[Good Omens] Winging It - Matthew 16:19

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: Someone's having second thoughts..

***

Like every demon - or angel, for that matter - Beelzebub, Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies, did not require sleep.

Last time they had slept had been sometime in the early 1300s, when some Italian scribbler who was very much alive had inexplicably gained access to Hell and proceeded to take a tour. He’d been found rather quickly and escorted to Beelzebub’s office while Dagon tried to find out how in Heaven had a living mortal gained access.

They never did find out - the explanation that he ‘got lost in a forest’ was of amazingly little use - and for the entire time he was there, the mortal did nothing but ramble about his political enemies back in Florence. In rhyme, which was perplexing but hadn’t done much to make up for the sheer boredom of the entire tirade.

In the end, Beelzebub had just fallen asleep; when they woke up again, the mortal had been thrown back up on Earth. Theoretically the decision should have been theirs, but truth be told it had been a relief and Beelzebub had been rather glad someone else had gotten that windbag out of their hair.

The mortal had proceeded to write about his short visit to Hell but, when they got their hands on a copy of their account - all in rhyme, of course - the Lord of the Flies hadn’t been too surprised to find that the account mostly consisted of entirely made-up fantasies.

Plenty of revenge fantasies, which they could respect, but fantasies nonetheless. Beelzebub had later found out the man had claimed to have visited Heaven too, which Gabriel firmly denied during a meeting - rather annoyed by the implication he would break out in song about the holiness of Maryam for no apparent reason other than putting up a show for a mortal.

“No mortal was ever here before death,” he had said rather stiffly. “Clearly, our security is not the one that needs improvement.”

Neither of them had the foggiest idea what that ‘Purgatory’ nonsense was all about, and it was eye-wateringly boring to read, so they had just let the matter drop.

Anyway. To cut a very long story short, Beelzebub did not require sleep.

Gabriel did, on the other hand, and it hadn’t taken all that long for him to fall asleep, snoring… not loudly, but just enough to grate the nerves of anyone who didn’t happen to be a Prince of Hell with rather hellish tastes over what was a soothing sound and what was not. So in the end they had stayed exactly where they were, and elected to follow his example by falling asleep as well, not least because it meant it would allow them to put off actually thinking about what had just happened for a few more hours.

They hadn’t counted on waking up with the distinct feeling of being in the grip of a kraken because Gabriel had apparently decided to cling to them with all limbs. With a roll of their eyes, Beelzebub changed form into that of a fly to escape it and re-transformed a few feet away from the bed, eyeing in silence at the still sleeping form that occupied it.

Gabriel was laying on his side, and Beelzebub could distinctly see the ragged scars on his shoulder blades, where the wings had been cut away. Or rather, torn; Michael’s sword may have helped cut them away, yes, but they figured the last part would need to be done by hand, ripping the stumps right out of his flesh so that nothing remained.

They could imagine the scene quite well, the dripping blood and the wet ripping sound; all quite familiar in Hell, all things they were rather indifferent to. Not that time, though. Now, the more they stared, the angrier they got.

How dare they damage him, they thought. I ought to have enveloped Michael in Hellfire when she stepped in my throne room with that useless pitcher of holy water, they thought.

Except that they knew that would have hurt Gabriel more than even having his wings torn out had. Despite everything, despite his old friends’ choice to carry out his sentence rather than rebelling on his behalf, Gabriel still claimed he understood their choice.

“We don’t question God,” he had told them last time they had brought up the subject, his voice somewhat sorrowful. “I would have done the same in their place, if I was the one ordered to cast out any of them. I don’t think I would now, but I would have then.”

But when he had a chance to strike Ba’al down, so very long ago, he had not. He had tried to reach out. He had tried to keep them there.

Ba’al.

Looking silently at Gabriel’s back, which rose and fell with each breath - with each snore - Beelzebub could admit to themselves that in a corner of their mind, throughout the night before, they had feared to hear that name again. They had feared it would leave Gabriel’s lips while he gasped in the dark, holding onto them, looking up at them in the faint light coming from the streetlight outside the window. They had feared it would all turn out to be about who they had been, and could never be again.

But that name hadn’t been uttered, not even once. Gabriel was not longing for someone long gone: he knew exactly who he’d chosen to spend the night with regardless of any possible consequences. When the sickly-sweet, cloying sense of love which had almost choked them when they first remembered what had been returned, Beelzebub knew it was for them. For the Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies, as they were, right there and then.

It was worrying. It was a relief. It was doubly worrying that it was a relief. Beelzebub, who pointed out often and gladly how Gabriel was never the sharpest knife in the drawer, began to belatedly realize they’d been hoisted by their own petard. And as soon as they did, they found themselves doing the only thing they could think of: find something else to keep themselves occupied with, anything to turn their musings away from the thing churning in their chest.

And at the moment there didn’t seem to be a lot to do other than making coffee, so they went with that. By the time they poured the hot water from the cheap electric kettle into a mug filled halfway with soluble coffee, Gabriel was beginning to stir.

Two thoughts hit Beelzebub at the same time: the first was that they were still unclothed, which was not proper, and the second that they really didn’t much care what was proper and what was not. As they did their best to regain composure, bringing the mug to their lips, Gabriel turned on his back and then yawned, which made his face look really stupid. Beelzebub gave him an unimpressed glance over the rim of their mug.

Then Gabriel sat up on the bed and stretched. Beelzebub's glance was... a little less unimpressed. At least for a few seconds, until the second Gabriel turned to look at them; when he did, their expression was unimpressed as ever. Clearly unbothered by that fact, he smiled.

“Good morning,” he said.

Beezelbub scoffed. “I cannot imagine what could possibly be so good about mornings.”

“Well, last night was--” he paused, searching for a word. “Pleasant. No?”

There was the slightest, barely detectable trace of hesitation in his voice. It told Beelzebub two things, in no uncertain terms: that he certainly found it pleasant, and that being told the Lord of the Flies hadn’t would probably wound his pride… or perhaps even cut a bit deeper than that.

And Beelzebub was not generally in the habit of lying. Looking at Gabriel now did not really bring forth any urges, regardless how annoyingly good looking he was, but the act itself had been pleasant and they saw no point in denying it. There was a great deal they were currently denying - well, delaying having to reflect upon - but the pleasure they took was not it.

“It was,” they conceded, and the hesitation on Gabriel’s face disappeared almost instantly. “But it was last night. I asked what is so good about this morning.”

A shrug. “You made coffee,” Gabriel said, standing up. Beelzebub scoffed.

“For myself. You can make your own,” the Lord of the Flies replied, and brought the mug up to their lips - only for it to be taken away in a quick, annoyingly smooth motion.

“Thank you.”

“I said it’s for myself.”

“I only need a couple of sips.”

“No,” Beelzebub snapped, and reached to take the mug again, only for Gabriel to lift it up above his head… and well above their reach. They glared up at him with enough intensity to melt metal. Figuratively, of course, or else Gabriel would have indeed begun melting or burst into flames, which would have been well-deserved but rather unpleasant. Instead he stood there, alive and well and with that dumb smile still on his face. Ugh, the idiot.

Beelzebub crossed their arms. “Are you this stupidly tall with the only purpose of annoying me?”

“Well, I do appreciate the looks of my current form, but it was not my decision. You should take your complaint to God.”

“Believe me, I will once the War happens--”

“If the War happens…”

“-- And we tear down the gates to Heaven to conquer it.”

“Of course.” Gabriel chuckled and brought the steaming mug to his mouth and took a gulp - only to immediately spit it back in the mug with a hawking noise. Beelzebub made a face.

“... Come to think of it, you can keep it.”

“Agh! Did you--how much powder-- is there any sugar…?” he choked. Beelzebub’s lips twitched. “Are you familiar, even in passing, with the expression ‘bitter as Hell’?”

“Ugh!” Gabriel made a face, putting the mug of coffee down and rubbing his lips with the back of his hand. “Is this why you didn’t stop me?”

Truth be told Beelzebub hadn’t thought for a moment he may not appreciate highly concentrated soluble coffee without any sweetener to speak of, but they immediately decided to stick with that version. It sounded quite a bit better than ‘I forgot I could have forced you to give it back with a mere fraction of the power in my left hand’s little finger’.

So in the end they said, “This ought to teach you not to cross the Lord of the Flies.”

Gabriel wrinkled his nose. “Evil,” he muttered, but his lips were curling in a smile again. Beelzebub had been called evil plenty of times - occasionally as an insult, more often as a neutral and objective descriptor and several times with well-deserved reverence - but they couldn’t remember any other time there’d been such obvious fondness attached to it.

He is an idiot, they thought, and I am twice the idiot he is for falling right in my own trap.

“You may apologize by making more coffee,” they muttered, and he did, not really bothering to cover himself in any way. Not that Beelzebub had expected him to show embarrassment over his nakedness - they hadn’t bothered to put anything on yet either, that sort of shame was entirely too human for them and they suspected they were well past that phase either way - but what made them pause was the realization that Gabriel no longer attempted to conceal the scars where his wings had been from their gaze.

***

“... And then I suggest we put together a task force to put some order in the Earth observation files. I suppose a lot of issues could have been avoided if we’d kept a closer eye on those in the past few millennia.”

Uriel nodded at Micheal’s words, writing something down. “Yes, it makes sense. I will make a list of viable names for it.”

A nod. “Good. Anything else? Sandalphon?” she called out… getting no answer. “Sandalphon.”

Michael’s tone grew just a little sharper, but it was enough to make Sandalphon recoil. He cleared his throat, looking up. “Yes, yes. I agree.”

Michael stared. “Agree to what, specifically?”

“To the-- the thing with the-- and that other-- thing, with...” Sandalphon searched for the next word for a few moments, gave up, and let out a sigh, dropping his shoulders. “My apologies. I got distracted. But I am sure I agree with whatever you just said.”

Michael let out a sigh, gathering the papers. “And what is it that had you so distracted?”

Sandalphon hesitated a moment, acutely aware of Uriel’s gaze on him. “I was thinking about Gabriel,” he began, causing Michael to lift her gaze from the sheets and look at him.

“What of him? Is he all right?” she asked, frowning. She’d seen Gabriel a couple of weeks earlier, but as she had taken on the lion’s share of what had been Gabriel’s role on top of her own - Sandalphon wondered, not for the first time, if it was her way to make up for the fact she had been the one to cut off his wings - there had been no time for her to pay him another visit.

“No, no, he’s fine,” Sandalphon said quickly. “Called him a couple of days ago. He was on his way back from Devon, from a visit to that Brown fellow’s brother. He asked to confirm if all dogs do indeed go to Heaven, no idea why, but I checked for him. They do, by the way. No exceptions. Cats as well - most animals, really. The only exception to the rule are geese.”

Michael’s lips curled in a smile. “That’s good to know. What’s on your mind about Gabriel, then?”

“Well…” Sandalphon looked at the pen in his hands, fidgeting with it. “You know how we… reversed that entire thing with forgetting about him? By accepting we had to remember what we didn’t want to think about, and not just what we wished to remember?”

“Of course we do,” Uriel said, and something in her tone caused Sandalphon to look up. One glance, and he instinctively knew. “... You’re wondering if it would be the same for the others.”

Sandalphon nodded. Michael frowned in confusion , gaze shifting between the two of them.

“Others? What are you two talking about?”

Uriel looked at her in the eye. “The other ones that Fell. Long ago,” she said, and Michael’s posture stiffened, her hands gripping the sheets just a little tighter.

“... We have no reason to wish to remember them. They’re gone. What is left are enemies, and-”

“And enemies are easier to fight if you can't recall them being anything else,” Uriel finished.

Sandalphon suspected that was not how Michael had meant her sentence to go, but she did not argue against her statement. It was true; they all knew that. Michael was silent for a few moments, and finally stood. “There’s your answer. We may remember them if we try, I suppose, the same way we did with Gabriel. But ask yourselves if you really think we should,” she said, her voice quiet, and left the meeting room without another word.

Sandalphon let out a long breath just as Uriel turned to look at him. She seemed calm, her voice quiet when she spoke. “What do you think, then? Should we?”

Until not too long ago, Sandalphon knew, the answer would have been a resounding no. Things were easier, then. Now, he sighed. “I don’t know,” he murmured. “I really don’t know.”

***

When a look at Gabriel’s folder revealed no new sins, Beelzebub was… not precisely surprised. They were not disappointed, either, which was rather more surprising than the blank bottom half of the sheet they were currently glaring at. They scoffed and closed the folder, letting it drop on the floor by their throne.

Well, there was the answer - carnal acts with a demon did not count as a grievous sin, or any kind of sin at all. Beelzebub now felt doubly foolish for telling Gabriel there was even a risk, if anything because it gave him a chance to show off how sickeningly sappy he could get.

“I figured,” the idiot had said. “I think I’ll take the chance.”

It would have been reassuring to think he had taken the chance out of lust, succumbing to it as many humans do, but it was clear the previous evening that was not the case. They both had taken pleasure in the act, and did plan to do so again in the future, but Beelzebub doubted Gabriel lusted any more than they did. The absolute bellend was willing to risk damnation, or a significant tilt of the scale towards it, not for lust - but for them.

He wouldn’t have been willing to risk so much before. He was not, not even for Ba’al.

“We are not the beings we were then,” he had said, and he was right. Beelzebub was no longer the being that Archangel Gabriel had loved at the dawn of existence, before the War, before the Fall. They both had known that. Beelzebub hadn’t counted on the fact the utter imbecile would fall, figuratively, for the being they were now. Their plan had worked, only for them to realize they had never paused to wonder what they would do if it worked too well.

Beelzebub groaned, pressing a hand against their eyes and leaning back their head against the throne’s headrest with a thunk. The most frustrating part was that they knew they were supposed to be very much pleased with that turn of events. Of course, something as undignified as falling in love was very much beneath a Prince of Hell and would make them a laughing stock if word came out, though very few would dare laugh to their face - but no one would need to know that sappy detail. They could very well pass it off as lust.

No one would bat an eye if Beelzebub claimed Gabriel’s soul after successfully winning it for Hell, made him a demon, and kept him by their side; the Prince of Hell took what they wanted without question, and wouldn’t be the first to keep close a mortal they were particularly proud of winning over for their cause. A former archangel, too - no one would question for a moment it was merely a matter of keeping a trophy. They’d be none the wiser; it could work out perfectly.

Except that there was a part of Beelzebub, the one that had forced them to pause the previous evening to warn Gabriel that what they were doing may count as a sin, that knew it would not. For all the chances Gabriel may be willing to take for them, up to and including eternal damnation, the Lord of the Flies knew with utmost certainty he would never be happy in Hell.

“Ridiculous,” they snapped at the empty room. “No one is happy in Hell. No one is meant to be. That is the point, that is… that…”

“Why rebel to the absolute authority of God to pass absolute the absolute authority of Satan?”

Gabriel’s question echoed in their mind, causing Beelzebub to scowl. What an idiotic question - what choice did they have? After God threw them in Hell for wanting a choice, they… they…

No. God cast us out, decreed we were not to return to Heaven; never that we were to stay here.

The thought hit them like a blow, and the faint buzzing of the flies around them was silenced abruptly. It was true - how had they not seen it before? They were cast out of Heaven as humanity would later be cast out of Eden, but nothing else, despite the nonsense in the Bible about being committed to chains of gloomy darkness, whatever that was supposed to mean.

There was a universe out there they may have roamed as humanity roamed Earth, but they had not. Satan chose where to dwell, and they all had followed - the fallen angels who had rebelled to stop being followers. They had been divided up in ranks, they who had grown to resent the ranks among God’s angels, and when humanity was created they were ordered to corrupt them. They had obeyed, accepted that was to be their lot in existence until they gambled everything, again, to try and conquer the one place in all Creation they had been shut out of.

They had made themselves into the opposite of all that God and his angels were, in all but one thing: after the Fall, after receiving new orders, they had not questioned again, either.

“It was God’s Great Plan you were fulfilling,” Gabriel had said, and it was with utter annoyance and a fair dose of dread that Beelzebub admitted to themself that the idiot… had a point. Was Hell, all of what surrounded them now - the realm they were Prince of - anything like what they had thought their existence outside the suffocating order created by God would be? They had a far higher rank in it than they did in Heaven, but… that was the only difference.

And if the War never happens, what then? No resolution, an eternity of corrupting mortal souls because we were told to six thousand years ago, according to a Plan we rebelled against in the first place? A Plan none of us really knows? Is that it, an eternity of this?

The questions circled in Beelzebub’s mind as many moths unable to find light, and in the stillness and silence of their throne room, there was no answer.

Amongst the cracked certainties, however, there was one that did not waver: willing to risk his soul for them or not, disillusioned with Heaven or not and regardless of the high position Beelzebub could get him, Gabriel would be desperately miserable in Hell.

And Beelzebub, Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies, found that was not something they would be able to handle.

***

“Well well well, look who’s in here. The supervisor.”

“The supervisor who’s been avoiding us the whole morning.”

“Clearly to avoid telling us how the evening went.”

With a chuckle, Gabriel looked up from his checklist to see Łukasz and Fabrizio standing at the door of the small room service as the supervisor’s office. Blocking the door, more accurately. “I have been busy, is all. I was avoiding no one.”

“Uh-huh. So, what’s the word?”

Gabriel’s smile widened. “It-- went quite well,” he said, and nearly dropped the clipboard when both of them released high, unholy screeches. Humans certainly did seem to express their approval in a very different way from the polite applause that was the norm in Haven.

“So, did you--”

“I will not get into details, if you don’t mind,” Gabriel cut Fabrizio off, leaning back against the seat. “But let’s say that this morning we have… parted in more amicable terms than last time.”

“Good! You owe us a pint each, then.”

“What? I cannot recall agreeing to--” Gabriel began, but they were both already gone, and he could hear their snickers as they walked back to their work stations. He rolled his eyes, still smiling, and focused on his work again. In the back of his mind there was a nagging question - did it count as a sin? Did it tip the scales? Where did his soul stand between Heaven and Hell? - but he decided that, if Beelzebub did not volunteer that information, he would not ask.

Mortals didn’t get the luxury of always knowing which way their actions would tip the scales in the end, after all, and Gabriel felt more and more like he could handle that.

***

“You know what book you should have loaned him? The Malleus Maleficarum.”

Aziraphale - who had been trying rather hard to scrub all memory of the encounter from his brain - raised an eyebrow, took the cup of candied peanuts from the vendor and thanked her before he followed Crowley a few steps away down the sidewalk. “I believe you may be getting confused, dear. The Malleus Maleficarum is most certainly not a pornography book. Peanut?”

“I’m aware,” Crowley pointed out, and did take a candied peanut. He threw it up in the air and opened his mouth to catch it, only for it to bounce off his forehead and on the ground. Aziraphale politely pretended not to have noticed and just casually put the cup within Crowley’s reach again as they walked down the street towards the bookstore.

“Then why should I have loaned him that specific book?”

“It does contain descriptions of what to expect from carnal relations with demons.”

This time, Aziraphale eyed him with mild concern. He’d admittedly always skimmed over that part, but he recalled quite sordid details that simply could not be true… right? “Surely, all of that is nonsense,” he declared. To his relief, Crowley shrugged.

“Of course it’s nonsense, I was blind drunk when Kramer interviewed me, he asked the weirdest questions - I had to come up with something. No one can say I’m not at my most creative when drunk. And that guy and his friend took everything so seriously, I would say it’s on him. ”

… Wait a moment. “You-- you mean to tell me, you were one of their sources to write the Malleus Maleficarum?”

“Purely by accident, I assure you - never thought it was going to be for a witch hunting manual - but yes. Would you like me to sign your copy?”

“It is a first edition. You may most certainly not sign it,” Aziraphale said over a mouthful of candied peanuts, still rather relieved to know everything in that book was, after all, nonsensical rubbish. “I suspect that had I given Gabriel that, he may have reconsidered his… plans.”

“For the sake of my sanity, I want to tell myself he did reconsider anyway.”

“So will I. Peanut?” he offered, holding out the cup again.

This time, Crowley managed to catch it in mid-air.

***

Gabriel was still trying to catch his breath when he noticed Aziraphale’s book on his nightstand.

He ought to return it, he thought distantly, only to be immediately distracted when Beelzebub settled across his back, chin pressed against the back of his shoulder. “I hope this will teach you not to steal my coffee in the future,” they said, and Gabriel let out a breathless laugh.

“If this is what happens when I take your coffee, I’ll do it more often,” he said, cheek pressed against the pillow; he was going to feel that in the morning, but didn’t mind at all. He waited for a retort, but there was only a hum, quiet breathing against his neck. “... Are you all right?”

“Of course I am.”

“Something’s on your mind.”

“There’s always something on my mind,” Beelzebub muttered, and tapped Gabriel’s head with a finger. “Unlike yours.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes, too lost in the afterglow to realize Beelzebub had dodged the question. They didn't seem to be in a talkative mood that evening. Or rather, even less of a talkative mood than usual. “I do have something on my mind.”

“Oh? And what is it?”

I need to return that book, for one.

“Well,” he said instead. “Would you join me in London this weekend?”

***

“An answering machine, really who has those anymore-- hey, Brother Francis, it’s Warlock. Guess the store is closed? I tried looking up the opening times but it’s got no website or Facebook or whatever. It’s probably the only one left in the world without those. You should get a mobile phone too. Anyway, uh, I’ve got nothing to do this Sunday, so I was thinking I could hang in London. If you and Nann-- shit, I didn’t mean to say that.” A pause. “Yeah, uh, sorry I said shit. I mean, if Crowley is there too, uh, guess it wouldn’t suck to meet up. Or something. Just a thought. Whatever. I’ll call back.”

There was a click when the answering machine finished playing the message. Aziraphale glanced over at Crowley. “Well, what does Nanny Crowley think?”

“Nanny Crowley has no objections. What does Brother Aziraphale think?”

“Brother Aziraphale thinks the boy is up for a serious talk about his language this Sunday, and that Nanny Crowley will not interfere,” Aziraphale informed him. Crowley just grinned before snatching the last candied peanut from the cup he’d left on the table.

“I’ll do my best.”

***

“I will give you the keys of the kingdom of Heaven, and whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in Heaven, and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in Heaven.” -- Matthew 16:19

***

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

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of-wrens-and-whirlwinds-blog · 4 years

Text

Visitors

Commission for my dearest @depressedstressedlemonzest !! A crossover (kinda) of The Witcher and Good Omens. Aziraphale is basically me in this. I hope you like it, love! Commission info is here!

Geralt is having trouble tracking the serpent, because the ground is dry and rocky and doesn’t show tracks well, and the wind is blowing in the wrong direction. He can still smell the sulfur, though, faint on the ground, and occasionally the lazy wind of a giant serpent through pockets of sandy dirt. The scrub is too sparse to hide much, but there are plenty of rocks.

Oh, and Jaskier won’t shut up.

He’s far enough back that he won’t get in Geralt’s way, but the same wind that blows the scent away from Geralt blows Jaskier’s muttering up to him. Something about blisters and getting a twisted ankle at this rate. Geralt presses his lips together and ignore Jaskier.

Then the wind turns, and he smells it. The sulfur is strong, now, and he can see a large rock up ahead with a heap of something dark on it, half-hidden by scrub. He halts, and waves Jaskier up to him. Jaskier immediately shuts up and creeps the rest of the way to just behind Geralt’s shoulder. “Is that it?” the bard whispers, apparently fascinated.

“Yes,” Geralt grunts. “Stay here.”

“But—!”

“No buts. You’ll be in the way.”

“Hmph,” Jaskier huffs, but sidles around behind Geralt to crouch behind a rock and glare at him sullenly. Geralt nods, and sneaks as softly as he can towards the relatively flat area where the serpent waits.

He can hear it now, hissing gently, its heart slow and somber. It appears to be asleep. Excellent. If he can behead it before it wakes up, everything will be much simpler.

Pebbles crunch under his boot, and he freezes.

The serpent stirs lazily, and raises its large, wedge-shaped head. Its eyes are gold like his, but it seems not to see him, looking instead towards the horizon. Strange. Still, a blessing is a blessing. Geralt creeps closer…

The serpent uncoils from the rock more swiftly than Geralt’s ever seen a big snake move, and raises itself up to hiss at him fiercely. Geralt readies his sword, eyeing the serpent carefully, noting that it doesn’t seem to have fangs. Odd. Devilish serpents always have fangs. But his pendant is humming, and he’ll get lots of coin for this monster’s head.

He darts forward, the serpent attempts to avoid, but as soon as it dodges, Geralt changes direction and manages to open a wound in its scaly hide.

Heat and the scent of myrrh flare up behind Geralt, and he growls and rolls to the side as something slams down right where he’d been standing. He’s on his feet in seconds, just in time to block a sword that appears to be on fire.

The sword’s wielder disengages before Geralt can disarm them, and yells, “How dare you! How dare you attack an innocent being!”

Geralt glances at the serpent, startled; it’s coiled up again, watching the scene. “What the fuck?” he says, bewildered, looking back at the… man? No man he’s ever heard of has wide white wings like that, nor dresses quite so… oddly. But the other holds his sword competently, and the rage on his face is dangerous.

“Can we not have a moment’s rest without you primitive humans running around with swords and bows, trying to kill us?!” the man snarls. “Good lord, it’s like you don’t even know what we are!”

“They probably don’t, angel,” the serpent says, and Geralt’s eyes widen as he hears Jaskier gasp. It raises itself up again and continues, “This is a tv show we’re in, and they’ve never mentioned angels or demons.”

“Oh, hush,” the man replies crankily, but his wings are relaxing, and he’s actually turning away from Geralt. “They shouldn’t just attack willy-nilly!”

“What the fuck else are we supposed to do?” Geralt snaps, drawing their attentions. “Murderous serpents aren’t—”

“He’s not murderous!” the man interrupts, and actually stomps his foot. “How many times do we have to say it?!”

“Then what is it?” Geralt demanded in exasperation. “And for that matter, what are you?”

The man seems honestly taken aback. And then his face twists and he shouts, “I’m an angel, you stubborn twit!”

“Ah, fuck,” Geralt mutters. He says louder, “I don’t know what an angel is, but if you and that serpent are innocent, then what the fuck is killing the locals?”

The angel splutters, and Geralt almost jumps when the serpent sighs, bunches its coils, and raises up to reform into a man, in leggings of a strange material and a black jacket of an absolutely horrendous cut. Too much time with Jaskier has shown Geralt that there are just some shapes that have no business being draped on a humanoid body. At least he looks vaguely normal and doesn’t have a bow around his neck like the angel. That bow makes him look like a kitten. The sword makes him look like a warrior.

The man in black turns to Geralt and says, “I dunno what you lot call it, but it looks like wyvern to me. Two legs, two wings, dragon-y looking bastards?”

Geralt frowns. He hasn’t seen wyvern activity around here… but he’s been following the shapeshifter. Maybe the two avoid each other when possible.

“Geraaalt,” Jaskier calls impatiently.

Geralt sighs heavily and sheaths his sword. “Fine,” he calls back, and shakes his head as Jaskier pops up from behind the rock and trots over, staring at the angel’s wings, intrigued.

“Melitele’s tits, those are big,” Jaskier says, marveling at them. “Are you sure you’re not part harpy? No, of course not, harpies have different wings. If it’s a wyvern, can I come to see that fight too?”

“Absolutely not,” Geralt snaps, exasperated with this whole situation. “Look, just—”

“Oh!” Suddenly the angel’s face lights up, and the sword in his hand just—vanishes. “You’re Jaskier!”

Jaskier immediately draws himself up and beams at the angel. “Yes, I am,” he replies. “How did you know?”

“We saw you,” the angel says.

“Angel!” the shapeshifter barks. “Focus.”

The angel turns and shoots him a scowl, then huffs and says to Geralt, “We’re not murderers. The wyvern is that way.” He waves vaguely in the direction they had come from. “Are you the Witcher, Geralt?”

“Yes,” Geralt replies, utterly confused at this point. Damn it, how the hell is he supposed to convince these idiots to leave if the angel keeps yelling and the shapeshifter keeps letting him?

“That explains it,” the shapeshifter says, as the angel’s expression turns sour. “Look, Geralt, Jaskier, nice to meet you and all that, but we just want to go home. We’re kinda stuck here for the moment, though.”

Geralt sighs and runs his hand through his hair. “Fine. Just… stop turning into a snake where townsfolk can see you.” When Jaskier glares, he grudgingly adds, “Please.”

The angel sniffs and the shapeshifter scowls. “It’s kinda hard to do that when they keep coming up here unannounced for no reason,” the shapeshifter retorts.

Jaskier and Geralt point wordlessly to the sign in the dirt that quite clearly says “This Way To The Spring”.

The two monsters stare blankly, first at them, then the sign, then each other.

“You said it didn’t mean anything!” the angel says, exasperated.

“It’s not like fantasy languages are my forte!” the shapeshifter replies, cheeks red. “Is this or is this not the place where Anathema is gonna bring us back?”

“It certainly looks like it,” the angel replies, looking around. “What does that sign say, anyway?”

Geralt is still confused about ‘fantasy languages’ (it’s clearly in Cintran Common, what the fuck?) but Jaskier helpfully translates and asks curiously, “Why are you here, anyway?”

Both monsters look rather ashamed. “We, ah… just wanted to visit,” the angel says weakly.

Geralt narrows his eyes. “From where?” he demands.

“A place across the sea,” the shapeshifter replies airily. “You won’t have heard of it.”

“Ah, on the contrary!” Jaskier says eagerly, looking thrilled, “I studied geography extensively and spoke to several world-renowned sailors. Are you from the coast? Why don’t you have accents? Did you fly here or sail?”

The monsters look even more uncomfortable with every moment that Jaskier speaks. Geralt watches them warily. They might lash out at any moment. He medallion is humming frantically, telling him to dispatch these creatures, but… they’re sentient, and according to the angel, they’ve done no harm.

Where did they come from?

With a heavy sigh, the shapeshifter says, “A witch sent us—I mean, a sorceress. We, eh, we’re big fans, but we didn’t expect this place to be so… eh, distrusting.”

“Fans of what?” Jaskier asks.

“Um...”

A portal suddenly opens to one side, and Geralt immediately draws his sword, stepping over to put himself between the portal and Jaskier. A sorceress pokes her head through, and sighs. “You two just had to go and run into the very people I told you to avoid, didn’t you,” she says in an annoyed tone. “Aziraphale, please, for the love of god, put those wings away. Hey, Henry-with-white-hair and Joey, looking sexy as usual.”

Geralt tenses unhappily, and Jaskier muffles an outraged gasp.

“You said not to call them that!” the angel protests, as his wings fold in and vanish, and the shapeshifter takes his arm and drags him to the portal. “Oh, wait, but I wanted to ask about the television lore so I could compare it with the books—!”

“Later, angel,” the shapeshifter sighs, then, before they step through the portal, he tosses over his shoulder to Geralt and Jaskier, “By the way, I’m Crowley. Tell Ciri I’d die for her.”

And then they’re gone and the portal closes.

There is a very long silence. Then Jaskier asks, bewildered, “Who the fuck is Ciri?”

“Fuck if I know,” Geralt replies with a shrug. “Come on, let’s go find the wyvern.”

#The Witcher #Good Omens #sorta #commission #writing

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goodomensblog · 5 years

Text

Afterward

A Good Omens Choose Your Own Adventure Fic

Here’s how it works:

I’ll write a chapter.

At the end of each chapter, you’ll be presented with 2-3 options for what the characters will choose to do next.

Comment or reblog to vote for your choice. I’ll count all votes within the first 24 hours after each update is posted.

Read Part 1 Here

Afterward - - Part 2

- - - - - - - -

Dark, acrid mist seeps from the ground, spiraling up, ravenous, as though intent on swallowing up the sun. At it’s center, Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies, rises - born of mist and smoke. And there, Crowley stands, one hand on the bookshop door, his back open and unguarded.

Aziraphale is lunging, ancient instincts buried in his bones, deeper than marrow, driving him to throw up his arms as he leaps in front of Crowley.

Several things, then, happen nearly at once. Even if the surrounding humans weren’t instinctively driven to avert their eyes and attentions from the standoff happening before them, they still would not have been physically capable of registering the speed at which the following exchange occurred.

There is a sharp intake of breath and a garbled noise of panic behind Aziraphale. Where they press together, Crowley is rigid, every angled line of his long body tensed - and Aziraphale can feel his body twisting, splayed fingers grasping at the angel’s shoulder, yanking -

Beelzebub is faster.

A soot-stained boot twists, grinding pavement to dust as the Lord of Flies moves-

Aziraphale throws his hands up.

Crowley’s fingers, white-knuckled and grasping, drag at Aziraphale -

And Beelzebub stumbles, knees buckling as the glow in their eyes flickers and extinguishes.

Aziraphale’s hands, which he’d raised to fend off the demon lord’s attack, catch Beelzebub as they drop.

Beelzebub’s dark mist is dispersing, hissing as it falls away from their body; and Aziraphale holds them in much the same way as one might hold a tranquilized wolverine - that is to say, with care. Aziraphale has an arm gingerly hooked around Beelzebub, supporting beneath their arms. The demon lord’s neck is curved and their head dangles forward, limp.

Crowley’s hands are no longer attempting to drag Aziraphale back to the safety of the shop. The angel can feel Crowley pressing into him, fingers clutching at his arm as the demon peers over his shoulder.

Carefully, carefully Aziraphale extends a hand.

Crowley’s touch reflexively squeezes.

With two fingers, Aziraphale tips back Beelzebub’s head.

Crowley sucks in a breath. “What the bless.”

The mist, which had wrapped Beelzebub like a second skin, has all but faded. Beneath bright sun, four long gashes weep red. The left side of their face is flayed. The gashes, which are deep as they are fresh, run from Beelzebub’s dark hairline to the soft, fleshy underside of their chin.

Aziraphale blinks, and then blinks again. As though it will somehow change the reality before him. When he blinks a third time, and Beelzebub is still inconveniently bleeding out in his arms. Aziraphale heaves a deep sigh.

Licking his lips, he presses a hand up under Beelzebub’s chin. As Aziraphale’s hand glows, the demon lord’s skin bubbles, reacting to the ethereal healing touch. The bleeding does, however, slow.

Crowley is rigid, white knuckled fingers clinging to him like a vice.

“Angel,” he says, voice low and insistent. “Drop Beelzebub. We’ve gotta go.”

“Not that dropping a Lord of Hell isn’t an appealing option, but aren’t you the least bit curious-”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley hisses, and the hand at Aziraphale’s shoulder is pressing him forward, guiding him toward the Bentley.

Aziraphale, who hasn’t let go of Beelzebub, stumbles awkwardly with the demon lord in his arms.

“Crowley, hold on. Wait-”

Crowley spins around. Yanking Beelzebub’s head back again, Crowley flings out a hand, gesturing at the demon’s flayed skin. “Does that look like the work of an angel to you?”

“Well of course it’s not. Look at the shape of them, they were obviously made by-”

“Claws. Something demonic. Yeah.”

“Crowley, I don’t understand. Demons fight - you told me that demons sometimes even-”

Groaning, Crowley paces a tight circle. “Yeah demons fight. Demons, however, don’t nearly do in a Lord of Hell,” Crowley says, and stops, pointing emphatically at Beelzebub. “We. Do. Not. Want to be here when whatever did that to good old Beelz climbs up, looking to finish the job.”

Which begs the question-

“What exactly do you think did this, Crowley?”

Raking a hand through his hair, Crowley twitches, and shifts, shaking his head. “I-”

“Satan,” Beelzebub croaks.

Aziraphale, despite his earlier protests, nearly drops the demon in his surprise.

Crowley stills, hands loose and dangling at his sides.

And when the word registers, Aziraphale, despite six thousand years of practice, finds he’s quite forgotten how to breathe.

“Sorry,” he manages, and clears his throat. “What was that?”

Beelzebub’s lip curls. Squinting blearily up, they whisper, “I said, Satan did it.” And then their eyelids flutter. Their pale skin wrinkles as their brows draw together. “He - uh - something’s wrong with him.”

Breath returns without Aziraphale’s permission, and promptly leaves him in a gust of nervous laughter.

“Well yes, I should think there is something wrong with him-”

“No, you idiot,” Beelzebub says, coughing, “There’s something really wrong with him. It’s...different this time. Says he’s going to destroy it. And I believe him.”

“...destroy what?”

Aziraphale watches, out of the corner of his eyes, as Crowley circles them.

“Everything.”

At his back, Crowley hisses a curse.

“I…,” Beelzebub wheezes, and heaves a fortifying breath, “I think...I think I’ve got an idea...of how to stop him. But he’s -” they halt, teeth clenching as they groan, “he’s - gah, he’s coming for me.”

Behind him, Crowley gasps.

Aziraphale turns to see Crowley bracing a hand on the Bentley. His shoulders are hunched, head dipped forward.

“Crowley-”

“We’ve gotta go, angel. We have to hide. Now.”

And then Aziraphale feels it - a dark, malignant energy, pulsing - rising.

“Beelzebub-”

“Yeah, I know. We might need them,” Crowley says with obvious distaste. “Bring them along. Just for someone’s sake, hurry!”

By the time Aziraphale has tossed Beelzebub in the back seat and flung himself into the passenger side, Crowley is trembling, bent over the wheel.

“Can you-”

“Course,” Crowley snaps, and throws the car into drive. It growls, leaping into motion. “The Bentley can get us anywhere we need to go, but we’re gonna have to find a damn good place to hide.”

Aziraphale stammers, bracing a hand on the dash as the car roars, accelerating. “There’s Adam Young, of course, in Tadfield. He’s given up his powers, but there might be enough residual…” Aziraphale sucks in a breath as they take a sharp turn, wheels skidding over pavement. “It could be dangerous for him though - for Newton and Anathema as well. We could also go to America. Hide out near where the Dowlings settled. You know the place? There’s enough of a demonic aura there, perhaps, to conceal us - for a little while. At least until-”

From the back seat, Beelzebub groans.

“Gabriel,” they mutter, voice nearly drowned out by the snarling engine.

“Excuse me?” Crowley says, golden eyes flashing over the tops of his glasses.

“Find...Gabriel,” Beelzebub says, and moans, sinking back into unconsciousness.

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale says, and even the name leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

He and Crowley share a glance.

“I can’t imagine Gabriel would be keen on helping us.”

Fingers clenching over the wheel, Crowley shakes his head. “Can’t imagine it either.”

Golden eyes flick up, checking the rear-view mirror.

“Angel, I can get us anywhere. Anywhere in the world - and beyond. Just bloody give me an idea of where to go.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Aziraphale tells Crowley to go to…

Tadfield to enlist the help of Adam, Anathema, and Newton.

Find Gabriel (preferably while armed with a flaming sword) to ask for his aid.

America, near where the Dowlings now live and get unlikely help from… Warlock??

Comment or reblog to vote :)

(And I’m seriously excited about all three of the options and the direction they’d each take the story in. So I can’t wait to see what you all choose)

Read Part 3 Here

#my writing #choose your own adventure #good omens #good omens fic #good omens fanfic #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #ineffable husbands fanfic #ineffable husbands fanfiction #ineffable husbands fic #aziraphale #crowley #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #otp: ineffable #ineffable partners #gomens fanfiction #gomens fanfic

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 3 years

Text

On the Edge of Holiness - Preview

Coming this Friday - “On the Edge of Holiness”

A Reverse Big Bang fic inspired by art by @sevdrag for @do-it-with-style-events

The year is 1020 CE. Aziraphale and Crowley haven’t spoken in decades, and it seems their friendship is over. But a new threat emerges, too large for either to defeat on his own. Can they put aside their differences to face it together? And what force could be powerful enough to force an angel and a demon to work together?

Posting date for Chapter 1 “Knight of Heaven” is January 29, 2021. Don’t miss it!

Excerpt below.

Arms still bound behind him in glowing rope, Crowley trudged after his captors, down the main road of the camp towards the central tent. Soldiers emerged to watch him, a hush falling as he passed. All illusions dropped, they would see him in his usual human corporation: tall, narrow and male, dressed in a knee-length black tunic and woolen hose. He’d lost his cloak in the run through the forest, and hadn’t been able to clean up the rips and mud that had ruined his outfit. His brilliant red hair had also broken loose, tumbling down well past his shoulders in curls and waves, although a few of the braids remained intact.

Every time he took a step that wasn’t straight forward, one of the blessed swords emerged to hover by his ribs. Completely unjustified, he’d barely resisted at all. Only tried to run away twice, the whole walk back.

As they drew near the command tent, Crowley finally got a good look at the pavilion, a mobile warroom of some sort. A broad table held some loose sheets of parchment, and was covered in little pieces of carved wood; a few smaller tables held odds and ends, but otherwise the space was remarkably clear of clutter. A few more humans were gathered around the main table, listening to their commander speak.

“...another report of fighting, but it doesn’t seem to be related. Once the scouts are rested, I’d like them to go north and look for rumors along the river here…”

Bent over the table - presumably looking at a map - a figure in a white bliaut, a gown of brilliant cream colored silk that hugged ample curves before tumbling down in acres of flowing fabric to brush through the dirt. The sleeves were tight over the thick biceps before falling open in more waterfalls of gold-trimmed silk. Somehow, despite the mud and dust and dirt of the camp, every inch of valuable fabric was unstained. The veil did little to hide the long platinum curls, or the profile of a very familiar face.

The knights shoved Crowley down onto his knees.

“We captured the prisoner, my Lady,” one said, voice positively oozing obsequiousness.

The figure turned in a swirl of pale skirts and looked down at Crowley with clear blue eyes.

“Hello, Aziraphale,” he drawled sardonically. “I see you’ve finally decided to have me killed.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” the angel snapped. “I told them to bring you in alive, and here you are.”

“They hunted me. With crossbows!”

“A perfectly mundane weapon that wouldn’t be able to harm you, even with a direct hit.”

“Still hurts,” Crowley snarled, pulling open the cut on his cheek again, sending a fresh trickle of blood down his face. “And their swords are blessed!”

“They could hardly have corralled you into the trap without a plausible threat.”

“One of them tried to take my head off with a warhammer!”

“Oh, dear.” Aziraphale glanced at the two knights behind Crowley. “I’ll have to speak to them about their...overzealous enthusiasm, but still, you are unharmed.”

“Only by luck. I could have been discorporated!”

“You weren’t responding to my messages!”

“You said you never wanted to speak to me again!”

The words hung in the air of the suddenly silent camp. One of the knights shuffled his feet, coughing uncomfortably.

“Well.” Aziraphale’s hands ran down the front of the dress, tugging the pale silk smooth. “Things have changed. Obviously.” With a quick nod, the angel dismissed the guards and other attendants, leaving them with relative privacy. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I brought you here,” Aziraphale started in the careful voice of a rehearsed speech.

“Don’t care.” Crowley turned his eyes to the ground and resolutely tried to ignore the angel standing less than ten feet away.

“Crowley! There’s no need for--” A heavy breath. “This will be much easier if we can at least agree to be civil.”

“Civil? Civil? Angel, I’m kneeling in the dirt, bound up like a prisoner on your orders. Is that what you call ‘civil’?”

A moment later, Aziraphale sank to the earth in front of Crowley, skirts spread wide to either side. “I’ll untie you, if you agree to hear me out.” One hand reached towards the cut on Crowley’s face.

He jerked his head away. “No deal. Your problems are not my problems, remember?”

The words elicited the smallest gasp from Aziraphale, which tugged at something in Crowley’s gut. He tried very hard to ignore that, too, eyes fixed to the dirt floor.

“I know what I said, and I meant it. I am an angel, Crowley, and I’m in this world on a sacred mission of, of peace and stability and all things good, and -- don’t roll your eyes at me! I cannot perform evil acts, not even to help you. It isn’t in my nature!”

“Then I guess I can’t help you either,” Crowley snapped. “Sorry you wasted all that effort bringing me in. Now either set me free or kill me, because I can’t stand to look at you right now.”

“Crowley…” The demon kept his face turned to the corner of the tent. It was much easier if he couldn’t see Aziraphale’s eyes. “Do you want to be enemies?”

He tried to pretend it sounded like a threat, that he didn’t hear the pain in Azirpahale’s voice. But even Crowley’s imagination wasn’t that good. “No. You know perfectly well I don’t. But I don’t see this working any other way, do you?”

#good omens prime #good omens fanfiction #aziraphale and crowley #the arrangement #good omens angst #aziraphale #crowley #bastard angel #knights #fanfiction #My writing #wip #current wip #reverse big bang #do it with style events #on the edge of holiness

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livingintheworldofstories · 4 years

Text

The Sound of Music

Genre: Angst with a happy ending Word Count: 5169 Summary: After Crowley and Aziraphale failed to stop Armageddon, the War broke out and the universe got destroyed. After the angels finally win the War, Crowley becomes a captive of Heaven. Who better to decide over his fate than his old adversary Aziraphale? Warning: Graphic Depictions of Violence (a little) Ao3: The Sound of Music

After the last second of time had run out, after the last star had burned out, after Beelzebub had died and all the walls of Hell had crumbled, the angel Aziraphale sat in a room without books. The angels, thankfully, had had just enough imagination to think them up – after all, rooms weren’t overly complicated, entirely made out of rectangles, which are entirely made out of straight lines. Had there been a curve or a wiggly line involved, the angels might not have managed it.

Aziraphale had only a moment to register the knock and feel a surge of dread before the door sprang open. Gabriel stepped in, as usual radiating confidence, but slower and with his shoulders down. His mouth was drawn in a serious line. The War had changed him, too. In time, he would go back to being his usual cocky, insufferable self – he had after the Fall. But for a while, the images of blood and death would haunt him the same way they did everyone else. It filled Aziraphale with a deep, petty satisfaction. Then Gabriel stepped aside, revealing who was coming in behind him – and Aziraphale’s heart stopped.

“Crowley.”

The word fled out of his mouth out of its own volition. Aziraphale had no say in it.

Crowley was – alive. A captive of Heaven, despondent and worse for wear, but alive. It took Aziraphale a second to recognize the clothes. They were the same clothes Crowley had worn an eternity ago, when they had tried to stop Armageddon and failed. Now his jacket was torn at the seams, his shirt darkened with what might be dirt or blood. His hands were bound behind his back. Two angels marched in after him, maybe to keep him in line. And then Crowley looked up, straight into Aziraphale’s eyes and Aziraphale had known what he’d done was unimaginably cruel and above all unforgiveable but suddenly he was confronted with the reality of how much. Crowley looked at him with eyes that would never forgive and Aziraphale absolutely deserved it. What have they done to you, he wanted to ask. What happened to you?

Someone had extinguished the spark in Crowley’s eyes, someone had wiped the fond smile off his face and Aziraphale couldn’t bear the thought that it had been him, but it had been, it must have been. It could have been.

Crowley was broken and it was all Aziraphale’s fault, only his.

“Have you forgotten…” Crowley started darkly and for one terrifying moment Aziraphale knew that he had. He had forgotten. Drinking fine wine in the book shop, feeding ducks in St. James park, black and red scales, we’re on out own side and I love - “…that there are other colors besides white? Seriously. White everywhere. You guys need to hire a better interior designer. White’s not even a color.” “Quiet,” Gabriel snapped. Crowley closed his jaw and Aziraphale could see him grinding his teeth. “Now, Aziraphale. Since you have proven yourself loyal to Heaven in the war, we provide you with a gift. Your adversary! From earth. Remember? Since Heaven gained victory over hell, as well knew it would, because good always prevails, we are now dealing with the traitors. Like this maggot right here.” Gabriel kicked Crowley’s legs and his knees buckled out underneath him. He struggled to regain his balance but didn’t get up again.

“I shouldn’t say maggot, should I? What was it? Snake? Both writhe and crawl on the floor, so it doesn’t really matter.” Crowley didn’t even look at him, didn’t lift his gaze from Aziraphale even once. Crowley had looked at Aziraphale without sunglasses before but never with such an intensity. Aziraphale couldn’t really read it. Was it an accusatory glare? It seemed to scream I will never forgive you.

“Anyway,” Gabriel continued. “The demon Crowley, the beginning of sin. Now it’s time to end it. I’m sure you’ve been looking forward to this opportunity for a long time.” “A – a long time, yes,” Aziraphale quickly said.

“So, would you please punish the traitor, so that we can all get on with our day?”

“Certainly, yes, yes.”

There was a horrible pause, where Aziraphale’s mind reeled for something to say. Maybe Crowley could sense how uncomfortable he was, just like he always had, because he started to speak, as if to save Aziraphale.

“Ever heard of a color called Pansy Lavender?” A lazy grin spread across Crowley’s face. “I’m sure you’d love it. I did name quite a few paint colors back when earth was still a thing, did you know that?” Gabriel started scowling. “Pea Soup. Flesh. Candy Apple, classic.” Crowley winked.

“If you think you can talk your way out of this,” Gabriel said impatiently, “just remember that you’re in Heaven now. Everything is Heaven now. There is literally nowhere for you to run.”

“You know what I call a place full of demons?” Crowley snarled, his head whipping around to Gabriel. “Hell.”

“Those demons won’t be here for much longer.”

Gabriel’s mouth stretched into his Grin of Superiority. Aziraphale found himself frozen, desperately trying to think of a way to get them out of this. It hurt to see Crowley on his knees. It was wrong. Everything about this was wrong. But Aziraphale needed to grit his teeth and pretend it was right.

*** Crowley looked back at Aziraphale. He could barely take his eyes off him. It had been so long since he last saw him, so long since… Aziraphale raised his sword at him. Since Aziraphale had made clear once and for all that when push comes to shove, he would never choose Crowley. And push had come to shove. Hard. And he hadn’t chosen Crowley. (And Crowley shouldn’t have expected him to. It was the insufferable hope that festered in his chest. It was quite unbecoming for a demon.)

“I’m just saying,” Crowley said and made his voice sound unaffected, casual and light and everything the feeling ins his chest was not. He had to keep talking, if only to spare Aziraphale from making excuses. If only to prolong what would be the inevitable culmination of a myriad of painful experiences. So, “I’m just saying,” Crowley just said, motioning to the white walls, “a little more love could have gone into -” In an instant, his mouth was burning, his tongue was on fire and Crowley opened his mouth as if to cough out a flame. It hurt to scream and Crowley screamed anyway. The flames went out but the pain didn’t go away, it stayed comfortably behind his teeth. His mouth felt raw and it would have been agonizing to move his tongue, if he had been able to produce a sound with its charred remains in the first place. Crowley only registered the blood when he felt it run down his chin. It must have been in his mouth, but he couldn’t feel it, he couldn’t feel anything but the pain. Out of instinct, he pulled, intending to wipe the blood from his lips, but his hand wouldn’t come up. Of course it wouldn’t it, was shackled behind his back.

“That’s enough of that,” Gabriel said, who, with mild effort, had performed the miracle to burn Crowley’s tongue. “You’re a demon. You don’t know anything of love.”

The pain was liquid in his mouth. It seemed to come from somewhere deeper than that, his throat was alight with the memories and pleas he had hurled at God long ago. The War that had taken stage on the universe. The dying demons on the battlefield. He had Fallen with them. He had felt pain with them before. Until then, he hadn’t been able to imagine anything worse than the Fall. Now he knew better. There was no such thing as the worst. It was the kind of thing that added up. And added up. Aziraphale clutched his hands in front of him, so uncertain, so out of his element. He didn’t belong in a world full of nothing. Heaps of nothing. Nothing upon nothing upon more of nothing. There had been other paint colors Crowley had named. One had reminded him of Aziraphale and he’d called it ‘Love Letter’. (He had always been a bit of a fool.)

Gabriel had taken away Crowley’s only weapon now, since the bindings on his wrist also prevented him from performing miracles, and all that was left to do was look at Aziraphale. Feast on it, just for a little bit, before it was all taken away. His angel-white hair. His permanently old-fashioned clothes. He didn’t look happy, though, not one bit, which was quite the tragedy.

Just smile. Just let me see you smile.

Crowley could feel the tears burning in the corners of his eyes. He tried to transport himself back to years and years ago into a bookshop that was long gone and had felt more like home than any of Crowley’s flats. He tried to picture Aziraphale’s face, his soft smile and the exact arch of his eyebrows when he found something funny. He tried to banish the picture of Aziraphale with his sword raised from his mind. “Well then,” Gabriel said, “get on with it.” Crowley looked at Aziraphale and tried to beg him. Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t say anything too cruel. Don’t bring your sword down after years and years. “This is between me and him,” Aziraphale said. “I want to… handle this in private.” Gabriel gave a long-suffering sigh. “Alright. See that the matter is taken care of. Someone will come to check on you in… an undetermined amount of time.” As Gabriel left, Crowley faintly wondered if Aziraphale was going to be gentle about it. Grant me a bit of mercy, just a little bit.

He wanted to say something, but it wasn’t just his burned mouth stopping him. He wished desperately he could just swallow the pain down.

This couldn’t be easy on Aziraphale either. He wasn’t a friend, no, Aziraphale had always vehemently denied it and proved in the end that those weren’t just empty words. But they’d known each other for a long time. He was Aziraphale’s somewhat begrudgingly accepted acquaintance. And even if it could never be affection or, Satan forbid, love, Aziraphale’s kindness and all around goodness would make this hard for him.

Aziraphale, gasping for words, stepped closer and even now, Crowley didn’t flinch away. He clung to the same hope he’d hung onto for millennia.

Just have mercy on me.

Stripped of his sunglasses and of his tongue, Crowley felt a breeze of wind could blow him over. A word could knock him unconscious. A tentative touch could break his neck. And Aziraphale – Aziraphale looked at him. And then his hand came up (came up like it had back then, with that blasted sword in his hand -) and Crowley’s breath caught in his throat, caught between the ridges of a throat raw from pleading and bleeding and bleeding. As he anticipated the blow, Crowley was struck with the thought that Aziraphale’s eyes were the same color as they had been so many years ago, but now they were much older. Years had passed, but an eternity seemed to live and upend itself in his irises again and again.

Crowley was waiting for judgment to be passed once again. Hadn’t he suffered enough? (Maybe he had. Maybe this would put an end to it.) And what would Aziraphale’s verdict be? Not good enough for an angel, that was obvious. Not bad enough for a demon. Too supernatural for a human. You are a nowhere-being, why don’t you go back there?

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and then the pain was – gone. He could feel his tongue mend itself. (But the taste of pain lingered.) Aziraphale had given him back the ability to speak. Why? What did he want to hear?

He tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t sound downright pathetic.

“Angel,” he rasped out. It was as much a plea as an insult as a broken promise and Aziraphale’s face unraveled. Both of his eyes came loose and his jaw fell open. “Long time no see.”

Maybe Aziraphale was eager to fulfill the command he had been given, to have this done and over with, at Heaven’s beck and call like he always had been, but maybe Crowley could tempt him to wait. Crowley’s last temptation. He would pull out all the stops.

“Lovely little room you’ve got here. Why, I would love to stay, thanks for asking. Just like old times.” “Don’t,” Aziraphale said quietly. Well. If he was so adamant on Crowley’s last minutes being unpleasant, so be it.

And what could he even say? Aziraphale didn’t want to hear his begging or his apologies and certainly not his love confessions. All he could think of was the sword that hadn’t even been flaming at the time. Everything had gone to pieces within seconds and Crowley had lost track of Aziraphale in the crowd of angels descending from Heaven and demons rising from Hell. The knowledge of how Aziraphale really felt about him was like a rope around his neck, pulling tight. Preventing any word from escaping. A trapdoor beneath his feet and Aziraphale at the lever. (Why did it have to be Aziraphale? Out of all the angels in Heaven, why him? The upside: he could see him one last time. The downside: it would hurt so much more. So much.)

Crowley didn’t really regret having to die. Not really. He’d already lost the eternity he wanted. He had lost the most stubborn car that had ever existed, he had lost the rare but kind touches of Aziraphale, he had lost the stars, every single one of them. All that he had ever created and all he had ever dreamed of having was gone.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “I’m so sorry.” Of course. Of bloody course he was sorry. He was going to do it, he had to, but he would be very fucking sorry while he did it. Small mercies for that. (Maybe he had been sorry back then, with the sword.)

And he could be angry if he wanted to, he could spit poison in Aziraphale’s face, he could accuse and shame and tear apart with words if he wanted to, but he didn’t. Not now. Not when he – they – only had so little time left. So instead, he said: “Don’t be.” It was so hard to summon the words. “I was the one who misjudged. Very badly misjudged.” God – Satan – Somebody, he’d thought it was real. He’d thought they really had something. Six thousand years of something. Aziraphale seemed frozen, in all his bloody sorriness and Crowley couldn’t even be mad. “You were a dream, Aziraphale,” Crowley admitted quietly. “I dreamed you up. An angel who could love a demon. Ha! They did always say I had too much… imagination.” He held Aziraphale’s gaze, even though he had long lost his sunglasses. “This is reality,” he tried to say it full of bitterness, but it came out soft.

“It’s horrible, is what it is. Horrible! What Gabriel just did -” Aziraphale seemed close to tears. “I would rip out Gabriel’s heart if I weren’t quite so sure he doesn’t have one.”

“That’s not very angelic of you to say.” Crowley raised an eyebrow. “I don’t care for the bloody ‘being an angel’ business very much at the moment.” Ah. The War had changed Aziraphale, too, then, at least a little. He wouldn’t have been caught discorporated saying something like that years ago.

“You should be careful to say that kind of thing,” Crowley reminded him halfheartedly. “You know what could happen.” “What, you mean I might Fall? Where to? There’s only heaven now.”

“Hng. S’pose you’re right.”

Aziraphale leaned forward, then. “Here, let me get that for you,” he said and miracled the restraints around Crowley’s wrists away. Astonished, Crowley moved his hands in front of himself, suddenly unsure what to do with them. Why had Aziraphale done that? With the restraints removed, he could perform miracles again, at least those he still had the energy for. He could flee, if he wanted to. Well. Aziraphale probably knew that he didn’t.

“Do get up, my dear, please,” Aziraphale said and touched Crowley’s elbow. My dear. Crowley didn’t know if he was still able to cope with being called that. Gingerly, he got to his feet.

“Please listen. I’m sorry about… the last time we saw each other. I should never – I mean, of course, I never really intended to – it was just such a mess and I didn’t know what to do -” “It’s alright, angel,” Crowley said, an almost automatic response to seeing Aziraphale in distress at this point. “It’s not like you ever made me any false promises. You were always pretty clear about how we stood to each other. It was just me who was too -” hopeful, too optimistic, too in love “- well, foolish to believe you.”

“No. No, you really weren’t. Stop saying these things. Stop talking like -” “Like we were just acquaintances? That it never really meant anything? Believe me, I’ve had enough time to realize you never really liked me all that much. Threatening me with your sword was hint enough for me.” There had, of course, been many hints before that, very many, but Crowley had not exactly been quick on the uptake in that respect.

“I was there,” Crowley continued, even though it hurt more than anything, “that was all. I was the only one who would stick around longer than a few decades. That’s why we were -” not friends, never friends “- acquaintances.” Aziraphale looked at him like Crowley had told him God was a vicious bastard. (A gaze Crowley was obviously familiar with.)

“Really, I’m under no delusions there.” Not anymore, at least. “So don’t feel bad about it.”

“I should never have denied you were my friend,” Aziraphale said, sounding suspiciously close to sniveling.

“It’s who we are, didn’t you always say that?” Crowley said. Then, like an old inside-joke: “You should have smote – smitten – smited? - me the second you saw me.” “Don’t say that.” “Would’ve spared you a lot of trouble, I’m sure,” Crowley said wryly.

Aziraphale gave him a long look and shook his head.

“It would have been horribly boring.”

“It would, wouldn’t it?” They shared a small, quiet smile. It was the kind of smile that could probably not bring governments or oppressive power structures down, but that could bring something like our side back into existence.

Suddenly, Crowely could feel the phantom touches of the last few years – the shoves, the scrapes, the pushing, the angels from earlier with their commanding fingers, forceful and rough and I hate you almost as much as I hate myself. He thought of angels with burning wings. He thought of drowning demons. He thought that falling is just like jumping without a goal in mind. And he wanted to reach out to Aziraphale as badly as he had ever wanted anything, with every cell of this body and with every scale of his snake form, with every bit of his true essence. He coveted with the whole of his being and a little beyond.

Then he saw the fond way Aziraphale looked at him, just the way he used to. Crowley’s hand moved on its own but stopped just short of Aziraphale’s face. Then he realized that he had almost nothing left to lose, only minutes. This was his last chance – so he touched Aziraphale’s jaw with trembeling fingers.

Aziraphale looked very scared.

“Shame there’s no beds in Heaven,” Aziraphale said, sounding the way he always did when he was trying to sound casual. “I could really use a lie-down.”

“You could always miracle one.” “It won’t be the same,” Aziraphale said and then miracled one anyway. Crowley had his moments of idiotic confidence and this was one of them, so he took Aziraphale’s hand and led him to the bed.

Just once, he thought, just this once. And committed his worst offence. Like a thief, he leaned forward quickly, desperately, and pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale gasped in surprise, but he didn’t pull away. This couldn’t have come as a surprise to him, for millenia Crowley had been painfully obvious. For millenia, he had been rejected at every turn. But this one time – this last time – Aziraphale decided to indulge him, to humour him, and kissed him back. Crowley had decided to take and Aziraphale seemed to have decided to give.

It was a last wish fulfilled.

It was everything Crowley had ever wanted, nothing like he had wanted it.

It was Crowley’s sweetest regret.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said after he pulled away and Crowley had no idea how to interpret it. He swallowed heavily.

“We can’t miracle our way out of this one,” he said softly. No matter how much he wanted to pretend they had forever on this bed, in this small room, reality looked different. “I don’t have enough energy to teleport. If you do anything, they’ll know. It’ll show up in the paper work. The thing with the shackles will arleady be hard to explain.”

“Then what do you expect me to do?” Aziraphale said, his voice out of control.

“They expect you to kill me, angel,” Crowley said as neutrally as possible.

“So?” “So… just make it quick.”

Crowley hoped Aziraphale knew how serious he was. There was no way out of this. (He wasn’t sure he wanted a way out of this.)

“No,” Aziraphale said. “No. No. Out of the question.”

Right. It would be hard to make a murderer out of someone like Aziraphale. So this would be his last temptation.

“Listen,” he started in his softest temptation voice. “We both know you never really wanted to get all mixed up with - with the likes of me. You’re not going to give up on being an outstanding angel with a gold star now, are you?” (It would be a little late for that.) “Gabriel and his little band of angels is standing outside that door just waiting for you to do it. They’ll come in and expect to find my remains.” He had tempted Aziraphale to kill before, back when they had still tried to stop the Antichrist. Surely he could do it again? “I would never -” Aziraphale said and was too overwhelmed to speak.

Of course Aziraphale would never, he was bloody Aziraphale. Why did he change his mind about the Antichrist? Right, because he was the Antichrist and about to destroy the whole world. So upping the ante it is.

“I’ve changed, you know,” Crowley said, drenching his voice in bitter sadness that was only partly faked. “The War changed all of us. I’ve… killed.” He tried very hard to sound the way he would if he had committed atrocities in the War. “I’ve ripped angels’ wings from their backs. I set traps of Hellfire for them. I would have done anything to survive.” “No. Stop – stop this immediately. You wanted to run. You told me you did.” “Yeah, but it was a little late for that, wasn’t it? I was caught in the crossfire.” Aziraphale didn’t believe a word he was saying. Crowley started to panic, which is never a good state to lie in.

“At first, I did it just to survive, but then… my demonic instinct kicked in. I started to like it. I wanted to burn every single one of them. For what they did to me. For ruining everything. I wanted to burn all of Heaven. And I did – I burned so many and I didn’t even care.” “You’ve lied better before,” Aziraphale said almost angrily. “Do you really think I would believe that?”

The fight drained out of Crowley, but he wasn’t ready to give up just yet.

“It would be easier if you did.” “Stop being so bloody…” Aziraphale seemed to search for a word. “…kind.” “I’m about to die, there’s no need to insult me.” Crowley drew his lips into a wonky smirk. “It wouldn’t even matter, you know,” Aziraphale said, “if you were telling the truth. I would understand.”

Fuck. Fuck. Was there nothing he could say… It was Aziraphale’s life on the line here. If he didn’t comply with Heaven’s orders, they’d kill him too. And Crowley couldn’t let that happen. He just couldn’t.

“Really,” he drawled. “Sparing me an eternity of white robes and Sandalphone playing the harp off-key, that would be a kindness.” “You silly demon. There is nothing you can say that would make me even consider this.”

Crowley sighed, feeling deeply reliefed and anxious at the same time. He cupped Aziaphale’s face with both his hands and started drawing small circles on his cheeks with his thumbs. He wanted to keep this so badly. He wanted to see another sunrise, just one. But he knew Aziraphale had made his choice, years ago, he had made it. And it was the right choice. The only choice. And Crowley was just tired. So, so tired.

“Just put me to sleep, angel,” he said softly and moved his hands further into Aziraphale’s hair. “You know how much I like sleeping. It won’t be so different.”

Aziraphale let out a quiet sob and started to frantically shake his head.

“Just let me sleep,” Crowley said in a last-ditch effort to convince Aziraphale, though at this point he knew that nothing would.

“I can’t.”

Crowley felt like he was trapped in a room with no doors, like he was spinning around searching for one but there were only walls and walls and walls. “You’ve never chosen me before,” he said, like a statement.

“I should have. I would have. On that day-”

Crowley drew his hands back. “You raised your sword at me-” “I was panicking, I don’t know why I did that, but I know I never would have – if you’d just stayed, I -” It sounded unbelievable. He’d thought about that moment so many times over the years, to hear it was different now was – dizzying. He closed his eyes, as though that could somehow keep his head from spinning.

“Can’t we just – run away together?” Aziraphale asked and Crowley’s eyes snapped open.

“It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?” All of it was, all of it was so late. But Crowley would, of course he would. He would raise a new wold out of the ashes of the old one for Aziraphale if he could. “There’s nowhere to run to anymore.”

“I was looking for you, did you know that?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley was stunned into silence.

“...what?” “All over Earth, I was looking for you. I thought something must have happened to you. I couldn’t find you anywhere, not there, not in Heaven, not in Hell. Not on Alpha Centauri. Until the fighting stopped, I kept looking. Waiting.” A strange sort of joy that felt a little like pain rose up in Crowley’s chest.

“I was on Earth,” he said. “I didn’t try to save the world. But… I tried to save someone. Anyone. I’ve managed it before. Smuggled a few more people on Noah’s arch. But this time I couldn’t. It’s all gone.”

He’d dredged through fallen trees, through the blood, through the dead bodies. He’d kept his eyes open for a survivor. He’d found a little girl in an upside-down car, but he’d lost her. He’d lost everyone. “You didn’t run?”

Crowley was taken aback by the question. “Why would I run without you?”

The tears glistened in Aziraphale’s eyes. He looked like this was news to him. There was nothing new about this. It had been very clear for a very long time.

“You really don’t understand, do you?” Crowley said. “When they cast me out of Heaven, I thought I would never be home again.” “And now you’re back in Heaven?”

Crowley closed his eyes and wished he could be less honest about this. He wasn’t sure if Aziraphale even wanted to hear this, but now that he had started telling the truth he could hardly stop. “And now I’m back with you,” he said very softly.

“Then let’s go away,” Aziraphale said astonished. “There must be some corner of this hellish Heaven where we can have our peace.”

“What about the angels?” “Pardon my French, but… fuck the angels.” “Aziraphale,” delight gleamed in Crowley’s eyes, “that’s blasphemy.”

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale, who had sounded very confident before, faltered. “I don’t care.”

“Who are you and what did you do to Aziraphale?” “I’m just. Braver. Than I was before.” Crowley’s shaking fingers reached for Aziraphale’s head again. He licked his lips.

“About that kiss…” Aziraphale blushed. “What about it?” Crowley leaned his forehead against Aziraphale’s. “Was that… pity, or some sort of deathbed thing-” “It’s not your deathbed,” Aziraphale said firmly. “And… well, I thought… I thought it was…” Aziraphale’s voice got much smaller. “...well. A love… thing.” “A love thing,” Crowley repeated and laughed, a little incredulous of the whole thing. He wanted time, just a little more time, so he gathered the last of his energy and took it. He stopped everything around them, kept them safe in a bubble outside of time. He rushed forward with his head recklessly, almost knocking Aziraphale over. He kissed Aziraphale – and he became a confession against his skin. He pressed a row of small kisses against Aziraphale’s jaw and wach of them was an admission. I missed you. I need you. Look at me through a veil of tears. Let me kiss your eyelashes, let me drink your pain. He let his lips wander all over Aziraphale’s face. Let me kiss the ache from your heart.

Crowley put his hand on Aziraphale’s chest and pushed him down onto the bed. This space between Aziraphale’s navel and his collarbones was the only holy ground that wouldn’t burn him. The thrumming of Aziraphale’s heart underneath his fingers kept him steady. He settled down half on top of Aziraphale and dropped his head on his chest. He listened to it beating.

Let me rest here. Please let me rest. Let me fall asleep hearing you’re alive and as real as anyone. Let me drift from a nightmare into a dream. Aziraphale carded his fingers through Crowley’s hair.

(Just hold my hand. Just hold it.) It was nearly too much to bear. Ah. So this was Aziraphale killing him. And he was as gentle as anything. Crowley would stop time for longer, just a little longer. Then they could flee. It was okay. As long as Aziraphale was with him, it was all okay. His mind stopped churning. The memories fled elsewhere. Crowley reached out and entangled Aziraphale’s hand with his. He held it in his own with reverence, with the softest grip - and then he knew. This was how to hold a moonbeam in your hand.

#good omens fanfiction #good omens #good omens fic #good omens fanfic #crowley #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale

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babythingcoffee-blog · 3 years

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Birds of a Feather: Prologue | Like a Lead Balloon

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Right from the center of the Eden garden moved a snake. His shiny black scales reflecting the sunlight onto every leaf and petal he came across while passing through. The snake had just changed a course of events that would put in motion the whole of human history, but his own most significant encounter had yet to happen.

Not only had his lot asked him to "go up there and make some trouble", but he also had a much more prominent task to fulfill. Being the snake of Eden didn't mean THAT much back then, but it sure would in the near and distant future, the eternal Demon Crawly, cast out of Heaven and set on Earth by Hell to both bring down souls but most importantly, to destroy any form of angel to roam near him. Now, he didn't know what had happened to Heaven, how many of its soldiers would come down and how strong they were but Hell had been clear on that. Destroy the forces of the opposition, at any cost.

The wiley serpent came across a hole in the wall as he slithered, someone had made it up recently. Adam perhaps, in a desperate attempt at escaping Her fury. As soon as he turned away from it he had to hide between bushes as quickly as his slithering body allowed him. Behind a few trees, an angel with white curly hair and a white gown was seemingly pacing around nervously for some reason.

Bare feet idly tread across the barren dirt a mere few feet ahead of the prying eyes. A disgruntled yet anxious angel seeming distant and unaffected by the world around him. Ignoring the distant cry of birds, or the growing hammer of thunder rolling in from off the horizon.

How could such a thing have happened? Under HIS guard? A Principality - guardian of the Eastern Gate. His only instructions to keep such dastardly fiends out of the garden. Even having received a flaming sword from the almighty Herself - one that still hummed and glowed within his hands. Illuminating the dew upon the leaves surrounding him.

Now Eve was already due and the garden was no longer safe for her nor Adam. For both of their sake, they would have to leave and venture out into the unknown. With beasts and creatures at every waking corner.

A rustling from the nearby bushes finally seemed to snap the angel out of his internal quarrel, causing him to snap his head up and peer up over the growing foliage. Of course, all there was to expect was none other than Adam and Eve themselves and the angel couldn't help but feel their stomach churn with guilt and dismay at the sight. The couple shrouded towards the quite obvious break in the wall, just barely large enough to fit through. The angel soon stepped forward, their grip on the sword growing tighter and tighter the closer they got to the couple who peered upwards. Clearly afraid they were either going to be stopped or reprimanded by the guardian.

"Here you are-" The angel suddenly blurted out, immediately outstretching his arm towards the couple.

Adam - the first of mankind appeared hesitant at first and even shied away from the threatening weapon. However, upon realizing the ethereal being’s intent, carefully took it into their own hands.

"Flaming sword. Should keep you safe - no need to thank me." The angel blurted out all at once, nerves rising.

Oh Lord, what was he thinking? Giving away such a thing? A weapon made for him and him specifically to keep up with his task - a task he had clearly failed miserably. Now what? He was just going to give it away? While a demon still lurked in the garden?

"And please... don't let the sun go down on you here."

Once more the couple hesitated, Eve, spared a glance towards her partner who seemed evermore perplexed by the sword. By the time his gaze lifted, the angel did no more than gesture back towards the hole. Urging them onward and outward, fearing what may happen if they stayed but a moment longer.

The serpent stared incredulously at the scene. Did an almighty angel just give out a flaming sword to humans just… because?! Angels weren't like that the last time he had checked and even so... He shook his head. Admiration? For an angel? Ridiculous. But now, looking at it from the right perspective… An angel had just given away his most powerful weapon. Yes, this was the perfect chance. He watched as Adam and Eve quickly left the garden and slithered silently behind a tree trunk. He took one last look at the angel before turning into the new corporation Hell had given him. He was very aware that the Principality, which he didn't yet know was his title, could have heard him but it was not the time to back down. 'C'mon you can do this, you can do this' he thought to himself, he hadn't spoken anything to anyone aside from his slytherin whispers but he did know how to, and he sure did know the angel could too. Was he even gonna share words with him before entering a fight? His inner thoughts and his breath were overwhelming him so much he wouldn't have noticed Aziraphale getting closer anyway.

The Principality could only watch as the couple slowly but surely made their way through the desert- finally leaving the safety of the garden and into a whole new and otherwise unexplored world. It was quite dreadful that such an act had to occur, he merely hoped that he had done the right thing and that both parents and their unborn child would be safe.

The angel couldn't help but allow his eyes to close, if but for a moment as a rush of wind swept past them. Feeling the phantom heart in their chest rap hurriedly against his chest. Knowing he would be reprimanded for sure.

However, his thoughts were put on hold by a sound coming from the bushes once more. Seemingly from behind him. As much as he would love more for it to merely be an animal or critter coming to wish the couple farewell, recent circumstances seemed to indicate otherwise.

Hesitantly, the Principality turned back towards the forest. Eyeing the foliage for anything odd or out of place, steadying his stance in case that fiend decided to follow the couple. That was certainly something he could not allow.

Yet without his flaming sword... Well, he wasn't useless per se but... My, my it certainly would have helped. Instead, the Principality opted for a fallen tree branch laying idly near the wall. Most certainly wasn't as good as a sword, but the pointed end would at least make quick work discorperating what may be lurking in the bushes.

Light on his feet, the angel travelled onward. Carefully and steadily inching further and further from the wall until he came upon a rather peculiar sight, to say the least.

Facing away from him seemed to be a figure, shrouded in the darkest robes he had ever seen yet with hair as bright and unyielding as the bundle of roses the angel had come across just the other day. Their hair was extraordinarily long and appeared to curl perfectly between a pair of inky black wings. As dark and frightful as the night sky. A demon no-less.

Immediately the angel’s heart leapt into his throat, a sudden rush of hopelessness and worry clouding his vision if but for a moment. Fearful of what this creature might hold. Fearful of encountering it, but he was a Principality. A soldier. He was the only defence between the garden and imposing demons. He could not be afraid. Not even for a moment.

Instead of fleeing, the angel found courage and approached once more until he was just on the opposite side of the tree trunk. His opponent mere feet away from him. In but an instant, the Principality reached forward and grabbed a lock of the creature's hair- forcing their head to rest back onto the top of the tree trunk. Only a moment later did the broken branch find its place just beneath the fiend's Adam's apple. The spikes on the makeshift weapon ready to piece their flesh within a moment's notice.

The demon was taken by surprise at the sudden grip on his hair and spikes pointed at his throat, he gasped, his heart starting to race. 'No-no-no. How did I get myself defeated already?!'

But oh. This was quite different indeed. Among the angels, no one appeared to have hair as long as the serpents. Most opting for shorter hair after the war but... What was most surprising was just how normal they appeared. Having a similar human corporation. And here the Principality was, having expected something matted and beastly and altogether too far gone to be considered heavenly. And yet? He could have easily mistaken him for an angel - if not for the darkened wings and pungent scent of sulphur waving off of them.

"It's certainly no flaming sword but it shall hurt no less once I discorporate you. State your purpose, demon."

Of course, being no flaming sword nor holy water it wouldn't have killed him for the strict sense of the word, but still, being discorporated was highly inconvenient and laughed upon by other demons. Especially considering it to be so soon.

But with big surprise, the angel didn't discorporate him right away and he even asked him a question..? Maybe it wasn't too late, he could have played it in his favour, he only had to hope he was malleable.

He gulped once more, his Adam's apple struggling under the branch.

"There's no need for such violence, is there..?" He managed to speak out his warmest and most fluent voice, despite his raspy overtone. Charming to say the least.

"I would gladly present myself if you came in sight, much harder to do when I'm only facing trees." His smug tone came out like an invite, a slight smirk running across his face.

Saying that the demon had caught the angel off guard would be a complete understatement. Of course, the angel had been prepared for a fight. For cruel and harsh words to be shared between them before the demon would show their true colours. Perhaps form claws or fangs or... have their hair suddenly turn into a bouquet of snakes? Whatever demons did, or however they looked outside of their corporation. Anything but this really.

"I beg your pardon?" Was all the Principality could think to ask, eyes flickering over the others' form.

A look of bewilderment crossed over the angel’s face in coordination with the demon’s inviting smirk. Eyebrows furrowing and lips pursing in reply.

Being so up close, the angel had to admit he was once again a little underwhelmed by the demon. Once more having expected some horrid and ugly creature, ready to rip his throat out at any given moment. But now? With the red-haired demon beneath him and with practically a splinter pressed against his neck, the angel seemed to be the only one of the two who was barbaric. Especially considering the demon had a much smaller frame to him.

The demon once again gulped, still feeling the pressure. Maybe this wasn't working, he had to think of something fast.

"Well, you… you've asked a question but I can't really think of how to reply when you're pointing a scary spooky branch at my throat and yanking on my hair. Would you mind getting in my field of vision?"

Despite, of course, wanting a clearer sight of the opponent to possibly strike at him, he couldn't deny to himself he was terribly curious to look at him. He had only seen him for a brief moment before having to hide back and curiously he didn't seem to be the kind of angel he had expected to guard the gate of Eden, not someone like Gabriel for a start. A lot less imperative you could say, but he still needed a closer look to be sure of that.

Oh now, this had to be a trick, certainly. Just as the angel had gotten the demon in such a vulnerable state, they were looking for a way to weasel their way out of it.

Though, the angel had to admit... The demon truly wasn't doing much to warrant such an aggressive introduction. Merely minding his own business it had seemed. Nonetheless, the Principality saw no harm in playing coy - if but for a moment.

A gentle sigh left the angel's lips as they slowly lifted the makeshift weapon off from the demon’s neck, seeing a thin red mark where the branch once lay. Following suit, they slowly and gently released the bundle of red hair from within their grasp, allowing the demon to move as they pleased.

Crawly finally let out a breath of relief, closing his eyes. He quickly regained himself and rubbed his neck, fixing his hair from the yank as well but not turning around. Just yet.

The angel watched intently at first, cocking his head and unfurrowing his brows as he watched the demon carefully tidy himself up. Fix up his hair and the suchlike from the angel’s assault, and quite like a fool - he let them.

As soon as Crawly moved his hand from his hair he quickly reached back to grab the angel by the collar of his gown and pulled him against the wall, eyes glowing and pointy fangs showing in a snarl.

Oh now, this - this is much more what Aziraphale was expecting. Serpentine eyes and fangs and the suchlike... But still. Wasn't quite as horrifying or demonic as the other angels had made out, but much more closer to the Principality’s expectations.

If he wasn't so caught up in adrenaline he would have felt his whole body shake furiously. The serpent of Eden had NEVER been so close to an angel since he had become a demon, and absolutely never touched one. He made sure the strong pull he gave him was enough to make him lose grip on the branch and now he was in control not only of him but of his life. Angels had many weapons against demons but without them, most of them weren't much of a fight, while demons… they only had one, and they only needed one. They controlled Hellfire and there was nothing an angel could do against it. But this demon, he had never killed an angel, he had never killed anything. And, he would have never admitted it, but at that moment he had no desire to do so. His gaze easily started to flutter around Azirpahale's facial features. He looked so damn soft to be a guardian, what was Heaven thinking?! 'Who is this guy supposed to scare now?' He thought, still pressing him fiercely against the wall.

While the angel was most certainly caught off guard, their facial expressions didn't overtly seem to hint as to whether the angel was enraged or frightened. Which - if the angel was being truthful - he didn't really feel either. He was just doing his job, that's all, and the demon his. And well, as the archangels said he was merely expendable. Many more soldiers where he came from and all that and now that Adam and Eve were gone he wasn't rightfully sure what purpose he had. Hardly a reason to be afraid or angered. At least he wouldn't have to do the paperwork.

The Guardian of the Eastern Gate could only open and close their shallow fist, having realized their only real means of defence had been dropped. Instead of wriggling or trying to shake the demon off, he merely complied and allowed himself to be pinned against the wall. The back of his head stinging a bit from the impact.

The angel's baby blue gaze slowly flickered over the redhead’s form once more, taking in much more detail now that they were face to face - and so close at that. Though it didn't take much before the angel met those golden eyes, his brows furrowed in confusion once more.

"Are you quite sure you're a demon?" He suddenly asked.

"No offence - really. Awfully clever and frightful you are but... Erm..."

Crawly's eyes widened from confusion, the snarl slowly being replaced by a slightly open frown that had no words to spread. His hands trembled in the hold, his willingness to kill him fading more and more away as he kept looking at him, his lips now trembling a little as well. His white hair looked so pure, as was expected, but it gave him a calming feeling that he would have never imagined to feel in front of an angel. His eyes followed as well, getting him lost in his thoughts with that angelic yet completely oblivious expression. What the hell was wrong with him?

"Uh… I..." He only managed to blurt out a few sounds, not really much of a conversationalist, so he tried a bit harder.

"I'm… pretty sure I am. What… what do you mean?"

Why did he even want to know what some Principality thought about him?! Why did he even indulge so much instead of burning him down? It was probably a trick anyway. It had to be and yet…

"Mmnn. Well..." The angel trailed off, unable to deny the small heartache he felt in response to the demon’s reaction.

Surely it must have been a hurtful thing to ask, having been an angel once before. Though truthfully he hadn't expected this reaction either. Expecting such a creature to only be filled with anger and hellfire. Certainly not as... Well, human as this.

"As far as I've been told, demons are supposed to be quite hideous in fact. 'Unholy combination of man and beast' if I could recall being told... but..." The angel trailed off yet again.

The Principality could feel his wings flap helplessly against the wall, certainly not used to being pinned in such an uncomfortable position. Truly though, he had to admit he worried he had gotten the whole thing wrong. No trick, no lies. Just - overtly confused.

"...well. I'm sure you've seen your corporation. You don't exactly fit the description for hideous... Are all demons supposed to be as pretty as you? I'm quite worried I've been misinformed."

Crawly looked even more surprised, more shocked in fact. His cheeks felt as if they were burning at the angel's words, his heart racing, unable to process the situation. He knew that if he spoke another word he would have probably started stuttering. His nervousness shifted his embarrassment into a violent chuckle. He looked down and slowly let go of the robe as he kept chuckling.

"Oh, now I get it. You're completely out of your mind. That's why you gave the sword away and all that, you don't reason correctly. Heaven must have sent you down here because you weren't useful up there." The demon immediately regretted saying it all. That was awfully mean, unnecessary and evil but he did try to burn him down a few seconds before… so this was better, maybe.

That wasn't what he wanted to say, it really wasn't, but he had no other way to process the way Aziraphale was acting. He had just complimented him for Hell's sake, what was he supposed to answer or even think of that.

"I beg your pardon?" Aziraphale blurted out, quite taken aback by the demon's laughter and words. Having not expected such an adverse reaction at all.

At this, the angel couldn't help but scowl. Eyes narrowing as he pursed his lips once more. Very much not appreciating the reply, and especially not understanding what exactly was so funny.

"Lord, you sound quite like Gabriel." The Principality all but groaned under their breath.

"Now, see - see here you fiend. There are beasts and animals out there, it will be cold and dark soon - and she's expecting already! No thanks to you I presume. As though I were going to let them walk out of here without a means to defend themselves." The angel huffed, quite matter of factly.

"Put it to me to think a demon would have the common decency." They signed, hoping the couple had managed to put some distance between them and the garden. At least be able to hide from the fiend pinning them to the wall.

"And for your information - I'm of Principality. A soldier if you would, and I'm hardly the last either. Whether I'm discorperated or killed, you'll have to deal with another soon enough."

Crawly moved away from him a little, letting him go.

"Well then I can't let you be substituted by someone more competent can I?" He gave him a slight smirk and looked up at the wall, trusting he wouldn't turn upon him with the branch so quickly.

"I don't know about you but I'm definitely going to take a look at the two lovebirds out there." He started and without waiting for a reply, he flew up over the wall and landed gently on his feet, moving a portion of his hair behind his ear.

"Hm? Now hold on a minute-" the angel blurted out, clearly either not heard or ignored as the demon suddenly took to the skies.

He needed a moment to process the encounter, even if the Principality was following him up there again in a moment. He sighed out silently and moved his gaze to the outside desert as the couple encountered their first enemy.

"Oh- oh my."

At first, the Principality thought the darkened wings sickly. His stomach churning at the thought of pure white wings suddenly singeing and going dark... But - they hadn't appeared as awful up close. Once more seemingly painted like the night. Especially as the demon took to the skies, it was hard to deny how iridescent and breathtaking their wings were. Only thinking to relate them to that of a raven - but even then a Raven’s wings barely compared.

The Principality took a deep breath, holding their tongue as they watched the demon suddenly land on the top of the wall. Worrying he would catch sight of the couple and end up flying after them.

Thus, he outstretched his wings and took off as well. Following close behind the redhead and managing to make it to the top of the wall with a single flap of his wings. Only tucking them back in and close to his corporation to ensure he did not miss landing on the wall.

He landed alongside the demon, eyes fixated on him. Ensuring that he would not disappear from his sight. As soon as he landed and stepped forward, he opened his mouth, adamant on giving this demon a piece of his mind before a not-so-distant roar caught him by surprise.

Quickly, the angel turned his gaze around to find what the demon had been watching so adamantly. Adam - fighting a lion. Protecting his expecting partner. Immediately, the angel was transfixed. Worry lines sprouted across his face as he watched with the utmost intent, knowing he could do nothing but watch. Hopefully, the humans reigned victorious.

The angel's hands trembled slightly as he began fidgeting with his fingers in front of him. Gaze softening, no longer overly worried about the redhead at his side. The demon turned his sight to the angel and watched as he reacted to the scene.

"You're… worried. Is it about the fact that you gave away a holy weapon?" His tone seemed smug, but this time the smile on his face seemed of understanding more than making fun of him. He looked back at the battle waiting for an answer he very well knew wasn't sure to come. Of course, Aziraphale wasn't obligated to answer him and after a quick pause to see what the two out there would do, they would have probably gone back to fight each other.

A few spare moments passed by in silence as the two watched the battle unfold in front of them. The angel only seeming to snap from his thoughts once Adam made a devastating blow towards the lion, lashing forward with the flaming sword

They peeled their gaze away from the fight for only a moment, sparking a glance towards the demon in recognition before looking back over the wall.

"No... well, yes. I suppose." The angel started. Carefully picking at the skin around his nails.

"Of course I'm afraid I've done the wrong thing... but... what if it's not enough? For them I mean. It's an awfully dangerous world out there and who knows if they'll be able to defend themselves against everything this world has to offer? And for how long..?"

"Why do you care so much about them?" Crawly asked, turning his head again.

"Of course… task and all but… you know." He actually had no idea how to continue that sentence so he started another one.

"Anyway I don't… think you can actually do the wrong thing." He gazed back at the humans, walking off in the distance with the holy flaming sword in the man's hands. Such a blasphemous scene, it looked hilarious to the demon.

"Oh... I... well, thank you." The angel hesitantly muttered, feeling the tips of their ears and their cheeks flush a deep red.

The last thing Aziraphale had expected from a demon, let alone one that had him pinned up against the wall just a few moments ago, was a compliment. Nonetheless, the angel somehow found solace in his words. Finding himself relaxing if only a bit.

Although, it wasn't long before the humans had disappeared over the horizon. Disappearing from view just as thunder crackled ominously overhead. Causing the angel to jump slightly at the suddenness of it all, especially with the way the earth seemed to tremble beneath their feet.

"Admittedly, I suppose I care for all Her creations." He offered, shrugging at the enemy's question.

"But... even so. I've spent so long by their side. I... just can't stand the thought of them getting hurt. Let alone suffer from Her wrath. Though, I don't suppose you would understand, having tempted them in the first place... It's not quite something I feel I can explain."

Crawly stayed silent. That somehow made him feel bad, not a demon’s bad, just the emotion of feeling not right.

"They just told me to come up here and make some trouble." He said without looking at him and added in almost a whisper of tone.

"I can't see what's so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil anyway." The demon scoffed.

"Why am I even justifying myself with you." He looked back at him.

"So, emotional angel, are we going to get back to our previous exchange?"

"Hm... I suppose we should now, shouldn't we?" The angel muttered, shuffling uncomfortably above the wall.

Truthfully, they weren't altogether particularly fond of the idea of battling with the demon at the moment. Considerably more interested in where the humans were going and what would become of them.

"And true. You no need to justify yourself to me. Nor I to you. We're hereditary enemies. Just... following orders is all."

Before the Principality could move an inch, however, they suddenly felt something cold and wet sprinkle onto their face. They winced slightly before glancing up at the darkened clouds, watching as more of the fragile raindrops began falling from the heavens. Growing in number and speed.

While water wasn't exactly a new invention - Aziraphale had gone to the presentation - they couldn't help but shoot a worried glance towards the serpent of Eden. It was, after all, the first-ever rainfall. Droplets of water just suddenly falling from the sky without much prompt. To an angel, after such an event they could only rightfully assume it to be holy water. That God Herself was crying with anger and sadness at what had befallen her creation.

And certainly, this wouldn't do. There was hardly enough to kill a demon as it were, but it would certainly be enough to hurt the redhead - especially on his place upon the wall alongside him. So instead, the angel did what he thought best.

The Guardian of the Eastern Gate carefully unfurled their wings and draped one over top of the demon. Sheltering them from what they assumed to be holy water falling from above.

"Perhaps... once the storm has passed. If it ever does. Not quite a battle to share amongst our peers if we're both sopping wet. It would be quite embarrassing I should say. We are not animals, after all. It just wouldn't be proper. For either of us." The angel protested, avoiding the demon's gaze as they peered back over the horizon.

Crawly had been hit by a few drops already, fortunately, it wasn't holy water, so it would be an understatement to say he was shocked to see the angel's wing shielding him from the rain. He took a moment to process the action as his cheeks warmed up a little bit. He listened to his words silently then, still without saying a word. He looked back at the horizon, moving closer to the angel to be fully shielded. The fact that it didn't hurt him didn't mean he wished to be soaking wet.

Similarly, Aziraphale couldn't help but feel his cheeks heat up once again as the demon shifted. Feeling their lingering presence inch closer and closer. Their arms brushing against each other every once in a while.

What an odd set of circumstances the pair had found themselves in... Watching the first rainfall on this brand new world. An angel and demon taking place on the wall of Eden, with the angel shielding the demon from the rain. Even the fact that one had not killed the other at first sight was odd enough in their case.

This was the first demon the angel had ever encountered... and possibly he was the first angel the demon had encountered. While he wasn't too sure about how things worked down below, upstairs the angels were given a clear order as to how to proceed if they ever came into contact with them. Discorporate them. Use holy water. They were the enemy after all. Even now, Aziraphale knew it was best. For them both. Though with his flaming sword gone, it would be easier said than done.

"What do they call you..?" The angel found himself asking, his blonde curls now completely soaked through and sticking to his forehead.

"Down there I mean. You all must have names..." He added, spinning the golden ring on his pinky.

The demon noticed the rain had soaked the angel wet and felt kind of weird to be shielded by someone who was taking all the rain for himself.

"Weren't we supposed to both not look like a total mess because, and I'm quoting, ‘we are not animals’?" He shot a slightly amused grin at him then slowly moved his thin index finger to move one of the angel's curls away from his forehead, up in between the rest of it which was soaking, his grin now more obvious.

"I'm Crawly." He said in a gentle and raspy tone.

With Crawly raising his hand towards Aziraphale, they couldn't help but flinch unexpectedly. Having expected to be hit or even flicked by the encroaching demon, quite taken aback to suddenly have a curl be tucked back and away from his vision.

Aziraphale glanced upwards as the demon retreated, as though he could see the now hidden curl. However, he simply turned back away, avoiding the demon’s serpentine gaze. Those yellow eyes seemingly looking into his very being, unable to help but feel exposed every time they made eye contact.

"Crawly..." The angel echoed, seemingly testing the name on his tongue.

Quite a tad on the nose, but no matter. A name was a name after all.

"Hmn. Yes, I suppose, but I can't very well shield myself from the rain. Not very flexible, I'm afraid." He finally answered, fluttering the still wing at his side to emphasize the inability to outstretch it over his own head.

"Besides, I merely meant it would be improper for us to be quarrelling in the mess and mud during such a storm. I'm quite sure I'll dry off soon enough. If this storm is to ever let up, that is. Would you have preferred I take my wing back?" He asked, folding his hands over his stomach as he only partially retracted his wing, almost like a tease or a threat to allow the demon to get as soaked as he. Crawly smiled a little at that. So there was a tiny bastard inside the guy.

"Well… it would be more in character." He agreed and let the angel move his wing away if he wished to.

"You know… I keep wondering if I did the right thing as well, by giving them knowledge of the two sides of things, you know. I could get in a lot of trouble for doing the right thing." He chuckled slightly looking down a bit

"It would be funny… if I did the right thing and you did the bad one."

Despite the ever pouring rain, the angel merely returned his wing to its regular position. Opting to keep the demon shielded as the thunder began to slowly fade over the horizon, inching further and further away.

However, as Crawly began to speak, the angel couldn't help but glance over towards him. Only now noticing that when he looked too far to the left or right that a bit of white would appear in his sclera. Looking him over once more, more so with interest this time around considering his comments.

The angel couldn't help but chuckle a little at that, finding some solace in the fact that the demon was terrified of doing the RIGHT thing. It seemed silly at first glance, thinking that both the Guardian of the Eastern Gate and the Serpent of Eden had messed up their respective duties. However, it wasn't long before realization set in. Very quickly remembering what exactly happens to angels who disobey. Who end up doing the wrong thing.

"Oh - no." He quickly corrected himself, smile and laughter quickly fading as the angel seemed to grow anxious yet again.

"No, no, no it wouldn't be funny at all!" Aziraphale contradicted, pressing his lips together and looking away. Now a tad bit more on edge regarding his actions.

"I suppose not." Crawly sighed deeply then looked back at the angel.

"You should probably go and keep an eye on them. I would hate to see the product of my work go wasted." He slowly stretched his wing out, over the other's head, and moved his head closer to the angel's, blowing lightly at him, his breath hot but not as much as to burn, more cozy than anything. In an instant, Aziraphale was dry again.

"Oh-" The angel blurted out, quite a bit taken aback from the warmth. Instinctively shying away at first.

Truthfully, he at first expected hellfire to come from their maw. Engulfing him entirely and consuming him evermore, but instead, he merely found himself dry. The angel's cheeks heated, dusted over in a light pink once more although at this point in time he was fairly certain it was now due to the heat.

Aziraphale turned to look at Crawly, placing a gentle hand onto his cheek from the sudden warmth. Their curls more prominent now that the rain had been swept off of them. They took a moment to glance upwards, only now noticing that they had been shielded from the rain.

"Oh. Thank you... I suppose." Aziraphale muttered once more, still very much taken aback by the demon’s sudden kindness. Although, he felt as though he could more so equate it to watching an ocelot playing with their food before devouring them whole.

"Well. Um. Yes. Yes. That I should." They stuttered, stumbling over his words.

Another glance towards the skies showed that the sun was just beginning to peek its way through. The rain steadily became nothing but a light mist that blew among the wind.

Carefully, the angel took his wing back from up and over Crawly's head. Tenderly shaking off the water that had collected on it before tucking it back to his side, prompting Crawly to do the same.

"Well then... I... suppose I should be off." Excused the angel awkwardly, glancing off towards the sun that was beginning to set on the horizon.

"Don't want the happy couple to wander too far off to where I can't follow after all." He explained, hesitantly walking away from the demon and over to the edge of the wall.

For but a moment the angel turned back towards the redhead, lifting his chin slightly.

"I can't imagine the two shall travel far, and I’ll need to return to repair the damage done to the wall at some point or another. So Crawly, please... Try to stay out of trouble. Until I return at least." He teased, smiling faintly at the demon.

"My name is Aziraphale, by the way." He finally introduced, giving the demon one last glance over before allowing himself to slip off of the wall, opening his wings near the last moment to catch an upwards draft and head over the horizon to where the humans were last seen. The demon chuckled a little as he watched the angel go.

"Bastard." He declared softly and with a pairing soft grin.

He reached down from the wall, reentering the garden. If his suspicions turned out to be right, the garden had its days drawn. Of course, demons couldn't love, but whatever it was that Crawly felt for Eden, it sure seemed like it. Seeing it go forever would have been hard for him to swallow but it was not like he could tell anyone about his doubts, so he just took it as a chance to spend as much time in the garden as he could before the end of it.

There are few things certain in this world, but one of them had to be the way Crawly just knew they would meet again. As time went on and he, of course, had to leave the Garden as well to follow humanity rising, he couldn't help but to think that maybe they were linked somehow, maybe it was the fact that in most certainty, no angel had conversed with a demon-like they did, even after almost killing each other a few seconds prior. He couldn't explain to himself why he let the angel go, and he thought neither Aziraphale knew.

#fanfiction #good omens #Ineffable Husbands #good omens eden

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yourpaceangel · 4 years

Text

To Be Held

this is my good omens holiday swap fic for @eliza--thornberry. i really hope you enjoy it and happy holidays!

[ao3]

When winter comes, it does so slowly and with good warning. It gives ample time to ensure the sensitive plants are brought into the small glass shed Crowley generously calls a greenhouse, or into the cottage proper. Aziraphale tucks away the last of their picnic blankets for use in the spring and brings their lovely little wicker sitting bench into the protected walls of their solarium. They’ve learned in the last few years that even if the winter is predicted to be mild, it is best to be cautious.

The first week of December is deceptively mild, enough so that Crowley puts off bringing their heavy down comforter out from the attic storage with complaints that he would get too hot at night if they brought it out too early. A few days later, when storm clouds roll in bringing with them freezing rain and high winds off the coast, he regrets ever making the complaint.

Crowley wakes freezing, the kind of cold that creeps up your bones and holds tight. For a minute Crowley doesn’t understand why he’s awake. He reaches out for Aziraphale and his hand meets with an empty bed and cold sheets. Thunder rumbles outside, and Crowley feels the sound in his chest making its home there, a yawning chasm of despair.

The clock on the wall reads 4:18AM.

The floorboards creak underfoot as Crowley climbs out of bed. He grabs a blanket off the foot of the bed, a patchwork quilt Bicycle Girl-Anathema, Aziraphale’s voice in the back of his head corrects crossly, lovely girl-had given them a couple years prior at Christmas, and wraps it around his shoulders. His hair is a mess, growing far too long lately, and he pushes it out of his face impatiently as he heads downstairs.

Aziraphale isn’t hard to find.

The library is beautiful, even in the dark. Floor to ceiling bookshelves all painted white to offset the dark floor and three massive windows that take up nearly a whole wall on their own. Aziraphale is in front of the middle one. His back is ramrod straight, hands clasped together behind himself, standing barefoot in his flannel pajama set and dressing robe.

“Angel,” Crowley says quietly.

He doesn’t need to be quiet, it isn’t as if there’s anyone else in the cottage for him to wake up. But there is something about the night that makes one tread lighter, speak quieter, as though if you did not then something terrible might happen. There’s a heaviness to nighttime Crowley has never been able to shake.

Lightning arcs across the sky as rain pounds against the glass in an immutable torrent. In the same instant lightning arcs itself across the stormy gray-blue of Aziraphale’s eyes. There’s a heavy ozone smell to the air that makes Crowley feel light headed.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, though he doesn’t step any closer, doesn’t dare reach a hand out to touch him, “come back to bed.”

It is so very cold in this room without the fireplace to keep them warm. Crowley likes to spend whole afternoons in front of it while it’s lit, lounging with his head in Aziraphale’s lap and listening to Aziraphale read aloud. Without the roaring fire and soft glow of lamplight everything seems cast into sharp monochrome shadows.

Thunder hits like drum beats.

“Angel,” Crowley tries again.

Aziraphale’s head snaps to the side, pinning him in place with a stare. Aziraphale looks all the world like he’s never seen him before, and lightning arcs across his eyes again, his face impassive as stone.

“Come back to bed angel,” Crowley says, and offers a slender hand up in supplication, “come back to me.”

Recognition dawns across his face like a drop of water rippling across a well. Aziraphale shudders and says, “Crowley?” He sounds hoarse, like he’d been screaming for hours with no answer.

“Yes love,” Crowley says and relief warms him down to his scale covered toes, “I’m right here.”

Aziraphale takes one step forward, then another, and then he buries himself into Crowley’s open arms. “I’m cold,” He says after a long silence.

“Okay,” Crowley says and kisses his shoulder, “come on then.” He twines their hands together and leads them back to their bedroom.

All the way, Aziraphale limps.

The next morning Crowley digs out the heavy goose down duvet from the storage trunk in the attic. He spends the next several hours sneezing and rubbing at his itchy eyes from the dust. It’s worth it though, because a deep chill settles over the house.

Aziraphale moodily holds himself up in his study with the small space heater while Crowley chokes on dust and sets about trying to get the ancient radiator up and running. He finally gives up sometime in the afternoon, deciding the moderate warmth it puts out is the best he’s going to get and resolves to put on more layers. Aziraphale takes the news with a bit less grace than he normally would, sighing and looking put out about the whole ordeal.

Crowley spends the rest of the day in his studio, arbitrarily shifting canvases from in progress easels to the closet to be painted over or discarded and then back again. He pauses over a seascape he’d been working on, the ocean in the throes of anger during a storm and bright light flashing across dead gray skies. His hand twitches and he tosses it into the closet with more vitriol than it really deserves.

He drags himself up to bed a little after eleven, hair falling out of the haphazard bun he’d thrown it into just to get the curls out of his face. He’s unsurprised to find Aziraphale still hasn’t made his way upstairs as he readies himself for bed.

He lifts the corner of the duvet and puts it down again, shifting from one foot to the other and glancing at the door. It isn’t the first time Crowley’s gone to bed alone, but he’s never liked it.

He hears Aziraphale’s unsteady gait coming up the stairs just as he resolves himself to a sleepless night shifting restlessly under the covers. Crowley sighs when Aziraphale climbs under the covers next to him, the light from the hall pouring in where Aziraphale’s left the door half open. “All right?” Crowley asks, his eyes half lidded.

“Mm,” Aziraphale non-answers, pulling through covers up to his chin. He looks exhausted.

“Come here,” Crowley prompts, opening his arms up for Aziraphale to slide into.

Aziraphale makes a noise, not unlike something put upon and disapproving, but moves closer anyway. Crowley takes that for the little invitation that it is and drapes himself on top of his angel, legs tossed carelessly together and pointed elbows digging into Aziraphale’s round sides. Aziraphale grunts but bears his weight, eyes drifting shut. Crowley hums against Aziraphale’s chest, nosing at the little buttons holding his satin sleeping shirt closed. His hand rubs absently at Aziraphale’s stomach, skimming up and down the swell of it.

Eventually Aziraphale goes pliant underneath him, either placated or unwilling to put up a fight any longer. A strong hand curves over a too sharp jut of bone at his hip and Crowley presses an approving kiss just above the collar of Aziraphale’s shirt. Crowley’s hand drags down from a soft stomach to a tense leg, kneading and prodding at the soreness there. Aziraphale hisses and clenches his hand harder against Crowley’s hip in warning.

“Let me,” Crowley breathes, nuzzling under Aziraphale’s chin, “please.”

Aziraphale lets out a tense breath and relaxes his hand. “Fine,” he says. It’s as much permission as he’s going to get.

Crowley kisses a thank you into whatever skin he can reach at Aziraphale’s neck and tries to rub the ache out of Aziraphale’s leg. This corporation bears no scar, but Crowley can feel the ache where it pulses just below the flesh, a phantom, writhing heat from a sword too many years ago.

Aziraphale’s breath catches on a particularly painful press of bony fingers against flesh and Crowley stops. “Okay?” He asks, hand sliding up over Aziraphale’s hip and stomach, dipping under his shirt to splay over soft skin.

“Okay,” Aziraphale whispers. If he’s crying neither one of them mention it.

Crowley rests his head against his angel’s chest, feeling the steady low thrum of his heart. He lets his thumb rub absent circles against Aziraphale’s stomach and hums something low and sweet, a melody he remembers from a time just before his century long sleep. When Aziraphale’s fingers card through his hair, distangling small knots with gentle ease, he lets his eyes fall shut.

The morning greets them with a weak glow behind heavy drapes, struggling desperately to peak inside. Crowley only wakes when Aziraphale shifts underneath him, preparing to get out of bed.

“Where’re you going?” Crowley mumbles. His mouth is dry and sticky. His hair is stuck to his cheek and opening his eyes is a chore. His back aches between his shoulder blades. “Comfy-“

Aziraphale’s lips find the top of his head. “Time for breakfast, my dear.”

“Mm,” Crowley protests, “‘s cold.”

“It is,” Aziraphale agrees, voice deceptively soft, “I can draw you a bath if you’d like.”

Crowley clicks his tongue. “No,” He says, “no it’s fine.” He slides off of Aziraphale with a groan, his back seizing, shoving his hair out of his face and looking up with sleepy eyes.

Aziraphale presses a kiss to his forehead before climbing out of bed. The couple steps he takes away from the bed are stumbling, his leg locking up on him a little. He grunts and rubs at it.

“D’you want me to run you a bath?” Crowley asks, furrowing his eyebrows together.

“No,” Aziraphale says, shaking it out, “It’s fine.” He bites off the end of the word a little sharper than he usually would, the line of his jaw locked tight.

The space between them suddenly feels like it spans miles. The little warmth that had gathered between them over the night seems frozen over. Crowley digs his fingers into the heavy down of the comforter. Silence hangs heavy and pregnant in the air like swollen dark storm clouds.

Aziraphale clears his throat.

“Any-“ Aziraphale stops, worrying at his lower lip, “any requests dear?”

“Omelets?”

“Of course, of course.” Aziraphale murmurs. “Do join me soon, won’t you?”

“‘Course I will angel.” Crowley replies, voice just as soft.

Aziraphale nods stiffly and leaves the room.

Crowley sinks into the bed, cold despite the layers covering him.

It’s the music, several long minutes later, that pulls him out of bed. Something cello heavy and familiar drifts up the stairs. The first record Aziraphale had played when they first moved into the cottage, something slow enough to learn to dance to. Crowley feels tears prickle at the edge of his eyes that he blinks away. He steals a jumper from Aziraphale’s vanity chair and pulls a pair of heavy woolen socks over his feet before padding downstairs to investigate.

Crowley loves their kitchen. It’s a bit small for a cottage this size, but it’s never felt cramped. He remembers nights staying up late going over wood samples and fabric swatches, Aziraphale absently braiding bits of his hair while he compared two similar swatches over and over. The large window over the sink overlooks the sea and lighthouse in the distance, sheer white curtains tied back with black ribbon. In the spring Crowley likes to keep the window open while he cooks, but for now it is shut tight to keep out the creeping chill of frost.

The sun bursts through sheets of gray clouds in spots as a promise to the rainy haze ending soon. The music is louder inside the kitchen, Aziraphale’s record player in the sitting room next door, filling the still air. Crowley watches Aziraphale’s bare toes curl against the hardwood floor, his fingers drumming against the counter in time to the music. He’s humming a little, his mouth turned up in the corner in a fragile breath of a smile.

Crowley presses himself against Aziraphale’s back and wraps his arms around his middle, hooking a sharp chin over a soft shoulder. Aziraphale rests a hand over his for a moment, squeezing briefly. Crowley presses a fleeting kiss to the back of his neck and steps back. Aziraphale shifts his weight, leaning further onto his good leg.

“How long are you going to pretend it’s not bothering you?” Crowley asks, his chest an aching, open chasm.

Aziraphale takes a sharp breath. “It’s-” He shifts his weight back again, “It’s fine, dear, just a little twinge you know.”

“I know,” Crowley echoes. There’s anger there- beneath the empty nothingness he hasn’t been able to banish since finding Aziraphale staring out at that awful storm- a fire burning too bright and hot. “I know what it’s like to hurt,” He hisses, “and to pretend that it doesn’t.”

Aziraphale turns off the burner, setting his spatula down. He turns around to face Crowley, face a mask of neutrality. “Are we going to fight about this?”

“I don’t know, are we?” Crowley asks, spreading his arms wide, “Or are you going to just admit to me that you’re in pain so I can stop hurting for you.”

Aziraphale’s face drops. “I’m not- I didn’t,” He huffs, “I didn’t ask you to hurt for me. I didn’t ask you to pick up that burden.”

“You didn’t have to,” Crowley says, “I just do.” He reaches out and catches Aziraphale’s ever twisting, wringing hands. He brings them up to kiss the knuckles. The anger in his chest fizzles out to a bare spark by the affection and love that floods him instead. “It hurts me that you would deny yourself comfort, and it hurts that in doing so you push me away.” Aziraphale’s fingers twitch in his grip, holding him back.

“Crowley-” Aziraphale says.

“Let me take care of you, Aziraphale. Let me love you.”

Aziraphale makes a sound. A ragged, shuddering gasp of a sob that he tries to quiet by pulling Crowley into him and pressing his face into Crowley’s neck. Crowley places a hand on the back of Aziraphale’s neck and holds him there, wrapping his other arm snugly around his waist.

“I’ve got you,” Crowley says into down soft hair, “I’ve got you.”

They stay wrapped together like that for a long time. The attempt at breakfast vanishes with barely a thought, but the music plays on much longer than the record should allow.

“It does hurt,” Aziraphale says. His voice chewed up and rough, eyes swollen and red. Crowley rubs his thumb gently over the back of his neck. “And when it does I...Crowley it’s like I’m back there again and I don’t- I don’t ever want to have to be that again.”

“I know,” Again that gentle sweep of thumb against fragile skin and bone, “I know.”

“Crowley I am so scared that someday I’m going to hurt you because of it,” Aziraphale whispers, a little frantic, “That someday I’m not going to wake up in time.”

“You won’t.” Crowley assures, “Angel, I know that you won’t.”

Aziraphale kisses him desperately, hands clutching at Crowley’s ribcage and trying to pull him even closer. They can’t get close enough. Too much clothing and skin and bone in the way. There is a desperate need to hold and be held inside the very essence of one another.

Crowley pulls back to pepper kisses over Aziraphale’s eyelids and cheek. “Come on,” He says, “I’ll light a fire in the library and we can try and get warm together.”

“Alright,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley links their fingers together carefully, preciously, and leads the way.

#eliza--thornberry #goodomensholidaswap #gosecretsanta #fic #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #mine #to be held

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