#aziraphale in his demon's body having a moment of contemplation. what's he thinking about? that's a secret

[idliketobeatree]

you wear guilt like shackles on your feet like a halo in reverse depeche mode | halo

#good omens #good omens fanart #crowley #anthony j crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #good omens art #art #drawing #artists on tumblr #the body swap #go s1 #colored sketch #my art #aziraphale in his demon's body having a moment of contemplation. what's he thinking about? that's a secret #only after i finished i realised i could make the horns into a HALO to really drive the point home but. too late now #/i have 324253 wips so i've dug up an older sketch and recolored it again because it was easier. havin problems focusing on new work aaa #aaand the resolution being weird again. sori #hope you enjoy anyways <3 #orange hyperfixation going mf STRONG #also. don't be shy in the tags i know how he looks like. lmao

[mimisempai]

Worth admiring

Summary

When you've just moved in together, certain habits collide, leading to sometimes embarrassing situations, like Crowley accidentally bumping into Aziraphale coming out of the shower.

Notes

Once again, a way for me to work on the unease that Gabriel's words for Aziraphale make me feel.

For the #goodomensfanficday of the #goodomensfest on twitter On AO3

Rating G -  740words

Aziraphale let out a contented grunt as he felt the drops of water from the shower wash the grime off his body after an afternoon spent sorting through dusty old books bequeathed to him by an elderly client. Not that he minded. He was always pleased with new "acquisitions".

He had to admit that showering - one of the human things Gabriel despised - was something he could call miraculous. For no magic, no power could replace the sense of cleanliness and refreshment he felt after a shower.

He turned off the faucet, stepped out of the shower, grabbed one of his soft towels and began to dry himself off.

Suddenly, the door opened behind him. Aziraphale turned, towel in hand, to find himself face to face with Crowley, clearly still half asleep from his nap.

Then they both suddenly became aware of the situation. Aziraphale's cheeks flushed red as Crowley's eyes widened slightly before sliding over Aziraphale's naked body as the angel held the towel in front of him.

Aziraphale, emerging from his state of shock, exclaimed, "Crowley, what are you doing here?!"

This snapped Crowley out of his contemplation and he stepped back and said, "Sorry, Angel, I'm out." Then he turned on his heel and left the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Aziraphale breathed a small sigh of relief and continued to dry himself off before getting dressed to meet the demon, a little worried about how he was going to handle the situation. Crowley had just moved in with him, so it was clear that they would need some time to adjust. Getting used to each other's habits.

He arrived in the kitchen and saw that Crowley was making tea.

Without a word, Aziraphale sat down at the kitchen counter and waited for Crowley to turn around and place the steaming cup in front of him. Then the demon sat down across from him with a cup of coffee.

They both held their cups in their hands, clearly embarrassed and unsure of what to say.

Each avoided the other's gaze.

When Aziraphale, with his eyes on his cup, suddenly saw Crowley's hand come to rest on his, which was resting on the table, as the demon said softly, "I'm really sorry about before, Angel, for a moment I forgot where I was and didn't realize you might be in the bathroom. I didn't mean to embarrass you."

Aziraphale turned his hand under Crowley's and intertwined their fingers before he replied quietly, looking up at the demon, "I was probably more surprised than embarrassed. You don't have to apologize either, it's one of the little things we have to learn now that we're living together. I suspect it won't be the last time something like this happens."

He lifted Crowley's hand to his lips and planted a tender kiss on the back.

Crowley took a sip of coffee and sighed, "I regret one thing."

Aziraphale, catching the demon's mischievous look, asked cautiously, "And... what do you regret?"

Crowley playfully replied, "I didn't think to take a picture."

Aziraphale, looking puzzled, asked, "A picture? Of me getting out of the shower almost naked? I don't see the point."

"Angel..." Crowley sighed before continuing, "What can I say...a work of art, you want to keep it and be able to look at it and admire it from time to time, you know."

Crowley stared into the angel's face, waiting for the moment when Aziraphale would realize what Crowley meant. He saw his eyebrows furrow, then his eyes widen, and finally his cheeks turn scarlet.

The angel began to stammer, "You mean..."

Crowley nodded slowly and replied softly, "Absolutely."

Aziraphale murmured, "Oh..."

Crowley moved his hand to the angel's face and smoothed Aziraphale's frown with his finger before letting his hand linger on his cheek as he said softly, "I can see you don't believe me, but that's okay with me, I've got eternity to convince you that you are a work of art worthy of admiration."

The angel's face relaxed and he replied with a small smile, "You can always try.

Crowley replied in the same tone, "You know me, I can't resist a challenge, and I'm all about follow-through, Angel."

Then, not giving the angel a chance to react, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to his in a kiss that made the angel realize his demon wouldn't take as long as he thought to convince him.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Ineffable Husbands masterlist : here

#good omens #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #ineffable boyfriends #aziraphale #crowley #good omens fanfiction #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale

[bomberqueen17]

here is a delightfully trashy fic idea

ed note: i just found this in my drafts from like..... close to two years ago? anyway it seems a shame to delete it. I have no memory of this and wonder where that draft went.

I published this instead, which is fine but has almost nothing in common with this idea, LOL.

(for Good Omens) I brainstormed this wonderfully filthy wallowy id-tastic fic and even semi-outlined it and then I tried to write it and I’ve got literally 5,000 words with three scene-cuts and zero smut and have wildly deviated from the idea, so I’m just going to release this summary free to a good home so I don’t feel like I have to try to wrestle whatever the fuck I’m writing back on course. It’s not going, it won’t do it. Someone else can write it, if they want, and please do and tell me when you do because I want to read it, but I absolutely am not equal to the task of writing it.

It’s wonderfully angst-filled smut with mutual pining, which is like, my catnip, and it’s nice and dirty, which I also like, and yet somehow, I just can’t do it. 

(Seriously, it’s been a thousand years and Aziraphale is meditating on free will. For fuck’s sake.)

So here’s the premise. I got as far as literally the first paragraph here, and then the whole thing went off the rails, so. Mine’s something else now.

Pretty early on in their acquaintance, pre-Arrangement, Aziraphale stumbles across Crowley in a bad neighborhood among prostitutes, who have recently invented their trade. Aziraphale is righteously offended by the concept, and Crowley defends it, and Aziraphale assumes Crowley invented it for the humans, and of course he did not. 

At any rate, in the course of their discussion (during which Crowley is wile-y [though there’s some great potential for an unreliable narrator here, where the angel is perceiving the demon as being far more seductive than he is actually trying to be, because he is attracted to him and doesn’t understand that] and Aziraphale is righteously but confusedly Into It despite himself), Crowley winds up giving him a demonstration of just what it is that’s so great and why humans would choose this sort of thing of their own free will rather than being demonically wiled into it. 

There’s a humorous instant where they’re both suddenly terrified that angelic emissions might have a holy-water-like effect, but they don’t, and after that moment’s terrified pause during which Crowley doesn’t dissolve and Aziraphale doesn’t get Smitten By Divine Wrath, Crowley dusts off his knees and Aziraphale puts his bits away and they go their separate ways in a sort of mutual well-that-got-out-of-hand embarrassment, each intending never to speak of it again.

Which lasts a while, but not really. Sure, most of their meetings can stay respectable, but every so often, Aziraphale just happens on Crowley in an alley looking shady or whatever, and they wind up repeating it, and Aziraphale tells himself he’s just diverting the demon so he doesn’t tempt any humans, and has zero clue that Crowley is only doing this for him, isn’t actually using his body to tempt humans at all, only shows up in those places because he knows Aziraphale’s going there looking for him in that moment. 

Potential here for a wonderfully sleazy dynamic, of Crowley always passively receiving, taking whatever Aziraphale will give, very clearly not seeking his own sexual gratification at all in this, and Aziraphale never really contemplating just what it is that Crowley’s after instead. (Except maybe in his darker hours thinking the demon is trying to seduce him to Fall, or something, and being a real self-righteous dick about it sometimes.) Maybe, eventually, at some point, Crowley lets it slip that what he gets out of this is that when Aziraphale fucks him he can feel divine Grace again, or something like it, and it gratifies him on an entirely different level than the physical. Maybe he says so and Aziraphale doesn’t understand it, or refuses to really contemplate it. 

Or maybe Aziraphale does get it, and then he’s even worse; instead of being self-righteous about Crowley trying to tempt him, he’s kind of horribly pitying about it, and it’s gross, and Crowley attempts to quit but can’t actually make it stick and before he knows it he’s lurking in the back rooms of clubs again when he knows Aziraphale’s just wandered in the front door. (Potential here for wonderfully juicy angsty sleazy scene of Crowley getting absolutely railed in a pub toilet by a complete stranger he’s trying to pretend is Aziraphale, and then slinking in a desperate haze of lust on his knees to the angel begging for the sacrament only Aziraphale can really give him.) (Right? Right? Argh, I wish I could write this story.) (What I’ve got so far is all strict close Az POV and it’s almost better because you’d only indirectly get that that’s what Crowley’s just done; A would just assume Crowley’d been off doing his demonic job instead of trying desperately to break his addiction.)

#this was lost in my drafts #for over a year #maybe two? #anyway #good omens

[superwho-am-i-kidding]

Too Late (PART TWO)

Once again, I'm sorry for how long this took! Life has been rather busy lately, and I couldn't find the time to write. But now I have. And oh boy, is it angsty. It's also quite long! PART ONE IS HERE.

I pride myself with ending stories happily, though it doesn't always happen… yet, anything is possible.

Thanks to @theregoesstevie for letting me word vomit based on this haunting image. Hope it lives up to expectations!

.

The end came with less fanfare than Aziraphale had expected. There was a world one moment, and nothing the next. The antichrist, Adam, had made un-existing as painless as possible, it seemed. There was no doubt in the angel’s mind that Satan was celebrating his triumphing victory over Heaven.

Aziraphale had been standing in the apartment of a dead demon, until he suddenly wasn’t. He found himself completely alone on an empty Earth. He had felt alone before, but it was nothing compared to now.

There were no nightingales singing in Berkley Square, no soft piano emanating from the Ritz, no ducks in the ponds of Saint James’ Park. Aziraphale decided he was tired. His gaze passed jadedly around him until it came to a stop on the only building remaining around him. A corporate tower that was as blank on the outside as it was on the inside. A tugging sensation pulled Aziraphale towards the building. He let it drag him to the escalators that lay in wait for both ethereal and occult forces.

Aziraphale’s eyes looked up towards the escalator that led to Heaven, the unwelcoming home he had known for the past six thousand years. But his instinct led him to the other escalator. He stepped onto the moving staircase for the second time in his long life (well, he wasn’t sure one could call it a “life” anymore) and stared blankly ahead as his corporation was taken lower and lower into Hell.

When he stepped into the dirty and musty hallway, he was surprised to once again find himself alone. He followed the sound of cheers and yelling down the hall until he entered a large room. Dagon was standing on a table in the center of thousands of demons, encouraging them in preparation of the coming war. Aziraphale wasn’t sure how, with plenty of other eyes to choose from, but Dagon locked gazes with him. “You,” she said, the room falling silent as the demons all turned towards Aziraphale. “What are you doing here? Come to spy on us, have you?” She laughed heartily, “Well, it seems they haven’t taught you the art of stealth!” She nodded towards a pair of large demons to grab Aziraphale’s arms and hold him in place. It was hardly necessary, as he wasn’t sure he could move, even if they wanted him to.

“You’re so clever. How can somebody as clever as you be so stupid?”

Beelzebub worked her way through the crowd, shoving demons apart to reach Aziraphale. She stopped in front of him, flies buzzing around the corporation that held no warmth. Her eyes flit across every inch of him, narrowing in thought as she sniffed the air a couple of times. “He’s… fallen,” she declared slowly. Shocked murmurs spread throughout the demonic hoard.

“May you be forgiven.”

“I won’t be forgiven. Not ever. That’s part of a demon’s job description. Unforgivable. That’s what I am.”

“This must be a trick,” Dagon said.

Beelzebub stared into the grief-stricken eyes that held no spark. She shook her head, “No, it’s no trick.”

“I forgive you.”

“In fact, this is exactly what we need. He knows how Heaven fights. We will win the war with his help.” Beelzebub waved for Aziraphale to be released. Aziraphale just stood, not bothering to fix the rumples on his jacket sleeves. “You’re going to be in charge of training the troops,” she said.

Aziraphale spared a blank glance around the room. “I’m not fighting.”

“What?” the flies stopped buzzing for a moment to hear Aziraphale repeat himself.

“I said, I’m not fighting,” he said. Beelzebub laughed and Aziraphale was ushered into a new room that had line after line of demons ready to fight. His head slowly raised to meet the eyes of the battalion waiting for his orders. One of the demons handed him a weapon he was all too familiar with, though he never bothered to wonder how Hell had gotten ahold of it. The sword roared to life, the divine flames burning at Aziraphale’s unholy hands.

He wasn’t sure how long he stared at the flames as they danced across the pointed blade. “Aren’t you going to teach us something?” a demon shattered the trance the fire had created.

“No,” he said. Simple and to the point; Crowley would have been proud.

“No?” the demon scoffed. “Do you expect us to just know this stuff? Sorry to break it to you, Halo, but we don’t have all the fancy things down here that you bastards have upstairs. Just the broken, sloppy seconds.” He pursed his lips and circled Aziraphale in an achingly haunting way. “But I suppose it’s no surprise that you’ve become one of us. You are broken and sloppy, after all. Just like Crawly was.”

Aziraphale didn’t know there was more in him that could break. But there was, and it shattered. Without thinking, his grip tightened on the hilt of the blade and he swung. Screams and sizzles told him that he had hit his mark. The rest of the battalion watched in shock as Aziraphale coldly watched the demon die. Aziraphale looked up, his dark eyes challenging anyone brave enough to a duel.

Some of the larger demons charged him, but Aziraphale dodged easily. It hadn’t been angelic that he had learned how to dance, though it seemed to come in handy now. He side-stepped and spun around his attackers, landing jabs and slashes on their corporations with his sword. One by one, they all fell, screaming in pain. Aziraphale looked up, his skin glistening with sweat, but with no flush. He was a dampened corpse walking around and swinging to kill.

The remaining demons turned and fled, leaving Aziraphale to glance at the bodies surrounding him. He wasn’t sure why they didn’t disappear, as he would have expected with utter extinction, but he didn’t really care. He stepped across them, ignoring the cracking and squishing of the bodies beneath his heels. Aziraphale walked down the corridor back towards the escalator that lead to an empty Earth.

He trailed the sword along the wall, igniting the posters and mold with holy flame. He caught sight of Beelzebub and Dagon surrounded by the surviving demons of his battalion. Beelzebub moved to intercept Aziraphale before he could get to the stairway. Their eyes locked, and she stepped back after a moment of contemplation.

“I should like to be left alone,” Aziraphale said quietly. He knew they had heard him, based on the nervous nods that were sent his way. He began the climb towards the surface and emerged into the blank canvas that the world had become. He took the opportunity to mold this new Earth into a tall hill that buried him within the clouds. A small patch of grass erupted from the top of the mound, yellow flowers popping out of the soil as well.

Aziraphale picked up a long stone that had not been there a moment before and drove it into the ground. It just so happened to have a lovely flat surface, perfect for carving. Aziraphale only wrote one word, one name. He wasn’t sure which one Anthony J. Crowley would have preferred, so he chose the name that Aziraphale always wanted to call him: Love.

“Aziraphale, former principality and guardian of the eastern gate of Eden, fallen angel of Heaven,” a voice appeared behind him. “I had always hoped it would come to this.”

Aziraphale turned from the headstone to stare down Sandalphon as he stood at the edge of the newly-formed hill. The angel smiled, gold shining through his teeth. “You will lose,” Aziraphale said, his grip tightening imperceptibly upon the hilt of his sword.

“I’m not worried,” Sandalphon smiled. “I’ve brought help.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes and felt for the ethereal forces that were surrounding him. There were dozens of them. All waiting to land a blow upon the single demon, standing alone on a hilltop with a sword in one hand and flowers in the other. “This was your choice,” Aziraphale said. He stared at Sandalphon for a moment longer before he lunged.

His first swing against Sandalphon missed, and several angels flew in to retaliate. Aziraphale tore each of them down. He almost wished there was literal blood to be spilled, the angels were falling back to Earth too much intact for his liking. Crowley would be horrified at what he had become in such a short time. Aziraphale would have been horrified himself if he stopped to think about what he was actually doing.

But the angels kept coming, and Aziraphale never put more thought into the actions that were defending the grave of the only being he had ever loved. Soon enough, demons had appeared as well, hungry for revenge against those Aziraphale had slaughtered. Aziraphale had always thought about how lovely it would be if Heaven and Hell would put their differences aside and get along for a change. It didn’t even register in his mind that they were doing exactly that; putting aside their own agendas in order to kill Aziraphale.

They didn’t know it, but there was no killing this particular demon. Aziraphale tore through each wave, the bodies piling higher and higher around his once solitary hill. He wasn’t sure how long it took for them to get the message, but it eventually arrived. Fewer and fewer angels and demons approached the hill to challenge Aziraphale. Then, there were no more. Aziraphale felt something stir deep within him. Satisfaction, he supposed, and pride.

He looked over the new hills that surrounded his own, wings of both black and white broken together. Aziraphale looked to the sword in his hand, willing the flame to die. The blade slowly cooled and Aziraphale briefly contemplated joining Crowley in whatever was beyond their infinite lives. His ultimate decision was to toss the sword over the side of the hill, into the pile of bodies that encircled him.

Aziraphale willed a pair of Crowley’s sunglasses and a vase into existence at the base of the headstone. He filled the vase with a fresh gathering of the yellow flowers, ones that he didn’t know the name of, but was certain Crowley would have. That’s where he remained for the rest of the war. The decades passed within the blink of an eye, though the flowers adorning Crowley’s grave were as fresh as the day they were cut.

When it happened, Aziraphale felt the war end with every fiber of his being. He knew the fighting was done, but he didn’t bother to find out which side triumphed over the other. It was of little importance to him now. His gaze swept across the piles of angels and demons, a spark of something flashing in his heart. Tears began to fall from his eyes, blurring the image of a figure appearing before him.

“Angel?” a horrified voice whispered.

Aziraphale blinked to clear the tears from his vision. A black-clad figure with flaming hair came into focus, one that he never thought he would see again. “Crow…” his voice failed him after all the years of silence. “The empty flask…” Aziraphale saw Crowley’s eyes flash with dismay as he put together what Aziraphale was implying. “You weren’t dead?”

Crowley looked around the two of them, eyes never lingering too long on the bodies around them. He turned his gaze back to the tear-stricken face of his best friend. “I went to Alpha Centauri.”

“I’m going home, angel. I’m getting my stuff and I’m leaving. And when I’m off in the stars, I won’t even think about you.”

“What have you done, angel?” he whispered. Aziraphale looked down at the grave as he unfurled his black wings into the emptiness behind him.

#too late #part two! #finally! #good omens #aziraphale #crowley #good omens fic #good omens angst #probably some trigger warnings #my writing #fallen!aziraphale

[sometimeseffable]

a sudden proposal

Aziraphale finds he likes talking about Crowley rather a lot.

“How long have you two known each other?”

“Oh, ages. Practically since the beginning.”

The women coo. “High school sweethearts, how romantic!”

“Er, actually, the getting together bit was fairly recent. Our, uh, families weren’t too keen on it, so. Well. It was mostly me who put it off, I think Anthony would have been ready to elope a few thousand years ago.”

If there’s anything odd about the statement, the group doesn’t show it. They simply laugh it off as a humorous exaggeration, which Aziraphale is grateful for. Sometimes he forgets how time works for humans.

“Families can be hard,” says Candace sympathetically.

“Indeed. Took a while to get over thinking Gabriel would show up at my door just to tell me off - “ Aziraphale freezes, realizing the slip up far too late. Susan just clucks her tongue.

“Older brother?” 

Relieved, Aziraphale nods. “A fairly overbearing one at that.”

“I know all about that,” Deidre interrupts. Adam’s mother had been, with a little demonic intervention, graciously welcoming of Adam’s ‘godfathers’ dropping in on the boy’s twelfth birthday party. Even if it was completely unannounced. “When Arthur proposed, my sister was not happy with me. Kept wanting me to get back with my ex, you remember John from secondary school? Well, I told her, I said…”

Aziraphale lets the idle chatter wash over him, pleased to be part of a human social gathering for the first time since Portland Place gentleman’s club closed. He glances over to where Crowley is busy entertaining the Them, and can’t help but smile.

 The demon is engaging in a non-lethal watergun fight with the kids and Newt. The teams had started off as strictly Adults vs Kids, and has since devolved into Newt running around yelping as Crowley tag-teams with the Them in a desperate bid to get him soaked to the bone. They seem to have devised an exceedingly efficient battle strategy.

 Aziraphale can just catch the edge of fangs in his demon’s manic grin. His entirely too-human heart flutters at the sight of Crowley letting go of his ridiculously aloof facade and having fun for once. Such a rare sight after centuries of looking over his shoulder, unappreciated by his colleagues and at constant risk of Hell’s displeasure.

“Anthony certainly knows how to handle kids,” someone remarks, bringing Aziraphale back to the present. “Do you ever want some of your own?”

He flushes under the August sun. “Oh - well, um, we’ve never - never really discussed it.” 

The answer was a hard no, but the angel felt rather uncomfortable discussing the delicate horror of watching onesselve outlive their human children. Thankfully, Candace comes to his aid.

“Understandable. Anne and I didn’t even consider having kids until they passed the marriage act. I remember the day they passed it. Hopeless romantics, we were, we got married the very next day. It was all very exciting.”

There’s a moment of wistful joy as Candace gives him a knowing look, eyes quickly flicking down to the winged ring on Aziraphale’s pinky. He blushes harder.

“Oh,” he demurs, “No, we’re not - “

“Everything alright over here?” Crowley materializes at Aziraphale’s shoulder, somehow bone dry despite that he’d been manning a SuperSoaker 9000 for the better part of an hour. A plate slides smoothly into the angel’s lap. “Cake, angel?”

The women all twitter at the pet name. Suddenly, the idea of correcting Candace’s assumptions seems terribly wrong as Crowley settles into the lawn chair next to him, arm slung loose over Aziraphale’s shoulders. His demon is wildly animated in his storytelling, wooing the ladies further. Aziraphale listens to him with a flutter of pride and quietly eats his cake, contemplative. 

The drive back to London is spent in comfortable silence. What had begun as Tchaikovesky’s 14th symphony has morphed slowly into the heart-aching refrains of Love of My Life. Crowley hums along softly, fingers laced through Aziraphale’s on the angel’s knee as he steers one-handed. 

Aziraphale watches him. Warm light from the setting August sun catches his hair so that it shines like fire, painting delicate gold over high cheekbones. Those infernal glasses cover his eyes, yet he imagines they would be soft with contentment. In fact, with all the tension loosened from his shoulders, radiating love like a furnace as he is, Aziraphale is quite sure this is the most relaxed and - dare he say it - happy Crowley has ever been in his presence. Possibly, and he would be remiss not to consider it, his happiest since the Fall. 

All of a sudden, the millennia he’s spent denying they were even friends feels like an anchor crushing his chest, collapsing his ribcage until he can barely breathe.

They break the silence at nearly the same time.

“So, I was thinking when we got back, we could get - “

“We should get married.”

Since they’re doing just ten over the speed limit, the Bentley’s screeching halt holds less promise of imminent discorporation than usual. Neither being moves; Aziraphale’s heart beats a rapid tattoo in his chest as Crowley stares at the road ahead of them, mouth ajar.

“...Thai,” the demon croaks, “I was gonna suggest Thai. Hang on, back up, you want us to what?” 

Aziraphale wishes the seat would open and swallow him whole in a fit of cliche. “I - I said perhaps we should get married,” he says, voice sounding terribly small even to his own ears, “I just - well, I was talking to Candace, you know, Deidre’s friend, and - and she made an excellent point regarding - “

“Okay.”

“Sorry?”

“Okay,” Crowley repeats. The black glasses leave his face unreadable, “We’ll get married.”

It does not sound like the most enthused of proposal acceptances. 

Aziraphale feels the swell of assured confidence deflate a touch. “Oh. Right then. Tickety...boo.”

Crowley nods and turns back to the road. The Bentley makes it another ten meters before it stops again.

“I can’t go in a church.”

“Loads of people get married other ways, dear.” Aziraphale wonders if that were a true concern, or a deflection that could be used as a big red TERMINATE button.

“Right.”

Another two meters before they stop.

Aziraphale throws up his hands, exasperated. “Oh for Hell’s sake, if you don’t want to marry then we won’t!”

“No!” Crowley yelps, strangled. He twists his ridiculously lanky body to face the angel, and were he capable of it, there would probably be sweat on his brow, “It’s not that, it’s just. Like married married. Like you want to spend the rest of eternity trapped in a legally binding contract to me in the eyes of the Almighty, and you think we won’t tear each other up because sssomeone’s leaving the telly on or dishesss in the sssink, and it’sss not too fassst - “

Aziraphale kisses him.

The rest of Crowley’s diatribe is muffled into a short mmph. Instinctively, his hands come up to frame Aziraphale’s face, protective as always. Aziraphale pushes the glasses back up into his hair. Wide gold eyes blink at him, terrified and hopeful and oh-so smitten.

Aziraphale presses another reverent kiss to his palm. “Too fast?”

“Never.” Crowley lets out a shaky breath. “Whatever you want, angel, s’long as you’re sure.”

“Of course I’m sure.” Aziraphale kisses him full on the mouth again, slow and sweet. Then he pulls away with a frown. “Don’t we miracle the dishes clean?”

“It’s an expression,” Crowley mumbles before swooping in for a thorough snog. Aziraphale’s hand tangles in his fiance’s hair - oh, but isn’t that a thought? A very, very lovely thought. Someone snaps their fingers; they fall, giggling, into the back seat, trading fervent, giddy kisses. 

London can wait. They’ve got all the time they need.

---

Part two of the ineffable godfathers miniseries

#my writing #good omens fic #ineffable husbands #ineffable godfathers

[justkeeptrekkin]

Wrote a little Good Omens/Star Trek crossover

.... for the awesome @comicgeekery​. Thanks for the inspo!

5th April, 2063

“--historic day for humankind. For this is truly the first time that we have been able to refer to ourselves as such with the certainty that there is, in fact, life elsewhere in the perceivable universe.”

It’s a balmy, spring afternoon in London when Crowley rolls out of bed and turns on the television. Honestly, he’s fairly used to ignoring the news; it’s only on because he’d left it on channel one last night for a nature documentary that he and Aziraphale have been watching about whales. That’s why he pays very little attention to the picture on his projector screen.

“-- quite extraordinary. It seems as if this was all triggered by Zefram Cochrane's attempt at warp-speed flight, and er-- just coming in now, these beings call themselves Vulcans, Jane, and-- aha-- well, they’re not quite saying that they come in peace, but if our translators are correct, they’re offering us a long and prosperous life--”

Crowley slams his mug on the counter. He’s run out of coffee. He could very easily conjure up some more now, right here, but miracle-coffee is never as good as the nice Costa Rican stuff he buys. Or, more accurately, that Aziraphale buys for him, because he’s just that much of a kept man, apparently.

A knocking at the door. A light rapping that Crowley recognises immediately, and it would usually make him humiliatingly happy except for the fact that he’s just woken up from a--

He checks the time on the TV screen.

 -- from a two week nap, he hasn’t got any coffee, and the TV is blabbering on far too loudly. Waving a hand at said TV until it is muted, Crowley slides over to the door, dressing gown belt flapping about against his leg, and opens it with a flourish.

 Aziraphale has that bright-eyed, bushy-tailed look about him: never a good sign. “Crowley--”

Crowley plants a brief kiss on his cheek, then immediately retreats back into the kitchen, shoulders heavy with sleep. “I’m going back to sleep, angel. World’s too loud still.”

”Crowley--” the sound of the door slamming, very purposefully, Crowley thinks, as Azriaphale continues: “I have been trying to call you all morning. I thought you left your phone on vibrate for such things.”

 “I did. Didn’t I?” Crowley scratches his head. He’s sure he’d changed the ring tone for Aziraphale’s phone number specifically so he’d wake up when only he called. “Apparently not, sorry Angel-- any news?”

He sees the way Aziraphale is rolling his eyes and flapping about when he turns back around from the kitchen with two mugs of tea. His hands are fiddling with each other in that excitable way that they do, a happy nervous way that he’s come to adore. Crowley hands him a cup. Aziraphale takes it with a pointed raise of his brow.

“Any -- any news? Really. You could not have asked a more absurd--”

At that point, apparently, he’s lost for words. More frustrated than Crowley realised, and so he begins to take Aziraphale’s bright eyes and bushy tail a little more seriously. Particularly when Aziraphale puts down the cup of tea of all things, and gestures to the television, one arm outstretched and gaze still fixed on Crowley.

The screen remains muted. However, Crowley gathers what Aziraphale is gesturing at fairly quickly. He’s so used to letting the news blend into the background, tired of feeling depressed by the human race -- especially with this World War III nonsense -- that he’d completely missed that something, actually, rather important has been happening.

It looks like the research base in San Francisco. Crowley knows only a little about this; as the angel who created a fair few of the stars in the sky, he takes interest when humans start pointing their big magnifying glasses at them. Zefram Cochrane, the inventor of warp-speed engines, and a few other important looking men (who may well be important, what does Crowley know? He hasn’t been paying attention) welcomes three people. People, except they’re not human. Humanoid, perhaps, but human? No. Crowley can spot an alien a mile off.

“Crikey,” he mutters, hovering in his sparse living room with his dressing gown open and tea steaming.

Aziraphale nods fervently.

“Which ones are these?”

“These are the Vulcans,” Aziraphale explains. “Do you remember? Our colleagues -- oh, I forget their names -- a few of our colleagues helped set up. Erm.” Aziraphale purses his lips. “Well, their version of Eden.”

“Something like Sha Ka Ray, if I remember,” Crowley mutters, unblinking as he watches one of the Vulcans raise their hand in a v-shape, the humans mimicking.

“That was it! Sha Ka Ree.”

They’re wearing long, heavy cloaks. Even expressions, but glints in their eyes, as if they are taking some professional enjoyment out of this. The humans, barely containing their own excitement -- and probably a good dose of apprehension. Human beings, finally meeting an alien species who could take them down a notch, teach the buggers a couple of things. Crowley and Aziraphale certainly never managed to, much as they’ve tried. Far too stubborn.

After a while of sitting and watching the proceedings-- the beginnings of a new, enterprising delegation-- Crowley gives a long exhale.

“Those bowl cuts are questionable.”

Stardate: 53459 (17th July 2269)

“What? Just give them a quick ring? Give the flagship of Starfleet’s exploratory expedition a cheeky call, just to check in? ‘Hello Enterprise, nice to meet you’?”

“Yes. Why, do you not think that they’d appreciate it?”

“It’s less that they won’t appreciate it and more that it might blow their tiny minds, Angel.”

“They’ve met plenty of extraordinary species by this point -- extraordinary by their standards, anyway. A call from us will be -- how do they put it -- ‘a walk in the park’--?”

“Not the point. That’s -- that’s actually the bit that I’m struggling with, here. What is the point, exactly? What are you aiming to achieve? You looking to freak them out or…?”

“Well, I thought perhaps we could… ah. Tell them who we are.”

Aziraphale looks at Crowley. Red hair tied up, ringlets around his face; silver eye-shadow; a black jumpsuit in the style of the Terran fashion that really leaves very little to the imagination, with cut-outs here and there all over his body. Legs crossed, foot bouncing impatiently, arms sprawled across the back of Aziraphale’s sofa. In his old bookshop, Crowley always sticks out like a sore thumb, and he’s always loved that about him.

He tilts his head. “Really,” he drawls, vaguely amused.

“Yes. Don’t you think it’s about time?”

“IIIII dunno…” Crowley sucks air through his teeth contemplatively. “Never ends very well. Tell humans that angels and demons roam their planet and they get all agitated. Don’t need to tell you that, you remember how much it traumatised dear old Hieronymous. Couldn’t stop painting us, the poor bastard.”

Aziraphale sighs. “Yes, well, that was different. That was almost a millennia ago, now.”

The bookshop is still just as dusty as it has ever been. Crowley has been urging him to at least install a proper computer -- one that will answer to him, rather than sitting there stupidly, looking like a brick. But he is quite happy with it as it is, especially when he has Crowley here, lounging about as he’s always done, draped across the furniture like he’s still wrapped around that apple tree. And drinking more wine than is good for them.

“Right so -- let’s just role-play this--” Crowley’s glass makes a decisive clink against the table, “-- we patch into their network. Right? I find their frequency and just, try and call from my PADD.”

“Yes,” he confirms, not liking his partner’s tone of voice.

“So then they answer, all, military-like and ready for some sort of diplomatic… situation.”

“Mm…”

Crowley’s leaning forward in his seat, gesticulating a enthusiastically. “They see us, they’re all, ‘oi, how did you get this number?’ and we’re all, ‘sorry, just thought we’d pop in and introduce ourselves, we’re your new neighbours,’” he wrinkles his nose mockingly, “‘Cept we’re not new at all, not really, we’ve been here since the dawn of time, but don’t worry too much about that’.”

“Well--”

“So they’re all, ‘ah, immortal beings from outer space!’ and we have to explain that, actually, we’re not really from space at all, we’re the ones who made space, and no, sorry, we’d love to patch you through to God, except She’s been a little busy for the past six thousand odd years, no can do, just got us boring old sods’.”

“Crowley, really. Don’t you think you’re being a little reductionist?”

“No.” Suddenly serious. “I don’t. They’re humans. They’re brilliant, but they’re also humans, which means they’re also thick as shit.”

Aziraphale purses his lips, electing to ignore the love of his life for this moment. Sitting up properly, linking his hands in his lap. “I think it’s time.”

“And what do you think they’ll do?”

“Perhaps it will bring about some new, interesting philosophy. About the nature of the universe, of the overlap between science and faith.”

Crowley’s brow quirks, yellow eyes staring, wide and disbelieving. “Some ‘new and interesting philosophy’? Books. You’re talking about books. You think you’ll get some nice literature out of this.”

Aziraphale flounders. “Well, that’s not exactly how I’d put it--”

Crowley scowls. But then, he’s taking out his PADD from his purse, making aggravated noises as his fingers fly across the screen.

“You’re doing it?” Aziraphale asks hopefully.

“Yes, yes. You got all happy as soon as you started talking about it and-- I was never really going to say no, was I? You know how pathetic I am by this point, surely.”

He’s not looking at him, but Aziraphale is gazing with those big, angel-eyes that Crowley’s told him he uses sometimes. They drive him insane, but he can’t help it, not when Crowley’s being so unintentionally romantic. “Oh, Crowley.”

“Shhhht. Stop. I’m not doing anything nice, I’m--”

“Not nice, I know.”

Aziraphale smiles serenely. Crowley’s scowl deepens, just as the PADD begins to ring.

The screen is propped up against a wine bottle, just in time for the image to reveal a man. A man in green and gold, sand-blonde hair swept back and a look of cautious curiosity in his hazel eyes. Behind his chair, a woman in red is leaning over the controls. The captain’s head is angled slightly, tilted as he seems to consider his situation -- consider the two strangers who have called their starship.

“Greetings, this is Captain Kirk of the Starship: Enterprise. To whom am I speaking?”

“Oh, how exciting,” Aziraphale whispers, nudging Crowley a little. Then, more loudly, “Greetings, Captain Kirk! My name is Aziraphale, and this is Crowley.”

Crowley sighs, seeming very put upon.

Aziraphale nudges him again. “Well! Don’t be rude, Crowley.”

“Yes, hello, how very nice to meet you,” he simpers accordingly.

“This is a secure line, gentlemen. How did you access our co-ordinates?”

“Ah, yep, sorry, my fault,” Crowley waves a hand. “I’m -- well, we’re, er… we can do stuff. Lots of stuff. He’ll explain later.”

He shoots Aziraphale a glare, which seems to be a warning that this could go horribly wrong. Aziraphale, ever the opportunist, elects to ignore this.

“That I shall,” Aziraphale adds, pointedly.

Kirk thinks. He thinks, sitting so still as he leans towards the monitor, that for a moment, Azirpahale thinks the screen has frozen. Then, turning his head to his right, he notes that he is talking to someone. A certain someone who then appears on screen, a royal blue shirt and hands clasped behind his back. A Vulcan. The two converse with a silent look.

Ah. Aziraphale knows that look very well. 

“Be that as it may,” Kirk continues, turning back to them, “it is technically a federal crime to trace Starfleet co-ordinates and to contact a ship without first organising an official meeting. That is, unless it is an emergency.”

“Oh, yes, I have heard of your ship’s adventures, captain,” Aziraphale rushes. He puts down his glass of wine. “You’ve done an awful lot of good, helping those in need.”

“We… do our best,” he says with a slow nod.

“Sorry. For the, er… illegal call,” Crowley says.

Another moment where both men share a glance. And then, the Vulcan in blue tilts an inquisitive chin.

“Sir, may I enquire as to the colour of your eyes? They do not appear to be contact lenses.”

It takes a moment for Crowley to realise that he’s the one being addressed. Then, “Ah! Bollocks. Forgot the sunglasses-- see Aziraphale, this is why we don’t call Starfleet when we’ve had two bottles of Rioja.”

“Awfully sorry, dear--”

The captain looks up at his colleague with a wry smile and a raised brow. “Spock, don’t you think it’s a little rude to as a stranger questions about their appearance?”

“A stranger who has made contact with Starfleet’s flagship outside of legal parameters.”

“Still, politeness can go a long way,” he adds with a smirk, and a look in his eyes that’s, quite frankly, obscene.

Crowley clears his throat. “To answer your question-- although, seems like they’re more interested in each other,” he says to Aziraphale as an aside, “- to answer your question, yeah, they’re real. Snake eyes. Unfortunate accident involving a bastard called Lucifer.”

A pause. The man named Spock tilts his head. Kirk leans forward in his seat.

“Lucifer, you say?”

At that, Crowley gives a wicked smile. Aziraphale sighs. This wasn’t exactly how he’d imagined this conversation starting.

Stardate: 51650 (9th May 2271)

“My point is -- my point is -- tribbles. Tribbles, now -- whose idea were those, then? Who thought they were a good idea? They’ve -- they’ve not got faces, they’ve not got hands or feet or paws or anything, just, little balls of fluff that just poof! Reproduce, until you’re up to your tits in furballs.”

“Now, tha’s what ah been tryna tell yeh, captain. And you mind what he’s saying, too, Lieutenant Uhura! I know you thought they’s adorable, but they’re terrors.”

“Pointless, they’re pointless. Don’t know what they were thinking of when they made tribbles, whoever they were.”

“Aye! See, straight from the mouth of an angel!”

“Er, former angel.”

”Them wee bastards’ve been cloggin’ up my ship’s engine, would ye believe?”

 “Our ship, Scotty.”

 “Oh. Well, o’course, captain… I didnae mean no disrespect, captain--”

 “In Russia--”

“I swear, if you’re about to say that Russia invented tribbles, Chekov, I’ll kick you out of this here bar faster than you can say Alabama Slammer.”

“Alright, now, Bones, it’s shore leave. He can say what he wants. We’re all here to relax. Isn’t that right, Spock?”

“Yeah, he sure looks relaxed there, Jim.”

“I am not accustomed to frequenting such establishments.”

“I would like to state, for the wecord, sir, that I was not going to say that Russia inwented tribbles.”

“I -- ah -- actually, I have a bit of a confession to make in that respect…”

“Angel. Please. Please don’t tell me that you’re… Christ, you didn’t…”

“You are the angel responsible for creating the tribble species?”

“You have a lot to answer for, Aziraphale.”

“It wasn’t intentional! Or, rather, the intention was to simply create a creature so lovely and adorable that no one could quite resist it. And, I suppose, what with evolution and how that may have changed their, erm, reproduction process…”

“You bastard.”

“Crowley -- for Heaven’s sake, it was simply an accident! You can hardly say that it’s worse than some of your creations.”

“I invented Luton airport. You invented the universe’s most irritating pest. Honestly, I figured some lower ranking demon had been the one to come up with it, but now I feel, sort of… betrayed.”

“Don’t say that! May I remind you that you are the one who came up with the M25? Which nearly destroyed the universe as we know it!”

“I beg your pardon? Would you care to rewind and just, explain that last bit, Aziraphale?”

“Oh -- er, it’s a long story.”

“A very long story that would mean another round. Angel, you are definitely bloody-well buying.”

Stardate: 43897 (24th November 2366)

“You know, when you said that you wanted to check-in with Picard and the team, this isn’t what I imagined.”

Their call isn’t immediately picked up. However, when it is, the first thing they see is a large barbershop quartet. They’re all wearing pink, candy-stripe suits and wicker hats. The bridge of the Enterprise looks much the same as it did under captain Kirk, if not for this barbershop quartet, and perhaps a few technological tweaks. And, of course, the current captain who sits in his chair, face in his hand.

“Er.” Crowley looks at Aziraphale, who looks back at Crowley. “This doesn’t look like a good time.”

“No, by all means,” Picard gestures to the screen, other hand still covering his face. “If you have any advice to offer, then I will happily take it.”

“What…” Aziraphale trails off, purses his lips. The, trying to affect something light and airy, “What seems to be the problem, captain?”

Picard looks over the edge of his hand. “Are you aware of the being that calls itself ‘Q’?”

He’s about to say that he isn’t -- perhaps Crowley knows this Q?-- but before they even have a moment to deliberate, the tallest of the barbershop quartet members steps forward from the throng and hops down the steps to Picard’s side. Dark eyes that have seen too much, brightened by mischief. And for a moment, there is the faintest flicker of recognition as he doffs his hat to the screen, leaning against Picard’s captain chair.

“Good day to you, gentlemen. Did you like my song?”

“No,” Picard says quite firmly. “Now, would you please leave and take your pestering elsewhere!”

Q tuts, rolls his eyes. Pokes his thumb in Picard’s direction. “He’s just grumpy because he hasn’t had his morning cup of Earl Grey.”

“You…”

It’s Crowley that says this. Leaning forward on Aziraphale’s sofa, snake pupils narrowing. And it’s then that Aziraphale realises that this is absolutely someone they know. He just can’t put his finger on it, whilst Crowley clearly has.

“You know him?” Picard says, with the smallest flicker of hope.

“Wait. Wait a second now,” Q points his finger at Crowley, frown deepening. He miracles his hat away, cradles his chin. “Now, we worked together a long time ago, didn’t we?”

That makes Aziraphale stare back at Crowley.

There’s some hesitance. “Oh. Sure, probably. Long time ago, now, wasn’t it? Who knows. Worked with lots of people.”

“No, no, no -- we did a lot of creating with each other. Some fun messing around you know?”

“Er. Not sure. Might have a different person in mind--”

And then those eyes widen. A wicked grin on his face, and Aziraphale can only imagine that this Q must be a demon.

That’s when Aziraphale finds himself standing on the bridge of the Enterprise. Jean-Luc Picard looking up at them despairingly, whilst the rest of his crew work as diligently as they can with a quartet serenading them. Data, notably, is working with the utmost focus, whilst Wharf looks like he’s two seconds away from ripping something in half bare-handed. Riker looks no more patient.

“Oh,” Aziraphale remarks. “You’ve -- you miracled us here!”

No use, Q is far too preoccupied by Crowley. Pointing a finger in recognition. “You’re Crawly! I remember you! Oh, we got up to some good stuff together, huh? It’s been a long time since I’ve seen any of the guys from the Milky Way neighbourhood. You guys really like to keep to yourselves, I never understood it. Totally obsessed with your ‘Eden’ as if the rest of us don’t exist.”

“You o know him,” Picard says with some accusation.

Crowley looks, to put it lightly, a little embarrassed. Hands sliding in his pockets and averting his snake-eyed gaze, “Yup. Long time ago. Hung out with a different crowd, then, you got to understand…”

“Qasphiel.” The name bubbles up on Aziraphale’s tongue from nowhere; memories of a gaggle of angels who called themselves the Q Continuum, who were cast out for blasphemy. Creating your own little gang was never something that The Almighty did like. “You’re Qasphiel. You know, I do remember you, now that I think about it.”

Q looks Aziraphale up and down once. “I don’t remember you. Were you one of the more straight-laced types? Yeah, we wouldn’t have hung out, much.”

“Excuse me? I… I’ll have you know, that since then I’ve become quite the rebel--”

“What’re you doing here, Qasphiel?” Crowley interrupts with some exhaustion. “Coming in here and getting on everyone’s nerves -- believe me, I get that it’s fun for a while, but, come on. You must be a bit knackered of it now, no matter what the others are getting you to do.”

“Ah, but I don’t work on anyone’s terms any more. Not even the Continuum’s,” Q smiles smugly.

“That’s awfully nice, but the alternative is buggering off, so the rest of us can get on with our lives.”

He narrows his eyes at Crowley. “What’s in it for me?”

A weary sigh. And Aziraphale considers just how kind Crowley has always been, even if he doesn’t always see it. “Listen. How about -- what about a catch-up. Grab a drink on some planet in the Omicron Delta quadrant. Talk about old times? Big Bang and all that?”

“Ah yes,” Q sighs. Then, apparently distracted, “You know, I don’t recall the yellow eyes,” he gestures to his own. “The demonic thing. Did you fall with Lucy and the others, Crawly? Bad luck.”

“That’s a story that needs telling over a drink.”

There’s a long moment -- too long a moment -- where Q considers this offer. Picard is leaning back in his seat and watching the interaction over steepled fingers. Even Data has stopped to listen, head tilted in interest.

Then, Q shrugs.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

And with that, Picard’s bridge is once again empty of divine or immortal beings. Or barbershop quartets. It is extraordinarily quiet.

Picard lets out a long exhale. “Never a dull day.”

 Stardate: unknown

Three suns set upon the horizon of Alpha Centauri. Palm trees wave in the breeze; planted there a few decades ago when this planet first became populated by humanoid species. The air tastes like salt and smells like ozone. A burning orange sky, a deep purple scattering of stars directly above them. Small, clay houses, their shutters closed in the late afternoon heat. Mountain ranges in the distance, seeming so small from their little balcony.

“Total tourist trap,” Crowley mutters into his glass of Romulan ale.

Aziraphale stifles a burp. “Sorry?”

“Look at it. Tourist trap.” Crowley crosses his legs on the railing of the balcony. “All of it. Built like a Terran city, as well. Palm trees and all that bollocks. Shops and restaurants, Christ, it couldn’t get more human if you tried. When will they stop colonising and just learn to appreciate?”

“Mmm.”

“Remember when we could come here and not be harassed by people selling sunglasses? When it was just a big, ol’ expanse?”

“Empty,” Aziraphale remarks. Then, wide eyed, “Hot.”

They watch the first sun dip behind the mountain ranges. The Romulan ale burns Crowley’s throat nicely.

“D’you ever wonder what it would’ve been like?”

Aziraphale takes a slow, indulgent breath. And Crowley knows that he understands what he’s asking. “Sometimes. But I think it’s better that we didn’t run away. We did save the universe, after all.”

“I know, obviously. But do you ever wonder what would have happened if we hadn’t?”

Of course he does. They both have. Images of a war-torn universe, of all of this: gone.

Crowley drops his hand, finds Aziraphale’s. Their fingers link, and they absorb the light of three, alien stars.

#star trek #good omens #ineffable husbands #lmao #my writing #this was meant to be 5 +1 times and i just realised it was 4+1 #oops sorry m8

[somedrunkpirate]

what we lack in words  (Ineffable Husbands Ficlet)

Read the whole thing on ao3 here!

Teaser:

Crowley sways his way to the front door, the ringing of the bell piercing through his head like a particularly persistent woodpecker. 

The delivery should have been here an hour ago, and Crowley and Aziraphale had spent the time drinking perhaps more than was prudent, if one wished to interact with the outside world in a fashionable manner. 

Aziraphale’s pouting while complaining of hunger had been the match to a rumbling fire of frustration, so by the time the delivery girl says, “It was with rice, right?”, there is no stopping the flames of hell. 

“Give it,” Crowley hisses, eyes flashing. “If you are too stupid to do this simple task, I do not trust you to be able to throw it away either! I shall do the honours.”

She makes no move to hand it over, which only reveals more foolishness. Who dares to stand in the way of Crowley, demon of the underworld, giver of choice and creator of sin? 

Crowley is about to set the record straight with some well placed infernal curses, when the kid goes from a defensive stance to a huff of relief. 

Aziraphale pipes up behind him, “What is going on? Why are we taking so long, I’m quite hungry— oh there we are. Thank you, dear, it's quite the weather isn’t it?” 

The teen mutters a very audible ‘Thank God’, under her breath, before saying,  “I am sorry, sir, for the delay. There was a traffic jam because of the rain.” Her gaze flickers between them before clearing her throat. “I think we might have gotten the order wrong too and your husband here is not taking it too kindly.” 

Crowley, in a mist of offence, opens his mouth to snap something— anything to put the fear of all that is unholy into this mortal child— how dare she point to him as the villain in this situation when she forgot the egg noodles. It’s Aziraphale’s favorite. It shan’t be forgiven. 

But just before he can speak, he trips over one peculiar word she said and all thought is scattered in the following proverbial fall.

Husband. 

Aziraphale smiles, the kind of smile that soothes even the most prickly of people, and says, “My apologies for my husband’s behavior. He gets fussy when hungry, you know how it is.” 

My husband? 

“I— we—” Crowley splutters, as Aziraphale steals the wallet right out of his hands and pays the abomination of food-delivery dressed in human clothing. “She forgot your egg noodles!”

Aziraphale pats his arm reassuringly. “I’ll just liberate some of your ramen, dear. You never finish the whole thing anyway.” 

At that, the girl sees her chance to flee and slips away in what should be considered a jog, but might look like a walk to the untrained eye. 

Aziraphale closes the door, seemingly completely unperturbed by the situation. He has no trouble guiding Crowley back to the living room, as he has reverted to a static state of complete confoundment. This is because the tiny metaphorical devils in the corners of his mind are too busy upending the archives of Memory. Short moving scenes and stacks of images are flung about mercilessly, all depicting the same inevitable event set to different settings. The Denial. 

“I’m not his friend” “I don’t know him.” “We’re not.” “He is not my—” 

Because always, without fail, Aziraphale clears the air of any uncouth assumptions that humans invariably make about them. 

Crowley never felt the urge to do the same. He would claim that it was professional curiosity— it can be quite useful to know the levels of intimacy different cultures and times reserve for different bonds, impertinent information for temptation all across the board. Secondly, he might claim that the implication of such intimacy is amusing, and therefore he’d wanted to maintain the illusion for entertainment purposes. Thirdly, if desperately, he could argue that this could up his devilish reputation; the idea that he’d tempted an angel of heaven to his wedding bed should be an accomplishment of his own, however unrealistic it might be. 

But this would not be the truth of it, and Crowley had lost the ability to effectively lie to himself somewhere in the last few weeks. Facing an apocalypse does wonders to one’s self-reflection. So he’s now very acutely aware of the real reason why he likes hearing those false impressions. 

It is proof. Though humanity’s perception is often faulty, they’d been able, over the generations, to recognize something that Crowley has always felt, but Aziraphale could not see. It had given him a little speck of hope, that if strangers could feel the tension between them then it wasn’t all projection and that maybe someday—

Yeah. Right. 

The point is, Aziraphale had broken the pattern, which is why Crowley has lost all ability to function.

“Come,” Aziraphale says, looking completely chuffed as he spreads out their dinner on the table. “I’m starving.” 

Crowley sits. Food is about the last thing on his mind right now. 

My husband. My husband. My husband. 

It grates on him, but sweetly— an ache that makes him understand why some people seek out pain for pleasure. He repeats the sequence of events again and again, trying to make it feel less like a dream. Even merely minutes removed, the complete surprise of it has given it an almost fantastical reality. It shimmers in his mind’s eye. A magic trick. It must be. 

Aziraphale, his bastard worth knowing, had not plucked the assumption from the mouth of a stranger and crushed it mercilessly underfoot. He hadn’t even ignored it. 

He’d confirmed it. 

Realising that for the second time doesn’t help matters. On the contrary, it results in Crowley completely losing his mind. 

“Angel, have I missed my own wedding?” Crowley asks idly. Like the idea amuses him. As if a wrong word on this will not break him— at least for half an eternity, give or take. 

When Aziraphale doesn’t immediately respond, Crowley continues, his voice climbing higher and higher as he goes. “Please tell me it was in a church. I’ve always planned to tapdance my way into your hand.” 

He tries to grin at the joke, but it fits like an earthworm on his face. It isn’t even a joke. It is revealing in a way Aziraphale should be able to notice. Any moment now Aziraphale will look at him with that particular frown of confusion, or the soft-featured face of pity. Or even more nightmarish, the gentle smile of kindness, and then crush this shadow of an assumption as mercilessly he’d almost done— almost always done. 

Crowley braces himself and—

Aziraphale chuckles. 

“Oh dear,” he says, pausing to hide a giggle with his hand. “That would have been quite something.” He shakes his head, cheeks flushed with delight, a mirth to his eyes that spells out the kind of admiration of shenanigans, which made him so frustratingly lovable— among other things. 

Crowley should be relieved— the regained security of his most tightly held secret is such a bout of luck that he should be on his knees to thank Her for it. 

But he isn’t. His fist clenches and his breath pushes and pulls with a sudden force. Every huff of laughter from Aziraphale shoots a hot bolt of something painful through his body. How dare he laugh like this? How dare he giggle like it’s nothing but a joke—like it doesn’t matter. As if none of it did. As if there is nothing instrumental and earth shattering about the fact that Aziraphale confirmed it. He agreed with what the stupid kid saw, even if it was just the easiest way to diffuse the situation. He’d never cared about that before. The denial was always more important. So why—

“Why did you—” Crowley stops himself, and takes extra care to keep his voice from climbing. “You always. Always. Denied it. Why did you— Why did you?” 

Aziraphale has stopped giggling and looks at him with wide eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry dear. I didn’t think you would mind.” 

“I—” Crowley sets his jaw and tells the truth. “I don’t.” 

He gets a sceptical eyebrow for his efforts. 

Crowley’s gaze flickers away, looking at nothing in particular. He feels too warm inside of his skin, like he’s stepped into a sauna without noticing. “I just want to understand, Angel.” 

There is a pause, but then Aziraphale clears his throat. “Well, the child was scared, so arguing the point would only draw out the interaction more. I merely wished to end it as soon as I could, granting the both of you peace and quiet.” 

The pitch of Aziraphale’s voice fluctuates in almost a circular manner, reflecting the way he is clearly talking around something Crowley cannot see the shape of, only knowing its existence by the absence of the complete truth. What is he hiding?

“Angel,” Crowley says instead, but the question comes across nonetheless. 

“I’m sorry! I just—” Aziraphale sighs. “It is strange to put words to it so explicitly, but I suppose I agree with the child, in a sense. The English language— as all human languages — is so limited in its descriptions of the higher emotions, which is understandable as they do not experience many of them in their mortal lifetimes… But I have to admit that taking those faults in account, husband is a more accurate moniker than not, relatively speaking.” 

Crowley’s eyes snap to Aziraphale, who is— unperturbed. Not flushed at all. His expression is one of serene contemplation, and Crowley can only theorize that his dearest angel has absolutely no idea what the word “husband” means. 

“I mean, you have to give them kudos for their tireless attempts to craft the right phrases. Poets, if nothing else, are the most determined of all to give language to what they will never understand. But nothing would describe what we are to each other. They could never comprehend a bond stretching over six thousand years; a friendship bridging the greatest divide, that of Heaven and Hell.” 

At this, Aziraphale shakes his head, smiling absently for a moment, and then returns from the far away place his mind had been to meet Crowley’s gaze with sudden intensity. His smile grows larger, but subtly so, like he is trying to tame it unsuccessfully. His cheeks remain un-flushed, but his eyes— his eyes are red and filled with emotion too large to name. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, reaching over to take his hands. “We have saved the world together. We have been godparents, companions through the ages, and no one knows us more than we do each other. What other word is there but husband?” 

Crowley has lost his grasp on words all together. There is nothing to say— nothing to argue, because how can he respond to something so unbearably true and so torturously wrong at the same time? 

If he’d had the capacity to, Crowley would have said— yelled maybe: Yes. We are. We always have been. But no, you blasted angel. No we are not because I love you like human husbands do. And you do not allow me to. 

But he can’t, so instead he nods, very slowly, in a rare moment that is neither the truth nor a lie. 

He’s rewarded with a squeeze of his hands. 

“Oh, I am glad we agree,” Aziraphale says, joyful, and then releases him to gather their plates. “We’ve forgotten all about the food in our excitement. I’m going to heat it up for a mo. Do you want tea in the meantime?” 

The pure casualness of it all is giving Crowley an acute headache. He nods again. 

“Alright, don’t go anywhere dear, I’ll be right back.”  The rest is on ao3!  Tags @proficientatfreakness  @theheirofashandfire  @regvlusblxck @nooraamaliesaetre  @smileatthemoons

#good omens #go #go fic #my fic #good omens fic #good omens ficlet #good omens fic rec #good omens fluff #ineffable husbands #ineffable husbands fic #ineffable husbands fluff #angst and fluff #aziraphale/crowley #aziraphale #crowley #aziraphale x crowley #aziraphale/crowley fic

[lady-divine-writes]

Bentley to the Rescue (Rated T)

When Crowley flubs an opportunity to tell Aziraphale how he feels, his car takes over. But it also doesn’t know how to quit when it’s ahead … (2357 words)

Notes: Features Queen’s ‘You Take My Breath Away’ and at the very end, NIN ‘Closer’.

Lunch had been lovely.

Positively lovely.

Aziraphale in particular had been overjoyed with the meal he ate, the champagne they drank, the company he kept.

All very lovely.

And afterwards, he and Crowley walked and talked and laughed and reminisced, pushing away the recent unpleasantness by recounting better times, similar lunch dates, favorite symphonic performances, anything that sprang to mind. They also contemplated hopes for the future – movies Crowley looked forward to seeing, books Aziraphale looked forward to reading, the latest rendition of A Midsummer Night’s Dream coming to Piccadilly that they planned on attending together. They discussed each topic with the fervor of people who thought they may not live to see tomorrow.

And the economy of those who still may not.

But by the time they pull up in front of Aziraphale’s shop, both angel and demon have gone silent. It’s not the comfortable silence they’ve cultivated over centuries of familiarity with one another. It’s a tense silence, a pregnant silence. A silence that begs the question:

“So … what now?”

Aziraphale asks it, looking to Crowley with wide, blue eyes searching not just for this answer, but for all the answers.

And that weighs heavy on the demon’s shoulders.

Considering the events of the past few days - the past eleven years! - Crowley can honestly say he didn’t think they’d get this far. Every minute that went by, he expected things to end, even if just for them.

Just for him.

But here they are, together in Crowley’s car, looking forward to tomorrow. The world hasn’t burnt up. They haven’t been executed. They’re not even in custody.

They’re free.

For now.

So yes – what do they do?

Crowley chuckles lightly. “I really don’t know,” he admits.

“Seems strange, doesn’t it?” Aziraphale glances out the windshield at life continuing on in Soho, humans who have no clue how close they came to becoming a massive meat stew going about with their day to day – meeting for dinner, hugging on the sidewalk, driving their cars, peeking into his own shop window, shrugging and moving on. “Knowing we don’t have to answer to anyone but ourselves?”

Ourselves. That brings things back to the question at hand – a question that should be easy to answer seeing as everything that’s happened between them, the catalyst to why Crowley could stop time long enough for Adam to defeat Satan and save the world, hinged on Aziraphale finally acknowledging that single thing.

They were own their own side.

The two of them – together.

But now that they’re in no danger of discorporation … or elimination … Crowley doesn’t know how that fits in the context of their future.

“I suspect we go on, yes? Keep doing what we’ve been doing. With a little less supervision, of course.”

“And that is …?”

Aziraphale is fishing. Crowley knows that. He also doesn’t know what he’s within his power to offer. What Aziraphale wants. Aziraphale has already burned him once, so to speak.

What if Crowley isn’t what he wants? Not the way Crowley wants Aziraphale?

There’s an easy way to find out, of course.

Why is he too much of a flippin’ coward to ask?

“You’ll run your bookshop,” Crowley explains. “I’ll take care of my business. I’ll stop by from time to time or you can come visit. It’ll be good. Normal, even. When’s the last time we’ve had normal then, eh?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. “Normal. Sounds … sounds grand … actually.”

It didn’t sound grand. But the fact that Aziraphale’s tone has gone solemn doesn’t seem to tip Crowley off.

But it tips someone off. Someone who’s been watching these two fools play this game of romantic Pong since the entirety of their employ. Someone who’s been waiting for a moment much like this, who has witnessed several with high hopes to have them unravel at the last moment.

Someone who is equally tipped as ticked.

“So, I’ll see you around then?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale nods. “I … I suppose so.” But when Aziraphale should be opening the door and sliding out, he turns to Crowley instead.

“Crowley? There’s something I need to tell you. Something … important.”

Crowley shifts in his seat to face Aziraphale. “Okay?”

“I … well, I …”

Crowley takes off his glasses and tosses them in the back seat. “Yes?”

“The truth is …” Aziraphale glances about nervously – not afraid someone will see Crowley’s eyes. No one could notice them from here. But afraid Crowley will see everything Aziraphale is about to say in his.

Afraid he’ll laugh at him. Reject him before the words come out.

“You see, I …”

“You what, Aziraphale? Spit it out.”

Crowley doesn’t sound impatient. He sounds anxious, assuming that what Aziraphale has on his mind is bad news. He did say it was important, after all. So Aziraphale can’t backpedal. He has to get this out, no matter the outcome.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath. He doesn’t particularly need it, but he takes it anyway. If there’s anything in the air that can give him a boost of courage, he hopes it comes to him. Shoot! He should have invited Crowley inside for drinks! Courage in an amber bottle would be quite welcome right now. There’s a bottle of wine in the back seat. They bought it at The Ritz. He could grab it, open it, and chug it down. Then he wouldn’t struggle to get the words out. They’d be falling over themselves to trip off his tongue and stumble drunkenly to Crowley’s ears!

But no. With supernatural beings, as with humans, drunken confessions of love are tactless and not at all binding in court of law.

“I love you,” he says, doing his best to look in Crowley’s blank eyes when he does, the heat rising to his cheeks fighting to bring his gaze down.

“You’re an angel,” Crowley points out after a brief silence. “You love everybody. It’s in the job description.”

“I’m in love with you,” Aziraphale clarifies. “I’ve been in love with you for the longest time. And before I leave this car and risk you going off to tend to business and not returning for a decade, or napping for who knows how long, I need you to know that.”

“Oh.” Crowley’s eyes pop with surprise while his brain whirls to come up with an appropriate response. There is one. It’s there on the tip of his tongue. It’s been waiting there for centuries to make its grand entrance. But since Crowley is a more eloquent demon in his head than he is in practice, his grand confession of love never sees the light of day. What he says instead is: “Okay. Thanks.”

Aziraphale nods. “Well. So long as you know … I guess.” He reaches for the door handle and pushes, but upsettingly, the door doesn’t open. He wiggles it, gives the door a shove. This time, not only does it not open, it resists.

“What’s wrong?” Crowley asks.

“The door …” Aziraphale wiggles the handle more vigorously, shoves a bit more violently. “It won’t open.”

“That one sticks sometimes. You may want to miracle out.”

“Okay.” Aziraphale snaps his fingers, but nothing happens. He snaps again, then again, looking to Crowley with concern. “I can’t.”

“Did Heaven take away your powers?”

“I don’t think so.” Aziraphale looks out the window in the direction of his shop. He waits for an inconspicuous moment, then snaps his fingers. The front doors fly open, to the delight of a few stragglers peeking in the windows, but slam shut before they can make it inside. “No. Still have them. How about you?”

“Let me check.” Crowley snaps his fingers. A man on the corner ahead of them, talking up a young lady who looks uncomfortable by his presence, loses his trousers. They rip off his body, tumble a short distance away, then burst into flames, attracting the attention of an officer nearby and giving the lady a chance to escape. “Nope. Still got mine. Wait a minute …” He tries to open his door. He puts all his weight against it and shoves, but it doesn’t budge. He snaps his fingers over and over, but the door doesn’t open. The radio clicks on. Aziraphale assumes Crowley did it, to test his powers, but the demon’s face twists and he smacks a hand to his forehead. “Shit!”

A slow, romantic melody begins to play:

Ooh Ooh, take it, take it all away

“What’s the matter?” Aziraphale asks.

“It’s the car!” Crowley growls. He switches the radio off, but it comes back on.

Ooh Ooh, take my breath away 

He keeps turning it off, but it keeps coming on again, playing a song that Crowley obviously doesn’t want to listen to.

“How can the car …?”

“It’s a demon owned car, isn’t it? It’s only natural that it picked up a few things along the way.”

Ooh Ooh, you-ou-ou-ou take my breath away

Crowley switches the radio off for the umpteenth time and puts both hands over the dial, but that doesn’t stop it from coming on. In desperation, he plants his hands over the speakers to dull the volume, but even Aziraphale knows that won’t work. Eventually, Crowley slumps in his seat, puts his hands over his face, and surrenders.

Look into my eyes and you’ll see I’m the only one You’ve captured my love, stolen my heart, changed my life Every time you make a move, you destroy my mind And the way you touch, I lose control and shiver deep inside

Sympathetic to Crowley’s dilemma, Aziraphale tries for himself to switch the radio off, but it doesn’t stay off. “Why is your car playing this song?”

“How the Devil should I know?” Crowley lies. “It’s a Queen song. It likes to play Queen songs. Every car does.”

You can reduce me to tears with a single sigh Every breath that you take, any sound that you make Is a whisper in my ear I could give up all my life for just one kiss I would surely die if you dismiss me from your love

Aziraphale starts focusing on the lyrics halfway through the second verse, his eyes fixed on the radio’s face to avoid looking at Crowley’s. But he can’t help himself. He peeks over, curious about Crowley’s reaction, which he can’t really see with Crowley’s hands covering his face. That aside, Crowley’s Bentley is his pride and joy. He loves it more than anything. It’s an extension of him, in a way.

So if the Bentley is playing this song and needs it to be heard, it’s more than simply the shenanigans of a demonic car.

And this is more than a pretty song.

So please don’t go Don’t leave me here all by myself I get ever so lonely from time to time I will find you anywhere you go I’ll be right behind you Right until the ends of the earth I’ll get no sleep till I find you And tell you that you just …

There’s something so poignant about the lyrics. So fitting. He might have chosen this song himself to express his feelings if he knew it existed, if he did that sort of thing. Aziraphale can’t discount the fact that Crowley asked him to run away with him, how passionately he’d argued that they were friends, had been friends for over 6000 years. How ever Aziraphale saw their relationship, in whatever terms he used, they were at least friends. That should be of some comfort.

And it is.

Some.

I will find you anywhere you go Right until the ends of the earth I’ll get no sleep till I find you To tell you when I’ve found you …

The radio clicks off. The music disappears. And behind his hands, Crowley snickers. They slide down his face and he glares at the dashboard. “Well? Drop the other shoe, will you?” He stares at the radio and waits. When nothing happens, he scoffs. “No. You expect me to say it then, hmm? Cheeky bastard.”

“Say what? What … what is it leaving out?” Aziraphale looks at Crowley, then at the radio, as if the car might outright say.

Crowley rolls his head Aziraphale’s way, gazing at him sadly, fondly. “I love you.”

Aziraphale’s brows lift. “Is that the end of the verse?”

“Yes.”

“But … do you?”

“Yes.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“Since … since when?” Aziraphale asks, scooting excitedly closer. “Oh … you don’t need to answer that if you don’t want to.”

Crowley smiles. “Since you uttered the magical words I gave it away.”

“Really?”

“Yes, angel. Really.”

“Wow. That’s, uh … that’s a long time.”

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

Aziraphale finds himself at a loss as to how to proceed. This seems like a classic lean in for a kiss moment, but there’s too much tension hanging in the air. An impromptu kiss may or may not relieve that. He’s never kissed Crowley before. He doesn’t want it tainted by mixed signals and bad timing. He’s willing to let Crowley take the lead on that one. Who knows? Kissing may not even be something he enjoys. So instead, Aziraphale turns to the car’s dash and asks in a teasing tone, “Is that all you wanted to say, Bentley?”

The car stays silent, but for only a second. The dial on the radio turns left and right, tuning into different stations, pausing at one, and then moving on. It stops at last on a song Aziraphale has never heard before, but which Crowley seems to know after a single beat since he launches for the dial, wrestling harder this time to try and change the station before the lyrics start.

“No, no, no! That’s enough now! You’ve had your say!” Crowley argues. But the Bentley doesn’t feel the same. The dial pops off and the song remains, it’s steady, provocative beat thumping hard, shaking the seats, and all Crowley can do is drop his head back, put his hands back over his face, groan loudly, and suffer.

I wanna fuck you like an animal …

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #frankie writes

[29-pieces]

Whumptober Day 5 - Good Omens

Day 5: Failed Escape Fandom/Setting: Good Omens, pre-Earth, during the war between angels and demons - Azi and Crowley haven’t met before read on AO3 read on ff.net

~*~

Aziraphale didn't dare turn around to look behind him, running as fast as his burning feet could carry him. If only he could just fly away, but the demons had been quite thorough in wrecking his wings during his interrogation. No, he'd not be flying out of Hell. And at this rate, he wouldn't be running out, either. It was sheer luck he'd managed to slip away from his captors once, but if they caught him, oh Heaven help him...

The cords wrapped around his legs from out of nowhere, weighted balls on the ends slinging around to clack against each other as Aziraphale cried out and fell heavily to the sulfuric ground. He looked down in a panic, wound with the bolas so tightly that his frantic tugs couldn't free himself. Behind him was the sound of laughter and cheers and his own impending death. Throwing pride to the winds, Aziraphale desperately clawed at the floor of Hell in an attempt to crawl out of sight, but of course he stood no chance and soon he was surrounded by several pairs of burned and blackened feet.

"And where do you think you're going?" a nasty voice asked as Aziraphale tilted his head up in fright. A demon grinned down at him, fangs bared. "Wot, had enough of our 'ospitality already?"

"Don't- don't care much for it, no," Aziraphale replied with only a slight quaver. He tried to duck away as a pair of hands reached for his tunic, hauling him halfway up off the ground.

"Can't miss your own execution," another demon chortled. "Figure it'll make nice entertainment next time there's a break in the battle. What'll it be, beheading? Hellfire?"

"I heard Lucifer is itchin' to execute one for 'imself," the first one confided, jerking his head towards Aziraphale. "Should give that tosser Gabriel a bit of a pause, eh? Right lads, get this one back to 'is cell. I'll let Lord Beelzebub know we caught 'im. Might want to move that execution up a bit. Oh, and lads, make sure he can't run again."

Aziraphale swallowed back his terror as well as he could, which wasn't all that well given the circumstances. None of the demons moved to unwrap the bolas they had snared him with, leaving him unable to get to his feet and walk under his own power. No, they seemed content to drag him along instead, ignoring his struggles to wrest himself free of their grip. All too soon, he was right back where he'd started at the tiny cell they'd been keeping him in.

"Alright, you heard the boss," the one hauling him along said, tossing him to the ground. "Don't want this pigeon in any shape to scarper again, do we?"

Oh, it hurt, those heavy feet on all sides of him kicking and stomping any available bit of his body they could reach. Aziraphale tried to curl up into a ball but with his legs still wound with the snare, it wasn't like he could get away from them. He bit his lip to keep from crying out, though it didn't do much good for very long. Now with his body as battered as his wings, Aziraphale didn't want to even contemplate moving, let alone the long journey back to Heaven, or even to the battlefield where maybe another angel would find him and get him to safety. He was too breathless to do anything but shudder as he was finally dragged back into the cage and left in a heap on the floor.

How long he stayed there, Aziraphale didn't know. He wanted to give up. He was never getting out of there, he would be put to death for all the angels to see, like so many others he'd witnessed with horror since the start of this awful war.

No. No, he was not going to die like that.

He would probably die, truth be told, but... not like that. Aziraphale lifted his head and put on his second most determined glower (the most determined one hurt too much at the moment).

"Awake in there, pigeon?" a demon guard asked, thwacking his spear against the cage bars so that Aziraphale jumped. The demon snickered and turned his back again.

Aziraphale looked at the guard, then at the door, then the bolas around his legs. He squirmed, struggling and wheezing a bit through the pain, but he finally managed to extricate himself from the snare. He checked to see if the guard had turned to watch or not, but it seemed the demon had deemed him of little concern.

Good.

Clutching one weighted ball in one hand and holding the other two carefully to keep them silent, Aziraphale forced himself to his feet. He ignored the burn of Hell through his boots, tiptoeing as silently as possible to the edge of the cell. The guard still didn't turn. Wielding his weapon, Aziraphale struck the demon in the head hard enough for him to go down with a clatter and a bang.

Aziraphale gasped with relief and dropped his weapon, kneeling to scoop up the keys from his jailer's still form. His breath came ragged but he managed to make his shaking hands work the key into the lock and twist it open, shoving his way out of the prison. Aziraphale snatched the spear from where it had fallen and whirled to gaze down at his demon captor. He raised the weapon, ready to strike.

Then he took a steadying breath, preparing.

Then he bit his lip, regarding the unconscious demon.

Aziraphale sighed and lowered the weapon. No matter what this horrid beast had done, he couldn't very well kill an unarmed enemy, and an unconscious one at that.

"Bother," he grumbled. "Well, I don't expect you'll find the same mercy from your own lot, anyway."

Aziraphale turned to flee but immediately skidded to a halt with a horrible jolt of terror to find his way blocked by another demon.

This one was staring at him, its snake form swaying slightly back and forth. It was massive, immense black coils surely powerful enough to crush Aziraphale and fangs that would kill him much slower than the promised beheading would. Aziraphale sagged, utterly defeated; perhaps if he was whole and hale he would have stood a chance in this fight, but the recent beating had taken what little remained of his strength. He was as good as dead.

The snake didn't move to attack, though. Its head was cocked to the side, reptilian eyes almost puzzled as it regarded Aziraphale, the spear, and the unconscious demon still in front of the cell. Aziraphale wasn't sure what it was waiting for, but he would go down fighting. He clutched the spear—really it wasn't even a threat so much as a prop to keep him on his feet—and waited for the snake demon to make its move.

A forked tongue flicked out as the snake's eyes shifted between Aziraphale and the demon by the cage one more time. Then, the snake lowered back down onto its belly and slithered calmly on its way.

Aziraphale watched it go, perplexed. There was no chance the demon hadn't realized it could knock him down with one good puff of air, or that he was obviously in the middle of escaping. Why was it letting him go?

A puzzle for another time, Aziraphale firmly reminded himself. First, he needed to finish escaping. He would have to be far away by the time his guard woke up with what Aziraphale hoped was a splitting headache.

Eventually he would of course have to wonder some more about that snake demon. But only from the comfort and safety of home. Turning, Aziraphale fled.

#whumptober2020 #no.5 #failed escape #good omens #fanfiction #aziraphale whump #hell #pre-earth #first meeting

[ourownsideimagines]

How To Keep A Secret for Less Than 24 Hours (Crowley x Pregnant!Fem!Witch!Reader)

Characters: Crowley, Aziraphale, fem!witch!reader

Requested: Yes 

Requested by: @fortune-fool02

Point of View: 

Summary: When (name) discovers she is pregnant with her partner, Crowley’s, child, she goes to Aziraphale for help.

Warnings: Unplanned pregnancy, slight angst. Some cussing. Minimal editing.

Words: 1408

A/N: I keep doing witch readers lol. I almost didn’t finish this in time because I was trying to get my printer working to get more D&D sheets- Anyway, enjoy this, I promise it’s not an angsty ending. 

——

(Name) had met Crowley in the mid 1600’s. It had been a more than awkward meeting, as she was being dragged by an angry mob towards her pyre while they all chanted “witch, witch!”. And Crowley had saved her, though he had yet to, after almost 350 years, tell her why. Even after 140 years of dating he had yet to tell her. It was one of the few secrets he kept from her.

Now, there weren’t many things that (name) didn’t tell her partner. She wasn’t a big fan of keeping secrets from him.

But this.

Oh, god, this.

How was she supposed to tell him this?

(Name) had been using the same ritual to keep herself alive and rejuvenated for years, and she’d realized rather quickly that it kept everything as equally alive and rejuvenated. Which is why, when Mother Nature was not one, but two weeks late to kick her ass, she was worried.

To her luck, Crowley hadn’t noticed. He also wasn’t aware that she had set up a doctors appointment, of which she went to alone, and very early in the morning.

Positive. The test came back positive.

She and Crowley had been so careful, hadn’t they? 

(Name) was beginning to panic.

Pregnant. She was pregnant. With Crowley’s child - oh god, how am I supposed to tell him, she thought to herself, sitting huddled on the bus bench waiting to be taken back home where she would ultimately have to tell her lover of the unplanned pregnancy.

Did he even want children? She had asked him about it almost a century ago, and back then the answer has been no. Was it still a no now? What would he do if it was?

An idea popped into her head, and she stood. (Name) walked to the light, and crossed the street.

There was only one person on the whole planet who knew her partner even better than she did. Hell, Aziraphale probably knew Crowley better than the demon knew himself. (Name) had known Aziraphale for a number of years, and would consider him one of her closest (and only) friends. She just hoped, she prayed, that he would be able to help her at least calm her nerves.

So (name) hopped on a bus that took her in the opposite direction of her and Crowley’s flat, and towards the bookshop.

Her mind was swamped with worry, and with doubt.  As soon as she arrived at the bookshop and barreled through the doors and into the back room, past the customers who turned their heads when they heard the aggressive-Aw ring of the bell.

“I’m sorry but you cannot be-“ Aziraphale stopped when he realized who had entered his back room. “(Name)? What’s wrong, my dear, you look upset - come on, sit down, I will be right back.” (Name) wordlessly did as she was told, slumping into Aziraphale’s couch as he went to the main part of the shop to usher people out. She could hear him telling them some family business had popped up, and felt her throat tighten.

When Aziraphale reemerged (name) was almost in tears.

“Oh, my dear, what seems to be the matter? Did Crowley do something?” (Name) shook her head furiously at that.

“No!” She said. “No, no, he’s done nothing.” Realizing that she was beginning to cry, (name) quickly began to wipe the tears away. “Aziraphale… I need help.”

“Whatever might be the matter? My dear, this is most irregular - not that I’m refusing assistance, but is it so bad you cannot seek your own partners help?”

“Aziraphale,” she took in a deep, shaky breath. “I went to the hospital this morning.”

“That’s never a good start.” Aziraphale lowered himself onto the couch beside her. “Why did you go?”

“I needed to be certain of something.” She told him, cursing herself internally. She needed to just come out and say it.

“Of what?” Here goes nothing.

“I’m pregnant.” Her words hung in the air, silence had overtaken the bookshop.

“Oh,” Aziraphale finally said. “Should I congratulate you?”

“No,” she shook her head. “No, I,” she stopped, wiping again at her eyes. “I came here because I… I’m scared.”

“Whatever for?”

“Because this wasn’t planned.” She all but snapped, turning her head to him. “Crowley and I haven’t talked about... kids in a century, and last we spoke he didn’t want any.”

“A lot can change in a century, (name).” Aziraphale said softly, taking your hand.

“I’m scared, Aziraphale.” She said again. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, do you want the child?”

“What?”

“Do you, (name), want the child?” She thought about it, but only for a moment, because she already knew the answer. It was her answer that had made her so scared of how Crowley might react.

“Yes,” she said. “Of course I want them.”

“Then tell him that.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“(Name),” Aziraphale sighed. “It is your body. And if Crowley decides he doesn’t want to be a father, he cannot force you to… rid your body of the child.”

“Aziraphale…”

“I know this must be hard on you, my dear.” He gently brushed your cheek with his fingers. “But if you want to know my opinion, I don’t think Crowley would ever leave you. Not even for something like this. Crowley is truly, deeply in love with you and even if he’s scared, even if he’s not too keen on having children, I do not believe he would ever, even for a moment, contemplate abandoning either of you.” She nodded slowly, and then began shaking her head, laughing sadly.

“As much as I want this child,” She began. “I’m still so scared. I was raised in the 15th century, Aziraphale. How the hell do you raise a child in this day and age?”

“Well, I guess you just… figure it out as you go. Read a parenting book. Or something.” He clasped his hands together. “Besides. I don’t believe the child will be like all the other children - not that that is a bad thing.”

“Half-demon half-witch…” (name) murmured, wiping away what she hoped would be the last of her tears. “This should be interesting.” Aziraphale gave her a soft smile. “Thank you, Azi… I… I don’t think I’m so scared anymore.” You stood from the couch and Aziraphale followed. The two of you were so distracted you didn’t hear someone enter the shop.

“Are you going to tell him?” He asked.

“I don’t think this is something I should keep from him.” She murmured. Aziraphale gave a short nod, and opened his arms. (Name) stepped into the hug, letting out a sigh.

“Hey, Aziraphale, have you seen-” Crowley stopped talking as he entered the back room, having just taken off his sunglasses. His eyes met (name)’s and he seemed to relax. “Ah, I should have known!” He smiled widely. Then, jokingly, he continues, “Should I be worried about you stealing my girl, Aziraphale?” He said, and the Angel rolled his eyes. He then looked (name) in the eyes and there was a perfect understanding between the two. She nodded gently. “Something the two of you want to tell me?”

“Actually,” (Name) said, taking in a deep breath. “Just me.” (Name) walked to Crowley, and took his hands in her own. “Crowley, I have something very important to tell you.”

“Is everything alright, love?” He asked.

“Yeah, everything is… Everything’s okay.” She swallowed hard, her nerves coming back. “Now, Crowley, I understand if you become upset,”

“I’m really not liking where this is going.” He murmured, looking over your shoulder. Then he looked back to you, unblinking, and completely focused on you. Just like a band-aid, she reminded herself.

“Crowley,” She brought his hands up to her cheeks, a wave of calm passing over her from the contact, and she gently rubbed her backs of his hands. She closed her eyes. “I’m pregnant.” She felt dread in the silence, then heard Crowley sigh in relief.

“For someone’s sake, I thought you were leaving me.” (Name)’s eyes opened in surprise to find that Crowley had closed his own, tears rolling down his cheeks. She quickly brought him into a hug.

“You’re not mad?” She whispered.

“No,” He replied. “No, I’m not mad. God, I could never be mad.” Then, after a moment. “Holy shit, I’m going to be a father.” 

That was the moment (name) knew that everything would be okay.

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

[toomuchofabastard]

Heaven’s Final Betrayal (5/6)

[ << CHAPTER 1 ] [ < CHAPTER 4 ]

Fandom: Good Omens (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Aftermath of Rape/Non-Con, Mentions of Dissociation

Word count: 3,726 (total 19,201)

Fic Summary: It was obvious that Heaven wouldn’t exactly be thrilled about Aziraphale’s role in preventing Armageddon. But neither the angel nor Crowley could have predicted how far they were willing to go to get revenge, and now Aziraphale needs him by his side more than ever.

READ ON AO3

___

Madame Tracy contemplated the saucepan full of Brussels sprouts.

Then she rapped her fingers against the side of the pan and glanced at the clock again. 2:46 pm. Mr. Aziraphale would be arriving at around a quarter past three. What to do?

She still made sure to boil up some Brussels before every séance, finding that no potpourri or expensive aromatherapy oils could create an atmosphere of safety and reassurance for the type she entertained quite like the familiar scent of vegetables that had been left on the stove too long.

But that was her regular - well, human - clients. Would it work on an actual, literal angel? Aziraphale reminded her of some of her (now ex-)clients in ways, although she could think of several key reasons why he would never be interested in the services she’d offered them, beyond the cup of tea. And a cup of tea and a chat was exactly what she’d promised. She wondered again what she Aziraphale might be needing to talk to her about. Crowley had made it sound pretty serious when they’d first arranged this afternoon together.

She’d been in the Oxfam shop just off Tottenham Court Road, browsing through some second-hand purses, when the bell over the door had rung and a damp and surly-looking young man had entered. She instantly recognised the copper-red hair, not to mention the serpentine tattoo on the side of his face, the monochromatic clothing, and the curious propensity to wear sunglasses even on a rainy day.

Crowley hadn’t noticed her at first, striding straight up to the till and shoving a hefty tome at the surprised teenager behind it with a brusque “Here.”

“Oh, um, thank you! Is this to donate?” they asked.

“Yeah, yeah, it is,” Crowley had responded distractedly, running a hand through the back of his hair, and eyeing up the door already. Madame Tracy wandered over as the cashier started to input something into their till.

“Do you qualify for Gift Aid?” they asked Crowley.

Crowley turned back and snorted, seeming amused. “No, I don’t pay taxes,” he explained, as though it should be obvious. That didn’t surprise Madame Tracy one bit. He was a demon, after all. Tax evasion was probably the least sinister activity he got up to.

Crowley made to leave and Madame Tracy rushed to catch his attention before he was gone. “Crowley, love, is that you?” she called out.

He swung round, looking a little startled, but then clearly recognised her after a few seconds. “Oh. Hey,” he said, awkwardly waving a hand. He paused, then asked “You alright?”

“Very well, thank you,” she replied, stepping closer. She noted out of the corner of her eye as the cashier picked up the old book Crowley had donated with a puzzled look on their face and started to type its details into their computer. “Me and Mr. S are still looking for a place in the country. Nothing yet, but with the market being what it is at the moment, we’ll probably have to be patient,” she said.

“…Right,” responded Crowley blankly. His vacant expression made it clear to Madame Tracy that he had no idea who she was talking about. Come on, demon, she thought. You’ve only known him since the sixties.

“Of course, he’s retired from the old Witchfinding now,” she led on. “Fancied he might take up firearms restoration, or maybe lock-picking.” She watched Crowley’s face closely. He remained hopelessly blank for another few seconds, and then suddenly she saw a light ping on in his eyes.

“Right, right, yeah,” he said hurriedly. “The sergeant. ‘Cos you’re together now, aren’t you?” he said. She thought she could detect a faint patina of red spreading across his cheeks.

“Exactly,” she said. She smiled widely and kindly at him, and decided to take mercy and change the subject. “And how are you and Mr. Aziraphale doing?” she asked.

Immediately, she saw that it hadn’t been a good avenue of conversation to pursue. Crowley’s face darkened and his eyes became hard and troubled. He ran his tongue across his teeth for a second, appearing to weigh something up in his head.

“Yeah, not so great,” he eventually replied, voice low and jaw tight.

“Oh, dear,” Madame Tracy remarked uncertainly. “What’s wrong?”

“…Something happened,” Crowley sighed, and ruffled the back of his hair again. “He’s not… doing very well with it.”

Suddenly, the spark of an idea seemed to light up the demon’s harried face. “Actually,” he said, “I’ve been thinking; he needs someone to talk to about it - someone who’s not me - and, well, if he’s up for it, could you maybe…?”

Madame Tracy understood what he was getting at, and thought about it. She liked the angel. They saw eye-to-eye on the important things, like the fundamental problem with designating people as wholly Good or wholly Evil, and whether you should put the milk or the tea in first. And he’d been gracious enough to forgive Mr. Shadwell for exploding him and accidentally burning down his bookshop, citing impending Armageddon as a ‘mitigating circumstance’ for all involved.

“I’m sure I’d be very happy to chat to him about whatever’s troubling the both of you,” she smiled.

Crowley smiled too. “Thanks,” he said, casually, but his tone and the relaxing of his shoulders betrayed a deep relief and gratitude.

“I’m free on Thursdays now, if you like?”

“Sounds great- well, I’ll ask him, anyway,” Crowley said.

Madame Tracey nodded. “Just give me a ring, love.” Next to her, the young cashier’s eyes suddenly bulged wide as they stared at whatever result concerning Crowley’s book the computer had just presented them with.

Crowley gave Madame Tracey a sharp nod and then turned to leave. “Um, sir, are you sure you want to-!” the cashier called out, but Crowley had already sauntered back out into the rain.

That had been six days ago, and now the angel himself would be here in less than an hour. Madame Tracey tapped the saucepan again. To boil or not to boil? Probably she should have thought about this sooner. Well… what harm could it do? From the sounds of it, it wasn’t going to be an easy conversation and Aziraphale would need something reassuring. And if it worked on her usual visitors, then why not him? He seemed just as English as she was. Maybe more so.

Madame Tracey nodded to herself, and then set the sprouts to boil.

◥|⧗|◤

About half an hour later, there was a sharp buzz on the intercom. When she opened the front door, the angel and the demon were standing there side by side, one dark and the other fair, almost putting her in mind of a pair of chess pieces. A bishop and a knight, perhaps. Crowley looked uncomfortable, and Aziraphale looked nervous.

They exchanged brief pleasant greetings, and then Madame Tracey beckoned Aziraphale inside. “Do come in, dear.”

“I’ll be back for you around four, alright?” Crowley said to him, as he massaged Aziraphale’s hand.

The angel murmured something in response and kissed Crowley dotingly on the cheek, squeezing him close. Madame Tracy saw a recalcitrant blush blossom underneath the demon’s sunglasses and the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. Aw. They were sweet together.

They parted and Crowley slouched back to his car, which Madame Tracey could swear was a vintage Bentley model older than she was. Aziraphale smiled at her and followed her inside, down the drab hallway and into her less-drab flat.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Madame Tracey said, and then popped quickly into the kitchenette. As well as the Brussels sprouts, now boiling away happily★, she’d been sure to boil the kettle and pre-prepare two cups, saucers and teabags, which she quickly assembled and brought out to the table in her sitting room. She placed one in front of the angel.

★Or as happily as any vegetables - had they attained sentience - could be, whilst being boiled to within an inch of their lives.

“Sugar, dear?” she gestured to the bowl.

“No, thank you,” Aziraphale replied, perfectly sweetly, but his hands were fidgeting underneath the tablecloth.

She sat down next to him and took a sip from her own cup. “Lovely,” she remarked. He likewise sipped his tea quietly, and nodded in agreement, although his face was gloomy.

“So, what exactly was it that you needed to talk to me about?” she asked.

“Um… I-I don’t really know where to start,” he replied with a light chuckle.

“Why don’t you just start at the beginning?” she suggested gently.

Aziraphale took a deep, slightly shaky breath, cradling the tea close to himself, and swallowed. “You, um, you remember the other angel that was at the airbase, in Tadfield?” he began.

Madame Tracy cast her mind back. There had been all manner of bizarre characters and phenomena around that day - an honourable mention to her-with-the-angel-in-her-body - but she did recall a figure who had spoken down to Aziraphale after the two of them had been separated again.

“Tall fellow?” she said. “Sharply dressed? Very easy on the eyes?” A habitual hint of coquettishness crept into her voice with the last question.

Aziraphale nodded. He didn’t look happy at the description.

“Nasty piece of work, I thought,” Madame Tracy added, coldly.

A brief smile flashed across the angel’s face. “Yes,” he said, taking another deep breath. “That’s Gabriel.”

“He’s your boss?”

“Was. I believe I’ve been - uh - ‘let go’.” He laughed humourlessly.

Then he gulped, and looked down. “He- Heaven- well, they… weren’t best pleased with me for helping to prevent Armageddon,” he said. “So they decided I had to be… punished for that, and-and for, um, associating with Crowley.” He raised his eyebrows slightly as he spoke the word associating, and Madame Tracy could tell exactly what sort of ‘association’ he was referring to.

There was a pregnant pause. Aziraphale seemed to be trying to work himself up to saying something, staring down at his clenched hands and breathing heavily.

“They… th-…” he started, but then stopped with a pained frown. He sighed. Then he tried again, but his mouth moved silently, no words coming out.

“Take your time, dear,” Madame Tracy said. She patted him reassuringly on shoulder.

He smiled briefly again, but the anguish was obvious in his eyes. For a few moments, he just sat still and took several deep, forced breaths, while Madame Tracy waited patiently. Eventually, he managed to stutter it out.

“They… r-raped me.”

Then he turned immediately away to look up at the ceiling, and blinked rapidly as tears formed in the bottom of his eyes.

“Oh, sweetheart,” exclaimed Madame Tracy. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting but it certainly wasn’t that. Instinctively, she reached to brush his hand. Aziraphale glanced at her and then quickly away again, his chest beginning to heave. A few choked gasps escaped the angel and his shoulders jerked silently up and down with sobs. Madame Tracy rushed to grab him a tissue from the box on the sideboard.

He accepted the tissue with another quick polite smile, and dabbed heavily at the watery corners of his eyes. She continued to stroke the back of his hand as he dried his eyes and tried to compose himself a little. The poor dear. It was unthinkable, what had happened to him.

“Apologies,” Aziraphale eventually said. “That’s the first time I’ve actually…s-said it out loud.”

Madame Tracy gave him a sympathetic look and squeezed his shaking hand. “No need to apologise, dear,” she said. “I’m so sorry. That’s dreadful.” She shook her head. “Awful.”

Aziraphale said nothing.

She didn’t feel it was really her place to ask him to clarify, but she felt herself pressed on by an awful morbid curiosity. “You said ‘they’…?” she asked cautiously.

Aziraphale swallowed, and managed to somehow look even more miserable. “A-Another angel, you wouldn’t know him,” he explained. His eyes wandered a little and his face darkened. “Even nastier piece of work than Gabriel. Always has been.” A minute shudder ran through his body.

“And they have the cheek to call themselves angels,” Madame Tracy scoffed.

Aziraphale snorted and waggled his eyebrows in agreement. The angel reached mutely for his tea and took a long draft, sighing deeply as he set it back down. He tapped the side of the cup restlessly as he moved to speak again.

“Crowley witnessed it all,” he said, the lines of anguish returning to his face. “He’s been so good to me. So patient.” He trailed off as a dreamy, loving look entered his eyes and the lines were replaced by the plumped cheeks and crow’s-foot creases of a real smile. Then the smile faded.

“But… well… it’s changed things,” he continued. “And I- I don’t know what to do. Neither does Crowley.” He looked over at her hopefully.

“What’s changed?” she asked delicately. “Maybe I can help.” That was doubtlessly why Crowley had asked her for this in the first place.

Aziraphale took a deep breath. “Um… I keep- I keep having these… ‘episodes’, I suppose, where, um, well, I feel… disconnected from everything. Sometimes for hours. Crowley tries to snap me out of it but it-it doesn’t always work.”

Madame Tracy said nothing, letting him continue.

“And it’s interfering with our, um…” - the angel coughed and his cheeks turned a deeper shade of pink - “…being intimate together.” He glanced at her hopefully again. “Y-You’re something of an expert in that area. What do you suggest?”

“So you’ve tried ‘being intimate’ since?” Madame Tracy responded with a question. She would normally be a lot more frank, but right now it was probably easiest to borrow the angel’s charmingly-euphemistic turn of phrase.

Aziraphale nodded.

“And it didn’t go well?” she prompted.

The angel shook his head. “We got halfway,” he said, “and it was- it was ok, it was nice, but then, well,” - he frowned - “something changed and I just, sort of… went numb.” His face creased with regret. “And that was the end of that.”

She smiled softly again and rubbed his arm.

“You’re going to need time, dear,” she said. “You have to be patient with yourself.” Aziraphale stared down into his tea, still forlorn.

It’s a good thing he came to me, she thought. At least she had some experience with this kind of thing; more than Crowley would, anyway. Content, well-adjusted individuals weren’t typically in the habit of visiting a sex worker when they could just as easily be getting ‘it’ in more typical places. Many of her clients had clearly been in it just as much for the company and emotional support as the sex, and over the years, she’d gotten pretty decent at assuaging the needs of the soul in addition to the body.

“If you want my advice for what to do-” she began, and he instantly looked back up at her, “I think you should try to focus on yourself. Rest, do things you enjoy, make sure you’re relaxing; really just take some time to nurture yourself.”

Aziraphale looked uncertain.

“As for the disconnecting-” she pressed on, taking charge of the conversation, “-well, we just need to find a way to reconnect you, that’s all.” A sudden memory flitted into her mind. “Come to think of it,” she continued, “I had a client once who I think suffered from a similar thing.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows rose inquisitively.

“He was rather odd with it - he would start listing things; objects that were in the room,” she said. “Said it helped to name all the blue things he could see or things he could smell. Quite bizarre.” She’d heard about Mindfulness and Similar Capitalised Concepts in magazines, although she wasn’t sure what blue objects had to do with it. “But it seemed to work for him,” she finished.

The angel looked rather sceptical. “So I should… count objects?” he asked.

Well, she hadn’t meant that quite so literally. “It’s all about grounding yourself in the present, I believe,” she said authoritatively. “Always returning to reality, and focusing on what’s around you.”

Aziraphale nodded slowly.

“For example, in the, ahem, bedroom” - Madame Tracey batted her eyelashes - “if you feel yourself drifting off, try to notice all of the touches and sensations and whatnot. Your Crowley seems very attentive,” she continued, causing Aziraphale to turn beetroot-red and grin sheepishly at the floor, “-so you just relax and think about what feels good to you, all the things that feel pleasurable in the moment.” She thought for a second.

“Do you have a bathtub?” she asked suddenly.

Aziraphale blinked in surprise, and then nodded. “Yes- well, Crowley has one, in his flat.”

Madame Tracey raised a finger to hush him and then quickly got up and left the angel sitting, confused, at the table, as she vanished into the bathroom at the back of the flat. With targeted precision, she collected together a number of parcels and baskets she’d had lying around, and brought an armful back out to the living room. They bumped and tumbled as she dumped them onto the table between them.

“So-” she pointed at each of the objects in turn, “-you’ve got bath bombs, and there’s some salts there too, and moisturiser and your essential oils and- oh, you like tea, don’t you, love?”

Ignoring Aziraphale’s bewildered face as he tried to process the question, she bustled over to the kitchenette and began pulling boxes from one of the cupboards. She reached to the very back and pulled down a bright gift box, containing a selection of exotic and colourful loose-leaf teas, which she’d at first mistaken for potpourri.

“One of my old clients gave me these, but Mr. S will never go for that sort of thing and after all, your need is greater,” she said, and added the box to the sprawling pile on the table.

“I-I couldn’t possibly accept all this!” the angel protested.

“Oh, nonsense, dear,” Madame Tracy replied, fussing a hand at him. “I’m always buying this stuff, or getting given it; I’ve plenty enough to last the rest of my life and beyond. It’s good to pay it forward.” Satisfied with the haul, she sat back down next to him.

Aziraphale looked sheepish again. “And… this will help, you think?” he asked quietly.

“Well, it’ll certainly relax you and engage the senses,” she said. “And they say smell is a powerful thing, don’t they?” The smells that emanated from Shadwell’s flat certainly were, she thought to herself. “If you can practice focusing when you’re happy and relaxed, it’ll come easier when you really need to.”

Aziraphale sighed, and some of the tension finally melted away from his face as he smiled. Madame Tracey returned the expression.

“Oh, bother,” Aziraphale muttered, as he reached for his tea and noticed that both cups had gone rather lukewarm as they’d been talking.

“I’ll brew us another,” Madame Tracey said as she began to get up.

“Oh, no need!” Aziraphale stopped her. He clicked his fingers sharply and suddenly both cups were once again as hot as newly poured, the smell of fresh tea thrown back into the air around them. Madame Tracey blinked in surprise. Sometimes she almost forgot that Aziraphale and Crowley weren’t human, and then they went and did - she’d heard them called miracles, and that seemed apt - just like it was nothing. Amazing.

She picked up the cup, somewhat cautiously, and took another sip. The angel smiled again, and joined her.

◥|⧗|◤

Crowley prodded the doorbell and then stepped back, squinting again at the needlessly complex display of his watch. He was a little bit earlier than he’d said. Hopefully that didn’t matter. He lounged against the edge of the wall as he waited for a response from inside the house, still feeling taut with nerves. This whole thing had been his idea, and while Aziraphale had assured him that he agreed, Crowley felt a little like he’d pressured the angel into it. He just hoped it would help.

He heard muffled footsteps, and stood up straight as the door clicked open and revealed Madame Tracey’s cheery face, greeting him. Aziraphale came up behind her, his arms full of… boxes? … and squeezed past until he was standing in front of Crowley.

“Hey angel,” Crowley said softly. “Ready to go?”

“One moment, dear,” Aziraphale replied. He turned back to Madame Tracey.

“I-I really can’t thank you enough, for all of this” - he gestured to the pile of boxes - “and all of the advice and just… for listening.” Crowley was glad to hear a note of calm and relief in the angel’s voice, which hadn’t been there when Crowley dropped him off.

“Any time, love,” Madame Tracey patted Aziraphale’s arm. “You take care of yourself now.”

She looked meaningfully at Crowley, and then added: “Both of you.”

Aziraphale beamed at them both, and then carefully picked his way over the doorstep and followed Crowley to the Bentley. Crowley opened and closed the door for him, gave a vague wave to Madame Tracey, and got into the driver’s side. As he did so, a cacophony of overlapping scents instantly hit him. It was just like he’d walked into one of those cosmetics shops - the sort that you could already get a whiff of from fifty metres away and whose products always looked tantalisingly edible.

“What’s all that about?” he nodded towards the source of the offending smell, the horde of parcels in Aziraphale’s arms.

Aziraphale laughed lightly. “I’m under strict instructions to relax,” he explained, his tone humorous.

Crowley smirked. “Well, I could have told you that.”

Aziraphale laughed again. Crowley’s heart squeezed in his chest at the sound of it. It was so good to hear him laugh again.

He leant close to the angel, his voice becoming earnest. “It helped, then?” he asked.

Aziraphale’s face softened and he gazed lovingly into Crowley’s eyes. “It did,” he replied sincerely. Crowley’s heart soared as the angel reached out to draw him close, and planted a firm kiss against the corner of his mouth. Then he settled back with a satisfied sigh. Crowley gazed at him fondly for a few seconds, then he put the Bentley into gear and they roared away.

#my fanfiction #rape tw #noncon tw #whump #aziraphale!whump #good omens whump #nsfwhump #long post

[politeanarchy]

There’ll Be Paperwork (a WIP)

Here’s the beginning of a thing I’m writing, in which a snake-demon causes some unintentional problems in the early days of the Earth.

...

Corporation Replacement Request Form Date: 4003 BC Requesting Entity: Principality Aziraphale of the Eastern Gate Cause of Discorporation: demonic bite

It had been several months since Adam and Eve were cast out of the Garden. An angel and a demon had been quietly following them for most of that time. On this particular evening, the humans were huddled close to a small fire, doing their best to comfort one another against the chill that followed after sunset, while the angel and demon peered warily at them from behind a couple of concealing boulders.

"We could have a fire, too," said the demon.

"Of course we can't, they'd see it!"

"So?"

"So then they'd come to investigate, and they'd find us, and then they'd be exposed to your evil influences again. Goodness only knows what else you'd manage to tempt them into, given the chance."

The demon made a sort of diffident hmmmm-ing noise. "Don't know what anyone expects me to do, with you here thwarting me left and right." He shivered. "Aren't you cold?"

"Here, sit next to me." The angel shook his wings, then fluffed them up and wrapped them around himself and the demon. "Better?" He picked up a fig from the small stash of fruit he'd brought along and which they'd been sharing fairly amicably.

"A little," agreed the demon. He nibbled a couple of grapes, while trying to pretend not to huddle a little closer to the warm angel. "Besides, if we talked to the humans again, wouldn't it give you a chance to help them, with, you know, blessings or some such?"

"I certainly wish I could help them," the angel fretted. "They're  going to need it, especially since I'm pretty sure Eve is going to have her baby soon." He bit into the soft ripe fig, leaving his fingers slightly sticky with juice.

"How do you know that?" asked the demon. "Have you got a heavenly memo saying that angelic messengers are going to be popping along with it shortly, or what?"

"What? No! That's not how it works at all." The angel waved his hands and gesticulated impatiently, still holding the bitten half of the fig. "You see, she...well, and...I mean..."

The demon wasn't making much attempt to follow the explanation. He knew where humans came from: the Almighty made them, then put them on the Earth, gave them a few simple (and probably contradictory) instructions, and turned them loose. And honestly, the angel's incoherent ramblings wouldn't have made much sense even if the demon had been listening. Whereas the waving hand holding the fig was exactly the sort of thing that predatory reptiles were built to notice.

The demon watched him closely, yellow slitted eyes tracking every motion, head swaying.

"So after nine months...at least I think...oh, this is ridicu— Hey!"

There was a sudden movement, like a snake striking. The angel was startled to find that his remaining fruit had been stolen, licked out of his fingers by the demon who was still holding him by the wrist, staring with intense focus at the remaining patches of sweet juice.

"I beg your pardon!"

"Sssorry. Inssstinct."

They stared at each other, the space between them charged with complex tensions.

"You're still holding my hand."

"I ssuppose I am." Without breaking eye contact, the demon brought the angel's fingers back up to his mouth and deliberately licked some juice off them. This resulted in a sharp intake of breath from the angel, followed by a wicked smile from the demon. "Dissstracting, is it?"

"No! Yes. I mean..."

"You don't ssseem to be asssking me to ssstop, though."

"Why are you doing this, anyway?"

"Dunno. It's interesssting." He was looking sleeker and more sinuous than usual, forked tongue flicking out to taste the air, teeth grown longer and sharper.

The angel may have been aware of the changes, but was also pretty sure he could take his hand away any time he felt like it. He just didn't happen to feel like it, at the moment. It was quite interesting, this business of how bodies reacted to different things. He was here on Earth to observe and learn, after all. In fact, it was practically a duty to find out why it was that this made him feel so uncomfortable, while at the same time making him want it to keep happening.

So he made no move to reclaim his hand, but continued to gaze at the demon curiously. And permitted the demon to close his sharp-toothed mouth around one finger, gently licking off the last traces of fig juice and noticing how its flavor combined with the taste of angel skin.

It was unfortunate that at exactly this moment, a bright light and a swell of unearthly music announced the imminent manifestation of some new angelic presence just a few yards away, on the other side of the boulders they'd been hiding behind.

The demon, startled, bit down hard on the angel's finger.

"Ow!"

"Oh, shit! Sorry! I didn't mean to—"

The angel, after the initial shock of being bitten, realized that something was very wrong with his physical body. Waves of pain were spreading up his arm from the bitten finger, and his eyes wouldn't focus properly. "You idiotic serpent! I think you must be poisonous!"

"I'm not poisonous, I'm venomous!"

Frantically, in his last conscious moments, the offended angel gathered all his holy righteousness and human irritation, and used them to smite the demon as hard as he could.

A few minutes later, when two angelic messengers arrived on Earth to help Eve with the birth of her first baby, they didn't even notice the fading traces of a discorporated angel and a discorporated demon, dissolving quietly into dust and aether. If there was a faint smell of sulphur and charred feathers and ozone, they put it down to the humans' campfire.

Aziraphale shortly found himself back in Heaven, and was eventually presented with a commendation for his heroic actions in the service of protecting Adam and Eve by fighting and eliminating a demonic threat. He shook his head and made a tut-tut sort of noise, and may even have gone so far as to say hmph.

However, it was a relief to return to the familiar serene brightness of the celestial realm. To join in the choirs singing "Holy, holy, holy." To contemplate the ineffable wonder of it all, and especially to think about the Earth, so complicated and confusing. To worry a little about how Adam and Eve were doing. To wonder what had become of the demon who was so full of curiosity. To miss having a body that was able to experience physical sensations. To admonish himself for being full of unseemly questions and unsuitable desires.

He stared out across an infinite expanse of pristine firmament and fidgeted, tapping his fingers and wondering what to call his current state of discontent. Heaven didn't understand the concept of boredom, but Aziraphale was beginning to.

"Aziraphale! Just the angel I was hoping to see."

"Gabriel." He nodded politely at the Archangel.

"I've come to inform you that you're being re-assigned to Earth. From what we hear, some demonic force is causing problems again. Might even be the same one you got rid of when you were down there before. Aaaaand since you handled him so neatly the last time, well." Gabriel smiled, smooth and shiny as a platinum credit card.

Aziraphale stopped himself from jumping up and down, and suppressed a joyful cry along the lines of "Yippee!" Instead he smiled back, and hoped he was projecting a sense of cheerful enthusiasm for duty rather than oh thank goodness I can finally get out of this stifling office. "I'm always happy to help, in whatever way the Lord should require of me."

Gabriel beamed, and punched him playfully on the shoulder. It hurt a bit. "That's the Holy Spirit I like to see!"

Aziraphale wondered whether Gabriel's rampant enthusiasm meant that no one else had been willing to take the Earth job, or if he was just imagining it. It didn't much matter, he supposed. He was impatient to get going as soon as possible.

"When should I expect to leave, then?" he asked.

"Right away." Gabriel materialized a stack of pages, and handed them over. "You'll just need to fill out some paperwork, first."

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #things what I wrote #wip #great good omens snake off #ggoso #snakes #aziraphale #crowley #adam and eve #the archangel fucking gabriel #inconvenient discorporation #fruit

[somethingjustsouthofbrilliance]

Tears of an Angel (Crowley/Aziraphale)

Right... so I saw this beautiful, heartrending artwork post and... I couldn’t help myself.  I didn’t think I could ever do this, but... I’m sorry.  I am truly sorry. 

Warning: Major Character Death

Tagging: @tonystark5ever @giulisetta @swanheart69

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

Adam’s wedding day is beautiful – a gorgeous, sun-stroked jewel of late summer, imbued with an intoxicating scent of honeysuckle and freshly cut grass. Not a hint of clouds in the brilliant blue sky that smiles down at the happy mingle of guests: some chatting amicably with those around them, others indulging, somewhat furtively but with obvious pleasure, in the impressive spread of refreshments heaped onto the white-clothed tables, others still swaying blissfully to the soft, enchanting sounds of music.

 It’s perfect.  And Crowley wouldn’t have expected it to be anything but.  Adam, after all, is still, to this day, the Spawn of Satan, whom he so bravely, so brilliantly rejected all those years ago.  And that means, reality is very much still his to change the way he pleases.

 Crowley can’t find it in himself to complain.

 He leans casually back against the side of a gazebo, arms crossed on his chest. Smiles fondly as he watches Anathema drag Aziraphale out into the dancing area, the angel shooting a pleading look Crowley’s way before submitting to the inevitable with a resigned huff, hurriedly shoving the remainder of a strawberry tart into his mouth.

 Oh, angel…

 “Interesting setup you got here.”

 He straightens out instantly, all sense of leisure gone from his posture, tension bleeding from every line of his body.

 “What do you want, Hastur?”

 “I’ve been watching you two,” the demon drawls out ominously from behind him – an oppressive, dangerous presence just off to the side, just out of his line of sight.  And Crowley fights the urge to turn around; suppresses the frisson of unease the demon’s presence sends down his spine.

 “What do you want?” he repeats in a growl of forced annoyance, even as his metaphorical heart clenches in mounting fear.  Hastur’s been watching them.  All these years.  Does it mean he figured out their swap? Does it mean he knows?

 “I know you tricked us,” Hastur answers his unspoken question, a note of smug satisfaction in his voice telling Crowley the demon noticed his panic despite Crowley’s best efforts.  “I don’t know how you did it, but…” There’s an ugly bark of laughter – like a crack of a dry twig underfoot, followed by rustle of clothes and an overwhelmingly strong presence, dark, magical.  “I don’t really care.”

 And Crowley can’t help turning around now.  Can’t help looking down at Hastur’s gloved hand, at the wicked-looking knife held cautiously in its grip. Can’t help the nasty, cold feeling that claws at his chest when he sees the flame-red sigils carved into the darkened blade.

 “Oh, good, you recognize it.” Hastur’s smiling at him now – a dark, sadistically gleeful grin.  Turns the blade in his hand in a mockery of awed contemplation.  “A hellfire-forged blade with holy sigils – a perfect weapon against any being, ethereal or demonic.” Growls out low, his upper lip curling in predatory anticipation, “Heaven and Hell will be happy to see both of you gone.  Me personally? After watching the two of you for a bit? I think killing just one of you will make for a far better torture.”  He waves his free hand in the air, a look of almost blissful dreaminess spreading across his face.  

 Crowley grinds his teeth together in helpless rage, glances back out to where his angel is fumbling dreadfully across from Anathema in a poor imitation of dancing, blissfully unaware of the danger lurking only a few feet away.  Flinches when he feels Hastur shift closer.

 “I’m feeling generous today, Serpent,” he murmurs, the smell of swamp and rot wafting over the side of Crowley’s face.  “I’m gonna let you choose.”

 Choose.  A bitter smile twitches at the corners of Crowley’s lips, his eyes never leaving the achingly dear white-haired form in a cream color jacket.  What is there to choose, really?  His choice has been made over 6000 years ago, standing on that wall in the Garden of Eden next to a beautiful, mystifying angel who gave away his sword to protect humans and then proceeded to shield a demon from the First Rain.

 He doesn’t even have to think about it.

 “Me,” he states calmly, ignoring the sharp pang in his heart at the thought that this is it for him, that he will never see his angel again.  “Take me.”  Turns briefly back to his unwelcome companion to glare murderously into the bottomless dark pools of his eyes.  “But thisss isss it, Hastur,” he hisses, low and menacing, putting all of his venom, all of his demonic, serpentine conviction into the words.  “After thisss our debt isss paid in full. Nobody touches the angel, understood? Not your lot, not the Heaven.  And you will make sure of that.”  He leans in closer, eyes bleeding a terrifyingly hypnotic, poisonous yellow. “You will make sure of that, Hasssstur, or I swear on all that is unholy, that I will find a way to come back, and I will make you wish you were the first one through my office door that day instead of Ligur.” He lets his upper lip curl, lets his fangs slide out in warning. “Undersssstood?”

 Hastur’s lips twist in an echoing snarl, but Crowley can see the minute perturbation on the other demon’s face, knows his threat (bluff, yes, but Hastur has no way of knowing that) has hit its mark.

 “Meet me in the cemetery behind the church,” the Duke of Hell spits out, nodding blindly in the direction of the small village church that hosted the wedding ceremony a mere hour ago.  And disappears in a cloud of thick gray smoke.

 Crowley remains where he is a moment longer.  Lets his gaze linger on Aziraphale for one last time, drinking in the sight of his dancing angel – so blessedly carefree, so endearingly clumsy, so unfailingly good, so… so… beautiful.  He sighs, smiling despite the traitorous, anguished tremble of his lips.  Closes his eyes, letting that final image of Aziraphale become engrained in his memory. And follows Hastur to his doom.

 He doesn’t see Aziraphale turning to glance in his direction an instant before he disappears from view.

 ***

 He reappears but a moment later in the place of Hastur’s choosing.  Stumbles a bit on the uneven surface of a freshly laid grave.

 And gasps, his breath choked off and stolen, as sharp pain explodes below his ribcage, doubling him over with the force of the blow.  A wave of power rushes through him – angelic and demonic, woven together to create a monumental, monstrous hybrid of destruction.  Cold and fiery, deadly and unstoppable, sluicing through his veins to tear him apart, piece by piece by piece.

 He reaches forward on instinct, grabbing blindly, convulsively for the support of the putrid smelling shape that materializes in front of him.  Groans pathetically as Hastur shoves the blade deeper with a hard, vicious thrust.  And shudders, his fingers unclasping, nerveless, from the demon’s sleeve, as Hastur yanks the blade out and steps quickly back out of reach.

 “We are even now,” Hastur observes dispassionately as Crowley sinks to his knees before him onto the clumpy ground, one hand pressed uselessly against the bleeding gaping hole in his chest, the other seeking purchase in the loose dirt.  Cringes with sympathetic fear as Crowley draws in another harsh, labored wheeze of a breath, face twisting at the ever-mounting pain.

“It was quicker for Ligur,” he notes darkly, sheathing the blade and putting it away into the folds of his coat. “Merciful almost, compared to yours.”

His cheek twitches minutely, a fire of grim satisfaction flashing in the black depths.  Then, suddenly, he squats down before the injured demon, stares unblinking into the wide, pain-glazed eyes.  

“But perhaps you can be thankful for a chance to say goodbye.”  He cants his head to the side, nodding at something in the distance.

 Blearily, Crowley follows his motion, and the cold that fills his chest no longer has anything to do with his impending death.  Because there, weaving his way toward them between the maze of tombstones, is the angel, his angel.

 No.

 He grasps for Hastur’s coat again, gritting his teeth at the fresh flare of pain that rips through him at the unsanctioned movement.

 “Your promisssse… re… remember your…,” his voice cuts out, his throat spasming from a sudden buildup of pressure that drowns the rest of his words in a vicious gurgle of a cough that spills forth in a spectacular spray of blood.

 He gasps, breathless, against the intensity of it.  Squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, missing the grimace of disgust that flits across Hastur’s face as the demon raises his hand to vanish the bloody splatter that carried from his former colleague to settle on his face and clothes.

 “I have not forgotten, Serpent,” he grouches, extricating himself once again from Crowley’s feeble grip. Straightens back out, making a show of dusting off his forever-filthy coat. His cheek twitches again – a tell of discomfort, as he forces out the parting words of (questionable) reassurance. “Have a nice… death.”

 A snap of fingers and the Duke of Hell vanishes from sight, and then the angel is there, kneeling on the ground before Crowley, hands pawing frantically at the darkened, bleeding hole in the middle of his chest; grasping Crowley’s shoulders as he sways alarmingly on his gradually weakening knees.  

Crowley tries to steady himself, tries to look strong for his angel, but the devastating power ravaging his essence has already done too much damage, and he can’t help but succumb, slumping forward into Aziraphale’s chest with a helpless groan.

 “Crowley?”

 The angel’s voice trembles, tinged with desperation and fear, and Crowley can feel the same anxious tremble in the arms that wrap themselves around him; can hear the panicked beat of the angel’s heart.  This will not do, he thinks, sluggish.  He can’t leave his angel like this – so desperate, so panicked.  He has to–

 “I can’t… I can’t heal it. What…. Crowley, darling, please, what’s–?”

 “Shhhhh….” He forces his head up, forces his weakened hand to move.  Presses a shaking finger to the beautiful plump lips that he has been so fortunate, so privileged to taste in these past few years.  How incredibly, insanely lucky he was!  

“Shhh,” he repeats, running careful, gentle fingers across the angel’s cheek, wiping away a streak of golden tears that trails down the soft pale skin. Frowns when fresh tears begin to trickle down the same track.  This isn’t right, he thinks. Aziraphale shouldn’t be… he can’t…

 “Don’t cry,” he pleads, voice raspy and shaking with pain that is becoming harder and harder to conceal. But he will try.  He has to try. For his angel.  “S’okay… Zira… sss’okay.  I cho…chose this… My choicssssse…”

 Tear-filled blue eyes widen in understanding, the angel glancing briefly at a spot where Hastur stood only moments ago, before shifting his grief-stricken, horrified gaze back to Crowley.

 “No…,” he whines, tears falling harder now, as his arms tighten around Crowley’s shivering form in mounting despair.  “No, Crowley… Crowley, you can’t….”

 Crowley blinks at him fondly, a faint smile pulling at his blood-stained lips.  “S’okay,” he exhales, fighting to speak against the gradually thickening blanket of darkness that begins to weigh down on him, threatening to pull him under.  He can’t let it happen.  Not yet. He needs to get the angel to understand, needs to explain.  He knows that, once he surrenders to that darkness, he won’t get another chance.

 “I had to… They won’t… won’t bother you now.  Not any…anymore.”  

 It’s important that Aziraphale knows this.  Because it’s something that’s been bothering the both of them all these years – the fear that Heaven or Hell or both will be coming for them any moment.  It dampened the serenity, the pleasure of that short time they spent together, forcing them to constantly look over their shoulders. But no more, no more…

 What little strength he has left to keep himself upright runs out and he sags, boneless, in Aziraphale’s feverish embrace, their foreheads touching.  

Aziraphale is saying something, the angel’s breath hot and suspiciously wet against his skin, but Crowley can’t hear him, not anymore – the darkness pulling at him, engulfing his senses.

 “Kiss me,” he asks instead – a barely there whisper.  

 He can hardly feel his arms anymore, but he manages somehow to raise one, to hook it feebly around the back of Aziraphale’s neck, smearing blood onto the white curls.  Tugs, trying to urge the angel closer.  

 There’s barely any discernible pressure behind his gesture, but Aziraphale follows it nevertheless. Surges forward with a choked off sob, closing the already negligible gap between their mouths, latching on to Crowley’s lips as a man wandering for days in the sweltering heat of the desert latches on to the refreshing watery escape of an oasis.

 The fear of loss, the desperate denial, the frantic need to hold on, and the love – overwhelming, all-encompassing, unfaltering love: Crowley reads it all on the trembling, tear-stained lips that cling to his own.  It’s warm, the angel’s kiss.  So beautifully warm against the numbing, agonizing cold that fills his entire being.  

 He closes his eyes, sinks deeper into the kiss, trying to capture as much of that warmth as he can, to bask in his angel’s essence before darkness pulls him away for good.

 It isn’t long now, he can feel it.  Can feel himself falling, breaking will-lessly away from the soft anchor of Aziraphale’s lips – the warm light of his angel’s presence growing dimmer and dimmer, until only a tiny spark remains in the thick, stifling darkness that swathes his mind.

 He latches on to it, weakly, stubbornly.  Peels his eyes open, unsurprised to find the angel leaning over him, his face – a pale, haloed blur for his failing sight.  But even now, faded almost beyond recognition, he’s still the most beautiful thing Crowley has ever seen.

 He tells him so. Releases the truth of it on the final exhale his corporation’s lungs allow him.  Along with a faint susurrant confession, “Love you… angel…”

 A soft, wet splatter of a warm, golden tear on his ice-cold cheek is the last thing he feels.

FIN

#good omens #good omens fic #crowley/aziraphale #crowley #aziraphale #hastur #character death #tragedy #angst #hurt #i broke them #i didn't mean to #somethingjustsouthofbrilliance writes #sjsob good omens fics

[shipaholic]

Omens Universe, Chapter 18

We’re close to the end! Adam’s rediscovered the concept of murder, oops. Warnings again for death, mind control, creepiness, reference to nuclear strikes and car accidents.

Link to next part at the end.

(From the beginning)

(last part)

(chrono)

---

Chapter 18

Madame Tracy gave a great scream, in what was clearly her own voice.

“Mister S, Mister S, say something!”

She flung herself down beside Shadwell. In an act of great bravery, she grabbed and tore open the alarmingly dirty coat the man was wearing, and started doing chest compressions.[1]

Crowley stood, unmoving, and a little stunned. His head whipped around to the four Horsepeople. Death’s head tilted down and left. He appeared to be having a quiet conversation with someone no-one else could see. Crowley felt a little shudder.

Madame Tracy counted chest compressions under her breath. Crowley could see it was pointless. There was no life there to bring back.

Madame Tracy suddenly twitched and paused her first aid.

“I’m very sorry, dear lady, there’s really nothing you can do for him now.”

“No…” she whimpered.

She wavered as Aziraphale gently but firmly reasserted control of their body. He grasped the gun that had thudded on the lawn at Shadwell’s side, and rose to his feet, mouth set in a grim line. He cocked the gun at Adam.

Then, his face twisted in desperation, and Madame Tracy was back.

“Don’t you dare!”

Wincing with effort, she wrested their body back onto its knees by Shadwell’s side. Aziraphale just barely hung onto the gun.

Spacedog let out a string of whines.

Adam looked pained.

“Stop!”

He jerked his hand.

It was like a wave of TV static. Crowley wasn’t the target, but a wave of fuzziness hit him and momentarily wiped out all thought.

Tracy stopped struggling. She sagged, almost falling forward onto Shadwell.

Then her spine slowly straightened out. It looked robotic. Crowley could practically hear the clicks.

She clambered to her feet in a series of jerky movements. The gun was in her hands. She held it in a relaxed, almost friendly way, like one might hold a guitar. She smiled as though hooks were pulled taut in her cheeks. Her eyes stared into space.

She revolved to face Adam, face and mind as clean as a newborn.

~*~

Newt scurried down the corridor after Anathema. He couldn’t believe they’d done it. Three days of planning, holed up in Shadwell’s flat, marking up diagrams and drinking disgusting tea with condensed milk. All that work, and it had paid off. They’d actually broken into a London military base.

“I can’t believe all the amazing stuff we just did,” he panted.

“Shh,” Anathema said. Her forehead was creased in concentration. She was checking room numbers as they strode by.

“This one,” she said, and pushed the door open.

It revealed a room full of computer monitors. An ominous-looking flashing display was counting down to a very final sort of number.

Anathema grabbed a computer chair and pulled herself up to the nearest screen.

“OK,” she sighed. “Time for us to do something really clever…”

~*~

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to kill him. I just wanted to see if I could make a real person stop existing, like the imaginary ones.”

Adam’s eyes held a shade of the same dull horror as when he’d shot Aziraphale. Already, though, he seemed far less affected from causing someone’s death.

Spacedog’s ears were pinned back. The little dog looked as if he were battling twin urges to back away from Adam and hide behind his leg.

The blandly smiling Madame Tracy stood like a statue drained of colour. A bead of sweat formed on her temple. Her smile flickered for an instant. Crowley’s heart thumped. That was Aziraphale.

He rounded on Adam. “Let Aziraphale go.”

Adam looked unimpressed with his lack of chivalry. “And that woman?”

Crowley would freely admit to caring far less about Madame Tracy. He had the feeling Adam was judging him, though, so he said, “Er, yeah, her too.”

“She’s still holding a gun,” Adam said, pragmatically. “But ok, I’ll let Aziraphale go. He shouldn’t’ve been in there. It’s not right, two people crammed into one person.”

He waved his arm.

Suddenly, Aziraphale stood next to Tracy, back in his own body.

Crowley almost yelled with relief. He held back the urge to bury his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder. He looked at Aziraphale’s right hand, searching, and felt his head swim with gratitude. His gem was back on his finger. Adam had brought it back. He was ok.

He looked at Aziraphale’s face, and saw that he was very much not ok. He looked as though he had seen Hell, from the damned soul end of the equation. He stared about the garden, wide-eyed.

Crowley stepped towards him. “Angel. Hey. It’s me.”

Aziraphale’s gaze wandered over and alighted on Crowley’s face.

“Hello, Crowley dear,” he whispered.

Crowley grabbed his hand. He gripped it tightly and ran his little finger over the ring, a solid bump between Aziraphale’s knuckles.

Aziraphale’s eyes still roved around the garden. He took in the frozen, washed-out Madame Tracy beside him. His gaze slid down to the gun, held in her arms.

Adam took a warning step forward.

Madame Tracy revolved, slowly, to face Aziraphale. Her smile did not falter as she tightened her hold on the gun.

Crowley gave Aziraphale’s hand a gentle tug. Adam had made his point. They weren’t getting the gun back.

“How’d you learn to do that, anyway?” Adam said.

He sounded casual, like he was asking for video game tips.

“What?” Crowley asked.

“That thing you do where you turn into one person.”

“Oh. That.”

Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s hand, possessively. He wasn’t in the mood to share Zadkiel with Adam.

“That’s a long story,” Aziraphale said. A trace of a spark came back to his eyes. “I suppose it started in the Garden. He was a wily serpent, and I was technically on apple tree duty -”

“Natural disaster. Focuses the mind,” Crowley snapped. “What’s your plan here, Adam?”

Adam ignored him. “Can I do that? What d’you call it - fusion? Because we’re the same, aren’t we? We’ve all got one of these.”

He tapped his fingernail against Lucifer’s gem. It glowed red in the sunset. Crowley’s eyes darted upward. Was the sun setting, or was the sky just turning red…?

He tore his gaze back to Adam.

“Yeah, we’re the same,” he said. “If you like.”

“Am I an angel?”

Crowley laughed.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, unexpectedly. “In a way, I suppose you are. Your father… was one.”

“My father?”

Adam stared at the ground. It was clear nobody was talking about Mr. Dowling.

“Yeah,” he said at last. “Well. The Book made that kind of obvious.”

Great. They were all singing from the same hymn sheet at last.

The sky was definitely red. Clouds churned overhead, bubbling like squid ink. Fish had stopped dropping from them, but in a way that made Crowley afraid of what might start dropping instead.

“So it’s all true,” Adam said. “I’m going to end the world.”

The Horsepeople grinned. War, Famine and Pollution leaned forward. Something oozed between their teeth. Crowley tried to ignore the sensation like creeping flies on the inside of his skull.

“But you don’t have to,” Aziraphale burst out. “You’re so powerful. You can use that power for anything. You could do good.”

Adam shook his head, slowly. “I don’t think I’ve got the good sort of power. I’m pretty sure all I’m made for is destroying things.”

“That’s not true,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale, at his side, looked briefly surprised. Crowley knew he was lying. But for a moment, he felt it would be pretty wonderful if it were true. Maybe it was worth a shot, anyway.

“You weren’t made just to destroy. That’s just something my people said to get you to end the world. But Aziraphale’s right, your power isn’t good or evil. Satan didn’t start out Lord of Hell. He was an angel, once.”

Adam contemplated, head on one side.

“So? Why do good instead? Why save the world?”

“Because you have to live in it?”

“Wasn’t really living, was it? My parents weren’t even my real parents. Everyone around me was lying to me. My Nanny was a demon -”

“Look, we’re not all that bad,” Crowley said, hastily.

“I don’t want to go back to that.” Adam gave a shudder. “Things’ll be better when I’m in charge of everything. It’s ok. I won’t kill any more people. I don’t think I need to. I think my destiny was to sort everything out by just being in control. Most people don’t really think, so I can do their thinking for them.”

Crowley tried not to look at the Dowlings.

“But you’ll be erasing them!” Aziraphale’s eyes were large and desperate. “They won’t even be human anymore, not really. It’s no better than killing them.”

“Adam,” said Crowley. “I know you’ve been told all your life you were put here to rule the world. But demons told you those things. No offence to me, but are you really going to trust them?”

Adam looked at him as though he was stupid. “My dad told me those things.”

Crowley had the terrible thought that he’d been right all along, and Lucifer was still in there, in his gem, lucid, planning Crowley’s horrific demise.

Then he cottoned on. “Wait - hang on.”

He looked at the slack-faced, smiling American ambassador.

Aziraphale caught on at the same time.

“Oh, no.” The angel paled. “He’s not demonic, he’s rich.”

Crowley swore. He hadn’t even factored American exceptionalism into this whole mess.

“Well, your dad was wrong too! What does he know, he’s a cultural attaché, whatever that is. He just… culturally… attaches things.”[2]

“So you’re saying I don’t need him?” Adam said.

He looked at his parents. They didn’t respond. They stood vacantly, arms floating at their sides. Like bodies washed out to sea.

“Fine.”

Adam stepped towards them, one arm already rising. Crowley and Aziraphale could do nothing to stop him.

A blood-curdling howl of rage rang out. Crowley’s skin wanted to turn itself inside out at the sound of it.

Adam’s hand dropped. He turned back, frowning.

Crowley was afraid to see what was making the noise, but he steeled himself and looked over.

The blood-stained, red-haired woman, whose skin gleamed unpleasantly like gun-metal, was screaming.

Crowley presumed this was War. Her scream was like the roar of a bomber coming in fast and unstoppable.

The two beside her clutched their heads. They also looked furious.

“What’s wrong with them?” Crowley shouted to Aziraphale.

There was no reason the angel would know, but Crowley was out of thinking room. He needed to at least outsource his bafflement to someone else.

Aziraphale winced, but looked like he was considering as he looked at War.

“You know, I think something’s gone wrong…”

~*~

Newt’s heart knocked at his esophagus as he sprinted up the road. The military base lay behind them. He wasn’t looking back to see if they were being followed.

Anathema was a step ahead. She held her hand back for him. Pulse leaping, Newt took it.

“Where are we going?” he gasped.

Anathema’s voice was grim. “To get my Book.”

~*~

“Something’s happened,” War screamed. Crowley felt the words hitting his organs like bullets. “The warheads are offline. There was supposed to be fire across the sky and now no-one’s going to die.”

Famine and Pollution, Crowley assumed, gnashed their teeth. Death just grinned. Although Crowley supposed he didn’t have much of a choice.

“Oh,” said Adam.

He didn’t look concerned. He’d also forgotten about killing his parents. Win-win, by the look of it.

“You are our leader, our master, our friend. Can’t you bring them back? Just bring them back online. Just think of all that death. Don’t you want that? All those clean strikes, falling from the sky, wiping everything away.”

War, Famine and Pollution looked feverish. Their teeth were on full display. It looked less and less like smiling.

Adam screwed his face up. “I dunno… I don’t see the big deal, pers’nally. What’s the sense in that? Just bombing everybody. I think I’m happy to keep them all alive.”

The three Horsepeople looked anguished.

“But humanity must end! It is written,” War howled.

“I can overwrite it,” said Adam.

The grass stirred in a nonexistent wind.

“I can overwrite anything.”

Adam’s voice had a sinister reverb. He stared into the sky, intent and hungry.

Crowley felt the sweep of a terrible power pass him by, as it crept out over the lawn and the house and the street, further and further, out across the world.

~*~

It was a ripple effect. Everywhere it touched, people stopped.

One by one, their eyes went blank. The colour drained from them. Their smiles turned vacant and ever-present.

Dick Turpin bounced up the road, squeaking like a wheelbarrow that hadn’t left the garden shed in quite some time. The wall of white static washed outward, through London, and passed through the car.

Dick Turpin rolled to a gentle stop. So did every other car. Some of them kept going just long enough to hit a building, or another car, or a person. Nobody reacted.

Newt and Anathema forgot about what they had been doing. Anathema had no thoughts of her Book.

Newt’s hands fell lax on the wheel.

They sat together, staring through the windshield, thinking of nothing at all.

~*~

Warlock cowered under the broken seesaw. He wanted to go home. He wanted his parents. He wanted to stop getting hit by fish.

On the last point, he got his wish. The sounds of the splats hitting the playground tapered off.

He raised his head, trembling.

Heaps of dead fish covered the playground. The three Them had fled back to the egg-shaped climbing frame thing. They were all huddled with their hands over their heads.

No more fish fell. Warlock got to his feet, wobbly kneed.

He wiped his grimy face and looked for Pepper.

She was helping the other two out of the cage-thing. All three of them looked spooked, but way less covered in fish-slime than Warlock.

Suddenly, they stopped dead. Their faces slackened. Their arms fell to their sides. Their spines jerked strangely, as though a marionette-holder had just plucked a string for each of them and reminded them they weren’t real.

Moving as one, they revolved on the spot and stared at Warlock.

Warlock stumbled back. No, it wasn’t even like they were staring at him. More like through him.

As if hooks had been inserted in the corners of their mouths, they smiled.

Warlock’s blood ran cold. He turned and bolted for the street.

He didn’t get far.

A wave of grey static hit him like a tidal wave. It wiped his brain clean. Every bit of anger, of unhappiness, of boredom, of anything at all. It left nothing.

There was nothing to do but smile.

Adam’s power rolled through Tadfield and onward, sweeping every mind it encountered.

The wave pushed on, relentless and pure, across miles, across land and ocean, until it covered the Earth.

---

[1] Madame Tracy took her obligations very seriously, especially for her clients who were a bit longer in the tooth. She took refresher first aid courses every couple of years.

[2] Crowley kicked himself for not having learned Tad Dowling’s job at any point during the many years he lived in his house. To be fair to him, it wouldn’t have helped.

(Link to next part)

#omens universe fic #omens universe #good omens #good omens fic #ineffable husbands #steven universe #~endgame shenanigans!~

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Blizzard! Broken Thermostat! Only One Bed!

A winter Good Omens story

[A/N: I’ve had this one under my hat for a few weeks, waiting for Snowed-In season to arrive. Well, it turned cold the last few days, it might snow early next week, and my furnace won’t light so you get it now. Enjoy!]

“I don’t think you fully appreciate how lucky we are,” Crowley growled, sauntering down the hallway. The hotel key – a physical key, the building was a big, drafty Victorian manor – dangling from one hand, the other hand shoved as far as he could get it into the pocket of his jeans. “This blizzard came out of nowhere.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale paused to look out the window, watching white flakes drift down into the well-lit parking lot. “Any snowfall the first week of November is quite unexpected, even this far north.”

“Not a snowfall, Angel. A blizzard. I wouldn’t have stopped if these weren’t dangerous driving conditions.”

“Oh, absolutely.” Aziraphale waved one hand in the direction of the roads outside. “Why if it continues to, ah, blizzard at this rate, we could be looking at three, possibly even four inches by morning. Far more dangerous than driving the Bentley through a wall of fire, I’m sure.”

“Perhaps not that dangerous,” Crowley conceded. “But the Bentley’s been through enough this year. I won’t take any chances. We stay the night here, and if the roads are cleared in the morning –” Aziraphale’s throat clearing sounded suspiciously like a laugh – “fine, when the roads are cleared, we can drive the rest of the way back to London.”

“When you put it like that,” Aziraphale turned away from the window, quickly catching up to Crowley, “we were incredibly lucky to find a fine luxury hotel only one minute up the road.”

“And with one room left,” Crowley smirked as they arrived at the door marked 404.

“Sold out on a Thursday, no less.” Even behind dark lenses, Crowley couldn’t even attempt to meet the angel’s eyes. “Many things about this situation are immensely improbable.”

“Yes. Well.” Crowley bent over the lock, hiding his suddenly warm face. “As I said. Lucky.” The door unlatched and he quickly stepped through into the dark room. “And would you look at that – oh.” He fumbled at the wall until he found the light switch. “Would you look at that!”

“I can’t, dear, you’re blocking the door.”

Crowley shuffled to the side, trying to keep up the momentum. “There’s – look – there’s only one bed!”

“Mmm.” Aziraphale walked past, unconcerned, to where two plush chairs flanked a small table. Behind them enormous bay windows extended across the entire wall. “Oh, the view is quite lovely. There’s a duck pond! Pity about the ice.”

“Er, oh, is there?” Crowley crossed the room to take in the scenery, keeping the table between them. A line of lampposts across the grounds lit a brick path that circled the pond, nestled among gentle hills. The snow and mist made little halos around each light. Rectangular shadows hinted at hedges – the gardens were probably impressive in the spring.

“This room comes with breakfast, correct? Did you see a menu? I expect they do room service; I would much prefer to eat here than in the dining room we passed.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley interjected, hoping to get the conversation back on track. “I think you’re ignoring a bigger question.”

“Hmm?” The angel turned away, crossing to study the widescreen TV in the corner with mild distaste.

“The bed, Angel.” Crowley pointed at the room’s central item. King-sized mattress, mounds of fluffy pillows, thick duvet folded back enough to show Egyptian cotton sheets with obscenely high thread counts. “There’s, well, one bed.”

“Yes, I can count.” Aziraphale gave a flat, piercing look that made Crowley squirm where he stood. “I would think that since only one of us sleeps, that is in fact the optimal number of beds.”

“Ah.” Golden eyes hidden by black lenses glanced around the room. “So, you’re just planning…”

“To sit here, enjoy the view, and read a book.” Aziraphale produced one from the pocket of his jacket. “I always carry something to entertain myself in emergencies.”

In a long quiet moment, they both continued to inspect the room. Aziraphale gave a happy hum when he found the kettle and a selection of black and herbal teas. Crowley, meanwhile, was busy with a tamper-proof electronic box on the wall.

“Oh, no!” He finally announced with all the drama picked up from centuries of theatergoing. “The thermostat! It’s broken!”

“Oh, dear.” Aziraphale walked over to look. “Well, I’m sure I can fix it.” He raised his right hand to snap his fingers.

“What? No!” Crowley pushed the hand back down, then realized what he was doing and shoved his own back in his pocket. “You shouldn’t fix it, because, er, the, ah,” he waved his free hand helplessly, wishing an excuse, a word, even a coherent sound, would emerge. Aziraphale, the bastard, just watched him with impassive blue eyes. “The humans might notice. If you fix it wrong.”

The angel waited, as if expecting more. “Well. Can’t have that, I suppose. Should we call down and see if it can be fixed?”

“No. It’s…late. And not that cold. It’s only stuck at, er, 13 degrees. We’ll be fine. Just, you know, chilly.”

“You know, Crowley, I have a wonderful idea.” He finally met Aziraphale’s gaze, and the angel broke into a brilliant smile. “What do you say to some tea? They have provided quite the selection. Chamomile. Rose hip. Orange blossom. Do you have a preference?”

Crowley shrugged, giving letting out a contemplative “hmm,” that turned into an exasperated groan as Aziraphale bustled off to fill the kettle in the bathroom.

“Oh, my dear, the bathtub is simply enormous. Perhaps I should take a soak while you sleep, it would be most refreshing.”

Crowley slammed the back of his head against the wall twice. “That sounds…nice?” He stood up straight and crossed his arms as the angel returned. “You know. Tea isn’t going to help me much. Since I’ll be sleeping. And unable to drink.”

“There are extra blankets in the closet. You know how to put them on the bed, don’t you?”

“Uuunh.” Crowley turned to the closet, bracing both hands on the closed door. There was one thing he hadn’t tried yet, but he didn’t like to use it. “Aziraphale. You know. I’m a snake. Snakes are cold-blooded. If I’m not warm enough when I sleep…I could die.” Every word of it was technically true.

“Crowley. Look at me.” The voice was colder than the air outside. The demon turned to find blue eyes glaring at him without amusement. “This has gone far enough. You will not die from being chilly. I know perfectly well you are not cold-blooded. And you said not two minutes ago this temperature is only a little uncomfortable for you.” Hands clasped behind his back, he took a step closer. “Now. Are you going to keep playing around or are you going to say what’s on your mind?”

“Ngk.” Crowley shuffled his feet, glancing at every inch of space in the room except exactly where Aziraphale stood. “Angel. Aziraphale. Could you…” Removing the glasses, he tried to meet his angel’s eyes. “Would you share the bed with me? Just to keep me company. Til I fall asleep.” His voice got faster and softer as he talked. “Cause I like it. When you’re close to me.”

“My dear, darling Crowley.” Aziraphale walked the last few steps to close the distance between them, placing one hand on the demon’s chin, pressing warm lips to his cheek. “Of course. All you ever had to do was ask.”

--

The bed really was extremely comfortable. Aziraphale leaned back against the headboard, propped up by several of the softest pillows he had ever felt, sighing happily.

Crowley had ignored the pillows entirely, choosing to rest his head against the angel’s heart, body pressed close, legs in a tangle under the duvet. Aziraphale could hardly see how such an angle could be comfortable but Crowley was fast asleep, a soft smile released across his face that would never have been allowed were he awake.

It was only then, left hand slowly combing through red hair, that Aziraphale realized the thermostat was still broken. He could fix it with a snap of his fingers but, well, they were all entwined with Crowley’s across his stomach, and what if moving like that woke him? That would be too great a tragedy.

Outside the window, wasn’t the snow falling just a little thicker? Could be a blizzard after all.

He shifted his arm gently, pulling Crowley closer, feeling the heat of him pressed into the curve of his side. Watching the smile stretch a little farther across that narrow face.

Yes, he should stay a bit longer. After all, they wouldn’t want to get cold.

[This story isn’t on my AO3 page, but you can find my other Good Omens fics there! Please reblog if you enjoyed!]

#good omens prime #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #asexual ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #aziraphale and crowley #oblivious aziraphale #or is he #bastard aziraphale #anthony j crowley #ineffable demon (crowley) #asexual aziraphale #asexual crowley #only one bed #bed sharing #sleepy cuddles #fluff #no angst #not even a little #drabble

[penny-archer]

Cottage keys

Crowley and Az decide to u-haul like a good lesbian couple after inching forward in their relationship post-apocalypse. Also, I haven’t been able to get the South Downs cottage thing out of my head since I heard it.

ao3 link here

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

Sunday, St. James’s Park, two weeks after the end of the world

“What do you want to do today, angel?”

Aziraphale looked up from his book at Crowley, who was lounging beside him on the grass, propped back on his elbows and staring absently at the pond in front of them. He thought for a moment. “We could go to the Tate Modern, we haven’t been there yet,” he volunteered.

The demon pulled an exaggerated face. “Angel, you’ve been dragging me around museums and galleries and ar-bor-et-ums for days. Let’s do something exciting. Let’s steal a double decker and go for a joyride. We’ll take it back, obviously,” he added with an eye roll after catching Aziraphale’s expression.

“I think museums are exciting,” Aziraphale huffed quietly. They had been together nearly all day and night for the last two weeks. While a majority of that time—especially the first few days after Armageddon—was spent shuttered in at one or the other’s flat, in recent days they had in fact spent a fair amount of time touring around the city’s culture and arts scene. And its five star restaurants. The angel admitted to himself that perhaps it was Crowley’s turn to choose their day’s itinerary. Within reason, of course. “Very well then,” he asked graciously, “what would you like to do this afternoon?”

Crowley seemed taken aback at the question. “Oh—well—besides the bit about the bus…eh…” he scrunched up his face and trailed off uncertainly.

Aziraphale permitted himself a small sigh. “Well, since you don’t actually have a suggestion, do you have any real objection to exploring the Tate Modern? I hear they have an excellent new Huguette Caland exhibition.”

“Oh, go on, just let me think for a moment, angel. I’ll come up with something.”

“Is this what you want our lives to be like from now on?” Aziraphale asked, exasperated. “Spending all morning bickering about what to do that afternoon—for the rest of eternity? Really, my dear, the thought of it.” He frowned, staring at the ducks swimming lazily across the pond. After a moment he glanced at Crowley, only to see the demon staring back at him with one eyebrow cocked, giving him a familiar look that was half-incredulous, half-smitten. “What?” Aziraphale demanded.

“The rest of eternity?” Crowley enunciated, grinning.

“Oh—well, yes—” Aziraphale stammered as he turned a faint shade of pink. “About that. It’s just, I’ve been thinking and—well, I had been meaning to—to raise the subject of, of—” his voice faltered and his gaze dropped to his hands clasped delicately in his lap. Crowley waited, watching him with the same maddening grin. “It’s just that—I’ve decided to take a step back from the bookstore.”

Crowley’s bemused expression was quickly replaced by one of genuine confusion. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak Aziraphale pressed on. “I’m not selling it! I’m just hiring a manager to oversee the day-to-day,” he explained. “I was thinking it might be nice…to have some more free time.” He looked up, carefully meeting Crowley’s gaze. “And since we are no longer beholden to our respective offices—or rather, now that I don’t feel bound by—well, I was thinking we could, I don’t know, go somewhere. Take a trip, perhaps.” He hesitated. “Or even—something more permanent. We could…” his voice trailed off again.

“Move somewhere?” Crowley suggested, after watching the angel flounder for another minute.

“Well yes, something like that.” Aziraphale beamed. He took Crowley’s hand in both of his. “We could get a house! Well, it wouldn’t have to be a house, necessarily—and only if you wanted to. I would completely understand if—”

“Angel, hush.” Crowley stretched his other arm across to place a finger on Aziraphale’s lips, then reached back to rummage in his pocket. He leaned back on his elbows again and casually tossed something into the angel’s lap.

Aziraphale released his hand and picked up the set of keys, staring at them with wonder. “What’s this, Crowley?” he asked, inspecting them closely.

“House keys, obviously. Well, not a house exactly. More of a cottage. Cottage keys.” Crowley answered with the best attempt at nonchalance he could muster.

“Wha—Where?” Aziraphale choked. His eyebrows furled. “What?”

Now it was Crowley’s turn to look uncomfortable. He tensed, staring straight ahead. “Er, ‘s nothing really. Just a little cottage in the South Downs. I was in the area a few years ago on some business, happened to pass by this little place and saw it was for sale. I thought, well, stone wall, lovely big garden, outdated furnishings, Aziraphale would love it.” He attempted a sardonic smile and snuck a quick glance at Aziraphale, who was still speechless and staring at the keys. Feeling his cool demeanor evaporating, Crowley rambled on. “And I had a little extra cash ‘cause of that whole business with the Olympic dressage team, so I figured, why not? Couldn’t hurt to have. Bit of an impulse buy, to be honest.” Aziraphale was still looking down at the keys clutched in his hands. His expression was difficult to read. A heavy silence stretched between them for a long moment.

Crowley felt his stomach dropping out of his body. He stared ahead as he felt his heart pounding in his ears. He considered spontaneously bursting into flame. “ ‘s too much, isn’t it? Too fast. Too pastoral. Yeah, I figured. Forget I said anything.” He was contemplating the quickest way to extricate himself from this conversation and drink himself into oblivion when Aziraphale finally spoke.

“My dear, did you say years?”

Crowley raised his eyes and saw that Aziraphale was looking back at him steadily. His expression was soft and intensely serious, and his eyes were watery. “Well, just a couple...” Crowley admitted nervously. Aziraphale held his gaze and Crowley found that, however much he wanted to, he couldn’t look away.

“I love you, too,” Aziraphale said simply. And he leaned in and kissed Crowley with an urgency that made the demon’s head swim. Then he lay down beside Crowley and rested his head on the demon’s shoulder. Reflexively, Crowley put his arms around him and settled back to lie flat on the grass. They lay together quietly for another minute. Crowley could feel his heart rate returning to normal as his breathing slowed until it was in sync with Aziraphale’s.

The angel finally broke the silence. “Well, I think a trip to the South Downs this weekend is in order. I want to see this lovely big garden for myself. And as for the furnishings, well, I’ll be the judge of whether they’re outdated. Although I’m sure I’ll want to change them anyways when we move in; there’s simply no accounting for taste with some of these old country houses.” He turned his head to see the smile spreading across Crowley’s face. Beaming in response, he couldn’t resist the urge to tease the demon just a little. “But really, my dear,” he admonished, “considering you’d bought us this cottage ages ago, when on earth were you planning to mention it to me?”

“When you asked, obviously,” Crowley responded with a smirk. He leapt abruptly to his feet then turned to lend Aziraphale a hand up. “Now then, angel,” he declared, “let’s go see about this Ms. Caland.”

#good omens #crowley x aziraphale #ineffable husbands #fanfic #crowley #aziraphale #south downs #myfic #fluff #they're beautiful idiots