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video-killed-the-radio-host · 3 years

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Better Late Than Never

This is my #goodomenssecretsanta gift for @dvdemoni !! Cutting it super close but it’s finished!!

Crowley wasn't entirely sure why they attended this party. Pompous humans in stuffy formal wear wasn't exactly their kind of scene. It was, however, the perfect opportunity to show up the humans at their own game.

They run their fingers over the black and red silk with a soft crimson smile. Moving through the ballroom, they flash a smile at all the attention they brought their way. Their eyes twinkle behind the mask fitted snugly to their face. There was only one man they were looking for this night. They knew he was here. He threw this party.

Then they spot the man in all white. The only man in pure white. Crowley skirts through the crowds until they were masked face to masked face.

“Madame.” Aziraphale smiles and bows at the waist.

“Was a large party under the name ‘Adam Serpente’ truly necessary?” Crowley raises an eyebrow.

“Well I had to make sure you would come darling.” Aziraphale’s eyes twinkle under his mask. “Without being obvious.”

“You could have just asked.”

“I could have, yes. But you do have a habit of turning down my invitations.”

Crowley opens their mouth to argue before realizing, yeah, he’s right. “Perhaps. But I have never known you to back down from a challenge.”

“You couldn’t let me win just this once?” Aziraphale offers his hand.

Crowley takes the offered hand. “Angel, you’ve ‘won’ multiple times. You just never opened your eyes enough to see.”

Aziraphale smiles softly, finding that he yet again loved the feeling of their hand in his. He pulls them closer and into a practiced waltz. “For how long will you stay this time?” He asks as they weave around the other couples.

“Angel you know it isn’t that easy.” Crowley tips their head to the side. “You know I want to but…”

“But you can’t. I know. I just wish for once…”

“You know it isn’t safe.”

“I know.” Aziraphale tightens his grip a little on their waist. “I just…”

“I know.” Crowley put a gentle finger to the angel’s lips. “We will figure it out.”

“When?”

“In due time. But for now we have tonight.”

-----.-----

The next time they run into each other, it’s a rainy night in the year of nineteen fifty six. Aziraphale stands looking into the window of a bookstore in a small town.

“You should go in.” A familiar voice behind him says.

Aziraphale turns and takes in the person next to him. The voice is deeper now but those eyes are unmistakable. “Crowley.”

“Hello Angel.” They smile at him. “Have you gotten shorter?”

Aziraphale’s eyes crinkle into a smile. “I think you’ve gotten taller. I haven’t changed much since Italy.”

Crowley hums and turns in a circle on their heel. “I think I like this look.”

“I think it suits you.” Aziraphale pauses and turns to look at Crowley with a bittersweet smile. “How long?”

Crowley exhales slowly and looks into the window. “Angel…”

“Was there even a point to you coming this time?” It sounded a little harsher than Aziraphale intended but he can’t bring himself to feel bad. At least, not at the moment. He knew it would hit him when he was alone again.

“I wanted to see you.” Crowley whispers.

Aziraphale takes a slow deep breath, doing his best to will away the sorrow building in his chest. “I can’t-” He exhales and watches his breath fog up the air. “Crowley I can’t keep waiting around for you. I need you to decide if you want me or not. I don’t appreciate being pulled around like a kite on a fraying string. I-” He makes himself look at the taller being beside him. “I know you feel the same way I do. But what I don’t know is if you are willing to admit that to yourself.”

“Angel please. Don’t do this. Lets just go somewhere. There’s that restaurant down the way. We can go and have a night.” Crowley starts to reach for the Angel but stops when he turns away.

“I need to know what you want. I can’t keep being jerked around. I’m sorry.”

“Angel please don’t go.”

“I think I need to be the one to walk away this time.”

Crowley watches him walk away with a heavy heart and wants to make themself follow but notices movement from the corner of his eye and turns. A demon who’s name that Crowley didn’t care to learn was watching them. How long has he been there?

Any thought of following after Aziraphale to try and salvage any good ties they has with the angel vaporize. “Leave him alone.”

“If you want that then you will do good to do the same.”

Crowley surges forward with a growl, balling their fist in the other demon’s shirt, lifting him off the ground. “You don’t get to threaten me.”

The demon gives a twisted smirk. “Consider it a promise.”

-----.-----

Many years and several mental breakdowns passed before Crowley saw their angel again. They wrote hundreds of letters that never felt right and just ended up a pile of ashes. They practiced speaking to a mirror but they only ended up breaking it in frustration. Eventually they took a deep breath. They knew what they had to do.

-----.-----

Aziraphale turns on the light to the bookstore as he crosses the floor. “Be patient. I’m coming.” He says aloud to the empty store. “It’s the middle of the night. Who could need my attention so much?” He turns on the outside light and pulls open the door. “I’m afraid we’re closed as-” His breath catches in his throat. “Crowley.”

Crowley smoothes their hands nervously over the soft black fabric, just as they had that night in Italy. The dress felt like a familiar friend, the silk hugging their skin. They hadn’t worn it since that fateful night. They had taken it off and thrown it in the back of a closet. Now they felt a bit strange wearing it at two A.M. in downtown London. “Hello Angel.”

Aziraphale leans against the door, confusion and sadness in his usually bright eyes.

“I know you don’t want to see me right now but I need just a few minutes of your time.”

Aziraphale takes a step back and tips his head. “Come in.” He finds himself saying, despite knowing he’ll likely regret this later.

Crowley follows Aziraphale inside, hearing the door click softly behind them.

“What do you need this time Crowley?”

“I…” Crowley turns toward him. “I had this big grand speech planned but it all seems pointless now.” They give a self conscious chuckle but inhales deeply when they take in the tired look on Aziraphale’s face. They feel their emotions well up and then- “I love you.” They blurt, almost yelling. “I love you and I think I’ve always have. I was just...scared. Scared of what that means. For you. For me. For...us. I didn’t think I deserved your affections.”

“Crowley…”

“Please... Just let me finish. Then, if you want, you never have to see me again.”

Aziraphale hesitates, then nods. “Upstairs.”

“Lead the way.”

Aziraphale nods and leads Crowley up to the flat above the store. He settles in the arm chair. “Why now? After all this time?”

Crowley paces restlessly along the length of the room, skirts swishing softly. They then stop suddenly and look at the angel. “I was scared. Of letting you down. Of hurting you. I would rather be smited than ever risk hurting you. I think that’s what took me so long. I wanted to prove I was good enough for you but then I kept messing it up. I know I can never be what you deserve but-if you’ll have me- I want to try. To be worthy for you.”

Aziraphale exhales slowly and stands, crossing the room and standing face to face with the being in black. “My dear…” He wraps his hands around Crowley’s. “You never needed to prove yourself to me. I have loved you since the Beginning.”

“So..we can try?”

Aziraphale gives them a gentle smile. “It took you long enough.”

#goodomenssecretsanta #goodomenssecretsanta2020 #cutting it super close #I’m sorry #ineffable husbands #good omens #au? kinda?#not wtnv

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tomeart · 4 years

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Merry Xmas :D I’m your secret santa ^^ I hope you’ll like it :> @innerpeacemotherfuckers ^^

#GoodOmensSecretSanta #Ineffable Husbands #good omens

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shadow0kana · 3 years

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Secret Santa gift!

Here is a angsty Aziraphale, following their fight about holy water for @potterheadandsherlocked !

I hope you like it! Happy holidays! 🎄🎁✨

#Goodomenssecretsanta #good omens fanart #aziraphale fanart #crowley fanart #ineffable art #aziraphale crowley #ineffable husbands #fanart

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ran196242 · 4 years

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My Secret Santa art piece for @askalombax is done! I’ve read through their piece L'Shanah Tovah on AO3 and what else is better than having a “field trip” for their food blog and have a good time at a dessert buffet.

(Im sorry if this piece disappoints, im having a hell time with deadlines and life stuff but i tried my hardest to deliver this on time)

#good omens #GoodOmensSecretSanta #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #go secret santa 2019 #callus ran #i wish i had more time #im sorry

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bangory · 4 years

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Teach Me to Gavotte and I’ll Dance with You Forever

Hey, @tomeart I’m your substitute Secret Santa! You may not have asked for a comic, but I wanted to add a little extra to your gift for the wait. Hope your holidays were lovely, and that you have an amazing new year!!

#GoodOmensSecretSanta #tomeart #Ineffable Husbands #Good Omens #comic #fanart #art stuffs

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do-angels-dream-of-starry-seas · 3 years

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@claudiatrajna Here is your Good Omens Secret Santa work!! I hope you enjoy 😊.

....................

If you were living during a time of international distress and war, then you would probably say that the world had gone to hell in a handbasket. If you just so happened to say this phrase to a certain man-shaped being named Azrael while trying to catch a cab, he would start giggling like a mad man and wouldn't stop. Though said man-shaped being was always a fan of blasphemous phrases, considering how he was more demonic in nature then how he appeared.

Azrael supposed it was a natural response when you're from Down There: use Her name in vain, blasphemy all you want, that like. It would certainly make him more like a demon, Hastur would tell him with disdain every time he came up to Earth with an assignment for Azrael. The gluttonous demon would silently scoff back at his higher authority, knowing he was without a doubt as demonic as a demon would be. How couldn't he be? He owned a bookstore that would leave potential customers disgruntled at the owner's rudeness, he would stay overtime at a restaurant if he was truly starving for something delicious - he was sending these people down a path to Hell. Certainly.

Which was why he was now rocking back and forth on his sore feet working out a deal with Nazis, waiting for the right moment to double cross them. These men were already going to Hell, of course, but Azrael would say he was not the kind of demon to just lay about if he could help it. Having these two realize their plans were thwarted and be left to wallow in jail for the rest of their miserable lives? By Satan, it's evil! Yes, perfectly evil. The rest of the world was going to Down There in a handbasket still, so why does Earth need two more bums? Yep, still evil. Absolutely.

Either way, Azrael was giddy (a nice distraction from the discomfort in his feet) watching as his agent came out and surprised the suckers… until he found the gun aimed at him.

Perhaps it wasn't such a great idea to not inform anyone about his ruse. By anyone, he was technically referring to Crowley, but the demon would never admit it to himself. As much as he enjoyed his time spent with the angel, he could not deal with the other teasing him about acting nice. Firstly, nice was a four letter word. Secondly, he was never nice. While he didn't go about doing the same kind of demonic business as his other coworkers did, he was a more subtle, mentally calculated person. Living on Earth for almost 6,000 years had its perks, including being acutely aware of what could make a human follow down a road to Above or Below.

It could be the reason why he was so… not attracted, Hell's no. Curious, about Crowley. He was brash ("Well, that went down like a lead balloon"), bold ("It's Crowley now - didn't like the other one anyway") and spoke exactly what both of them were thinking ("What if this is all Her plan?"). He was the one that initiated lots of their meetings, was the one to propose the Arrangement between them, he was just so… not angelic. Surprising, Azrael knew, but he'd known the angel now for so long that it's normal to him.

What's also normal, but nonetheless still irritating, was how Crowley seemingly knew when the demon needed help.

With a crisp grey and red three-piece suit (is that specks of gold? Flash bastard), he strolled into the church like he built it and bellowed into the aisle, "What's the deal with the guns, eh? You're supposed to be human, so talk it out!"

"What -" Azrael cuts himself off with a grunt - stupid blessed ground, "the hell are you doing here?"

"Stopping you from getting into trouble." There's a little sneer at the end of the angel's sentence, almost like he was tired of repeating this over and over again. In a way he had, swooping in over the centuries to help out the other whenever something didn't go strictly according to plan. The demon refused to admit he's grateful though - he could've handled it just fine, especially since he loved this corporation too much. Nope, did not need Crowley.

But well, the angel was here now, so he might as well save both of them, one of the many perks of having an angel friend. Nothing like a little miracle couldn't hurt.

After a few tense moments of blaring noises and large debris clouding his senses, everything settles into ruin. He should be grateful that his feet no longer stung with every step - and he is, absolutely. Humans can rebuild churches, he of all demons should know buildings don't last for long anyways. But at least that statue in the distance survived. He's allowed to appreciate the finer things in life.

This thought has no connection to him realizing Crowley's still in front of him, suit still pristine and sharp.

"I suppose you want me to say 'thank you'." Azrael felt a smirk tugging his lip.

"Shut up." Crowley sneered again, this time more playfully, as a smile shined annoyingly on his lips as he put his yellow-tinted sunglasses on again.

Azrael has no response to him.

Well, not exactly right. He had lots to say, but doesn't know how to word it without the angel calling him the blessed four-letter words.

With the two of them now standing around, they might as well leave this ruckus. Only Azrael now registered the emptiness in his right hand, and his face fell and mind raced without his permission. He started rambling to himself, feeling a mixture of disappointment of being so attached to some silly books and sadness of a loss of good literature he had kept with him since their first printing.

He also didn't immediately register a weight returning to his hand. Azrael started to come back to the present when he heard Crowley tell him, "A little angelic miracle of my own."

The angel said something else, but the demon couldn't hear it fully as the other walked off the property.

As Azrael suspected, his book bag and everything inside was fully intact. He really shouldn't be surprised anymore… yet…

He looked up at something, a piece of broken wood sticking out of the rubble now extremely interesting. If you asked the demon what his current thoughts were at that moment, he would glare at you and take off his navy-blue silk gloves that never seem to get dirty, quickly making you regret asking an occult being. But what the demon wouldn't tell you is that he wasn't quite sure what he was thinking about. It was a mix between one of the greatest revelations of his entire existence and a simple oh. He was shocked, bewildered, terrified, elated, yet all he did was feel a shy grin grace his face.

Azrael felt like a heavenly phrase best fit this situation.

He heard a honk outside. He supposed he will pretend he's composed and get a ride home - he could... figure out all of this later. Much, much later. Besides, he was still a demon, might as well take as many angelic gestures as he can and not waste any of his own miracles. Yes - purely selfish of him.

#fanfiction #fanfic #good omens #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #good omens secret santa #goodomenssecretsanta #my fanfic #my fanfiction #reverse omens

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captainclickycat · 3 years

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Recollections

My entry for the GO Secret Santa exchange, for

@teslatherat. Hope you like it :)

oOo

“You can stay at my place, if you like.”

So now here they are. Aziraphale hovers awkwardly in the doorway, taking in his surroundings, every inch the uncertain guest.

Crowley bustles about. He’s never hitherto been in the habit of bustling, but Aziraphale’s presence seems to have brought the inclination out in him. He stalks about the flat, jittery, plumping up the cushions and moving his Golden Girls DVDs off the coffee table.

That’s when he notices the letters, stacked on top of each other. One sealed with a crest of golden wings, the other smelling of sulfur, sealed with a blob of black sludge. No doubt as to the identity of the senders, and Crowley can guess at the contents.

He ignores them, for the time being. There’ll be time enough to look at them.

“Sit down,” he says, gesturing towards the sofa. “If you want. I can get us another drink.”

Aziraphale sits almost daintily, clasping his hands together. Crowley bustles off to the kitchen, selecting a bottle of the whisky he’s been unconsciously saving for a visit. Angel’s Nectar. Aziraphale smiles weakly at the label.

They sit beside each other in silence, clutching their tumblers.

Aziraphale speaks, haltingly. “I believe I’d like to rescind my previous claim.”

“Hmm? What’s that?”

“It appears there is an our side, even if I was too silly to see it before.”

“Oh, don’t worry your head about all that. I’ve forgotten it already,” lies Crowley.

Angels and demons have good memories. It’s all part and parcel of the deal. Sometimes it’s an advantage. Being able to remember the way Aziraphale looked at him when he’d fixed things with Hamlet, for example, or the borderline-carnal pleasure on the angel’s face when he ate tres leche for the first time. Crowley collected little moments like this, snapshots in time, the way people collect stamps or butterflies. The conversations, too. The banter about each other’s outfits, the drunken philosophical discussions that went on into the wee small hours, the critiques of plays. He catalogues the appreciative accounts of different foods, the fussy comebacks to Crowley’s snark, the customer-related grievances.

On the downside, he can also remember things like we’re not friends and it’s over and you go too fast for me. He could also remember Jesus’s crucifixion in rather distressing detail, and the Crusades, and that time he had to spend an entire evening in the company of Dr Samuel Johnson, who inexplicably considered him an appropriate sounding board for every opinion he’d ever had.

“I do so wish I’d embraced you from the beginning,” says Aziraphale, swiftly bringing Crowley back to the present. “Er. that is to say, embraced our… alliance.”

Could’ve done both, if you’d wanted, Crowley doesn’t say. What he does say is:

“Doesn’t matter now. Who knows what they’d have done? Anyway, we managed to have some fun together, didn’t we? Over the centuries? Sampled a few dishes, that sort of thing.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighs in reminiscence. “Do you remember that little place in Paris, with the crepe cake? That was divine.”

“Still can’t believe you ran off to France in the middle of a revolution for dessert.”

Aziraphale clicks his tongue. “Never going to let that slide, are you? Quite turned my head, though, you putting in an appearance to save me like that. Tell me, how long did that hair take to style, exactly?”

“It was fashionable! Least I wasn’t running around dressed as an aristocrat.”

“I believe you enjoyed it, you know. Being able to swoop in and save the day. Being kind.”

“Fighting talk, that is. Anyway, someone’s got to get you out of trouble.”

“Strong words from the one who lost the antichrist.”

“I didn’t - it wasn’t - the nuns, if anything…” Crowley splutters. Aziraphale is giving him a discreet smirk. It’s nice, he supposes, that at least one of them can laugh about it now.

That soon trails off, though, when they remember the predicament they’re in.

Crowley finally turns his attention towards the letters. There’s no mistaking the contents. You have been summoned on trial. Attend, or we’ll just come and get you. Dressed up in fancier terms, naturally, but that’s the gist of it. Undoubtedly their former employers don’t intend to send them off with a slap on the wrist. Crowley tries not to dwell on the prospect too much.

One look at Aziraphale confirms that he’s thinking the same thing. Cautiously, Crowley lays a hand on top of Aziraphale’s, and finds it gripped tightly.

“It does occur to me,” says Aziraphale, “That we were always, perhaps, in the best position to understand each other, in a lot of ways.”

“Hmm?”

“I mean, in terms of… well. The experiences we’ve had, never quite fitting in with our head offices. But we found each other. I think that’s terribly important. I never would have had the courage to sever ties, I think, without you by my side.”

Aziraphale stares into his tumbler as he continues, swirling the liquid around. “But there’s something else you must understand. It’s not just because of that. I know that it’d be easy to latch on to the first individual I met who I felt I could identify with. But I do believe I very much came to like you for your sake. Even though you’re very silly and rather rude and have the most abysmal taste in fashion, you’re also funny and generous and really rather sweet, underneath it all. Now, please don’t be silly and argue. I know it.”

“Er.” I love you more than my bloody car. “Er. Yeah. You too. For yourself, and all that.”

Aziraphale nods, swallowing hard, and doesn’t let go of Crowley’s hand. “I loved our little meetings. I believe I’d have been driven quite round the bend, without them.”

They spend some time reminiscing. It’s a warm and welcome distraction from their eventual fate. There something oddly comforting about the way they can claim these memories now. The tangible reminders that they had managed, in small ways, to be a little defiant, for the sake of whatever hazily-defined but cherished relationship they had.

They’re laughing about a particular night in the pub during Shakespeare’s day when Aziraphale’s expression shifts to contemplation.

“Crowley, do you remember that conversation in… oh, must have been in the 1620s or thereabouts? We went to see Much Ado About Nothing…”

“Oh, yeah. That lead guy was awful. Far too hammy.”

“Anyway, my point is, you made a bit of a proposition that day, do you remember?”

Crowley does, although he’s not sure why he’s being called upon to remember it now.

Standing around at the Globe on a bracingly cold day. He’d lost the beard by then - feeling that it wasn’t really him - but he’s still bothered to style his hair according to the fashion of the times. He always liked to make a little extra commitment, when he knew he’d be seeing the angel.

“Hey,” he said, nudging Aziraphale during a scene in which the plot came to rely heavily on mistaken identity. “We should do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend to be each other, for Head Office meetings. We’ve already got the Arrangement, eh? Couldn’t hurt to go the extra mile.”

“Certainly not,” Aziraphale said primly. “It’s bad enough that you’ve got me involved in this little scheme of yours. I’m not tripping around in your silly flashy outfits to add insult to injury.”

Crowley pouted. “You’re no fun.”

“Yeah,” says Crowley now. “What about it?”

“Well, now,” says Aziraphale. “Do let me know if you think I’m being silly, but I think the idea might actually be worth revisiting.”

oOo

“Is it as you remembered it?” Aziraphale asks.

It’s Crowley’s first time back behind the Bentley’s wheel, after they’ve succeeded in pulling the wool over their respective former employers’ eyes. He still can’t quite believe they got away with it.

“Yeah. You were right, angel. Not a scratch on it. Even got that new car smell back.”

“Good.” Aziraphale is fidgeting in the passenger seat. “That’s just lovely. Glad to hear it. Ah.”

“You all right, angel?”

“Oh yes, yes, perfectly… I simply… well. We were talking about… about old conversations, the other day, and it got me remembering another… something I’ve meant to resolve for some time, I suppose.”

Crowley shoots him an enquiring look, and Aziraphale takes a deep, steadying breath.

“You made me an offer once. Here, in the car. A few decades ago; must have been… oh, 1967? Do you remember?”

Crowley nods, his hands tightening on the steering wheel.

“Ask me again.”

Crowley turns to stare at him. Aziraphale is sitting there quite guilelessly, only the restless movements of his hands betraying the idea that he might not be as calm as he lets on.

“I’ll give you a lift,” Crowley says softly. “Anywhere you want to go.”

Aziraphale smiles.

“Oh, gosh,” he says. “Rather spoilt for choice, now, aren’t we? Perhaps we could, I don’t know, nip back to Paris for a while. Take a fortnight in the countryside. But do you know, I think at the moment, what I’d like most of all is to come back to your flat.”

Aziraphale flashes him a brisk smile, looking for all the world as if he hasn’t just made such a huge, life-changing revelation. “If you’re amenable to that, of course.”

“Really?”

“Mmm. I think, perhaps, we have rather a lot of lost time to compensate for. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Crowley nods slowly, before unbuckling his seatbelt to lean over and cradle Aziraphale’s face in his hand.

A demon kisses an angel in the front seat of a vintage Bentley, and suddenly that particular conversation doesn’t seem like quite such a bad memory after all.

#apologies that this ended up being a bit of a rush job #things got... weird over xmas #GoodOmenssecretsanta

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lady-divine-writes · 4 years

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Faith, Hope, Love (Rated PG)

Summary: On Christmas Eve, centuries ago, Crowley catches Aziraphale performing numerous acts of breaking-and-entering. The reality? A bit more heart-wrenching. The outcome? Mildly humorous. So he decides to lend a hand. (2669 words)

Notes: Written for @potterheadandsherlocked . I used a real German painter from the approximate time period as inspiration, and points to the possible origins of a certain Christmas legend. XD

Read on AO3.

A small village in the Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation, 16th Century

A silent night.

No clouds, but a howling wind.

A full silver moon, throwing shadows on the ground.

Between them, a figure glides, moving about the houses in the square, keeping to the walls and peeking in the windows.

He opens the doors a crack and sneaks inside, a pack on his bag so laden with packages it should slow him down.

But it doesn’t.

It doesn’t so much as press his feet into the snow so he leaves no prints behind.

Cloaked in red and white, covered in feathers like an upright standing dove, the figure flies from house to house, dipping in and out so quickly he appears as only a blur between blinks.

An ephemeral streak against the dreary landscape.

The figure reaches the final house – the smallest of the lot, leaning with every breeze that blows. His hand reaches for the knob, ready to give it a turn, when a secondary figure creeps up behind him – one without his gift for secrecy.

“Hello, Aziraphale!”

Aziraphale’s hand jerks away from the door in surprise. “Do you have to keep doing that every time you see me?” He peeks behind him, glares into poison yellow eyes.

“Yes. Yes, I do. Well, well, well, isn’t this a sight.” Crowley smirks, arms crossed over his chest, though that’s hard to tell in the outfit he’s wearing. “Breaking into houses on the holiest night of the year? Tsk tsk, Aziraphale. If you wanted to fall so badly, you could have just come talk to me.” I would have talked you out of it, he thinks bitterly.

“That’s not what I’m doing!” Aziraphale hisses.

“You could have fooled me. I’ve been watching you – running in and out of these houses with that pack on your back, full of ill-gotten goods. And …” Crowley leans back, his smirk growing, eyeing up and down the blood-red cloak the angel has on, shielded by his wings curled around his body. “What on Earth are you wearing?”

Aziraphale’s right eyebrow shoots up on his forehead. “You should talk. What poor creature did you mutilate to make your get-up?” He snickers as he looks down the demon’s body at the shaggy jacket and trousers he’s wearing, reminiscent of a muskox, horns included, fixed to the hood, and … Aziraphale’s brows draw together. “Are there … hooves on your shoes?”

“There are indeed,” Crowley says, overly proud since he knows he’s being made fun of. “They’re quite useful for walking through all this ice and snow.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to the door. “I’ll bet. Now, if you don’t mind …” He gives the door a shove, ready to resume his work, but it’s stuck. He pushes again. It seems to push back, actively resisting. That’s when he realizes …

“Crowley! Stop holding the door shut!”

“Nope. Not until you tell me what you’re doing.”

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t. But it’s been a long night. I’m bored.” The demon sniffs. “Amuse me.”

Aziraphale sighs. He doesn’t have the time nor the patience for this. But it has been a long night. Aziraphale could retaliate – blow the door off its hinges, knock Crowley down the mountain to boot. But neither is worth the effort in the long run.

Plus, he runs the risk of waking someone up.

“If you must know,” he starts haughtily, “I’m not stealing anything. I’m giving.”

“And what are you giving, angel?” Crowley’s voice becomes softer – not just in volume, but in tone. It makes Aziraphale want to mirror it.

“Hope. In the form of food, warm clothes, a few toys for the kids.”

“Ah, I see,” Crowley says, his soft tone turning sour, and Aziraphale is sorry he let his guard down. “Church attendance low in this town or something?”

Aziraphale sighs again. “Something like that.” He’s not necessarily offended that Crowley would boil everything down to that. God doesn’t happen to be one among his favorites. But for Aziraphale, it goes farther than humans occupying the pews in the rundown shack of a church outside town. It was put there by the same people who force these people to work from sun up to sun down with little to no compensation so why should they attend? And since that’s been happening, keeps happening generation after generation, why should they have faith at all that the Almighty is going to fix that for them?

No, Aziraphale doesn’t care that only three people here still attend church every Sunday, or that they’re the only ones here who pray. He cares that very few people in this town want to go on living, that more and more men risk the dangers of the ice and cold knowing that they won’t return.

Betting on it, in some case.

That’s what concerns Aziraphale more than anything.

He wants these people to have something to believe in.

He needs them to see that there’s a brighter future ahead.

“How many houses have you been to tonight?” Crowley asks.

“I … I don’t know. About two hundred? Maybe three? I started at the bottom of the mountain after sunset …”

Crowley tuts. “Why don’t you use a miracle? Do all the houses at once? Unless …” He tilts his head, eyes Aziraphale dubiously “… you don’t want Heaven to know what you’re doing? Do you?”

“This doesn’t happen to be one of my official assignments, no, so I thought it best not to bother Heaven.”

“But why not? They’d give you a commendation, right? Or don’t they think giving food and toys to poor people is worth a miracle?”

“Whether they do or not isn’t the point,” Aziraphale says, hoisting the sagging pack on his back, hoping Crowley will take the hint and leave him to it. “Sometimes it’s nice to do things without someone else looking over your shoulder.”

Crowley nods. Then his eye widen. “Oh. Should I … should I leave then? Do you want to be alone?”

Aziraphale stares at the bizarrely shaggy demon, balanced expertly on two hooves, a bit too much on the nose for Aziraphale’s taste, and smiles. “No,” he says with a muted chuckle. “That’s all right. Stay, if you’d like. I’d appreciate the company.”

“All right-y then.” Crowley beams, all too pleased, and Aziraphale begins to wonder if he made the right decision inviting him along.

Oh, well. Too late now.

Aziraphale turns back to the door. The warm comfort of Crowley’s body presses against him as the demon prepares to follow him inside. Aziraphale’s smile, which had been absent most of the night, blooms. What a comical duo they must make to outside eyes, he thinks. But what on Earth will he tell people if they get caught? Aziraphale can pass himself off as Saint Nicholas, of course, but Crowley? Will the mortals believe that he’s Aziraphale’s tall, gangly pet? Some kind of malformed reindeer, perhaps?

They’ll cross that bridge when they come to it.

He opens the door slowly, thanking God when the wood doesn’t creak, the hinges don’t whine. There hasn’t been any rain since the snows set in and the doors have been dry as bone. With not a single soul awake, the square is still full of conversation, the houses spreading gossip that can be heard for miles with every wind that blows.

Crowley steps into the house behind him, catching the door when Aziraphale lets it go and closing it, careful not to make a sound. With the door shut, they should be plunged into darkness, but there are so many cracks and holes and uneven corners, pricks of blue moonlight shine through. Inside the house feels more like an ice box than a home, the coals in the stove having long since given up the fight at keeping the place warm.

“This poor family,” Aziraphale mutters as he puts down his pack and sets to work. “A mom and two children, one crippled, father gone. How they manage to keep food on the table, I can’t understand.”

“Sounds like a miracle.” Crowley strolls the small living area, examining the nothing this family owns but this two-room hovel, the lot of them huddled together in the next room, fast asleep.

“I wish it was,” Aziraphale says, unpacking a box of oranges, another of walnuts, sacks of sugar and flour, small pouches of molasses and peppermint, and a brown burlap wrapped side of bacon. Then he sets out some brightly painted wooden blocks, a toy train, a set of eight water colors, a soft doll with real yarn hair wearing a pretty blue dress. Crowley watches the angel pull more and more items out – a few warm blankets, trousers, shirts, and shoes, marveling at its capacity.

“That’s some bag.”

“Made it myself.”

“Any alcohol in there.”

“A bottle or two. Mostly for use as medicine, for good moms and dads.”

“Party pooper,” Crowley grouses. “Probably the shite stuff anyway, ain’t it? Knowing angels ...”

“Hell---hello?”

Aziraphale and Crowley look at one another, both of them wide eyes and rigid spines. The first to his senses, Aziraphale spins around quickly, curling his wings around himself, hiding his face behind long, white feathers that make him appear to have grown a beard.

“Hello, little boy,” he says in a huskier version of his voice, one that makes Crowley choke on his tongue. “What’s your name?”

“H---hans,” the boy stutters, creeping out further into the moonlight. “Hans von Aachen.”

“Hello, Hans. And what are you doing awake at this hour?”

“I heard voices. I’m the man of the house, so I came to investigate.”

“Are you now?” Aziraphale says fondly, sadly, since this man of the house can’t be older than ten.

His lack of nourishment makes him look eight.

“A-ha.” The thin boy looks up at the angel in awe. “Are you … Saint Nicholas!?”

“Why, yes,” Aziraphale lies confidently since he’d intended on going with that explanation all along. “Yes, I am.”

Hans gasps. “I was hoping you’d come! My momma, she says that she would pray and pray and pray for you when she was my age, but you never came! But here you are! Oh!” His hands flutter in excitement. “I should go get her! Tell her the good news!”

“Oh!” Aziraphale glances over his shoulder at Crowley, subconsciously asking for help. Crowley is better with children than Aziraphale, after all. Luckily, Aziraphale hadn’t encountered one till now. “That wouldn’t be …”

“Don’t do that,” Crowley steps in. “No need to bother her. She needs her rest.”

Crowley’s voice attracts Hans’s attention. When he lays eyes on the demon towering above him in his shaggy suit with hooved feet and a hood of horns on his head, the boy’s paper thin skin goes pale.

“Who … who are you?” Hans asks in a shaky voice, pointing a fearful finger at Crowley’s face.

Crowley looks to Aziraphale for an appropriate response. But since the angel doesn’t seem to have one, Crowley decides on one for himself.

It gives him a wicked giggle, too.

“I’m a demon!” Crowley growls before Aziraphale can stop him.

Hans’s breath catches in his throat. “B-but … why would Father Christmas be traveling with a demon?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, unamused, “why would Father Christmas be traveling with a demon?”

“I’m …” Crowley hadn’t exactly thought that far ahead, but he recovers quickly “… I’m here to punish all the bad boys and girls! Stuff them into baskets and take them down to Hell for an eternity of punishment!”

Hans gasps again, stumbling backward, literally shaking with fear.

“Good Lord,” Aziraphale mutters.

“You’re not a bad little boy?” Crowley asks, slinking towards Hans, tilting his head left and right in jarring ways. “Are you?”

“Oh! Oh, n-no! I’m not … I’m not bad! I pr-promise! I swear!”

“Leave him be,” Aziraphale says, taking a snarling Crowley by the shoulder and pulling him back behind him. “Don’t worry, dear Hans. My traveling companion won’t hurt you.”

Hans nods, but he continues to look unsure. He takes a step towards Saint Nicholas, but the hissing, spitting demon keeps him away.

“Wh---what can I do to make him leave?” Hans asks timidly, but in Aziraphale’s eyes, with great courage.

Crowley stands up straight, gazing thoughtfully at the little boy worrying his lower lip with gapped teeth, the two up front too big for his mouth. “Does your mum keep any alcohol in the place?”

Aziraphale puts a hand to Crowley’s chest and pushes him towards the door. “Just run along to bed, Hans, and go back to sleep. And for being such a good boy, such a responsible young man, I’ve brought presents for you and your family. You may open them in the morning.”

“Oh thank you, Saint Nicholas!” Hans cries, jumping up and down with a joy that overwhelms his fear. “Thank you so much!”

“And remember!” Crowley calls after him. “Don’t tell a soul you saw us! Or I’ll be back next year with the basket!”

“You’re a horrible demon!” Aziraphale says when the boy has squirreled himself away, back onto a straw-stuffed mattress with his mother and brother, a touch of angelic magic seeing him off to his best ever dreams, and a new thick wool blanket covering the three of them.

“Well, duh.” Crowley grabs Aziraphale’s sack, ties it at the top, and tosses it over his shoulder. “Shall we?”

***

Soho, Christmas 2019

“How do you like your present?” Crowley asks, pouring himself a glass of the rare red vintage Aziraphale acquired for him through less than angelic means.

The acquisition is an integral part of the gift.

Buying Crowley a bottle of his favorite wine isn’t any fun. He can do that for himself. Hiring an ex-member of a cartel to steal it from a local mob boss, just to have both gentlemen cornered in a dark alley and arrested seconds before they’re about to take one another out however?

That’s another story.

One that Crowley reads over and over with every glass he pours, every sip he savors.

“It’s lovely,” Aziraphale says, pushing wrapping paper aside and opening the book Crowley gave him. He flips through the pages, focusing mostly on the plates and not the words just this once. He stops on one page that Crowley had bookmarked with a red satin ribbon. The plate on this page features a lesser known painting by a famous 16th century artist, of Saint Nicholas and the demon Krampus, huddled by the dusty grey hearth of a creaky, hole-infested matchbox of a house, laughing over something the viewer may only speculate about. But unlike similar paintings of this stolen moment, it’s the demon that looks fondly on and the saint that seems to have a glint of mischief in his blue eyes. The painting is so finely rendered, so intricately detailed, it could be mistaken for a photograph if not for the handful of visible strokes signifying otherwise.

Aziraphale searches for the signature, his suspicions confirmed when he sees the name etched along the bottom in gold - Hans von Aachen.

“Absolutely gorgeous.” Aziraphale hovers delicate fingertips above the image – the first painting Hans ever sold. It rescued him, his mother, and his brother from that ragged shack, brought his whole town out of poverty. “But please, tell me one thing?”

“Anything.”

Aziraphale lifts the book, displaying the painting for Crowley to see. “How did that whole Don’t tell a soul you saw us or else! thing work out for you?”

“I’d say it worked out rather well …” Crowley slides onto the arm of the sofa, bumping his husband’s shoulder with his hip “… if it gives people hope. Faith. Something, anything, to believe in. Don’t you?”

Crowley leans down, lips puckered, fishing for a kiss, and Aziraphale, chuckling at his ridiculous, shaggy demon, lifts his chin to give it. “I guess I can’t disagree.”

#Good Omens #ineffable husbands #Potterheadandsherlocked #goodomenssecretsanta #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley

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