#Aziraphale trusts Crowley so much despite knowing that he lies because he thinks he knows that the lies are about big things | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

phantomram-b00 · 8 months

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You know, as much as I would love to talk more about ineffable husband/wives/partner/idiots or aziraphale and Crowley. I do want to talk about something that involves God for once. (While stilllll giving me an excuse to talk more about Aziraphale and Crowley 🤭🤭) so spoiler warning ahead:

So, we know God. she’s kinda the focal point of the story, the footprint that everyone goes back to if you will even though we don’t really see what they look like. Sure you can say Metatron is the voice for God as stated in episode 4, season 1 “Saturday Morning Funtime”. So him plus the archangel in a sense speak for God and do whatever bidding she gives them without question, well exactly for Aziraphale and a Crowley; and everyone is quite ready to just shun them just for not complying with the norm. well I saw a post where it said that God isn’t cruel or unjust but rather put all including her most trusted archangels on a test. So I want to add on to their post as I do agree with their statement; it is evident all the way back in episode 1 where she described the whole baby swapping in the metaphor of cards; so I feel the statement is not far off. What I want to add on is, “what if, God intended Aziraphale and Crowley to be nonconformist the true champions that can truly save the world and are soulmates.”

Now, I’ve made a hefty post about Aziraphale as how he’s an outsider to his own side despite his effort is masking his true identity and beliefs. Though I didn’t touch on Crowley, so let’s change that: Crowley was a follower before he became his own leader. What do I mean? Well when we see Season 2, Episode 1, we are confirmed that Aziraphale and Crowley did met way before the Garden of Eden; and one of the first thing we do see if just how joyous Crowley is at his work with the stars. He’s cutely proud of his work that is until Aziraphale breaks the news to him and you see his walks breaking, he is absolutely devastated that his work is basically for nothing and while Aziraphale try to cheer him up, you can also tell this was the start of Crowley’s conscience that would lead to him falling. Now granted, we don’t exactly know why he fell, we going for implications which would most likely be him asking question. And one thing I did mention when talking about Aziraphale is that Heaven think any question regarding the almighty’s plan is treasonous, making you in their word a “traitor”. But what we can get from the implication of the fall is that if it wasn’t for Aziraphale, his conscience wouldn’t have even invented which is a parallel with the garden of eden as Crowley was the reason for Aziraphale’s conscience to be formed as when we get to after that he lied about the sword. I do think this can’t be coincidental, seem like it was dated all along me thinks 🤔

Now, I bring this up, because since we talking about the almighty themself, it could possible be that she wanted this to happen. I mean, if we look at all from season 1 as a whole; we see that all the angels and demons are quiet literally ready to destroy what they created. Eagerly reading to draw their swords or magic to fight; which is really bizarre how after all those years they’re blasé about the apocalypse. Now I’m sure everyone know the ending that the world got saved and they got punished for it; but not by God or even Satan. They’re punished by people of their own side. Which got me analyzing this show for the billion time: don’t you think that God would’ve punish them themself if she was truly serious about this plan to end the world? Or really, since the angels will do it no question asked wouldn’t she have made the ineffable husband/wives/spouse/partner/morons duo more compliant rather than having consciences? Now granted, it can very well be that she did authorize the punishment, I really won’t be surprised as this is the same heaven that gamble Job’s kids just to see if he still righteous. However, my point still stands, if they really wanted to kill earth or even her own creation she could’ve but she didn’t, she wanted this outcome to happen, she wanted to see how this will play out, this is her playing cards and seeing what strategy they’ll use and she got her answer.

Which let me mention when Aziraphale lied really quickly before I get to Job; now, Aziraphale’s lies is an equivalent of glass, you can see right through that he was lying to God and she most likely knows it too. Now I’m not going to say they would’ve smite Aziraphale for it no, that would’ve been over the top, but I felt she couldn’t scolded him like any archangels would’ve but she just did this:

Now, one thing about the almighty is that, they’re all knowing. So her just accepting that; is a bit fishy innit of itself. Especially when it come to a flaming sword at that, which is her taking an interest in Aziraphale’s story, as He’s the only who isn’t rigid or compliant no matter how much he tried to hide it. It only the archangels and Metatron who are judging and ridiculing him for it. Hell Metatron calls Muriel Dim, (which me and Metatron are gonna fight, no one called them dim, they’re angelic), the angels/Metatron are using their status and the fact they work closely with God to “regulate” the things. But the one thing that if you will, raise my eyebrows is that; we never hear what the Almighty have to say about this, even within her narration in season one, not once she would say anything regarding with Aziraphale and/or Crowley’s decision with apocalypse. This is all in a sense her writing their story and see whatever material Azirphale, Crowley and all her angels can handle; just so happen the way Crowley and Aziraphale are handling their material is what capture God’s eye.

Now to talk about the Job episode, yes. The almighty did make a bet with Satan to see if Job is as righteous as he is, by slaughtering everything and everyone but his wife. Because I guess just giving him a task to prove it was a snooze feast. Now, we did see Crowley killing the goat; until they were just birds. Same with the fact that Crowley turn the Kid into geckos instead of killing them. Now, we did see God talk to Job about whales and ostriches (which if that isn’t every single Bible story ever, I don’t know what is) but I feel given that at the end of the story of job, we see the kids come right back again…wouldn’t you think she would’ve intervened? Considering the kids aren’t dead, even the archangels have suspicions if it wasn’t for Aziraphale lying. Not to mention that, wouldn’t she have intervened when Crowley tempted Aziraphale to eat and they talk about the sides? Oh and let me remind y’all from the post when Aziraphale had a breakdown about falling, wouldn’t she had made Aziraphale become a fallen Angel for trying to save children? But she didn’t, she didn’t make aziraphale fall, she didn’t do anything regarding with the change they both did. While sure, the Almighty does win the bet since Job’s still righteous. But she also got to see the ineffable duo developing as they got their heart to heart with each other.

Which going into season 2, we got to the aftermath of season 1, we see that they relatively left the duo “alone” (by alone I mean they straight up abandoned Aziraphale while Shax actually check in on Crowley to exchanged what going on and beelzebub asked for Crowley help when it came to Gabriel). So it kinda hard to speak as this is now just the duos story with no narration, so, I like to think that just maybe, this is God’s taking a backseat and watching the show with us. She is watching the aftermath from season 1; maybe to see how their doing perhaps? Or to see what they’ll do now as there is going to be a sequel to armageddon, which mean we might see Jesus and most likely we going to see God/Satan make their grand appearance and I can’t wait to see that, it going to be insane. But let talk about that sequel.

So I mentioned about the ineffable plan that seem to be a niche to the story, it the one thing people bring up when talking about armageddon and it’s sequel. But, what if I tell you guys that the ineffable plans wasn’t armageddon? And that, the true ineffable plan is for Aziraphale/Crowley to save Heaven, Earth, and Hell?

“But Phantom don’t be silly, how can it be if the world almost ended in season 1?” And you’re right, she did almost let the world to die but Aziraphale,Crowley and Adam stop that from happening as Adam call out his deadbeat ex-dad. But, also as I mention, don’t you think she would’ve intervene and not let their lot speak for her? She could’ve easily visited Aziraphale like she did back at the garden of Eden to tell him to stop his shit or visited Crowley to stop his shit, but again she didn’t, and as the post say the almighty want to see justice to be done, she want to see who would protect the sacred creations she work so hard for for her people. She want to see what just who would “dare” to save everything even if it mean to doubt her plan, so maybe she calls armageddon the ineffable plan to cover up what the true ineffable plan is: to save all in the name of justice. And while the archangel listen and is willing to go through the “ineffable plan”; Aziraphale and Crowley are indirectly completing the true ineffable plan, her two creation whom are the only one with conscience are doing what a true angels/hero should do: protect and defend. And they are definitely going to be rewarded and recognize for saving humanity and listening to their heart rather than complying just because “it is what it is”.

Now the soulmates part, look I know season 2 had us all in tears. Trust me. I’ve been crying since the beginning of august because of it. I’ve been reading fanfic to cope. But I’m telling you, it not a divorce, because you know what, I have a feeling the almighty ships these two morons as much as the next person. Because, she had plenty of times to smite them or if you will, punish them. She have that power to do so, she did it with Adam and Eve; she has it in them, but she didn’t. And I think, this was what is meant to be, Aziraphale was meant to meet Crowley (or whatever his angelic name was suppose to be), he was meant to meet him again in garden of Eden, he was meant to befriend Crowley, to spend six thousand years with him and fall in love with him just as it was meant for Crowley to protect, to talk to him and love him in return. While yes, they would be considered star-crossed lovers but I don’t think it doomed, she the biggest shipper since they never try stopping it, she never tried to break them apart, and above all never disapproves of them. It just that archangels/metatron are so corrupted with their self righteousness that they misconstrue anything in the name of the lord which you can say is a great way to depict toxicity with religious as we see that Aziraphale truly suffered in the hand of the side that is suppose to true all equally but excludes him for being different, so having Crowley be the only person that never judge Aziraphale but instead indulge and supports it with him mean that these two were created with the image of them fitting with each other like a puzzle pieces. She have plans for them for sure, this isn’t over for them; it might ended on a painful note as metatron got what he wanted, Aziraphale’s masking again and Crowley lost the one thing that light up the dark by the end of the tunnel. But I’m sure, she will give them an happily ever after and that there not star-crossed, they’re not doomed, they never had and never will.

I guess thank for coming to my tedtalk? Sorry for my rambling, I just realize not a lot talk about the almighty. I get why as she a footprint to the story and that the true starts are the ineffable lovers. This show have me in a choke hold, and this is just my excuse to talk about this. You are more than welcome to disagree or agree with me, all opinions are valid 💜. Hope you guys are having a fun day, and hope you’re feeling good after good omens. Because I’m still going through it lmao.

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wanna-b-poet31 · 5 years

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The “Simple” Truth: Aziraphale’s Motivations for Lying to Himself (A Meta)

Aziraphale Lies. A lot. But, for the majority of the mini-series, he lies to protect himself (whether it be from God’s wrath, or Gabriel’s wrath, or Uriel’s wrath...or...pretty much anyone from Heaven because they’re all abusive jerks).

I want to be very clear before jumping into my meta that this is not at all a judgment call on Aziraphale’s character. When in an abusive situation, you should 100% do your best to keep yourself safe. And Lies, for Aziraphale, is that protection and specifically against Heaven, it’s his only effective tool to cope and resist the abuses he’s dealt.

However, that means some of his lies, after 6000 years of repeating them, are internalized.

He’s having difficulties coming to terms with his own abuse, and so he does, on several levels repress his instinct for action. He lies to himself about his motivations for stopping the end of the world. The gif above shows a very drunk Aziraphale telling Crowley he can’t disobey. Although, he doesn’t quite get his words out.

He clearly wants to help Crowley. In the book, he says as much:

He loves Earth after all, and more than that he loves his life on Earth. He loves having space away from his abusive “home” life where yes, he’s not exactly free, but he’s certainly not the captive he would be in Heaven.

Despite his instincts, like his gut response to tell Crowley instead of Heaven, he has internalized many of the behaviors Heaven has taught him. At the end of the above passage, for example, HE. Chooses. To. Tell. Heaven. Anyway. because he’s been conditioned to trust Heaven. And that:

Angel’s and Demons are sworn enemies, and under no circumstances should they interact

That Heaven is unquestionably “good” and Hell unquestionably “bad”

Being critical of Heaven is the same as betraying Heaven

The Great Plan is unquestionable

His loves/interests are unimportant

And many more.

While we, the audience, can tell that these behaviors are destructive to Aziraphale’s sense of self-worth (and really function just as propaganda designed to help maintain the presumed “goodness” of Heaven).

But Aziraphale?

He’s unable to stop the corrosive effects of these falsehoods. And, on top of it all, he has no incentive to let go of his “coping mechanism” that thus far has resulted in his and Crowley’s safety -- lying to himself.

But what Aziraphale needs is validation for his actual interests, his instincts, his passions. Look at the way he absolutely devastated when Crowley asks him about his sword.

He so badly needs to be loved unconditionally, to feel he’s doing good, and fulfilling his role of the Ineffable Plan. He tells himself these lives, hoping for deliverance from his “side”. Heaven, unfortunately, never delivers once. And it leaves Aziraphale floating, waiting for rescue, safety, and protection from Heaven.

And he finds that In Crowley.

Contrast the above distress with the look of relief below. Sure, it’s not the trademark giddy look that Aziraphale employs when looking at crepes, but it is one of calmness that Heaven has not afforded him yet.

They both know their logic here is faulty. Angels are just as capable of doing “bad” as much as demons are capable of doing good. But, they let themselves believe the lie. It comforts them and alleviates the self-destructive behaviors, if only for a second.

When later confronted with his actions, the relief, the validation, >the love< from Crowley is all gone. Instead of a calm, reassuring tone, like the one Crowley gives him earlier, this is truly the annoyed voice of God. She knows what he did with his sword, he knows what he did he did without asking, but lying to God is the only way he can get out of this situation without direct physical harm (most likely through falling).

Lying to himself, about the goodness or badness of his actions (when truely they were humane actions) represses the guilt he feels for lying to God and allows him the distance to successfully keep lying when others question his motives.

I think it is fair to say then, that his repression is a byproduct of the lies he’s feeding himself in order to survive Heaven. However, with real consequences to his relationship with Crowley.

Lying To Crowley

Crowley refuses to lie to Aziraphale. He won’t treat Aziraphale like he does every other Angel or Demon because he refuses to repress his feelings. Sure, he hides them from Heaven and Hell, but that’s usually from prying eyes, never Aziraphale. And never from himself.

Aziraphale, in contrast, lies his ass off to Crowley. This is not to say Aziraphale is incapable of telling Crowley the truth, but as the apocalypse grows near, and shit hits the fan, Aziraphale’s ability to address his abusers and the looming threat of annihilation grows more certain, he falters.

His lies, lashing out at anyone and everything that could jeopardize his safety, and Humanity’s safety. His internalized concerns have bubbled to the surface, and he feels like he has no choice but to protect himself from the oncoming dangers.

Look at the below gif and have your hearts broken with me. As a direct result of the lies he tells himself, he’s unable to come to terms with the fact Heaven is not just questionable, it’s wrong. He’s on the wrong side, and instead, he needs to be with Crowley.

This gif is a great example of how him lying to himself negatively harms himself, and reveals his true motivation for lying. Safety.

He’s trying to remind himself of the kind of safety he’d be risking in telling Crowley the truth that he wants to work together. It’s a plea, an act of desperation because his greatest fears are culminating all at once and making a decision could cost him his “home”, his identity as an angel, and Crowley if they’re unsuccessful.

We witness at the beginning of Episode 3 how deep the ineffable husband’s bond really is, but also how (even though noone else believes it) they can not acknowledge their friendship/relationship/companionship. To contrast against the above moment, we see that this is not the rejection he’s hoping it would be. There’s no resolve, no strength, no reasoning. It’s merely the highlighted talking points he’s meant to agree with.

But, it’s clearly a lie.

It puts off decision making. It reaffirms a status quo that, while very abusive, feigns stability.

In this gif, he’s pleading with Crowley.

He’s scared shitless because his two lives are crashing before him. He’s done a good job lying to himself that he can hide his love of >Crowley< Earth, while still finding a way to follow Heaven’s orders.

But, now he’s got to make a choice. And it’s clear the choice he wants to take. He WANTS to go with Crowley. Go back and listen to how he says “run away together?” on the street. It’s pure unadulterated want. He wants to go off with Crowley somewhere only they know and never return. But he physically can’t until he is truthful for himself.

So he lies. Again. And it looks like he’s being stabbed by an invisible knife.

Now Look at the “not friends” Gif again. He’s telling the ultimate lie here. This is not a distressed Aziraphale trying to get rid of an annoying business partner. This is the face of a mourning man, forcing himself to lie to protect humanity and Crowley.

At this moment, Aziraphale is denying their relationship and not treating their bond as something shared by equals. He can’t be sure that Crowley will be there to catch him if he loses everything, and he simply can’t lose humanity.

Lying, that they’re not friends is not true at this moment, nor any other moment in the series. He loves Crowley so badly, that he’s hurting both of them with his lies. But, Crowley has had enough of the lies and slander against their partnership, and he offers to “run away together”. It is literally the one thing both of them want more than anything else in the world. But, it directly goes against the internalized messaging and safety of Heaven, and Aziraphale’s stressed. So What does he do?

He lies.

Again.

And Again.

He lies because he needs to begin coping with his trauma, and not lie to himself that everything is alright.

Once he comes reaches his breaking point – a world where no matter what he would be unable to be WITH Crowley – he confronts his issues.

Only AFTER CHOOSING Crowley does Aziraphale begin to come to terms with his internalized lies, and finally stop lying to himself about how he feels about Crowley.

Finally, he can heal.

Thanks for coming to my Tedtalk

#good omens #Ineffable Husbands #ineffable plan #Aziraphale #crowley #anthony janthony crowley #anthony j crowley #a.z. fell #These two are in love #and are going to kill me #light mentions of abuse #healing #helping #go #gomens #a/c #good omens meta

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theyarerealtome · 4 years

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Aziraphale and his commitment to stopping the war

I want to talk about how dedicated Aziraphale is to saving the world. Because despite his initial reluctance, the moment Aziraphale agrees to prevent Armageddon – that is his top priority.

One of Aziraphale’s defining characteristics is his commitment. While Crowley is notable for changing (his clothes, hair, gender, name, species) and for questioning (Heaven, Hell, the Almighty, Satan); Aziraphale is notable for sticking with things (with angels, books, clothes, hair, ultimately Earth & a certain demon). That loyalty is why it takes him so long to turn against Heaven.

Yes, Aziraphale’s arc is learning to question* and break that blind loyalty…but his commitment and faith aren’t portrayed as inherently bad things, they’re also vital to stopping Armageddon.

(*Well it’s more admitting his questions tbh, because that rebellious angel been quietly doubting since Eden).

Once Aziraphale’s aboard the Antichrist plan, he’s not just following Crowley’s lead – he’s pushing forward of his own volition. When they discover they have the wrong boy, Aziraphale doesn’t shrug and go “we tried, back to Heaven with me” the way you’d expect an initially reluctant conscript to – he keeps trying.

He’s the one who suggests going to Warlock’s birthday party, he comes up with hospital idea, he proposes using other humans to find Adam and offers his agents. At the end of it all, he produces the winning ‘Great plan’ argument and rallies against Satan when Crowley wavers.

Caveat: “It’s the Great Plan Crowley” – his lies to Crowley and himself.

Of course, where Aziraphale seems to falter (breaking all our hearts in the process) is that goddamn bandstand scene – “There is no our side.”

But like, even when Aziraphale appears to be giving up and supporting the war….he really isn’t. While he’s loudly preaching about the great plan out front; in the back he’s tracking down Adam and appealing to Heaven to stop things. Aziraphale’s commitment doesn’t change, but he employs different tactics when he realises the original Antichrist plan has failed, and he’s scared and he pushes Crowley away.

Of course, lying to Crowley and trusting Heaven was wilfully misguided. And he realises that.

But that brings me to the biggest point –

When finally faced with Heaven or humanity Aziraphale doesn’t hesitate

Aziraphale spends so much of the series convincing himself he can save humanity with Heaven, can stay loyal to his superiors and to earth, and his two belief systems will line up neatly.

And it takes him so, so long – literally from the voice of God itself – to realise that’s wrong.

This post talks about moment with Metatron when Aziraphale realises Heaven (and he thinks God) does want the war . And fuck, it’s heartbreaking.

What’s noticeable from then on though? There’s never any deliberation on Aziraphale’s part about supporting Heaven. There’s no “oh maybe the Almighty is right,” “maybe I should join the other angels,” “well, if everyone else agrees, maybe I’m in the wrong.” He throws aside his previous dithering and doubts.

If Heaven doesn’t agree with him on saving Earth, then that is it.

When he realises he can’t have both; it’s the world or Heaven – he goes with humanity. Without flinching. Without hesitation. Because that’s been his priority since he and Crowley shook on it eleven years ago.

Mere minutes after facing the truth, Aziraphale rejects Heaven in the most badass way possible, complete with yelling at other angels and possessing people.

There’s a great meta from @ilarual about just how ballsy Aziraphale’s rebellion against Heaven was, and about how he finally let loose all the doubts he’d been supressing for 6000 years. To quote:

Basically, Aziraphale backflips out of Heaven with both middle fingers in the air, and frankly I think it’s amazing.

In comparison to Crowley

Now obviously Crowley is also committed to saving humanity. Obviously. He came up with the original Antichrist plan, pleads with God over everything, argues with Aziraphale and drove through literal fire.

(And Crowley doesn’t hesitate either – his instant reaction to the Antichrist is pure horror and it takes him less than a car ride to be on the phone to Aziraphale and concocting his thwarting scheme).

However, from when they discover they have the wrong child, Crowley is making back-up plans. He’s ready to run away to Alpha Centuari and leave humanity to it.

Partly that’s because, unlike Aziraphale, he doesn’t have the information about Adam – but Crowley was flagging before that.

On route to Tadfield, its Aziraphale offering suggestions to find the Antichrist and Crowley blocking him. (“And then what? And then what?”). After the convent visit failed, Crowley’s basically sulking over Aziraphale’s ideas – which Aziraphale does not stand for a minute tbh. (“Do you have a better idea? A single better idea?”) And even later on its Aziraphale, not Crowley, who commits to killing Adam.

To be clear, I am in no way judging Crowley for doubting they’d succeed and planning to run. He’s not obliged to help Earth, the fact he even tried was incredibly selfless. There’s a brilliant piece from @theniceandaccurategoodomensblog on how much Crowley was risking to stop Armageddon and how his escape plan was justified.

Him preventing the war was always against Hell’s plans and put him in the line of fire, whereas Heaven at least pretended to support Aziraphale efforts.

Plus, Crowley was right in knowing that the two of them were on their own and not to trust Heaven, which Aziraphale didn’t get. Crowley benefits from Aziraphale’s will & determination, while Aziraphale benefits from Crowley clear-eyed view of the world.

In the end

Ofc Aziraphale and his steadfastness and the importance of all that, culminates when Satan storms onto the scene.

Because when Crowley does falter (“we are fucked”), it’s Aziraphale’s determination that keeps them going (“We can’t give up now.”) Because, just to say it again – when Aziraphale commits to something he commits.

It’s this incredible full circle moment from Crowley persuading Aziraphale to stop the Antichrist, to Aziraphale pushing Crowley to stand against Satan. And fuck, that’s beautiful.

And now, post-series, now Aziraphale has abandoned Heaven, he’s 100% going to put his trademark commitment and dedication and devotion into his new side. His side with Crowley.

Tldr: While Crowley was the one who initially persuaded Aziraphale, from then on saving humanity was Aziraphale’s top priority: Even while he denied it, even over Heaven, even to the point of encouraging Crowley. Because Aziraphale loves and commits with everything in him – and that saved the world.

#aziraphale meta #good omens meta #crowley meta #that was a long rant #basically a let's appreciate Aziraphale rant

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 4 years

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Ectotherm (all parts)

Hey, all! I really wanted to contribute to the Great Good Omens Snake-Off. Short crack fic about Crowley being driven out of Ireland by St. Patrick.

(Spoiler: the punchline was “Of course I’m going to take it personally -- I was the only snake on that bloody island!”)

But I am burned all the way out today. Instead, please enjoy my Snek!Crowley Angst-with-a-Happy-Ending, “Ectotherm” - all the parts gathered together in one place, for the first time ever!

(If you enjoy, please consider reblogging!)

Crowley couldn’t get warm.

In twenty-four hours he had been subjected to the inferno of a burning bookshop; the hell-born flames of the dread sigil Odegra enveloping his Bentley; the terrifying freezing-hot-burning-cold presence of Satan himself; and a column of Hellfire intended not for him but for Aziraphale, because the Archangels were determined to destroy the best thing that had ever walked the floor of Heaven.

Well, forget them.

And so, they sat at the Ritz raising their glasses to the world, ready to share a meal and start their life together.

Only Crowley suddenly realized he couldn’t eat. He’d thought he was hungry, but the food just sat in his stomach, heavy and cold. Even the wine seemed to sour, once it was past his tongue.

Just nerves, he thought, and did it really matter? He’d always preferred to watch Aziraphale eat, see the joy bubble across his features. It was enough to know that they could do this every day for eternity if they wished, and right now he certainly wished it.

He felt a little better when the coffee arrived, almost-painful heat radiating out from his stomach.

“My dear fellow, that’s your fourth cup!” Aziraphale protested, as he downed another.

“It’s good! And I didn’t complain when you ordered a second piece of cake.”

“Well, I…I was rather thinking you might like some, too.”

With a rush of giddy emotions, Crowley realized he liked the sound of that very much. He picked up his fork and sliced off a bite of red cake with thick white icing. “What is it?”

“I thought I’d try something different, something a little modern. This is red velvet cake.”

Only Aziraphale would think a flavor that had been popular for over sixty years was a little modern. Crowley smiled as he tasted it – rich and sweet and strangely light on his tongue. “You know, it’s not bad,” he said, reaching for another bite.

And a little heat rose to his face as he realized that Aziraphale was sitting there with hands folded, smile on his face – watching Crowley eat.

Crowley couldn’t get warm.

They went for a walk after the Ritz, but he found he was very tired. He tried to shrug it off.

“I’ve had a busy week, and I missed my sleeping day,” he explained. “I don’t – I don’t need to sleep, you know, but I still get exhausted. I’ll be fine.”

“You should sleep, then,” Aziraphale said, tone slightly scolding. The angel seemed determined to make sure Crowley took care of himself, as if he hadn’t learned to do that long before the Garden. It turned out, being fussed over wasn’t so bad. “I can walk you back to your place. Or. Er. You can come to the bookshop. I don’t have much to offer, but there’s the sofa, and perhaps we can have a drink…”

“Bookshop sounds lovely.” He always had to fight back a smile when he remembered the many nights they’d sat in the back corner together, sharing wine, sharing stories, complaining about work, just being themselves. Actually, he didn’t have to fight back that smile at all anymore – he could wear it for anyone to see. For Aziraphale to see.

None of that today, though. Crowley was rather embarrassed to find that the moment he stretched out on the sofa, he started falling asleep, and there was nothing he could do to fight it off.

He was dead to the world before Aziraphale had even settled into his armchair, and didn’t wake up until the shop was filled with bright Monday sunlight. A fleecy tartan blanket covered him from shoulder to toe, but he still shivered, and his stomach felt strangely heavy. Too much cake, probably.

Crowley sat up stiffly, running a hand through his hair and blinking around the shop. His eyes landed on a customer, who jumped in surprise, then quickly walked out.

“Ah, you’re awake!” Aziraphale hurried over. “How are you feeling? Better, I trust?”

“A bit.” Crowley rubbed at his face. “Didn’t I have glasses?”

“You took them off before falling asleep.” Aziraphale pulled them out of his pocket. “I was worried you might roll over them in the night. You slept very heavily. Is that normal?”

He shrugged, pushing the dark lenses back onto his face. “Probably. Didn’t wake up, didn’t dream much, seems like a good sleep. Does it have to be so blasted cold, though?”

Aziraphale glanced at the old-fashioned thermostat. “I do keep it a little cool to discourage customers. You scared away three different people just by sleeping there, you know. Perhaps I should get you a permanent bed right in the middle of the floor.”

“Only if you promise to turn the heat up.” Crowley wandered closer to the window, feeling the warmth of the sun on his shoulders. That was better. “I’m…” It wasn’t a word he used often. “I’m sorry, by the way.”

“About the customers? Don’t be, they were trying to touch my first edition Verne novels and I was running out of ways to be inconspicuously rude.”

“No about…falling asleep. I know you had…” Plans? Expectations? They’d never really talked about what Our Side would mean. “…you had hopes, for our first day, you know, free.”

“And every one of them is being fulfilled right now,” Aziraphale said, with such sincerity that Crowley started to smile. “Ah, I lied. Now all of them are being fulfilled.” He took Crowley’s hands in his. “Just standing here, talking to you, not worrying about who might see us, it’s more than I ever thought would be possible. I am perfectly content as we are.” He frowned suddenly. “Except that your hands are freezing.”

Crowley laughed as Aziraphale wrapped his hands around the demon’s, rubbing them, trying to warm them up. It certainly did make him feel better, and not just because his fingers had been a little numb from the way he’d slept.

“I was actually worried…” Aziraphale started again, still staring at their hands. “Oh, I assume you have your own, er, hopes. Since you’ve been thinking about this so much longer than I. We should probably discuss that, but, well, just to warn you, I haven’t thought much about…that is, I’m not sure that I want…ohhh…”

Crowley lifted one hand to tilt Aziraphale’s face up, to look into his eyes. The heat of it was almost unbearable. “I haven’t really thought about it either,” he confessed. “Never thought we’d make it this far. Everything from this point on is just a pleasant surprise.” With his other hand, he squeezed the angel’s fingers gently. “I don’t think I’d say no to more of this, though.”

Aziraphale blushed, the heat of it rushing to fill every space inside Crowley, and his eyes dropped briefly. “Your hand is still freezing,” he finally said, pulling away with a smile. He bustled across the shop to pick up his coat. “I know, let’s go for a walk. It’s a nice, warm day. We can feed the ducks in St. James’s Park…No. Let’s do something different. Something daring.” There was a wild gleam in his eyes as he turned back. “Let’s feed the ducks in Regent’s Park.”

It was indeed a gloriously warm day, and they spent over five hours exploring every path in London’s third-largest park while a small sign sat in the bookshop window reading Out to Lunch – Back in a Jiffy.

Every once in a while, Aziraphale’s hot hand found its way into Crowley’s cold one. Again and again, until it felt completely natural.

Crowley couldn’t get warm.

It had been three weeks since the world had ended and begun again, everything ticking along nicely as Aziraphale liked to stay. Crowley caught himself thinking more like Aziraphale these days, which was both worrying and wonderful.

Except that any time Crowley was indoors, he felt lethargic, cold, a little cranky. Aziraphale had miracled up a thick scarf in grey tartan. It was hideous and embarrassing and he wore it all the time even though it didn’t really help. He knew what the tartan gifts meant.

He took more hot baths than he ever had in his life, including the years he’d spent living in Bath. He soaked until he felt lightheaded, feverish even, and bundled himself up to try and trap in the heat.

Yet still, an hour later, he huddled in his seat, shivering, unable to concentrate on a game of chess, or even draughts.

"Are you sure that's what you want to do?" Aziraphale asked as Crowley moved his black piece forward.

"Stop asking me that. I know how to play this, I've been beating you for centuries." He glared at the angel sitting comfortably in his armchair.

Two weeks ago, Aziraphale had summoned his favorite seat into Crowley's study, across the desk from that ridiculous throne. Despite his complaints, at the time he'd welcomed the idea of the angel being as comfortable in his space as Crowley was in the bookshop. Of sharing all those idle moments as he had dreamed for so long. Of finally opening his life enough to make room for the only other being that mattered.

Now, he couldn't help thinking how awful the chair looked, how it clashed with his decor, with his whole flat, how much he hated the way Aziraphale smirked as he picked up one red piece and, there he goes again, captured every single one of Crowley's in a rapid series of jumps.

Really should have seen that coming.

"Well, my dear," Aziraphale folded his hands. "Shall we try for best seven out thirteen, or should we switch to something more your speed? Naughts and Crosses, perhaps?"

With a sweep of his arm, Crowley knocked the board and pieces off the desk, scattering them across the floor.

"Crowley!"

The demon didn't respond. He didn't have the energy to respond - every muscle in his body screamed to just stretch out and rest.

He walked into the next room, where the heat lamps over the plants kept the air at nearly 40 degrees. All but the most tropical had already withered, and even the few remaining trembled at his approach, knowing they weren't up to his exacting standards. But he wasn't here to berate them, just to try and soak in some of the heat.

"Crowley? My dear, are you quite alright?"

He leaned against the counter, trying to will his shoulders to relax, his stomach to unknot, his brain to start functioning again. He didn't even notice Aziraphale's approach, until the too-hot hand landed on his shoulder.

"DON'T!" Without thinking, Crowley spun, shoving the angel away with all his strength. "Don't touch me, don't come near me, don't even speak to me, you arrogant sod!"

Then he tore off the tartan scarf and threw it into the corner.

Over 6,000 years, Crowley and Aziraphale had had many fights.

The everyday ones, the endless bickering and teasing, they both knew never to take to heart.

The truly fierce ones, a request for Holy Water, and a plan to run away - these had nearly shattered them, yet they'd still understood, on some level, that each wanted what was best.

The argument that night was like nothing they'd ever experienced. All the bitter pettiness of their daily arguments, but with every ounce of ferocity Crowley could muster.

Later, as he lay on the ceiling, shivering in the heat, Crowley replayed every word, crystal clear in his mind, hoping that at least the burn of his shame could warm him up.

It wasn't anger. It was lashing out.

Crowley was afraid. Something was wrong, and he didn't know what.

Crowley couldn't get warm.

He tried wearing more layers.

He tried wearing fewer layers.

Eating hot food.

Lying under a tree.

Lying in direct sunlight.

Finally, there was only one conclusion he could reach.

“I’m cold-blooded.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Aziraphale sniffed. His ego was still somewhat bruised from their argument, but he was clearly making an effort.

They sat facing each other across the café table, opposite sides. Aziraphale had ordered a slice of warm pie with ice cream melting down the sides. A second fork sat, waiting for Crowley, and the angel kept giving it significant looks, but the demon wouldn’t unwrap his hands from the enormous cup of coffee he’d ordered, the largest they served.

Aziraphale sighed and folded his hands. “Crowley, dear. I know the…transition to our new life hasn’t been as smooth as we hoped, and we’ve both said things we regret, but I’ve never felt that you were –”

“No, Aziraphale.” He took a sip of coffee. It was something American-style, hot and bitter and lacking any particular flavor. He didn’t care. He just needed absurd quantities of near-boiling liquid. “I mean it literally. Somehow, after the Apocalypse, I became cold-blooded. I can’t get warm no matter what I do.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed, as if waiting for the punchline of an unfunny joke. “That’s simply impossible. How many times have you told me off for making those assumptions, just because you used to be a snake? You have a mammal body, and it does…mammal things,” he waved his hands to indicate that he still wasn’t completely caught up on modern science classifications, “including being warm…”

He trailed off as Crowley reached across the table, taking his hand. Even after being wrapped around the hot ceramic mug, it still wouldn’t feel right. “What are you always saying these days?”

“That your hands are freezing.” Aziraphale shook his head. “It can’t be true. That’s not proof…”

Crowley gestured to the plate. “I can’t eat because my stomach is too cold to work. When I do eat, I have to lay down because any extra movement takes away energy I need for digestion.” He tugged at the tartan scarf, back around his neck where it belonged. “Extra layers don’t help, because they just insulate me from the warm air. Blankets don’t help because I’m not creating enough heat on my own. Even turning up the thermostat doesn’t help because this blessed body is made to shed heat, not retain it.” He stared into his mug of coffee. “I can’t move when I’m cold. I can’t move when I’m hot. Sunlight helps for a little while, but the days are getting shorter.” He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand, knowing what he was about to say would make the angel pull away, wishing it wasn't true. “I…I don’t think I like being touched anymore.”

He didn’t fight it when the hand vanished, taking its warmth with it. Crowley just slumped, closing his eyes in defeat.

The squeal of chair legs against hard floor made him glance up. Aziraphale had moved to sit beside him, pulling his chair as close as he could.

Carefully, Crowley leaned his head to the side, resting it on Aziraphale’s shoulder, letting their bodies press together. It was easier this way, a sort of passive contact, unrestrained, letting the heat flow between them.

“Are you…” He could hear the way the breath caught in Aziraphale’s throat. “You seem so certain. Is there any chance you’re wrong? Any other explanation?”

Crowley gently shook his head, letting it wobble back and forth on the angel’s shoulder. “This is how it felt when I was a snake. You don’t forget something like that.”

“At least now you know. Surely what you learned from being a snake can help you navigate…”

“I looked it up,” Crowley muttered. “A snake can handle a range of fifteen, twenty degrees easily. Human body…a little more than one degree. At 35 I’m freezing to death, at 38 I’m burning up from the inside. I don’t even know how I’ve lasted this long.” He pressed himself even closer into Aziraphale’s side. Half of him was still cold, even as his shoulder and his thigh screamed in the heat. It wouldn’t balance properly. “It’s going to kill me.”

He felt the tension all through Aziraphale’s body. “Crowley, no!”

“Fine, it’s going to get me discorporated, and I’ll wake up in Hell, and they’ll kill me.”

“There must be something we can do.”

“Maybe. It’s getting harder to concentrate every day.”

“Then I’ll look for a solution.” He offered his hand and Crowley grabbed it, grateful for the almost-too-hot touch. “I might as well, since I’m responsible.”

“What are you talking about, Angel?”

“Your body was fine, then I used it and…it must be something I did.”

“Don’t say that.” He pulled away enough to meet Aziraphale’s eyes. “This isn’t your fault. I agreed to switch bodies, I knew there was some risk. And I don’t think you could have caused this. Somehow this is Heaven or Hell, still interfering with our lives.”

Aziraphale bit his lip, nodding. Crowley wasn’t sure if he really believed it or not. “Still. If this was done to you, there must be some way to undo it. And if there’s a way, I will find it.” He swallowed, turning to look at their linked hands. “But, in the meantime…It’s probably best if you turn back into a snake.”

“No!” Crowley all but shouted, anger mixing with fear. “No, Aziraphale I won’t. That’s not who I am anymore.”

“Isn’t it better than dying?”

He clenched his jaw, biting back his reply. He honestly wasn’t sure it was. An eternity as a serpent, no driving, no music, no wines, no gardening, no feeding ducks, no holding hands…

Crowley twined his fingers through Aziraphale’s, lifting up the hand clasp between them. “I fought…We fought…so long for this. I can’t just…I won’t give this up. I won’t, Angel.”

“You’re not giving anything up,” Aziraphale insisted. He brushed his lips across Crowley’s fingers and, oh, add something else to the list of things he wasn’t willing to lose. “I will still be here. My feelings for you won’t change at all.”

“They’ll probably change a little,” Crowley pointed out.

“I want to spend every day with you, talk with you, see you happy. And it doesn’t matter if you’re scaled or human or turn into a fish, that’s not going to change.”

“I won’t be happy.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But please. Give me the time I need to save you.”

He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale, letting the angel do the same back, even though part of his mind screamed and squirmed to escape the heat of contact. He told himself this wouldn’t be the last time.

Crowley was warm.

He stretched out in his favorite basking spot by the window, feeling the winter sunlight play across his scales, heating him up. Oh, there were heat lamps tucked in the corners for when he needed them, but nothing beat the feel of real sunlight.

Every now and again, the door would open, a customer hoping to browse for a Christmas gift. The rumble of footsteps through his belly woke him, and he reared up his head, tongue flicking out to catch the scent of the blurry shape by the entryway.

Almost every time, the visitor took one look at the enormous red-bellied black snake and vanished soon after.

The hours ticked by, slow and sweet, like drops of honey. Crowley was aware that he should be filling them with fast-paced reckless activities of some form, but he couldn’t quite recall what…just a general sense of dissatisfaction.

Still, whatever he had lost, the best was still here.

When he’d drunk his fill of warmth, he twisted his way through the shop, sliding around stacks of books and potted plants (hissing at the ones that didn’t seem to be growing well enough). There, at the desk, sat the angel.

Aziraphale was rarely anywhere else these days. Bent over old grimoires, reading glasses balanced on his nose, pile of notes beside him. He hadn’t glanced up for any of the customers. Three cups full of cold tea sat beside him. He hadn’t even risen to get a new one in a while.

A pair of folded-up sunglasses sat in one corner of the desk. He never picked them up, but sometimes touched them as he worked.

Crowley twisted around his leg, climbing, finding his way along the chair and across the shoulders until he was draped across Aziraphale, watching him work.

“Hello, my dear. How was your day?”

Crowley hissed dismissively. One day was the same as another for a snake. “Progressss?”

“I’m close. I really think I’m close.” His voice was just a rumble, rising from his chest through Crowley’s belly, distorted, missing half the notes. He couldn’t pick up on the nuance, couldn’t tell if it was a lie or not. Just like he couldn’t see all of Aziraphale’s face at once, just the jaw, the little smile, the rest curving away in the distance.

“Ssssupper,” Crowley reminded him. The angel needed lots of reminders.

“Oh, no, I don’t think so. I really want to keep at this a bit longer.”

“Resssst.”

He held up his hands before him, letting Crowley slither from one to the next without trying to grasp. There was something about hands, something important. It was just on the edge of his memory, but snakes don’t have hands. It slipped away.

“No, I can’t rest yet. Not until…no.”

“Pleassssssse.”

“I can take a small break, but no dinner. I’m not hungry, anyway.”

When Crowley was coiled back around his shoulders, Aziraphale stood up, walking across to the little secluded corner of the shop. This was another important area, though Crowley couldn’t exactly remember why. He thought it involved a lot of sitting, drinking…water? Not water. He forgot what he used to drink.

The angel fiddled with his collection of round discs. “How about some Vivaldi, since it’s almost Christmas? You always liked his Seasons.” Crowley nodded.

He couldn’t really hear the music. Noises on the air meant nothing to a snake.

But once Aziraphale was stretched out on the sofa, Crowley made himself comfortable on his chest, and felt the deep thrum of the music as the angel sang along.

Warmth rose from Aziraphale, too, just like from the sun. It was a different kind of heat. Purer. Better.

Whatever else he had lost, Crowley still had that. And he was content.

Aziraphale collapsed across the sofa, head and shoulders wedged into the corner, too exhausted to even keep himself upright. The long black serpent lay on his stomach, watching him intently.

“Oh, Crowley,” he tried to keep his voice steady, despite the tears he could no longer hold in. “You were wrong. It was my fault. I’ve – I’ve worked it out now. Obvious, really. Serpent. Human. Two corporations, woven together.” His voice started to crack. “When we changed places I…I sort of dropped a corner. Let one bleed into the other. I – I’m so sorry.”

Crowley took a moment, processing this. “Accccident.”

“Yes, but I…” He held out a hand. Crowley didn’t like to be scratched, or petted, or held. But he did glide across the hand, bringing his snout closer to the angel’s tear-streaked face. “I could have killed you, Crowley. I could have destroyed you over something so…so foolishly simple. You must hate me.”

“No. Nevvver.”

He wiped furiously at his eyes with his free hand. They itched with fatigue as they never had before. “I’m almost there, Crowley. Just a little more. I can see where I dropped it. I can see how to separate them again. I just…just need to figure out how to secure the ends, so it doesn’t happen again.” The sobs broke through again. “I’m nearly there, my love. I’m nearly there.”

“Resssst.”

“I can’t. Not when I’m so close. Crowley I…I need you back. I want to see you human again. And I know you hate this, I won’t leave you in this form a moment longer than necessary, I just…”

“Ssssleeep.” Crowley retreated, coiling up on Aziraphale’s chest. “Ssssleeep. Lovvvve. Sssssleeeep.”

Aziraphale drifted off under that watchful golden gaze, allowing his mind the rest it needed to put the last few pieces together.

Crowley couldn’t get warm.

The angel had spent the morning carving lines and curves deep into the wooden floor, until Crowley could feel every scratch and dip through the sensitive skin of his belly. Now the angel was trying to keep him at the center of the pattern, while he ran around the edge doing – something.

There was a heat lamp, but it was too far away. Why wasn’t he under it?

Crowley started sliding across the floor, coiling and uncoiling in the direction of that delicious, life-giving heat –

The angel suddenly loomed before him, hands flapping. “No, no! I told…the center…few more minutes.”

A few minutes? Crowley was cold now. He wound to the side, planning to dart around, but the angel’s feet suddenly shifted, coming down sharply in his path.

Startled, Crowley reared up, nearly as tall as the angel, to hisssss from his maximum height, head flattened, vision suddenly clear enough to see the angel’s face: eyes wide, jaw tight. Frightened. Crowley gave another hisssss, hoping that would be enough to scare the interloper away, clear a path to the heat.

But the angel merely raised his hands, moving more slowly this time. “…sorry, my…adjust the lamp…break the circle now…start all over…” The words were murky, distorted, most of them too low or soft to be perceived. “…explained…ten minutes ago…remember?”

Ten minutes? That was a long time.

No, no it wasn’t. The cold was just making his mind fuzzy again. He gave another longing look at the heat lamp, then at another, further away, tucked safely in a corner where he could bask and hide. He felt exposed, anxious, very much in danger. What if this was some kind of trap?

Then he looked again at the angel’s face. Not frightened. Worried. Sad. Tired.

Crowley trusted Aziraphale. He couldn’t remember precisely why, but it was undeniable – a deep, profound trust. If Aziraphale said he had to stay here, stay he would.

“Fasssssster,” Crowley grumbled, and twisted back to where he’d been before. A moment later, the light from the heat lamp grew a little warmer. Still not quite enough, but better.

Two more slow circuits around the marks on the floor, adjusting things and muttering, and finally the angel sat down, facing Crowley. He held out his arms, but Crowley was in no mood to be handled, pulling back into his coils.

“I need…preferably your face.” Crowley flicked his tongue, but otherwise didn’t move. “Please…”

Reluctantly, the black and red snake moved closer, lifted his head until the angel could cup his jaw with burning-hot hands. He didn’t like it and nearly pulled away, fighting the urge to retreat.

Necessary, this is necessary. He tried to relax into the contact, tried to pretend it didn’t feel wrong.

The angel’s blue eyes fluttered shut; Crowley could just make out the tense wrinkles forming in his brow, but the stiffness in the fingers around the snake’s jaw was unmistakable. It wasn’t enough to be painful, but it was close. Crowley’s back half twisted and writhed as if ready to pull away, even while he focused his entire being on keeping his head still. Necessary. Trust him. It’s necessary.

Finally, the angel’s hands fell away, and he dropped back, breathing heavily. His eyes opened and he smiled. “…finished.”

Good.

Crowley turned and slithered under the heat lamp, stretching out for maximum comfort.

Just as he was settling in for a good late-morning nap, the angel appeared beside him again. “…you hear…finished…”

Now what? Perhaps he should go find one of the more secluded lamps, to avoid interruptions.

“…fixed you…”

Shrugging off the nap for the moment, Crowley raised his head just enough to tip it to the side. Fixed…?

The angel knelt at the edge of the heat lamp’s warmth, and spoke again, much louder. “…fixed…change back…”

Crowley tilted his head the other way. Change back…?

“Human! Crowley, human.”

It all came back in a rush. Arms. Legs. Hands. Drinking strange red water, watching birds swim, moving very fast in a large black box which made the angel very angry – human.

He reared up again.

Nothing changed.

“Hhhhhow?”

The angel shook his head, mouth working, but Crowley couldn’t hear a sound. He pushed closer, far closer than was comfortable, until the heat pits of his face were filled with the angel’s warmth, until he could see the tears gathering in blue eyes.

Crowley focused on those eyes, that shape, on every part of his life in human form that he could still make sense of.

Still no change.

Hissing with frustration, he abandoned the warmth of the heat lamp, shooting away to weave among the plants, drape himself across the sofa, even nudge his face at an open book.

No effect at all.

He couldn’t remember how to change back.

As he circled the shop again – feeling his energy sap away in the cold – he noticed the angel sitting once again at his desk. Crowley climbed up his leg, across his back, draped over his shoulders and around his chest. Felt the pure warmth, cleaner and sweeter than sunlight.

The angel wasn’t working now, of course; his chair was pointed away from the desk, as if to avoid even looking at the piles of paper. He clutched something in his hands, shoulders heaving, chest shaking with sobs. “I’m sorry…I tried…I tried so hard, but I couldn’t…I’m too late.” The voice was a little clearer now, rumbling through Crowley’s belly.

“Sssshhhhhh,” Crowley comforted as best he could, trying to nestle his head on the angel’s arms. It wasn’t a gesture he was comfortable with, but he could remember now that arms, hands, were important. Perhaps if he could get closer…

“If I hadn’t been so foolish…oh, my love…I failed you…”

But Crowley wasn’t listening. He was looking at what the angel held in his hands. He was looking at –

“Glassssssesss.”

“Wh – what?”

“Glassssess.” Crowley nudged at the angel’s hands until they parted, revealing a pair of black lenses held by silver frames. “Pleassse. Glassessss.”

It wasn’t easy to put a pair of sunglasses onto a snake’s head, even one so large as Crowley. They dangled rather uselessly down either side of his jaw, the lenses didn’t exactly cover his eyes, and where they did the world became a murky black soup he had no hope of seeing. But it felt…right.

He turned, trying to face the angel, but somehow lost his balance and tumbled to the floor.

“Crowley? Are you…Crowley?”

The voice was too crisp, too sharp, to rich. It was startling.

He shook his head and hissed, but it sounded strange. Thick. His tongue couldn’t get out because there were too many teeth.

Crowley blinked. Not because he had to, but because he suddenly realized he had eyelids.

A hand drifted over and adjusted the glasses, settling them correctly over the ears and across the nose – no that was his hand, his fingers.

His eyes slowly panned up and he was shocked at how clearly he could see the angel standing over him, looking more pale, more drawn, and just a bit thinner than he remembered, clothes a rumpled mess, eyes red.

“Aziraphale?”

“Crowley!”

Two arms suddenly around his shoulders, pulling him up onto legs he barely remembered how to use, wrapping around him, pulling him into the indescribable softness of Aziraphale’s embrace. It took him a moment to remember that he had arms of his own, that he could twist them, twine them, pull Aziraphale even closer.

He could still feel Aziraphale’s warmth pressing into his chest and stomach, but it no longer felt like a blazing fire, or the strange glow of life-giving heat. It was simply a body, pressed close to his. Two bodies trembling, shaking, shoulders heaving, breath ragged.

Aziraphale was still crying, still mumbling apologies into the demon’s shoulder.

Crowley was laughing.

They didn’t let each other go for a long, long time.

Crowley was warm.

No, Crowley was happy.

It wasn’t as easy to fit both bodies on the sofa in this form, but they managed – Aziraphale stretched out, Crowley, lying across his chest, legs in a tangle, head tucked against his throat, listening to the sigh of breath, the rumble of heartbeat.

They hadn’t talked about it. Aziraphale had finally admitted to being tired, and they just found themselves here as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“I suppose I’ve gotten used to this,” murmured Aziraphale, who never used to lie on his own sofa, trembling fingers tracing through Crowley’s hair.

“I’m used to it, too,” he mumbled back, but used to it didn’t begin to describe it. This was right, this was home, and he knew it was more than a leftover serpentine instinct to bask that had brought him here, that would keep bringing him here for as long as Aziraphale would allow it.

Aziraphale’s right hand was still twined with Crowley’s left, resting on the angel’s chest. Crowely couldn’t stop studying it, turning it, running his thumb across fingers and knuckles and nails. He could feel more than just heat now, he could feel the softness, the rough callus on the side of one finger where Aziraphale rested his pencil as he wrote, the faint hard edges of papercuts. It was an entire world to explore, that hand, full of more wonder than Crowley had ever suspected.

“Might be more comfortable in a bed,” Aziraphale whispered, clearly already on the edge of sleep.

“I’ve got a bed,” Crowley said idly, still looking at the broken edges of Aziraphale’s nails. He’d never seen them like that before. Aziraphale had kept them perfectly manicured since the invention of manicures. “Lots of space, too. More than I can use. But then, all my plants are already here…” He trailed off, realizing what he was saying.

“Mmh,” was Aziraphale’s only reply. The fingers combing through Crowley’s hair were now almost still.

“S’alright, Angel. You rest. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

Notes for Americans: Draughts is checkers, and Naughts and Crosses is Tic-Tac-Toe. All temperatures are in Celsius, and I hope I have them accurate.

Snake notes: I am not a herpetologist (reptile/amphibian scientist) but my cousin is, and he provided some notes on snake behavior and biology, which I've used here and elsewhere in my writing, though my attempts to render ectothermic traits onto a warm-blooded body are entirely my own.

Some fans like to HC Crowley as cold-blooded in all his forms, which is fine, but it certainly means more than just "he's a little chilly when it's cold out"! I have a full list for if I ever want to do a cold-blooded-Crowley story, but not all of them made it into this one. Relevant points include: - Ectotherms need to bask to get their heat up to a comfortable temperature before any major activity - Digesting food is a long, slow process. Snakes prefer to rest somewhere warm and safe while this happens - Bundling up can help retain heat (snake sweaters!) but only if the snake is already hot to begin with - Snakes can only actually be safely away from their heat lamps for half an hour or so (depending on ambient temperature) - Torpor is a sort of involuntary state of reduced metabolism that ectotherms enter when it gets too cold. Various other terms also apply, depending on how long the period is, and how intense the cold, but keep in mind - INVOLUNTARY. - Snakes do not like to be touched, handled or contained. Snakes are just not comfortable with physical contact the way mammals are, though they will tolerate it if you stay within the right boundaries - Do not startle a snake.

Thank you all for reading! This was originally from my Christmas Prompt fic, “Boundless Love.” I’ll post the link in the comments!

#great good omens snake-off #good omens fanfiction #crowley #snek crowley #angst with a happy ending #anthony j crowley #ineffable husbands #aziraphale and crowley #My writing #ectotherm #boundless love #aziraphale #aziraphale to the rescue #protective aziraphale #hurt crowley

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patsdrabbles · 4 years

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Down in the Underground

Title: Down in the Underground Fandom: Good Omens & Labyrinth (1986) Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale Rating: General Audiences Word Count: 4675 Summary: Ten minutes after he had been given the basket with his charge and short but clear instructions on what to do with it, Crowley pulled his car over and panicked. There had to be another way. There had to. In which Crowley wishes the Antichrist away to a not very thrilled Goblin King. A/N: @szappan wrote an amazing fic about Crowley being a Bowie fan (please do check it out, it’s great! ❤) and it made me wonder what would happen if Crowley and Aziraphale met the Goblin King. Which I then just had to write because Good Omens and Labyrinth are two of my absolute favourite books/series/movies. Thank you so much @blue-ravens for the help with editing this fic! Please enjoy ❤

AO3 & a drawing I made for this fic

Ten minutes after he had been given the basket with his charge and short but clear instructions on what to do with it, Crowley pulled his car over and panicked.

There had to be another way.

There had to.

Sometimes, the ideas we have when under distress, later on prove themselves to not be among the brightest we have.

“This child is not from the Aboveground.”

Jareth held the baby a bit farther away from himself and looked at him with curious eyes.

“Wha– Of course he is!”

The Goblin King gave Crowley a wary look.

“He reeks of a strange kind of magic.” He pondered Crowley with narrowed eyes for a moment and Crowley felt himself shift, wanting to slither backwards under his scrutinizing gaze. “As do you, for a fact.”

“Well, ha.” Crowley shrugged. He should have known he wouldn’t be able to conceal what he was from another powerful being, shouldn’t he? “Comes hand in hand with fallin’ from the skies above, I guess.”

Jareth stared at him with an unreadable expression for a moment. Then, Crowley could practically hear the cogwheels turn in his mind and his gaze darkened.

“So this is–” Jareth paused and held up the baby a bit, so that he could look into his eyes. “This is him then, isn’t it? Remarkable... If he didn’t smell just like his people, I wouldn’t even have noticed that he was different.”

He turned back to Crowley.

“I cannot give him back as the Labyrinth’s rules forbid me from doing so, but I do not wish to take him in permanently. I’m sure you understand that I don’t want my kingdom to be destroyed by his powers or... for it to eventually be overrun by folks from Heaven and Hell, when it comes to it.” He sighed. “Do traverse the Labyrinth and take him back, demon. Otherwise, we might be faced with a far greater measure of destruction than is already likely to follow him Aboveground.”

Crowley, who had found the grass at the tips of his shoes especially fascinating the last minute or so looked up sharply when the Goblin King sighed loudly.

“Think about it, demon. You still have thirteen hours from now to come and claim him back. Trust me that I will make your life living hell in new, creative ways if you don’t.”

Crowley hadn’t been listening to everything Jareth had said, too busy still panicking about the impending end of the world while wondering several times why the Goblin King looked so familiar, but he had heard the last part.

He gulped and forced himself to smile.

“Sure. I guess I’ll think about it. Uh... See ya!”

He gave a wave of his hand as he turned and sauntered with dangerously shaky steps back to his car.

He’d have to call Aziraphale. Aziraphale would know what to do.

In hindsight, maybe he should have called Aziraphale before wishing the boy away.

Oh well, it was too late for that line of thought now.

As Crowley drove away (in search for the nearest phone booth), Jareth kept holding onto the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness and scowled.

He had planned to relax today, maybe enact only two boggings (the goblins in question had taken the chicken tossing too far and had hit him square in the face the other day. They had escaped but Jareth had found out their names, which would be enough). He had planned to have a Good Day.

This however? This didn’t look like it was going to be one.

The world wasn’t, as most people would have you believe, influenced by two great powers.

The lack of knowledge about the third wasn’t all that surprising, given that it had itself wished to not be involved in Heaven’s and Hell’s meddling with humanity or get tangled in their “weird kind of codependency”.

The third of the powers that be was neither good nor evil – much rather, it was a wild sort of chaos that was able to be precisely just what you imagined it to be.

And when you knew the right words, you might just be lucky enough to call on it.

“You did what?”

To say that Aziraphale sounded flabbergasted was an understatement like calling the melting polar caps a minor problem of Earth.

Crowley ran a slightly trembling hand through his hair, not noticing that he ruffled it up.

“I wished away the Antichrist. Sent him to the Goblin Kingdom.”

The voice on the other end of the phone call remained silent for a long moment.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice now was much more quiet and had an almost desperate edge to it. “You can’t just– wish away the Antichrist!”

“But I could, couldn’t I? I did, in fact, and now he’s being babysat by the Goblin King himself until the time’s up.”

“Crowley! You don’t even know what might happen after– even during those thirteen hours! We have no idea how his powers might react to wild fae magic! It might just bring about the end of the world faster than originally planned for all we know!"

Aziraphale was starting to sound frantic and Crowley’s hand was, by now, shaking noticeably as well.

“Alright, so what do we do now?”

“Go get back the Antichrist, I suppose.”

“You realize I can’t change the rules even for... people like you, do you?”

“I guess I can see why, yes.”

Aziraphale nodded and nudged Crowley’s arm when the demon didn’t respond to the Goblin King’s question.

Crowley, however, had been deep in thought, resulting in him asking the one question that had been on the tip of his tongue since he had first seen the Goblin King about an hour ago.

“Has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like David Bowie?”

The Goblin King didn’t reply, just gave him a terrifyingly wide smile in response as he held the Antichrist in his arms.

“Alright, the child. The Antichrist.” Aziraphale tried to get their attention back to the urgent matter at hand. “I’m aware that the rules give us thirteen hours to–”

“Twelve hours and ten minutes by now.”

“—solve the Labyrinth and get back the child you have taken. Right.” Aziraphale cleared his throat as the Goblin King continued staring him down.

“Uhm.”

“Usually, only the one making the wish gets to run the Labyrinth, but as the rules aren’t very clear on this, I can twist them somewhat. You may run together. Let’s hope for all of us that it’ll help.”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, who had remained silent after asking his strange and out of nowhere question.

“I don’t want Hell’s Antichrist here any more than you do,” Jareth continued, sounding vaguely annoyed despite continuing to calmingly rock the baby in his arms.

“So you better make an effort – a successful one – and take him back.” He looked at them both, individually, before adding: “I’ll be waiting in my castle in the center of the Labyrinth.”

With that, he disappeared.

“Well, that didn’t sound too difficult.” Aziraphale smiled nervously at Crowley. “We can do this, we’re an angel and a demon, after all! What is a magical labyrinth to us, right?”

“...”

Crowley didn’t meet his gaze, instead looking out over the vast expanse of the Labyrinth in front of them. Inwardly, he cursed himself for his own stupidity.

Wishing the Antichrist away like a nervous teenager unwilling to babysit their baby brother.

In the oddest sense of the word, he supposed, that was exactly what it was.

He was only pulled out of his thoughts when a warm hand grabbed his and Aziraphale smiled at him reassuringly.

“Come on, Crowley, let’s get the boy back.”

Crowley managed a weak nod and followed Aziraphale, who clearly was doing better at trying to convince himself of the upsides of their current situation.

“Come on, feet!”

Crowley sighed but couldn’t resist a tiny smile at the comment.

Together, they made their way downhill.

Glitter.

The damn glitter was everywhere. On his jacket, his shoes, his glasses...

Aziraphale either didn’t notice or didn’t mind the light silvery glitter making him shimmer in the light as they walked down the seemingly endless corridor.

Crowley sighed but refrained from commenting on the obvious.

“’ello!”

“Oh, hello there, my friend!”

Aziraphale crouched down to be on eye level with what appeared to be a little blue worm.

“We’re trying to cross this labyrinth, but we can’t seem to find our way out of this corridor.” Aziraphale smiled at the tiny worm, who looked at him with big blinking eyes.

“Oh, you should come inside an’ meet the missus. The tea should just be ready.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale looked at Crowley, somewhat at a loss. “We’re a bit in a hurry right now, I’m afraid ...but maybe on our way back?”

Crowley nodded, although there were more important things than tea dates with magical worms on his mind right now. Such as finding the Antichrist in order to ensure his own continued existence, for one.

“Lovely!” the worm exclaimed. “You two are the first who didn’t outright decline the offer, the missus an’ I do appreciate that, really!”

Crowley nodded again and gestured for Aziraphale to get on with it, becoming impatient.

“Uhm, the exit to this corridor, kind sir?”

“Ah yes, the exit! You aren’t looking for a door an’ you will have to look from the right angle to find it!”

Crowley nodded and, without another word, turned into his old form.

“Oh, fancy that skill!” The worm commented and nodded in approval.

Crowley slithered along the wall, turning his head this way and that way, until the wall seemed to give way beneath him. Or rather, disappear.

“There’sss another pathway right here, angel.”

He turned back into his human form and went to take Aziraphale’s hand in his to pull him along when he didn’t move.

But Aziraphale didn’t budge even so.

“We don’t even know what direction to take yet, Crowley!”

Crowley sighed heavily.

“Alright, Mister Worm, what direction should we take?”

“Take a turn to the right, this should fit your purpose. The path to the left is filled with grave dangers!”

His eyes widened comically and Crowley grinned at him.

“What dangers might those be?”

Crowley felt Aziraphale’s hand twitch in his own and became aware of the heat rising in his cheeks when he realized that he was still holding the angel’s hand.

“The path to the left ...it leads straight to the center of the Labyrinth!”

Aziraphale turned sharply toward Crowley.

“Then the path to the left is the one we need to take!”

“But–”

“Thank you again, kind sir. I will keep your offer for tea in mind.”

Crowley turned toward the new path and felt, just as he was trying to let go of Aziraphale’s hand unnoticed, that the angel held on tighter to his own. Unsure what to say – or if he should say anything in the first place – he continued on, Aziraphale by his side.

The worm looked torn as they left, unhappy to see them choosing the more dangerous of the two options. But they had asked the right question and gotten their answer.

In the castle, the Goblin King nodded at a crystal sphere in satisfaction while rocking the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness. They might very well make it in good time.

“Crowley, I’m starving!” Aziraphale was wailing and Crowley rolled his eyes.

“You can’t starve, you’re an angel.”

“But still, I very much feel like I am.”

Crowley got distracted by something to his right rustling in some sparkling bushes, so he didn’t notice Aziraphale moving on ahead and looking around the corner of the pathway.

He didn’t see Aziraphale’s delighted facial expression at the sight of an apricot tree that was yielding a lot of beautiful, ripe fruit.

He also didn’t see Aziraphale’s plucking an apricot from the tree or how he pulled out a handkerchief to quickly clean it.

And he didn’t see Aziraphale take a bite of the apricot or the moment of realization he had, mirrored in his widened eyes.

He did hear Aziraphale’s physical form hitting the grassy ground beneath his feet and was running toward him before he could even see what had happened.

He felt the panic rise in his chest.

“Aziraphale! Aziraphale, what happened?”

When Crowley reached him he still hadn’t gotten a reply or any other reaction, so he let himself fall to his knees to take a better look at the angel.

He was still breathing, which... Wasn’t a requirement for a heavenly being, but at least seemed to indicate that, albeit unconscious, Aziraphale hadn’t been discorporated... or worse.

Crowley frantically looked around, trying to figure out what had happened.

Then he saw it and froze.

Lying on the ground not far from Aziraphale’s outstretched arm and clearly bitten into – a peach.

Crowley growled in frustration.

They should’ve brought sandwiches.

A clearly magical sphere floated by him and Crowley managed to get a glimpse at the translucent image it showed.

It was Aziraphale, looking confused and kind of lost, in a ballroom, surrounded by ballgoers whose faces were covered with masks.

The people were staring at him, making it hard for him to pass through the mass. Then, music must have started playing, because several people started dancing and Aziraphale’s eyes lit up in delight.

“Damn it, angel,” Crowley hissed to himself.

A second glance into the sphere showed him Aziraphale dancing among the crowd and... a very annoyed looking person who could only be the Goblin King himself, albeit disguised with a mask. When said Goblin King turned to stare up at him through the magical sphere, Crowley cursed again and took a step toward the apricot tree.

They were all round and ripe, the perfect apricots. Since they would all hopefully lead to the same thing, however, he plucked one at random.

He hissed in his best snakely manner at the fruit he held with his fingertips and reminded himself that he was doing this for Aziraphale. So that after that, they could continue searching for the Antichrist.

Damn hell.

He took a bite and felt himself falling.

Damn all fruit trees.

When he came to, the first thing he noticed was that the world seemed brighter than before. Looking around, he decided that hundreds of candles seemed to be to blame for that. Second, things seemed rather... peachy. But not in the all-is-well kind of way, but in the way that the taste of the godforsaken peach he had eaten was still lingering on his tongue, coating his mouth and, quite oddly, also affecting his other senses, almost... clouding them.

He didn’t like that one bit.

He continued down an already quite crowded hallway and reached a big double door that presumably led to the ballroom he had seen. He pushed it open and shuddered momentarily at the sight in front of him. There were way too many people attending this ball for what he considered to be his comfort zone, if one were to ask him. But since nobody was asking him, he went on inside, hoping to find Aziraphale as fast as possible.

People were laughing and giggling almost manically as he made his way through the crowd, having to push more than a few of the ballgoers aside when they seemed to intentionally block his path or hold onto his sleeves.

He was getting rather annoyed by the time he spotted Aziraphale, standing rather lost in the middle of the ballroom. The spark Crowley had momentarily seen in his eyes in the crystal was gone and he looked rather worried as he unconsciously fussed with the hem of his coat sleeves. When his eyes met Crowley’s, however, they seemed to light up again and he started to make his way toward the demon.

Crowley felt relief wash over him when he came to stand in front of Aziraphale and grabbed him by the shoulders.

“Don’t. Don’t ever just do something so stupid ever again! I thought you had died or something for a moment!“

Aziraphale’s mouth fell open and his eyes widened and he looked so sorry and–

“Aargh, stop it, angel! I know you’re sorry, let’s just. Find a way out of here.”

Crowley turned around and started looking for the ballroom door, just to find it was ...gone.

“What in all seven –”

He turned back to Aziraphale when he felt the angel’s hand gently on his shoulder.

“It’s gone, Crowley.”

“What do you mean, it’s gone? It was right over there mere minutes ago!”

Aziraphale shook his head.

“I checked after I appeared here, as well, but the door was gone again moments after my arrival.”

“So what do we do now?”

Crowley was starting to feel antsy. Things were not developing in their favor.

Suddenly, music began to play. There were no musicians to be seen, except for–

“I’ll eat a damn hat if that isn’t the Goblin King himself.”

Aziraphale followed his gaze to the other side of the room where Jareth the Goblin King was standing in an inexplicable beam of light and, by all appearance, was about to start to sing.

The two of them were so surprised by his appearance, however, that they noticed only too late that the crowd had started to close in on them, pressing in from all sizes and leaving them surrounded by a slowly moving circle.

“I’m sorry, Crowley. If not for me, we weren’t stuck in this mess of a situation.”

Crowley took a sharp breath when Aziraphale reached out and held his hand.

He obviously didn’t mind holding the angel’s hand, but he also feared the treacherous color that rose to his cheeks the last few times it had happened.

Aziraphale must have noticed his intake of breath, because he let go of Crowley’s hand all of a sudden, a quiet sadness overtaking his eyes.

“There’s such a sad love,

deep in your eyes...”

Jareth was, in fact, singing now, and Crowley felt awful. They were running out to time to fix the mistake he had made and now they both were stuck in this place with Aziraphale looking like Crowley had kicked him.

Crowley remained quiet for a moment, lowering his gaze to the ground when he noticed Aziraphale turning away his gaze.

The Labyrinth was a place full of riddles, going by what Jareth had told them at the beginning. So maybe being stuck in a ballroom meant...

He looked up with an apologetic smile and held out his hand to Aziraphale.

“There’s such a fooled heart,

beating so fast in search of new dreams,

a love that will last...”

“Come on, angel.”

Aziraphale was looking at him and then at Crowley’s extended hand. He looked back at Crowley and, after a moment of hesitation, took his hand and let himself slowly be pulled in.

“Maybe this is gonna fix things.”

Aziraphale frowned slightly and Crowley let out a small nervous laugh, his breath brushing over Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“...maybe it’s not, but it seems worth a try, right?”

Aziraphale met his gaze and nodded.

He looked back at the ballgoers surrounding them, a sort of dancing carrousel by this point, and frowned in thought.

“Perhaps we’ll manage to get closer to the Goblin King, that way. We should try to ask him what to do.”

Crowley nodded and felt warmth rise in his cheeks when Aziraphale squeezed his hand and took a step closer.

“I’ll paint you mornings of gold...”

“Let’s dance, my dear.”

“I’ll spin you Valentine evenings...”

Crowley nodded and took the first step.

And they danced.

While they were slowly swaying to the rhythm of the music, the ballgoers around them were still talking and pointing and moving around them.

Crowley tried to focus on the warmth that Aziraphale was giving off and not on ...everything else. He hoped that this would work. Things had obviously gone too well previously and...

“But I'll be there for you... as the world falls down.”

...Aziraphale was holding him, not letting go.

They made their way across the room in a slow pace, the crowd around them letting them move as long as they continued dancing.

“Falling... Falling...”

“It’s working,” Aziraphale breathed out in astonishment when he realized what was happening.

“Falling...”

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed quietly and held on for dear life.

“Falling in love...”

By the time the song ended, they had also reached the Goblin King, who was giving them a long, contemplative look. In one hand he was holding a ball mask, which he made disappear in exchange for another crystal. He let it run up and down his hand as he looked at them a moment longer, before this gaze fell to their still joined hands again.

“You’ve made it all the way here. What do you want?”

The astonished look must have been similar on both their faces.

“We want out, obviously,” Aziraphale stated.

“Are you certain of that?” Jareth asked. “Even if out of here and out there might mean a less pleasant life for both of you?”

Crowley cocked his head in inquiry.

“The whole doomsday situation. And–” Jareth nodded toward their joined hands. “–that, perhaps, even more.”

Crowley saw Aziraphale blush and look away out of the corner of his eye, but the angel didn’t withdraw his hand.

Somehow, confidence at last got a hold of Crowley and he squeezed Aziraphale’s hand as he grinned at the Goblin King.

“We’ll figure it out.”

To their surprise, the Goblin King threw the crystal up in the air.

“That’s what I wanted to hear.”

Jareth grinned back at them and around them, the world fell down.

After that, finding the castle in the center of the Labyrinth was a piece of cake.

They ran into a bunch of goblins and other fae folk, but for the most part, the direction they had to take was clear and their path free of dangers.

They had talked some and both realized that they were “absolute morons”, as Crowley had put it, smilingly. Aziraphale had returned his smile, equally radiant in its nature, and had gently squeezed his hand. They would talk about this once they had left the Labyrinth (‘this’ being their strong mutual affection that they both had previously been too nervous about to realize that it was reciprocated; ‘previously’ being the past four thousand years, give or take).

They also talked about the Antichrist and what they would do once they got him back from Jareth.

“Bring him to his new parents, of course.”

“Yes, of course, but what... what about his upbringing?”

“You aren’t suggesting...?”

Aziraphale nodded and, as they continued walking, they formed a plan.

They still had more than enough time to spare by the time they entered the castle together, only letting go of each other’s hands for the first time in hours to push open the big front gate.

They found the Goblin King and the baby in a big room at the center of the castle.

“At long last, here you are. And here ...you are.” Jareth grinned a toothy grin as he handed over the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness to Crowley. Then, he let himself fall back onto what appeared to be a fairly uncomfortable big chair that, on a second thought, seemed to function as a throne.

“You did it, great! And with four hours to spare, on top of that!”

As he shifted the Antichrist in his arms, Crowley heard Aziraphale exhale in relief next to him. Quite frankly, if the end of the world weren’t as immediate as it unfortunately was, he would have gladly spent the next two decades sleeping.

“So– any further... life-changing happenings or the like since you left my ballroom?”

When the two didn’t reply immediately, Jareth flashed a grin that only lasted for a moment, before being replaced by a more neutral expression.

“I have been told that it seems to be somewhat of a common experience among runners.”

Aziraphale turned a lovely shade of red and Crowley found himself rather tempted to just ...Ah, to hell with it.

He took Aziraphale’s hand in his as gently as he could while not jostling the baby on his arm and felt Jareth’s gaze on them even as he finally allowed the love he felt for Aziraphale to show when he looked at the angel.

When he looked back at Jareth, the Goblin King was smiling.

“So, there’s hope for you lot yet.”

With the Goblin King’s help, the three of them reappear Aboveground somewhere in the outskirts of Tadfield a short time later. The Bentley stood waiting for them a couple of meters down the road.

“Well, here we are.” Aziraphale looked down at the basket that was now, once again, holding the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness.

“Here we are...,” Crowley mumbled, when, suddenly, the thing that had been nagging him at the back of his mind for the past few hours finally surfaced.

“Oh, crap, we’re late for the birth of the other baby!”

Aziraphale paled and Crowley felt the panic rise in his veins.

“I’ll have to reorder time, though I don’t know if I can manage to turn back all thirteen hours, but I’ll have to try and–”

“Perhaps I could help with that.”

An owl sitting on a nearby tree branch turned into Jareth casually leaning against said tree’s trunk.

“Time is easily affected by my magic, Aboveground and Underground.”

A clock appeared in the air next to him, as if required for the impending demonstration.

The Goblin King snapped his fingers and for a split moment, Crowley and Aziraphale felt air and time rush past them. Then, it was night again and the clock on Crowley’s watch – just like Jareth’s flying clock – indicated that it was still 11.24 pm, mere minutes after Crowley had originally left Hastur and Ligur at the graveyard.

“Well, go then!”

Jareth made a shooing motion with his hands when the two others just continued staring at him for a moment.

“In that case... Thank you.” Aziraphale smiled and looked like he wanted to step forward and shake Jareth’s hand before coming to think better of it.

“Yeah, thank you, I guess. Spared us a lot of trouble if that had come out.” Crowley gave him what he hoped looked like an appreciative nod.

“Nevermind, I’m glad he’s not going to grow up with me. I have enough on my plate as it is.” The Goblin King sighed and shook his head.

“You still look like David Bowie, though,” Crowley couldn’t help but mention again.

Jareth just grinned at that and, within a blink of the eye, was gone.

Aziraphale sighed as they began walking toward the Bentley.

“You just had to point that out again, didn’t you?”

“Well, he does look an awful lot like David Bowie! Don’t blame me for stating the obvious!”

They continued their friendly bickering as they approached Tadfield, smiles on their faces and a plan for the upbringing of the Antichrist in the works. It was bound to go wrong, of course, before it would go right again, in the end.

A barn owl followed the Bentley down the street for a minute before disappearing in a light shower of glitter.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #good omens fanart #ineffable husbands #crowley/aziraphale #crowley #aziraphale #jareth #labyrinth fanfiction #labyrinth #go ff #labyrinth ff #my posts #my fanfics #29.9.2020 #2020

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thisvictoriangirl · 5 years

Note

57! I just have a lot of feelings about iodine stains?

57. Brown iodine stains on skin

Crowley is not soft.

He isn’t.

Not for anyone, not for elderly or the unfortunate or the pregnant, or–Satan forbid–children. Not soft for any children at all, no. He’s a demon. Demons don’t go soft for children, shouldn’t even like them at all–except maybe as a preferred target for demonic possessions but that’s a nasty business that Crowley wouldn’t ever be caught doing even under threat of an extremely Hell-ish punishment, and an entirely new topic of debate altogether.

So.

Yes.

Children. Not soft for them.

But the Antichrist isn’t exactly a child, is he? Certainly not any normal child, and if one is going by the logic that the Antichrist, The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Prince of this World and Lord of Darkness and what-have-you, is Satan’s very own son, then being soft for him is actually a very demonic thing to do.

(not that Crowley is soft for him either.)

But it does help that Warlock Dowling is rather adorable, in that bratty, snot-nosed way most five year-old children are adorable when they’re crying. He’s got on a full quivering pout on his wet face, sniffing and threatening to start up another sob when Crowley comes near his skinned finger with the iodine-soaked cotton swab.

“Nooo,” Warlock whines with a hiccup, stubbornly shaking his head. He’s quite a mess now, long hair stuck to his wet face in a combination of tears and mucus.

“Be a dear and listen to Nanny,” Crowley persuades but to no avail. Warlock only cries again and Crowley works to calm him down once more.

“Gonna hurt,” Warlock says, eyes watery and bottom lip trembling. Crowley absolutely does not feel any sort of heartbreak from this. Any and all sorts of mirroring pouts on Crowley’s face is simply for the irony of it. “Nanny, s’gonna hurt.”

“It won’t, darling,” Crowley shushes gently. Brandishing a handkerchief in one hand, he wipes away the mess from the boy’s face. “It won’t hurt. You can trust what Nanny says, can’t you?”

Warlock hiccups and nods glumly, but remains unconvinced, eyes downcast and nervous. Crowley sighs.

The thing is, alright–the thing is, he can miracle it away, can’t he? It’s just a skinned finger, it’s not like it’s bloody cancer that he’ll be miraculously healing, nobody’d be batting an eyelash if the wound closes itself in seconds. Crowley can just bloody well miracle it away if he wants to, can just pass it off as a magic trick to Warlock.

Crowley can miracle it away. He should miracle it away.

But that’s not how humans work, Aziraphale has said. How would young Warlock grow up to be good–or normal, for that matter, if he thinks all pain can be miracled away, Crowley?

(and honestly, what does Aziraphale know about how humans work anyway? the angel forgets that human hair even bloody grows!)

With another grumbling sigh and the strongest urge to roll his eyes until they reach the back of his skull, Crowley deflates and gets rid of the tempting thought of an easy fix. (imagine that. him, refusing temptation.) He offers the cotton swab to Warlock instead, watches him stop tearing up out of curiosity and question as he looks up at Nanny.

“Here, darling,” Crowley tells him, smiling a little when Warlock reaches for it obediently. “You can try it on me first.” He offers out his hand next, waiting patiently as Warlock looks at his fingers and then at the cotton swab, and then back up to him.

The tears are gone now but Warlock’s wide eyes are still alight with worry as he chews on his lip. “You promise it won’t hurt?”

Crowley nods. “I promise.”

Hesitantly, and with many a glance up at his Nanny’s face for encouragement, Warlock holds Crowley’s hand steady and swipes the iodine along the length of a slender finger, painting it dark–almost red, at first–until it stains the skin.

Warlock looks up. “Don’t sting?” he asks.

Crowley shakes his head softly. “It doesn’t sting.”

“No hurt?”

“Not one bit, my dear.”

This exchange doesn’t warm Crowley’s heart. Absolutely not. There are no warm feelings here, no feelings at all, not even when Warlock nods bravely afterwards, like a little soldier going into battle and declares to him, “I can do it, Nanny.”

Crowley isn’t being unnecessarily gentle when he presses the new iodine swab on Warlock’s wounds–Crowley’s just–he’s just careful, it’s to make it all easier for his job, really, doesn’t want to set off another round of fresh tears, and not because he doesn’t want Warlock to feel even another second of pain.

Warlock’s face pinches a little when the swab goes over his wound but he holds on nonetheless, expression resolute despite his shaky breaths. When it’s all done, he breaks into a slow smile afterwards, looking tentatively up at Nanny for her praise and Crowley doesn’t disappoint.

“There’s my brave boy,” Crowley says, and doesn’t melt when Warlock positively beams at him.

“Don’t hurt,” Warlock reports with a grin, brandishing his newly disinfected wound. “No hurt, Nanny.”

“Absolutely no hurt,” Crowley echoes back, tapping him gently on the nose and smiling as Warlock giggles. He must see someone else then because Warlock gasps and leans to the side to wave over Crowley’s shoulder.

“Brother Francis!”

“Hello, Young Master Warlock!”

Crowley turns just as Warlock runs to Aziraphale, tackling him by the knees. He watches as they chat in loud voices, both of them so easily excitable and cheerful, and straightens up to stand, smoothing out his dress when they come near.

“Nanny Ashtoreth,” Aziraphale greets, tipping his frankly ridiculous brown hat.

“Gardener,” Crowley replies coolly.

They stare at each other for a moment, both pretending to be ill at ease with each other around Warlock. (of course Aziraphale breaks first. he always breaks first. there’s a tiny, tiny smile playing on his lips and a twinkle in his eyes that he can barely control. it’s the loveliest thing, even with his gardener disguise, and Crowley’s heart absolutely melts.)

Warlock, for the most part, doesn’t seem to notice, and he tugs at Aziraphale’s robes until Aziraphale glances down at him with a smile. “Brother Francis, look!”

“What’s that now?” Aziraphale bends down gamely when Warlock shows off his skinned finger, grinning when Aziraphale gives an exaggerated gasp at the sight. “Oooh, that looks painful! Did the Young Master cry?”

“No,” Warlock declares proudly, despite the obvious tear tracks on his face. (Crowley won’t admit to this, but he’s proudest about Warlock’s bold-faced lies.) “Nanny said it won’t hurt and it didn’t. We match!”

At that last part, Aziraphale turns to Crowley in question. Crowley shows his iodine-stained finger in lieu of an explanation and feels his face heat at the distinct softness that Aziraphale’s expression takes on, then, looking the way he does whenever he thinks Crowley has done something good.

Thankfully, Aziraphale looks away before Crowley can spontaneously combust right before his eyes and looks down at Warlock with a smile, offering him a row of colored band aids that Crowley sees pop into existence from behind Aziraphale. (oh, but Aziraphale can be such a bastard when he wants to be. Crowley isn’t supposed to perform miracles for Warlock but he can???) “Let’s fix that right up, shall we?”

Warlock squeals in excitement, eyes lighting up. (Crowley absolutely does not find this cute.)

(Later, when both of them have band aids wrapped around their iodine-stained fingers–blue for Warlock, like Brother Francis’s scarf, he says and red for Crowley, like your hair, Nanny–Warlock will come up to Crowley, reach for his finger carefully and place a kiss on it.

“Brother Francis says kisses make it feel better,” Warlock will explain at Crowley’s stare and he will hold up his own for Crowley to kiss and Crowley–

–Crowley will kiss it better. Not out of obligation or any sort of irony, but because Warlock is a boy with wide eyes and too much heart, and he reminds Crowley of a time long ago, when Crowley had been the same.

And if later, Crowley keeps the band aid and takes care not to wash off the iodine stain on his skin too much, well then. That’s his business, isn’t it?)

#good omens #good omens fic #writing prompt #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #anthony j crowley #brother francis #nanny ashtoreth #warlock dowling #a little Nanny and Warlock fic for everyone #my fic

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caesarclowningaround · 3 years

Text

I was tagged by @flightsofwonder! Thanks dearie!! This was interesting and fun!

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line. Then tag 10 of your favorite authors!

Felt With the Heart (MCU, 1123 words) Jane fiddled with the skirt of her dress for the thirtieth time.

The Pure and Simple Truth (MCU/Mr. Robot, 2500 words) Gods and monsters. It’s all real. Who knew? For some reason, Elliot wasn’t at all surprised as he stared across the room at the ‘god’ before him.

Next Stop (Good Omens, 620 words) It wasn’t that Crowley meant to smack his shoulder into the other man’s as he walked through the subway car… but he meant to.

voulez-vous coucher avec moi? (2019!Aladdin/2017!Beauty and the Beast, 1163 words) Adam could have anyone he wanted. This wasn’t just hubris, it was a fact.

Shadows (Trouble in the Heights, 561 words) The room is a swirling mass of color and fabrics.

my happy ending is right next to me (IT movie franchise, 246 words) Richie couldn’t wait to dive into the champagne at the reception.

Baking Without Flour (Good Omens, 961 words) Aziraphale wasn’t sure what he was expecting when he entered Crowley’s apartment, but he at least expected that he’d be unpacked by now.

Violet Skies (2019!Aladdin/2017!Beauty and the Beast, 42622 words (and counting)) Another day, another suitor. This one was from the far west with flowered silks and bright pastels. Prince Adam from France.

Horizon (Star Wars, 1397 words) It was so different than anything Armitage could have imagined. And oh, he had imagined.

the booze and the bell chimes (2019!Aladdin/2017!Beauty and the Beast/2015!Cinderella, 6272 words) 11:00 AM - 6 HOURS BEFORE THE WEDDING “BOOTY BOOTY BOOTY BOOTY ROCKIN’ EVERYWHERE” Jafar nearly jumped out of bed, his heart pounding in time with the pounding in his head.

The Dream (MCU/Loki: Where Mischief Lies, 602 words) There is pain as he feels the grip tighten around his throat. He struggles for air, knowing it to be futile at this point. Then, a sharp crack of agony… and he’s gone.

Submerge (Star Wars, 8750 words) His father had warned him many times as a boy to stay away from the Dark Shoals. When Kylo took to the sea as an adult, still his father warned him that morning.

Good at Waiting (2019!Aladdin/2017!Beauty and the Beast, 618 words) Adam wasn’t sure where he was at first. But as the world came into focus around him, he remembered. He remembered dinner the night before, celebrating their six-month anniversary.

Boom, Clap! (Crash Pad/MCU, 12175 words (and counting)) I need to lay off the weed. It certainly wasn’t the first time Stensland had thought this (or even attempted to put the thought into action soon after), much less the first time he had thought it the moment he had woken up from some batshit crazy trippy dream.

The Ocean Under the Moon (2019!Aladdin/They Call Me Jeeg, 1525 words (and counting)) Fabio had a weird, mostly unknown love for thrift stores.

a lil something (2019!Aladdin/2017!Beauty and the Beast, 728 words) Jafar’s phone vibrates in his pocket for the second time in the past ten minutes.

Love is a Battlefield (The Old Guard, 1328 words) There was an excitement in the air as they all stood in formation. Syrus pawed at the ground, his hoof kicking up grass and dust that hung around his legs.

when push comes to shove (2019!Aladdin/Trust, 1371 words) It had started with Jafar grabbing fistfuls of Primo’s ass and a mocking comment about how thin his pants were, which somehow had led to Jafar assuming Primo wasn’t wearing anything under the blue trousers. He assumed correctly.

play us an encore (2019!Aladdin/2017!Beauty and the Beast, 2400 words) “Open your robe.” Jafar didn’t move from where he was standing in the bathroom doorway. Dressed in only his silk red robe, he stared back at Adam, who was smiling in a way that Jafar couldn’t read.

break the bubble (2019!Aladdin/2017!Beauty and the Beast/2015!Cinderella, 1092 words) “Love is like a bomb, baby, c’mon get it on…” The lights flashed as three gorgeous men walked onto the stage, lip synching with the loud lyrics of Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar on Me" playing over the speakers.

Analysis:

First of all, the fact that 11/20 of these are crossovers is pretty telling of what my favorite thing to write is. Most are either Aladdin crossovers or Marvel crossovers (and involve either Jafar or Loki, respectively) so there’s that.

This list goes back about two years, which is interesting because in the past two years I’ve been working on bigger projects most of the time. Notice how most of these fics are under 2k? Most of these started as small fic prompts or 2am spur-of-the-moment ideas and the longer ones are the more self-indulgent fics.

5 of these fics start with a line that’s mostly used to catch a reader’s attention before a tag, which is then followed by a bit of exposition or action. Twice I use song lyrics as a way of grabbing attention because the POV of the character is also having their attention grabbed.

Several times I just jump right into a character’s POV and begin with them thinking about something or essentially telling the reader “what is happening is normal” or “what is happening is not normal” depending on the situation. It’s also sometimes a quick recap or the statement of a fact about our POV character.

Most of the time, I just jump right into the action to get the story moving. I’ve noticed I prefer to do this over giving a description of where we are. If I do give a description, it almost always comes after the opening line. With the exception of Shadows, none of these opening lines are a setting description.

I really do have a thing for crossovers, especially the weird ones LOL I just love the idea of two different worlds connecting in some way and having the characters themselves connect on another level. D*sney’s been crossing over their stuff since well before I was even born, so while it’s not surprising to see a disney crossover fic, I do think there’s something to writing that odd lil ship I’ve written about 7 fics for (dang!)

I tend to deal with themes of forbidden love in various ways and how the characters make those connections despite the fact they shouldn’t be together. Whether it’s as simple as unrequited romance, or they’re enemies, or they’re not necessarily enemies but they really shouldn’t be together... and yet they always find a way. IDK maybe I’m just a romantic at heart who loves seeing love stories about love conquering all. But that being said, the obstacles these characters face aren’t typical ones?? Like, from this list at least, love triangles aren’t something I’m interested in, but if there is a third party (like in Violet Skies) the third party is never really considered to be a “threat” to the main couple.

That’s probably another reason why I dig crossover ships, because they inherently shouldn’t be together. they’re from vastly different worlds with maybe one or two things in common (like genre or setting or a character detail or just a vibe).

Or I’m just here to have fun and I’m dragging these characters into the fun zone whether they like it or not :P

But really, all of these are love stories in some way or another. Not that I’ve never written gen fic and I love reading gen fic! But I guess my fave fics to write are the shippy stuff. I just enjoy exploring these types of relationships, despite whether or not they “should” be together. Heck, a couple of these do not have happy endings nor should they. It’s really interesting seeing exactly how drawn to that stuff I am.

FAVE OPENING LINE This is kind of a weird thing to say, but I really don’t care a lot of my opening lines most of the time. I think they are what they need to be, but they don’t hit me the way they should? Some of these I kinda wish I could go back and change, though that’s mostly cuz out of all the lines in each of these fics the first lines I’ve read and reread the most. So it’s mostly me being my own worst critic, but I think my best writing comes more in the middle and ends of my fics, not the beginnings.

That said, I gotta go with Violet Skies: Another day, another suitor. This one was from the far west with flowered silks and bright pastels. Prince Adam from France.

This is one of those opening lines I’d never change. The fic starts off from Jafar’s POV and he is bored of these princes coming and going and starting this big fic off with him being like “here we go again” with this basic description of Adam is exactly where the fic needed to start, so by the time the reader gets to the end of the first chapter, we know this is definitely not “here we go again” with Prince Adam~

TAGGING: @pigsinablanketfort, @heroofshield, @thenightisfullofangels, @raptorwhisperer, @theresatvjoe, aaaaaaand anybody else who wants to do it!!!!

#my fic #all about me #well that was a lot

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ourownsideimagines · 5 years

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Twisted Turn of Events (Crowley x Reader Tangled!Au)

Characters: Human!Eugene!Crowley, Horse!Maximus!Aziraphale, Rapunzel!Reader, Human!Gothel!Gabriel

Requested: Yes

Requested by: Star Anon

Point of View: Second Person

Warnings: Violence, stabbing, blood, character death (temporary and permanent). Absolutely no editing whatsoever

Words: 2854

A/N: I hope you don’t mind I took this as an actual Tangled AU with the same premise because I absolutely love Tangled.

---

You had long, magical, blond hair. It got in the way of everything you did, and it trailed everywhere behind you. It was a hassle, to say the least, but your father loved it.

Your father, Gabriel, was kind. Or, at least you thought he was kind. He kept you safe, up in your tower, for many years. He told you it was to keep you safe from those who would wish to use your hair to their advantage. He’d even refused to let you leave to see the floating lights that appeared every year on your birthday.

Your father had taught you a song at a young age - the song was what activated the magic in your hair, and you used it to heal your father whenever he felt weak or hurt. You would do anything to make him happy.

Almost anything, that was,

The only ones allowed in your tower were Gabriel, and sometimes Michael and Uriel to check on your health. Or, though you didn’t know it yet, to make sure you hadn’t tried to leave. They, too, used you for your hair.

No one else had ever entered the tower, as far as you knew.

That was, until he came.

It was the day before your birthday, and Gabriel had left hours prior at your request for some new paints. You were expecting Uriel or Michael (or even both) to show up any minute, which is why you didn’t panic at first when you heard someone clambering through the window. It was weird, yes, they usually called out for you to throw down your hair, but you didn’t doubt that they had other means of getting up. You’d exited your bedroom, about to greet them when you realized, no, it was no in fact one of your fathers friend, but a total stranger. He was dressed in dark clothing, his eyes covered by glasses tinted almost black

Your father had warned you many times about other men. Savages with sharp teeth who would only see you for your hair.

At the time you were terrified. It’d taken everything in you not to scream. He’d just opened his bag when you finally managed to thwack him over the head with frying pan your father had gotten for you last year. After checking his teeth and seeing that they weren’t actually sharp like your father had described, you’d stuffed him into your wardrobe, keeping it closed with one of your brooms.

It all seemed to silly now. Crowley, as you’d come to know him, was an absolute sweetheart despite his attempts to hide it. You’d convinced him to lead you from the tower to see the floating lights, which he told you were “lanterns for the lost princess”.

Sure, along the way he’d taken you to the Snuggly Duckling, a hang out for a group called “The Demons”, but they had been kind to you, much to your surprise, and despite the fact that they wanted to give Crowley up to the royal guard. But Crowley saved you when the guards attacked, and after quite a bit of consideration you found that you were rather fond of him. You might even say you were in love with him.

There had been an incident in the forest the night prior to your birthday, when Crowley went to look for firewood, and you were surprisingly approached by your father. He had been calm at first, attempting to coax you back to the tower.

When that didn't work, he’d gotten angry. Angrier than you’d ever seen him. He yelled at you, something he rarely ever did, and then revealed the bag you’d found Crowley with.

“If you think he really cares about you, give him this!” He threw the bag at your feet, and you’d quickly scooped it up, eyes wide. “Trust me, he’ll leave you the moment he lays eyes on it!”

After that, he disappeared and you were left alone, waiting for Crowley to get back.

These events were pushed almost to the back of your mind by morning, as when you woke Crowley was wrestling with a large, white horse you would come to know as Aziraphale. He was a part of the guard, Crowley told you, the one that was trying to arrest him. You’d convinced Aziraphale to calm down and not arrest Crowley until at least tomorrow, since today was your big day.

That was one of the stranger encounters of your trip.

You, of course, had to waste the day away so that you could see the lanterns at night fall. Crowley treated you to cupcakes, and surprised you with a small purple flag. He was the perfect gentlemen, albeit it a bit clumsy and idiotic. There were guard to avoid, but otherwise no trouble was found. You even had a bit of fun dancing around the square. A group of young girls even braided your hair so no one would walk on it, decorating it with vibrant flowers.

A part of you wanted the sun to never set, so you could stay there forever with Crowley. But as the sun slowly began its descent, Crowley led you out to the pier, where the two of you clambered aboard a row boat, leaving Aziraphale waiting at the dock.

“I figured I should give you the best seat possible,” Crowley hummed gently as he rowed. “It is your birthday after all.”

“Thank you, Crowley.” You smiled at him, and he smiled back. You wanted to give him the bag, but your father’s words hung in the back of you mind. You decided to wait.

By the time Crowley stopped rowing, the sun had almost set. All you had to do was wait. You and Crowley took some flowers from your hair and you began placing them in the water, watching the float away. It wasn’t long before the first light hit the water. Your head shot up, eyes widening in surprise.

It was starting. You scrambled to the other end of the boat, causing Crowley to momentarily lose balance. Lanterns began to float up, above the houses, and above the castle. Almost as if it knew you were there, breeze carried them in your direction. People on board the nearby ships began letting them loose as well, and your tiny boat was surrounded by floating lanterns.

You turned to Crowley, excited, but stopped when you noticed the lanterns he had in his hands.

He’d taken off his sunglasses, revealing his beautiful golden eyes. You’d asked him why he wore them, but he’d never given you a straight answer. You assumed it to be because they were his most defining feature, something anyone would spot from a mile away. His eyes, despite their beauty, would most likely get him caught on sight.

You made your decision then - you were most definitely in love with this man.

You just hoped he felt the same. You took your seat in front of him, and smiled wide.

“I, uh. I’ve got something for you, too.” You reached beneath the seat, where you’d stashed his bag when he was saying goodbye to Aziraphale. When you pulled it out, Crowley’s eyes went a bit wide in surprise. “I’d thought about giving it to you earlier but… I was just scared. But now, I’m… I’m not scared anymore. You know what I mean?”

Crowley, using one arm to hold the lanterns down, used the other to gently push away the bag. The shock on your face must have been evident.

“I think I do, angel.” He smiled. You couldn’t help but smile back. You set the bag aside, and together you released the lanterns into the air. After a few moments, Crowley gently took your hands. “Happy birthday.” He said.

“Thank you,” Your mind had turned from the lanterns. They were beautiful, yes, but so was the man sitting in front of you. “This has been the best day of my entire life.”

“Mine too.” Crowley used his thumb rubbed slow circles on the back of your hand. “I’d say you’ve really shown me a lot in the past couple of days.”

“You’ve shown me more in two days than I’ve seen in all my years.” You give his hands a gentle squeeze. “I… I like you, Crowley.”

“I like you too, Angel.” He replied without hesitation. “More than you could ever know.”

“I’d like to know.” You murmured. There was silence, but no words were needed. The both of you slowly began to lean in, but just when he thought he might kiss you, he stopped. “Crowley?” You noticed he was looking behind you, but when you turned, there was nothing there. “Are you okay?”

“What?” He said suddenly. “Oh, yeah, everything’s… fine.”

It turns out, everything was not alright. Everything was very far from alright. Not only were you attacked by two goons, but you watched as Crowley sailed back over the river toward the town with the content of his bag, a tiara, in hand. You were lucky to be saved by your father.

But even that went wrong.

Once back in the ‘safety’ of your tower, and once your father had finished removing the braid and the flowers from your hair, you came to a realization. You’d painted all over the walls - you’d even painted over older, more childish drawings. Painting was your life inside the tower - and in almost every painting was the same symbol. The sun. The same sun on the scarf Crowley had bought you, and the same sun that was on the lanterns, and the same sun that was on the mural of the royal family.

Your heart ached. It couldn’t be true, could it? Anger overcame you. You exited your room, looking down at your father who was on the floor below.

“Are you alright,” He asked, but his voice was cold. You knew he didn’t care. Of course he didn’t. You were so angry. You should have known better. You should have figured it out sooner, you should have…

“I’m the lost princess.” You breathed out in a huff of anger.

“I’m sorry?”

“I am the lost princess.” It wasn’t a question.

“My dear-”

“No!” You snapped. You began your descent down the stairs. “You lied to me. All these years you said you were keeping me up here so that I’d be safe! But I’m not safe. Not while I’m with you.” Gabriel scowled.

From there, things only got worse. Gabriel didn’t yell. He didn’t even speak before he grabbed you, tossing you to the side. Your head connected with your standing mirror, shattering it. You cried out in pain as you fell to the floor. You could feel blood trickling into your hair, but Gabriel sang the song solemnly beneath his breath, healing it for you. He’d gotten chains from god knows where, and while you were disoriented bound your hands, and stuffed cloth in your mouth to keep you quiet.

He muttered something about leaving, and taking you to a safer place, but stopped suddenly. From outside you heard a voice - a familiar voice.

Crowley.

You wanted to yell to him, to tell him to leave. You felt so helpless, and felt even more so when Gabriel brandished a dagger from one of his desk drawers.

“Angel!” Crowley called up to you. “Throw down your hair!” Grabriel approached you, leaning in with a sneer.

“Remember, this is your doing.” He told you, before gathering up your hair and tossing it out the window. You felt the familiar tug of someone climbing up, and had to watch in horror as Gabriel hid in the shadows, watching Crowley enter through the open window.

“Oh, Angel, I thought I’d never see you again.” Crowley stopped when his eyes finally landed on you, and he opened his mouth to speak, only to gasp out in utter pain when Gabriel stabbed him in the stomach from behind.

As Gabriel removed the blood stained blade, Crowley fell to the ground in pain and shock.

“Now look at this, (name),” Gabriel tisked. “Look what you’ve done.” Gabriel stepped over Crowley, using the scarf you’d gotten to wipe the blade clean before discarding it carelessly. “Don’t worry, though, my flower. Our secret dies with him.” He approached you, taking the end of the chain that he’d connected to one of the banisters and jerking you towards a trap door he’d revealed beneath the carpet. “And I’ll be taking you where no one will ever find you again. Not even Michael and Uriel.”

You resisted, tugging against your restraints with almost no avail.

“This isn’t a game, (name),” Gabriel growled as you approached the door. “Stop fighting me.”

You yanked yourself away, falling to the ground, and finally managed to spit out the mock-gag.

“No,” You snapped. “Never. I will never stop fighting, I will never stop trying to escape you! For every second of the rest of my life.” You stopped suddenly, looking back at Crowley, who was bleeding out. Your met his eyes, those wonderful golden eyes that were full of such pain, and you knew what you had to do. “But, if you let me heal him… I’ll go with you.”

“Angel, no.” Crowley hissed out, but you ignored him.

“I will do whatever you want. I will never try to run. I’ll stop fighting. Everything will be just the way you want it to be.” You turned back to Gabriel. “I promise.”

“Just the way I want it.” Gabriel muttered to himself. He quickly removed your restraints, and you didn’t dare try to run. You watched as he bound Crowley to a banister, ignoring all of his winces of pain. “In case you have any ideas about following us.” He then turned to you. “Make it quick.”

You rushed to Crowley, who could barely keep his eyes open, and felt tears running down you cheeks.

“Crowley, I am so sorry.” You whispered, moving his vest so you could see the blood-soaked shirt beneath it. “I’m so, so sorry. I’ll fix this, everything’s going to be okay.” You began to gather up your hair.

“Angel,” He murmured. “No.” He weakly attempted to push your hands away, but you managed to get your hair next to his wound.

“If I don’t do this, you’re going to die. I can’t let you die, Crowley.” You caressed his cheek gently, and he leaned into your touch.

“Then you’ll die.” He groaned. You shook your head gently, using your hand to wipe away a tear.

“I’ll be just fine.” You promised, though even you knew it was a lie. You opened your mouth to begin the song, but Crowley stopped you.

“Wait.” He listed a hand, you assumed to push back your hair. Before you could even more, Crowley had gathered your hair up in one hand, using his other to slice though it using a larger shard of glass from the nearby broken mirror. You let out a gasp, watching your hair call to the floor. It rapidly began turning (hair color).

“No!” Gabriel screamed. “What have you done!” You dove for your hair, gathering it up but letting out a strangled shout as it continued to turn (hair color). You watched in horror as he began aging rapidly. He moved towards the mirror to look at himself, only to trip over some of the hair and hit the windowsill, which sent him tumbling head first out of the tower. Part of you wanted to scream, but the other part couldn’t have cared less. You quickly turned back to Crowley, the realisation of what he’d done finally setting in.

“You idiot.” You whimpered. “You absolute idiot.” He smiled weakly at you.

“Your idiot.” He coughed.

“Please don’t leave me.” You begged him. “Please.”

“You were my new dream,” He mumured. You choked on a sob.

“And you were mine.”

You were absolutely broken as the man you’d fallen in love with died in your arms. You held him there for what seemed like hours, but was only moments, and cried. You began murmuring the lyrics of the song you could have used to save him, praying that somehow it would work.

“Make the clock reverse,” You gently caressed his cheek. “Bring back what once was mine…” You cracked, breathing out the final words; “What once was mine.”

Your tears fell from your cheek onto his, and to your amazement, sunk into his skin. You watched in hope and wonder as a light slowly began traveling beneath his skin - the same golden light that had overtaken your hair - to his wound. Your eyes widened as it spilled out into the room, creating intricate symbols in the air before dissipating.

Your eyes snapped to Crowley as he began to cough again, taking in as much air as his lungs would allow them. You let out a cry of joy and flung yourself into his arms.

“You’re alive, oh my god, you’re alive.” Crowley held you tightly, burying his face in your now short hair.

Maybe you were going to get your happily ever after after all.

#good omens #good omens x reader #crowley x reader #crowley x fem!reader #crowley x reader good omens #crowley x fem!reader good omens #crowley #crowley good omens #anthony j crowley #x reader #x fem!reader #reader insert #good omens reader insert #my writing #reese writes #the ineffable queue

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quinoaquinao3 · 4 years

Text

Unknowable (1/11) - dark!Crowley fic

"Oh, angel," he purred dreamily, "too good, too good for me," and Aziraphale wondered briefly whether he should be worried by how quickly Crowley got lost in this again, how easily his hesitance and caution melted away, how quickly he forgot to worry about doing the wrong thing. But Aziraphale didn't want to think about that right now, he didn't want to be smart and responsible and to play it safe. He wanted to indulge - to bathe in Crowley's praise and adoration, so intense it could only stem from something dark and dangerous, an unhealthy obsession. But God, it felt so good if he let it.

Mind the warnings in the tags, please :) Human AU with a dark-ish Crowley and endless angst.

Chapter 1: You Can't Control What Crosses Your Mind

Spring, 1994

Anathema met Crowley when they were both children. Crowley had just moved into the neighborhood, taking up residence in what Crowley called a house but Anathema thought was a castle - turns out, as she learned many years later, castles can be houses if you're filthy fucking rich.

Naturally, Crowley's family also owned lots of beautiful, white horses, and that's how it all started - with "the horse incident".

Anathema could hear the animal's cries from where she was playing at a river nearby, and without thinking started to run as fast as she could towards the source of distress. She was out of breath when she made it to the top of the hill, bending forward to rest her hands on her knees and take a few deep breaths as she scanned the field before her. Then she saw it - a beautiful, snow-white horse lying on the ground, tied to a post with a rope. There were angry red marks running across their body, visible even from where she was standing. The horse was attempting to stand up, struggling pathetically.

Anathema noticed two figures a few feet away - an older woman was holding a boy with dark red hair - who was holding a whip. As Anathema began to run closer, she noticed that the woman's face was stained with tears, but the boy's eyes were dry. The woman let go of the boy suddenly, pushing away at him halfheartedly, and when he fell back to the ground she walked quickly to the injured horse. Anathema hurried over to the boy. As she offered her hand and helped him up, she noticed small blood splats over his clothes and hands.

When Anathema's mother came looking for her more than an hour later, the two kids were playing in a tall field of wheat. Her mom promptly dragged her away from the still blood-covered boy, and when they got home, she sat her down and told her to never go near him again. Your father saw it, she said, he beat that horse, nearly killed the poor thing.

As soon as Anathema finished her cereal the next morning though, she ran over to where she last saw the boy, and found him not far off. "I'm gonna follow you forever and make sure you never hurt another horse!" Anathema screamed at him then, and proceeded to do just that.

She followed him around the entire day. Crowley rarely spoke and was just so strange, Anathema thought, not at all like her other friends, but there were so many fun things to do in the castle Crowley lived in that Anathema soon forgot all about it. And maybe her dad was wrong, anyway. She was old enough now to know parents weren't always right about everything.

. . .

More than twenty years later, Anathema was still by his side. Crowley never hurt another horse again - at least as far as she knew - but he was still... him. He was still that same boy, with that sometimes unnervingly empty look in his eye that seemed to come to life at the wrong time and in all the wrong ways.

Despite all that, Crowley did seem to genuinely care about Anathema, and even went so far as to tell her he loved her a few times. She took those confessions with a grain of salt and didn't particularly enjoy hearing them in the first place - she'd learned that love meant something very different for Crowley, and wasn't sure she wanted to be on the receiving end of it. But he wanted to "be good" - he told her so often and meant it, as far as she could tell. He also trusted Anathema to teach him what that meant. And she tried, for years and years, keeping Crowley close - because he was her friend, her best friend really, but more importantly... he was her responsibility. If Crowley ever... if anything ever happened to someone, Anathema would blame herself.

So this was her life. Probably forever. Because although he did seem to be improving, even managing to feel something good every now and then, Anathema could never really be sure. She could never really know. Maybe he was just getting better at what Crowley used to call 'the performance' - swearing he only ever did it for other people, not her. Indeed, Crowley didn't pretend, not with her. Oh, no. She got to have the absolute mis-fucking-fortune of knowing him.

Fall 2002

"Always tell me the truth, always always always," Anathema told him many years ago after finding a girl Crowley had sworn he had no interest in, passed out from drinking and locked in Crowley's dorm closet. "You said you didn't want to hurt her. Now tell me the truth, all of it."

And Crowley did as he was told - told her the truth, all of it, uncensored, with none of the usual sugar-coating. Anathema watched him as he spoke, Crowley's face as neutral and dead-looking as ever as he described... unspeakable things, awful things, and Anathema was kneeling in front of a trash can, emptying her stomach before Crowley even got to the juicy parts.

"You said the truth," Crowley said from behind her, defensively. "And I wasn't going to do any of those things."

Anathema stared at her half-digested lunch in the trashcan. She didn't want to turn around, couldn't face him, not yet. "I know," she said. Lied. Because she didn't know, not at all.

How could she possibly trust this man wouldn't do the things he'd described when he was capable of thinking them in the first place? A normal, healthy person wasn't capable of coming up with that sort of shit and- and... fuck, Anathema cursed under her breath - she couldn't let Crowley see her right now or he'd know, he'd know she was thinking those hurtful things about him. Though the fact that she just vomited merely from hearing his unfiltered thoughts might have tipped him off.

(Every now and then, Anathema swore she could sense the dark energy radiating from him, sinister and malevolent and unpredictable, and then she'd hear those... godawful screams of the white and red horse in her head and remember the blood-stained hands on that little boy, and it would all just be... too much, just too much for such a young girl to bear all on her own, and she'd be unable to stop the frustration and fear and hatred and disgust that she sometimes felt for her best friend from overpowering her love for him and becoming visible on her face. And in those moments she just went by instinct, curling her lips in disgust at him, slamming her fists against his chest, hurling objects in his direction, screaming hateful accusations at him or doing any number of things she later regretted but dammit, she just wanted to hurt the- the vile thing in front of her sometimes. Not the way he wanted to hurt others, of course - her need felt... righteous, like something she had to do, like it was good. Like pouring holy water on a demon or cutting a poisonous serpent's head off with the sharp edge of a shovel. And when she succeeded in hurting him, when her cruel words managed to shake up his shell of a soul enough for him to feel it, it would be only moments before she was apologizing and telling him she didn't mean any of it, 'but at least it made you feel something, right, this is good, it's a good thing, Crowley' and he'd nod and she'd be forgiven, and they would both try their best to do better until one of them failed again and the cycle repeated.)

Her thoughts were interrupted by a light touch on her shoulder then and she jerked violently, jumping forward and away from the touch, spilling the contents of the trashcan as she scrambled over it before turned around. Now facing Crowley, she saw something that - perhaps - looked vaguely like hurt on his face. It was too strange, too Crowley for it to be his 'performance' - he could do better than that. He seemed to recognize her reluctance.

"Sorry, sorry, it's fine, I'm fine," she said, trying her best to hide the fear and anger and revulsion she still felt throbbing in her chest. Crowley looked unconvinced.

"You're a bad liar," he told Anathema, who held his gaze.

"Yeah... You aren't though, are you?" she returned unkindly, more of a statement than a question, and Crowley was the first to look away.

"I don't lie to you," Crowley said quietly at his feet, keeping his body limp and slow as he shuffled slightly back and away from her, trying to appear harmless - just the way Anathema had taught him throughout the years. (1. "could you not freaking loom, Crowley?", 2. "stop staring at me like that", 3. "fuck, don't- don't touch me, you-!", 4. "don't raise your voice like that, it scares people".)

Ah shit, thought Anathema, he saw it. He's gonna crawl back into his shell and send out some... hologram, and play a recording of some emotion he saw somewhere, on someone else. She finally got up from the floor, standing to face him.

"Right," she sighed as she cleaned some of the sick off her shirt and pants. "You don't lie, you just don't tell me things."

"I can't tell you every single thought that crosses my mind, how would that work?"

Anathema felt a spark of anger. "Don't play stupid, Crowley. You know exactly what sort of things I'm talking about."

Crowley's eyes darted away again, and he was clearly trying to think of a way to get out of this and ah, here we go, she thought, wily fucking bastard. Anathema felt like punching him for the millionth time since they've known each other.

"You know I can't always tell," Crowley said, looking at her now, his eyes big and vulnerable and his voice soft and innocent. "That's why I need you, Anathema."

Motherfucker, she thought, her hands forming tight fists. "Don't pull that shit with me, Crowley, or I swear to god I'm gonna walk away right now and fucking disappear."

Whatever emotion Crowley was attempting to simulate on his face was gone with a blink, and Anathema was too fucking pissed off to shiver. That wicked energy of his was suddenly pouring off him in waves.

"You're not going to leave me," he said, quietly, calmly - confidently, the fucking bastard - and Anathema could hear the threat behind it. She pressed her lips into a thin line.

"You sound mighty sure of yourself there, friend," she hissed, an unkind tone to her voice. "And you're gonna make sure of that, are you?"

They stood there, watching each other, neither willing to admit to the other that they were afraid.

"Yes," Crowley replied, finally.

Anathema's nostrils flared, face contorting in anger. "How you gonna do that, Crowley?"

He was almost like a statue, unmoving and silent.

"You gonna lock me up in your closet? Huh? Gonna keep me like a fucking pet?"

Crowley said nothing, but the words that were coming from Anathema were having an effect. Snake - meet shovel.

"Yeah, you've thought about that, haven't you? Any other sick fantasies involving me I should be aware of? All that- all that- fucking- psycho shit you wanted to do to that girl? What's stopping you from doing that shit to me, huh? Why don't you just bash my fucking head in right now and-"

For what seemed like the longest moment of her life, Anathema actually thought she was going to die. So many thoughts ran through her head in those few seconds that they seemed like a fucking eternity as she stood trembling in her friend's strong hold. And on the question of fight or flight, she was, it would seem, in favour of the third option - freeze in complete terror. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think. She opened her eyes when she felt a warm palm slowly and softly drawing large circles on her back. Air rushed into her lungs again, kick-starting her brain. The circles on her back continued, and slowly but surely began to relax her taut muscles. He's hugging me, she thought in disbelief. She heard Crowley whisper something but she couldn't make it out though the loud drumming of her heart.

"What?" she managed.

"I'm sorry."

"Oh."

Crowley squeezed her harder then, pressing her closer, only to loosen the embrace again when Anathema tensed. He kept moving his hand on her back.

"You said to tell you the truth. All of it," he said, sounding a little desperate.

"Yeah. I did, didn't I," Anathema returned, trying to chuckle but it sounded more like a sob. Christ. This was life with Crowley. The man who felt barely anything but made you feel so intensely a mix of emotions that did not belong together. Like affection and disgust. Love and fear. Anathema swore to herself she would be more prepared next time, she wouldn't get this hysterical again when Crowley was honest with her. (Which is what she told herself every time.) "I can't control what crosses my mind," Crowley said to her once, and Anathema told him that sounded like a lazy excuse. Crowley agreed.

But it was Anathema's responsibility to know his thoughts, wasn't it? That meant she had to be able to handle hearing him speak about these things and, more importantly, he had to be willing to speak of them and that meant she had to do better. She had to stop punishing him for thinking.

She felt the hold tighten again, only slightly.

"I won't ever harm you. Not you. I swear it."

Despite everything, Anathema believed him. That was the last time Crowley ever threatened her for a long, long time.

But then... that man came along.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/22316332

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harddrinkingshortfusedmess · 5 years

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Recently I’ve been thinking a lot about Crowley as a character. The demon who canonically drank for a week straight after he saw the atrocities of the Spanish Inquisition, thought God overreacted when She expelled Adam and Eve from the Garden, who met Jesus and showed him the kingdoms of the word because of his “limited travel prospects”. Crowley is one of my all time favourites.

Anyway, I wrote some ramblings about The Fall™ and thought I’d share. (As a disclaimer I’d like to say I’m not an expert on religion and this isn’t intended to offend anyone, it’s just a rambling based on the excellence that is Good Omens, obv belonging to the incomparable Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett). Here we go:

Crowley hated the word “fallen”. It didn’t really describe him at all, yet it appeared to be everyone else’s preferred adjective to label him with. Hastur, Ligur, Beelzebub – even the angel – had called Crowley “fallen” on more than one ocassion.

It made his skin crawl. Crowley hadn’t fallen anywhere and, for the record, he hadn’t sauntered vaguely downwards either. He had only invented that line to keep up appearances. The truth was much less cool than Crowley cared to admit.

Really, he’d tripped. Crowley had been up in heaven, bored, and asking too many questions about the “great plan” (ineffable had never been a concept that he could easily grasp), when he had started to well…peer downwards over the precipice of heaven.

The thing is, there were so many rules and restrictions attached to being an angel, many of which Crowley strongly felt merited an explanation. You weren’t allowed to do or say certain things, you couldn’t just create whatever you wanted, and if God said jump you were meant to say how high and, listen, your legs got tired after a while. Could you blame Crowley for wanting to know why he had to keep jumping?

Heaven had blamed him. All the archangels begged Crowley to stop asking his questions or gave him vague non-answers. God didn’t even try to respond – she’d just smiled at him knowingly whilst the phrase “trust in the divine plan” echoed from the Metatron.

And yes, admittedly, Crowley had been hanging out with the wrong angels. Those who spread rumours as confidently as truths, despite the shaky foundation of rotten knowledge that they stood upon.

All those years ago, rumour had it that Lucifer Morningstar could answer Crowley’s big question and that his response wouldn’t dare mention the words ineffable or great or plan. So, Crowley had leant over the proverbial cliff’s edge just to…take a peek at what was going on down there.

But he lost his footing, or was nudged off, and well…that was it. “Fallen”. Forever.

And on the very long way down, Crowley had tried to grip onto some kind of ledge or ridge, anything to save himself, stretching out his hands until his shoulders ached but the distance was too great. Crowley’s wings wouldn’t work – they were too busy changing colour, alight with the velocity of his descent.

The whole thing had been Earth’s fault, really. Creation had been going swimmingly before God had introduced the grand idea of Earth. Crowley had quite enjoyed making the stars, taking due creative licence with their shape and brightness. Being one of God’s appointed little helpers had been…alright. Until it was announced that God felt the heavens had been sufficiently filled with galaxies, nebulas and the like, and that the new big thing to be made was Earth with people, children, animals, life and death.

It all sounded so…unnecessarily cruel. Crowley learned that the minds of humans were to be made fascinatingly complex; they would be given free will, just like the angels had, but with finality – a time limit – and little to no supervision over their actions.

In the planning of Earth’s creation, God had given Crowley a glimpse of Human Love. Being an angel at the time, Crowley could sense this virtue deeply and its nature was unlike the vast yet vague love that heavenly beings held for all things great and small.

Angelic Love was to Human Love what hearing your favourite song played on a dusty radio interrupted every few seconds by static interference was to hearing that same song performed live in an acoustically perfect arena. Angelic Love had been pleasant, but it now seemed imperfect to Crowley, as though it were missing something.

Nearly 6,000 years after his fall, Crowley would explain that Angelic Love was like having to take an acceptably clean and empty public bus home from a day’s work, whilst Human Love was like doing ninety miles an hour down a stretch of open road in his Bentley, with a Best of Queen album blasting from the radio (and a certain angel’s laugh echoing from the passenger seat).

And Crowley learned that, according to God’s will, humans would feel this love all the time for objects, animals, other humans – especially for the little ones, known as children – but this would create pain, loneliness and suffering because sometimes the other humans wouldn’t love them back or would die. Even the little ones.

It didn’t seem fair. They were meant to be the “Good Guys”, right? So why was Crowley being asked to create innocence and love just as some other angels were making cruelty, destruction and plagues?

“Original sin” his arse. That excuse had irked Crowley; he’d taken his peek downstairs later that day.

Crowley couldn’t claim, though, that he’d strayed from the heavenly path because of a sense of love or sympathy he had for the nearly existent humans. He didn’t tumble out of God’s grace because he was “too good” for heaven.

He’d just really liked the human version of free will. Crowley desired, more than anything, to do as he liked; to make his choices, good and bad, unimpeded by the push and pull of the invisible strings that tied him to God’s ineffable plan.

Only problem? Hell was no better than Heaven, of course. More lies, still no answers and insufferable boredom. Crowley had never thought his saving grace would come in the form of some half-hearted order to go up there and make some trouble. See if you can answer your questions for yourself, they’d told him.

And then there was Earth, Eden and most importantly Aziraphale.

An angel, who had given away his flaming sword to protect the tempted. And in that moment, Crowley really fell.

Not in the shameful, biblical way. No, this falling had burned deep inside of Crowley but this time it hadn’t hurt. It was exhilarating – he’d felt alive.

So, maybe Crowley was “fallen”, but not in the sense everyone else believed.

Crowley wasn’t fallen from, he was fallen for. When he really fell, he fell purposefully. It was his first choice, all his own.

And, so far, it was the best one he’d ever made.

#good omens #crowley #anthony j crowley #i write things sometimes #crowley inspired me #ineffable husbands #the vibe is defo there #i love this book and i love this show #aziraphale #crowley x aziraphale

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dolphin-bouillabaisse · 4 years

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GO-ctober Prompt, 30

Inktober except without the ink, and with drabbles instead.

Prompt #30 - Catch

(previous | next | beginning)

(find it all on Ao3)

“We stopped the planned end of the world and broke Her Great Plan.”

“Mhm.”

“We denounced our respective sides.”

“Yep.”

“We lied to their faces, played tricks on them, made them think we are not simple members of the angel-demon divide anymore.”

“Well, they came to that conclusion themselves.”

“Frankly, we've lived in nothing but sin ever since.” “That might sound a bit more raunchy than it actually is, angel.”

“And yet.” Aziraphale sighs, and rubs the bridge of his nose. “You're still afraid of me falling.”

“Aren't you?”

Aziraphale stares at Crowley, who, arms crossed and neck hidden into his collar as he slides down on the sofa, very much resembles one of the angry teenagers they keep visiting.

“No! No, Crowley, I'm not! I know it's taken years to convince me, I understand how you could still have some trepidations about it all. But we are on our side now. I don't believe there is anything I could fall from, anymore.”

“That's some very rhetoric bullshit and you know it. You're still an angel.”

“Yes, I am. Still. Despite all we've done, and all we continue to do. Despite the fact that I am openly consorting with a demon-” Crowley seems like he wants to interject to that particular kind of phrasing, but Aziraphale will not let him get a word in this time “-and that I'm doing a myriad of things I never thought an angel could do, and have been doing even before this whole... situation. I am still an angel. Don't you think if I were to fall for all that, I already would have?”

Crowley is quiet, suspiciously so. They've had this argument before – not all at once, but bits and pieces, separate lines recited from one long play, and yet nothing has ever convinced him. Aziraphale doubts his silence is proof of change.

“I'm just worried.”

“You can also be worried that a meteor is going to hit the earth tomorrow, or some freak accident will cause a zombie apocalypse, but that doesn't mean it's going to happen. It's not something we need to think about.”

“It's not like I'm planning to think about it. I don't want to think about it. It just comes up sometimes!”

It does. And it usually does so at the worst moments.

Crowley has dropped his hand in public several times, misled by the suspicion other angels might be around. He's stopped him from frivolous miracles, 'non-angelic' ones, stopped him from asking questions and debating things with Anathema, going so far as to actually start a fight with the poor girl about 'tempting' an angel to bad thoughts (because if Crowley is anything, he is a massive hypocrite). He has, more than once, broken up a rather nice moment in the bookshop, or the flat above, carefully set Aziraphale's clothing back into its original state, and avoided pretty much any physical contact for hours afterwards.

Aziraphale has had enough. He has spent decades, centuries tip-toeing around like this, being afraid like this, hating himself for being like this. He will not let Crowley do the same, not now that they are finally free from all of it.

And so, the argument had begun.

And so, it seems, it would go on.

Aziraphale drops back in his chair, lets his head hang over the backrest, takes a deep breath. He shouldn't get angry about this. He knows the fear well, the irrational thoughts, the constant worry of Is this it? Is this the final step that does it? It was hard enough dealing with it on his own. He can imagine how it might feel for Crowley, thinking he would be responsible for it all.

“I'm sorry.” Crowley's voice is shy, filled with trepidation. It makes Aziraphale's heart ache. The endless unsaid words that one apology contains, the countless years, the many scenes where they parted without so much as a sorry to smooth things over. The demon isn't one to apologise, not unless he feels irrevocably and painfully at fault. Which he isn't, but that is harder to get into his head than anything else.

The thing is, Aziraphale might think he understands. He might even think he's convincing them both with this repeating argument.

The thing is, he doesn't. He isn't.

He can't imagine what it feels like. To make someone fall. To be the tipping point of an angel's descent into darkness. Granted, Crowley doesn't exactly know what it feels like either – it's not like there's any other angels he's spend six millennia tempting and toying with that have fallen by now – but he can imagine better than anyone, especially when it comes with negative connotations.

The thought of seeing his angel burn, his feathers turning into ash, the weight of guilt and pain and remorse he'd carry for the rest of their unending lives – it's too much. It overwhelms him, and he has to pull back, has to put a stop to whatever has caused it. Things are going too fast, sometimes, and yes, he is well aware of the irony, thank you very much, it doesn't make this any easier.

By this point, neither of them has said anything for minutes after Crowley's apology – the argument instead continuing in their heads, in silence, both of them knowing full well what the other might say, knowing how this all turns out. It always goes like this. Soon enough, Aziraphale will give up, Crowley will see it as his defeat, having made the angel feel worse again, and so he will retreat back to wherever it is he goes after an argument now that he has no more flat to hide in, lick his wounds, and return in a few days pretending like nothing ever happened.

Until the next time he lets go of Aziraphale's hand, or shushes him during a debate, or looks at him below him, all open and flushed and vulnerable, and feels like a predator planning to kill.

This is how it always goes.

Aziraphale has had enough of it. He has one more strike prepared, one more thing he has to say out loud, since Crowley cannot provide it in his own inner argument, considering he's never heard it before.

“You know.” He begins, his tongue heavy in his mouth, as if it was a lie, but it truly isn't. Not anymore. “I'm not worried about falling. I'm not even afraid of it, anymore. I wouldn't even care if I did.”

“Angel-!”

“No, I mean it. I could fall tomorrow, and I think I'd be fine.”

Crowley stares at him, and his expression is impossible to read. Anger. Shock. Fear? There are tears pooling in the corner of his eyes.

“How.”

“Because, my dearest.” And Aziraphale sits up again from his slump, leans forward, closer to him, as close as he can without getting up, since this argument is not over, the reconciliation not yet begun. “Because no matter what, I know you'd be there to catch me. Maybe I should've known much earlier. You would've always been there to catch me, even centuries ago. I would never have needed to be afraid.”

Crowley swallows, his mouth feels dry. He can't speak. He barely thinks.

“No matter what, you're always there for me. I wouldn't go through it alone. And no matter what I am – angel, demon, human, anything inbetween – I will never need to worry about it, because you'll be at my side.”

“Yes.” Crowley croaks, and Aziraphale finally smiles.

“So if I fall tomorrow, or in a year, or never. I don't care. I'm not afraid. As long as I have you, I don't need Heaven or my wings or my grace or anything else.”

He watches as Crowley buries his face in his hands, gives him a second, a moment to compose himself – which he can't, as his trembling shoulders and quiet sobs prove. It's too much. The angel's trust, his love, this never-ending and all-encompassing and terrifyingly wonderful feeling they both share is too much.

The argument is not over. It will come back again, as it always does, because habits are hard to break, and fears are not easily fought, and Crowley's mind can be a truly monstrous thing sometimes, punishing him for things he is not even guilt of.

But for the first time, it might have actually proven a point, Aziraphale thinks as he moves over to the sofa to hold him tight, close to his heart, combs his hair and kisses the crown of his head.

Whether it changes now, or the next time they recite this play, or the time after this. He'll be there to catch Crowley when it breaks through. Just like he would be there for him.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #my writing #prompts #october prompts

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todisturbtheuniverse · 5 years

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FIC: How Strong the Habit of Idle Speech [2/2]

Rating: T Fandom: Good Omens Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley Tags: Pre-Relationship, Developing Relationship, Mutual Pining, Fluff Word Count: 8,700 Summary: Part 1 here. Eleven years should not make any difference to an eternal being. It shouldn't even be long enough to establish a habit. But it has been, and he has gotten into the habit of Aziraphale, and breaking it will be about as easy as breaking the wings from his very essence. He can admit this much to himself: he very much does not want to be alone. More to the point, he does not want to be without Aziraphale. Also on AO3. Notes: This part begins right near the end of Episode 6. And promptly gets away from me.

Crowley has a Plan A and a Plan B, and that is all he needs.

Plan A is simple: he is not going to tempt or coerce or even accidentally guilt Aziraphale into anything at all. He is going to stand back and let Aziraphale come to him, and it seems like Aziraphale actually might do just that. He's not going to set up any more meetings with flimsy excuses, or bargain for lunch out, or stop off at the bookshop just because. He is not going to go too fast. He is going to stand still.

This runs counter to his very nature, which has a deep love of fast cars, but some level of compromise has always been necessary in his association with Aziraphale. This is just an extension of everything that has come before.

This will be fine. He can do this. Easy. He can see that some change is coming—maybe slowly, maybe not, time is a tricky thing—and he can cool his heels until it arrives.

But there is a part of him—a wretched and hideous part, that lives in the same place where broken faith resides—that just doesn't trust this. Not even after the previous night. Not even after everything that's been said and also carefully not said these last few days.

So he builds a single exception into Plan A: he asks Aziraphale to lunch, to see if things are going to be as they were, if the angel is going to fall back on token protests even now that the threat of annihilation has been removed.

He doesn't.

Prior conversations about being tired of the script aside, this is still unnerving. Crowley knows, logically, that he should expect as much from Aziraphale after these last twenty-four hours. There has been a declaration, of sorts. He should rely on it.

But whatever part of him still bleeds from Falling—well. It's hard to reason with that bit of himself. It has all the instincts of a wounded animal.

This, maybe, is why there is a Plan B at all. An acknowledgment of these instincts so that he can know his own equivalent of peace, fragile as it is.

Plan B is also simple: if Aziraphale does not come to him, he will let the angel go. He will eke out some other existence, somehow, in the years between the moments when they cross paths—which will surely be long, with neither of them orchestrating said path-crossing. Maybe in another six thousand years it will feel perfectly natural. Good, even. Inasmuch as Crowley ever feels good.

There have been times these last six thousand years that he spent alone. Plenty of them. The majority, by a long shot.1 He can get used to that solitude again.

Eleven years should not make any difference to an eternal being. It shouldn't even be long enough to establish a habit. But it has been, and he has gotten into the habit of Aziraphale, and breaking it will be about as easy as breaking the wings from his very essence. He can admit this much to himself: he very much does not want to be alone.

Some level of this is inevitable, however. Armageddon is averted. There is no need to live in one another's pockets anymore, not even the centuries-old Arrangement to maintain. Some distance must re-establish itself, and Crowley expects it to come down like a guillotine as they step out of the Ritz and into the fading light. They've drunk most of the afternoon away, and some of the evening besides.

"Lift home?" he asks, forcibly casual, and grits his teeth against anything more. Even this might be in violation of Plan A. He's going to have to consider it.

Aziraphale gives him one of those brief glances, eyes cutting over and away and back again. "Thank you."

This is familiar territory, at least. Adam even remembered to put back the window transfers, which Aziraphale gives a funny look—the same funny look he often gives them—as he ducks into the car. Crowley considers driving at a more reasonable speed before tossing that thought aside; his earlier planning was all metaphor, anyway, and London is hell to navigate at speed limit.

And life without Aziraphale's protests about how he drives...he likes the bickering, the admonishments. He listens to them with relish. It reminds him that they're alive.

They reach the bookshop without any incident at all. Crowley doesn't turn the engine off; he waits for Aziraphale to get out. He wonders, even as he tries to shove down the obsessive worry: When will he even see the angel next? And why? Theirs has been a connection built heavily on convenience; with the structure of that removed, why would they ever need to see one another again?

Aziraphale isn't getting out, though. He's giving the bookshop a long, hard look, as if trying to determine whether it's still as it was.

"Seemed fine this morning," Crowley offers. "Same weird smell and everything. Few additions, though."

"Weird smell," Aziraphale repeats at a mutter, giving a little shake of his head. "It's not got a weird smell."

Crowley bites back a retort—so get going, check for yourself—and merely drums his fingers on the steering wheel.

Aziraphale looks back at him, one hand on the door. "What if we're wrong?" he asks; there is some small trepidation in his face. "What if they don't leave us alone? What if they're just waiting for an opportune moment?"

Crowley leans back in his seat. "And if they are? What are we going to do about it?"

"Well," Aziraphale says, "I thought…" He clears his throat. "Why don't you come in? For a drink. In case."

Crowley looks at him, damn near squints at him: Aziraphale, tentative and hopeful, looking at him like he's asking an entirely different question. Something in Crowley's very essence tries to crawl out of his skin, tries to reach out to whatever's being offered.

"In case a horde of demons turns up at your door?" Crowley asks finally.

Aziraphale's face hardens. "Or yours," he says, quiet but with steel.

Most of the time, Crowley thinks the real ineffability in Her plan was handing a flaming sword to Aziraphale. Aziraphale, who miracles doves back to life with grief and guilt in his face; Aziraphale, who couldn't even bring himself to kill the Antichrist; Aziraphale, who seemed mildly horrified at the way Adam—the first Adam—had chopped a lion's head off with that same sword, as if it had just occurred to him that that was the weapon's purpose.

But right now, the sword wouldn't look out of place in his hand. Not at all. A shield would make just as much sense, though, maybe more. Like a wing, lifted against the rain.

So many years of Aziraphale's profoundly irritating literacy are really rubbing off on him.

"Besides," Aziraphale says, and the looming presence of thunder abates, just enough for Crowley to realize that the thick intent of it had filled the entire car. "Better odds, with two of us, right?"

Crowley doesn't think that this is really what Aziraphale's asking. It's hard to forget how many there are in those Head Offices, true. How if they really put their minds to it, they could come up with some way to deal with the pair of them, despite the lies they've now been told. It's worth being a little alert, keeping an eye out.

He knows what he saw in Heaven, though, and he's heard what Aziraphale saw in Hell. They're not coming. They're scared. He knows that, and he thinks Aziraphale does, too.

But if Aziraphale needs a pretense to invite him in, it's better than not inviting him in at all.

Crowley jerks his chin in a nod, twists the key in the ignition, and pulls the Bentley into the nearest convenient alley, where it will at least not immediately announce his presence, if they're bowing a little to pretense. He scans the shadows before they get out, searching for the buckling ground, the rotten soil that will spill forth an enemy.

There is nothing. No holy light; no evil glare.

"Right," he says, and follows Aziraphale to the bookshop.

Aziraphale bustles past the door like it's nothing, like it wasn't just all on a lot of fire a day ago; he goes through the usual motions, double-checking that the sign is flipped firmly to Closed, casting around to make sure everything is generally in the right place, and then hurrying off to the back to make cocoa or maybe open a bottle of wine so that they can really work on this buzz they've been cultivating slowly all afternoon.

Crowley finds it a little harder to fall into routine. Usually he'd be in his spot in the back room by now, the chair that he's never seen Aziraphale sit in once, and heckling as Aziraphale prepares drinks, but he gets stuck halfway through this room he remembers burning. He doesn't shake, or tremble, Heaven forbid, but he does stop, with the claws of memory digging into his chest like they're intent on cracking his ribcage wide open.

He's still standing there, trying to force down the echo of his dramatics and his despair and all the other emotions those imply, trying to collect himself, when Aziraphale comes back, frowning. "What is it?" he asks, from across the room, and Crowley rolls his shoulders and tries to behave normally with a great force of will.

"Nothing," he says. "Just." He flaps a hand around, makes one of those garbled noises that he figures sounds very devil-may-care and entirely covers the fact that he doesn't know what to say until after it's done. "Checking it still smells weird, I guess."

Aziraphale approaches, still that little frown on his face, which is tipping dangerously toward concern. "Are you all right?"

Plan A, Crowley reminds himself, a touch frantically, Plan A, Plan A, Plan A. No guilting. Act naturally.

"Fine," he says, and has to despair at how unnatural it sounds. Lie better. Lie better, Crowley. "Just...weird day. Strange to see it all exactly how it was."

"Well," Aziraphale says dryly, "the William books are new. God knows what else." He's only about a foot away now, and he looks at Crowley with an understanding in his eyes that Crowley needs to shrink away from. Needs to shield himself from. "It's all right," he says, softly now. "I'm fine. See?"

And he picks up Crowley's hand, an action so startling that Crowley doesn't react at all, and tucks it between both of his own, holding it tightly between them.

Lie better, Crowley thinks, the scream of it repeating but fading back, back, back; Aziraphale knows, Aziraphale has seen through him, this is in violation of Plan A, this counts as guilting, even if he doesn't see any guilt in Aziraphale's face, just compassion. Nothing but that, in the touch of his hands.

The body is just that—a body, something that carries them around, irrelevant to the truth of them—but it is representative all the same. Aziraphale might call Velvet Underground bebop but he knows what a gesture like this means. He must know. It is hopeless to think that he knows.

Crowley cannot think of a single thing to say, cannot think of anything but his own agony on his knees on this floor, on the impossibility of Aziraphale returned to him, on his sharp and grasping greed. He could bury this like he has buried so many other things, create a distance enforced by barbed words, whatever it takes.

He opens his mouth to give it a try, and nothing worth saying materializes; he thinks of what he could say, the venom he could spit, and he's deterred by the memory of Aziraphale's arm around his shoulders, pulling him close and safe.

"Come have a drink," Aziraphale says, with the awful, patient kindness of millennia in his eyes, and leads Crowley to the back.

"What do we do now, exactly?" Crowley blurts out, when they've finished off two bottles of wine between them. They are well into the third; Aziraphale had fussed over choosing each of them until Crowley had threatened to break into the really old stuff if he didn't just decide, and Aziraphale had smiled and gotten into the dustiest bottles himself.

"It suits the occasion, I think," he'd said.

Now this—this feels old and comforting and familiar. As long as Aziraphale has owned this ridiculous bookshop, there has been reason to close it for a drink. There has been a late night with too much wine, here and there. Whenever one of them could think up an excuse for such an event, anyway, which Crowley has recently decided was not often enough at all.

"What do we do," Aziraphale repeats from where he's sunk down in the lumpiest chair in this hemisphere, posture finally forgotten. He makes it sound like he's comprehended neither the individual words nor the question they form together.

"Yeah," Crowley says. He leans forward, edge of his chair, almost far enough that his elbows are at risk of going right off his knees and he is at risk of ending up on the floor. "Whatever...whatever breathing space we've got, if we've got it...what do we do with it?"

Aziraphale looks across at him, blue eyes vague and puzzled.

"No one's going to tell you to go do a blessing in Edinburgh, is what I'm saying," Crowley says, forcefully, swimming through the murk of drunkenness with great effort. "Not after warning them off like that."

He tries not to let on what he's really asking. Whatever we're doing, are we doing it together? Asking that outright is a clear violation of Plan A.

Aziraphale snorts. "I wish I could have seen it," he says, a touch dreamily. "You said Gabriel started. He's never jumped at anything before. Certainly not at me."

"Angel," Crowley says; it sounds a great deal more endeared, and a great deal less exasperated, than he intended. "Focus."

Aziraphale squeezes his eyes shut for a long few seconds. When he opens them again, he says, "Did they even really need that blessing in Edinburgh, though?"

Crowley flops back in his seat. "You're not focusing."

"No, really," Aziraphale insists, and by contrast, he straightens up, pulling himself out of the very un-Aziraphale-like slouch he cultivates after this amount of wine. "Did they? And what about your people—your former people, I should say. They hardly ever told you to do anything at all, they just...pointed in a general direction, and then assumed."

"What're you saying?"

"I'm saying that humanity seems clever enough," Aziraphale says. "They don't need us looking after them."

"So you've ticked one off the list of things we won't do," Crowley says, an old acid rising with the words, familiar and affectionate scorn. "Well done. How about the actual question, then?"

"Are you at loose ends already?" Aziraphale asks, amusement touching his eyes, his smile. He seems a good deal less worried than he seemed earlier, like that brief anxiety in the Bentley has all blown away, dust in the wind. Like it was pretense, as Crowley guessed—knew. "I always thought you had a great deal to do, and work was just getting in the way."

The truth is much less glamorous-sounding, so Crowley keeps it to himself, lest he find himself inviting pity.2 "Oh, yeah," he says. "Loads." He gives his head a little shake, trying to rattle an example loose, something that will sound very legitimate and also very interesting. Threatening the plants probably doesn't count.

"Well," Aziraphale says, apparently not noticing that Crowley's grasping not so much at straws as air, "if you can fit me into your schedule, there's an auction I mean to go to tomorrow. Supposedly there will be a few first editions—maybe even annotated by the author—for sale." His lips purse, a great deal more severely than they would if he weren't drunk. "Though where they found them...well, let's say I have some doubts about their authenticity."

Crowley examines that invitation backwards and forwards, trying to find anything purposeful about it. Anything that means something other than, I'm doing this thing and I'd like you to come along so we might spend time together, in a venue that doesn't involve a great deal of duck excrement.

"So you intend to work," he says at last, because he can't accept anything gracefully—whole problem from the very beginning, wasn't it. "Not Work, but work. You don't even like selling the books."

"I might sell a few," Aziraphale protests. "I have sold a few. Before. Last summer? Maybe it was a few years ago." He subsides into mumbles. "You never know. The right buyer…"

"It'd be a weird human that meets your standards for what constitutes worthy of buying this book." Crowley flings a hand around, encompassing the whole room. Doesn't matter which book. All of them are Special to Aziraphale, and not just anyone gets to walk out with one.

Aziraphale doesn't argue. Perhaps he sees there would be no point. "Yes, I intend to work," he says, more firmly. "Watch after them—the humans, that is—when I notice any trouble, maybe. Keep my ear to the ground. This shop…" He looks around, perhaps unconsciously following the route of Crowley's hand, though more slowly. "I like it very much, you know." His eyes sharpen, and they fix on Crowley. "So will you come along? There's bound to be some kind of bidding war."

He extends that tidbit like a temptation. He hasn't forgotten that incident in 1593, then, when they'd been chased from the premises by someone or other Crowley had outbid: Crowley cackling the whole way, Aziraphale muttering laments under his breath about the Chaucer incunable he'd missed out on.3 There was so much mayhem to stir up in a place where multiple people wanted the same unique item very badly. Crowley adored it, and Aziraphale had never invited him along to another auction since.

"I can make room, I suppose," Crowley says, as nonchalantly as possible.

Aziraphale gives him a beatific smile. The entire insides of his chest—who knows what's in there at the moment, really, could be any old organ at all—wrench around painfully.

"Excellent. Well." Aziraphale pats his knees. "I'm going to sober up. Got to crack into those new books."

Crowley looks around, a little blearily, for the clock. Half-past one. "Just go to bed, angel. Sleep it off." He eyes the third bottle, considering the wisdom of finishing it off.

Aziraphale shudders. "I'd rather get it over with, thank you."

Crowley feels the loss of it when Aziraphale snaps back to sober. Left alone in his own swimming brain, knowing that the night is over, now. Aziraphale has made many such hints before, all polite, but they still add up to it's getting rather late, hadn't you better leave?

"Suppose I'd better, too," Crowley mutters, and if he sounds resentful, it's all perfectly above-board. It's how he usually sounds, in this sort of situation. He wonders if Aziraphale's ever caught on to why he acts like such a wretch when he's getting kicked out.

"Oh, not at all." Aziraphale gets briskly to his feet, brushing some invisible dust from his waistcoat. "You're welcome to sleep here. I have it on good authority that the sofa is very comfortable."

He nods in that direction, a particular look on his face, and Crowley—eternal optimist, maybe, tempered only with a recent dose of realism—knows it for what it is. Aziraphale is allowing him to stay. Asking him to stay.

And surely the only good authority who ever told Aziraphale that his sofa is comfortable is Crowley, and only because Crowley himself made it that way, on a night not unlike this, when he'd bullied his way into camping out on it, somehow. It's not even a sofa, not really. More a loveseat. But Crowley does not speak the inane names of furniture out loud, and besides, he likes to let his legs dangle over one of the armrests, which Aziraphale always complains about in the way he has when he doesn't actually mind.

"Well," he says. He cannot resist the lure of warmth. "All right, then." He bites back if it won't be a bother, because that is a very un-Crowley-like thing to say, and he's just coherent enough to know it.

He manages to cross the room without falling down, flops to the sofa without bashing his head on the arm rest, and wiggles to get comfortable. At some distance, he thinks he hears Aziraphale laugh—quiet, more a rhythmic expulsion of air than anything—and ignores it. Well, he doesn't react to it, at least. It's hard to ignore the sound of Aziraphale moving about his bookshop like a shepherd tending his flock; the creak of the floorboards and rustle of pages and clinking of spoon in a cup of cocoa all has a pattern, a familiarity, that does its fair share of lulling Crowley into a comfortable doze.

Even so, he's not quite asleep when Aziraphale's footsteps pass close and stop, the scent of cocoa hitting Crowley's nose right before Aziraphale's hand runs slowly, lightly over his hair. He's not quite asleep, but he pretends to be, afraid that whatever is happening will stop if he's seen to be awake, and he remembers something strange and faraway: the way that Aziraphale's eyes had lingered on his shorn hair over oysters in Rome with something like remorse.

He often worries at these little memories—the drift of Aziraphale's eyes, the flex of his fingers, and something harder to describe, a knowledge of turbulence in his very essence that defies language—but it's been a long time since he's gone that far back for something to obsess over.

And then Aziraphale's hand drifts, the backs of his fingers just barely grazing Crowley's cheek, passing over the inked snake with something like tenderness. Crowley thinks he can identify that much. Probably. And holding himself still, rather than pushing blindly toward it, is the hardest thing he's ever done.

"Dear boy," Aziraphale murmurs. "Sleep well."

He takes himself off to his desk, humming very low under his breath, and Crowley tries to take the gift for what it is, rather than a burning memory that might scar someday soon.

Crowley usually does sleep well, as a rule. He adores sleep. The laziness of it—the pointlessness of it, for him of all creatures. He doesn't need it.

But his brain is somewhat pickled, and his essence does inhabit said brain, to an extent, and even if the first thing was not true, still. Sometimes, he dreams. Brains do this without the explicit permission of their owners, even if their owners are very frightening demons.

They're the inane, garbled dreams of a human. That's what comes of inhabiting a body. Limitations of the flesh, and all that. Which is to say that they convey a sense of Crowley's general anxiety about recent events—hard to escape, that—but in a roundabout kind of way. He's driving the Bentley right over the lake in St. James Park, knocking ducks this way and that, and someone is sitting in the back who shouldn't be, someone he doesn't recognize but who smiles the way that asshole Gabriel smiles, and he feels certain that if he just drives faster they'll be forced to get out, but then a hand closes on his shoulder and—

He wakes up still half-drunk. He breathes through the confusion, which takes only an instant to sort out. He doesn't have to gasp for air or wrangle his own beating heart; if he can put the fear of Crowley into some bullheaded ferns, he can very well put it into this body's own organs, and he decides he's had enough of being drunk at this point.

It never quite works the same, but his head is clear, at least. Clear enough to note—with exasperation and, all right, a little delight—the knit blanket once again draped over his person. His mouth and throat are profoundly dry. The weird gray pre-dawn light is creeping into the shop from the east; it alights on Aziraphale at his desk. He hasn't moved at all, settled down with one of those new books he'd scoffed about, and his back is to Crowley, so it's safe to turn over on the couch and stare at him, the better to shake off the nightmare. His cocoa has gone cold; Crowley can sense it, the sad sedimented separation of the liquid.

Drinking cocoa in the dead heat of summer. Only Aziraphale.

Aziraphale, here. Still here, in his still-here bookshop, all present and accounted for. Now that there's been a little sleep, disturbed or not, and the inevitable relaxing of the guard after a whole night without angelic or demonic interference, Crowley feels some kind of elation at that. Some relief.

"Tea's on the side table," Aziraphale says, absentmindedly, and Crowley tries to pretend he wasn't staring, or that if he was, it was perfectly normal, and anyway, it's not like Aziraphale's looked up and caught him at it.

He stretches a hand out to scoop up the tea, turning a little to do it, and that's when he notices the plant.

He was too sauced to even glance at it last night. He doesn't notice his cast-offs; he ignores them, pointedly, and they tremble even so when he shadows Aziraphale's doorstep. But he can't help but give it a terrible, threatening look now, because it's gone and sprouted flowers.

Not even the flowers you'd expect a plant to put out around Aziraphale. You'd expect something white or golden or maybe even pink or blue—nice, delicate colors, and nice delicate petals. These are far too rich, deep crimson that goes even deeper at the heart, distinguishable even though each of the dozen flowers is very small.

"When did it start doing that?" Crowley asks, glaring daggers at the plant.

"Hmm?" Aziraphale reaches for his cocoa. Crowley breaks off glaring at the plant—which has remembered its maker and begun to tremble—in order to give Aziraphale's stupid little winged mug a pointed look. The cocoa re-combines and heats up, a pleasant curl of warmth issuing from its surface, just as Aziraphale picks it up. He makes a pleased little sound in his throat and shoots a grateful glance over at Crowley, who's gone back to staring at the plant.

"Oh, that," Aziraphale says, lightly. "I like them, actually. Really brightens the place up."

The plant's shaking eases a little. A war between masters is occurring. It's not yet sure which way the battle will go.

"It's the wrong season for flowers," Crowley says, by which he means, there is no right season for this plant to flower. It does not flower. I picked it for that reason, when at first I thought it could properly contribute to the aesthetic, which I see now was a foolish assumption.

"It's summer," Aziraphale says, "surely that's close enough."

"It's not," Crowley mutters, but there's nothing for it; if Aziraphale can't be persuaded to properly maintain his plants, that's not Crowley's business. "Is the auction early?"

"We have time for breakfast," Aziraphale says, and snaps the book decisively shut. "Well, these don't really fit the collection I've cultivated here, but...they are pristine first editions."

"So you're planning to hoard them instead of selling them?" Crowley says, a smile threatening at his mouth that he has to keep down, for the sake of needling.

"They were practically a gift. Poor form to sell a gift."

"Convenient," Crowley says, and yawns, pushing the blanket off and into a tangled heap at the end of the sofa. He pushes his sunglasses back onto his face. "What's for breakfast, then?"

Aziraphale leads the way to one of his favorite cafes, where the chef himself comes out to greet them. Crowley stays well out of the interaction, but he doesn't miss the relief quietly radiating from Aziraphale, the gratitude that all is still right with the world if Chez Corentin is still standing and serving crêpes. Crowley only orders coffee and steals bites of Aziraphale's crêpes when he's not paying attention, too busy listing off the merits and pitfalls of the book he spent the night reading, and this, too, feels right.

Aziraphale is still talking, and Crowley is still mildly heckling him, when they arrive at the auction. Crowley takes a single glance around the crowded room—with people, yes, but so much stuff, too—and snorts.

"First editions, you said? Not bloody likely."

But Aziraphale is peering around in ill-disguised interest. Crowley notes the style of the various furnishings and knick-knacks with dismay. "There must be something of value here. Look at that, isn't that nice?"

He nods at a dresser, one of those early nineteenth century pieces that's far too heavy to bother with. The style's always looked odd to Crowley, though maybe that's because of how quickly the 1800s passed for him, being asleep for the majority of it, and all.

"No," he says. Aziraphale casts him an exasperated look.

"Maybe I'll tidy up the flat a bit. Make it more...livable."

"The thing above your shop isn't a flat, it's a storage room. When was the last time you went up there?"

"I keep meaning to do inventory, but. You know. There's always something else to do. My point is," Aziraphale says, as if sensing that Crowley's just about to hit his stride as far as mocking goes, "there's all the time in the world now, and not much else to do with it. Maybe I'll have a go at living like humans do."

"What, are you going to take up sleeping, too?" Crowley can't imagine it.

"Take up seems like awfully strong language. Implies a habit. I'd give it a fair shot, maybe."

Crowley follows Aziraphale through the narrow aisles, feeling vaguely disconcerted by this and not really sure why. When Aziraphale pauses by one of those awful little uncomfortable chairs, though—beautifully upholstered, of course, the craftsmanship can't be denied—he puts his foot down.

"Listen, angel, if you're going in for a remodel, at least buy some comfortable furniture," he says. "Give it a fair shot, as you say."

"You're just trying to get me to go to IKEA."

"No, no, I wouldn't call that furniture comfortable. And it's very stylish, and all, but damn pain to put together. Flat-packed boxes were one of mine. No, there are other stores, and they have chairs that were built sometime in the last ten years with comfort in mind."

Aziraphale glances again at the chair. "Perhaps I'll just get it for the shop, then," he says. "Discourage customers from lingering."

"Fine, yes, good."

"You know, I don't really know anything about shopping for furniture," Aziraphale says, with a sidelong look at Crowley. "Not functional things, anyway. Your flat is very nice, if a little…" He casts around for the word. "Austere."

Here is the trouble with Plan A: their long acquaintance has relied very heavily on Aziraphale hinting powerfully at things that he'd like to do, and trusting Crowley to take the final step of indulging him. And Crowley finds himself doing exactly this, like he always has, before he knows what's happened.

"It's meant to be," he says, and then, "I know a few places."

Aziraphale beams at him, which does the same funny thing to his stomach that it's done for a very long time. "We'll go after lunch, then."

There is a bidding war—over the chair, of all things. Crowley manages to swipe the only thing of value from a knocked-over pile of books before the looks turn too murderous, and without being spotted by Aziraphale, who's too busy trying to smooth over the mood with the other bidders.

"You wanted the chair, I was going to get you the chair," Crowley says, unable to help his grin as they hurry away, the very slender book tucked safely into his jacket.

Aziraphale huffs out a sigh. "I rather think you orchestrated all that so I wouldn't get the chair. Your point is taken."

They stop back at the bookshop to take a look at the space in the flat above. Crowley nearly trips over the pile of books right inside the kitchen. Every available surface—and there are few enough of them, besides the floor—is piled with books. The smell of them slowly decomposing is overpowering. Crowley doesn't even want to guess at the last time Aziraphale opened a window up here.

"How do you live like this," he mutters, picking his way more carefully across the battered old floorboards. What he can see of them, anyway.

"It's worse than I remember," Aziraphale admits. "I forgot that I'd been just sending things up here when I ran out of space. Or rearranged."

Crowley bites his tongue on a comment about how mad Aziraphale's attempts at rearranging are. His organization system makes sense to him, and no one else, and that is almost certainly by design, even if he won't admit it.

And Crowley won't admit that he finds the chaos of it stupidly, wonderfully endearing.

"You're going to have to move them to put any furniture in here. Even a dowdy old chair."

"Oh, I expect there's space somewhere," Aziraphale says vaguely, which Crowley takes to mean that he's already miracling up a new room for the bookshop downstairs, one which somehow occupies less square footage than it seems to, and doesn't encroach at all on his neighbors. "Here."

The books all vanish, leaving the flat very, very empty. There's a long-neglected kitchen with a halfhearted table where some of the books had been recently piled, but otherwise, the place is a completely blank slate.

Aziraphale sighs. "I don't even know where to start."

"Lunch," Crowley reminds him, "and then we'll look around."

By the end of the day, Crowley has a new appreciation for how shell-shocked humans look when they emerge from IKEA. It had been easier to stock his own flat, to make adjustments over the years; he has taste, he understands what aesthetic he's cultivating, even if he dimly recognizes that he's always about ten years behind.

Aziraphale, though. Aziraphale's knee-jerk reaction to something newer than 1950 is always no, and after a few hours, might only work its way up to maybe.

The sun is going down by the time the delivery people leave. Crowley might have suggested to the sales associate that they'd paid for same-day delivery when they hadn't at all, but Aziraphale tips the workers heavily, so the scales balance.

Crowley throws himself down on the new couch, which for the moment, sits against a blank wall; they hadn't really gotten as far as strategically-placed decoration, let alone a television, in the hours available to them. But it's a comfortable couch, if not to his own taste, a kind of warm ivory in color with a tartan blanket somehow already draped over the back of it. There's a pleasant little coffee table in front of it with room for plenty of books on the lower shelf. It's all very Aziraphale.

"Well?" he asks, folding his arms behind his head.

Aziraphale looks around the flat, wary but mildly appreciative. His eyes light on the plant—the stupid one putting out flowers when it definitely shouldn't—which has moved upstairs, onto the coffee table, and the wariness melts entirely into fondness.

"It's a start." He settles on the couch, too, not directly beside Crowley, but not far. "Perhaps we should do something less productive tomorrow, though. I don't know how humans manage." He makes a face. "If I am tired, after all that, the poor dears must be exhausted."

We, Crowley thinks. We should do something less productive tomorrow.

Crowley tries not to think about the last couch they sat on together, two nights ago now. But really, he can be neurotic by nature, a hellhound with demon gristle in its teeth, and this reminds him very powerfully of it. It reminds him how well, in that moment, that he thought they'd understood one another.

But maybe it was just a moment at the end of the world. Not the end of the world—just the end of theirs, judgment looming on the horizon. That makes people do funny things. He only has to think about his own ridiculous declarations over the last week to remember that.

Even if he meant those ridiculous declarations.

"I think they usually lay around and watch telly for a day or so, after so much exertion," Crowley says, forcefully shelving all of this. "Order takeout. Laze."

Aziraphale actually yawns. Maybe he's really going to give sleeping a go, after all. "Yours, then? I'm not having one of those things in my flat."

Like it's a given. Like whatever they do, they will do together. How many days will it last? How much time can Crowley steal?

"Yeah," he says, stretching his legs out. "I bet we can find something you like."

Aziraphale makes a face that suggests he doesn't believe this, but he doesn't argue directly. "I'll bring a book."

Crowley does go home that night, inasmuch as the Mayfair flat is home. It would be too easy to overstay his welcome, to cling. Heaven and Hell aren't coming after them. There's no reason to take up full occupation of Aziraphale's couch, much as he wants to creep back in after Aziraphale's fallen asleep and burrow himself under that stupid tartan blanket. He even briefly considers parking himself on the doorstep, which is how he knows that things have gotten really out of hand.

On his way out, he hunts down the Chaucer incunable that's been hiding in the bookshop and leaves it on Aziraphale's desk to find in the morning. After a moment's hesitation, he takes the other volume out of his jacket, a printing not even a century old yet, and thumbs it open, reminding himself of the words.4

"'Teach us to care and not to care,'" he mutters. "'Teach us to sit still.'" And he scoffs—aggravation welling up inside him—because sitting still feels unnatural, and one day of practice has not made him an expert, and he wants to march back up those stairs and demand answers of Aziraphale, tangible answers, whether he's ready to give them or not.

He almost leaves the book out, beneath the Chaucer, but in the end, the narrow printing of Ash Wednesday goes in the old hiding spot, well-buried within the bookshop. Maybe in a hundred years, Aziraphale will take him to another auction, and the cycle can repeat itself, indefinitely, across centuries. Maybe they really do have that much time.

Maybe, by then, they'll have figured one another out.

Aziraphale turns up to his door the next day with takeout and a plant.

"What's this?" Crowley asks, giving the thing a perplexed look. It's a Ceropegia wood, practically glowing with health, leaves already tumbling down around the rim of the pot.

"A gift," Aziraphale says, like he's talking to someone very slow, "obviously."

He holds it out, and his brief exasperation doesn't last. There's this thing that happens when Aziraphale is very happy—in particular, very happy with Crowley—that causes him to sort of...glow. People can't see it, obviously. Maybe witches could. It's more like a peek into another plane of existence, though, a place where the greater matter of Aziraphale exists, all bright golden light.

Crowley used to think looking too close at that light would probably burn his eyes out, or something. It's just like sunning on a rock on a summer day, though. Just barely too hot to be entirely comfortable, and for a snake, that's very comfortable indeed.

Crowley takes it and stands aside to let Aziraphale in. "What for?" he asks, also like he is talking to someone very slow.

"Well, I was admiring your plants the other night, and I thought this one might fit in. It's paltry in comparison, really. Where on earth did you find that incunable?"

Crowley doesn't bother pretending ignorance; it's not like Aziraphale lets just anyone wander unobserved in his bookshop. "In your shop, where it's been hiding for oh, I don't know—a hundred and thirty years or so? Thought you'd have found it by now."

"A hundred and…" Aziraphale frowns, clearly piecing things together. "Why, we weren't even speaking, then."

Crowley manages not to squirm, holding his new plant, which is getting entirely the wrong idea about the kind of gardener he is.

Aziraphale takes his silence for something, clearly, because he says, "Oh, Crowley," in a tone of voice that is far too soft and understanding. "I'm sorry I didn't find it."

He looks it, too, like he's feeling the absence of those long years between 1862 and 1941 just as keenly as Crowley.

"Forget it," Crowley says; the sun has become unbearably bright. "It's nothing."

Aziraphale seems like he might argue, but wisely desists. "What did you steal from the auction yesterday, then?"

Crowley shrugs. "Maybe you'll find it in a hundred years."

"You wily old serpent," Aziraphale says, horribly fond; he pats Crowley's shoulder as he passes by, fingers lingering so briefly, and hard as Crowley looks, he can find no trace of admonishment in the words at all.

They retreat to the sitting room, where the television is already going on one of those insipid reality shows that Crowley finds so entertaining and Aziraphale finds so irritating. They bicker about it over the takeout, a well-trod old argument. Crowley goes to hang up the new plant and give it a stern talking-to about expectations. By the time he returns, Aziraphale's worked out how to use the remote and has found something that isn't reality TV. He actually seems quite engrossed, admiring the costume design aloud. He would; it mimics the early 1800s very well.

Crowley complains, but he makes no real effort to steal back the remote. There's something about Aziraphale making himself comfortable in Crowley's flat that he wouldn't interrupt for the world.

The days pass like that, fading into weeks.

Aziraphale wheedles Crowley into helping decorate the flat above the bookshop. He invites him to lunches, dinners, walks in the park. And other things, things they've only done when rigorous pretense was firmly in place: attending plays, concerts; going sightseeing, inasmuch as there are any sights left that they haven't seen and actually want to see; lingering at one or the other's flat, late into the night, well past the time when Aziraphale would usually hint that Crowley ought to go away.

That new plant has started to put out flowers that it shouldn't, either, and the others are clearly thinking about it. They're not like the ones at the bookshop, which would have been bad enough; these are delicate, soft blooms, white and pale gold and traces of pink. Crowley can't decide what would be worse: that it's Aziraphale's continued presence that's encouraging them, or it's something in his own essence that's changed, and they're reacting to it.

What will happen if Aziraphale decides to go, then? Will the plants go back to the way they were? Will he?

"Listen," he says, one night early in September when they get back to the bookshop after Pericles.

He says it before he can think better of it. It slips out of his mouth like a plea, interrupting Aziraphale's chattering analysis of how this version differed from the original showing.

Aziraphale hangs his coat up on the rack. Stupid thing, wearing a coat this time of year, with how many layers he has already. Really stupid thing. But Crowley watches him brush the lines of his jacket straight with pained fondness, because it is so very Aziraphale, and he loves Aziraphale.

"I'm listening," Aziraphale says, though a little absently.

He could back out. Stick to Plan A. Let all this play out without hurrying things along, trying to see where the end of the road is.

But he's still scrambled from the way they stood in the theater, so similar and so different to how they'd stood in a technically different building centuries before. How there had been no attempt through body language or warning looks on Aziraphale's part to keep any distance from Crowley at all. In fact, maybe with the excuse of how packed the playhouse was, Aziraphale had spent much of it pressed lightly against Crowley's side, arm to arm, the backs of their hands occasionally brushing.

"Why are you doing all this?" Crowley asks, barreling onward, because the uncertainty of it is more than he can endure. He thought he could be patient, stand still. But it's so blessed hard to stand still when Aziraphale's running at him at ninety miles an hour. He'd anticipated less of an assault, more of a meandering.

"All what?" Aziraphale asks, but his eyes have sharpened, taken notice; he's not absent now.

"The outings, the food, the...plant." Crowley shoves his hands in his pockets and does not look down at the floor. He doesn't need to; the sunglasses conceal his eyes just fine, and he's not taking them off. Not for this.

"You don't like it?" Aziraphale asks, very much like he already knows the answer to that.

"That's not what I...that's not the point."

Aziraphale looks at him, too keenly for Crowley's comfort. "What is, then?"

It feels like Aziraphale has already seen through him, already knows everything Crowley could say, and the injustice of that wells up in him, threatening to spill over. Because, after all this time and all that's happened, he still doesn't know Aziraphale the way Aziraphale seems to know him; he still isn't sure of anything. Not sure enough, anyway.

"You weren't like this before," he says, and it comes out more accusatory than intended. "I had to bend your arm backwards sometimes just to get you to talk to me out of the side of your mouth. So the point is, what's changed?"

He half-expects Aziraphale to argue, to protest, but he doesn't. He deflates a little, though he doesn't fall to the mannerisms he usually does when he's uncomfortable; he stays where he is, and he meets Crowley's eyes.

"I wanted to be," he says, quietly, but not quietly enough to mishear.

"What?" Crowley says anyway. It's outlandish enough to demand clarification.

Aziraphale offers up a small, sad smile. "I wanted to be," he repeats. "If you can believe it. I didn't want to wait for you to hunt me down and give me an excuse to…" Here he hesitates, just briefly. "To be with you."

This is really more than Crowley bargained for. He never imagined that Aziraphale would just say it like that, out loud and plainly, revealing the answer to something that Crowley has wondered for so long—certain of it most of the time and uncertain the rest.

Aziraphale steps toward him. There's only a little distance left between them; there's something tentative in the motion, but Aziraphale still lifts a hand, still places it on Crowley's cheek. He can't move under the weight of it. Aziraphale's thumb runs over the serpent, tattooed into borrowed skin.

"Can I take these off?" he asks, fingers touching the stem of the sunglasses.

Crowley hesitates. Well, not really. He has to make a great, monumental effort to react at all, to move at all, which he tells himself is hesitation instead of paralyzing fear. But he nods, a tiny jerk of the chin, and Aziraphale gently takes the sunglasses and folds them and tucks them into a pocket in Crowley's jacket. His hand lingers there now instead, against Crowley's chest, and Crowley hopes he's not reading anything into the body's racing heartbeat, which he can't seem to control at this time.

"I was a coward," Aziraphale says, matter-of-factly. Crowley opens his mouth to argue—actually argue—but Aziraphale gives him a stern look and he shuts it again. "In some ways, I was. But I worried about your well-being, too, lest you think me entirely self-preserving. If anything happened to you, because we were...fraternizing." He makes a face, as if mocking his past self for word choice.

They would destroy you. How many variations of those words, repeated over the centuries, always when Aziraphale was trying to re-establish space between them—and usually succeeding?

"So I never could do enough." Aziraphale's fingers tense briefly against Crowley's shirt, and relax again. Stupid, the things the human body he merely inhabits does in reaction to that. The heart pumping like it's running out of time, the lungs trying to strangle him. "Never could match you. Always had to be reluctant, had to go along, at best." His features soften, just a little more, and there is that light. That glow. The sun shining on Crowley's scales instead of falling just wide. "I thought I...well, now I can. Do enough, I mean. Make up for it." Aziraphale's certainty finally falters here. "If you'll let me, that is, if you want..."

"Of course I want," Crowley says, holding down a despairing laugh. "That's the whole problem."

Aziraphale smiles, his whole face—his whole person—lighting up with the strength of it, just as Crowley leans in and kisses him. Somewhat clumsily, unfortunately; it's been a while since he bothered with this kind of thing. But Aziraphale's breath comes out in a rush against his face, and Aziraphale kisses him back, proving that he hasn't horribly misread a conversation that was actually about what good friends they are.

Which. They are. They're just also something else.

This goes on for a minute. Maybe two. Aziraphale keeps making these delighted noises, and Crowley doesn't want to pull away from the warmth of Aziraphale's hand on his chest, doesn't want to release the handful of crumpled jacket beneath his fingers, doesn't want to let go of Aziraphale, ever, ever again. They are not, strictly speaking, creatures of flesh, but they have been of the world for long enough to be so close as to make no difference, and this feels excruciatingly good, to be so physically close to someone he is already so close to, in so many other ways.

But at some point, Aziraphale does pull back, just enough to say, "That's not a problem. Not a problem at all. That's wonderful, really."

He sounds breathy in an entirely new way Crowley's never heard him sound before, and it punches him in the stomach, a little.

Crowley manages, "You could've just said. You didn't have to go to all this trouble."

"I'm afraid it's still hard to say things," Aziraphale says. "I'm in the habit of trying to make myself understood through my actions. Heavily-veiled actions, at that. And besides, words seemed inadequate, after everything." A darkness passes over his face that doesn't belong there; Crowley lifts a hand to smooth it away, and Aziraphale turns into it, lips brushing his palm without any hesitation at all. Something like static shock passes over his skin in reaction. "I've said many untrue things, recently. I thought you might not believe me. I'm sorry, my dear. I know I've taxed your patience greatly, but please let me intrude on it a little while longer."

"I forgive you," Crowley says, easy as breathing, and means it.5

Aziraphale looks a little astonished at that. Not offended, even. Just grateful. Like he wanted, needed, that forgiveness. Not something that the Serpent of Eden should really have the right to hand out.

But he's not the Serpent with Aziraphale. This is not a Temptation. This is his own feeling, maybe vice and maybe virtue but really, maybe just something that falls in the middle of all that, the way that they do. And it's no less good, or right, or powerful, for falling in the middle of things.

Aziraphale kisses him this time, and Crowley gets lost in the feeling even as he's trying desperately to memorize it. All of his confused, hopeful-but-guilty imaginings pale in comparison to this, to having Aziraphale enthusiastic and demanding in his arms.

When they pause for not-strictly-needed breath again, he says, with the awful grin that he knows Aziraphale half-hates, half-adores, "You've been courting me. Like a proper gentleman. You gave me a plant."

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, somewhat pink in the face. "Oh, shut up."

"You watched television with me."

"Just the one programme—"

"You took me on dates."

Aziraphale stares at him, half-infuriated, half-adoring. Crowley will remember this look for his entire existence. Forever.

"Please stop talking," Aziraphale says, and Crowley indulges him.

Footnotes

1. Yes, he had once told Aziraphale that he had plenty of people to fraternize with. And he did. Just no one he liked fraternizing with so much as Aziraphale.

2. It's nice that Aziraphale managed to catch on to the image Crowley's been going for all these years, but really, this is an inconvenient time for him to notice it out loud.

3. Crowley had it, of course. Stole it later that day, hung onto it for centuries, and slipped it somewhere Aziraphale would find it, preferably after a decade or so when their middish-1800s irritation with one another had cooled off. But he still hadn't found it. World's longest game of hide-and-seek.

4. He doesn't read, no. But on occasion Aziraphale, in the process of pontificating, will read to him. And this one came back to Crowley awfully powerfully in 1967.

5. He is the same person who kept trying to get Aziraphale to run away with him even when Aziraphale said no over and over again, in varied and hurtful ways. He will keep coming back, he realizes. And this time, it sounds like he won't even have to go away again.

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #aziraphale/crowley #universe writes #A LOT MORE OF ME TALKING HUH #well i've had a good time

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