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kaylinelizabeth4004 · 8 months

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Sky Full of Song

Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley listen to some music. Then Crowley decides to make something special for Aziraphale.

Title from a Florence + the Machine song, I don’t know why but Florence and Good Omens are connected in my mind.

When they had first settled upon the idea of Crowley living inside the bookshop, along with Aziraphale, they had a few small technicalities to work out. Where Crowley would sleep was easily sorted out with a quick snort by Aziraphale, who called it their bedroom, as though it were the most obvious thing, which only shut Crowley up and make him cover his face with his hand to hide the blush across his cheeks.

And of course, there was the matter of Crowley's plants. There were 23 of them to date, all named and specialized with their own personal stories - of which we will dive into a different day. Aziraphale didn't hesitate to set aside some books, miracle some new end tables, and create space for the plants. They were Crowley's version of books, he argued, and deserved their place in their world. So there they stay, Orion up near the front to stare at anyone who dared to actually purchase a book.

Naturally, Crowley assumed that his moving in would eliminate the need for a flat at all. That flat was cold, damp, and terribly inconvenient to get to, quite like the rest of London. He saw no reason to cling onto a place that never felt like his home. However Aziraphale had a different approach.

"Well, dearest, it's not that I wish to be away from you, of course. It's rather that you, err, you might wish to be away from me," Aziraphale had explained over some delightful wine from the '20s.

"Wot?" Crowley asked, furrowing his brows in genuine confusion.

"It's just, I worry you feel as though you have to stay here all the time. I want you to have an, err, an out. An out from me. If you wish to do something without my presence."

Crowley thought for a moment then scoffed, "if you didn't want me around all the time you could have just said so."

"No!" Aziraphale stiffened in his seat, reaching out to place an eager hand on Crowley's arm. He looked so warm and inviting to Crowley, as though his very existence was one large hug you didn't deserve. "Dear, I adore having you here. I want you here as often as possible. I just don't want you to feel as though you have to, for my sake. You are more than my... person. You shouldn't have to sacrifice your life for mine."

What Crowley wanted to say was, 'I'd sacrifice my life for yours any day. I want to be with you every moment of every day, even if it means I stare into space while you pour over the same book you've been pouring over for two centuries. You aren't a sacrifice, you're a gift in my life.'

What he actually said was, "s'alright then. I can store... things there."

Aziraphale smiled that proud and yet shy smile, patting Crowley's arm. He rose from his seat, placing a soft kiss on Crowley's temple as he went towards the record player. He lifted a record from his collection with a flourish as he said, "Wonderful, my dear."

"S'bloody brilliant," Crowley mumbled before swallowing a large mouthful of the truly delicious wine. Aziraphale had such a wicked taste in wine, it was unmatched.

"Oh I think you'll quite enjoy this one," Aziraphale said with a giddy smile, sitting down as the record played that dull hum before the music actually started. Crowley tried to contain his smile as he watched Aziraphale wiggle from excitement, shake his body like he couldn't contain it.

It was jazz, that much Crowley could tell. He took extra care to pay attention to the song being played, and when he realized what it was his brows lifted. "Angel, is that Nature Boy?"

"It is!" Aziraphale giggled. "I know you just adored Nat King Cole's music and I found this record, I just knew we had to have it."

'Adore' might have been a stretch in Crowley's mind, he'd never been outright obsessed but he did enjoy listening to him. Nat King Cole's voice did something to Crowley that few other artists could do. Sure Elvis Presley made him nostalgic, Queen made him feel alive, The Smiths were all he wanted to be, KISS was all he wanted to dress like, and somewhere in there Nat King Cole's voice floated around. Nothing specific, but nothing unspecific either. An emotional blob that just existed.

He wished he could explain it, tried to reason that maybe he loved the way his voice seemed to slide through the room like butter. It was smooth, calm, deep. The lyrics to Nature Boy didn't help that ache in his soul, their story echoing in a room full of stories. It was beautiful and simple, but it seemed to reach a part of him he didn't quite understand. But he felt his heart tighten, threatening to burst as the sweet Angel across from him closed his eyes and listened to it all. He bought this for him, knowing he loved it.

"The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love, and be loved, in return," Crowley murmured along with the record. Aziraphale looked up suddenly at Crowley's voice, and took a small, selfish smile. This was everything.

There they were, one late evening in a quaint, unassuming little bookshop, on an unassuming street, in an unassuming city, a demon and an angel sat in the music. They didn't say a word, letting the chords glide through them as one. It was always something that united them. Even when good and evil seems blurred and the world might actually fall apart because of a preteen, the music never faltered.

———

Sometimes ideas seem a lot better in words than in action. While Crowley had agreed that he could 'store stuff' in his now empty flat, he stared at it like it was a beast. Apart from Aziraphale, huh? Bah, it would never happen. Crowley scoffed as he left, locking up quickly as he sauntered out of there. He didn't see any reason he needed to abandon his Angel.

On the walk home, - yes walk. Unfortunately Aziraphale had decided the 'our' in 'our home, our bookshop, our hot chocolate', now applied to Crowley's Bentley. His sweet, precious Bentley. Now turned as yellow as piss while Aziraphale went to collect a package an hour outside of town. No, Crowley supposed it didn't really look like piss. But anything other than her true, dark beauty seemed deceiving. She did belong to a demon of all things, not Miss Frizzle. Whatever, he blew a breath and continued down the road.

Crowley chuckled to himself for a moment, Aziraphale was one strange dress and some box dye away from becoming Miss Frizzle. Though he didn't suppose Aziraphale would appreciate the reference as much as Crowley liked it.

He stopped for a moment outside one of the shops, catching a glimpse of his hair looking positively on fire. It wouldn't be the first time he was literally on fire, and he worried he'd been smoking without realizing. Pissed off some good people last time he let that get out of hand.

As Crowley turned to leave, he noticed what sat on a little stand in the window. A knitting kit. Along with various shades of blue and yellow yarn, laying on a sweet basket that seemed to have all one would need to knit. Needles and what not, Crowley wasn't actually sure what was required to knit but some of the ladies back in the 1790s loved to do it while the aristocracy lost their heads. One lady made him a love scarf, he still has it somewhere. Bloody good wine, then.

He didn't really know why, but against his better judgment Crowley strolled right in and purchased the kit. Then he went and stood on the street corner for a full two minutes, trying to decide what to do with his 30 quid worth of knitting supplies. He very well couldn't bring it back to the bookshop.

Not only does Aziraphale know how to knit, he's good at it. And Crowley doesn't necessarily feel like having him linger around, breathing softly down his neck and completely unaware he was doing it. Then he would sit down, away from Crowley, nose shoved in a book with wide eyes over the edge. And each time Crowley would do something wrong, Aziraphale would whisper a little "oh dear" before avoiding Crowley's gaze. This was part of the reason Crowley gave up on sewing. That and the needle was too damn small for his eyes. It was sweet and infuriating all at the same time. Aziraphale meant well, Crowley knew that, the Angel never meant poorly. But it wasn't worth the trouble.

So that was why Crowley ended up make in a cold, damp, inconvenient flat with a basket full of knitting supplies sitting on the empty floor.

"You s'can't be worth at the trouble," Crowley mumbled to it, poking it with his foot.

They stared at one another in awkward silence for about a minute before Crowley broke, sauntering through the different dark rooms of the flat. He loitered in his office, remembering fondly when Ligur melted into a puddle at the entrance. His desk still had the scratch from his vintage message machine. Crowley let out a breath.

Then he found himself back where he started, staring at a basket full of knitting supplies as though it were going to bite him. He wishes it would, it would be better than the mocking stare it presented instead.

"Ngk, fine, you stupid bloody thing," Crowley said in an agitated voice, sitting on the empty floor beside it. "You s'better be the best damn kit money coulda bought."

He dumped the supplies in a heap, going straight for the needles and the blue yarn. This should be easy. People been doing it for hundreds of years. Easy. Easy peasy, tickety-boo as his Angel says.

20 minutes later and it was most certainly not tickety-boo. Crowley had pin pricks along his fingers, fraying yarn on the cuffs of his jacket, and one massive knot he couldn't comprehend how it had happened. His phone buzzed in his pocket, giving him a chance to escape this nightmare. He could feel the steam coming from his ears and he threw the offending material down to stand and answer it.

"Ah, Angel, was wondering when you'd bother to call. I've been left alone for days."

"Oh don't be dramatic," Aziraphale said, but Crowley could hear the smile on his face. "It should be I who is upset with you. Where are you? I returned home to find an empty bookshop and some very rude individual trying to open the door to buy books!"

"Bloody idiot."

"That's what I said, in less offensive terms, of course. Dearest, you didn't answer my question. Where are you?"

"I'm..." he debated the different possible answers he could be giving Aziraphale. Admitting he was at the flat would excite him, but it could also prompt questions about the purpose. Saying he was anywhere else would be lying, and that didn't feel quite right. Not anymore, though he supposed it never did. So he sighed and just said, "I'm at the old flat. Checking in."

He could hear Aziraphale's giddy voice, "oh wonderful. I'm so glad you have that space."

"M'yeah, it's, uh, it's nice."

"Goody!"

There was a moment of silence on the phone. Aziraphale was moving some items around to accommodate the rare Walt Whitman he had just spent 2 1/2 hours of his day acquiring. Crowley was staring at the blue heap of yarn on the floor.

After a few moments of companionable silence Aziraphale sighed and said, "Well I'll be the first to say it. I'd like you here, to spend time with me. I miss you."

Crowley fought the smile on his face as he teased Aziraphale, "wot? Wot'd you say? I missed it, signal totally blew."

"I said I missed you!"

"Wot? Say it again, Angel, totally lagging over 'ere."

Aziraphale puffed out in a whined voice, "oh you wily serpent, come home! I missed you today!"

"Ahhh, you missed me. And here I was thinking you said I pissed me, and that doesn't make bloody sense does it," Crowley said with a sarcastic tone, walking outside and towards the bookshop faster than he intended to.

"Oh just hurry on home, my love."

Crowley was stunned for a moment. 'My love' was a new nickname, and one he had always considered cheesy with other pairs. But instead, with Aziraphale it just made him blush and walk faster than he meant to.

"On it, Angel."

———

A week and a half later, Aziraphale was off at Maggie's little record shop helping her organize and try to market to the current generation. She wasn't getting much busy, which Aziraphale thought to be the most disappointing. Records were his favorite form of music.

As Aziraphale tucked every Nat King Cole into their proper place, Crowley was across London in a damp, cold, inconvenient flat hunched over and trying to knit. He'd bought a book full of patterns and instructions, and was now on his third iteration of the same scarf. The two previous attempts were in burned heaps in the corner, neither even close to completion. They had started to go horribly wrong and Crowley got so angry he accidentally set them on fire.

This time around, Crowley was taking his time with each action. He was terrified of mucking it all up. This was important to him, even if it was just a bunch of fibres looped together.

"If you s'don't do exactly as I tells you I will make your life hell," Crowley muttered to the yarn. "And's I can actually do that. Think hard on your decision."

Whether it was the slowness, the patience, or the fear of Crowley installed in the bundles of pale yellow and blue yarn, it was actually started to turn out his way.

———

Aziraphale hummed to himself a song he'd heard for the first time over at Maggie's shop. 'Unforgettable' by Nat King Cole. He realized he might have started to develop a real love for that man's music, all because of how much he knew Crowley enjoyed him. He never imagined himself a jazz fan, far too eccentric for his tastes, but the smooth notes got stuck in Crowley's head as he made the pair hot chocolates.

He was still humming softly as he returned to the main area of the bookshop, eyebrows raised as he saw a small white box with a yellow ribbon on his desk.

"Crowley, what's this?" Aziraphale asked, setting his mug down beside the box and walking over to where Crowley was sprawled across a chair.

"Wot?"

"The box, what is it?"

Crowley shrugged, sipping the hot chocolate Aziraphale gave him and looking out the window, "I dunno."

"You don't know? What do you mean you don't know?" Aziraphale scoffed as though it was completely impossible.

"I said I don't know, Angel. Might as well open it and find out."

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes and looked at Crowley with confusion. Crowley didn't always love to communicate well, though neither did he - a sin they both unfortunately share - but this was entirely new. Despite all this, Aziraphale did go to the box. He gently undid the pale yellow ribbon, it was so beautiful he took extra pains to not rip it, and lifted the the lid.

He gasped slightly at what he saw, "oh Crowley."

Crowley cringed, expecting Aziraphale to hate it. But that was quite the opposite. Inside the box sat a scarf, blue and yellow and hand knit, with a small card sitting on top of it saying 'Happy Creation Day.' Aziraphale glanced up and was surprised to find that it was, indeed, October 21st. Creation Day, the Earth was now 6,027 years old, and Crowley remembered.

Aziraphale lifted the scarf from the box, seeing it for what it was. It wasn't perfect in the slightest. The yellow and blue made an awkward, uneven contrast at some parts. Knots made lumps throughout the entire scarf, and one color was at least an inch and a half longer than the other. But all the same, it made Aziraphale tear up, "oh Crowley it's beautiful."

"You really think so?" Crowley asked timidly, now standing stiffly near where he was sitting. His eyes were looking anywhere but Aziraphale, scared if he looked at him he'd be humiliated. His cheeks were pink as Aziraphale looked at his work.

"Oh dearest, this is amazing. How long did it take you?"

"Oh, just, you know normal knitting times..."

"Crowley?"

"2 months," he mumbled.

Aziraphale dropped the scarf into the box, walking over to Crowley and gently placing his hands on his cheeks. Though he closed his eyes, he leaned his head into the touch. "You spent 2 months making this for me?"

"S'course, Angel. Woulda spent longer, got rushed."

"My darling, it is absolutely beautiful. Thank you so much for this gift. You have outdone yourself."

It was these words that made Crowley open his bright, yellow eyes and look at Aziraphale. He wasn't lying, he wasn't lying in the slightest. All he saw in Aziraphale's eyes was admiration, love, and the glassy look of someone trying to hold back tears. Crowley whispered softly, "why are you crying?"

Aziraphale laughed softly, letting a tear fall at this, "Oh my sweet, it's good tears. I'm just so overwhelmed. It's so beautiful and you made it for me."

"S'course."

Aziraphale let his forehead fall against Crowley's. There they stood in their little bookshop, two angels holding each other. After a few moments of this, Aziraphale broke away, kissed Crowley forehead and wiped away his tears.

"Well, shall I treat you to a spot of lunch?"

"I think a table at the Ritz just opened up," Crowley smiled, hiding the mist in his own eyes.

"Oh, what a miracle!" Aziraphale giggled. "You go on and warm up the car dearest. I'll only be a moment."

"M'kay, Angel." Crowley walked out and greeted his lovely Bentley with an appreciative whistle. "Such a beautiful girl, can't wait to ride you."

A woman walking puffed up and said, "shut it, you creepy bloke."

Crowley, offended, scoffed, "I- I was talking to my car. Not you!"

She rolled eyes, "sure, mate, I believe ya."

Crowley took on a taunting tone, "You're not even my type, you- you- you box dye brunette!" He couldn't think of a better insult and she just flipped him off and stalked off.

"Oh bugger," Crowley murmured, going to open the driver's door. Then he stopped, looking up at Aziraphale who was now on the steps of the bookshop. He was wearing the scarf he made him.

He was wearing the scarf he made him.

And proudly too. Despite it's lumps, it's unevenness, and it's wonky patterns, Aziraphale wore the scarf like a badge of honor. He was showing off to the world that Crowley was his, and Crowley was talented, sweet, and anyone would be lucky to have him. But they couldn't have him, because Crowley was Aziraphale's, as Aziraphale was Crowley's.

"Ngk-wow, Angel."

"Don't you like it?" Aziraphale asked, preening like a peacock. "I had it handmade by the most talented man. I shall give you his number if you like."

"N-nah. I'm not a knit type of guy."

"Oh shame, he really is quite good. And he looks fantastic is those leather jackets," Aziraphale says with a wide grin.

"Just get in, Angel." Crowley was now blushing violently, and got in the car to avoid turning into a hot pink mess out there. Aziraphale slid in beside him, sitting pin straight as he does but with a little proud wiggle in his seat. He was so fucking cute it hurt sometimes, so Crowley turned on the radio.

In the silence of the car ride, Nat King Cole's mesmerizing voice called out, "the greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love, and be loved, in return."

#good omens #good omens season 2 #fluff #so much fluff #fluff so sweet you’re teeth will rot #slice of life #like seinfield episodes but less funny and more sentimental #Crowley is trying #no beta we die like crowley’s heart in s2 e6 ouch neil gaiman #asexual relationship #Nat King Cole reference that is actually a Moulin Rouge reference in my little heart #Crowley is a simp #Aziraphale is proud #I’m actually so proud of this please enjoy it #neil gaiman notice me #david tennant #michael sheen

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the-most-pathetic-edge-marquis · 3 years

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like other girls - in defense of lauren mallory (pt. 1)

lauren has been friends with jessica since elementary school, and she has always been painfully loyal. a boy ditched jess at their first dance in sixth grade and lauren tracked him down and kicked him in the shins so hard that he had bruises for weeks.

she realizes that she might be gay sophomore year, at a party at the end of volleyball season, when she kisses the pretty blonde captain as a joke.

a very small part of her (under the alcohol, the giddiness of how close they came to state championships, the wild energy of the music and the laughter) thinks oh.

oh no.

she gets home that night, head spinning, and all she can think to do is panic.

angela’s dad is the pastor. lauren has lunch at his house at least once a week every summer, just like she has since they were six. and he smiles at her and calls her miss mallory and always remembers that she hates the skin of cucumbers–

lauren’s grandma, who bought her her first car, who lets her come spend the weekends in her house in seattle whenever she likes, who loves her, snapped the newspaper pages taut over news of canada allowing same-sex marriages, because they were just disrespectful and unnecessary and–

she hears a rumor that tyler crowley is interested in her. he’s cute, and he sits behind her in geometry, so it’s easy enough to flirt with him until he cracks and asks her out.

she holds hands, kisses him on the cheek and then on the lips. he picks her up for school in the mornings, she wears his jackets to basketball games and cheers for him smugly, and sometimes it isn’t that bad, and sometimes she lies awake at night biting her lips until they bleed.

jess squeals with excitement when lauren tells her–grabs her hand in a death-grip, almost knocking over their shared hot chocolate onto lauren’s tragically incomplete math homework, and lauren’s stomach flutters enough to summon a smile.

somewhere along the line, jess starts proof-reading the love notes lauren feels are only a fair trade for all the little chocolates tyler keeps sneaking into her locker.

it makes it a lot easier, somehow, to get the words down, knowing that jessica is going to be the first person to see them. picturing the way she’ll crinkle her eyebrows, leaning down over the paper with her chin in her hands and her elbows spread on the table. the way delight will twist through her smile–

lauren breaks up with tyler the same day she mentions at lunch that she’s just having a miserable day, and he sneaks into her french class next period with a latte and a pumpkin chocolate-chip muffin from the coffee shop down the street. she hadn’t realized he was noticing her favorites. they both taste like guilt, all the way down.

when he yells at her in the parking lot later–are you even going to give me a chance, what the hell could you possibly have to be upset about?!–and then, when she says nothing, slams his car door, leaving her to walk home in the drizzle, she thinks i deserved that.

lunch is paralyzingly awkward for weeks after that, until tyler gives up and starts eating with the basketball team. lauren bullies tara galvez into switching seats with her in geometry.

by spring, things feel somewhat normal again. lauren’s gotten good at not looking at the basketball team at lunch, (except for the day they accidentally upend their entire table trying to break their forks stabbing the cafeteria hamburgers).

jess starts dating chris martinez, (a junior, she gushes, oh my god, we could even go to prom) and he joins their lunch table. lauren smiles at him as rigidly politely as she can, and slams small, petty kicks into his chair whenever she thinks she can get away with it.

once she manages to catch him right as he’s taking a sip of milk and it splatters all the way down the front of his stupid football jersey.

the next time she’s over at angela’s–perched in the bathtub out of habit, even though there’s enough room for both of them on the cold floor without jess there–lauren finishes painting her toenails and launches into a complaint whose viciousness surprises even her a little.

angela hums contemplatively along until lauren’s rant simmers off into crossed arms, then calmly recaps the little jar of orange polish.

i don’t like him that much either, she says, he makes fun of all the girls in gym class.

spring break rolls around.

angela is out of town, but the rest of them meet up in the park on the only clear night of the week for a bonfire.

mike sneaks two tents out of his parents’ store and warns them not to rip anything, because these are the display tents and they have to be back tomorrow. eric and conner proudly display the cartons of pbr they talked eric’s older sister into buying. katie marshall shows up with an absurd number of marshmallows, and lauren lugs a bundle of wood out of her car and tries to remember enough of her family camping trips to start a fire.

by the time she gets one going, chris and jess are sitting next to each other–on each other, really–sharing a blanket and whispering. jess is giggling–and lauren tells herself it’s the smoke she’s choking on.

just the smoke. turning her throat and her stomach sour–

mike jokes smoke follows beauty and keeps brushing against her a little too obviously to be accidental, so she thinks fine and smiles at him, sharply aware of how he’ll take it.

that one lasts less time, but ends more amicably. they never officially call it anything, and after a few weeks of messily hooking up (first in a tent, then in lauren’s luckily parent-free house, a couple unfortunately memorable times in lauren’s car, parked at various trailheads), lauren manages to cajole mike into admitting he’s not that into it. he goes back to sitting next to eric at the lunch table, and that’s the end of it.

two weeks later, chris breaks up with jess and immediately gets together with catie scott.

lauren considers shin-kicking, but instead she ditches class as soon as she hears, and drives out to jess’ house.

she stops at home, and then at the grocery store on the way, and when she knocks she’s carrying two pints of rocky road ice cream and the massive fluffy pink fleece that jess steals every time she sleeps over at lauren’s.

jess has the door open before lauren can even knock, and throws herself into a hug that almost tumbles them back down the porch stairs.

she pins lauren’s arms between them, holding the ice cream, jess’s curls scrape awkwardly across her face and into her mouth, and lauren’s pretty sure that she can hear jess sobbing...but she can’t help smiling.

they eat ice cream and watch the emperor’s new groove. halfway through, lauren points to kronk and says mike like it’s the greatest epiphany of her life, and jess laughs so hard that she spits a half-chewed marshmallow onto the couch.

when the movie is over, they migrate to the kitchen. lauren perches on the counter while jess microwaves a plate of dinosaur chicken nuggets. she snags one, and then pauses–you know, i also bought some eggs.

oh my god, jess says. wait–

school doesn’t get out for a couple more hours, lauren says, which means his car is just gonna be in the parking lot…

they park on the side of the road, just around the corner from the school. jess clings to lauren’s arm the entire way there, giggling and whispering omigod lauren we’re gonna get in so much trouble this is amazing omigod and lauren’s stomach is light and fluttery and she can’t stop grinning.

they cover chris’ stupid black pick-up in dripping egg yolk–lauren has to throw the first one because jess is hiding behind her squealing, but eventually jess gets into it enough to snatch the carton–and then she starts whooping, and then they hear the school doors slam open and have to run, laughing so hard they can barely breathe.

(next part)

#lauren mallory #jessica stanley #angela weber #here it is #the start of my magnum opus i guess #it turns out that what i wanted from twilight all along was...#a completely non-supernatural story about a three-person girl gang???#i guess so #also can you believe mallory means unlucky #smeyer really said we're gonna give lauren as shitty of a time as possible

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goodomensblog · 5 years

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Such Great Heights

This is based on an ask: “ Imagine Crowley having found a book that contained Gustavedore’s artwork and he was looking at the depictions of angels and he casually says to Azirphale, none of them are as beautiful as you ~~~”

So I of course, had to hammer out a nearly 2 thousand word fic in which Crowley is jealous, Aziraphale is oblivious, and (probably excessively) dramatic confessions are made.

Such Great Heights

On a Tuesday in October, Aziraphale found himself in rare possession of a most quintessentially perfect afternoon.

Outside, trees, swathed in resplendent oranges and reds, shivered in delight at the autumnal breeze tickling their leaves. On his desk, steam rose from a freshly brewed cup of tea. And a new book waited, open and ready for his most ardent perusal.

Peaceful. Aziraphale reflected, lifting the steaming cup to his lips. It was peaceful.

Quiet too.

Aziraphale froze, cool ceramic pressing against his lips.

Entirely too quiet.

If Aziraphale were alone, the silence would have been acceptable - welcomed even. But the problem was this: he was not alone.

A few hours ago, Crowley had breezed in, colorful leaves swirling around him, moaning about boredom. He’d then proceeded to prowl around the shop, getting underfoot as Aziraphale read - er, worked - and being the general sort of nuisance that only a demon suffering from excessive boredom can be.

The last time Aziraphale had heard from him was half an hour ago.

As Aziraphale sorted some of his newer books, he’d heard Crowley somewhere near the back of the shop, doing what sounded like a frightful amount of rummaging. Aziraphale had resolved to put a stop to it - only to re-discover a book he’d been meaning to read, tucked, forgotten beneath a pile of texts.

Readying the book, Aziraphale had promptly hurried to brew a cup of tea.

Now, a few pages in, silence hung over the bookshop like a curse.

A loud, bored demon might a nuisance, but a silent, bored demon was dangerous.

Aziraphale frowned, sitting up. Setting the cup aside, he turned a wary glance over the shop.

“Crowley?” he called

No response.

Not good.

Aziraphale rose, swiftly marking his page. Straightening his vest with a determined tug, he marched toward the rear of the store - the last known location of Crowley’s mischief.

“Crowley?” he called again. “What have you gotten up to?”

Again, no response.

Sighing, Aziraphale circled the rear bookshelves, turning wary glances around each corner as he went.

It was between the Modern Art and the Art History shelves that he found him.

Crowley sat, gangly legs awkwardly crossed beneath him and an open book in his lap. He was surrounded by texts stacked haphazardly about, but this one had clearly caught and held his attention. His glasses were hooked in the collar of his shirt and he peered down, yellow gaze tracing the page.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale tried again. This time, reaching out to touch his shoulder.

Crowley startled, knee knocking a precarious pile of books over as his head jerked up.

Aziraphale jumped as well, surprised at Crowley’s surprise. Crowley so rarely let others sneak up upon him. Aziraphale rather thought Crowley enjoyed being the one doing the sneaking.

“Oh, er, hey Aziraphale.” Crowley spread his lips in a poor attempt at a smile. “What’re you doing back here?”

“I was looking for you,” Aziraphale said and frowned, leaning in to peer over Crowley’s shoulder. “What on earth are you - oh.”

Occupying an entire glossy page was a painting. Etched in shades of black, an angel stood. Head held high and sword, cruel and gleaming in hand, the angel watched, removed, as the weeping couple were expelled from Eden.

Crowley looked up, something like guilt crossing his expression as Aziraphale studied the art.

“Knew him, didn’t you? Doré.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale murmured and knelt beside him, reaching out to run a finger over the cool page.

“Angel, there’s, uh,” Crowley said, starting slow, “a bit of a resemblance. In some of the others too.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale sighed, and said, “I suppose there is.”

Crowley’s look turned sharp, and if Aziraphale didn’t know any better - accusing.

“You didn’t?”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, incredulous, “Didn’t what?”

“You know. Talk to him - about, er, angel stuff. About that day,” Crowley said, waving vaguely at the picture.

Aziraphale gaped at Crowley, shocked - and, if he was honest, more than a little hurt at the accusation.

“If you’re asking if I casually revealed my angelic nature to a random human and then told some good old angel stories for the fun of it, then the answer is no, Crowley.”

Aziraphale pressed on, distractedly tracing the image, “If you must know, while Gustave and I did discuss divinity and the immortal soul - it was purely scholarly in nature. Obviously if he knew anything about me as an angel he wouldn’t have painted me like-,” Aziraphale hesitated, frowning tightly as he looked upon the painted angel’s impassive face. “Well, I certainly hope he wouldn’t have painted me like that.”

There was a soft touch to his arm and Aziraphale drew his hand back from the page.

Crowley, looking distinctly uncomfortable, closed his eyes. Fingers tentatively brushing Aziraphale’s wrist, he cleared his throat and said, “I - I’m sorry angel. I shouldn’t have - I mean, forgive me. I let one of my own damn temptation tricks get the better of me.”

“Temptation tricks?” Aziraphale muttered.

“I don’t much like the taste of jealousy, angel. Prefer to inspire it in others.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale, said feeling lighter. “Oh. You thought-” and here, he hesitated, thinking of all of Gustave’s drawings of half clothed angels.

Well. That certainly might give someone the wrong idea.

Crowley slapped the book closed. “You know what, doesn’t matter what I thought.”

Aziraphale pulled it from his hands. “You thought Gustave and I - you thought we were,” and here Aziraphale meaningfully raised his brows.

Crowley made a face. “Oh come on, what is that even supposed to-”

“You know.”

“I absolutely do not-”

“You thought Gustave and I were in a sexual relationship!” Aziraphale crowed.

Crowley jerked back, upsetting another stack of books. “I did not think that,” he yelped - then immediately frowned, “Wait, were you?”

“Of course not, I just told you-” Aziraphale cut himself off with a waved hand. “Then what did you think we were?”

Twisting his lips, Crowley shrugged and shook his head.

“Oh come on-”

“Nothing.”

“Crowley-”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about-”

“Will you just-”

“No-”

“- please tell-”

“Ughh - I thought you were in love, alright?”

The confession burst from Crowley, and going red, he ducked his head to look down at the book in Aziraphale’s hands.

“I thought he loved you, and you loved him back. And so you’d told him about, well, everything.”

Aziraphale looked at him, uncomprehending. “No. I did not love him. And Crowley, I’m pretty sure the only person in existence who knows even close to everything is-”

He stopped.

Crowley sat there, golden red hair ruffled and glasses dangling haphazardly from his collar - uncharacteristically exposed.

Looking at him, Aziraphale finished softly, “-you.”

With a bitter shake of his head, Crowley turned away. Facing the darkened space between shelves, he muttered. “Never been much good at sharing, angel.”

In Aziraphale’s stomach a complicated, giddy feeling brewed - as if he stood, peering down from atop a great height. Reaching for Crowley felt a lot like curling his toes over the edge.

A soft touch was all it took to turn Crowley’s head.

“Crowley.” He said his name like a question.

Crowley reached, fumbling for his glasses.

Aziraphale stopped him with another soft touch. This time, atop his shaking hand.

“You don’t need those. Not here,” Aziraphale said, then frowned. “Unless you do?”

He released his hand, unwilling to deny Crowley this comfort, however-much he desired to see the truth in his gaze.

Crowley’s hand brushed over the glasses, then dropped, limp in his lap.

With a deep sigh, he spoke. “He must have thought of you often, angel. The likeness is uncanny. But the thing is-” When he looked up, his face was open, vulnerable, excruciatingly expressive. “-the art falls so painfully short.”

“Oh,” was all Aziraphale managed.

Crowley swallowed. “It’s missed your smile, for a start.”

“Oh,” was his next inelegant reply.

“The color in your cheeks.”

“Oh.”

“The kindness in your eyes.”

“Oh.” Then, “Crowley.”

“Angel?”

Aziraphale stared at him, wonder blossoming beneath his skin. “How long?”

“Far longer than Doré dared.”

Aziraphale opened and closed his mouth, vainly seeking words that wouldn’t come. It was only when Crowley moved to rise that they leapt up, tripping over each other to rush out of Aziraphale’s stuttering mouth.

“You mean to say - that is,” he winced, and stepped off the ledge, “you’ve loved me through all the years I spent falling in love with you?”

And Crowley was there - of course he was, catching him even before his stomach had finished it’s first flip.

Knees bumping Aziraphale’s, he knelt before him, hands cradling his face.

“Angel,” he whispered, bright gaze tracing Aziraphale’s face. “Were I an artist, I’d paint you better than he did. Better than any of the fools who thought they loved you.”

“Just exactly how many artists do you think have-”

“Oh angel, more than you know,” Crowley said, and shook himself. “Doesn’t matter though.”

“And why’s that?” Aziraphale asked, looking from Crowley’s curving brows to his determinedly set lips.

“Because I -” he hesitated, then with a dip of his head, steeled himself. “I loved you before them, angel. And I’ll still be loving you, long after the last artist has used you as their muse. I’m yours, angel,” he said, and swallowed. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Angel. I do,” Crowley said. And between musty bookshelves, Crowley leaned in, and brushed a painfully tender kiss against his lips.

Aziraphale, feeling distinctly like they both might be falling in a wondrous, thrilling fashion, whispered against his lips, “I want you. Until time slows and stops. And then throughout whatever comes after.”

“There is no after time, angel.”

“If there is-”

“You’ll have me.”

“And when the lights go out in the universe?”

“You’ll still have me.”

“Well what about space,” Aziraphale said, smiling at this new game, “when the universe shrinks-”

Crowley silenced him with a kiss, then swore softly against his lips. “Always, angel. It took me six thousand bloody years to get to this point. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I guess we really have Gustave to thank for that - getting us here.”

Crowley groaned, and quieted him with another kiss.

“Don’t think-” Aziraphale said, laughing and gasping between kisses, “that you can - use this to shut - me up - whenever you want - now.”

“I can bloody well try,” Crowley said, and kissed him again.

Eventually Aziraphale pulled back, feeling glow-y and quite warm. “You know what? I think I’ll close the shop early today.”

“Oh?”

“I’ll miracle us up some cheese and crackers and a nice bottle of Chateau Mouton, and we can,” he stalled, looking at Crowley and thinking of all that was no longer forbidden, “start making up for lost time.”

Crowley’s mouth fell open.

“I’ll close the shop. You clean up those,” Aziraphale said, nodding to the toppled books.

He’d barely taken a step when the air cracked with twin snaps - followed immediately by a third.

He turned to see the aisle miraculously clear of books, and with a quick glance over his shoulder, confirmed that the “open” sign was now turned to “closed” and the doors were locked.

“Done and done,” Crowley said. Holding out an arm, he grinned positively devilishly, and said, “Shall we, angel? I’ve already miracled the wine.”

“Oh, if you insist,” Aziraphale said, and took his arm with a smile.

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

Bonus:

“Wait,” Aziraphale said, “Earlier, you said ‘if I were an artist.’ Crowley, have you ever tried to draw me?”

“I mean, yeah? Maybe? One or twice,” Crowley shrugged.

Aziraphale is understandably shocked when, years later, he finally convinces Crowley to show him the art - and Crowley takes him to a goddamn warehouse.

#my writing #ineffable husbands #ineffable boyfriends #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley fic #aziraphale x crowley fanfic #fanfic #good omens #good omens fanfiction #good omens fanfic #good omens fic #aziraphale #crowley #anthony j crowley #otp: ineffable #ineffable husbands fic #ineffable husbands fanfiction #crowley x aziraphale fic

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mortuarybees · 5 years

Text

It looks like this:

The aquarium is cool and dark and, apart from the occasional screams of delighted children, it’s quiet. Aziraphale is holding onto Crowley’s arm, fingers pinching the folds of his worn leather jacket, beaming all around, and Crowley feels warm pride blooming in his stomach. He gave him this. He looks like he’s entered a whole new world, the childlike glee and fascination naked on his face; and even better, he looks at Crowley like he’s handed him all its wonders on a platter.

They don’t get to do things like this often; they make the rounds of the British Museum, the Tate, the parks and public gardens, they’ve probably been to every free museum in the city at least three times over, and they enjoy it; but they don’t often visit places like this, places that cost £40 for just one of them to get in. Christ, the last time was probably for their tenth anniversary, Les Mis on the West End, and they’d saved for a year for seats in the dress circle and a bottle of wine.

(It looks like this:

Crowley waits tables at a posh restaurant in Mayfair, Monday-Friday. It’s miserable, but the tips are better than he’s ever had anywhere else, and it’s there that he met the Dowlings. Their son is a menace; nothing calms him, nothing satisfies or entertains. He threw pasta at the German ambassador’s son and made him scream so loud every wine glass in the place vibrated, and Crowley had seen the helpless look on his mother’s face, the storm brewing in his father’s, and swooped in without another thought, putting on an exaggerated posh accent like some butler from one of Aziraphale’s boring, oddly captivating shows and waited on him the rest of the night as if he were a little despot, pointing out that pelting ones subjects with bread was quite unbecoming of a little prince. He laughed and adopted a dignified air, delighting in ordering Crowley about and racking up his parent’s bill, but he didn’t throw a plate at anyone, so it was an improvement.

At the end of the evening, Mrs. Dowling hadn’t so much asked as told him she’d be hiring him; their nanny had demanded Saturdays off as a break from the little beast, and they needed someone to babysit, because Mrs. Dowling couldn’t possibly be expected to watch him herself. The pay was good, and with living expenses in London what they were and Aziraphale getting his hours cut, he wouldn’t dream of saying no.

There were other perks, too, like Mrs. Dowling throwing him tickets to the London Aquarium some MP had sent them for Warlock’s birthday; she’d taken him once, and he’d tried to steal a little shark from the touch tank. Never again, she said, take your girlfriend. She glanced at his ring. Wife?)

“Oh, Crowley, dear, look,” Aziraphale cries, pulling him towards one of the tanks. He presses the hand that isn’t on Crowley’s arm against the glass, his eyes wide and bright as a full moon. “A jellyfish! Don’t they just look so marvelous? It’s like they’re dancing.” Crowley smiles and presses closer to his side. "They're my favorite fish, I think. They just look so ethereal."

"Jellyfish aren't fish, angel," Crowley says, bemused. "They're...I dunno, jello."

"Don't be ridiculous, Crowley, it's in the name," he tells him, very patiently. "They wouldn't be in an aquarium if they weren't fish."

"Dolphins aren't fish and they're in the aquarium," Crowley points out, quite sensibly. Aziraphale still hasn't looked away from the jellyfish, and Crowley still hasn't looked away from Aziraphale. He likes the fish, he does, but there's something a thousand times more fascinating about watching Aziraphale watching them.

"Of course dolphins are fish," Aziraphale says. His brow furrows. "They live in the ocean, dear, I've seen Planet Earth."

(It looks like this:

Crowley practically runs home from the bus stop, barely getting his wild grin under control before he barges into their flat. Aziraphale is cooking, doing whatever it is he does that makes store brand pasta and sauce from Tesco's taste less like chalk. He hides the tickets behind his back--he held them in his hands the whole way home, leg bouncing, feeling as giddy as he had on the way to their first date--adopting an innocent expression, but Aziraphale isn't fooled; he gives him a suspicious look the moment he sees him and says, "What are you up to, you old serpent?"

"Oh, nothing," he says, very convincingly--he did theater in college, he's an excellent actor, thanks--and strolls over to give him a kiss in greeting, slides up behind him and puts his chin on his shoulder to peer down into the sauce. "Smells good."

"Thank you, dear," Aziraphale says, preening.

"What are you doing tomorrow after church?" he asks, and Aziraphale cuts him a curious look out of the corner of his eye.

"Thought we'd feed the pigeons," he says. "What are you doing tomorrow?"

"Oh, thought I'd take this handsome man I picked up somewhere to the London Aquarium," he says, as casually as he can with the excitement buzzing in his veins. "Make a date of it."

Aziraphale laughs. "Is that so? If you're busy, I suppose I'll make a trip to Paris, pick up some crepes."

"That'd be for the best," Crowley agrees, and he puts his arms around him, casually fanning the tickets in front of him. "You wouldn't believe how hot this guy is, and I'm hoping I'll get lucky. I'll put a sock on the door in case you're back early."

Aziraphale gasps, putting the sauce spoon carefully on the trivet so he can grab the tickets, squinting at them as if he's afraid they're forged. "Crowley! Oh, my dear, you didn't!"

"He's a classy one," Crowley says, grinning. "Takes something special to impress."

"But how can we afford these? We're behind on the electric bill, dear, and my hours--"

"Relax, angel, Mrs. Dowling gave them to me," Crowley says, running a reassuring hand down his arm. "Totally free. Well, at the cost of my sanity, maybe, but that's not a bad deal in this economy."

"Crowley," Aziraphale breathes, and he turns in Crowley's arms to face him. He's looking at Crowley like he's hung the moon, and he leans in to kiss him like he could live off the taste of his lips alone.)

They enter a room that's mostly empty; watch a mother play peekaboo with her daughter, the father holding the girl on one side of a tank, the mother ducking behind fish and corral on the other, making the girl squeal with delight.

Crowley has glitter in his hair--from the night before, but he also just likes the way it looks, so he put more in this morning, gold bright in his red hair--and some of it has stuck to Aziraphale's cheek, and the otherworldly light of the water catches it just right, makes it shine like stars. It is not uncommon for Crowley to cover Aziraphale in glitter; so much is ingrained in the fibers of the tweed jacket he wears it looks gilded in the right light.

"He doth teach the torches to burn bright," Crowley says softly, touching the glitter on his cheek, and Aziraphale smiles at him, cheeks coloring. He gets an idea, and waits until the family has moved on to take Aziraphale's hand in his. "If I profane with my unworthiest hand / This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this: / My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand / To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss."

Aziraphale beams at him. "Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much," he says. "Which mannerly devotion shows in this, / For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, / And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss." He presses their hands flat together, and leans in to kiss him, but Crowley steps back. Aziraphale's brow furrows, his lips pulling into a pout, and he clasps their hands together again to keep him from moving away. Crowley goes anyway, darting to the other side of the tank to peer at him through the impossible water, and God, he looks so good in blue. Aziraphale's breath hitches, his lips parting.

(It looks like this:

They met in an Intro to Philosophy class in 1996, nearly coming to blows even on the first day, the simple question of 'What is Philosophy?' Crowley couldn't help but antagonize him, loved how he looked when he was frustrated and indignant, how he thumbed the cross around his neck when Crowley had gotten into his head. He threw an argument about Kant, who he frankly considered to be full of shit, so Aziraphale would be in a good mood after class.

He wasn't, though, he was just suspicious, demanding to know why he'd conceded when he'd spent all semester insisting there is no Categorical Imperative, no supreme moral code, that the only consideration that should be taken in a course of action is the consequences it will have, and he was as frustrated as he'd ever been in the heat of an argument, and he looked beautiful.

"I was distracted," Crowley said. "Thinking about this poster I saw, for that new Romeo and Juliet movie. You like Shakespeare, don't you?" He did. He knew he did. He'd noticed him, furiously annotating in the margins of an old copy of Hamlet that was more notes than text; he had this wretchedly charming little Stratford-upon-Avon tourist pin he wore all the time.

"I...am?" Aziraphale said, blinking at him. He had the most wonderful eyes. Crowley had noticed the very first day, when they'd gone wide at some horribly blasphemous comment Crowley threw out to shock and impress.

"Do you have plans tonight?" Crowley couldn't help bouncing on the balls of his feet, practically vibrating with excitement; he'd seen Aziraphale in the audience of their production of Twelfth Night, alone but looking like he was in Heaven, hanging on every word, and then he'd seen that poster, and he'd known, that was the ticket. Well, the tickets would be the ticket. Anyway.

"Not...really?" Aziraphale said, brow furrowing.

"Great, so you wanna go with me?"

"Go where?"

"To see the new Romeo and Juliet," Crowley said, and he felt he'd been quite smooth about it all, even if his palms were sweating.

"With you?" Aziraphale looked completely baffled.

"Yes, with me," he said. Please, please, please, Crowley didn't pray, because he hadn't prayed since he was thirteen and realized that if they expected young men to be straight, it was kind of ridiculous of the church to make Jacob Wrestling the Angel look like that, and the whole foundation of the church in his mind just kind of tumbled from there; but he did put it out into the universe, just in case someone was listening. Please, please, please, I never ask for anything. Not of the universe, anyway.

"I...you want me to go with you?" Aziraphale looked like he was doing a particularly difficult math problem and none of the numbers were adding up right. It would be charming, and might make his chest feel a little tighter, that he was this unused to being asked out on dates, but it was more just frustrating. He was losing his nerve.

"Just meet me at the theater with the discount tickets for students at seven, alright?" Crowley said impatiently, and Aziraphale, still confused but looking relieved at having specific instructions, nodded. The moment he'd left the building, he'd pumped his fist, grinning like a madman, unaware that Aziraphale could still see him through a window in the corridor.)

"Have not saints lips?" Crowley asks from the other side of the tank, giving him a coy look. "And holy palmers too?"

"Ay, pilgrim, lips they must use in prayer," Aziraphale says, with a delighted smile.

"O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do," Crowley says, and darts around the tank. Aziraphale dodges him, going to the other side to throw him a mischievous look. "They pray," Crowley whines, "grant thou, lest faith turn to despair!"

"Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake," Aziraphale says; and the breathless joy as he'd watched the jellyfish was nothing compared to what's on his face now, and Crowley is dizzy with it.

"Then move not," Crowley begs, crossing to the other side of the tank slowly, "while my prayer's affect I take." Aziraphale stands still, watching him, and tilts his chin just a little, lips parting.

(It looks like this:

Leonardo Dicaprio sees Claire Danes through the aquarium for the first time, and Crowley leans in, his breath ghosting against the shell of Aziraphale's ear. "That's how I felt when I first saw you," he says.

"You do know how the play ends, don't you?" Aziraphale says, voice shaking just a little. He's trying to tease, but there's a note of sincerity too.

"They were kids," Crowley says. "I know better than to trust a friar. Besides, it was beautiful, wasn't it? How they loved each other despite everything."

Aziraphale looks at him; he really looks, his eyes bright in the dark theater, and then he turns away. Crowley's heart sinks, but before he can start kicking himself, Aziraphale takes his hand, his cheeks pink, and Crowley glows.)

Crowley kisses him as tenderly as he has for twenty years. Their first wasn't after their first date, or their second, or their third; but it had been worth the wait, their shaking breath and trembling hands, the certainty of their lips, and Crowley knew then, the moment their lips met, with the same conviction he felt now after two decades, that he would spend the rest of a long and glorious life with Aziraphale.

"Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged," he whispers, and Aziraphale's hands grip the lapels of his leather jacket.

"Then have my lips the sin that they have took?" Aziraphale says, and Crowley grins wolfishly.

"Sin from thy lips? O, trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again," he demands, and Aziraphale pulls him into another kiss, smiling against his lips, letting Crowley press him back against the cool glass of the tank until they hear footsteps echoing and the chatter of voices. Crowley breaks the kiss to rest his forehead against Aziraphale's, catching his breath, though the waver of light across his face isn't helping, nor is the way the light from behind makes his curls look like a halo. His angel, indeed.

"You kiss by th' book," Aziraphale whispers.

"Teenagers," grumbles the voice of a man, when he sees the outline of two figures embraced on the other side of a tank, and Crowley barks out a laugh, taking a step back. He takes Aziraphale's hand, and leads him blushing into the next room, feeling smug when he hears the same voice exclaim that they're older than he is, they ought to know better.

"Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon," Crowley says, pulling him closer to link their arms again. "Who is already sick and pale with grief, / that thou art far more fair than he."

"Don't be rude, darling," Aziraphale laughs, but he's beaming, gentle as the soft lightening of the horizon, bright and radiant as the sun beneath it, and Crowley--oh, Crowley loves him.

(inspired by 1996 romeo and juliet; conversation with @saaliyah and @genderqueercrowley about r+j and Them; conversation with @transsouthernpansy about Aquariums; when john mulaney said That about his wife annamarie tendler; please read @genderqueercrowley‘s fic i keep a window for you (it’s always open) that makes much better use of shakespeare; part of human au)

#henry speaks #good omens #human au #ineffable husbands #sorry this is so long yall i got carried away lmao #henry writes

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lady-divine-writes · 5 years

Text

Kama Sutra for the Married Man

Summary: Aziraphale thinks that he should take his and Crowley’s relationship to another level.

From the book his angel is reading, Crowley isn’t sure exactly what level that is.

Neither does Aziraphale. (1744 words)

Notes: Inspired in part by this wonderful piece of fanart by @millerizo. Rated PG13. Fluff and a lot of second hand embarrassment.

(AO3)

“Whotcha got there, angel?”

“Crowley! Oh!” Aziraphale twists in his seat, jumping nearly six feet straight in the air when his husband walks through the door. “I didn’t hear you come in!”

“Obviously. Is that a new book?” Crowley grabs it out of Aziraphale’s hands before the angel can think to hide it. “Must be good. You look like I caught you with your hand in the cookie jar.”

“What!? What are you talking about? That? Th-that’s nothing! It’s just a boring old book. Just got it in. Taking a browse before I put it on the shelf.” He tries to swipe it back, but his husband is too quick, perching on the back of the sofa across the way and opening it, picking up where Aziraphale left off.

“Whoa!” Crowley barks a laugh at the first picture he sees. “Well that was a little white lie, wasn’t it, angel?” He leans in close, squinting at the diagrams crowding the page, then flips to the cover to check the title for more context. “Kama Sutra for the Married Man?” He chuckles once, high pitched and giddy, and on Aziraphale’s small cushion, the world skids on its axis and stops cold. “Now where do you expect this fits in with all the children’s books Adam stocked in this place?”

“Well, I …”

“Wait, wait, wait! Don’t tell me!” Crowley interrupts, choking on his own joke. “Between The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew, right?”

Aziraphale pinches his knees together, praying that, at some point, he’ll dissolve into the ground beneath his feet. “A-actually …”

“Seriously, though - why in the world are you reading this?”

Crowley stares at Aziraphale, waiting for an answer.

Aziraphale stares at the floor, hoping to spontaneously discorporate.

He sighs, shifts in his seat and rolls his eyes. It’s just a book, he tells himself. A book full of explicit and vulgar pictures. Crowley is his husband. It shouldn’t be hard to talk about this. He clears his throat, attempting to shoo a metric ton of discomfort and embarrassment from his brain.

“Because we’re married now, Crowley. Married people …” Aziraphale continues, but using only vague hand gestures to express his meaning. The half-smirk growing on Crowley’s face as he watches him suffer through this explanation spears him to the bone. “Isn’t that something you want to … do?”

“I’ve never asked for this, have I?” Crowley spins the book 180 degrees, trying to make sense of the next picture on the page.

“No, but I thought it was because you were being …”

Crowley’s head snaps up, his slotted, reptilian eyes fixed on his husband’s face. “Don’t say it!”

“… nice.”

Crowley groans, flailing dramatically, nearly falling head over heels backwards. “I told you not to say it!”

“Or you don’t want me,” Aziraphale murmurs under his breath. It’s soft, downright imperceptible, but Crowley hears, and it makes him take notice. He takes a good long look at his husband for the first time tonight. Aziraphale has already showered, his hair combed down neatly and he’s dressed for bed, but in his best dressing gown. A sublte sniff tells Crowley he’s splashed on his best cologne.

Those clues and this book?

Crowley slowly begins to understand.

Whatever this is about (and Crowley has a good idea …) it’s not spontaneous. He’s been planning this.

But they haven’t spoken about it. Aziraphale came up with this on his own, based off an assumption.

And now he’s making another one.

Crowley shakes his head, amused grin on his face trying its hardest to be sympathetic, but he can’t help himself. Aziraphale is the most clever being he’s ever known. Why is it then he can also be so incredibly dense?

“Does anything you’ve seen in this book make you comfortable, angel?”

Aziraphale recalls the few diagrams he’d seen before Crowley snatched the book away. They make him shudder, and not in a good way. He knows about physical affection, intimacy, and sex, but the stuff in that book looked medieval … and that coming from someone who lived during the Spanish Inquisition. Frankly, the thought of it all – the sweet and the severe - makes Aziraphale anxious, sweating like a condemned man minutes from a beheading (yet another situation he has first-hand knowledge of) and angels don’t even sweat! But Crowley’s a demon. They’re more like humans in that regard, Aziraphale finds. Demon needs are different than that of angels, right?

Aziraphale doesn’t know for certain. He couldn’t find the time – or the courage – to ask.

He pulls himself up straight and squares his shoulders, hands gripping his knees till his knuckles turn white, but he can’t look his husband in the eyes. “No, but …” He swallows hard enough to make his throat and chest ache “… I’d be willing to do it … for you? If that’s what you wanted?”

Crowley nods at the response of his adorable but oblivious husband. “A-ha. Well, let me have a look-see, alright?” He flips through the pages of the book, not really focusing on the pictures, more stalling to give himself time to think. They’ve only talked about sex once that he can remember. It wasn’t even in the context of their relationship (since, at the time, they hadn’t owned up to having one) but Aziraphale turned into a stuttering mess. Crowley would be willing to revisit that discussion if Aziraphale wishes. But there’s a tremendous difference between making love and the carnal gymnastics outlined in this book. Why Aziraphale thought this was the direction Crowley would want to go is beyond him. “There’s a pretty picture, if I do say so!” he growls, delighting in the shade of ruby red his angel becomes. “Though I think there’s about four people wrapped up in that ball of coital agony. I’m having a little trouble pinpointing all the limbs … And this one? No. I’d have to be in serpent form to pull that one off. And this …” He throws his head back and honestly laughs out loud “… well, we could get into this one, but we’d have to miracle our way out, and I can just imagine the angry letters you’d get over that!” Crowley flips through more pages, muttering commentary for the sake of torturing his husband, who’s become as petrified as an ancient tree stump. In the dead middle of the book, Crowley finally comes up with a plan. He bites his lower lip, suppressing a smile. “Ah, I think this one’s more our speed.” He climbs down from the back of the couch to settle on the cushions where he can look his angel in the eye. “Number 117.”

“A-and, pray tell, wh-what is that?” Aziraphale asks, trying to peek over the top of the book to see. But like any good poker player, Crowley keeps it close to his chest, out of his angel’s view.

“It’s where I carry you to bed,” Crowley says smoothly, “tuck you under the covers, and bring you a tray of tea and biscuits. We read a book, you fall asleep in my arms, and we call it a day.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows snap together so quickly, Crowley swears they make a sound. “Is that really in there?”

Crowley closes the book, index finger wedged between the pages to save the spot, challenging his angel to call his bluff. “If you’re determined to go through with this, we’ll do what’s underneath my finger. Do you honestly want to check and risk proving me wrong?”

Aziraphale’s eyes fall on the book and stay there. No, he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to prove Crowley wrong. He knows Crowley is lying. Demons lie – that’s what they do. Even the better ones. But not all lies are necessarily bad. Some lies spare people from hurt feelings, keep them from doing things they’re not prepared to do. But now, he feels more than a bit foolish. He hadn’t exactly been gung ho about the plan he’d come up with for tonight, but this is a bit of a letdown.

But that has to do with his own self-doubt and feelings of inadequacy.

In the six thousand years they’ve known one another, Crowley has never done a single thing, said a single word to make Aziraphale feel inadequate. There’ve been the odd jokes, of course, the way friends will, but none of them ever hit at the heart of Aziraphale. He pictured that same energy carrying them through this small change in their relationship.

But as it turned out, that change wasn’t so small. Transitioning from friends to husbands flipped a handful of otherwise dormant switches in Aziraphale’s mind, made him start to question whether or not who he was was enough.

Crowley is just so much, and Aziraphale?

He’s so soft.

Crowley obviously fell in love with the angel he is, and has never asked him to change, but Aziraphale began to think that his demon needed something more.

At the time, he felt his logic was sound.

He should have realized that love is all that matters, and his husband loves him enough to give him an out.

Shouldn’t he take it?

“Number 117 it is!” he says, patting his poor strangled knees. “I’ll start the kettle!”

“And I’ll get the biscuits.” Crowley tosses the book aside, miracling it with a snap of his fingers into a signed first edition of The Adventures of Beekle – The Unimaginary Friend, which he feels better fits both his angel and his shop.

Both stand, meeting in the middle on their way to the kitchen. Aziraphale stops Crowley with a hand to his bicep, looks into his husband’s eyes, and smiles. “Thank you, Crowley.”

He starts on his way but Crowley winds an arm around his waist and holds him still against him.

“Make no mistake, angel,” he whispers, lips dancing kissing-distance from his ear. “I want you, but my reasons have nothing to do with sex. Nothing at all. If it’s not important to you, it’s not important to me. Understand?”

Aziraphale blushes for the nineteenth time during this conversation, but in a softer, less scandalized shade of pink. With the touch of Crowley’s arm doing weird things to his head, Aziraphale utters the only two words that pop to mind.

Incidentally, they’re the only two words he could come up with at their wedding, when Crowley’s fond eyes on Aziraphale’s face affected him this same exact way.

“I do.”

#Good Omens #Good Omens Fanfic #ineffable husbands #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #Frankie writes

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spac3bar7end3r · 4 years

Text

The Times Aziraphale Realized He Had Fallen (in love with a demon)

2128 words

Read on Ao3

1 Time Right After They Get on That Bus

Aziraphale feels too giddy to realize that he didn’t only grab the demon’s hand but is also cradling it in his hands, talking happily about their dinner.

“It’s already late. All the stores are gonna close soon and you don’t like pubs that much.” Crowley says, looking down at their intertwining hands but says nothing about them. Now that he takes notice, Aziraphale also glances down at them. He cannot see past the sunglasses, so he assumes Crowley doesn’t think much about it.

He feels his heart beats weirdly. Is this the effect of the Antichrist bringing his body back? He doesn’t think so. He felt like this from time to time since... well, he never takes note, but now it’s stronger than before.

“Angel?” Crowley calls him when he notices Aziraphale spacing out.

“Oh, well, I prefer a quiet place.” Aziraphale answers and Crowley acknowledges it with some kind of noise from his throat.

“I was thinking maybe we can cook? Unless you don’t like cooking at your place then I totally under--”

“Yeah, we can.” Crowley quickly answers. “I’ve never used my kitchen before but you’re welcome to use it.”

Crowley’s kitchen is spotlessly clean. Well, it’s not like the demon needs to cook. They don’t even need to eat. However, Aziraphale appreciates the kitchen. He’s not sure why Crowley bothered to build it since he won’t ever use it anyway.

“Hey Angel, do you normally sleep? I have a spare room and I can miracle a bed for you.” Crowley’s head appears on the doorway. He takes off his glasses and Aziraphale is really glad for that. He really likes Crowley’s eyes.

“I don’t sleep but I lie on it sometimes. You don’t have to do that though, I can read some books in the living room. We’ve spent a lot of our power during the day.”

“Nah, It’s not that hard to miracle a bed, or if you want to spare my power we can sleep on the same bed.” Crowley grins.

Aziraphale blushes. He doesn’t know why. Although he likes the look on Crowley’s face. Although Crowley smiles a lot, most of the time it should be counted as sneering instead. But here in Crowley’s home, he smiles with eyes glinting and mouth spreading widely. Crowley’s being playful and he loves that.

He loves Crowley’s smile.

He loves Crowley.

…

Oh.

He’s stupid. He’s an angel. He’s supposed to detect the feeling of love, but he can’t even recognize it when it comes from himself.

“What?” Crowley’s eyebrows raising when he sees Aziraphale blushing.

“No, no, nothing at all.”

They had dinner later that evening (mostly Aziraphale’s part and Crowley just drank and stared). They talked about what ‘changing face’ from Agnes’s prophecy could be before they decide yes, literally changing face it is. Why not?

So that’s why he looks like Crowley, staring dazedly in Crowley’s bathroom mirror the morning after, waiting for what may come after.

“I’ll be damn.”

Aziraphale is not sure whether he cannot cope with the thought that Gabriel might come and get him or the thought of him falling in love with his best friend.

1 Time When Crowley Gives Him His Plant

“What’s this?”

“Mint,” Crowley answers curtly.

“And what do I do with it? Eat?”

Crowley rolls his eyes, pointing his hands at the pot in Aziraphale’s hands. “Angel, it’s in a bloody pot. You grow it.”

“Who? Me?” Aziraphale pointed at himself in a confused manner. Why would Crowley suddenly give him mint? Aziraphale doesn’t have something you would call a green thumb.

“Yesss! I’m giving it to you. A gift!” Crowley’s voice gets higher.

“A gift! Dear, thank you. What’s the occasion?” Aziraphale smiles brightly. He lowers his head to smell the fresh scent of the leaves.

“Ughhh…. Housewarming? You didn’t move but it’s technically a new home. Uh, since that Adam kid built it back and stuff.” Crowley mumbles.

“Oh, you’re so sweet.” Aziraphale smiles at Crowley, his heart feels warm. He tries to control it. He doesn’t know if Crowley still feels love like an angel or not but he’s not gonna risk it and make it weird.

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m gonna put it in the book shop. Can’t wait to see it grow!” Aziraphale says chirpily.

“I will come and see it from time to time to make sure that it grows alright.” Crowley stares intensely at the plant in the pot. Its leaves shake lightly.

“Please do. I know you’re good at taking care of plants.” And I want you to visit me more often. Aziraphale didn’t say that out loud. He stares at the plant. It doesn’t look keen to meet Crowley often. Aziraphale wants to pity the poor plant, but he wants to see Crowley more.

1 Time When He Wants What Anathema and Newt Have

One Saturday morning Crowley decides to drive Aziraphale to Tadfield to visit Anathema. Anathema told them about Agnes’ book and how they decided to burn it while Newt is looking busy in the kitchen.

“I know it’s the best for them but a little part of me wants to know what Agnes wrote.”

“Probably something nice, and accurate,” Crowley says nonchalantly. Aziraphale gazes fondly at Crowley being Crowley. He knows it the same gaze Anathema used to look at Newt.

The only difference is they have each other while Aziraphale doesn’t have Crowley.

Ouch. That’s hurt a bit. Aziraphale doesn’t know where it hurts but still.

He has Crowley. Crowley is everywhere when he needs him. He always has dinner with Aziraphale. He even gave him plant! But Aziraphale wants more. He craves. He craves the longing look and the touching, the thing that humans do.

A part of him wishes Crowley would notice it but another part of him knows it would be a terrible idea.

“I want to know about something.” Like his future with Crowley. Did Agnes know about how Aziraphale would fall in love with a demon? He believes she did, but what would happen after this though?

“What? What do you want to know?” Crowley raises his left eyebrow, looking curious.

“Just...stuff,” Aziraphale answers. His gaze shifts to the window. “Oh look, the them are here! Let’s greet them.”

Aziraphale stands up abruptly and walks to the front door. Crowley knows the Angel is hiding something but he doesn’t know what it is.

1 Time When Crowley Realizes Aziraphale Has a Secret And Discover What It is

“This place has a lot of plants.” Crowley looks around, scrutinizing leaves and flowers of the plants inside the restaurant. It might be Aziraphale’s imagination but he feels the plants’ nervousness, or maybe that feeling is oozing from himself. He wants to make sure that Crowley likes it here.

“They do.” Aziraphale nods. “I think you would find it more interesting if there’s a place you can enjoy too.”

“What? I always enjoy myself every time I’m with you,” Crowley says easily and Aziraphale wants to smile. He knows Crowley doesn’t mean it like that but still, it’s good to hear that Crowley enjoy being with him.

“But you just always sit and stare. Well, and drink occasionally.”

“That’s how I enjoy myself.” Crowley takes a sip out of his glass. Aziraphale looks at the demon from under his lashes and smiles.

“But sometimes I enjoy talking too, you know.” Crowley interrupts the meal suddenly as if he’s been keeping to himself for a while and wants to let it out.

“Yeah, dear, me too.” Aziraphale nods.

“Well, then…” Crowley shifts himself in his seat. He leans back and looks at Aziraphale’s face seriously before asking, “What’s with you lately? You’re keeping something from me. I can feel it.”

What? This fast? Aziraphale thinks to himself.

“What do you mean?” The angel feigns casualness. He raises one of his eyebrows at Crowley.

“Angel, lately you’ve been...spacing out when we’re together. What are you thinking? Did those guys from Up There say something to you?” Crowley’s eyebrows knitting. He looks concerned and Aziraphale is beginning to panic.

Should he tell Crowley or should he not?

“Well, It’s been six thousand years, I ought to have a secret or two, don't I?” Aziraphale coughs lightly. He feigns ignorance as he picking vegetables on the plate. Crowley hums lightly.

“Secrets? I love secrets.”

And I love you. Aziraphale thinks to himself while looking at Crowley from under his eyelashes, blushing.

“What is it, angel? We don’t need to have secrets anymore, you know?”

“Erm--I will tell you, dear, when the time is right.” Aziraphale wipes the sweat on his forehead nervously (He has been living in this body for a long time, well, except that time with Madame Tracy, but he’s never realized he could sweat like this. Not even the time when God asked about her sword, not Armageddon, but this).

Crowley squints his eyes, looking like a snake, well he is a snake after all.

“When is the right time? Time is stupid,” Crowley says and Aziraphale shrugs.

Crowley is going to say something again but Aziraphale secretly signalled a waiter to come to their table and the conversation is interrupted.

- - -

Crowley’s fingers are lightly knocking at the steering wheel while they’re driving back to the city. Aziraphale can see that there’s something inside his best friend’s mind but he doesn’t want to speak it out. In case the demon still wants to know about his secret.

“That meal was so delightful, wasn’t it?” Aziraphale tries to change the subject, for the fourth time since they got inside the Bently.

“Yeah, I guess.” Crowley nods and looks outside the window.

“I noticed they had the same plants you have back in your pl--”

“Angel, what is your secret?” Crowley asks again. He doesn’t seem like he wants to talk about plants. At all.

Aziraphale knows that he likes--or even loves Crowley, but he’s never thought liking someone would be this hard to keep it to himself, even though he’s an angel, for god’s sake.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to…”

“I just want to know in case I can do something about it. I believe I can do something about it.” Crowley steps on the brake pedal before he turns his head completely to Aziraphale.

That’s it. He doesn’t care anymore if the demon knows or not.

“Fine! If you must know, Crowley, I’ve fallen!” Aziraphale lets his frustration out.

“What? Who told you? Gabriel?” Crowley looks around then looks at Aziraphale as if he’s expecting a pair of black wings coming out of his Angel’s back.

“No, I’ve fallen...in love…. with you.” Aziraphale sighs dramatically.

“Oh well, angel.” Crowley sighs, shaking his head.

Aziraphale swallows. Is this where Crowley says Aziraphale is spending too much time on earth and thinks too much like a human?

“Took you long enough.” Crowley smiles. He steps on the gas pedal and before Aziraphale knows it, they’re already parking in front of the book shop.

And The Time When Crowley Confesses That He Has Fallen Twice

“You expect me to fall? I mean--to fall in love with you?”

“Well, yes! It’s normal to want the feelings to be reciprocated, isn’t it?”

“Reci--Crowley, are you saying what I’m thinking?”

Crowley rolls his eyes, “Yes, Aziraphale, I am hopelessly, stupidly, in love with you,” Crowley says, leaning back on his seat.

“But I--”

“I hope you would fall for me. Well, not literally fall like me but being romantically in love with me. I’ve been hoping that for years.”

Aziraphale looks at Crowley then look at the world outside the Bentley, to convince himself that he isn’t hallucinating.

“You know...I’ve fallen twice.”

Aziraphale tilts his head. He doesn’t understand what the demon means.

“First time was up there and the second one was with you.” Crowley nods his head to Aziraphale’s direction. “I fell in love with a bloody angel, a stupid one,” Crowley complains. “I mean, I think I was pretty obvious--I knew I was pretty obvious, with all the invitations, gifts, dates--”

“Those were dates?”

“Oh my god, Aziraphale, YES.”

“Gifts? I thought you were just generous.”

“Have you ever seen me being generous elsewhere?”

“I thought it was because we’ve known each other for a really long time!”

Crowley rolls his eyes again. Aziraphale thinks Crowley’s mannerisms remind him of the them (but more adorable). But before he can tell his remark to Crowley, the demon moves closer and lightly kisses Aziraphale mouth, then softly brushes his mouth to the angel’s nose.

“Still not convinced?”

Aziraphale folds his lips and looks at the amber eyes in front of him, “I may need more of your persuasion.”

#ineffable husbands #good omens #good omens fic #fictober #My fic #I forgot what else to tag #well #sbfictober2019 #spacebartenderfic

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 5 years

Text

Sawdust of Words: “Finding the Words”

My new story “Finding the Words” is up early! (Because I have to work tomorrow, so no midnight posting for me.) I’m a little nervous because I usually don’t write fluff, and my brain started rebelling halfway through annnnnd this is the result! I hope you like it!

This one is a one-off, but weighs in at 4509 words, so about as long as a chapter in “Early Days.” Excerpt below is 1075 words, or just click the link above to go straight to the AO3 page.

Rating: General Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: M/M

Fandom: Good Omens (TV)

Relationship: Aziraphale/Crowley

Additional Tags: Canon Compliant; Post-Canon; Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens); Dialogue; Dialogue Heavy; Fluff and Angst; Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens); Love Confessions; First Kiss; Happy Ending; Fluff; Romance; Short

Summary:

London - Sunday after the Not-Pocalypse.

After dining at the Ritz, Aziraphale and Crowley go for a walk. Aziraphale has something he rather desperately wants to say, but isn't sure if Crowley will be receptive...

“Have you any idea how amazing this feels?” Aziraphale swayed as he walked, spreading his arms wide. “I feel like I could – ”

“If the next word is ‘dance’ I’m going to have to do something drastic,” Crowley warned. He swaggered down the sidewalk; even as he threatened, he barely scowled. All the hallmarks of a particularly good mood.

“Does it look like I’m dancing?”

Crowley gave him a long considering look. “Well, it doesn’t look like the gavotte, but whatever that is does not belong on a public sidewalk.”

“Oh.” He stopped trying to imitate Crowley’s swagger and put on a serious expression. “It’s not important, anyway.” Aziraphale hadn’t been thinking clearly since sitting down to lunch at the Ritz. His mouth said things without consulting his brain, and now his legs and arms were joining in. Every once in a while, his whole body shivered with delight. He was flooded with a strange energy, practically giddy with it, flitting from one thought to the next almost at random.

He felt…unrestrained. Everything that had held him back, gone in a puff of smoke. Or more accurately, a splash of holy water. It was a new world; he was a new angel. The smile fought its way back across his face.

“It’s extraordinary. I feel like I could…I could do anything!”

The demon raised his eyebrows just slightly behind the dark sunglasses. “I can see that. Try not to hurt yourself in the process.”

“Hurt myself? Ha! Did I tell you I had Beelzebub afraid of me?” Aziraphale clasped his hands behind his back, laughing at the memory. “Lord Beelzebub, afraid of me!”

“Yes. Several times.”

Had Aziraphale been talking too much? He’d told the full story of his Trial in Hell at least twice at dinner – cut through with comments about the food, the music, anything that came to mind. He found he couldn’t even remember half the things he’d said, just the feeling of being so blissfully happy. Everything seemed so wonderful.

There was something he wanted to say. He could feel it, growing inside him with every breath. But he couldn’t find the words, so he said everything else.

Did Crowley feel it, too? Ever since they left the restaurant and began wandering the streets – it was a beautiful summer afternoon, hours of sunlight to go – he’d been quiet. He seemed more guarded than at the Ritz, where he’d talked all through the meal and even ordered himself a slice of cake for dessert, smiling just a little when Aziraphale ate most of it. Now he walked with his eyes straight ahead, only giving curt answers to the angel’s comments.

Was he tired? Angry? Happy, but keeping it inside? Crowley was very hard to read, sometimes.

As they approached an intersection, Aziraphale flicked his eyes at the lights. They immediately changed, so he and Crowley didn’t even need to slow down for the crossing signal.

“You’re being very free with the miracles.”

“It’s just a light.”

“It’s every light.” Crowley glanced to the far side of the street, crowded with pedestrians, while theirs stood empty. “And I don’t think we’ve passed a single human for ten minutes.”

“Twenty, at least.” Aziraphale couldn’t see what the fuss was about. “Oh, let Gabriel try and stop me. I’ll give him a strongly worded lecture!”

“That’s a…fascinating mental image.”

“I wish I could have seen his face at my Trial. I hope you made an impression.”

Crowley stopped at the corner of the sidewalk, shoving his hands in his pockets. “About that. Gabriel was…well, you know what he’s like better than I do. He...didn’t let me say much of your defense.”

“Oh.” That should have been disappointing. Aziraphale waited for the crushing weight of it to hit him.

It never came. For the first time in, well, all of Time, Aziraphale found he didn’t care what Heaven thought. He’d done what he’d done, and it didn’t matter if They approved.

The realization only added to his giddiness.

“Actually,” Crowley continued, “he got pretty angry when I tried to say anything.”

“That’s probably because you tried to argue, didn’t you?” Aziraphale waved his hand. He didn’t need to know the details of that. “Gabriel doesn’t like to be argued with. Or interrupted. Or told things he disagrees with. It’s my own fault for not preparing you properly.”

“His whole attitude seemed...really inappropriate.”

“That’s his prerogative as an Archangel.” Aziraphale could see where this was going; Crowley had never liked Gabriel, made no secret of it. “You punched him, didn’t you?”

“What? No. Of course not.” Crowley grimaced at the cracked sidewalk. “That would have given it away, wouldn’t it? Also, he wasn’t standing close enough. So, I um…” He looked up with a smirk. “I breathed a column of Hellfire right at his smug face. Almost hit him, too.”

Aziraphale laughed, trying to picture it. “That’s perfect! Even better than when I splashed Holy Water at about a hundred demons.” He lowered his voice, leaning closer. “Some of them screamed, you know.”

Crowley grinned back fiercely. “If he’d ever eaten real food, Gabriel would have soiled himself.”

“We really knocked the bottom out of them!” Aziraphale couldn’t have felt better if he’d faced the Archangels himself. He wanted to swagger and smirk and shout rude words. This must be how Crowley felt all the time. “If you need someone to chase off the Forces of Hell in the future, count on me.”

“And if Gabriel ever tries to contact you again, let me know. Right away.” Crowley held out his hand. “Heaven or Hell, we handle it together.”

“Agreed!” Aziraphale clasped Crowley’s hand enthusiastically.

It was something they’d done so many times through the years, but this one felt different. Warmth spread up the length of Aziraphale’s arm.

Crowley’s hand tightened. Was he trying to pull away, or pull Aziraphale closer? There was no hint in that carefully detached expression. The black lenses only reflected the angel’s eyes.

Aziraphale pressed his left hand to the back of Crowley’s, holding him there a moment longer, fingers tracing the bones of his hand. All the things he wanted to say pounded against the walls of his heart.

Neither of them breathed.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale whispered hoarsely. “For everything.”

“Don’t mention it.” His tone was flippant, but Aziraphale was sure Crowley gave him a tiny - but warm - smile before sauntering away.

Read the rest at AO3!

(In the time it took me to write this, I got six hits. HOW?! I love you guys...)

#good omens fanfiction #fanfiction #ao3 link #ao3fic #ineffable husbands #good omens prime #aziraphale and crowley #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable partners #love story #love for the ages

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still-not-king · 5 years

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The Accidental Implications of Internalizing Good Omens - Personal Philosophical Revelations from my Living Room Couch

Huddle up, ery'body, I gotta story:

So I read “Good Omens” so long ago I remember virtually nothing about it. It had been out maybe a year? And I was introduced to Christianity in the same blase way I was taught Greek & Norse mythology or pop culture or sex ed. (In that my parents sent me to the library or rehearsal or school and assumed I'd figure out the pertinent details). I hadn’t even read “Lamb” by Christopher Moore before picking it up, let alone the actual bible, so I didn't have a lot of religious or moral or cultural context for it at the time. I was just reading. And in time I read more books - everything I could get my hands on, really - and I forgot all about “Good Omens.” That is, until one of my favorite people told me that two people on my Beer List (long story) would be starring in the mini-series, and it was actually being written by @neil-gaiman

Now I told you that story to tell you this one: I have three people in my life (besides my daughter) that I have and do travel great distances and perform generally unreasonable feats for, my reward for which being nearly exclusively their company and happiness. It’s delightful on my end and, I’m told, very strange behavior in general.

My husband is one of them and Jesus, is he a character. We’re... incredibly different. He goes by his full name even when it could be shortened readily. He is a fluffy-haired, slightly anxious, wine-, sushi-, and indian-food loving, ace man who is borderline obsessed with outdated music, movie, & vintage video game minutiae. A careful driver and tidy cook, he hates exercise for its own sake and loves being a stay at home Dad. He knows nothing whatsoever about cars or sports and looked at me like a mad woman when I changed his tire and told him he needed new brake pads for the first time. He dresses in khakis and light colors and plaid shorts like he gets all his clothes from a 1993 department store. He spent years trying to be the man his family wanted him to be, trying to do the right thing, trying, trying, trying to be what they told him to be. Eventually, he eloped with me instead, and ended up neither the man his family nor society had told him he must be.

But he's happy.

And so am I.

Me. With my classic rock and Ludo and aggressive classical music played too loud. With my athleisure and tattoos and aromanticism and unreasonable emotional investment in fiction & fandom. I wear sunglasses into the night bc glare hurts my eyes and live in blacks, blues, and bold lipsticks. I lift weights. I drive too fast. I eat too much sugar, never learned to cook, need to be reminded to sleep, can't help but overwater my plants, and don't tend to be surprised by simply horrible things in general. (Some people call me cold, he calls it defensive pessimism). I work with my hands and problem-solve and climb the walls if I'm out of work for longer than a week.

I try my best to be a good mom, and he helps me.

He tries to be a good man, and I help him.

He loves me despite the fact that I infuriate him, I love him despite the fact that he's boring sometimes. Or maybe not even despite, but including and because of and through it all. Because we love each other, with a calm, casual sort of love that gets easier with time.

Which brings me to now.

To this week.

To sitting here, shell shocked and giddy on the couch, watching two of my favorite performers bring to screaming life a book that I barely remember but reverberates in a way I had never expected. One of those works that worms your way into your brain and your soul and your moral compass in ways you didn't realize until it's staring you in the face.

And on top of it all, the angel and the demon fucking LOVE one another. They just do, in a way I imagined but never thought I'd see. And that's when I realized: Aziraphele and Crowley are some of the reasons my life is the way it is.

And I had no idea.

So thanks, dear boys. For teaching me something very important about myself. About the world. About love. About expectations and reality and family and being the person you choose to be instead of the person you should be.

What a fascinating thing, our brain is. How delightful.

#good omens #neil gaiman #terry pratchett #thanks #text post #Aromantism #ace #morality #brain #philosophy #tangent #my life #aziraphale #crowley #thank you #the beer list #opposites #the various forms and natures of love

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