#Crowley would remind us that was blasphemy of course

[doodlejoops]

Merely a sample of my favourite Crowley’s, because of course she is perfect in all forms yes including muttonchops.

#Good omens #good omens fanart #crowley #crowley fanart #bildad the shuhite #our lord and saviour #Crowley would remind us that was blasphemy of course #But with that Bildad smile #joops art

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Birth of a Star

Another Good Omens Prompt from the DIWS server! This one suggested by @angel-and-serpent - and it’s a good one - Crowley Realizes he’s in Love!

Can also be found on my AO3 - hop over and leave a comment!

Night had fallen while the angel slurped down a truly impressive number of mollusks and Crowley sampled several cups of wine that was more than drinkable. The conversation meandered – work, politics, music, theater – and slowly, he felt his bad mood melt away, one terrible joke at a time.

All the while they reclined upon the couches, facing each other across the table, Crowley felt an odd warmness bubbling inside, percolating a little stronger every time Aziraphale smiled in his direction, or even just asked him a question. Something as simple as that, how are you finding the city? He couldn’t put his finger on why it affected him so, except that no one – no one – had asked him anything of the sort. Not in the entire time he’d been in Rome.

In fact, come to think of it, not since the last time he’d spoken to Aziraphale.

As they stepped out into the street, he caught himself thinking that maybe…maybe this city wasn’t so bad after all. Not if it brought evenings like this.

Aziraphale walked beside him, looking up at the sky. “Oh, it’s too cloudy to see the stars. More’s the pity. I always like to see them, you know.”

“Do you?” Crowley hated it. Didn’t even look at the sky, not if he could help it.

“Oh, of course. They’re so lovely. Truly works of art. I always envied the Starmakers, you know, the angels of Creation. Such a glorious task.”

“I…I was one of them, you know.” He didn’t know why he was saying it. The wine was the easy excuse, coiling warm in his belly, but he didn’t think that was the case. It took more than an amphora or two to loosen his lips. But something inside of him seemed trying to work itself out, something that had sat, listening to Aziraphale all night and…perhaps…wanted to reach back across the divide. “I helped build the stars.”

“Did you? Oh, that’s – that’s truly wonderful! Why, I can’t even imagine – what a gift, Crowley!”

“Nh. Well. Not anymore.” He tried to smile as he said it, but his face wouldn’t cooperate. He tipped his head back to stare at the clouds. Misty and cold and distant, like the remnants of the fires that once had run inside him. “Only angels can Create. Demons Manifest. Not the same thing.”

“Oh, my dear…” He felt a soft hand brush his arm, just for a second, before pulling quickly away. “I’m so…truly sorry. That was a great loss, I should think. I can’t even…”

“S’not that bad,” Crowley sniffed, walking a little faster.

“But it is!” Aziraphale hurried to catch up. “Why, I’ve always wished I could Create! It’s a true wonder, to be able to – to shape the raw matter of the universe. I even tried—” He stopped, horrified.

“You’ve tried making stars?” Crowley’s eyebrows shot up. Would this angel ever cease to surprise him? “You’re a Guardian, aren’t you? That’s forbidden!”

“I…” Aziraphale looked at him, aghast. “Oh, no I-I-I didn’t mean…that is…naturally a Guardian would never attempt an act of Creation that’s…that’s…that would be a breach of-of everything…”

“You can tell me,” Crowley leaned against the concrete side of an insula, the shop window beside him boarded up for the night. “Let me guess. Blew up in your face? Forces too much for you to control?”

But the angel turned pink, looking suddenly a little angry. “I’ll not be mocked by you, Crowley. You know perfectly well nothing happened!” He slumped a little. “How could it? I’m not designed that way. I never had the spark of Creation in me.” Then, in a softer voice, “You truly had something special, Crowley, something the rest of us…”

Something about his posture, his tone of voice, the air of utter defeat, made Crowley’s heart shudder in his chest. “Look, you want to know a secret?”

The words were out before he knew what was happening. He shouldn’t tell Aziraphale this; he’d never told anyone this. The questions he’d asked – the things he’d learned – had led to his Fall. He wouldn’t put anyone through that, not his worst enemy, and Aziraphale was far from that. But one little secret would be safe. He pushed off from the wall, stepping closer, leaning in to put his mouth close to Aziraphale’s ear, so that his sharp cheekbone brushed lightly against the soft curve of Aziraphale’s face, sending shivers of lightning through his body.

 “There’s no reason you can’t,” he whispered. “All angels were created the same. The classifications, the categories, the ranks…it’s all lies.”

Aziraphale’s head snapped up. “You – that’s – Crowley!” But he didn’t pull away, didn’t shout. His voice was almost as hushed as Crowley’s own. “That’s got to be blasphemy of – of some kind. The Archangels—”

“The Archangels want you to think they’re different. That they’re better somehow. They aren’t.” He stepped back to look Aziraphale in his wide blue eyes. “And any angel is capable of Creation.”

“You’re lying.” But he didn’t sound like he believed it. “This is a trick…a temptation…”

“I can prove it. I can teach you to make stars, right now.”

He bit his lip, eyes wide as a dwarf star about to go nova. “Oh, I…I…” The angel glanced up at the cloudy sky again. “Could you really?”

“Hold out your hands. Like this.” Crowley cupped some air between his palms. Hesitating, Aziraphale followed suit. “Now close your eyes. Run your fingers through the atoms. Can you feel them? Feel their weight? You just need to find the smallest ones, the lightest. Those are Hydrogen. Don’t worry, they’re everywhere.” Aziraphale’s brow furrowed in concentration, reminding Crowley of the first time he’d tried to light that fire, accidentally smothering it with every grasping attempt. “Don’t struggle. Just…feel for them. A little at a time. Pull them into the center and push them together.”

For a long moment, nothing seemed to happen.

Then, slowly, a tiny spark ignited at the center of his hands, glowing, growing, expanding as atoms crashed into each other, colliding, fusing. Shining.

The first star Crowley had ever made had been a tiny, fitful thing, flickering between his fingers, fading now and again, but oh, how he’d loved it. Carried it everywhere until he was told it would never be strong enough, had to be dissipated and made anew.

Aziraphale’s was healthy, strong, lovely. A perfect star. He should have been jealous, but he felt proud.

When the core was the size of a marble, Crowley carefully reached over and plucked it free – no need for this to explode in the center of the world’s largest city.

He hadn’t realized how much he missed it, the endless heat between his fingers, illuminating the darkest places within him. He felt lighter than air, he felt alive, he felt –

He felt like he was home.

“No, I told you Crowley, it’s no good. I can’t…” Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered open and landed on the tiny glowing bead between Crowley’s fingers. “Is that…it can’t be…”

“You made it, Angel. All you.” Crowley handed it back, carefully placing it on Aziraphale’s palm. A wave of cold struck him, sharp as the ice in the deepest pits of Hell, the moment the bead left his fingers. But somehow, he didn’t care.

Aziraphale held it up to his face and the glow lit him, the pure, perfect light filling him, like a candle covered in glass. The starshine danced off his eyes. And his smile, oh, Crowley didn’t think he’d ever seen anything more beautiful than that. He wanted to stare at him, drink it all in, hold on to this moment forever.

And then it all ended when Aziraphale held out his hand, giving him the star back. “What? Angel, that’s yours—”

“No, it isn’t. It’s ours. I never could have made this without your help. And I think you should have it.”

Crowley tried to step back, bumping into the wall behind him. “No - look - I relinquish my claim, whatever you need to hear.” He couldn’t believe Aziraphale actually wanted to give it to him. Surely it was just some polite nothing.

“Ah. Then it is mine to bestow upon whom I choose.” Aziraphale’s soft fingers caught Crowley’s hand, lifted it, until he felt the spark of celestial fire pressed into it again. “You must understand, I love it dearly. But...I can make another. You can’t.” He wrapped Crowley’s fingers closed around it, gave them a gentle squeeze. “It’s as radiant as you are, my dear friend. Please, take good care of it.”

Crowley stared down at the little perfect light, the piece of his past he’d never thought to reclaim, and found that his eyes were wet, that he had to blink back tears, for the first time in four thousand years. A warmth filled him, one that had nothing whatsoever to do with the star.

He looked up at Aziraphale and, quite without meaning to, smiled.

“Ah, that’s more like it,” the angel said, with a smug little grin. “You’ve been so sullen it was giving me indigestion. Perhaps now we can have a proper conversation.” He turned and walked away, as if nothing had happened, as if nothing at all had passed between them, with that bastard smile that Crowley loved—

Crowley loved—

Ah. Shit.

Crowley loved Aziraphale.

#good omens prime #good omens fanfiction #aziraphale and crowley #crowley loves aziraphale #starmaker crowley #falling in love #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #crowley loves his angel #ancient rome #bastard aziraphale #My writing #good omens prompts #tiny baby star

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Snowmens Gift Exchange - “My Kingdom for a Slice of Cake” (Rated PG13)

Summary:

Cuddling in bed while Aziraphale reads, the angel decides he would like a snack. Only it's too cold to get out of bed, and Aziraphale and Crowley are both too comfortable. So how is an angel to get something to eat when neither he nor his demon husband feels like moving? (923 words)

Notes: For @animeangelriku . Written for the prompt - Staying in bed, huddled together to keep the cold away. Just a note - this is not animeangelriku's present. This is a prelude to the present, which is running behind, but still written for them <3

Read on AO3.

A conflicted hum passes through Aziraphale’s lips, and Crowley opens one heavy eyelid. He peeks up at his angel as he lays on his side, arms wrapped around Aziraphale's middle, hugging him while he napped. 

While they napped, originally. But for Aziraphale, the allure lasted barely three-and-a-half minutes before he carefully slid to a sitting position within his husband's embrace and got lost in the pages of a Gustav Freytag novel. But now, he's staring longingly at the door, making Crowley wonder if he'd rather be reading at his bookshop instead of here in the Mayfair flat's master bedroom.

“Wot is it?” Crowley asks, not moving a hair, wound comfortably around his angel's body, prepared to employ every manner of persuasion to keep Aziraphale put.  

“Oh, nothing really. Only I am a bit on the peckish side,” Aziraphale admits with a woeful sigh.

"I suppose I could slither into the kitchen. Fetch you a bite to eat," Crowley offers as he curls tighter around Aziraphale's body, in no hurry to move, even on his angel's behalf. It's so bloody frigid in his flat today; the floors cold as ice. 

And Aziraphale is so, so warm.

"I appreciate that," Aziraphale says. "But I would rather not have you move. Me neither, for that matter. I'm far too comfortable."

"I know what you mean," Crowley murmurs into Aziraphale's stomach. "It's tempting to stay right here, for a decade or two at least."

"Quite."

"Shall I miracle you something up then?"

Aziraphale tuts. "You know how I feel about miracled food."

"I know, I know," Crowley mutters, rolling his eyes over Aziraphale's continuing assertion that miracled food doesn't taste as good as the bought and cooked variety. Even food miracled to the bedroom from the kitchen has a peculiar aftertaste, or so Aziraphale claims, believing it might be a reminder from Gabriel that not only should he not infect his corporeal form with vile foodstuffs, but that wasting a miracle to do so is paramount to blasphemy. “You know, I should install a fridge in here. By the bed, for such emergencies.”

“What a spectacular idea!” Aziraphale gushes, and Crowley wiggles in glee at the praise. But too soon after, Aziraphale sighs again - another long, defeated exhalation. "But that doesn’t help us at the moment.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Crowley pauses to think. "We could order takeaway."

Aziraphale looks at his husband, brow scrunched. "And how would that work exactly?"

"It works like this... " Crowley clears his throat as if preparing to give a presentation "... we call the restaurant, order the food, and then some plucky teenager driving a Vespa delivers it. I figured you'd know that by now, angel."

"We’d have to open the door for the delivery person once they arrived! You don't want to snap them in and give them leave to wander the flat, now, do you? And if we're getting out of bed to do that, we may as well get some food out of the fridge right now and cut out the middle man!" 

"Not necessarily. I could perform a minor... "

"No more possessing humans!" Aziraphale snaps, jumping to conclusions. "Not after what happened last time!"

"Wot?" Crowley's eyes widen with surprise. "But I thought you were fond of Madame Tracy!"

Aziraphale's forehead wrinkles in confusion. "I am! But what does she have to do with anything?" 

"Isn't that how the two of you met?"

"Not that last time! The other last time!"

Crowley stares at his husband, perplexed, tired brain working sluggishly behind yellow eyes to decipher Aziraphale's meaning. Then it hits him like a tonne of bricks, and he snorts. "Oh! Oh, yeah! You meant when I... "

"Yes, Crowley," Aziraphale says, cutting his husband off before he can recount the fateful day in excruciating detail. He hates to admit it, but it is an amusing story, even if he did almost lose one of his favorite teapots in the process. "That's what I meant."

"Ahhh. Okay. Noted." Crowley chuckles nervously. "Not doing that again."

Angel and demon cuddle quietly, deep in thought, trying to find a solution to their current snack dilemma. Aziraphale's blue eyes brighten. “Of course!" he declares, landing on a solution. "Madame Tracy!" 

"Wot about her?"

“We'll call Madame Tracy! We trust her enough to miracle her in! I'm sure she wouldn't mind bringing us some lunch as long as we invite her to join us.”

Crowley frowns. "Join us... in bed?"

"For a nosh!"

“Brilliant! Sounds like a plan.” Crowley gives his clever husband a kiss on the tummy, too comfy to move much further than that. “We’ll call Madame Tracy and ask her to bring us some lunch. Maybe a whole cake.”

Aziraphale nods. “Absolutely! Let's get right on that, shall we?” He looks around, searching for the one thing that will help him accomplish this task. Ensnared in the threads of another conundrum, he sighs.

“Ooo. That sounded heavy. Wot is it?” 

“I don't have my cellular phone. Do you have yours?"

"I... " Crowley takes stock of himself, then the room, trying to remember when he last saw his phone. He removes a hand from around his husband's waist and reaches beneath the pillows, sweeping underneath. When he doesn't find the damned thing, he groans.

"Sausage roll sound all right to you?" Crowley asks, popping out of bed and racing towards the door before his feet can hit the freezing floor.

"Sounds lovely. Thank you," Aziraphale replies, going back to his book. "And don't forget the cake."

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #ineffable lovers #good snowmens #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley

[mortuarybees]

oh I just sent you an ask and then realized that you answered my question in a previous ask, so ignore me. (Though I do have another question about them getting married or at least choosing to be committed to each other forever). Thank you for this AU though!

THIS GOT LONG I’M SORRY. The chef suggests that this be paired with Mitski’s cover of Let’s Get Married, which actually invented the institution of marriage.

It looks like this:

It’s a balmy Sunday in April, 2014, and Aziraphale’s hands are clasped before him, forehead pressed to his knuckles. He’s nervous; he shouldn’t be, he knows, but he is. The pew is hard and uncomfortable, unforgiving–Crowley would laugh at that, and even as he smiles, the thought makes his stomach clench.

The service ended a while ago, but he likes to remain, reading through the echoing chatter until everyone has gone and he can have a word alone with Her. Praying in a room full of others feels obscene and vulnerable, like leaving the front door open for the neighbors to peak in.

Please, please, please, he thinks. He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, praying, knows that if today is the day, he needs to go home before Crowley gets irritable and worried, but he wants to feel certain, the way Crowley had been.

(It looks like this:

Aziraphale likes gold. Loves gold; he grew up in an ancient and wealthy family, with so much money they’re casual about it, crystals dripping from chandeliers and fine tableware so old it belongs in a museum, and he won’t admit it–not now, especially–but he misses the elegance, the luxuries, misses a wardrobe full of Harris tweed and Burberry and Liberty’s. He likes gold, he would want gold, and Crowley is helpless to do anything but give him what he wants.)

It’s been a long time, Aziraphale thinks. He’s getting older–I’m getting older–he only gets one life. He’s the restless kind, what if he says no?

He asked first, he reminds himself, and then counters it by pointing out that last time, it didn’t mean much, to him. No, that isn’t fair, it meant something, but it wasn’t binding.

He doesn’t need to bind himself to you, he tells himself. He’s committed in every way he can. He’s never been the restless sort when it comes to us.

I’m overthinking this, he thinks, bemused, and as if God agrees with him, he hears the door behind him open, and Crowley’s relieved voice boom, echoing in the empty church and certainly disturbing the bad-humored priest, “Christ, there you are. I thought maybe the Rapture came and the rest of London was too godless to notice.”

Thank you, he prays. Amen. He turns around and smiles. “Crowley, dear. Would you like to sit?”

“Best not,” Crowley says, stopping at the end of the pew Aziraphale occupies. “Surprised I haven’t burst into flames yet, don’t want to push my luck getting comfortable.” He looks around and points at a painting of Saint Sebastian, posed in a rather un-agonized manner. “That why you come here all the time? An excuse to gawk at younger men?”

“Crowley,” he scolds, getting to his feet. He ducks his head to hide his smile and puts his hands in his pockets, toying with the small velvet box inside. “Please, dear, keep from blaspheming inside the church. Besides, you’re far better looking.”

“Damn right,” Crowley huffs, and he takes his arm possessively when he exits the pew, pulling tight against his side. He looks beautiful in the mid-morning light, hazy and soft, hair loose around his face, the stained glass painting colors on his pale face when he squints up at it as they leave. The face of John is mirrored perfectly in the lenses of his dark glasses for just a moment, and Aziraphale wishes he’d ever really tried his hand at art, just to immortalize in rich oil paint the rainbow of light on his face, the Beloved Disciple in his eyes, the swipes of glitter across his cheekbones, the black lace top under his leather jacket, pierced a million times over with all manner of pins over the years; he thinks if he wasn’t at peace before, this picture does it.

“You’re beautiful, darling,” he murmurs when it’s ended, when Crowley tilts his chin down, curls his lip against whatever blasphemy he was certainly thinking and it’s just him again. Just them, and God as far away as She always feels.

“I was kidding, angel,” he says, thumb stroking a reassuring line down his coat sleeve. “Ogle some guy all–” he gestures, quite theatrically– “shot up with arrows if you like. He’s dead, I’m not. I win.”

(It looks like this:

It’s 2000, and Crowley and Aziraphale arrived in London six months prior, alone and uncertain, refugees on a foreign shore. They both grew up in rural villages–wildly different experiences; Aziraphale’s family had an estate and he attended some posh boarding school on the moors, Crowley slept on a bus bench on more than one occasion–and the city is new and frightening and exciting. It seemed like the place for two young queer men to go, newly anointed adults forging a life together.

Aziraphale likes it, Crowley knows he does, he likes the museums, he likes the beautiful old buildings and the British Library, he likes taking walks in the park, and he likes having a home of their own, a home with Crowley. He tells him everyday, a comment here or there with a soft smile. But he’s wounded and mourning; he misses his family, and his new way of life is a bit of a shock. He won’t admit that it hurts, just sniffs and insists he knew it was coming, but Crowley knows him better that that. He loves London, but he can’t help but see the life he’s lost in every crevice of the life he’s found.

Crowley doesn’t believe in divine providence, but if he did, this would be the surest evidence of it: on his way home to their shithole of a flat with his first paycheck in his pocket, he passes the window of an antiques store, and sees it in the window. It catches the afternoon light perfectly and shines gold against the black velvet display; it’s a clunky old-fashioned sort of ring, with angel wings forming the band. Crowley has been thinking hard about this for years now, and it’s absolutely perfect.)

The sunlight outside comes weakly through the clouds, pale but just bright enough to avoid dreariness. Crowley relaxes once they step from the church steps and onto the sidewalk; his first boyfriend broke up with him with a vague and plausibly-deniable note in a cheap bible left on Crowley’s front porch when he returned home from a summer church camp, and Aziraphale thinks he’s always been afraid in the back of his mind that Aziraphale is going to come home from church someday and do the same thing, though he’s never said as much.

“I brought the rolled oats for the ducks,” Crowley says. “Figured we ought to stop in, since we missed last week. Otherwise they might mutiny.”

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale says, and that had been his plan, but it’s all becoming so terribly real and sudden, isn’t it? He could wait just a little longer–

No, he can’t. They’ve waited long enough.

(It looks like this:

Crowley, ever-charming, talks the proprietor of the antiques shop into setting the ring aside for him. She’s suspicious of him, with his sibilant S and the pins on his leather jacket, but he’s wearing his work uniform, a perfectly respectable red polo shirt and black slacks, and he gives her a down payment and a long and terribly touching story about his college sweetheart that’s mostly true, apart from the gender of the lover in question.

The truth is, there are some things which can be easily done without, and some things that can’t. Aziraphale prefers fancy vintages from significant years and miraculous rains in the French countryside, but a £5 bottle from Sainsbury’s won’t ruin New Years. They can buy store brand cereal, the eggs discounted because one of them has been cracked, they can throw Aziraphale’s fancy embroidered throw over the pullout and hang richly dyed moth-eaten curtains from the theater department’s dumpster and pretend it’s the Hotel d’Alsace. But there are some things that must be done right, some things that cannot be done without, and he’s convinced that this is one of them. He could as easily propose with a plastic ring from the coin machine at their favorite bar, but Aziraphale is going to love this ring; even if he says no, pats Crowley on the cheek and says, “How romantic of you dear boy, but that’s not really what’s done, is it?” he’s still going to love it.

He’s secretive and vague about the extra hours and side gigs he takes on to make the payments. Aziraphale notices, he knows he does, he knows him too well not to, and he’s curious and a little alarmed, but he felt bad enough lying about where part of his first paycheck went without having to do it again every month when he stops in to make a payment on the ring.

It takes six months, but she finally hands it over, along with a comment about how she’s thought about it and she thinks it’s really rather noble, what he’s doing, and he best keep to it, best not break this poor girl’s heart, she’s read about people like him, giving it a go with nice girls for a couple years and then skipping out, sticking them with kids and a broken life. He rolls his eyes and says he’ll pass the message along to his boyfriend after he proposes, and saunters out, a skip in his step. It’s perfect; he’ll still wear it every day and admire it on his hand the way Crowley admires it now in the sun, and even if he says no–well, that would be a fine consolation prize.)

There is a bench they’ve been coming to for fifteen years now, so habitually the ducks flock to them when they arrive, flicking oats into the water. Crowley is catching him up on the fight he missed while he was out (the walls are thin and the neighbors provide endless entertainment with their incessant and bafflingly banal bickering; it’s a proper extended universe, their family disputes, and the mother-in-law is visiting, so it’s been an exciting weekend), and Aziraphale is trying to listen, he really is, even though he insists eavesdropping and gossiping aren’t especially neighborly–“oh, come off it, angel, you know they’ve got their ears pressed to the wall when we fight, not to mention when we–” “Crowley!”–but he cant focus on anything but the weight in his pocket.

He’s been putting money away for a year now, ever since legislation to legalize it was introduced last July. He’d known it would take some time to pass, but if they were willing to propose it, it would be soon.

“Alright, what’ve you got squirreled away, huh?” Crowley demands, the dozenth time in a few short minutes his hand has gone to his pocket to ensure it’s still there. “I’m hungry. Was so worried you’d gone off and joined some cultish offshoot I couldn’t eat. Well, a more cultish offshoot. Is the Catholic church an offshoot? Suppose it must be, not like Jesus named a pope–”

“It’s not food, dear,” Aziraphale says, sighing. “And he did, he gave Saint Peter the keys to Heaven and he was bishop of Rome. Blasphemous old serpent.”

“I’m sure they all say that,” Crowley says, waving a hand. He eyes him curiously, flicking a rolled oat so it hits a duck in the head. “What is it then?”

Aziraphale’s heart thuds chaotically in his chest. “Crowley, dearest,” he says, turning to face him. He takes his hand in his, desperate for the anchor, the reassurance. “I love you.”

“Love you too, angel,” Crowley says, looking alarmed. “Are you alright?”

“You love me,” Aziraphale repeats, both wishing desperately he could see Crowley’s eyes, search them, and desperately glad that he can’t. Crowley’s bare eyes are so terribly expressive, the sight of them so intimate, he couldn’t bear it.

“‘Course I do,” he says, with conviction. “More than anything. What’s this about?”

“Crowley, my love,” he says hoarsely, and he kneels on one knee, still clinging to his hand.

(It looks like this:

It’s October in 2000, and it’s been raining like the coming of the second flood for days. Crowley stands at the window, biting his lip and scowling at it, sick of it and about to start refreshing himself on the principles of chaos magic in a bid to end it.

“Crowley, dear, you’re making me nervous,” Aziraphale grumbles from the sofa. He loves a nice rainy day, loves curling up against Crowley with a cup of tea and a book or one of those awful television shows with the flouncy costumes and overwrought acting, but even he is growing tired of being stuck inside all day and getting soaked to the bone on his way to work. “Come sit down, would you?”

“I’m busy,” Crowley mutters.

“You don’t look busy,” Aziraphale says. “It looks like you think you can scowl the rain into submission.”

“Works on the plants,” Crowley tells him, and he knows Aziraphale is rolling his eyes without having to look. He’s half a mind to do away with his idea all together, just do it right here in their cramped little studio, when quite suddenly, the rain lets up to a light mist. He stares at it, jaw slack, for several long moments. When it doesn’t start pick up again, he shouts, “Let’s go for a walk.”

“A walk?” Aziraphale frowns. “In this?”

“It’s just misting and we haven’t gone out properly in days,” Crowley says eagerly. “C'mon, get dressed, I want to go to the park.” He won’t have time to get dressed properly, doesn’t want to risk the return of the storm–which is a crying shame, he had such an outfit planned–but he yanks the pants he knows make his ass look the best out of their dresser and a deep purple blouse with lace around the cuffs Aziraphale once said made him look very royal, stripping out of his pajamas and hopping into them as quickly as he can.

“The park?” Aziraphale puts his book aside. “Well, I suppose I would rather fancy a stroll, stretch my legs–”

“Excellent!” Crowley throws him a horrible pair of houndstooth slacks and the first button down he sees. “Get dressed.”

“Crowley–”

“Dressed!”

“These don’t even match!”

“I don’t care! Get dressed!” He darts to their vanity, staring wild-eyed at his reflection. Eyeliner is smudged raccoon-like around his eyes, but his sunglasses will cover that. He picks up a brush and yanks it violently through his hair. His eyes dart to Aziraphale, taking his sweet time picking out a new button down. “Dressed! Dressed, c'mon!”

“I’m getting there,” he mutters, waving lazily at him. “What do you think, green or white, dear?”

“You look best in blue,” Crowley tells him. He pulls his hair back, then lets it fall again, then pulls the front back and secures it a few pins and a comb he knows Aziraphale likes. He spins around to see Aziraphale quite leisurely buttoning up his shirt. “If you don’t hurry, I’m leaving without you.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, but his fingers quicken, and he sits down to tie his oxfords. Crowley hurries to join him, shoving his feet in his boots and lacing them up as quickly as he can. The moment they’re both done, he yanks him up, hauling him to the door, shrugging his leather jacket on and tossing Aziraphale his blazer. “Wait, I’ve got to get my bag–”

“You don’t need your bag,” Crowley insists, and reaches into his pocket to make sure the ring is there.

Aziraphale frets the whole way to the park about how it’s bound to start pouring again any moment, and Crowley rushed him so much he forgot to bring an umbrella, they’re going to get drenched, they forgot bread for the ducks–unaware as they were that one ought not feed a duck bread, for its own sake–and St. James’ Park is positively sodden and it’ll take ages for his wool socks to dry out. Crowley doesn’t care; he links their arms and slogs bravely on to their usual spot, grateful that the heavy rain has cleared it out. The only other people around are a mother and child, some ways off, enjoying the brief respite.

“Angel, I’ve got something to ask you,” he says urgently, and he wrenches his sunglasses off–wait, he forgot, the eyeliner–he slides them back on, then takes them off again; he knows how Aziraphale likes to see his eyes.

“Yes?” Aziraphale looks confused and alarmed, he doesn’t like surprises or irregular reactions. He jumps to the worst every time, starts overthinking every twitch of Crowley’s face, and Crowley loves him, the anxious prat.

“I love you,” he says. “Do you love me?”

“I love you more than words can say, darling, what’s going on?” His eyes search Crowley’s face, his brow furrowed.

“Do you–” he swallows hard. They’ve never talked about this, not really. “You don’t think this is–y'know, a sin, right?” It feels so awkward in his mouth, his tone not weighty enough. The truth is, he’s never really seen what all the fuss was about, why so many other queer people struggled so much to reconcile their lives with the Church. The Church rejected him, so he rejected the Church, and he hasn’t looked back. But it means something to Aziraphale. He doesn’t know if he struggles with it still, but it means something to him. It means a lot to him.

“Oh, Crowley, dear,” he says, his eyes clearing. He touches his cheek, so gently Crowley could scream. “Of course not. This could never be a sin, I’ve been reading–”

Crowley can’t help but bark out a laugh. “Of course you have,” he says, beaming at him. “Of course you have. What have you been reading, angel?”

“Well, Montefiore’s ‘Jesus, the Revelation of God’ points out that Christ’s early life–”

“Flaming homosexual, Jesus was, then?” Crowley asks, unable to smother his unhinged grin, and Aziraphale isn’t sure what he’s so giddy about, but it seems like he can’t help but smile back, a little uncertainly.

“There was John, of course, the Beloved Disciple, and there’s a rather interesting idea about the Wedding at Cana, which is of course in some ideas thought of as a symbolic marriage of Christ to the church, and some–there’s this beautiful German print, of Jesus and John at the wedding, I’ll have to show you–some have suggested that it’s also a more literal marriage between Jesus and John–”

“Christ, angel, you’ll marry me, won’t you?” Crowley breathes, and he kneels.

Aziraphale blinks at him, brow furrowed, his mind clearly trying to catch up to this sudden switch in the topic of conversation. It’s always hard to interrupt one of his rambling little speeches, he gets so invested in them, but Crowley will just have to make it up to him later, let him lecture above him well into the night about apocryphal writings and stained glass and this print or that; right now, he just need to be engaged to this ridiculous man. “Er, what?”

“Marry me,” he says. He had a whole proposal planned, but he’s forgotten it, and it was stupid, anyway. “Marry me, I–” he fumbles in his pocket, pulls the ring out of the little felt bag the proprietor put it in and holds it up like an offering. “I have a ring. Will you marry me, Aziraphale?”

“Are you–” Aziraphale’s eyes are getting wide, his breath coming fast. “Crowley, you’re not joking about this, are you?”

“Why the fuck would I joke about this?” Crowley snaps. “Look, see, I got a ring and everything. Do you like it?”

“Crowley–” Aziraphale gasps, a wet and rough sound. “I–I suppose it would be legal, technically, but I–Crowley, you know how I feel about, about–what do you mean–”

“It’s not legal, I know, but neither is buggery, technically, just can’t be prosecuted, but that’s never stopped us,” he says. He knows, he knows how Aziraphale feels about playing to his assigned gender, even when it’s convenient. “Look, it’s not like Jesus and John had a marriage license, is it?”

And Aziraphale starts crying.)

“Angel,” Crowley says, staring down at him. “The hell are you doing?”

“Ah,” Aziraphale releases his hand to pull the small velvet box out of his pocket, opens it carefully, precisely, and holds it out to him. “Crowley, my dearest, will you marry me?”

“We’re already married, angel,” Crowley whispers, and as if unconsciously, his thumb strokes the tattoo on his left ring finger.

“Well, certainly,” he says. “But it’s legal now, and I know that what the state has to say doesn’t matter much, but you know–well, you remember how it can be, without something legal. Something on paper,. And you don’t have a ring.”

“I have better than a ring,” Crowley says, but his eyes are glittering, fixed on the little black ring in the box, a band of silver around it.

Aziraphale swallows hard. “Crowley, I would really quite like to marry you, officially, dear, if you’ll have me.”

“If I’ll–I swear to somebody, angel, you’re the stupidest genius I’ve ever met,” he swears. “Of course I’ll marry you, you idiot, I–what the fuck does the ring say, Aziraphale?”

He smiles, can’t help but be pleased that he’s noticed. On the inside, in his own hand writing, is You Make Me Live, Dearest, in deference to the song Crowley has, on many occasions, blasted so loud their neighbors have pounded on the wall, practically shouting the lyrics at Aziraphale, hauling him, laughing, into terrible dancing that usually ends up knocking something over. Aziraphale takes a deep breath, and sings very quietly, and off-key, voice wavering (he hasn’t sang since his second puberty; he had a lovely voice, before, he was in a choir, but he hasn’t quite gotten the hang of it since), “Oh, you make me live, whenever this world is cruel to me–”

Crowley grabs him by his lapels and hauls him up into a hungry kiss, passersby be damned.

(It looks like this:

Aziraphale is crying, his face in his hands, and Crowley is frozen on his knees, all his giddy joy slowly leaving him, a hollow humiliation replacing it.

“Angel,” he says, hating how his voice cracks. “Angel, I’m sorry, you don’t have to say yes–you can keep the ring, I want you to have the ring–I won’t–I won’t leave, if you say no–unless you want me to, obviously–” Shit, shit, shit, he didn’t fuck up that bad, did he–

Aziraphale drops his hands, startled, and stares at him. “Why on earth would I want that?” he asks, and he goes to his knees on the wet concrete, pulling the ridiculous handkerchief that matches his ridiculous bow tie from his breast pocket, dabs at his eyes, wipes his nose, and puts it in his pocket with a deep breath. “I never–I never thought this would be possible, the way I wanted it,” he says at last. “I never even–considered it, really, I wished, perhaps, but I never–” he stops, and he stares at Crowley with such warmth and love it settles him, a little. He’s not going to turn him out, and that’s really all that matters.

“I just thought, I know you wouldn’t want to do it…officially, so it might not be legal, but maybe–you and me, we could say some vows,” he says. “If you wanted. If you don’t, that’s fine,” and his voice, the goddamn traitor, cracks again on the word.

“Oh, dear, I haven’t said yes, have I?” Aziraphale says, and he smiles, a watery thing, puts his hand on Crowley’s wrist. “Yes, darling, I’d love nothing more than to marry you, I really wouldn’t.”

“Oh,” he says, and a smile begins to form. “Oh. That’s–great, then.”

“You ridiculous thing,” Aziraphale says, beaming, and he throws his arms around him, pressing a soft kiss to his neck. He can feel his lashes flutter against the soft skin there, the slide of warm tears, his breath ghosting across the fine hairs, and he shivers.

“Hey,” he says, nudging him. “Hey. Did you see the ring?”

Aziraphale laughs, leaning back onto his haunches, and wipes at his eyes. “The ring?”

“Yeah, the ring,” Crowley says, waving it about. He thinks it looks even more impressive in the washed-out grey light, shining like a second sun.

“Crowley,” he whispers, seeming to really truly notice it for the first time. “Where–where did you get this?” His hands hover around it, reverent, as if he’s afraid to touch it.

“An antiques shop,” he says proudly. “Give me your hand.”

“How did you afford it?” he asks wonderingly, and he lets Crowley take his hand in his, slide it onto his finger, smiles at his little sigh of relief when it fits.

“Saved up,” he says. “That’s, er. What I’ve been doing, going out.”

“I was curious,” Aziraphale says, and his eyes well up again. “Oh, darling, all this time, you’ve been working?”

“Wanted you to have the best,” he says. “Look, see, they’re angel wings.” He runs a finger around the band, beaming at it. “You like it?”

“Crowley, my dear, I love it more than I can say,” he says fervently, and he puts a hand on his cheek again, leans in to give him a chaste, brief kiss. “Let’s go home,” he suggests. “I’ll thank you properly.”

Crowley leaps to his feet, bringing Aziraphale with him, and they don’t quite run to the bus stop, but it’s a very close thing, giggling like drunk teenagers sneaking out late, laughter peeling through the park when Crowley’s poorly laced boots send them tumbling, arms linked, into the grass.)

It looks like this:

It’s 2000, and it’s 2014, and they run home from the bus stop in a sudden downpour of rain, having forgotten umbrellas, absent-minded and distracted by more important things. A leather jacket is shed onto the floor, a tweed coat thrown in the vague direction of a coat rack; Crowley throws Aziraphale’s suspenders off his shoulders with pleased gusto, a tie, belt, shirts, hit the floor with abandon, sunglasses are placed very delicately somewhere safe. Crowley pulls at Aziraphale’s binder insistently, in 2000, yanks his white undershirt over his head in 2014; oxfords and combat boots are tossed and hit the walls and floor; they stumble over their pants as they try to take them off without stopping, without taking their hands off each other for even a moment, and the old bed creaks when they tumble onto it. The headboard cracks against the wall, knocks the crucifix loose, and the thud is followed by shaking laughter overtaken by gasps, and cries, and fervent declarations, hands clasped, mouths sliding inelegantly together. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you; and they’re both thinking with desperate and delighted devotion, my husband, my husband, my husband.

#Sorry This Is So Long #i got carried away #look i had to fit in two proposals #thank you for asking im love human au #henry speaks #ineffable husbands #good omens #human au #Anonymous #can you tell i was raised protestant and very much not catholic #apologies to my catholic friends for any errors on that front #hi im henry a gay christian and very emotional about it #henry writes

[ellenripleysbelieveitornot]

Crowley took to writing when the moments without Aziraphale seemed to stretch into infinity. There was something about the repetitive scratch of the quill against the parchment that seemed to calm him; maybe it was just the way it seemed to drown out the part of him that had (unforgivably) learned to miss someone.

At first, he was just writing down his thoughts, not bothering with any sort of organization. It was just a way to silence the part of his mind that always managed to drift to the angel.

But then he discovered poetry. It wasn't the art itself that drew him to the craft, but rather the way Aziraphale had smiled when he had shown off his latest acquisition. And, oh, his voice, the way it seemed to flow with the words when he read a sample to him aloud. It reminded him of the way the universe had sang when it was born.

He thought, maybe, if he could imagine Aziraphale's voice caressing his own thoughts in such a way, it might alleviate the ache in his soul, just a bit.

My love is the horizon, Where blue sky meets the Earth. Forever in my sight, But never mine to hold.

It was simple, and it didn't rhyme, but it said more with four lines than Crowley would ever be able to express out loud, and wasn't that the point?

So, he kept at it. Whenever that certain piece of his heart felt the loss of Aziraphale's presence, whenever visions of a bright smile and the sweetest eyes became too much, he'd write down a couple lines, and it brought him a brief sense of peace.

And things were fine that way, until they weren't.

It happened when they were at lunch. Crowley was rearranging the meal on his plate into complicated patterns and shapes, (moving it around and around so it seemed that he was doing something with it, so it seemed that food were the reason he were here, it was an act and one he played well) when Aziraphale pulled out a thin little book, that its cover claimed was a collection of poetry 'lost to time and memory' whatever that meant.

"Crowley, dear, listen to this," Aziraphale said. Then he cleared his throat and began to read.

"By your presence, I am come undone. By your absence, I am torn asunder.

Free me or keep me, What difference could it make?"

Crowley stopped listening. The words. He knew the words. He had written the words. But how?

Someone must have found one of his poems and, presuming the author to be long dead, had it published.

Crowley came back to himself just to realize that Aziraphale was expecting some kind of response from him. "Oh, yeah," he muttered at his plate. "Very nice."

Aziraphale looked affronted. "Nice?!" he echoed. "It's terrible!"

Crowley cringed. He knew he was an amateur, but 'terrible' seemed a little harsh. "Oh, yeah," he agreed anyway. "It's rubbish."

Now Aziraphale looked offended for some reason. What did he want from him? "It's beautiful!" the angel declared.

Crowley blinked. "But you said-"

"It's heartbreaking! The writer loves this person so much it's consumed them entirely. It's- It's- Don't you know how that feels?"

And Aziraphale was looking at him now, a hopeless desperation in those beautiful eyes. But how could Crowley possibly answer that question?

The truth was, he didn't know how it felt, not the way it was written in the poem. It had always been one of his biggest shortcomings, he thought. Try as he might, no matter what words he used, no matter the grandiosity of the metaphors, it was never enough. His feelings could never quite be put to paper. Not in any way that mattered.

"Erm..." he said instead, and Aziraphale's face fell.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have put you on the spot like that. I don't know what came over me."

"'S fine," Crowley mumbled, because his mind was still reeling, and the conversation drifted back to whatever they had been discussing before.

From then on, Crowley was utterly lost. He had written the poems imagining them being read by Aziraphale, but now that he had actually witnessed it, had an actual taste, he became like a man possessed.

Poem after poem poured out of him. Knowing that Aziraphale could read his words, could be moved by them, was intoxicating. If he could just get the pages to match what he felt, then maybe, maybe he had a chance.

I walked the halls of heaven So very long ago I stood within the Presence I lived with grace bestowed

And though it’s true I fell Into darkness from the bright On this loss I do not dwell For you keep my soul alight

And there isn’t any question Believe me, yes it’s true All the glory that is heaven Is nothing next to you

He started gifting his poems to Aziraphale. Not in person, of course, but he'd slide them through his mail slot, he'd tuck them between two books on the shelves in Aziraphale's shop, he left them anywhere the angel might find them and hoped that he'd know they were for him.

I bend my knees in worship. I lift my hands in prayer. I cry out before your altar, But you never seem to hear.

He didn't even know if Aziraphale found them all. But this was all he could do.

My true love is an angel, So perfectly divine I spend my days in worship, Kneeling before his shrine

My true love is an angel Wrapped in heaven’s sweet embrace I'd give my all to serve him And be worthy of his grace

My true is an angel And for this blasphemy I crawl Yet I surely cannot conceive of Any sweeter way to fall.

And then he was handed the Antichrist. And what good were words when faced with the end?

He stopped writing and focused entirely on just keeping Aziraphale by his side. He could live with Aziraphale never knowing of his feelings so long as things could remain as they were.

So, when they did the impossible, when they stopped the apocalypse, he decided to be thankful for what he had, and shoved all those feelings deep, deep down, resigned to never wanting more. He could spend more time with Aziraphale, now, without either of them having to check over their shoulder, and wasn't that enough?

Wasn't it?

No.

But if lied to himself enough, maybe he could start to believe it was true.

Until Aziraphale, with that same determined look on his face that he had gotten when he decided he was going to learn close-up magic, sat him down on the couch in the back of the bookshop and stood before him, wringing his hands nervously.

"Crowley, I need to read you something, and you have to promise not to laugh."

Crowley blinked. "Okay?"

"You have to promise!"

"Okay, I promise!"

"And- And could you take off your sunglasses?"

"What?"

"Please, Crowley, I really need-"

"Okay, okay!" Crowley did. "Better?"

"Yes." Aziraphale frowned. "Actually, no, it's much worse, now I can see what you're thinking, put them back on."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Angel!"

"Alright, alright!" With shaking hands, Aziraphale reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his reading glasses, which they both knew he didn't actually need, but Crowley decided to let that fact go for now. After he had situated them on the end of his nose, he reached into his waistcoat and procured a worn sheet of paper. His fingers trembled as he unfolded it and began to read:

"I fear the way I love you, It's too much for me to bear.

I fear the way I love you, It hurts how much I care.

I fear the way I love you, Your presence is all I crave.

I fear the way I love you, But, now I'm ready to be brave."

Crowley wasn't sure what to say. It had been a while since Aziraphale had shared his favorite poems with him, and he couldn't quite remember how this was supposed to work.

"It's lovely," he said.

"You think so?" Aziraphale asked hopefully, suddenly looking a little less terrified. "It's not as good as yours, of course, but I thought I did pretty well."

Crowley's mind blanked. "Mine?" His voice may have squeaked, but he couldn't be sure over the pounding in his ears.

"Well, yes. They were yours, weren't they?"

Should he deny it? No. He was done hiding. "Yes."

Aziraphale looked... relieved. And that was when Crowley's mind caught up to the second thing Aziraphale had said. "You wrote that poem?"

Aziraphale nodded.

"For me?"

Aziraphale nodded again. "Like I said, it's not much, compar- you promised you wouldn't laugh!"

But Crowley couldn't help himself. The joy and love bubbled out of him in such a way that had to be given form, and laughter seemed to be it. Aziraphale didn't seem to mind, though, once Crowley swept him into his arms and pressed their lips together.

And this? This was poetry.

---

AN: Remember that AU I talked about? I decided to finally put my money where my mouth is. I feel like I should apologize for the awful poetry, so, uh.... sorry.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #aziraphale #anthony j crowley #crowley #ineffable husbands #my fic

[forlorn-kumquat]

something stupid

“This is quite possibly the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.”

Standing in the doorway to the bookshop, an infant’s car seat dangling from one hand and a bottle of scotch in the other, Crowley shot Aziraphale a disarming grin. “Aw, c’mon, Angel. I’ve done stupider things than this.”

“Get inside before someone sees you,” Aziraphale snapped, pulling Crowley into the bookshop while looking frantically up and down the street, like he thought the forces of Heaven and Hell were going to jump out at them from the shadows. “Crowley, what were you thinking?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley admitted, with a shrug. “Maybe, ‘hey, it’d be great if the world didn’t end in a decade or so’.”

Aziraphale stared at Crowley, not sure if he’d heard him correctly. “Is that - is that the Antichrist?” he demands, aghast.

“Of course it’s the Antichrist!” Crowley looks confused, first, and then offended. “What, you thought I’d just nicked some random baby off the street?”

“I didn’t know what you’d done!” Aziraphale threw his hands up in disbelief as he stalked away from Crowley, away from the baby - Satan’s baby. “I can’t believe you stole the Antichrist,” he shot back over his shoulder as he started an impromptu reorganization of his entire shelving system. It shouldn’t take long, just a few weeks, and then maybe by then Satan’s baby would no longer be in his bookshop. “Crowley, what were you thinking?”

“You asked me that already,” Crowley pointed out, from where he’d made himself comfortable on the couch he’d summoned into the middle of the room, the rather immense piece of furniture defying several laws of physics in order to fit in and around the bookshelves. He was lounging on the couch, glass of liquor dangling from his hand, and using his foot to carefully rock the Antichrist to sleep in his carrier. “You’re repeating yourself, Angel.”

“Because your first answer was ludicrous,” Aziraphale told him. “Crowley, you can’t just stop the Apocalypse!”

“Why not?” Crowley asked, and the utter reasonableness in his tone had Aziraphale stopping in his tracks.

“Because-because-” he stammered, staring down at the book he was holding as if it might give him the words he was so desperately searching for. The pristine first-edition of Hamlet offered no revelations. “Because you can’t,” he finally insisted, re-shelving the book and grabbing another to stare at.

“Well, I did,” Crowley retorted, “so obviously I can.” He gave Aziraphale the same charming smile that had gotten them into so much trouble over the centuries. “Angel, you of all people can’t really tell me that you want the Apocalypse. That you want the Earth and all its wonders - all its people - to be destroyed.”

“But it’s the Great Plan!” Aziraphale protested.

“I’m a demon,” Crowley reminded him. “Defying the Great Plan is a pretty big part of the job description.”

“But not a part of mine.” Abandoning his reorganization as a lost cause, Aziraphale wound his way back through the bookshelves to join Crowley on the couch. “I’m not like you, Crowley. I can’t just disobey my orders whenever I want.” Summoning a tumbler into his hand, he poured himself a generous portion of Crowley’s scotch and downed it in a couple of quick swallows. “I don’t even know why you came here, tonight.”

On the other end of the couch, Crowley was suddenly, suspiciously silent. Aziraphale looked up from his glass to see Crowley facing away from him, bent over the infant carrier in order to fuss over the Antichrist. Aziraphale watched him for a few seconds, worrying at the baby’s blanket, before he reached out and smacked Crowley’s hands away.

“Stop that,” he scolded. “You want to wake him up? Heaven only knows what he’s capable of if you upset him.”

“He’s not going to wake up,” Crowley muttered, but he slouched back against the couch cushions, crossing his arms over his chest with a scowl. He still wouldn’t meet Aziraphale’s eyes.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale pressed, watching him closely, “Crowley, why did you come here tonight? This isn’t exactly part of our usual Arrangement.”

“You’re right, I should probably go,” Crowley started, half-standing as he reached for the infant carrier, but Aziraphale stopped him with a hand on his wrist.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said. “Crowley, please, won’t you just tell me?”

Crowley was silent for several long seconds, and then finally, “I think Armageddon is a mistake.”

Aziraphale sucked in a sharp breath, half expecting a bolt of holy fire to come through the ceiling to strike Crowley down. Crowley, for his part, looked afraid but defiant.

“Armageddon is a mistake,” he repeated, louder, like he was daring God to smite him for his blasphemy. “It’s one thing to make plans to destroy the Earth when it’s brand new and there’s nothing on it, but it’s different, now. There’s people, and dolphins, and ducks - the ducks don’t deserve to have their planet wiped out. None of them do.”

“But why come here?” Aziraphale asked, for a third time. “Why come to me with this?”

Crowley jerked his shoulder in a shrug. “Be awfully hard to hide a baby from you for the next decade,” he said. “Besides, why wouldn’t I come here? You’re my best friend.”

Aziraphale blinked, genuinely taken aback by the emotion in Crowley’s voice, the casual way he admitted his feelings. Feelings that he, himself, couldn’t even think about without developing anxiety.

“Do you really think we can do it?” he asked instead, once again shoving his emotions down into some deep dark corner of himself where he wouldn’t have to think about them. “Do you think we can raise the Antichrist so he won’t want to destroy the world?”

“Only one way to find out,” Crowley responded.

“And how do we know we’ll be able to do this?” Aziraphale asked, warming to his topic. “Crowley, do you even know anything about raising a baby?”

“Well, no,” Crowley admitted. “But, look at him, Angel! He’s so tiny compared to regular humans. How hard could this possibly be?”

----------

Later, both Crowley and Aziraphale would come to regret that comment. Deeply, deeply regret it. But for now, they barely had the time to rest, let alone regret.

They’d named the baby Adam (”We have to call him something, Angel, and he’s the first of his kind, too”) and set up a room for him in Crowley’s flat. They’d gone shopping for baby supplies - the human way, at Aziraphale’s insistence.

“If we’re going to raise him as a human,” Aziraphale had said, firmly, “then we need to do things the human way. That means no summoning things whenever we need them.”

Not that Crowley had minded going shopping with Aziraphale; it had actually been fun, wandering around the shops and watching Aziraphale cuddle Adam. He hadn’t even minded standing in the impossibly long lines while the understaffed shop tried to cope with only one open register (a little demonic invention he was particularly proud of). And he’d convinced Aziraphale to let him use a small miracle to send the packages back to the flat ahead of them, since it would have been even more suspicious for people to see them loading everything into a car clearly not meant to hold that much stuff.

They’d gone back to Crowley’s flat, and gotten all of Adam’s new things set up: crib, changing table, rocking chair, and an amount of stuffed animals that might charitably been called excessive. There’d been other things too, diapers, and wash cloths, and every little thing the shop assistants had insisted was absolutely essential to raising a newborn baby. So many things that they began spilling out of Adam’s designated room and rapidly encroaching on the rest of Crowley’s space. It was a problem that he could have solved easily with a miracle or two - if he hadn’t promised Aziraphale.

“Who knew babies needed so much space?” Aziraphale asked, wonderingly, staring in stunned shock at the veritable mountain of baby things filling the room and beyond. “You know, I don’t remember it looking like this much stuff when we were in the shop.”

“The shop’s bigger,” Crowley told him. “Makes everything look smaller by comparison.”

“Well, we can’t move Adam into the bookshop with me,” Aziraphale told him. “I’ve got even less space there than you do.” Shaking his head in disbelief, he wondered out loud, “How do humans do this over and over again?”

“Usually by finding a different place to live,” Crowley said, without thinking about it.

Aziraphale’s eyes positively lit up with glee. “Crowley, that’s it!” he said, excitedly.

“You want me to find a new place to live?” Crowley asked.

“Well, not just you,” Aziraphale replied.

Crowley felt like he was missing something. “Well, who else-” He trailed off at the beaming smile on Aziraphale’s face, the barely-restrained eagerness. “Oh, no. We can’t, Angel. We’ve spent the last six thousand years going to great lengths to hide our Arrangement from both our sides, and now you want to throw all that hard work out the window by moving in together?”

“How else am I going to help you raise Adam?” Aziraphale pointed out. “This will all go much smoother if we’re both living in the same place.”

“What about discretion?” Crowley argued. “What about being careful and not getting caught?”

“We’ll still be careful,” Aziraphale hastened to assure him. “Just as we’ve always been. But I really do think this will be what’s best for Adam. Our best chance at raising him to be a normal boy with no aspirations of destroying the Earth.”

Crowley heaved a sigh, knowing when he’d been defeated. “I suppose you have some kind of idea of where we should live, too?” he asked.

“As a matter of fact,” Aziraphale told him, “I have always wanted to live by the sea.”

----------

They settled on a cottage at the seaside. Well, the realtor called it a cottage; Crowley, personally, had seen smaller castles. But, it had more than enough space for their little Antichrist to flourish, and that was all that mattered.

Four spacious bedrooms, a library big enough to house all of Aziraphale’s books and then some, a garden in the back for Adam to run around in when he was older - the house had everything they were looking for. It even had an overgrown garden that Crowley couldn’t wait to get his hands on.

It was perfect.

----------

Despite the impression he gave off, Crowley really did love his plants. He loved the quiet, meditative feeling in the early morning when he goes through his greenhouse and the gardens, tending to his plants. He loved the little thrill of pride every time someone complimented his gardens. He especially loveed yelling at his plants and watching them tremble in fear (and Aziraphale could just stop with his talk of “unhealthy coping mechanisms” and “indicative of old traumas” all right, because that’s not what he’s doing, Aziraphale was wrong, completely wrong, and which one of them influenced Freud, again?). Point being, Crowley really did love his plants.

Crowley does not love grass.

He’d never been responsible for a lawn full of grass before moving with Aziraphale to their house in the South Downs. There wasn’t a lot of grass running around Soho, after all, outside of St. James Park, and it had always been lushly green and vibrant with life whenever he was there. And he’d assumed, upon seeing the stretch of yellowish-green grass out front, that taking care of this lawn would be just like the rest of his plants.

The realtor had apologized for the unkempt state of the lawn, muttering something about the previous owners, but had quickly reassured them that all it needed was a little TLC to restore it to its former glory. And Crowley had just as quickly reassured her that he would have the lawn looking better than ever before.

He had been wrong. So very wrong.

Grass, he discovered, wasn’t like the plants he was used to dealing with. His plants were young, malleable, easily intimidated. Grass was old and immune to his demonic charms. Grass weathered the changing seasons to come back every spring, survived fire and flood alike, laid down deep, complex roots that weren’t about to give quarter to anyone. Grass had been there long before humans had ever existed, and would be there long after they ceased to be even a blip on the planet.

Grass, quite frankly, did not give two shits about Crowley or his thoughts on how it should be.

Crowley would have been impressed - if he hadn’t been busy declaring all-out war on his new nemesis.

----------

Crowley’s other nemesis was named Karen.

Karen was the head of the village association. Karen’s main responsibility was ensuring that everyone who lived in the village abided by the rules the association laid down. Karen’s main stickler was the state of people’s lawns. Therefore, Karen did not like Crowley.

Crowley could have lived with dislike. In fact, he would have thrived from it. But Karen didn’t just stop at dislike. Karen leveraged every bit of power she had in the village association to levy sanctions and fines against him for the state of his lawn. She insulted his gardening ability. And worst of all, she’d made Aziraphale unhappy. And that could not stand.

In a way, Crowley figured, he’d brought this on himself. One of his few acts in America had been the creation of homeowner associations, organizations that existed supposedly to help the people who lived in their communities, but instead served to make everyone miserable. He’d even earned a commendation for it. But he’d never foreseen people in England deciding to adopt the idea to torture themselves - and by extension, him.

So he’d tried, at first, to be patient when Karen had knocked on their door and informed him that his yard was not up to association standards. He’d politely replied that they’d just moved in and he was sure he’d have the yard back in shape in no time. He’d also assumed that would be the end of their interactions.

As with too many things recently, Crowley was wrong about this.

Karen became a near-constant presence in his life, stopping by the cottage almost every day to tut sadly about the lawn that refused to turn green, no matter what Crowley tried. She’d purse her lips, giving Crowley a Look that suggested that she regarded him as little more than a disobedient child. She’d stare down at the yellowing grass for several long, silent minutes, like she expected it to bloom into life under her watchful gaze. And then she’d heave a deep sigh, fix Crowley with yet another Look, and remind him in her polite, icy tone that he’d incurred yet another fine for the month, and was facing another next month if he didn’t get his situation under control.

Despite his hatred, Crowley was grudgingly impressed. She’d have made a fine demon.

----------

Luckily, the rest of their neighbors were much more reasonable. About half a dozen of them had young children and were more than happy to lend their expertise when it came to raising babies. They even had a weekly parents’ group that Aziraphale was more than happy to join - and host monthly in their house while somehow forgetting to tell Crowley each and every time. But he looked so happy that Crowley couldn’t even pretend to be angry.

“It’s so good of you to take in your nephew,” one of the mothers - Crowley thought her name was Martha - said, cooing down at Adam in his arms with a sappy smile on her face. “You and Ezra, coming together to raise an orphaned baby - it’s so romantic!”

Crowley choked, feeling his face burn. “I-I don’t know if I’d put it that way,” he stammered. No matter how much he might want to.

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about anyone around here giving you grief about it, sweetheart,” Martha said, conspiratorially, patting Crowley on the arm. “Besides, you two aren’t fooling anyone.”

“We aren’t?” Crowley asked, weakly.

Martha just smiled at him again before wandering away to talk to Aziraphale on the other side of the room, leaving Crowley staring down at Adam in stunned shock. The baby blinked up at him.

“We’re fooling everyone, aren’t we?” Crowley asked.

The baby had no answer.

----------

After seeing the last of their neighbors out the door, Aziraphale shut the door with a happy sigh, turning around to regard the empty room behind him. The too-empty room, come to think of it. Where were Crowley and Adam?

Poking around the house, he finally found them in the one place that, once he thought about it, should have been the first place he looked: Crowley’s beloved glass-walled greenhouse. Crowley was stretched out on the battered leather sofa in the center of the room, sound asleep, Adam lying on his chest. Aziraphale had to bite back a smile at the sight of the two of them.

“Crowley,” he said, instead, reaching out to jostle Crowley’s shoulder. “Crowley, everyone’s gone.”

Crowley blinked sleepily up at him, one had curling around Adam as he slowly sat up. “Angel?”

“Everyone’s gone,” Aziraphale repeated. “You can come out of hiding, now.”

“Wasn’t hiding,” Crowley protested, his cheeks tinged faintly pink. “Just spending some one-on-one time with the munchkin, here.”

Now fully awake, Adam babbled a string of nonsense, curling his fingers tightly around Crowley’s shirt. Crowley smiled down at the baby, bouncing him in his arms and making him giggle.

“Not to belabor the obvious,” Aziraphale pointed out, “but the whole point of hosting the parents’ group over here is for Adam to get to spend some time with other children.”

“You’ll have more parents’ groups,” Crowley told him. “And Adam will have plenty of time to play with the other children when I’m gone.”

“When you’re gone?” Aziraphale echoed, feeling suddenly very confused. “Crowley, are you planning on going somewhere?”

Crowley grimaced, looking uncomfortable. “Hell got a hold of me a couple hours ago,” he said. “They’re sending me on a job; I leave in the morning. Don’t know how long I’ll be gone. Could be a few days, could be a few months.”

Aziraphale stared at him in shock. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded.

“I’m telling you now, aren’t I?” Crowley dragged a hand through his hair, shoulders slumping slightly. “Besides, you looked like you were having fun talking to Martha and that other one. I didn’t want to ruin your afternoon when there was nothing you could do about it.”

“But I-” Aziraphale broke off, unable to put what he was really feeling into words. He was hurt, and a little angry, and more than a little scared at the thought of whatever Hell had planned for Crowley, once he was somewhere Aziraphale couldn’t protect him. “What about Adam?” he tried, changing tacks. “We’re supposed to be taking care of him, together.”

“We’re also supposed to be keeping him off Heaven and Hell’s radars,” Crowley pointed out, “which means that if Hell tells me to jump, I can’t very well say no. Can’t risk them getting suspicious; not now.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Aziraphale conceded, reluctantly. “Just, promise me you’ll be careful.”

“Which one of us got locked in the Bastille for a bite to eat, again?” Crowley asked, teasingly. “I promise, Angel, I’ll be careful.”

----------

Aziraphale would never - never - ask Crowley to be less careful, to risk himself while he was on a job for Hell. But over six months without a word? Without anything to let them know that he was still okay while he was working for Hell, that he was safe and unharmed?

Aziraphale would have given a great many things for simply a reassuring whisper.

But as worried as he was, he tried his best to not let Adam pick up on what he was really feeling. The boy grew stronger every day, and not just physically. He hadn’t yet shown any overt displays of his powers, but he was so sensitive to Aziraphale’s thoughts and emotions that there was no doubt that he was at least strongly attuned to the occult. And the last thing Aziraphale wanted was to inadvertently upset Adam with his worries and fears.

So he smiled, and he laughed, and he tried to keep things going as normally as possible for Adam’s sake. He couldn’t let himself do anything else.

He’d spun a tale to his parents’ group about Crowley being unexpectedly being called away on business - although he was careful to stay vague on just what that business actually was. He was sure that more than a couple of their neighbors now thought that Crowley was into something shady and illegal, as a result, but better than raising suspicions by forgetting exactly which story he’d been telling them.

But whatever they might have thought, none of his neighbors had shown the slightest hesitation in showing up day after day to check in on him and Adam, to give them comfort and company and make sure they were never alone for very long. It was exactly the very best kind of humanity that Aziraphale had wanted Adam to experience and be influenced by.

They were alone tonight though, just him and Adam and his wayward thoughts. Adam had been restless all day long, refusing to eat or sleep, just all around fussy and upset. Aziraphale couldn’t really blame him. He wanted to give into his fears, let himself get fussy and upset, too.

But he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t do anything other than pace the length of the greenhouse while Adam cried in his arms, hoping that Crowley had imbued enough of himself into his plants for Adam to sense and be soothed by.

“Dada, dada, dada…” The litany of Adam’s newest word, sobbed into Aziraphale’s shoulder, broke his heart. Dada was reserved almost exclusively for the picture of Crowley that Aziraphale showed him, and Aziraphale acted to be able to give Adam what he wanted.

“I know, sweetheart,” he soothed, as he turned on his heel to make yet another circuit of the room, “I want your dada to come home, too.”

Then, he stopped and stared at the doorway, and at Crowley leaning against the door jamb, a tired smile on his face.

“Why, Angel,” Crowley quipped, “I didn’t know you cared so much.”

“Crowley, you’re home.” Aziraphale was so relieved, he couldn’t even be slightly irritated at Crowley teasing him. “Are you all right?” he demanded, anxiously.

“More or less,” Crowley told him.

Crossing the distance between them, he held his arms out to Adam, scooping him up and promptly holding him close as Adam snuggled happily against his chest. Then, he surprised Aziraphale by freeing an arm and wrapping it around Aziraphale’s shoulders, pulling him into a loose hug.

“Crowley, what-”

“I know this isn’t what we usually do,” Crowley interrupted him, voice muffled from where he had his head pressed against the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, “but I just - I need this right now.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said, wrapping his arms around Crowley in response. He could feel tremors running through Crowley’s lanky frame, and he rubbed his hand up and down Crowley’s back to try and comfort him. “You can have whatever you need,” he assured him.

“Just this,” Crowley said, still holding on tightly. “Just need to know that you and Adam are safe.”

They held each other for a few minutes more, only parting reluctantly when Adam started fussing again.

“He’s probably tired,” Aziraphale told Crowley. “I’m afraid neither of us has been getting much sleep, lately. And it is rather late,” he added, glancing down at his watch to see it was already after midnight.

“It’s not just late,” Crowley said, after a moment. “It’s officially Adam’s first birthday.”

“Is it?” Aziraphale checked his watch again, surprised to see the date he hadn’t really registered until now. “Well, how about that?”

“We did it, Angel,” Crowley told him, as they carried Adam down the hall to put him to bed. “We made it through the first year.”

“Only ten more to go,” Aziraphale reminded him. “If only they’re all like this one.”

“I think we’ll be okay, Angel,” Crowley told him. “The three of us, I think we’ll be okay.”

(And they were.)

#Crowley #Aziraphale #Good Omens #kumquat writes

[amuseoffyre]

Crossing Paths - 928AD - Rila

Notes: I love stumbling on random saints.

928AD – Rila

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake!”

Crowley grinned up at the angel in the entrance to the cave. “Surprise!”

Aziraphale made a moue, stepping down into the cave, a chest cradled in his arms. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Same old, same old,” Crowley replied, sprawling back against the cave wall. “What about you? Last I heard, you were holding court in Great Preslav?”

“Ah.” Aziraphale winced. “Well, you see, there’s a chap hereabouts that my fellow wants to meet. He’s been earning quite the reputation for miracles.”

It took a lot of effort to keep his face straight. “Miracles, eh? How about that?”

The angel’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Crowley…”

“Imagine! Miracles! All the way up here!”

“Crowley, what have you done?”

“Nothing!” He paused, considered. “Weeeeeeell, maybe 25 percent of nothing. 40 at a push.”

Aziraphale groaned. “You’re behind this? All of the…” He tried to flap his very full hand and resorted to flapping an elbow instead. “What the Hell are you doing? You can’t do miracles!”

“Ah, but I’m not.” Crowley couldn’t stop the grin from spreading. “The magical miracle hermit does. You know? Bit hairy? Not keen on hygiene or people? Occasionally beats himself up a bit?” He waved grandly around the cavern they were in. “Lives in a cave that is exactly 100 percent this one?”

The angel’s face fell. “Oh no.”

Crowley beamed at him. “Oh yes. You know I get assigned the holy ones. He’s getting really ratty with me. Turns out he doesn’t like the extra attention.”

“And you can… tolerate being in here?”

Crowley shrugged cheerfully. “S’a cave, angel. Not exactly sanctified, is it?” He got to his feet, dusting flecks of stone from his robes. “Oi, Ivan! You going to be less of a grumpy bugger today? You’ve got a visitor.”

Something moved in the gloomier crevice at the back of the cave.

“I told you to get out.”

“And I told you I’m not listening,” Crowley called back. “Anyway, didn’t your good Lord say you should welcome people into your home?” He winked at the angel. “Something about blessing the people who seek comfort and knowledge, yeah? Be nice and sociable and interact with everyone? Blah blah blah?”

The hermit stamped out from the smaller cavern. “You keep your blasphemy to yourself, demon. I–” He paused at the sight of Aziraphale. “Who are you?”

The angel pinked and opened up the chest. It was packed with gold and trinkets and all the kind of things an ascetic shunned. “I bring you a gift from–” He backed up a step at the dangerous gleam in the human’s eye and Crowley snickered. “I mean… er…”

“Another one!” Ivan grabbed a rock and hurled it at Aziraphale. “Out, demon! Out! I don’t want your temptations!”

“I beg your pardon!” Aziraphale yelped in indignation. “I’m not a demon!”

“Ha!” Ivan advanced on him, waving his well-worn crucifix. “You come here – here – bringing the trappings of wealth and greed and luxury, all dressed in silks and velvets!” He jabbed Aziraphale in the chest and Crowley had to smash his hands over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud at the absolute outrage on the angel’s face. “Take your wealth and money to someone who might succumb to your wiles!”

“I’m here, bringing you a gift from your Tsar!”

Ivan blinked owlishly at him. “My Tsar?”

“Yes!” Aziraphale was red in the face. “Tsar Peter! He’s come to seek your spiritual guidance! We heard about your miracles in the city! He wanted to come and pay his respects to you!”

Crowley rolled onto his feet and sauntered over, peering over Ivan’s skinny shoulder. “They did mention the ‘giving up all worldly possessions’ part of being a hermit, didn’t they?” he inquired. “Or did Pete miss the memo?” He reached for a jewel-crusted goblet. “Mind you, the place could do with a little brightening up.”

Ivan flapped a hand at him. “Off, demon!”

Crowley crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue. “Hasn’t worked for the past three months. Isn’t about to work now.” He plopped himself back down on one of the boulders by the cavern wall and stretched out his legs. “So you going to take his shiny presents, then?”

Ivan glowered at him. Crowley had to admit he liked the stubborn old coot. Reminded him of a certain spell spent in the desert, centuries back.

“He means it as a token of respect,” Aziraphale put in with a quick smile. “He would be honoured to meet you.”

“Ooooh,” Crowley snickered. “Get him. He’d be honoured. Makes you special, doesn’t it? Boss of the country comes all this way from the big city just for an audience with you.” Ivan’s lips compressed to a thin line. “Oh, go on,” Crowley goaded, grinning at the matching expressions on both angel and saint’s faces. “Doesn’t it make you the teensiest bit proud? Bet he’ll fawn on you and dote and everything.”

The thin line turned hard and Ivan slammed the lid of the chest so hard that Aziraphale staggered.

“You may tell his Majesty,” he said without taking his eyes off Crowley’s face, “I cannot accept his gifts. When a man has so much and has so many who look to him for protection and care, that is where he must lay his fortunes. He cannot buy his way into Heaven with trinkets.”

Crowley gave him a grudging nod.

“You… could tell him so yourself,” Aziraphale said hopefully. “We came a long way. You’re a source of great inspiration to him.”

Ivan turned his full attention to Aziraphale and his sour expression changed, a small smile hidden in his tangled beard. “Come,” he said, leading the angel back out of the cavern.

“Going to go and show off your knowledge?” Crowley called after him, scrambling to his feet.

Outside on the track, Ivan turned to face him. “Not going anywhere, demon,” he said. He returned his smile to Aziraphale. “Your man – your Tsar – may see me, but what he seeks from me, I cannot give him. I am only a man. All that he seeks can only come from one greater by far than men and Kings.”

And, of course, Aziraphale positively beamed at him. He set down the chest, opening it and rummaging through it and Crowley rolled his eyes at the hint of a miracle.

“I know you can’t accept the money and gold,” the angel said, producing a miraculously intact bundle of fruits, breads and cheeses that could never have fit inside the chest, “but accept these small tokens. Please.”

Ivan nodded, covering one of the angel’s hands with his own. “Thank you.” He hesitated, glancing down the rocky hillside. “Your Tsar is below?”

Yes, Crowley thought eagerly, give in to the pride.

“He is,” Aziraphale said eagerly. “Will you come?”

The hermit stared pensively down the hillside, then smiled at the angel. “I will offer him my respects, but only from a distance,” he said. “I am not to be revered or treated as some great source of blessing or knowledge. Such things come from God alone. I will see him and he will see me as men. Nothing more.”

“Oh for Satan’s sake,” Crowley groaned. “Come on!”

Ivan smiled serenely at him. “Your work is done here, demon.”

Crowley made a face and threw a pebble at him.

Ivan chuckled. “Go and tell your Tsar to wait at the edge of his encampment,” he said. “I will come down soon.” He disappeared back into the crack in the cliff face, his bundle of food cradled in his arms.

“Ugh,” Crowley grumbled.

“He seems a very bright fellow,” Aziraphale offered sympathetically.

“Mm.” Crowley stooped and peered into Aziraphale’s chest. “Always have to watch out for the smart ones.” He poked through the bottles and cups. “Wine? They sent wine for a hermit?”

The angel sighed. “I know, but he was quite determined.”

“Well…” Crowley plucked the bottle out of the chest. “More for us, eh?”

The angel’s lips twitched. “Really, Crowley…”

For good measure, Crowley picked out two of the goblets and waggled them. “Meet you outside the camp in an hour, eh?” He closed the lid. “Off you trot, then. Got your Tsar to disappoint.”

“Honestly…” Aziraphale sighed fondly, picking up the chest. “Sometimes, I don’t know why I bother with you.”

“Wine!” Crowley called after him, waving the bottle over his head. “Wine and wit!”

“Something,” Aziraphale yelled back, “you frequently lack in equal measures.”

Crowley grinned in the afternoon sunlight.

Always a bit of a bastard, that angel.

#fic: crossing paths #good omens fic #crowley #aziraphale

[dr-mizmix]

In your wings

There was a lot to unpack. Many things had happened over the course of the last few days but neither of them seemed to have enough courage to articulate their thoughts. Both of them discreetly glared at each other waiting for the perfect moment or maybe just waiting for the other one to start. Either way, the bus arrived before anything could be said, leaving them to march into the empty bus and sit down together.

Crowley rested his head on the window sighing exhausted as the bus began its journey to what should have been Oxford but ended up being London. Aziraphale discreetly glanced at him examining his state. He was covered by sweat and ashes from head to toes, with two seemingly recognizable sources of each substance: heat and anxiety sweat and bookstore and Bentley ashes. He could also smell the remainings of an almost completely evaporated alcohol trail; he knew where that came from. “You appear to be extenuated, my dear,” he gasped preoccupied.

Crowley turned giving Aziraphale a tired smile, “Well, saving the world ended up being way more exhausting than I anticipated.”

“Ah, will you embrace another 100 year nap to deal with it?” He tried to sound carefree but he couldn't hide his disappointment.

“No.” Crowley replied almost instantly. Afterwards he paused slightly embarrassed because of his timing. “I've become quite fond of this time period.”

“Oh, then we'll be able to see each other more often don't you think, dear boy?” His curious and friendly manner made Crowley's face blush.

“Yes, I s'ppose so.” Aziraphale tapped his shoulder as if to ask him permission for something and even though he didn't quite understand what he was being asked, he found himself complacently nodding.

Seconds later he had an smiling angel using his shoulder as a pillow and playing with his hair. He took some air gathering the courage needed for his next move and then proceeded to slowly place his arm behind the angel who replied by making some complicity noises and snuggling.

It took hours for the bus to arrive to London. They may have averted the apocalypse but the M25 is still the M25 and no amount of Anti-Christ magic could change that. But as the ride wasn't all that bad, they found no reason to complain and instead they silently enjoyed the silence, the peace and the company.

“We arrived”

“After you”

They took the elevator to the attic. Aziraphale thought it was ironic, a demon living so close to the sky. Crowley opened the door allowing him to see his apartment for the first time in maybe decades. The walls were gray and the apparent didn't have many furniture or decorative objects, but it was done on purpose. The way everything was spaced out and decorated resembled Aziraphale what Heaven would look like if they knew how to decorate a place. Not that Crowley's place reminded him of Heaven, Hell no! But Crowley captured the open concept monochromatic style in a way that somehow transmitted love instead of emptiness.

“Your home is pretty minimalist” he finally concluded.

“Yeah, that's what I was goin' for” Crowley studied Aziraphale's expression looking for his opinion.

Aziraphale directed his sight to his houseplants gently grabbing one of its leaves “I heard you have the most wonderful plants in all London” He redirected his sight to Crowley who seemed tense and smiled candidly “But I would say they are the best in the world. You're really talented.”

“Thanksss” he covered his mouth after hissing.

“Don't worry about it my dear.” A painting on Crowley's wall caught his eye “Wait a minute, is that the…”

“Mona Lisa. You are correct. Da Vinci lend it to me in his will.” he answered proudly

“So you are the famous Salai.”

“The man didn't know how to keep a secret”

“So all those paintings…”

“Oh no, no, no. Was I Salai? Yes. Did I pose naked before one of the most famous artists to ever exist so they see me naked for generations? No.”

Aziraphale couldn't stop himself from grinning “Understandable. Any other artists you befriended that I don't know about?”

“Eh” He looked at his 'evil triumphing against good' statue and discreetly miracled it out of sight “No.”

“I know it's not your thing but if you want to sleep” he pointed at his bedroom “The bed is yours, I'll crash in the sofa.”

Aziraphale yawned stretching his arms, thinking “You know what? Sleeping does sound well. But given that your bed big enough for two, there's no need for you to sleep anywhere else.”

Crowley devilishly grinned “Just know I have a tendency to hug the nearest thing near me while I sleep.”

“You say that as if it was a problem, dear” that came out way flirtier than what he expected. Not that he regrets it.

Crowley miracled himself into a black silk pajama when he sat down on his bed spreading his wings to examine them. “Tch, my wings are a mess!”

“I can fix them for you…” Aziraphale proposed slightly blushed

“Would you really do that for me?” He asked almost incredulous.

“Well of course, my dear.” He sat down next to him while blushing in the most undeniable way “After all, my wings are messy too” giving a playful smirk.

Crowley scanned Aziraphale trying to read the room as he became more conscious of each word he said “Are you suggesting me to groom your wings in exchange of being groomed?”

“Maybe” He placed his jacket aside the bed “It's common knowledge that demons have better groomed wings and maybe I am jealous of certain demon I know because he has the prettiest wings in the universe.”

Crowley smiled and pulled his tongue out “Then ask him to do it”

“Don't be like that!” he laughed.

“Sorry” he tapped Aziraphale's back ordering him to spread his wings “Come on, I will try to undo years of neglect to your wings.”

“Hey!”

They took off the clothes that covered their torsos. Crowley handed Aziraphale a bottle which he examined intrigued.

“You use cinnamon oil to groom your wings?” That explains how he manages to smell so nice.

“Obviously angel, I'm a demon not an animal. What do you use anyway?” He opened the top drawer of his nightstand, searching around its contents.

“I didn't… Angels don't…” Aziraphale was extremely ashamed. Apparently he's been doing it wrong for more than 6000 years. It takes dedication to do something wrong for 6000 years.

“You've been grooming your wings just with your hands this whole time?” He took the dramatic color change in Aziraphale face resembling the one of traffic light as an answer. “No wonder why angels have such nasty wings” Crowley smiled endearingly.

He showed him a luxurious unopened bottle of vanilla scented oil. It looked like if no one had touched it since the day it entered his drawer. “I have a feeling that you might like this one.”

“Vanilla?”

“Thought you'd like it.” Crowley seemed confident on his answer but he still waited doubtful.

“It's actually my favorite.” Aziraphale smiled and Crowley smiled back with an expression which could only be translated as 'I knew it'

They stood on Crowley's bed with Aziraphale sitting on top of Crowley's legs, chests almost touching so they could reach all the way to their backs and wings completely spread. Aziraphale opened the bottle of cinnamon oil and unfurled some of Crowley's smaller feathers as he did the same. Crowley then took the liberty to move on to his primaries, going through them up and down one by one almost as if he was giving him a massage (he was).

“Your wings are really soft.” Aziraphale giggled as he spread oil on them.

“That's what happens when you treat them correctly.” He stopped for a second in order to focus on the feathers of the end of Aziraphale's wing (scapulars) “After being in my hands yours will be as well.”

They kept silent until Aziraphale slowly wrapped his legs around Crowley embracing in some sort of hug

“That's not my wing.”

“I know. Do you mind?”

“I s'ppose not.” he stopped his massage and smirked “But remember that two can play this game.” Crowley grabbed Aziraphale by his wrists and carefully pinned him against the bed.

While Aziraphale hovered his hands over Crowley's back, he tenderly drew shapes with his palm on Aziraphale's trunk.

“May I?” The angel pointed at the demon's glasses with the intent of getting rid of the awful barrier. Crowley nodded and shrugged as if it wasn't a big deal while he took them off. Aziraphale beamed.

“They are really beautiful.” the angel admired the demon's eyes, hypnotized.

“You…” he sighed

“What is it my dear?” Crowley's head slowly approached Aziraphale's “May I?” Aziraphale nodded while Crowley gently placed his hands under his tilting head in anticipation of what was to come.

Their lips matched as they closed their eyes. Crowley stopped breathing as he focused on feeling his Angel's hair. Aziraphale's senses augmented as he heard a muffled 'I love you' and instinctively gripped the demon's hair to pull him even closer. It was a slow tender kiss that gave so many answers yet created so many questions. Unsurprisingly, they repeated it again, and again, with muffled 'I love you's coming from both parties.

“You are beautiful” He kissed him again, “You are the definition of beautiful” And again, this time more passionately “You are the most beautiful thing in the world.” His eyes shined golden amber as they filled with tears and emotion “If I had the chance, I would name the entire firmament after you, I would wait a million years just for the chance seeing you one more time.” Aziraphale's wings spread fully making Crowley smile

“Oh my dear boy, you're going to make me cry” Crowley's fingers were now tracing an infinite between Aziraphale's wings which made him involuntarily arch his spine.

“But you shouldn't angel. It should be blasphemy, sacrilege to make someone as beautiful and as good as you cry. You are the most precious being in the entire universe and I can't believe you're in my arms” His fingertips practically flew above the angel's skin, making minimum contact but activating most of his nerve receptors.

“Crowley” Aziraphale placed his hands tightly around Crowley's face as Crowley flapped his wings to spread them.

Crowley got closer to his neck to whisper so him and only him could listen to his words “I love you angel. I love you. I love you.”

A few seconds later Aziraphale managed to reply between his heavy breathing “I love you too.”

As soon as he heard it, Crowley dropped embracing in a hug using arms and wings which didn't took long to be reciprocated and kissed Aziraphale sweetly as many times as their bodies allowed them. “I love you” “I love you” “I love you” at this point they couldn't tell who was the one saying it, but did it matter?

In the end, they didn't end up sleeping but who cares? They have the rest of eternity to sleep or not, they can do whatever they want now that they know they own each other's heart.

#good omens #go #good omens fic #good omens fluff #ineffable husbands #otp: ineffable #wing fic #good omens crowley #crowley x aziraphale #crowley #aziraphale #a/c

[padfootagain]

The Lesson (I)

Part 1 : Punishment 

Ha, look at the fool that I am!! Look how a silly little one-shot has turned into a multi-chaptered fic!! Watch and learn. This is what having 0 self-control looks like…

Anyway, this is a very cute little fic that I'm writing here. Lots of fluff and silly idiots in love.

I hope you like it! Tell me what you think of it!!

Gif not mine

Word Count : 4825

Gabriel really doesn't have a clue what's going on right now.

A minute ago, he was in heaven, drinking tea with Michael, and laughing at some poor ridiculous angel, who had knocked a whole pile of their old files off and therefore had to spend their afternoon putting it all back the way it was before.

And then he was summoned. By God herself. Or well, the Metatron, to be precise, as no one really talks to Her directly. But talking to the Metatron is like talking to God after all, he is Her voice. And he is the one devoted to take care of all the tiny insignificant business that God Herself is too busy to take care of herself.

Gabriel is rather surprised by the summon, but he is an Archangel, after all. And more than that he is the Archangel Fucking Gabriel. He is something of importance, up there, in Heaven, and is quite proud of his influence and reputation throughout the angelic organization.

And yet, how fast has his world come to crumble…

"But, there must be a mistake, I mean… what would She want to punish me for?" Gabriel tries to argue.

He can't be sentenced to something. He just can't. Why… Where was that all coming from anyway?

"You have grown too much apart from the humans you are meant to help and protect," the Metatron replies in a calm, slow voice.

"That's… with all due respect, that's a misunderstanding."

"God knows best."

"Of course, She does. But I am…"

"You shall see the benefit of Her teaching in the end, even if for now, Her decision appears all but mysterious to you. You will grow to learn the lesson She means to teach you."

"What shall I do then?"

After all, Gabriel can't defy God. She for sure knows better than him. His ego is ready to accept only this limitation, but this one, it can't deny.

"You shall experience the world as a human."

"What?!"

"You will be sent to Earth under your mortal form, and shall remain there as long as you need to learn the lesson God has prepared for you."

"But… like… I could stay for several days?! I can't stay down there for days! What about that terrible air they breathe, and this disgusting food and… hang on… if I'm mortal, does that mean I have to eat?! I can't sully my ethereal body with this!"

"You shall leave like a mortal for as long as necessary for you to learn the people you are meant to help."

"This is…"

But he stops himself before he would let out the word. He can't say that it was all ridiculous. Blasphemy and all that. He reckons he is in enough trouble already.

"When am I leaving?"

The Metatron smiles.

"Now, of course."

And before Gabriel can protest, the world around him is of a blinding white, and he is gone.

 ----------------------------------------------------

 Crowley is so proud of his garden. He's always loved plants, he's always loved watching them grow (into perfection, using a little bit of his voice). And in the South Downs, near the limestone cliffs and chalky rocks, in the cottage he and Aziraphale have bought after the almost-end-of-the-world incident, he created a welcoming and rather furnished garden. Aziraphale is not one to complain about it, first because he can see how the garden makes the demon happy, and whatever makes Crowley happy instantly makes Aziraphale happy as well, but also because Crowley has turned the garden into the loveliest place to read a good book. Under the warm summer sun, sitting on the wooden bench Crowley has placed there for him (of course, the demon has never admitted that adding a bench to the garden was meant for the angel, but Aziraphale is not a fool, not anymore, at least), with the sweet perfume of blooming jasmine, lilac and hydrangea, it makes it perfect for the angel to get lost in a good book. And that is precisely what he is doing at that moment.

It is a rare copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray he is devouring now, that Oscar Wilde signed for him a long time ago - with a tender note that had made Crowley doubt the angel's purity for a while too, until Aziraphale denied it with a blush and used the obvious fact that there was already someone in his heart when he had met the author in question, to which Crowley had been the one to fiercely blush and hiss a little.

Aziraphale is not surprised at all when Crowley joins him on the bench, takes off his dark sunglasses, that he carefully places in the pocket of his black shirt, and lies down to rest his head on the angel's laps. Actually, Aziraphale has been waiting for Crowley to join him on the bench. It is almost a habit by now, really. A habit nor Aziraphale nor Crowley have managed to get quite used to, even now, that they have been free for several years from both Heaven and Hell.

They can be close now. As close as they have always wanted and fantasized and hoped for, and they are. It doesn't mean either of them has grown accustomed to how lucky they both are to have each other though.

Aziraphale adjusts his position on the bench a little to give Crowley more room to unfold his long legs, and lowers a hand from his precious book to Crowley's burning hair, eliciting a content sigh from the demon as he closes his eyes.

He must admit that this life is a rather good one. A quiet cottage near the sea, crowded with Aziraphale's old books and a large garden for Crowley to terrorize as many plants as he wants. And he's with Aziraphale now. They live together, and drink their tea in the morning while they read the newspaper, and they go out to eat ice-creams in the afternoon, and organize picnics by the sea, and dinners home in the trembling light of burning candles, and they go to bed together, and hold each other as they fall asleep…

… and they can kiss, and hold hands, and touch, run fingers through hair and peck smiles and all of this tastes a little bit too much like paradise for the demon's heart to handle.

He loves it anyway.

They've been free from Hell and Heaven for a decade now. Or well, it will soon be a decade, in one week, to be exact. It coincides with their anniversary too. One year after the almost-Armageddon. After a year of dates at the Ritz, and picnics in Saint James's Park, and holding hands along the Thames, and stealing kisses in the bookshop, and faking they didn't hear people mistaking them for husbands so they wouldn't have to correct them. After a year they decided to move away from the busy town together, and Aziraphale proposed to get the arrangement one step further. Maybe it would make things easier and more practical to get a house. Maybe it would spare them the bother of having people mistaken their relationship. And maybe he wanted to spend the rest of eternity by Crowley's side, and is it not what marriage is all about, after all? A promise to be there, whatever may happen?

Crowley agreed that it would make things clear for the new neighbours, and might drive a few conservative old ladies mad, and he's a demon still, so how could he miss the occasion to mess up with narrow-minded elders? And maybe he also wanted to spend all eternity with Aziraphale, and if he had made that promise to stay with him forever long before, maybe he would enjoy making the statement official now.

It was almost nine years ago that they took their vows, and the thought brings Crowley to gently stroke the silvery ring around his finger, where a pair of wings is engraved. He opens his eyes to glimpse at Azirphale's matching golden ring, wrapped around a finger that holds his book up to read.

They're lucky. Unbearably, cheesily, disgustingly lucky, and it makes Crowley so annoyingly happy.

He closes his eyes again, drinking in the sun that warms up his eyelids, enjoying the way the angel soothingly runs his fingers through his hair.

"Your lilac smells divine, dear," Aziraphale compliments him, and Crowley can't refrain a little smile.

Aziraphale is distracted from his book for good. After six thousand years of companionship (and secret longing), he knows the angel by heart. He might fake an innocent tone, but he merely wants to talk with Crowley. About nothing in particular, really, just talk, maybe hold hands at one point while the sun warms their two frames, and they'll probably share a few kisses on the way too. Crowley grins at the thought.

Temptation accomplished.

"I've made sure they would," he replied without bothering opening his eyes.

"Oh, dearest, really, you ought to stop terrifying these poor things!"

"May I remind you how many plants you managed to make grow with your 'all love and sweetness method' when you were a gardener for Warlock, huh?"

Aziraphale let out a revolted huff.

"Well, your jasmine didn't die when I complimented it yesterday, did it?" he whispers under his breath, just loudly enough for Crowley to catch his words.

In response, Crowley jolts upright.

"You did WHAT?!" he shouts through the quiet garden, but Aziraphale fakes innocence, the ghost of an amused smile tugging at his lips.

And Crowley notices it. Oh, of course he does. Aziraphale can be so horridly annoying sometimes…

"Me? Nothing."

"How many timessss do you have to tell you? No kindnesssss!" Crowley hisses in his anger.

But Aziraphale stares at him with such a tender glance now, as he puts his book down on his lap to cup Crowley's cheeks.

"Oh, you foul fiend…"

But in that soft and playful tone, Crowley knows that the words truly mean You're such a nice soul.

"I'm not niccce," he replies with a pout.

"Of course you are," Aziraphale replies, before pulling the demon to him and kissing him gently on the lips.

" 'm not."

"Yes, you are, dear."

"You bastard."

"I know that too."

They chuckle against each other's lips, and kiss again. And again. And again…

Until they hear a loud thudding noise coming from behind them, in the back of the garden. It comes from… yes, definitely around Crowley's red dahlias.

Crowley is on his feet before a second has the time to tick, and Aziraphale has turned on the bench as well, in the direction of the noise.

A groan rises from behind the tall flowers. Human, without a doubt. Male, judging by the sound of the voice.

Where the hell is he coming from?

"Oh dear… he must be hurt, he must have climbed over the wall," Aziraphale whispers, standing up as well and nervously twisting his clasped hands.

"And landed three meters away from the fence? What was he doing on top of the wall anyway? Diving into dahlias?"

"What should I know? But he must be hurt. We should… go and take a look."

Which, as Crowley perfectly knows, means 'you should go and take a look'.

He rolls his eyes.

"Should I call the police?" Aziraphale asks, following Crowley, a couple of steps behind.

"Nah, no need. I'll handle it, angel. Must be drunk or something."

Aziraphale comes a little closer to the demon, which can only make Crowley smile. As if he would get in a fight if there was to be one anyway… But now that he thinks about it, Crowley guesses that the angel might, if there were to be a real danger. The idiotic selfless being of love…

They walk through the patch of grass splayed before the dahlias, and Crowley notices the broken plants in the blink of an eye.

"My dahlias!" he exclaims with both anger and distress in his voice.

"Oh, my love," Aziraphale tries to soothe him, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Maybe a little miracle…"

"No! No! Angel, it took me years to have them so red!"

"I know, dearest, I'm sorry."

"My dahlias!"

"I know. But there's someone in the dahlias, honey, we should…"

"Aziraphale?"

Both the angel and the demon freeze. It's not difficult to recognize Gabriel's voice. He's been haunting their nightmares for years.

They exchange a surprised, then shocked, then scared look, before focusing on the dahlias again. Taking a few more steps towards the plants, they easily spot the archangel indeed, still lying head first in the earth.

Crowley moves to stand between Aziraphale and Gabriel, and the angel has no trouble recognizing the dangerous look in the demon's eyes, along with the little sparks coming out of the tip of his fingers.

"Crowley, no. He seems hurt," Aziraphale stops him, but Crowley turns to him with an astonished look on his features.

"He tried to kill you, angel. He wanted to kill you!"

"But he didn't, did he now?"

Crowley clenches his jaw, hellfire burning in his eyes with his devouring rage, and Aziraphale heaves a sigh.

Meanwhile, Gabriel has sat up in the dahlias, destroying a few more flowers in the process.

"Aziraphale! Oh, I'm so glad to see you!"

"Well, not ussss," Crowley spits back.

"Still with your best friend, I see."

Crowley glares at him, and Aziraphale takes a step closer, coming right beside Crowley.

"What are you doing here? I thought you were to leave us alone, now," he asks back, making an effort close to a miracle to keep a polite tone.

"Well, that's quite a long story."

"Get out of here."

Crowley's jaw and fists are clenched, and Aziraphale knows how close the demon is to miracle Gabriel in the depth of the Mariana Trench.

"Well, I… I'm afraid I can't," Gabriel shakes his head, a touch of panic twisting his features.

"You'd better miracle yourself out of this garden… no, actually, out of this town… no, no, out of this country before I have time to miracle it for you," the demon spits.

"Crowley…"

"He tried to kill you!"

Aziraphale heaves a sigh.

"Look… why have you come here? We weren't doing anything…" Aziraphale turns to Gabriel again.

"No, I mean. I didn't choose where I landed, I just… I was sent here."

"Sent here? By whom? For what?"

"God. She… is punishing me."

Both Crowley and Aziraphale stared at him as their eyebrows shot up to their hairline.

"Punishing you?"

Gabriel nods, on the verge of tears. His white suit is stained with dark dirt and the green dye of broken leaves, his hair a mess. He looks desperate.

"Apparently I've grown… too far from humans. I've… lost the point or…I don't really know why I was sent here as a mortal."

"A mortal?" the demon and the angel ask in an astonished unison.

"I'm stuck here in a mortal body for as long as I haven't changed."

"Changed for what?"

"I have no idea."

He looks up at them. Crowley the demon, and Aziraphale the angel. He hates both of them. They stopped the war that would end everything. They saved humanity, and for what? A garden? A cottage? A little bit of sun? It's ridiculous. They're a joke, an anomaly, and he wishes he and Beelzebub could have found a way to get rid of them both all those years ago.

But he's also alone, in a world he barely knows, with nowhere to go and nothing to do. And they are they only ones he can rely on, if they let him.

"Help me."

Crowley snorts.

"Yeah, of course, why not? Why not help the archangel who tried to burn him alive," Crowley mocks, pointing at Aziraphale, and as he goes on, at himself. "And handed enough holy water to dissolve me."

"We haven't always agreed on general politics..."

"That is a euphemism, Gabriel," Aziraphale replies in a harsh tone. "Crowley has a point, you did try to murder us."

"Yes, that's true. But I'm sent here in a human's body and I don't know what I'm even supposed to do and have nowhere to go…"

"Well, first, you can GET OUT OF MY GARDEN!" Crowley roars.

"But…"

"OUT!"

Aziraphale makes a movement towards the archangel, but Crowley stops him.

"He might be armed."

"I'm not. I'm human now!"

"Oh, and we should take your word for it then?"

"Crowley."

The demon stops to look at Aziraphale again. He seems hesitant, but determined too. Crowley knows this look. It's the look that gets them both in trouble everytime. It's the look that means I know it might be a bad idea, but it's the right thing to do, and thus I must do it. And he hates that look…

"Crowley and I will take you to the hotel. We'll give you some money too, so you can pay for the room for a few days," he decides, and Crowley wants to shout to the top of his lungs how annoying and wrong and stupid the angel is right now. Instead, he lets out a low groan.

He has never managed to make Aziraphale change his mind, not in six thousand years, he doesn't expect to win now.

"Thank you," is all Gabriel can manage to say.

He stands up, and Crowley watches as he reveals the broken plants.

And Gabriel is almost certain to see tears in the yellow, demonic eyes.

"My dahlias…" Crowley breathes, and Aziraphale pats his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, dear."

"It took my years…"

"I know. But they'll grow back. You'll make them grow back."

"My dahlias…"

Gabriel is more confused than ever…

They guide him through the house, that Gabriel quickly examines as they walk through but doesn't really care about lingering in. It feels warm and a little crowded, but in the most comforting way. As they walk through the kitchen, he notices the collection of herbs, the books about cooking and gardening, the many mugs of all colours and shapes, the many boxes of tea and cocoa, the light coming in from the large window. In the living room, the many shelves stacked with old books encircling the room, a large TV screen lost in the middle of them. A warm carpet, a comfortable sofa and two armchairs are set around a little glass table. He can't deny that the place feels loved, even if he's not an angel anymore, and can't feel it the way he used to. But he doesn't really want to linger around the two traitors, and he reckons that a hotel sounds like a good idea. He feels tired all of a sudden. And that's when it hits him. He is tired. Instinctively, he knows he needs to sleep. He also feels a constant but quiet pain in his stomach. Is it what hunger feels like?

The more he thinks about it, the more he is panicking. Crowley has already opened the front door and is ready to throw the (former) archangel out when Gabriel stops in his tracks, and leans against the large leathery sofa in an attempt to keep on standing.

"Oh dear Lord…" he breathes, his heart speeding up, and the thought of his beating heart makes a new wave of panic course through his veins. "What am I gonna do? How… I don't know how to do things like this…"

"What are you talking about?" Aziraphale inquires with a frown, and Crowley hates the fact that he sees pity into his blue eyes.

Really, pity for this murderer is the last thing they need.

"I'm… I think I… my body needs to sleep."

"Well, we're taking you to a hotel. You'll have a comfortable bed and everything you need to sleep."

"But HOW?! How do I sleep?"

"Oh…"

Crowley and Aziraphale exchange a glance, but they don't try to make the other understand the same message at all through this silent communication.

Crowley tries to say this is the worst idea in the whole history of the universe and I am not helping this prick.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale's blue eyes are begging for we can't leave him like this, he's just a human now, after all.

And Crowley, at this particular moment, hates both Aziraphale and himself. Himself because he knows that he loves Aziraphale too much to refuse anything he could possibly ask him. The bastard could ask for the stars, and Crowley would re-learn how to create them just for him. And he hates Aziraphale too because he knows perfectly well that he is looking at him with this particularly soft gaze because of which Crowley can't refuse him anything.

"Well, you… You just lie down in a bed. And close your eyes and try to think of something nice," Aziraphale explains, gently taking Gabriel by the elbow to guide him towards the door.

"Try to think of something nice?! That's all? What nice things do you think about?"

"Well… A good book, or some good food or…"

"Or burning you in hellfire," Crowley hisses behind his gritted teeth, making both Gabriel and Aziraphale glower at him.

"I don't even know what I did wrong," Gabriel went on, and despite Aziraphale's cold feelings towards the archangel, he can't help but feel sorry for him. "I don't know what I have to do to get back. What if I stay stuck here forever?"

Crowley and Aziraphale exchange a panicked glance. They can't allow that to happen…

"I'm sure you'll find something."

"What am I going to do? And I don't have money… they still use money down here, right?"

"Yes. We'll give you some to get by for a few days."

"But then?"

"Then… you'll have to find a job and pay for yourself, I suppose."

"I can't do it, Aziraphale. I can't…"

Gabriel is shaking from the tip of his white shoes to his perfect hair (or well, usually perfect hair, the landing in Crowley's dahlia has disturbed a couple of strands). Aziraphale makes him sit on the sofa while he turns to speak with Crowley, taking his arm and pulling him into the kitchen. By the window, they can see the garden still bathed in sunlight, in which two sparrows decide to settle to sing, but they spend a moment commenting on what could have caused the perfect garden to look so messy now with all these broken dahlias.

"We have to help him," the angel decides with urgency shaking his voice.

"What?! Of course not! He tried to kill you, angel! There wasn't even any form of trial."

"I know…"

"Have you forgotten how mean he was to you all these years?! All his remarks and cruel little comments?!"

"I haven't forgotten any of those, and you know it."

"Then how on Earth can you think for a second about helping him?!"

"Because… if we don't, he might never be sent back."

"Perhaps a lifetime on Earth will do him good," Crowley replies with darkness in his voice.

"We'll never get rid of him then," Aziraphale reasons his demon. "Besides, we're better than him. We have to be better than him. Better than all of them. Our side has to be better than theirs."

Crowley sighs, running a hand through his hair and making the ginger strands messy. He hates it when Aziraphale does that, when he chooses the perfect arguments to convince him.

"We can't leave him," Aziraphale adds in a shy voice.

"He wouldn't do the same for us. He would kill us both if he had the chance."

"But we're not him."

"He doesn't deserve your kindness, angel. Not after all he's done to you."

"No, maybe he doesn't. But he doesn't need to deserve it for me to grant it to him anyway."

Crowley sighs again, but he can't find words to reply. Deep down, he thinks about a day long gone, spent on the top of a wall encircling Eden, watching the first storm wet the world and a couple with a flaming sword disappear in the distance. He thinks about an angel offering him protection from the cold rain under his wing. He thinks about his smile. He thinks about all the times they met after that.

He doesn't think that he deserved Aziraphale's kindness then either, but the angel granted it to him anyway. He isn't even sure that even now, he fully deserves it. He's just lucky to own it.

He rolls his eyes and picks up his dark sunglasses from his pocket to put them on again.

"Fine," he answers moodily. "But I won't be nice with him. And only for a week. One week and he goes to that hotel, and I never want to see him again. Is that clear?"

Aziraphale nods, giving him a tender smile that Crowley knows means you're nicer than you pretend to be again. But Crowley is too preoccupied by the (former) archangel sitting on their sofa to correct the angel this time.

They walk back into the living room, and Aziraphale rests a soothing hand on Gabriel's shoulder. The man really looks distraught. Crowley almost feels sorry for him. But not quite.

"You… can stay here for a few days, if you want. Crowley and I will help you understand what's going on. And once you know what you have to do, you can accomplish your mission and go home."

Gabriel slowly nods.

"If you're tired, you should sleep. We have a spare bedroom upstairs. Come on."

Gabriel follows the angel upstairs, well aware of Crowley's glare as he walks up the stairs behind him, but he chooses to act as if he could ignore it. Instead, he follows Aziraphale into a little bedroom, that is clearly used as an office as well, judging by the many papers on the desk.

"Here, lie down on the bed, close your eyes, and try to calm down. It can take a little while to fall asleep, although, you truly look exhausted," Aziraphale guides the distraught (former) archangel to the bed.

He and Crowley exit the room as soon as Gabriel has closed his eyes, and the angel uses a miracle to lock the door.

"Can you tell me now what the hell you're playing at, angel?" Crowley hisses through gritted teeth as they walk back downstairs. "You can't be helping him just to be good, I know you well enough for that."

"Not so loud," Aziraphale admonishes, nervously glancing up the stairs.

"We shouldn't be helping him!"

"Because letting him wander off across town is a better idea, perhaps?" the angel snaps back.

"Yes!"

"No! We should keep an eye on him. Make sure of what he's up to. And what better way to do so than to keep him here?"

"He could be trying to kill us!"

"I know. Which is why we should make sure he doesn't get the chance to gather some help to do so. Better to keep one's enemies close, right?"

Crowley opens his mouth to reply, but smiles instead.

"Besides, it's the decent thing to do, really," Aziraphale goes on. "No matter what he has done in the past, we can't abandon him. We need to be better than that."

"You, bastard."

"Now, now… no need for that kind of language," Aziraphale fakes to admonish, when in reality, he's smiling and blushing a little. "We need to keep a close watch on him, and make sure no one else is sent down here."

"Or up here."

They exchange a wary glance.

"I'll write the runes on the front door, you take the back," Crowley orders, and they both move to the kitchen to get a chalk.

Before they part to protect their home, Aziraphale takes Crowley's hand in his and gives him a reassuring smile.

"We'll be just fine. As long as we're together, we'll be just fine."

Crowley answers with a tender smile, cupping the angel's face.

"I know."

"I love you."

"I love you too. Now, come on. Let's make sure no one can come in uninvited."

They kiss before parting, and half an hour later, the two doors of their cottage are protected by a series of runes written in white chalk.

In the distance, coming from the sea, dark clouds gather through the sky, slowly drifting towards the cottage, and the demon watches them roll through the firmament. Crowley wonders what the future might bring. With Gabriel back in their life, he guesses nothing good is to be expected in the coming days. He steps back inside the house and closes the door behind him, leaving the clouds behind to rest his eyes on his angel instead, who is preparing some tea for both of them.

If one thing is for certain, it is that he will make sure Aziraphale is safe, no matter the cost.

***********************************

Taglist : @imafangirlofeverything @ponycake27 @horsesreign @xinyourdreamsx @jbluevelvet @notkeppeki @daynigt-dreamer-stuff @fudgeflyss @stuckupstucky @snek-shit @suchatinyinfinity @i-padfootblack-things  @buckybsarmy @heyohheyitsgabi

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[ineffably-effable]

Come up and see me (make me smile)

Rome, 41 AD

AN: Continues on from the role-reversal au started in  Come up and see me (make me smile)

Thanks again to @mia-ugly​ for being a wonderful beta-reader (which this time involved convincing me not to throw this out and then jump into the trash after it).

(read on ao3)

Crowley had been in Rome a month without seeing hide nor hair of his affable adversary. Even though he knew (hoped) the demon could take care of himself (probably) he still found himself seeking out the sorts of establishments regularly patronized by said demon to inquire after him ("Curly hair, golden eyes - no not brown, I said golden, yes I get that's not very common- look mate, have you seen him or not?!"). In the end it was a message from Michael that tipped him off to the demon’s whereabouts (a marked increase in sin had been observed one of the city’s seedier neighbourhoods, and if it wasn't too much trouble would Crowley please do his job and restore a bit of moral order).

  This was how he found himself standing in the Atrium of a large public bathhouse, feeling utterly ridiculous in one of the lighter (and tragically optional) bathing robes. 

  After a short hunt, made shorter by a strong sense of demonic activity from the eastern chambers, Crowley spotted Aziraphale in the tepidarium. Oblivious to Crowley's scrutiny, the demon was lounging contentedly in the pool, his neck tilted back against the wall. Around him, throughout the pool and the surrounding alcoves, humans were grinding and rutting against each other in all manner of passionate couplings (and throuplings, Crowley noticed, a little impressed by the flexibility on display). 

  Aziraphale appeared to be watching over the proceedings with a sort of benevolent self-satisfaction. Every so often a human would approach him, and he'd smile graciously and nudge them towards another partner. He also seemed to be keeping an eye on the chamber's doorway and (although he'd missed Crowley) any humans entering the chamber were quickly ensnared, reaching for each other as their confused eyes quickly became insensible with lust. 

  As Crowley made his way over to him (a process made difficult by the need to dodge suggestive leers and groping hands) he tried to figure out how exactly this managed to attract notice upstairs. Obviously the S.O.Fs were innumerable, but those had always been considered a fairly low-grade offence. (Adultery would be the next logical conclusion but, knowing Aziraphale, Crowley suspected anyone in a truly committed relationship would be struck by an urge to visit another chamber). 

  "Crowley!"

  Aziraphale spotted him and waved him over excitedly, looking for all the world as though he was sitting in a crowded tavern and not in the midst of an orgy. He clicked his fingers and the couple closest to him moved away, leaving room for the angel to join him in the water. Crowley ignored the implicit invitation, instead sitting on the ledge, arranging his legs deliberately so that they rested outside the pool. Aziraphale watched this with - an almost fond - exasperation. "Fancy running into you here! How have you been?"

  "I'd be a lot better if I wasn’t getting chastised in missives about your behaviour," he replied. "You foul fiend ,'' he added as an afterthought (fully aware the smile on his face diminished the severity of the words).

  "Is that so? Don't tell me you've been sent to thwart my wiles ?" the demon asked with an exaggerated air of disappointment and a suggestive tone.

  "Honestly Aziraphale, I leave you unsupervised for a few years and suddenly-” Crowley paused, flustered, as he was interrupted by an enthusiastic, protracted moan, “-uh, hedonism is running rampant."

  "You flatter me dear. This barely counts as-"  the demon's words were drowned out by a loud proclamation - “Sweet merciful Gods!” - as a man near them seemed to find his bliss. Crowley raised his eyebrows and Aziraphale grinned, utterly unperturbed. “- corruption, blasphemy notwithstanding.”  

  "Ahuh."

  “I'm hardly harming anyone,” he pointed out matter-of-factly. "Quite the opposite in fact."

  "You're messing about with their free will. That's cheating."

  "Oh please, I’ve removed their inhibitions and heightened some sensations. If they didn't truly want to be here, they wouldn't be."

  "Weren't you meant to be influencing what's-his-name, the emperor?"

  "Caligula?" The demon pulled a face. "Don’t remind me. That loathsome man didn’t need any suggestions from my quarter. The second he got a taste of power it went straight to his head. I’ve already written it up as a resounding success.”

  "So now you’re stirring up trouble for the sake of it?'

  "Still have those demonic quotas to consider." He shrugged. "You have to admit lust is the most innocuous of the seven." Aziraphale’s eyes tracked to where two humans seemed to be enjoying themselves, almost innocent in their exploration of each other’s bodies. "I tried gluttony for a bit, but then they started retching so they could continue stuffing themselves." He wrinkled his nose in distaste and gave his head a little shake (as if to clear the thought).  "At least one can enjoy oneself here."

  Crowley nodded in understanding, then froze as his brain processed the slightly lecherous tone the demon had used to stress the word enjoy.

  The demon beamed at him, amusement plain on his face.

  “You haven’t- not with-" Crowley spluttered.

  "They're only human, of course, so not much of an intellectual connection, but some are extremely talented.” He winked at Crowley. “You should find a nice young man and avail yourself, I'm certain you'd have no shortage of offers."

  "Don't be ridiculous," Crowley responded hotly. 

  "Aren't you the slightest bit curious what it feels like? You might be an angel, my dear, but you're housed in a human corporation that's very susceptible to pleasures of the flesh." The low timbre of his voice was enticing in ways Crowley would rather not think about. He attempted what he hoped was a withering look, but the demon just laughed. "Baby steps perhaps?" He gestured to the spot next to him, "The water is lovely. Are you sure you won't join me?"

  Crowley stared at him incredulously, and then - almost involuntarily - his gaze lowered. Even obscured beneath the surface of the water, it was apparent the demon had made an effort. A respectable one. For a moment Crowley allowed himself to imagine disrobing and sliding into the pool. He’d corner Aziraphale, pressing him against the wall with the length of his body, and then he'd taste his lips, his throat, the hollow of his neck. He’d slip a hand down to grip him, firmly. Aziraphale would grin encouragingly, or perhaps - despite all his bold talk - he would gasp and flush prettily.

  "Crowley?”

  Crowley looked up, he could feel his face burning. Aziraphale was grinning at him like he knew exactly what Crowley had been thinking, like-

  Oh.

Of course he did.

The bastard.

  "Was that you?" Crowley growled.

  "Was what me?" The demon looked genuinely puzzled. Crowley didn’t buy it.

  Crowley snapped his fingers and the temperature of the water dropped. People sprang to their feet yelping in shock. Judging from the blushing and awkwardness, inhibitions had also come flooding back with a vengeance.

  "Satan below," the demon muttered, standing up and out of the now chilled water. Crowley averted his eyes until he materialized a robe. "That wasn't very nice, my dear.  I think you've ruined a few promising trysts."

  "All in a day’s work." 

  Aziraphale furrowed his brow.

  "Hmph. Well, seeing as we've both accomplished our goals for the day, could I tempt you to a spot of lunch?"

  "I'm an angel. I can't go around being tempted by demons," Crowley replied through gritted teeth, still nettled.

  Aziraphale seemed genuinely confused and not a little hurt.

  "Of course, I suppose it's in my nature to try." He gave a small, self-deprecating smile that made Crowley feel terrible. Then he took a step backwards and started fumbling with his robe which made Crowley feel even terrible-er.

  He racked his brain for something to say.

  “I did hear there’s a new restaurant..." he offered awkwardly.

  Aziraphale brightened up instantly.

  “Do you mean Petronius’? With the oysters?”

  “Yeah, uh, that’s the one. If you were to eat there then I suppose I’d have to tag along and keep an eye on you. Make sure you don’t wreak havoc.”

  “Naturally.”

  Aziraphale looked right at him, indulgent smile and sparkling eyes out in full-force, and suddenly - suddenly the room felt too small - Crowley mumbled something about “beating the rush”, and led Azirphale in the direction of the restaurant.

   A couple of hours, and three (maybe four?) jugs of wine later, Crowley was in that pleasant state of inebriation (the one where his brain could still string sentences together, but jumped ship entirely when it really ought to be reminding him why he shouldn't enjoy the company of his hereditary enemy). Judging from the way said "enemy" was gesticulating wildly as he talked, the demon might have been a cup or two beyond that point.

  They had left the restaurant a little while back (Aziraphale having noticed Crowley's poorly concealed disgust at the uncooked molluscs, and cheerfully scoffing the angel's half-dozen in addition to his own) and were now winding their way through Rome's streets at a leisurely pace. Aziraphale was bragging that he knew the streets like the back of his hand and was recounting how he'd saved a playwright from execution. He was arguing it could be justified as evil because the playwright spread misery (i.e. turns out this Seneca fellow wrote tragedies) and because the man was a political dissident. Crowley made an offhand comment that rebellion-as-sin didn’t seem all that clearcut, earning him a blank stare from the demon, who abruptly changed subject to how Crowley "really must try Globuli" - insisting they hunt down a street vendor who made “the absolute best in the city”.

  Eventually (after the street vendor was located, roused from his rest, and handsomely compensated)  the consumption of fried syrupy cheese curd was achieved and the two of them continued on, chatting amiably until they reached a street Crowley recognized.

  "I think this is me," he said, nudging his companion.

  "Oh. I'm the other way," the demon replied, apparently without any intention of moving.

  "Try not to get up to too much trouble," Crowley told him. "I've got other assignments in the city. Can't go dropping them to chase you out of bath houses every five minutes."

  "I make no promises," Aziraphale replied, grinning.

  Crowley bit back a smile. "Well, until next time, you lecher."

  "Until then, my dear." 

  Crowley moved to shake hands when suddenly Aziraphale grabbed him by the shoulders and pressed his mouth against Crowley's lips. It only lasted a moment. In fact, the lingering warmth was the only hint Crowley hadn't hallucinated it.

  Crowley must have looked as bewildered as he felt because the color drained from Aziraphale's face. 

  "I'm sorry! I forgot you haven't been in town very long! That was an osculum, " the demon babbled anxiously, "a show of friendship between equals, not to presume we're-"  He looked up, but clearly Crowley's inscrutable expression didn't calm him. If anything it seemed to have the opposite effect. "Of course it's not like, well nothing like what you saw at the baths- those were basium and well, savium too, obviously - amongst, well, os impuri - amongst other types of kiss-like er." (The demon blushed, and Crowley felt a surge of affection for this stammering idiot - who seemed to think it possible to live four thousand years on Earth without learning the difference between a kiss and oral-sex) "- but yes, platonic kisses. All the rage of late. I think they might have been adapted from the Persian greetings. Absolutely fascinating, really, these humans and what they get up to-"

  Crowley cut him off by pulling Aziraphale in and pressing their lips together firmly. As he pulled away he took in the demon's stunned face with smug satisfaction.

  "Osculum eh? Did I do it right?"

  Aziraphale blinked slowly, before (visibly) collecting himself.

  "Definitely passable.” he said, voiced slightly strained, “Should you ever wish to practice I'd be more than happy to oblige." 

  Crowley rolled his eyes, which seemed to bolster the demon's confidence. "As an angel you really ought to try some of the others as well." He smirked.

  “You’re incorrigible.”

  “Please , you love it.”

  Crowley waited a beat too long before laughing a little too loudly.  Aziraphale stared at him, a strange look on his face.

  "Well, I should probably be-”

  “Best be on my way-”

  “No rest for the wicked." 

  “Virtue is ever vigilant-”

  With a quick nod (which Crowley returned) the demon set off, walking half a block in the wrong direction. Crowley looked on, bemused, as Aziraphale stopped, realized what he'd done, and then looked back to see if Crowley had noticed. Ever the bastard, Crowley waved at him. 

  “Like the back of your hand?” Crowley asked as the demon passed him.

  “Oh, sod off,” Aziraphale sniped back without stopping.

  Crowley laughed.

  "Try not to get lost!" he called out after him and was extremely satisfied to see Aziraphale make a rude gesture.

#good omens #good omens fic #ineffable husbands #role reversal au #demon!aziraphale #angel!crowley #my writing

[scintillating-galaxias]

give ‘em hell, darling

Chapter Five—Step 3.1

Aziraphale begins his attempts to teach fifty angels about Earth.

(read it here on ao3!)

Aziraphale’s Crash Course to Earth was off to a very rough start.

After Aziraphale had repaired the broken window, he found himself almost immediately surrounded by angels on all sides.

“Hello! Hello!” a few were repeating to the left, as though they had never heard the phrase before. Perhaps they never had. Heaven’s greeting customs were uncomfortably stiff and starched at times.

“Is that how they do it?” asked voices from the right.

Aziraphale went to assure them, when more voices above him called, “Did we do it right?”

And from below him, “What else do they say?”

And pushing him backward with the grandiose of their true forms, “Is that all?”

And catching him with flesh hands, “Can we go to Earth now?”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, and with a surge of energy, pushed every angel away from him as he cried, “ Enough! ”

The angels fell silent. Panting slightly, Aziraphale dusted himself off and shook his sleeves out. “Lesson number two,” he said lightly. “There are many types of humans, and human cultures, and some will not appreciate an invasion of their personal space. The area they determine to be their personal space varies. Where you all will be going, that behavior will not be socially acceptable.”

The angels murmured their apologies and backed off a largely unnecessary fifteen feet, so now Aziraphale was placed in the center of an almost perfect, empty dome. And then questions started up once again.

“Is this far enough away?”

“Shall we move back more?”

“Is this  too  far away?”

“I thought humans liked physical contact!”

“Do we have to shout like this?”

“No!” Aziraphale loudly called out to that last one. “In fact, most humans”—he lowered his voice to a regular speaking volume—“speak like this. It can quieter, it can be louder, but they typically don’t shout at each other in regular conversation.”

A collective, “ Ohhh ,” went up.

“There are many more exceptions,” continued Aziraphale, “but I hardly think here is the place to discuss them.”

He motioned for the angels to follow him, and then picked a direction to start walking. Perhaps to the angels, he was a Principality with a Plan, and he had a fully formed agenda he intended to carry out once they arrived at his chosen destination, the mysterious nature of which enthralled them to trail behind him without question. In reality, Aziraphale had not at all intended even to suggest changing locations and was now wildly spitballing ideas as he wandered about, taking turns at random hoping he would find an empty room large enough to house them all. 

Luckily, he chanced upon a sparsely used lecture hall and made a split-second decision to march right on in. Hopefully, he wouldn’t get kicked out in the middle of whatever his near-future self would be doing. The angels shuffled in after him and took their seats, all the while watching Aziraphale as he stepped in. 

Right , thought Aziraphale.  Here we go.

He uncomfortably made his way to the front of the hall, feeling smaller and smaller with every step he took. When he finally reached a podium and turned around, he murmured a nearly inaudible, “ Oh dear. ”

Fifty-four (he had counted them as they had come in) angels of Heaven loomed over him. Some faces were smiling, most not, all were expectant. It felt like the trial he never had. He was aware that now, more than ever, every move, every word would be dissected with the utmost severe analysis. Mistakes would be costly, and Aziraphale could not afford much.

“Humans,” he began, picking up from where Gabriel had cut him off, “are complex and diverse creatures. Why they may shout is a minuscule facet of their character, though I can try to answer questions about that.” He waited one second, decided he would really rather not get into it, and bulldozed on. “They have made great progress since Adam and Eve—”

An angry drone rose up. “They can feel pain now!” shouted one angel in the nosebleeds. “They could have had a simple life of peace, and now they have committed some of the evilest sins even Hell has ever seen! How, Aziraphale, is that progress?”

“It is a travesty,” Aziraphale agreed quickly, “that the serpent convinced Adam and Eve to turn their backs on God. Knowledge was truly a dangerous thing, and they indeed paid a heavy price. I cannot dispute this. But without it, how could humanity have learned of all the good things God put on Her planet? Was it better to live in bliss and not feel as much of God’s love as possible? Inside walls where one could never learn what Good comes from wrong?”

The seraph abruptly stood, their massive form bowing to avoid the ceiling.  Her presence is not quantifiable,  they said, outraged.  There is no ‘less’ amount of love in the Garden as there is anywhere else!

“No,” said Aziraphale amicably, “but what was outside the Garden? I can tell you. There are fantastic beasts not allowed in the Garden. Great deserts that go on into the horizon. There are even plants that did not exist within the Garden. These are not nothing. There is God’s love there, too.”

What you speak is blasphemy. Humanity was never meant to Know Good and Evil as She does.

“Of course not. Humans are not Her, and they never will be. But there is a difference between gaining the knowledge to understand and become aware of it, and the knowledge to try and change the way She created things.”

These back-and-forths went on, and on, and on, spiraling so far away from the actual dangers (like traffic laws and the rogue 2012 Ford Fiestas) Aziraphale wanted to warn them about, that he almost did not know not to rein it back in. That was not to say these discussions, we shall call them for the sake of politeness, were unhelpful.

As he spoke and answered questions, Aziraphale began to uncover some truths about the angels he had never been privy to with his time on Earth. The vast majority of the fifty-four angels present (Aziraphale had counted as they had come in one-by-one through the doorway) had accepted a very old-fashioned impression of humans as the literal gospel truth. When prompted, Aziraphale learned that they thought all of humanity consisted of barbaric, violent creatures with few to no redeemable qualities. Some were good, but most were already so infected with Evil, there was nothing left to do but purge them. As far as the angels were concerned, there would be nothing to mourn if humans were all destroyed during the War That Was Naught. Which, if one must be reminded, was meant to be an epic battle in which Good triumphed over Evil and eradicated it for, well, good. 

Of course, that did not happen. But in the eyes of Heaven, Aziraphale was the one to blame.

Because of this, every one of the angels before him was highly skeptical and determined to believe every word he spoke was blasphemy of the blackest sort. Muttering and the occasional dark glares and the hostile tones were ghostly re-enactments of the events of that horrible day one year ago. He feared they would begin jeering once again, and he wasn’t sure if he would be able to handle himself. There weren’t twenty million of them, but fifty-four was still an awfully large number for one angel.

In short: it was not going well.

Results,  hissed a particularly venomous Gabriel in the forefront of Aziraphale’s mind. Slightly flustered, he kicked himself into a higher gear.

When all else failed, at least he could turn to familiarity’s embrace to keep him warm. When Aziraphale was lost, he went back to what he knew, and what he knew was this: he had been fired from his position on Earth. Currently, he was being held hostage in Heaven and forced to do its bidding, which involved lecturing a whole bunch of angels about humans because the angels kept getting killed when they went to Earth, or were so shaken by being on Earth, they wanted to leave. He had to tell them how not to do that.

There was the problem laid out in the simplest terms. Now, here was where familiarity parted with Aziraphale and introduced him to the chilly unknown. There were several ways to go about resolving the problem, and dozens of meta layers to dig through to reach the big  Why  of that problem, but there were only a few ways Heaven would see as the ‘right’ ways. Lecturing on about the knotty ethics and morality of humanity was was not one of them at the moment. Aziraphale had to focus on the simple matter on how to teach fifty-four angels of Heaven about Earth in a manner that would not get themselves, himself, a human, or Crowley killed.

To digress from the philosophical concerns, Aziraphale had to wonder—what was it that kept getting the angels discorporated, anyhow? Or made them want to leave so quickly? Getting hit by a car or getting a paperweight dropped on one’s head wasn’t exactly an everyday occurrence. And humans were typically fairly pleasant most of the time. He would need to coax information out of Sandalphon before he proceeded, somehow.

He told the angels to hold a short discussion amongst themselves. If he wanted to make the progress Heaven wanted promptly, he would need answers to factual questions as soon as possible. Quietly, he approached a nearby angel and asked if she knew where he could find Sandalphon. She stared at him blankly before sliding what looked like a thin piece of glass out of her pocket—

Oh. Oh—Oh,  drat.   Aziraphale should have taken up Crowley’s offer to teach him how to use those delicate new mobile phones that were coming out when he had the chance. The one the angel had looked even more alien than Crowley’ s—it was made entirely of a translucent blue piece of glass. Completely unspectacular, and utterly alien. At least Crowley’s black phone had a discernible screen and a frame and a button to press.

“ Hardly anyone uses a rotary phone anymore, ” Crowley had said. “ You really should get with the times, angel. At least the technological ones if nothing else—they move fast. ”

And Aziraphale, what a fool he was, had turned up his nose and scoffed, “ I will keep my telephone, thank you very much .” The phrase “to bite him in the arse” almost felt too appropriate. 

“You’ve reached the Head Office of the Divine and Eternally Ethereal Businesses of Heaven,” a smooth, baritone voice said. “My name is Barratiel. How may I assist you with your inquiries today?”

Oh, bless her, the angel had made the call for him. She held the phone out to him. He took it and uncertainly held it up to his ear the same way he had seen Crowley do dozens of times. “Erm, hello. This is the Principality Aziraphale.”

All at once, the smoothness became as slick and cold as ice. “Aziraphale. What business do you have to conduct today?”

“I need—I would like to speak to Sandalphon. Is he available?”

“I’m afraid Sandalphon is quite busy at this time. May we redirect you to one of his assistants?”

“No, I’m afraid it needs to be Sandalphon. He has—”

“I’m sorry, but Sandalphon is unavailable at this time. You may either speak to his assistants, or I suggest you please call again later.”

“I—Um. I’m sorry, but I must insist on speaking to Sandalphon!” It probably would have come out more authoritative if Aziraphale were not speaking into the phone upside down. He did not know he was doing so, and thus it did not. “It is imperative that I do so, for Heaven’s sake!”

“I can pass a message to him noting that you would like to speak with him,” replied Barratiel, completely unfazed. “He will likely get back to you between five to ten business days.”

Aziraphale scowled. “Fine. Fine! Are you absolutely sure there is no way to speak to him now?”

“Yes,” he answered, clipped. “Is there anything else?”

“I swear he just left me alone five minutes ago. How can he already be busy?”

“Her Archangels have much work to be done,” sniffed Barratiel. “No thanks to you.” Aziraphale took the phone off of his ear and gaped at it. “Is there anything else I can assist you with?”

Lord, give him the strength to not snap this piece of glass into a million fragments. “No,” he sighed, “I suppose not.”

“Peace be with you.”

“And with your spirit,” Aziraphale said robotically. He hears a strange crackling sound that was similar to someone blowing in his ear. Was that the end of the call? It was awfully hard to tell with mobile phones. He pinched the bridge of his nose and vowed to attempt to reintroduce the landline into modern London society once he returned.

“How are things going, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale yelped and nearly dropped the phone. He batted it in the air a few times before snatching it and clutching it close to his chest. “Ah! Gabriel!” He cleared his throat and straightened up as best he could. “You, um, weren’t gone for long.”

Gabriel wasn’t watching him, electing to let his gaze sweep disapprovingly over the angels as though they were a menagerie pacing around and waiting for Aziraphale to give them an order to obey. Aziraphale could not help but notice the way they shrunk back and hid their faces. “It was noted that no one had sent anyone down yet. I wanted to see the holdup.”

Aziraphale sputtered. “I need more time than forty minutes! There’ s—quality control, and don’t get me started on the information itself I must give, not to mention there are too many details you’ve neglected to provide me with—”

“It sounds like you’re already struggling.” Gabriel smiled coyly.

“I am doing just fine, thank you,” he gritted out. The phone was unceremoniously stuffed back into the other angel’s waiting hand .  “ However , there is one question I would like you to answer. And just the one.” He was no Sandalphone, but as much of an airhead as Gabriel was, he had to know  something,  didn’t he? “What were the main causes of the angel’s, er, early retirement, shall we call it? One hundred and forty-seven is an awful lot to burn through. I would like to avoid making the same mistakes.”

Gabriel pinned him with a filthy look. Aziraphale tried to keep his visible squirm at a minimum. Then Gabriel flicked his wrists, and a decently sized stack of paper appeared. He shoved it harshly into Aziraphale’s chest, scowling.

“What you need will be there. Send one down within the hour, or we are retracting our part of the deal.”

As quickly as he had come, Gabriel was now gone again. Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief before turning his attention towards the papers. A fair portion of them was blocked out with perfectly rectangular blocks of golden ink, but Gabriel had held to his word—everything he needed was there.

“You don’t like him,” the other angel commented quietly.

“He has not been the warmest to me in the past,” Aziraphale replied offhandedly. He began to skim through what papers he could, mentally making two separate lists of reasons for discorporation and reasons for resignation as he went.

“He isn’t warm to many,” admitted the angel. That caught Aziraphale’s attention. He looked at her, and she immediately glanced away. “I don’t—I don’t know why I said that. I’m distracting you. My apologies.”

She hastily joined her neighbor’s conversation. Aziraphale watched her idly for a few more seconds before going back to the lists.

The discorporated list was a good deal more convoluted than the other. The most recent incident was with Arael. Beyond that, a good bunch of angels appeared to have forgotten their human bodies needed an entire respiratory, circulatory, nervous, and many other types of systems to make their human bodies function correctly. One or two ended up in the wrong parts of town and were promptly… was he reading this correctly?  Mugged?  Aziraphale hastily decided he couldn’t overthink that and moved on to what was a few more involving broken necks, one case about laughing too hard, a drowning, another one got hit by a bus—a note here claimed a human witness exclaimed, “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Ali!” at the moment of impact—and at least five cases off falling off of something tall. 

This list could be summarized briefly as follows: an angel’s downfall was a fatal misunderstanding of the delicacy of the human body. As well as traffic laws. 

That should be simple enough to remedy. Aziraphale had read a fair amount of human anatomy books as they had come out, watching humans’ progress as they took apart their bodies to see what made them tick. Surely he could pass on that information to these angels quickly enough.

But as for the resignations… They gave Aziraphale a long pause. Where the discorporations had a wide range of freak accidents, the resignations cited one reason, and one reason only: it was overwhelming. Most details going into depth about those were redacted, but one phrase that caught his attention. It said, “It felt as though every being on Earth were crying out at once...loud...sorrowful…it hurts too much to stay.”

That was interesting. Aziraphale shook out the papers and miracled his reading glasses onto his face. It was not something that had occurred to him, but it sense. Where Aziraphale had learned over the course of six thousand years to push back his empathetic nature so as not to drown in the emotional tides of every living being on Earth, these angels were being thrown into the storm of the billions of souls all growing and shrinking, speaking and feeling, at once. It was a bit like wearing noise-canceling headphones your whole life, then finally taking them off and realizing you’ve been at a sixty-thousand person concert the entire time. Of course it would be jarring and upsetting, especially if one had never known for sound to have the capacity to be that loud.

Aziraphale glanced around. Behind the angels, the white walls of the hall shined brightly. And Aziraphale knew beyond those walls was the metropolis of human souls, and within that maze were trees, gardens, flowers—

Maybe humankind was just too much. Humans had a hundred things to say and feel, a thousand unspoken social rules, and, of course, they had traffic laws. They were violently different from Adam and Eve, whose experience had been so limited. It would be impossible to believe Eve could be related to a human six thousand years ahead of her time. Nature, on the other hand, was both entwined in humanity, yet relatively unchanged within the grand scheme of things. A tree did not have anxiety over the next paycheck. A red rose’s sorrow was not over the complicated depths of romance. An apple did not beset the downfall of humanity. Sometimes it made for a delicious apple crumble. Perhaps that one was in poor taste. Aziraphale decided to try and keep the angels away from fruit for the time being. Regardless, maybe nature would greet the angels with fewer consequences.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. It was worth a shot. “Pardon me,” he said to the angel who had lent him the phone. “What did you say your name was?”

“Ioael,” she answered. “And you never asked.”

“Right, of course.” He’d forgotten the brutal directness of Heaven. He was reminded once again of Crowley, who had never been one to sugarcoat (unless his pride was in peril), but he’d always associated that as a Crowley trait, not a Heavenly trait. “It’s a pleasure meeting you.”

Ioael studied him hesitantly before slowly saying, “And you.”

The pair went silent as every single head swiveled to stare. Aziraphale twisted his pinky ring. “Well, Ioael,” he said, “how do you feel about going to Earth?”

#good omens #good omens fanfic #aziraphale #gabriel #angel ocs #my writing #theological discussion #oh man how did i already write five chapters? i never write that much #gehd

[thewhiterabbit42]

Mystery Man

Pairing: Gadreel x Reader Request: @room-with-a-cat / @blondecoffeecake - Masquerade Party Word count: 937 Tags/Warnings: fluff

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You couldn’t stop thinking about him: your mysterious stranger from the masquerade.  He’d swept you off your feet in every sense of the phrase.  You hadn’t thought it possible to dance as much as you did, mostly because you were terrible at it, but he made you feel as though you were a natural, gently guiding you through the various steps, twirls, and turns.  

You talked for hours, mostly on the dance floor, your bodies slowly drawing ever closer as the evening wore on.  He was sweet, attentive, charming, a gentleman in a way that neither felt forced nor condescending.  He might have also been the only person you’d heard drop the line I could listen to you talk for hours and actually mean it.  

You almost had to.  It took a fair amount of coaxing to get him to speak about himself, and when he did, you could feel the tension rolling through his solid frame.  You watched him blossom over the course of the evening.  The way he talked about his family: full of devotion and love.  How he wanted to make them proud, to be a better person, to make a difference in the world.  

Every murmured confession, every story he shared, brought you closer together, and the last dance you shared was in comfortable silence, your head against his chest as you listened to the slow and steady beat of his heart.  You had never felt more safe than you did in his arms, and you had to reluctantly peel yourself away from him at the end.      

“Until we meet again,” he promised, bowing low to place a kiss on the back of your hand before you got into your car and left.  You were in such a dazed dream that it wasn’t until you got back to the bunker that you realized you hadn’t even asked his name.  He knew yours, however.  The town you lived in.  Your “roommates” first names.  

“Why didn’t you just give him our address and a key to the bunker while you were at it?”  Dean had groused, but when he saw how happy you were, his irritability lessened to brotherly chiding.  

The man became all you thought about in your spare time, your curiosity and imagination running wild.  You wondered what it would be like to bump into him.  Would he recognize you if he saw you again?  Would you even know it was him if you ran into him at the grocery store or on a hunt?  Had it already happened, your chance slipping by as the two of you passed like ships in the night, unaware of each other’s presence?

Days turned into weeks, and the reality of the situation set in.  You would likely never see him again.  As enchanting as the night had been, that was all it would be: one night.  

Another month passed, and you managed to convince yourself it was for the best.  If he was as wonderful as you thought him to be, he didn’t deserve to be dragged into the type of life you had.  He should be out at boring barbecues and having babies whose jawline could also cut glass and devastate.  You weren’t going to spend your life pouting about it.  

Drinking, on the other hand, was a whole different matter.  

You pushed your way into the bunker, hands full of plastic bags and the two six packs you had picked up for the boys.  It was your standard burger and beer night, though you’d picked up a handle of your own poison in preparation for the aching disappointment that ambushed you late at night when you were alone.  

You had just made your way down the stairs toward the kitchen when you heard the brothers talking.  

“We’re glad you decided to stop in.  We could actually use your help on something that came up recently,” Dean began and you slowed your steps.  Great.  You had company.  The last thing you wanted to do was entertain.  

You hoped it wasn’t Gabriel.  You did not have the energy for that being right now, though the way Dean had said they were glad to see their guest suggested it was not the smug archangel.  

“Hey,” you greeted, moving straight across the kitchen to drop your bags without so much as looking at the trio standing around the table.  

“Good timing.  This is Gadreel.  Gadreel, y/n,”  Dean introduced.  

You took a moment to unload your arms and turned, ready to plaster a forced but friendly smile on your face.  The moment your eyes landed on your guest, you froze, your mind grinding to a halt before kicking into overdrive as you took in the size of him.  

It couldn’t be.  

“He’s an angel,” Sam added, noting the way you stared.  

Angel.  Oh god he was an angel.  You tried to convince yourself the familiarity was just wishing thinking, because having a crush on a divine being must have constituted some form of blasphemy, but there was no way you’d ever forget a jaw like that.  

“I believe we’ve already had the pleasure of meeting.”  A smile crept across his face, stoic features brightening as he made his way closer.  “Y/n…” he repeated, testing your name out on his tongue.  He gently took your hand and brought them to his lips, drawing attention to his anxious but sparkling green gaze as he waited for your reaction.  

“Gadreel…”

He had exactly one second to take in your beaming smile before you did what you wished you had all those weeks ago, and pulled him in for a kiss.  

There’s plenty more in store for Octoberfest.  Don’t miss out!  

Send an ask to be added to tags (everything, character specific, or Octoberfest only) OR follow @rabbit-writes (my fic only side blog) and turn on notifications.  

Friendly reminder: these are 18+ only with pornagraphic content, and by requesting to be added or following you are confirming you are old enough to view such material.  

ALL the tags:

@girl-next-door-writes​ @fand0maniac​ @feelmyroarrrr​ @baritonechick​ @lucifer-in-leather​ @blondecoffeecake​  @ourloveisforthelovely​​ @tistai​ @room-with-a-cat​ @authoressskr​ @revwinchester​ @flufy07​ @tardis-is-mine​ @tangle-of-ivy​ @luciferseclipse @mrswhozeewhatsis @protectivedestiel ​ @angelofwinchester17 @crowleys-poppet-queen-of-assgard @phantomwarrior12 @jeanjeaniethings @wontlookaway @copperseraphim @fandomsrourlives @archangelgabriellives @shadows-and-padlocked-hearts

#gadreel x reader #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fanfic #supernatural reader insert #gadreel #gadreel fluff #Octoberfest 2018 #Rabbit writes

[wanderingcas]

Week 13: Destiel Case Fics!

[Thank you, everyone, for your wonderful submissions to Week 13, the final week of Spn Fanfic Submission Thursday! There’s some absolutely quality fics in this list, so check them out. If you read a fic, make sure to leave a comment and make an author’s day!

Note: this is technically the last week of Fanfic Submission Thursday. If you enjoyed these weekly fics, make some noise in my inbox and let me know! I’ll keep it going if people want it to continue. ^-^]

Humanity’s Angels by @amirosebooks

To get their minds off of Kelly Kline, Lucifer, and the BMOL, Dean and Sam take a case in Northern Arizona where a rogue angel was seen flashing his wings at a film festival and ranting about blasphemy. They quickly realize that there might be more to this case than they’d initially thought. The angel fits all the characteristics of being a ghost—EMF readings, see-through body, air chilling ability, and all. A local man is found with his eyes burned out like he was the victim of a smiting keeps them in town after salting and burning the angel’s buried vessel in hopes of dispelling his ghost.

Between all of this, Dean is finding it hard to keep his feelings for Cas under wraps. Especially when everywhere he looks and everyone he talks to reminds him of how much energy he’s spent hiding his sexuality from his family over the years. Will watching the ghost angel’s grieving best friend mourn the loss of the angel he’d loved spur Dean into confessing his own feelings before it’s too late? Will an angel from Cas’s past be able to succeed where Ishim failed? Who the hell has Sam been texting? Will someone please tell Mary what the hell is going on with her sons? Will any of Team Free Will learn to use their damn words?

Explicit. 92.8k words. (Complete)

[Bisexual Dean Winchester, Asexual Castiel, Mutual Pining, Canon Typical Violence, John Winchester’s A+ Parenting, Homophobia/Biphobia, Jealous Dean]

The Orange Blossom Bride by @expatgirl

It’s a simple salt and burn, even if it is in Florida. How hard could it possibly be?

Or:

Even the dead know.

Teen and Up. 15.5k words. (Complete)

[Case fic, pining, Sam Knows, Florida, ghosts, post-S10]

You Can’t Get Rid Of The Babadook (And Years Of Unresolved Sexual Tension) by @deaneatscake 

When the queer community accepts the Babadook as their new found icon, they accidentally create a Tulpa that starts killing homophobic people. Of course, Team Free Will rises to the occasion.

Explicit. 11.9k words. (Complete)

[AU - Canon, UST, Unsafe Sex, No Deaths, No Angst, Bisexual Dean Winchester]

Same Deep Water by @braezenkitty

Team Free Will hits the road to California to investigate the Brookdale Lodge, a haunted hotel nestled in the fog and giant redwoods of the Santa Cruz mountains. It’s been plagued by numerous suspicious deaths over its long history, the most well-known being the drowning of a six year old girl in the creek that runs through the middle of the Lodge’s famous restaurant, the Brookroom. Locals say the place is cursed, and connoisseurs of the paranormal regularly prowl the premises hoping to catch a glimpse of one of its many spirit residents. When a regular at the Lodge’s bar, the Mermaid Room, turns up drowned in the Lodge’s empty pool, Sam, Dean, and Cas decide to check it out. After a long break spent recovering from their battle with the Darkness, it seems like just the kind of open and shut case they need to ease back into hunting… but the Brookdale Lodge lives up to its dark reputation when something seeks to draw them into the water and drag them all under the surface.

Explicit. 30.5k words. (Complete)

[Protective Dean Winchester, Human Castiel, Interrupting Sam, Team Free Will, Hunter Castiel, Haunted Houses, Haunting, Drowning, Mutual Pining, Light Angst, Sharing a Bed, Jealous Dean, Angry Kissing, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Happy Ending, Not Really Character Death, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence]

Until I Know This Sure Uncertainty, I’ll Entertain The Offered Fallacy by @mittensmorgul

Nothing had gone right all day. Dean had let the witch slip through his fingers, and he’d had to leave Sam and Cas behind to finish her off while he slogged off to her secret lair to get rid of the source of her powers. It was literal garbage duty, but it still had to be done. It didn’t make it any easier to know that Sam and Cas were in her line of fire while Dean was relatively safe (if appalled by the state of her housekeeping). So of course if something else could go wrong for Dean, it would.

Why was it always witches?

Teen and Up. 12.7k words. (Complete) [Humor, Fluff, Body Swap, Witch Curses, Case Fic, Comedy of Errors, Interrupting Sam, Human Castiel, Free Will, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, references to Dean and Crowley’s howling at the moon]

We're Butter Off Together by @whichstiel

Set immediately after the Season Five episode “The End” this canon-divergent story begins with Dean and Sam heading to the Wisconsin State Fair to check out a butter sculpture of an angel that sounds awfully similar to Castiel. Sure enough, when they arrive the incomplete sculpture looks a lot like Cas - enough so that the Winchesters call in the angel himself to help investigate it. Castiel, upon arrival, is mistaken as Dean’s partner - as in “life partner” - and they’re forced to share a room at a local B&B during the investigation. When Cas falls prey to the dark powers at work, Dean must confront his feelings in order to save Castiel.

Explicit. 27k words. (Complete)

Never Again I’ll Go Sailing by @mansikkaomenabanaani

A beach house on an idyllic stretch of sand, a simple salt and burn, a case that, taken at face value, is perfect. But when hearts are breaking and words are wounding, is this case the backdrop to a last chance at reconciliation, or a final distraction before an inevitable parting?

Because simple cases never turn out that simple, and uncovering one mystery just seems to create even more of them. And when leaving is the only certainty in their future, how can they help someone who is stuck in the past?

Explicit. 85k words. (Complete)

[Case Fic, Ghosts, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Misunderstandings, Emotional Hurt, Fluff, Smut, Idiots in Love, Sam Ships It, Communication Failure, Crying Dean, Crying Castiel, Cold Castiel, Angry Dean, Emotional Dean, Nearly Human Castiel, Switching]

Dead Things and Washing Machines by @feartheophanim

Sam is sick and, despite Dean’s strict no-research-rule, finds a case. It’s like these cases sneak up on them when they least expect it. Dean says the hunt can wait; but, Sam doesn’t think that’s the wisest decision so he calls Cas to work the hunt with Dean.

Dean and Cas drive out only to find that the motels are all full; so, they end up in a one-bedroom/one-bath condo, sharing a bed and reveling in the stylish, fully-furnished, khaki-pants lifestyle.

Hunts don’t pause or slow down; they’re fast-paced and brutal. Dean and Cas’ relationship takes equal turns at both.

Mature. 26k words. (Complete)

[Canon Compliant, Recreational Drug Use, Branding, Non-sexual slavery, Homelessness, NSFB]

Deprived Of Every Planet by @cuddlemonsterdean

Dean’s breathing is audible in the scant space between them, irregular. The motel room is dark, pale blue shadows falling in through the gaps in the blinds. Throwing a pattern of uneven white stripes over the bunched up covers. Over Dean’s fingers twisted in the sheets. One half of him in shadow, softened by the dark. The heat of his skin. The tremble of him under Castiel’s touch.

He caresses a hand over Dean’s chest, slowly. Dean’s mouth falls open, his body arching into Castiel’s touch. Castiel stops over Dean’s heart. Through the fever of his desire, he rejoices about the wonder of experiencing another’s heartbeat through one’s own senses.

Dean gasps, but then he turns his face away and towards the dark. Eyes closed tight and brows furrowed like something is hurting him.

Castiel stills.

“Dean?”

Mature. 9k words. (Complete)

[Established relationship, touchstarved!Dean, background case]

Warnings: canon-level violence, minor character deaths

The Unspoken Has Been Spoken by @deservetobesaved

Team Free Will learns why an unexpected chaos breaks out during a piano recital. Dean and Cas get to the bottom of other things as well.

Teen and Up. 3k words. (Complete)

[spells and enchantments, crack, fluff, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, takes place after 12x12]

untitled by @woefulcas

dean comes to a realization while patching up a newly human cas.

Teen and Up. 500 words. (Complete) [hurt/comfort, hunter husbands, human!cas, fluff, dean has The Moment]

Deep Thoughts by @cupcakesnsarcasm

When the Winchesters find her, strung up and tortured by a demon, they realize she’s something more than an average human. Sam’s curious, Dean’s apprehensive, and Elise knows everything - because she can hear their thoughts.

Mature. 52k words. (Complete)

[Dean Winchester/OFC, Mind Reading, Demons, Torture, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, graphic depictions of violence]

Someone’s Who Feeling for Me by @ellis-park

Dean sees her for the first time in nearly six years in some no-name town in Idaho, and it’s panic at first sight. Lisa Braeden, the one woman Dean ever actually had a shot at a real life with, back from where he buried her in his mind. And her hand is on Cas’s arm like it’s no big deal, like it belongs there. Dean feels the jealousy rising, and it’s not directed where he expected it to be.

Mature. 46k words. (Complete)

[Case fic, mutual pining, mentions of past Dean/Lisa]

#fanfic submission thursday #week 13: case fics #kinda sad this is the last one :( #but like it said if you guys want to keep it going let me know! #otherwise thanks for everyone who has participated over the weeks <3

[elizabethrobertajones]

I don't know if you remember Crowley's demon secretary that had hots for Cas, as in Castiel without the Jimmy packaging? And then I started thinking about angels and demons sort of lusting after Cas and now I have this headcanon that Castiel is one gorgeous multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent, just in his angel-form. And that he so knows it and is a little bit vain. Now that he's got a spiffy corporeal form he's pleased Jimmy had some good genes :D

I think Cecily was saying that she thought Cas was hot because he was powerful, and as a human he didn’t do anything for her because humans are boring and don’t tend to destroy their enemies on a cosmic scale… I always figured demons are just kinda into angels on principle about the whole blasphemy thing :P I mean the dialogue was heavy-handed to tell Crowley that Cas had been human without just saying “oh look Cas is an angel again” to him, so I don’t think it goes very deep. 

It does also serves the purpose of reminding us that a lot of things attracted to Cas are so because he’s powerful and sexy and tends to obliterate his enemies ruthlessly, but I don’t know if demons can really see Cas’s wave lengths or appreciate them in any way - glimpsing true forms tends to go badly for demons too (more than humans? I always figured Cas didn’t heal Meg that one time because it would have been tantamount to smiting her instead because of blasting her with holy energy, a la D&D rules about using Cure Light Wounds on a skellington when you run out of all your big spells :P) 

I always figure that sort of stuff where everything agrees Cas is the hottest piece of ass in the universe is deliberately objectifying him. I mean, Dean is no.1 in that fan club if he’d just admit it but he ALSO loves and respects Cas for more than being his hot smitey friend, and I suppose it goes with the stuff about Cas just being a tool… To so many people he’s just a useful playing piece. Cecily is measuring his worth on the cosmic scale, using hotness instead of just outright saying she thinks he’s a big player again. And of course Cas stole that grace and got a coat and everything to play at being an angel again to get back into the big game to try and help clear up after the angel fall, all fitting into the season 9 themes where the angels treat him this way and he measures his own worth this way.

Ugh, season 9 is a goldmine of Cas just wants to be human and it all starts AFTER he steals grace and goes back to being an angel >.> Cecily is like the first stop along the way after Dean’s reaction to it all in 9x09 and the start of 9x10, since Crowley missed everything, getting in the sassy comments he’d have made if he’d only known what he missed :P

#Asks #9x10