#but anyway i mostly just love showing Crowley getting mixed up with saints

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Inflict Wounds

So. Today’s offering for @drawlight‘s advent calendar is, um, not super Christmassy?

Look, I went on a holiday-themed museum tour but the docent went off-topic to talk about Saint Bartholomew and the Demon, so now I am doing the same thing. That is the Christmas connection.

Also, the tone is a little weird on this one? There is nothing graphic, I promise, and it goes from really dark to really not rather abruptly, which is the reverse of my usual pattern.

(In D&D “Inflict Wounds” is the opposite of the spell “Cure Wounds” and...idk it’s 12:30AM that seems like a clever title right now.)

10 - Silver and Gold (2,546 words)

Aziraphale slipped through the door of the temple, into the darkness within. It took a small miracle to make sure none of the gathered crowd noticed him, but only a small one – all eyes were on Bartholomew as he assured them that the terrifying demon who had brought pestilence and death to the countryside had been contained, would soon be disposed of, the people would be saved if they professed their faith –

All according to the missionary script, of course, but it was the demon Aziraphale worried about. That was more than metaphor and rhetoric – he could sense it. The curses it cast on this helpless village had been clearer than a bonfire, catching his attention from half a kingdom away.

There were still a few dozen representatives of Hell at play in the world, several of them quite dangerous. Perhaps more than a single human could handle, however much that human had been blessed by Heaven. He would need to see for himself, and decide whether more direct intervention was necessary.

Picking up a small oil lamp, Aziraphale stepped deeper into the gloom. Here and there, the light reflected off the gold and silver of idols and sacred images, creating uncertain shapes that shifted in the darkness. Why, that one reflection ahead looked almost like a pair of eyes –

They lifted and focused straight on him. Enormous eyes, filled with anger, mirroring the light, adding shades of danger, promises of pain. Inhuman eyes, golden, unblinking, cut by vertical pupils…

“Crawley?” He called in disbelief.

“Crowley.”

Even heavily shadowed, Aziraphale could make out the familiar lines of the face, the arrogant sneer – though the eyes were changed. He’d only seen them in this serpentine form once before, during that first conversation on the wall of Eden.

“What are you doing here?”

“What does it look like, Angel? I’m preparing to be exorcised.”

Aziraphale took another step closer, and in the flickering light saw –

Gold and silver chains, wrapped around his arms, pulling them back against the golden idol so that the demon hung by his wrists.

Another chain twisted across his chest, over and under his black wings, binding them in place.

Crowley turned his face away from the light, growling low. His arms tensed, links of the chains digging into wiry muscle.

“Are you the one they sent to tear out my soul?”

“Crowley, stop being so dramatic, you can survive an exorcism.” The angel took another step forward, and again Crowley balled his fists, tension rippling across his bare chest. A rather poor attempt at intimidation, since he still refused to look at the angel.

Of course, he could miracle himself free whenever he wanted – Crowley loved his dramatic roles, and today he was apparently playing the martyr. “You are the last demon I expected to see here – didn’t you leave for the Far East over a year ago?”

“I wanted to grow my hair back first. This seemed as good a place as any to wait it out.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but sure enough the short curls Crowley had sported at their one meeting in Rome were now nearly down to his chin. “And this is what you do to entertain yourself in the meantime? I should have known.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I could feel you inflicting blight and disease on these people from twenty miles away! And what do I find – a village where nearly every person has cholera! And you! Why, Crowley?”

“Because I’m a demon,” he said, breath sharp, voice heavy with fury.

“Really.” Aziraphale tutted, trying to act as though this was only a minor disappointment, as if he’d never come to expect more from the demon who still sullenly refused to meet his eye. “I suspected something like that. Bartholomew was preaching in the area, so I sent him on a Holy Quest to find the demon responsible. I never thought it would be you.”

“And I never thought the Archangels were big on sharing power. Giving your new…saints Heavenly powers? Do you even know what you’re doing?”

“I don’t make those decisions. I just search for the wiles of the Evil One and I thwart them.” He took another step closer, bringing the lamp towards Crowley’s face, even as the demon made a futile attempt to pull away. “And after what you’ve done, don’t tell me you don’t deserve –”

“Aziraphale!” The plea was desperate, almost broken, as he squirmed in his chains, pushing himself against the idol behind him.

The angel looked more closely at the chains, the gold and silver chains, alternating links glowing faintly like sunlight and moonlight in the dark temple. At the way they grew brighter with every step Aziraphale took.

At the burns where they dug into Crowley’s skin.

“Those chains…” he realized. “They’re –”

“Blessed.” Crowley turned to face him now, and Aziraphale could see at last that his eyes were wide not with anger, but pain – that he wasn’t flexing to try and intimidate, but writhing in anguish. He wasn’t even sneering – his lips were split, bleeding from a wound on the right side of his mouth, a cut on his left cheek. “You gave him powers and he used them.”

Aziraphale stumbled away, dropping the lamp, shattering it on the temple floor. He could still see the glow of Crowley’s eyes, and that of the chains, fainter now that his Angelic Grace wasn’t fueling them.

With a clink of gold on silver, Crowley relaxed, letting out a small sigh of relief.

“Don’t think this – this changes anything,” Aziraphale snapped, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. He’d only wanted to talk. The idea that he’d been used to hurt Crowley – even unwittingly, even knowing what had happened… “This whole village is sick because of you –”

“You idiot!” And this time it really was anger in his voice. “They’re sick because there’s a city upriver. The water is contaminated.”

“But I sensed you –”

“I’m a demon.” Slow shaky breath. “I can’t purify water, and I can’t heal any disease I didn’t cause. So the only thing I could do was inflict something even worse, burn the real disease out of their systems, and then cure them. Over and over because they keep getting sick.”

“But…why…”

“Because your lot wasn’t going to do it!” Crowley rattled at the chains. “Now Heaven finally decides to share its powers and what do we get? Silly parlor tricks and warriors – where are the healers? When your friend outside gets rid of me, is he going to stay and take care of them? Is he going to find them clean water? Are you?”

“Crowley,” Azirapahle started to take step forward, but changed his mind when the demon gasped and tried to pull away again. “You should have said something. You shouldn’t have tried to fight –”

“What do you take me for?” He sagged in his chains again. “Of course I didn’t try to fight. The temple was full of people from the villages, they came for healing. I didn’t want them to get caught in the middle of a fight with a Holy Warrior.” He turned his head just a little, showing off the cut, though Azirapahle could hardly see it in the dark. “I got this for trying to explain myself.” Then he shrugged, touching his tongue to the split lip. “And this one for telling him exactly what kind of bastard he is.”

For a long moment, they were both silent, Aziraphale rubbing his palms together slowly. “You…were really here healing them for a year?” He should demand proof. No proper angel would believe such an outrageous story. It was obviously some kind of deceit.

“It was exhausting. I got really sloppy towards the end, but…” A humorless chuckle. “I kept hoping you would notice. Come lend a hand.”

With a sinking heart, Aziraphale realized he was no proper angel.

The noise of the crowd outside was growing louder. Bartholomew would be in any moment. “It – the exorcism shouldn’t be too bad. Similar to smiting.”

“Not too bad? Do you even know what smiting feels like? I’ll be lucky to have enough strength to leave Hell sometime this century!”

“There isn’t much I can do!” He tried to step forward, again causing the blessed chains to flare in the darkness.

The doors of the temple burst open, Bartholomew leading in a hundred villagers with lamps and candles, filling the space with brilliant light.

“Behold, your so-called savoir. Look upon the true face of the being you worshipped!”

“They worshipped you?”

“I told them not to!” Crowley complained. “You know humans, they’ll worship anything!”

The angel could feel the heat of Bartholomew’s holy aura as he approached, causing the chains to glow once more. “For the crimes you have committed against these people, I sentence you to utter extinction.”

“I say,” Aziraphale waved a hand, “that sounds a bit extreme…”

“Think of something!” Crowley ground out.

“Prepare for your doom!” The chains burst into fire.

“AZIRAPHALE!”

“Right.” Aziraphale straightened his robes. “I’m terribly sorry about this.”

--

The true form of an angel would immediately render any human who saw it into little more than a pile of ash.

What Aziraphale showed the crowd – an enormous pillar of fire, surrounded by wings and covered in a hundred blue eyes – was about a third of the way to his true self.

The temple filled with Grace, the whole village, curing people for miles in every direction, purifying the river, bringing peace to every heart even as they trembled in awe. The chains around the demon shattered like glass.

With a booming voice that shook the temple, toppling the idols and images (and anything else that wasn’t nailed down), the holy presence bid the people:

LOOK UPON THIS THING THAT YOU HAVE WORSHIPPED. THIS HORRIBLE, WRETCHED, TWISTED THING.

“Seems a bit unnecessary,” grumbled the demon.

I SHALL DRIVE IT AWAY INTO THE WILDERNESS FROM WHENCE IT CAME, AND IT SHALL NEVER MORE RETURN TO CURSE YOU. FOLLOW BARTHOLOMEW. HE WILL LEAD YOU TO A NEW LAND, UPRIVER OF THE CITY, WHERE DISEASE SHALL NOT TROUBLE YOU.

Many in the crowd fell to their knees, openly weeping at the glorious form before them.

(CROWLEY. THAT’S YOUR CUE.)

“Oh. Right.” The demon rose onto shaky legs and moved through the shocked crowd as quickly as he could. “Ah. Oh, no. What a horrible wonderful being. However shall I escape.”

RIGHT. THAT’S SETTLED. I’LL JUST FOLLOW THAT…DASTARDLY BEING. ENJOY YOUR NEW HOME. MIND HOW YOU GO.

The pillar of light drifted, stately but unstoppably, through the crowd and out the temple doors.

Slowly, the villagers climbed back to their feet, clutching at each other’s hands, amazed to feel for the first time in so long – truly healthy, truly happy. All quarrels were forgotten in the face of the amazing gift of love that had been planted in their hearts –

OH. ONE OTHER THING. STOP DISPOSING OF YOUR WASTE IN THE RIVER. IT IS MOST UNHYGENIC!

--

Many miles away, Aziraphale and Crowley rested on a jumble of rocks in a clearing. The angel ran his fingers over the burns, perfect impressions of gold and silver chains, already turning into scars.

“It’s no use,” Crowley said. “Angelic aura, blessed chains. Regular healing won’t cut it, and if you give me the full dose, I’ll probably explode.”

“I can’t help feeling responsible,” Aziraphale murmured, touching the cut on Crowley’s cheek. “Even this one won’t mend.”

He shoved the hand away roughly. “Well, he hit me with the chains, didn’t he?” Crowley wasn’t sure how he felt about Aziraphale right now. Wasn’t sure how he’d ever feel about him again. “I suppose I’ll just have to keep them. As a reminder. At least it’ll make an impressive story back in Hell.”

Aziraphale took his hand, turning it over to look at the scar forming across the palm. “There is…one thing I can try.”

“You don’t have to,” Crowley grunted.

“Please. I inflicted this on you.”

“Fine.” He was going to have to learn to resist that look. “Just try not to destroy me.”

Lifting his palm, Aziraphale pressed his lips to the scar.

Crowley’s veins filled with – fire and ice, silver and gold, starlight and moonbeams and the raw, uncontrolled power of lightning, racing across his hand, burning through his skin, drowning him in – ecstasy, joy, bliss –

His hand convulsed, he gasped, eyes opening wide –

And in less than a second, Aziraphale lowered his hand, the scar removed, skin smooth and unbroken again.

“I think I can remove all of them. If you can bear it.”

Crowley could only nod.

It seemed to take hours. Perhaps it did.

Each brush of the lips an eternity of pleasure and pain, like Falling and Rising at the same time, and the interval between a mindless, numbing void, empty of any sensation or thought.

Up one arm, down the other. Chest. Back. Wings. Crowley would have wept if the tears hadn’t already been burned out of his eyes.

Finally, all that remained were the cut on his cheek, and the split lip.

Somehow, that was worse than anything else.

Aziraphale sat, Crowley’s chin cupped in his hand, staring at the wounds clinically.

“You…really, Angel, you don’t…that is, if you don’t want to…”

“Do you want to carry these scars for eternity?”

Crowley swallowed. “Honestly…this might be too much for me…”

Another detached look, and a small nod. “These aren’t as bad as the other burns. Likely because the chain only hit you briefly. I should be able to heal them with much less power.”

Before Crowley could say anything, Aziraphale had leaned in and brushed his lips across his cheek and oh Satan without the overwhelming power he could feel them, soft and warm and just a tingle of delight where they touched and he didn’t know if that was the healing or something else…

This was so much worse.

Aziraphale hovered above his lips.

“Hey. Angel…”

“Don’t move.”

One on the top, just where regular skin met lip, gentle, quick.

One on the bottom, pressing it, so Crowley could feel the plumpness of Aziraphale’s lips.

It was over before he could move, before he could betray something he’d never realized he felt before, but was now desperate to keep hidden.

But Aziraphale didn’t pull away. He sat, not even an inch between them, breaths still mingling, blue eyes filling Crowley’s entire world.

“I suppose the villagers were grateful. That you cared for them.” The softest whisper.

“Don’t know what they think of me now.” His voice trembled, but he couldn’t think why. “At least they’re alive.”

“What you did, Crowley. It won’t go unappreciated.”

And Aziraphale leaned in again but there was nothing left to heal, just lips, soft and warm and slightly parted, pressing against his, tearing out his soul, pulling him to pieces.

Crowley’s eyes drifted shut, his hand reached up to brush one silver curl. His own lips parted and if he just tilted his head surely he could –

Gone. Aziraphale stood up and stepped away. “I hope I have healed all the wounds I inflicted on you.”

And then the angel left, taking Crowley’s voice and breath and heart with him.

#good omens fanfiction #31 days of ineffables #advent calendar #ineffable husbands #hurt comfort #writing challenge #bastard aziraphale #bamf aziraphale #but like the weirdest BAMF idk #look every time i look at that painting of St B and the Demon I think of Crowley #and then i read the actual legend and it just Got Worse #because the demon was absolutely Astoreth #and he was just hanging out healing people in either India or Armenia #ancient people are bad with geography #and then Bartholomew shows up like yo hes not really healing anyone he's causing the disease #and then suddenly there's an angel revealing the demon's true form #and being all like believe in the lord not this guy #also imma chase him into the wilderness good work B #and later Bartholomew gets skinned alive sorry these things always end badly #but anyway i mostly just love showing Crowley getting mixed up with saints #and i wanted aziraphale to kiss his wounds better #but i was tired and part of my brain was like lets go all in #so we went all in

[ineffably-good]

There’s A First Time For Everything

This is my submission for the 2020 Good Omens Valentines Day swap, written for @eveningstarcatcher. Enjoy!

--

 “Dearest,” Aziraphale said, rolling over in the morning light to run a hand up Crowley’s back. “You know what next Friday is, don’t you?”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Uh… a Friday?”

“Anything else?”

Crowley thought. He thought some more. He came up with nothing. “No,” he finally said, admitting defeat. “I really don’t. What is it?”

Aziraphale smiled encouragingly at him. “It’s our first Valentine’s day since we officially became a couple.”

“Oh… Oh angel, no,” Crowley groaned. “You have to know that demons don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day. It’s pretty much not allowed. That’s all about your side – angels and cherubs shooting their tiny, adorable arrows into someone’s posterior. We mostly just stay home and get drunk on days like that.”

“I thought we didn’t have sides anymore,” Aziraphale said a little sadly.

“We don’t! We don’t! It’s our side for sure, angel,” Crowley said, backpedaling. “It’s just – old habits die hard and the day kind of gives me the creeps. All that forced happiness and fake romance.”

Aziraphale’s smile faltered a little. “So – so you don’t want to do anything to celebrate?”

Crowley rolled over onto his side to face the angel. “I didn’t say that! I want to celebrate being with you. I love you, you know that. I just don’t want to do it on Valentine’s Day. I want to do it every day. Besides, did you know he’s the patron saint of epilepsy, too? It’s not like we’re going to go have a seizure in his honor, are we?”

“I did not know that,” Aziraphale sniffed, “and no we aren’t.”

“Plus, really, the truth behind the legend is just gross, angel. He wrote a letter to a woman who’s sight he had restored and signed it “from your Valentine” right before he was beaten to death with clubs. Beaten. To Death. That’s hardly romantic, is it? And he was just signing his name, anyways.”

Aziraphale rolled out of bed and pulled on his tartan dressing gown. “It certainly is not,” he said distantly. “You’ve made your point, my dear.”

Aziraphale made his way into the bathroom, and a few minutes later Crowley heard the bath running and caught the scent of the vanilla bath salts the angel preferred lately. He smiled, happy to have settled that argument in his favor, and threw on some clothes to go out and get the angel some pastries and a coffee.

--

“Heya, angel,” Crowley said, the shop door jingling behind him as he returned. The angel was sitting at his desk working on something. “Brought you a coffee and a chocolate muffin.”

“Thank you my dear,” the angel said with a smile, taking the offered sweets and turning back to his work. “You’ll pardon me, I hope, but I just have to get started on the new inventory.”

“Oh,” the demon replied, surprised. “I thought we were going to the park.”

“I’d love to, but a new shipment came in yesterday, and you know I’ve been trying to keep the records more up to date.” Aziraphale straightened his bowtie. “I’m afraid I have to get this done while it’s still fresh in my mind or I’ll mix up all the details.”

That, Crowley knew, was a lie. Aziraphale never forgot the slightest detail about any book in his collection. Sometimes he liked to play a game where he wandered around the shop at random and pulled a book out of some obscure corner and asked Aziraphale some obscure fact about its printing date, number of pages, where he bought it from, or what it was worth – and honestly, the angel had never missed once. Not once. He knew that even if the angel put the new shipment in a corner for the next hundred years, he would never lose track of any of the info he needed to know.

Crowley plopped down on the couch and observed the angel through narrowed eyes. What was he up to? He took a deep sip of his cappuccino and contemplated. Could it have been the epilepsy comment? Was that insensitive to sick people?

“You know,” Crowley said casually, “I have nothing against epileptics.”

Aziraphale turned and gave him a strange look. “What a relief,” he said acerbically.

Crowley met his gaze in confusion. “Well – yes,” he sputtered. “I didn’t want their to be any confusion.”

Aziraphale shook his head the tiniest amount, then turned back to his desk and picked up his pen.

 --

Crowley, unable to take the odd and rising level of tension in the shop, eventually fled, pleading “demonic errands,” and instead went down to his favorite local pub for a whiskey and a talk with his friend Diana, the bartender.

“So,” Diana said, leaning forward on the counter. “What’s got you in here at two in the afternoon?”

Crowley ran a hand through his hair. “It’s Aziraphale,” he admitted. “He’s being weird.”

Diana looked around and noted that her only other customer seemed quite contented with the pint in front of him, and settled in for a talk. “Weird how?”

“I dunno, it’s like maybe he’s upset with me about something? But I haven’t done anything and I don’t know what it could be.”

“Anything unusual happen this morning?”

“We were talking about Valentine’s Day,” he said.

“And?”

“And I told him that my people don’t celebrate that, and that Saint Valentine was in no way the patron saint of romance, and he got horribly butchered, and it’s a sappy holiday for suckers.”

Diana stared at him flatly, her dark brown eyes flashing. “Can’t imagine what might be bothering him,” she said heavily.

“What?”

“It’s your first time in a couple in a long time, isn’t it?” she asked with a smirk.

“So what if it is?” Crowley realized his voice sounded a tad defensive.

His friend reached behind the counter and poured them both a shot of something. He sniffed it suspiciously, decided he didn’t care what it was, and downed it in a single shot.

“Listen up,” she said, fixing him with a strong look. “You might not think Valentine’s Day is important, and that’s all well and could, but what if he thinks it’s important?”

“He’s an –” he started to say ‘ethereal being’ and stopped himself by the skin of his teeth. “He’s a sophisticated, urban, educated person. He’s never shown any interest in this kind of thing in all the years I’ve known him. And I’ve known him for a long, long time.”

Diana thought for a moment. “In all of that time you’ve known him, has he ever been in a relationship on Valentine’s Day before?”

Crowley thought. “You know, I don’t think so.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And so –”

“And so? Spit it out, woman.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s his first one. You’re newly in love. Perhaps he’s gotten a little caught up in it.”

Crowley felt the blood drain from his face.

He was a fool.

He was a bloody, enormous fool.

Of course Aziraphale was excited about it. Aziraphale loved rituals and holidays and got excited about each and every one of them. And of course he’d never had an opportunity to have anyone make a fuss over him on a romantic holiday before. And he had rained all over the angel’s happiness about it with his morbidity and jadedness.

He dropped his face into his hands. “Oh, for the love of – “

“You’re an idiot,” Diana supplied helpfully.

“I am,” he said agreeably. “What do I do?”

“Well,” she said, “you just have to figure out some way of showing him that he’s special. You can figure it out.”

“How did you get so smart?” he groused. “And pour me one more, will you?”

“Comes with the territory,” she said, reaching for the good stuff.

 --

“So,” Crowley said that night as they were watching a film and working their way methodically through a takeaway curry or two. “I was thinking about that Valentines thing you brought up this morning.”

Aziraphale kept his eyes on the television but raised his eyebrows in curiosity. “Were you?” he asked.

“I think I may have spoken a little rashly,” he said.

“Oh,” the angel said, dismissively, still following the action, “no you didn’t, really it’s fine.”

Crowley waved a hand and paused the screen. “Listen to me,” he said, “I’m trying something new here.”

Aziraphale turned to him, uncertain. “And that would be what?”

“I’m saying – you’ve never had a Valentine’s Day before. I’ve never had one either. Maybe it would be fun to do something.” He swallowed. “You know. Since we –” He made a hand waving gesture that somehow encompassed the room, the shop, the two of them, and, he hoped, his feelings.

Gestures, he thought, could say so much.

Aziraphale gave him a tiny, knowing smirk. “Oh, well, when you put it that way,” he said slyly.

Crowley rolled his eyes. “I’m saying I’m game for Valentine’s Day,” he said. “Let’s make it a good one, okay?”

Aziraphale smiled happily. “Well if you’re sure,” he said.

“Leave the planning to me,” Crowley said. “I’m on top of it.”

 He was not on top of it. But he would, he decided, figure it out. 

--

“What are we doing tonight?” Aziraphale asked the following Friday. “You haven’t actually told me.”

“It’s a surprise,” Crowley said. “Just wear something nice and be ready at eight for me to pick you up.”

He went home to Mayfair and worked hard on an outfit and double checked his plans on his mobile. Dinner reservations were all set. He straightened his tie in the mirror and set out with a jaunty swing to his step to go get his angel. He had even chosen a new CD from a shop earlier in the day, something old-fashioned and croony that he knew the angel would like, and he unwrapped it quickly, snapping away the plastic, and put it in the stereo at a low volume as he made his way across town. If he was lucky, they’d make it through most of the night before it reverted to Queen.

Besides, he thought, if inside he was pretending it was just an ordinary date night, it was no one’s business. He didn’t need bloody February 14th to be romantic; he was Anthony J. Crowley and he could be romantic any time he wanted. But if it was important to his angel, he was going to do his best to show him a good time.

He stopped at the door of the shop, thought for a minute, and knocked instead of entered.

It took a few minutes for Aziraphale to answer the door. He looked surprised when he did. “You knocked?” he asked. “Why didn’t you come in?”

Crowley took a moment to appreciate the angel in his nicest cream-colored suit, one he usually only wore to weddings and other special occasions. Unlike the rest of his clothing, this outfit had the advantage of being both made in the current century and also being more form fitting that most of the heavy layers he usually wore, revealing his shape nicely. He’d paired it with a pale blue tie that matched his eyes almost perfectly.

“Ngk,” he said, then cleared his throat and started again. “I wanted to pick you up at the door for our date. You know. Old-fashioned, like.” He held out an arm to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale gave him a deeply dimpled smile and took the offered arm, allowing Crowley to escort him to the passenger seat.

“You look nice,” he added on the way.

“So do you, my dear.”

 --

Later that night, after their dinner at a quiet, intimate Italian place, after a walk in the park during which the moon was somehow more full and brighter than any weatherman had expected, after a late night gelato at a local shop that unexpectedly had no other customers and all of the angel’s favorite obscure flavors, they wandered back to the bookshop and nuzzled together on the couch.

“Did you have a nice night, angel?” Crowley said. “I’m sorry the restaurant was so loud, and that the cocoa powder on the tiramisu made you sneeze, and I hope the duck incident on our walk didn’t –”

“My dear,” Aziraphale said, “what on earth are you talking about? Tonight was perfect. Just perfect.”

“But the duck took the –  right out of your -- ” Crowley spluttered.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale cut in more firmly. He took the demon’s hand and all but forced him to be silent. “Listen to me. It was lovely, and romantic, and perfect. No one has ever made such an effort for me before. It meant the world to me.”

Crowley made a strangled noise in his throat and, finding speech impossible, decided to focus instead on simply not bursting into flames. He thought cooling thoughts. Water. Ice. Hailstorms. Freezer sections at the grocers.

Aziraphale, seeing his conflict, leaned in and gave him a slow and tender kiss. “Happy Valentines Day, my love. I hope we have many more.”

“We will have all of them, angel,” Crowley mumbled, before kissing him back. “Every single one.”

#goloveday #good omens #good omens fanfiction #aziraphale x crowley #valentines day #ineffable husbands