#fic: crowley goat burn

[evilasiangenius]

TITLE: Anthony J. Crowley is Going to Burn Down a Goat (Yule)

SUMMARY: …and Aziraphale is going to try to stop him.

PAIRING: Aziraphale x Crowley

TAGS: Aziraphale is So Done with Crowley, Crowley is a Little Shit, Crowley Wears Pink, Love, Fluff and Humor, Food, Travel, Gävlebocken, Swedish Yule Goat, Cuddling & Snuggling, Kissing, Birds, Hot Springs & Onsen, Seasonal but Non-Holiday

STATUS: Complete, 5/5

WORD COUNT: 4.2K

For @thelaithlyworm and @sigmastolen.

Chapter Five: A Long Winter Together

“I think I’ve been in cities for too long. Were there always this many stars?” Crowley wondered, looking up. The fierce wind that swept obscuring clouds away had stopped, leaving the night still and clear. Vast tidal ripples of the aurora shifting through the sky glowed green with hints of pink and yellow and violet, lovely and inviting, and it made him want to fly up to dance among the dancing lights, to feel the frisson of charged particles play over his skin and along the ends of his hair, the tips of his feathers.

“Were the stars always this bright? Were the northern lights always this beautiful?” Aziraphale murmured from the heated cocoon of Crowley’s embrace, hot water lapping lascivious around his bare shoulders.

“Not as bright as you,” the demon whispered and leaning back, felt hot water slide up around his neck and ears even as Aziraphale squeezed him tighter, their bare limbs entwined in the steaming water.

“Not as beautiful as you,” the angel whispered, his voice trembling, feeling the touch of cool lips soft upon his own.

The bell of the bookshop jingled sweetly as Crowley came in, tossing off his rain-flecked scarf and coat, everything hanging up properly on the coat rack in a way that must have been miraculous given the haphazard way Crowley threw off the outer layers. The demon took off his dark glasses and ran the fingers of one hand through his infernally dry hair, the other hand carrying a plain crinkling paper bag.

“Angel, I’m back! With chocolate croissants!”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice held the hint of a threat in it.

“Yes?” Crowley asked as he wandered into the back room, with as much innocent naivete as he could muster, which was either a lot or not very much, depending on how it was measured and who was measuring. He set the bag of croissants upon the round table where they took their tea breaks. The bag tipped over as if by accident, opening to reveal a glimpse of two beautiful flaky croissants within, glazed golden brown. “Shall we eat while they’re warm and the chocolate is still melty?”

Aziraphale eyes lingered upon the pastries briefly, before he turned back to the computer monitor.

“‘Never before in the history of the gävlebocken?’ ‘The first time in memory?’ ‘The jackdaws are stripping the goat down to its frame?’”

“Surely I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Crowley said, trying and failing miserably at concealing a smile behind a tiny black cup of hot espresso that had been waiting for him on the break table.

“This!” Setting down his hot cocoa, Aziraphale tapped the heavy glass monitor, pointing to the news headline and an 8-bit video loop of the goat being torn apart by tiny black pixels of jackdaws. “Are you sure you weren’t involved? I thought I felt you do something while we were on the way out...Did you put grain in that goat?”

“Oh no, you caught me. All my nefarious doings,” Crowley said with a laugh, before taking a sip.

“And here I thought you were just feeding the birds.”

“I was,” Crowley said, finishing off the drink and setting the tiny cup down. “Just, you know, didn’t want to make a further mess on the ground and there was this really nicely made feeder already set up, wrapped like a present in festive red ribbon...”

“Crowley. How much grain did you put in there?”

“I don’t know. Enough for a few weeks?” Crowley shrugged.

“Do you mean for people or for birds?”

“Is there a difference? Oh, you’re right, there is a difference. Scale and such. Erm, squirrels, I think? Enough for squirrels to eat for a few weeks. Splitting the difference, you know. Between a human and a bird.”

“I can’t even begin to explain how many things are wrong with your estimation methods,” Aziraphale sighed. “But what you did with the grain is destroying that poor goat!”

“Just a little something to help some little birds manage during a long winter.” Crowley bent down to steal a sweet cocoa-inflected kiss from the angel. “A long winter together.”

Aziraphale sighed. That light touch of lips ended quicker than he expected, than he wanted, so he turned in his chair and drew Crowley down into his lap for another kiss. The demon was cold from being outside, but warmed up quickly in his arms.

“Better?” Aziraphale asked. “You felt cold.”

“Mm-hmm, much better.” Crowley slid his arms around Aziraphale’s neck. “I’m never cold when I’m with you. Not for long.”

“Speaking of which, no more burning goats,” Aziraphale said sternly.

“No burning goats,” Crowley agreed. “This year.”

“Wait, this year. What do you mean this year?”

“Your words, angel, not mine. ‘No burning goat this year.’ Besides, there’s always next year for a little goat burning. Though now it’ll be a race to get to it before the jackdaws. They’re clever and have long memories, once they know someone or something is a source of food, they never forget. I’m excited, it’ll be fun to see if I can get to it first before they do.”

“Crowley!”

#crowley #aziraphale #good omens #ineffable husbands #aziraphale x crowley #fic: crowley goat burn #a little longer than last estimated #whoops #mistakes were made

[fuckyeahgoodomensfanfic]

Good Omens Fic Rec: Bleating Hearts

Meet Doctor Aziraphale Fell, university lecturer of English Literature, Shakespearian expert, and man with an unexpected goat in his office. When the handsome herder who comes to catch the unruly visitor asks some pointed questions, Aziraphale finds his life suddenly turned upside down and filled with both new challenges and opportunities. But is Crowley all that he says he is? And even if he isn’t–does it really matter when he’s clearly a piece of the puzzle missing in Aziraphale’s life? Trip on over to Devil Doe’s Dairy and Goat Scaping Farm, where the cheese is always smooth, the goats climb roofs, and true love might just be around the corner.

Length: 186,422 words

AO3 Rating: Explicit / Spice Level 🔥🔥🔥🔥

Best for: Mostly Safe in Public, Human AU, Romance, Pick-me-up

Triggers: Talk of animal death, references to past partner abuse

Read it here, fic by HKBlack

*Minor Spoilers* I should be used to it now, but the fact that our blorbos fit so effortlessly into a Goat Herder AU is frankly ridiculous. I fear I may never get over these characters. This is such a great read. Here Crowley is our Goat Herder, while Aziraphale is a Doctor of Literature. Their meet cute begins with a goat invasion in Aziraphale's office. Naughty Bentley goat! Their chemistry is electric, as always, but here it has an extra friendliness. This isn't enemies to lovers, they just genuinely enjoy each other right off the bat. This also isn’t a slow burn, but they do actually take the time to date and ease into the bigger steps. I loved watching their love story, and falling in love with the farm alongside Aziraphale.

A bulk of this story will follow Crowley's past and family. Sometimes family plots like this can either be a chore or just kind of exaggerated. But the relationship Crowley has with his father was just as engaging to me as the romance plot. The feeling of tension in every scene is so strong. Anyone with toxic family can relate. And it brings a real depth to this human version of Crowley. Aziraphale also has a strained family life and while I liked what we got, I wish there was more of his family in this. We don't get a scene with his mother and I would have really liked to have that. The family that matters through is the one they’ve made for themselves. The community around the farm really is the perfect found family story. Newt is especially used to great effect here. I could read a million words of this universe and never get bored I think.

These goats are more than just a silly AU. It truly is an entertaining and strangely fitting setting, and you really begin to care for the flock. The author has an excellent voice, and kept me hooked the entire time. And the length is absolutely perfection. Explicit scenes are in later chapters, but are all marked and skippable if that's your thing.

Read it here, fic by HKBlack

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #good omens fanfic #fanfic rec #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #good omens fic rec #Bleating Hearts #HKBlack #human au #romance #pick me up #four flames #past partner #extra long #taking breaks #faves of the blog #teacher au #mostly safe in public #gardener au

[basement-cheese]

Fanfic!!!

Good Omens 2 spoilers ahead!! Be warned!!!

Cw//This fic contains mentions of blood,fire, depression, angst, and implication of Aziraphale having body dysmorphia! Viewer discretion is advised!

Summary// This takes place somewhere after G.O.2 finale. Aziraphale attempts to negotiate and go back to earth, however, the angels are bastards and Az unfortunately Falls, now attempting to find his way through Hell.

All he could process was the nauseating burning going through his chest and wing bones. This was worse than hellfire. Aziraphale looked up to see the blur of a dozen angels glaring down upon him. As if he were a mere mortal. They didn’t even care. Aziraphale was soon too weak to stand. And that’s when Metatron signaled for the former angel to be taken away. Aziraphale was quite literally dragged into hell. However he didn’t have the energy to fight back. He just huffed out waves of pain and cried. Aziraphale was too focused on the pain in his body to notice that, as most demons seem to do, he gained a few physical attributes that were similar to that of a goat or ram. However when his head became heavier and his vision warped, Aziraphale sunk into despair. He was officially, now a demon. A monster. An evil, unforgivable creature who was far beyond repair. His wings, once full of life and beauty, now sagged on the ground as they dripped with what could only be described as blood with the color of the deepest void and the furthest darkness. Everything felt so…Wrong.

As Aziraphale was thrown into Hell, he stumbled up onto his now hooves, trying to adjust to his backwards knees. It all felt so heavy. He hated it. Aziraphale was shoved around in crowds of demons, who also couldn’t give two shits about anyone either. As if life couldn’t get any worse. As he struggled to navigate his new surroundings, Aziraphale felt a familiar sense in his heart. “Crowley…” a spark of hope trickled in Aziraphale’s voice as he followed Crowley’s aura.

Though Crowley promised himself to never go back to Hell again, he had a few things to get before his “official” departure. And of course, any excuse to bully the other demons, of course. Crowley had been lost in his thoughts for a few minutes. Thinking about how he’s never going to miss this literal hell-hole, and that he and his Bentley could-. He paused, feeling someone approaching him. Someone familiar, but he couldn’t quite tell who. Crowley then turned around, having to take off his shades in order to recognize who it was. “A…Aziraphale…?!”

While attempting to run, Aziraphale had tripped, fortunately falling right into Crowley’s arms. “Oh god, it is you…” the serpent mumbled as he analyzed the other. “A-And I’m not going anywhere again.” Aziraphale tried to force a smile, but instead started to sob, leaning into Crowley’s loving embrace

Shall I continue??? I’m open to any questions or suggestions!

#good omens 2 #good omens #fanfic #good omens spoilers #good omens fanwork #angst #I promise I’ll give them a happy ending #ineffable husbands

[irisbleufic]

Do you have any Spotify playists? Have any favorites?

I have four full and one partial Spotify playlists.  There are far more I used to have on 8tracks that I haven't gotten around to rebuilding on Spotify.  As a result, the ones I currently have are for more recent content:

What Happens to the Heart [A+C] - Goes with my Aziraphale/Crowley Good Omens fic of the same name on AO3.  It's made up entirely of Leonard Cohen.  15 songs.

Challengers [J+5] - Goes with my Jerome/Five (514A) Gotham fic of the same name on AO3, which is part of my Delicate, Dangerous, Obsessed series.  Artists: The New Pornographers, Leonard Cohen, Mitski, Florence + The Machine, Tom Waits, Stars, Frightened Rabbit, Hozier, David Bowie, Walk Off the Earth, Dinah Shore, Bleachers, Bob Dylan, Eli Lieb, Big Thief, Dean Martin.  24 songs.

Dog Days [J+5] - Goes with my Jerome/Five (514A) Gotham fic of the same name on AO3, which is part of my Come As You Are series.  Artists: Eliza Rickman, Sharon Van Etten, Left at London, Amanda Palmer, Dirt Poor Robins, Autoheart, Jason Webley, Big Thief, Mitski, Mother Mother, Lou Reed, The Mountain Goats, Danny Schmidt, Cocteau Twins, The Jane Austen Argument.  15 songs.

Tilt Shift [J+5] - Goes with my Jerome/Five (514A) Gotham fic of the same name on AO3, which is part of my Playing for Keeps (mostly a.k.a. the one where my Bruce/Jeremiah story called "Darkroom" lives) on AO3.  Artists: Lorde, Billie Eilish, Emily Haines & The Soft Skeleton, serpentwithfeet, Glass Animals, Mitski, Autoheart, Cold War Kids, Pim Stones, Laura Jane Grace, Hozier, Pavvla, Woodkid, Son Lux, Daughter.  15 songs.

I also have one in progress for the current Jerome/Five story I'm working on, Never Afraid to Burn.  That title in and of itself is a lyric fragment from Tori Amos's Little Earthquakes, since Five is listening to that album on his headphones at one point early in the story.  I predict it’ll consist much more of 1990s and early 2000s music, but I only have about ten tracks on it so far.  Suggestions welcome!

Likewise, I need to prioritize getting my CoT 'Verse Good Omens and Anthology 'Verse Pacific Rim playlists on there, because they're two of my oldest and longest.  I'm just behind due to the last few years' extended illness fuckery, the vagaries of work in academia, etc.

#fandom playlist #gotham #good omens #jerome x 514a #jerome x five #aziraphale x crowley

[fromcenotaphy]

Hey I love your hbo fics! Could you maybe do a HBO Destiel for their wedding night please?

♥ thank you, anon! the hbo destiel wedding happens mid-season 10 when the winchesters find an anchoring ritual that will keep the last dregs of castiel’s grace from winking out like a ruined star. so it’s something like [weeks spent decoding incantations written in languages too old for names] [the color leaching from castiel’s skin until he walks the bunker’s halls like a wraith] [rowena rolling her eyes when she hears about it, her smile cold and amused over her morning tea] [castiel curled in dean’s arms the night before, his dying grace sputtering in his chest] [the mark of cain clamoring from dean’s arm, loud in the darkness, like always] [charlie and sam drawing an immense sigil in blood upon the bare stone of a cliff by the sea] [mallow and wormwood burning in a copper brazier] [crowley watching from a distant bluff, his face impassive, the lines of his body disapproving] [hyacinths tied with red string to an altar made of yew wood and bone] [dean eating a raw goat heart, eyes fixed on castiel as he buries his teeth in the dark red muscle] [the ritual calls for sixty acolytes to ring sixty bronze bells in tandem, but they don’t have sixty still-living friends] [so sam rings all the bells at once, telekinetically, his eyes sparking violet as he lifts one hand] [blue-black waves lapping against the limestone cliff face far below] [the cry of some far-off seabird, carried on the wind] [castiel collapsing halfway to the altar, silver light guttering weakly from his eyes and mouth] [sam grabbing charlie’s arm as she nearly crosses the sigil lines in her concern] [dean on his knees, holding castiel up, rushing through the last few syllables of the rite] [the mark’s furious crimson sear as it fights the connection] [castiel and dean both crying out in agony—castiel because the spell is pinning itself through the ruin of his wings like a spear, dean because the mark is on fire, eating into his arm like acid] [their voices twined with the echo of the bells, the scent of the burning wormwood, the gold light of the noonday sun] [a hyacinth petal landing on castiel’s cheek] [he blinks up at dean, his eyes as blue as the horizon’s distant edge] [and dean laughs through his tears, through the fire in his skin and the blood on his lips] [the sigil-lines fade into the rock and sam rushes forward with charlie] [the four of them crouch on the cliff’s edge and hold each other through the first few shaky breaths of relief] [heads bowed, fingers digging into shoulders and biceps] [dean’s face buried in castiel’s hair] [castiel’s fingers curled determinedly over the mark, though the touch burns them both]

(oh, and if I misunderstood your ask and you were just looking for some general destiel vibes, you can find my original hbo destiel post here!)

#spn #hbo spn #destiel wedding #i am SO here for cute wedding vibes and tomorrow's wholesome escapades! #the hbo deancas wedding is...Not That though #if it happens it's hella angsty and hella melodramatic #i'm talking dean on his knees before a makeshift altar #spitting out his vows through a mouthful of animal blood #cas having to cough up a lungful of rotted grace before he can say 'i do' #anyway this being a s10 ritual makes weird sense to me #bc of the emphasis on the mark of cain being so impossible to remove #making it possibly the only thing strong enough to anchor an angel to existence #also just the angst potential of it just being incredibly painful for both of them #but both of them refusing to let go #ask box #cenotaphy posts #hbo destiel #hbo deancas #hbo destiel wedding #destiel #dean #castiel #sam #charlie #crowley #season 10 #thank u anon for this

[kaesaaurelia]

i’m just here for the cult stuff

For @whumptober2020 day 9: "For the Greater Good” (specifically "ritual sacrifice")

Continues on from day two, wherein Aziraphale was kidnapped by very health-conscious Satanists.

Aziraphale/Crowley, content warning for this fic taking place in 2020, and also cult stuff.

Crowley, meanwhile, had spent the morning?  Afternoon?  Whatever it was; he had spent a portion of time being furious at himself for suggesting Hell adopt the human practice of collecting people's information and then selling it to potentially interested parties, because he was pretty sure that was how the Satanists had got his address.  He had got out of bed because Aziraphale had mentioned the restaurants were open again, but instead of getting dressed he'd decided to read up on the surely thrilling tale of how the humans had beat this whole pandemic thing in a few months, when it had swallowed up the better part of a decade back in the fourteenth century.

Then he'd got absorbed in scrolling through Twitter, which frankly made him want to go straight back to bed for, well, the better part of a decade.  Still, Aziraphale had sounded so pleased on the phone, and that was encouraging, and gave him a measure of hope, if not for the world generally, for himself.

And then someone had knocked on the door, and he'd panicked and thought he must have doomscrolled right through their lunch date.  (Date?  Not a date.  It was just lunch.)  So he'd opened the door, prepared to apologize, and then the Satanists had been on him with fucking holy symbols, the hypocritical bastards, and then they'd spent the whole car ride apologizing to him, but that didn't matter because here he was.  At least the church they were in didn't burn all that much; it stung a little on his knees, but no one had worshiped here in a long time, not even the Satanists.

He'd hoped maybe Aziraphale would come for him, but he'd had a bad feeling when they'd demanded that he curse the ropes, under threat of holy water.  And then, shortly thereafter, three more Satanists had showed up with Aziraphale in tow, and as their eyes met, Crowley knew they were at least semi-fucked.

Aziraphale looked around, and saw the other three Satanists.  "Look here, you -- you aren't supposed to have gatherings of more than six people, not even for religious reasons," said Aziraphale, after they threw him down, still tied up, in front of Crowley.

"Don't think they're counting us as people," Crowley said.  "Listen, if you're trying to sacrifice him to me it's not gonna work, so you might as well give up," he told the Satanists, who were busily sanitizing their hands.

"Well we've got to do something, haven't we?" said the Satanist with the fanciest robe, a reddish-black velvet number with tacky gold embroidery.  "I know this isn't, ah, an ideal situation, but, well... desperate times."

"I still think we need another angel," said one of the others.  "Seems like a two-angel problem at least."

"We've talked about this, something needs to be done now," insisted Fancy Robe.

"No, it's definitely a two-angel problem," Crowley said, latching onto this.  "I only accept angelic sacrifices of two or more.  Five, ideally, that would be great," he said.

"Crowley, what are you doing?" Aziraphale whispered.  "The last thing we need is more angels here."

"The last thing we need is for them to sacrifice you for me," Crowley hissed back.

Aziraphale bristled.  "But can't you just --"

"Do you... know each other?" Fancy Robe said.

"Er.  Well," said Aziraphale, guiltily.

"Nah," said Crowley, just as Aziraphale said "Yes."

There was an awkward silence, and then, then, with a defiantly dignified expression that would have been comical had the situation not been pretty dire, Aziraphale grabbed Crowley's hand, and squeezed it.  "Yes, we do," he said.

Ah.  He was going to try the power of friendship.  Sure, why not?

"Oh, this is going to be so awkward," muttered one of the other Satanists.

"Not as awkward," said Aziraphale, "as a grown person going around calling himself Uzigrus the Destroyer."  Crowley was startled into laughter.

It was difficult to read the expression of Uzigrus the Destroyer, given that he was wearing a black mask (with, of course, an inverted pentagram picked out in red), but he might have been scowling.  "I rescind my suggestion of additional angels," he said.

"Got a point, though, hasn't he?" someone muttered, and Uzigrus turned and glared.

Fancy Robes cleared his throat.  "Allan, would you get the bowl?  And the knife?"

Uzigrus sighed wretchedly and toddled off to find those.

"If you hurt him," Crowley told Fancy Robes, "I will rip you to pieces and drag them down to Hell mysself, do you undersstand?"

"I am prepared to accept that possibility," said Fancy Robes.  "Probably deserve it," he added, sounding sheepish.

Aziraphale cleared his throat.  "What, er... what exactly is the point of all this?" he asked.  "Perhaps we could provide a better solution."

"We can't just go giving them what they want," said Crowley.

"Maybe we can!" Aziraphale said.

"No, I mean -- they're just gonna be on us all the time after the money runs out and they crash the cars, demanding more."

"Money?" Aziraphale asked.

"Or hot babes or whatever," said Crowley.  "They don't ask you lot for all that stuff --"

"I'm afraid they do," said Aziraphale, sighing.  "But --"

"No, no, no, we don't want money," said Fancy Robes.  "Well.  We do want money, that would be wonderful, actually, but -- mostly, we want to take it all back," he said.

"Take... what back?" Aziraphale asked.

"What do you think?  2020?  The apocalypse?" said Fancy Robes.

"We didn't think it would be like this," said one of the other Satanists.  "We thought it would be way cooler."

"Yeah, with like -- fires and stuff," said yet another one.

"There's definitely fires, Ian, do you not... read the news?"

"Not cool fires, though," Ian said.  "I wanted cool fires, and, and horsemen, and aliens, and all that airbrushed van kinda stuff!"

"We thought," Fancy Robes said, with a brittle sort of dignity, "that it would be a philosophical sort of apocalypse.  A remaking of the world!  But I'm so tired of staying at home."

Aziraphale looked wearily back at Crowley.  "Oh dear," he said.

"So.  Let me get this sstraight," said Crowley, who was, somehow, even more annoyed than he'd been before.  "You think.  The apocalypse is happening.  Right now, this year, in 2020.  And you think... you think some ritual you did made it happen?"

"What other explanation is there?" Fancy Robes said.

"What -- what -- what other -- d'you mean -- do you really think -- that'sss -- I just don't know what to say," said Crowley, astonished.  "I jussst.  You really think.  That this entire shitshow of a year happened because you lot brought an unfortunate goat out here and said some words and waved some knives around like really method LARPers?"

"It wasn't a goat," said Fancy Robes, indignantly, "it was a willing virgin sacrifice."

"That's not better, you do realize," Aziraphale put in.  "You can't just -- go around killing people and then be surprised when --"

"Didn't say she was killed," Fancy Robes said.  "You've got a very old-fashioned view of Satanism, I have to say.  You could be more open-minded.  She sacrificed her virginity."

"He's six thousand fucking years old, and also you brought us here to sacrifice him, so I think he's got an excuse," Crowley snapped.

"Wait, hang on," said Aziraphale.  "Could you -- is that -- does that mean you're not going to kill me?" he asked, hopefully.  "Is that -- is that the sacrifice?" he asked Crowley.  He was blushing rather a lot.

"Oh, no, you're going to die," said Fancy Robes.  "I'm very sorry.  There's nothing else for it.  Ah, there you are," he said, brightening, as Uzigrus, or Allan, or whoever he was awkwardly tried to hand him the knife and the bowl without getting too close to him.  He approached Aziraphale, grabbed his arm, and rolled up his sleeve.  "Now, hold still, or this is going to hurt more than it has to."

"If you kill him I will eviscerate you," said Crowley.

"Oh, no, no," said Fancy Robes.  "I'm not going to kill him, no, no.  You're going to do that.  But if it's any comfort, you're supposed to enjoy it a lot once the whole..."  He gestured vaguely.  "...the whole everything takes effect."

[next part]

#whumptober2020 #no.9 #for the greater good #ritual sacrifice #good omens #fic #aziraphale #anthony j crowley #ineffable husbands #kaesa op #text #fiction

[mortuarybees]

do u have any more good omens fic recs?

oh boy do i. some of them are fics that i have included in my fic rec tag so if you’ve been in that bear with me there will also be others. basically my preferred and only accepted genre of anything is “unbearably tender” and “aziraphale is extremely neurotic and crowley loves him anyway” it’s therapeutic

at some point im going to update the original reference post with like. all the amazing content ive come across since making it but until then:

one may tolerate a world of demons for the sake of an angel by lumosity aka @femmeaziraphale aka my very best friend

they have started another fic intended to destroy my life in which hell wins the next round and divines a special torment for crowley pls read it and encourage them to finish it because they don’t believe me when i tell them it’s amazing and i am  d e s p e r a t e  for more.

 “You know, you’re very familiar,” Aziraphale said, breath stinking of the sweet wine.

 “Oh? I guess I look like many goat herders,” Crowley allowed. Aziraphale snorted, nudging Crowley’s shoulder clumsily.

 “No! I mean that you just seem like someone I’ve known before,” Aziraphale said. Crowley felt that familiar ache in his chest. Suddenly he wished he was sober.

 “I have a common face,” Crowley dodged.

 “Say whatever you like, but I feel like we fit together quite nicely,” Aziraphale said, resting his head against the bark of the tree. Crowley took the opportunity to watch Aziraphale while he had his eyes closed. There were the same old blonde eyelashes against his cheeks, the one little drop of sunlight that formed a mole at the corner of his eye. Crowley wished to kiss his cheek only once. An apology for not losing. For not giving Aziraphale an eternity of listening to celestial harmonies.

wings and how to hide them by triedunture

Crowley's been annoyingly in love for six thousand years. What's another lifetime between friends? // if you follow me you’ve probably seen me post or quote certain excerpts a million times you may recognize it as His Body Is A Place And It’s Filled With Love.

He swallowed. So bloody awkward, staring up at Aziraphale like this, having his face held. Was he supposed to maintain eye contact? It seemed impossible. His gaze darted away.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me," Aziraphale admonished, giving his cheek a little pat. "Try to imagine, I don't know...slipping into my body the way you'd slip into a new coat." His smile was weak.

Crowley made a face. "Sounds grotesque."

"It isn't! Come now." His voice and eyes softened. "Please. Try."

Deep breath in. He would try. For Aziraphale's sake. "All right." He opened his eyes, held Aziraphale's plaintive stare, and pictured how it would feel. To be a part of Aziraphale. To be held inside him, to surround him at the same time.

To be loved.

hand in unlovable hand by courfeyrock (les mis solidarity)

“Goodnight, my dear,” he says, and Crowley swears, Aziraphale could call him my dear for six thousand more years and he still wouldn’t be able to get used to it. // it’s tender it’s bed sharing it’s “i love you in the human way” it’s quoting that unspeakable broadchurch scene its title is from no children by tmg; in short, it’s specifically designed to torment me.

Crowley’s head snaps around as if on a swivel. “Shall we… what?”

“Go to sleep? Normally I would love to stay up and have a drink or a chat but you see I really am exhausted and I--”

“Yes, yes, of course.”  Idiot,  Crowley thinks.  I am such an idiot.  "I'll uh, I'll sleep underneath the covers, and you can sleep on top." He waves his hand in a forcefully casual gesture that he hopes conveys just how normal it is for two platonic friends to be having this conversation.

everything just stops by witching

they are drunk and crowley wants to take a bath so he miracles one and they have. the most unbearable conversation ever fucking put to fiction literally returning to it to select one single quote was nearly impossible for me emotionally. god the tenderness the yearning!!!! “i like your silly aziraphale things”!!!!!!!!!! “i love you deep, angel”!!!!!! i hate it! just read it please i cant actually keep describing it or i’ll have to lay down for a little while.

 “Are you –” the angel’s voice was hoarse, and he paused to clear his throat, “are you playing some sort of game right now?”[....]

“I am not,” Crowley whispered fervently, his face frighteningly close to Aziraphale’s. “Six thousand yearsss, angel. You’re a part of me, and I jussst – just wanted you to know, is all.”

 Without warning, Aziraphale reached with both hands to pull Crowley in closer, forcing him to drop his own hand from the angel’s face. Aziraphale held him gently, pressing a single chaste kiss to the demon’s forehead, his lips lingering as his thumbs slid tenderly along his cheekbones, his fingers wrapped up in dark, dripping hair.

 When Crowley responded not by recoiling, as Aziraphale had expected, but by melting against his skin and sighing contentedly, the angel placed another kiss on one cheek, then the other. He moved to kiss Crowley’s eyelids, his jawline, his chin, the corners of his mouth, all the time cradling Crowley’s head in his hands, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Crowley to rebuff his affection.

Crowley, ever one to defy expectations, continued to allow the angel to kiss his face to his heart’s content. It was only when he heard Crowley sniff and let out a pitiful whimper that he pulled back, looking at the demon with concern.

hard feelings/loveless by witching

Aziraphale said it was like the opposite of the feeling you’re having when you say things like “this feels spooky.” Crowley didn’t know what to make of that, but he expected it was something like the opposite of the feeling you get when the only person who truly knows you makes a cryptic remark suggesting that you can’t understand love. Crowley understood love all too well. // crowley. crowley can’t sense love bc he is so goddamn full of love that he can’t see past it he’s just so full of it that he can’t separate it from just how he always is  c r o w l e y. also angelic/demonic mindmelding.

“What about - I mean, if that’s… love,” he struggled to get the word out, “then what’s this other feeling? The one that I’ve been calling love for all this time?”

 “I don’t know,” Aziraphale said. “I can’t possibly imagine.” He didn't have to voice his surprise at the fact that Crowley had an emotion he called love. It wasn't that he had truly thought Crowley was incapable of such an emotion; he was deeply aware of the power and range of the demon's feelings. He simply hadn't thought that Crowley was in tune with his own mind enough to understand it in those terms.

 “Can I show you?” Crowley blurted without thinking.

come as you are by punkfaery (explicit; trigger warning for body dysmorphia and disordered eating)

Aziraphale visits a modern art gallery, goes on a diet, and submits to the mortifying ordeal of being known. Not necessarily in that order. // this mugged me in an alleyway and ruined me emotionally for a whole night but like whatever. it starts with a mary oliver quote so idk what i expected

He dragged a kitchen chair out and sat in it, looking like he wanted to set fire to things with the power of his mind. He was probably angry enough to try it, too. Aziraphale moved a nearby copy of The Earth Compels out of the way, just in case. “It wasn’t really because of him,” he said. “It just made me realise, that’s all.”

“Realise what?”

Aziraphale swallowed. “That I’m not… quite as I should be. That you deserve better.” He lowered his head, feeling wretched. “That’s all. I’m sorry I didn’t say something from the start, but it seemed like a difficult sort of thing to bring up.”

Crowley’s face was indescribable.

“You thought I’d stop liking you because you’re not thin,” he said. His voice was utterly toneless. A muscle ticked in his jaw.

“Well, naturally when you say it like that it sounds – ”

“Seriously? After six thousand years of, of whatever you want to call this? After we literally saved the fucking world together?”

salinity (and other measurements of brackish water) by drawlight

It's an odd thing, getting on after the End of the World. Crowley takes to sea-watching. // michael sheen has read and recommended it. god. it starts with a quote from eros the bittersweet. it took me a full half hour to read past the first paragraph or so it’s so Much.

"I want to see you cook." (Something made from his hands. Something purely Crowley. Nothing pulled from the ether. Nothing sourced and given, no. Something made from his hands.)

He looks at his hands. Holds them up, splays them against the shale backdrop of his ceiling. His hands are always the same, day to day. They are clean but stained. His long and dawdling fingers, his bit of knuckles, his veins and tendons beginning to show a little more. Yes, more, he doesn't know the age of his body but he keeps it somewhere here, at indeterminate forty. There is a hangnail on the ring finger, there are stains of belladonna on the sides, on the rough spots.

Belladonna, that green plant sick with chlorophyll, sick with poison. Crowley is a gardener and he grows belladonna in his bedroom. He knows poisons the way Aziraphale knows the Dewey Decimal System. Yes, he knows them intimately, bent over his long counter, pulling the leaves apart, peeling the stems. Crushing the seeds. He knows not to lick his fingers after, that the leaves and berries are toxic to a grown man, that maybe even Livia had used it once, dripped into Augustus' wine. Not, really, that poisons would  matter  . It’s one of those little perks of the demon gig, that whole  immortality thing. What can get at him; what can cut it short? Only holy water and other blessed things. (Aziraphale is an angel, made out of blessed things. Crowley does not know how it might be to kiss him, mouth to wet mouth. If holy water might burn him, what can he expect from the freshwater mouth of an angel?)

birds of a feather by idiopathicsmile

Aziraphale nests. Crowley relearns some crucial facts about angelic courtship rituals. // look....im weak for home decorating as proxy or metaphor for domesticity and familiarity and this trope is literally this. i die

“Demons definitely don’t court,” says Crowley. “They fuck sometimes, but it’s—I don’t know if you’ve ever seen anything about the mating practices of insects but it’s more—like that. There’s no guarantee all parties will come out in one piece. Never seemed worth it, frankly. I like my pieces where they are.”

Aziraphale takes this all in with a series of slow, horrified nods.

“Wait,” says Crowley, “what do angels do?” He’s never pictured angels engaging with each other at all, outside of maybe mandatory team-building exercises.

“They nest,” says Aziraphale.

Crowley waits for this to all make sense. “What, instead of fucking?”

“No,” says Aziraphale primly. “Not  instead. It’s—it’s part of the courtship ritual. You have to be able to build a decent nest if you want to be seen as a viable mate—”

“Like birds,” Crowley repeats, disbelieving.

“Not like birds, birds got it from us,” shrills Aziraphale.

men have gone to heaven for smaller things than that by mercuryhatter

Aziraphale finds an age slipping away from him. // aziraphale and crowley attend robbie ross’ funeral, and aziraphale mourns the loss of the old circle. also there’s some brief dunking on bosie. i adore this fic with my whole heart

“Listen.” Aziraphale took Crowley’s elbow and dragged him out of earshot of the funeral, releasing him under a nearby tree. “It’s not that I’m not glad you’re back. Remember that, because I’m about to be very short with you, but it’s not that.” He raised an eyebrow questioningly and Crowley nodded.

“That being said.” Aziraphale took a deep breath. His voice was shaking slightly and he tried to press it back to steadiness inside his throat. “You will not get near one more human under my charge this decade, are we clear?”

“Angel–” Crowley started, surprised, but Aziraphale cut him off. Fury was bubbling up inside of him, bright and brittle and with a deeply-buried thread of exhaustion that he couldn’t afford to think too long about.

“No.”

where you stay i will stay by mercuryhatter

at the hundred guineas club, men went under women’s names. aziraphale went by naomi and he paid! to keep ruth free! for crowley!!!! while crowley slept! it stopped my tender heart

“Let’s see. We all know Victoria, of course. Betsey, Henrietta, Georgiana, Chastity, that’s rich, and Temperance too, particular friends of each other, I imagine? A few Elizabeths, not particularly creative… oh.” Crowley nudged Aziraphale until he peeked up from his place hidden in Crowley’s sweater. “Aziraphale.”

“No, dear, I didn’t put that one down.” Crowley huffed in fond exasperation.

“No, honey, you put Naomi.”

“So I did.”

“And… I don’t see a Ruth.”

“No,” Aziraphale sighed. “No, I paid them an extra hundred pounds a year to hold that one for me.”

“For you or for…”

and this isn’t a fic but another essay that means the world to me, making an effort: queer (trans) masculinity in the ethereal & occult beings of good omens by elegantidler and irisbleufic

#henry speaks #good omens #fic rec #ineffable husbands

[not-a-space-alien]

hi everyone i am here to post the fic I wrote for the good omens holiday exchange :) hope you enjoy

Title:  Under the Apple Tree

Word Count:  6,200

Rating: T

Warnings: Some blood/gore

Tags: Pre-arrangement, hurt/comfort

Author’s note: BIG thank you to my betas for helping to point me in the right direction. I sincerely hope you enjoy this.

On AO3

On Dreamwidth

Damn. One simple mission. That’s all it had been: go in, tempt a priest to adultery, and get out in time for drinks. Easy as can be. And it had turned into this.

“We know you’re still in there, hellspawn,” said the angel at the head of the group menacing him from outside. Over the sound of a sword scraping ominously against the side of the barn, the voice continued, “You can’t stay in there forever.”

Crowley hunkered down in the barn, trying to fade into the hay beneath him. A nearby goat nibbled at his hair.

A huge angel, wings spread wide, blocked the open stable door. The horses had run out at the first sign of trouble, and those front doors were the only exit besides the small second-story window behind Crowley. The occasional glimpses he caught of white feathers flashing across that porthole told him he would fare no better that way.

The angel who had been shouting at him crossed in front of the entrance again, sword slung casually over his shoulder. “Tell you what,” he boomed. “We’re in the mood for a chase. A bit of a hunt. How about we give you a head start? It’ll be more fun that way.”

Crowley looked at the goat that had been chewing on him, as if it might have advice to offer.

“A ten-second head start?”

“Bet he’ll stay away from that priest after this,” said a second angel, their voice low and amused. “He’s scared shitless.”

“You would be, too, if you’d run into us,” said another voice, nonetheless equally entertained.

There had to be at least six of them, judging by the voices. Wing-beats sounded behind Crowley again.

Somebody, what to do? They had him surrounded, so it seemed unlikely he’d get away if their “ten-second head start” turned out to be a trick to get him to come out. Not that there seemed much alternative.

“Ten seconds,” the leader repeated, stepping away from the barn. “Scout’s honour. Go ahead.”

Crowley manifested his wings, crawling forward to peer at the exit again. No angels were visible. Should I make a break for it?

“One…”

Crowley whipped his head back and forth between the two exits, trying to judge which would offer him a better start to his escape.

“Two...”

Shoving the goat aside, Crowley sprung up onto the second story and launched himself out the window, snapping his wings open and rocketing away as fast as he could.

“Look at him go!” someone jeered.

“Three…”

“Don’t go till ten,” chastised another angel.

Crowley didn’t look back to see whether or not they were following. He pumped his wings frantically, trying to put as much distance between himself and his pursuers as possible.

He was out of earshot after five, but oh did he count six through ten in his head. Only then did he risk a look back, to see the flock of angels take to the air right on cue. Seven pairs of ethereal wings flashed in the sky behind him, accompanied by the gleam of blades.

The city beneath him was a blur of thatched roofs and grey stones as he fled, hell-bent on escaping what was sure to be a painful discorporation. He rather liked this body. He liked Earth much better than Hell despite the presence of roving gangs of angels, and he would rather stay here. It was always an ordeal to get a new body.

He hated it, but that was the state of affairs, and running was the smartest thing to do failing any option that resulted in angels deciding they didn’t have to be out for his blood on sight.

Crowley dove beneath the rooftops, hoping that getting out of the angels’ line of sight would give him more leeway. He shrouded himself with a miracle to avert notice from humans below; it divided his attention and slowed him down a little, but it was a calculated risk.

Crowley’s wingtips brushed the thatching on either side, nimble and quick, threading the needle through obstacles as he darted down alleyways and under the eaves of buildings. He pressed himself into the underside of a gutter as a figure in white robes darted overhead.

Crowley crawled up onto the roof and took stock of where the angels were. They appeared to have fanned out, their pace slowed to a predatory search a few blocks down.

He leapt quietly back into the air, weaving between streets and keeping his head down. With a little luck, he might actually get out of here in one piece.

He’d probably leave the continent after that. Nothing like a little distance to make everything all right.

The way ahead looked clear. Crowley picked up his pace, torn between trying to stay as quiet as possible and flapping wildly to get away quickly. He settled on a brisk glide, weaving between buildings, sticking close and occasionally brushing against the façades.

After vaulting over another alleyway he realised, horrified, where he was. The brickwork of a church’s bell tower loomed in his peripheral vision.

He’d found out that being inside a church was a disagreeable experience as once he’d tried to confirm that, yes, his suspicions were correct about holy ground burning him. He had yet to discover what effects holy water would have on demons, and he had no desire to test that out. The evidence he’d accumulated so far had led him to believe things of God—churches, blessed objects and the like—usually did a number of unpleasant things to him.

He’d never seen a church bell in action on a demon, but he guessed he was about to find out. One of the pursuing angels had crouched in the tower with a devious smile on her face, and Crowley was almost close enough to reach out and touch the bell.

The bell rang. Crowley clapped his hands over his ears, but it didn’t help. The great bronze bell was so close he could feel its reverberation down to his bones, the air vibrating with holy energy. His palms went slick with what must have been blood.

Crowley tried to stay in the air. He really tried, but the bell swung back around for a second booming, thunderous gong, and the sound grated against the very fibre of Crowley’s being, his demonic core that reacted explosively to anything of God.

Crowley tumbled head over heels, wings flailing, and cracked his head on the brickwork lining the alley into which he’d fallen. The roaring in his ears was deafening; he couldn’t hear the bell’s third peal, but he sure fucking felt it.

He slammed into the ground, still clutching his ears. The roar died down into a subdued, high-pitched ringing as the bell mercifully fell still, but the ache and tightness it had smashed into his chest was still there, making it hard to breathe. Crowley staggered to his feet, one hand on the wall, the other clapped onto the side of his head, blood leaking through his fingers. He hobbled forward, still intent on escape.

He distantly heard the angels laughing and jeering over the persistent dull roar, and tried to tear his dazed gaze from the ground. He only succeeded in tripping.

He caught himself, kneeling on the ground, and a pair of sandaled feet came into view. Fearfully, he let his eyes drift up.

The angel who’d rung the bell looked mighty proud of herself. “A valiant effort,” she said, unsheathing her sword. “But I think you’ve exhausted your entertainment value as prey.”

Aziraphale should have known better than to trust that infuriating demon.

He and Crowley had been fairly cordial with each other since their first meeting. Aziraphale always felt vaguely guilty about that, but he’d never seen the harm in it. A human generation or two and a bit of civilisation later, they had ended up drinking in the same bar on the same evening as one of the crossings of their paths.

They had pushed their tables together and discovered they could manage to have quite a good time in each other’s company. Which seemed unfitting for an angel and a demon, but there it was.

Crowley had contacted him after that to suggest that they meet again, this time on purpose. Aziraphale hadn’t seen the harm in accepting, in that same way he always refused to see the harm in things he wanted to do. From the sound of the letter, it seemed that Crowley wanted to talk about something.

Well, it must not have been anything very important, because Aziraphale had been waiting for three hours past their meeting time. About two hours in, he’d given up on self-restraint and started ordering small, guilty, “I’m-still-waiting-for-you-but-I-also-want-to-drink” drinks, which had gradually turned into “I-got-stood-up-didn’t-I” denial drinks. He finally gave in and grudgingly admitted Crowley was not coming, decided he’d waited long enough, and ordered a final pint before leaving.

Had Crowley’s invitation been a ruse? That demon was certainly crafty, but Aziraphale hadn’t thought he would abuse what trust had developed between them for the sake of distracting Aziraphale for a few hours…would he?

The thought depressed Aziraphale to an alarming degree. He pushed down the realisation that he was lonely, squashing it under another impressive helping of denial. Gabriel was in town, after all; there were more angels here than ever thanks to Gabriel’s armed escort mucking about.

They didn’t really get him, though.

Aziraphale had the nagging suspicion that something had prevented Crowley from making their rendezvous. Still, he couldn’t drag his mind out of the rut that he was an idiot for trusting anyone, that his demonic nemesis* had duped him, and he really ought to get on with being alone for the rest of his life.

[*Aziraphale refused to use the word companion just yet, but he was working up to it.]

Aziraphale ambled out of the bar, head buzzing slightly and hands in his pockets. Now what?

He’d heard a church bell tolling not that long ago and had wondered what it’d been for. Three chimes wasn’t the norm for Compline, and it wasn’t any saint’s day or other liturgical festival he could think of. He might as well investigate. And while he was there, he could visit with the priest there who always had some delicious fig cakes lying about… Heaven knew he didn’t have anything better to do.

Aziraphale thought about flying to save time, but that would require a level of purposeful movement for which he could not muster up the motivation. Aimless walking seemed more befitting his restlessness and ill temper.

Besides, it was a nice night for a walk. Street-lamps hadn’t been invented yet, so his lonely journey was guided by the cold, beautiful light of the stars as they started to twinkle on one by one.

Aziraphale meandered down the street, his breath making small clouds before him, taking note when he passed a lit doorway through which he could see patrons of a bar or families content at dinner, laughing in the warmth and having a good time. He swiftly averted his eyes from such displays of happiness.

It was fully dark by the time he arrived at the church. It hardly seemed likely he would find anyone at this hour to ask why the bell had sounded, but he’d been looking for the flimsiest excuse to go for a walk so it hardly mattered. He rubbed his hands together and gazed up at the tower, the bell’s brass bulk looming like a gargoyle in the darkness.

Aziraphale caught the coppery scent of blood and prickled with alarm. He glanced down and saw a glistening trail, which shone a washed-out, glossy black in the dimness of the alley. He squatted to examine it and noted it looked relatively fresh.

“Hello?” he called. “Is anyone there?”

He jogged towards the church, peering around to try to find the source of the blood. “Where are you?”

Aziraphale’s neck prickled again as he sensed an otherworldly aura nearby. Demonic, from the feel of it.

Had that demon done something dreadful? Aziraphale’s blood boiled to imagine that Crowley would have the gall to dupe him so he could go off to do….this.

Aziraphale materialised a dagger. “What have you done?” he whispered. “Show yourself.”

He knew how to use edged weapons, of course, but he strongly preferred keeping them out of his work. Nevertheless, keeping a dagger on hand was prudent. He was a lot of things, but a fool wasn’t one of them.

He stepped forwards gingerly to avoid staining his sandals with the blood splattered all over the ground. A ghastly wheeze to one side drew his attention, and Aziraphale saw who’d made it:

Crowley was crumpled on the ground, bracing himself against the wall, his head hanging. It was immediately obvious to Aziraphale the blood was his, not that of a victim. He looked like he’d gotten the business end of a sword between the ribs. The presence of some stray nicks here and there on his arms and face told Aziraphale he had at least put up a fight.

At first, Aziraphale thought he’d stumbled upon Crowley’s corpse, but the laboured breaths powering the wheezing told him otherwise. He suddenly understood the off-hand comment Crowley had once made about angels smiting harder than strictly necessary. He’d always thought it was an exaggeration to garner pity.

Aziraphale did feel sorry for him now, which he didn’t want to admit. Surely if Gabriel’s cohort had been after an execution, a quick throat-slitting would have been sufficient. But they had left him to die slowly, and by a church of all places. Aziraphale wasn’t sure what effect being so close to holy ground would have on an injured demon, but judging by the trail of blood, Crowley had made some attempt to drag himself away from it before giving up and falling into his current position.

Aziraphale was torn on what to do. The angelic, and probably merciful, thing to do would be to put Crowley out of his misery. It wouldn’t be so bad; Hell would just give him another body. Wouldn’t that be preferable to bleeding out here in the street? Those of angelic stock were made of sterner stuff than humans, so he wouldn’t die right away.

But he definitely was going to die. It looked like Crowley had made an attempt to heal himself, but in his weakened state had clearly not been able to draw up enough power to do the job. Healing was a skillset not many angels actually had in their repertoire, and doing it on yourself was especially difficult.

That left only the option to kill him quickly, right?

Aziraphale cleared his throat. Crowley didn’t respond; his eyes were squeezed shut.

“Well, this is quite a situation you’ve gotten yourself into, isn’t it?” Aziraphale said, lowering the knife.

Crowley started and looked up at Aziraphale foggily. “Huh?”

“Ah, I said, quite a situation you’ve gotten yourself into?”

Crowley reached up and stuck his pinky finger into his ear, twisting it. It was at this point Aziraphale noted the dried blood caked on the side of his face, trailing down from his ear. “Ssssorry, hard to hear you over the ringing.”

Aziraphale looked doubtfully up at the bell tower, then back down at him. Crowley’s serpentine tongue flicked out as he took his next laboured breath. “Sssuppose you’re here to finish me off?”

Aziraphale again raised his knife. Crowley spewed some blood with a raspy cough. He probably has a punctured lung, Aziraphale thought. “Go on, then,” Crowley grunted.

Aziraphale didn’t respond, so Crowley closed his eyes again and titled his head back, baring his throat for the death blow. Aziraphale grimaced, weighing the dagger in his hand. Merciful or not, he hated the idea of using it on someone who had never done him any harm.

Aziraphale watched as Crowley’s face tightened in despair when no blow came, and he realised Crowley shared the thought of a quick death being the best option. The demon’s eyes fluttered open again, resting on Aziraphale.

“Gabriel’s guard detail did this to you?” Aziraphale asked.

“If you’re not going to help me, then get out of here,” Crowley snapped, chest heaving in palpable discomfort. He writhed for a moment, then finished, “I’m very busy dying.”

Aziraphale squatted down next to Crowley. The shift in position resulted in a sense of intimacy that Aziraphale instantly regretted. “What was it you wanted to talk about over drinks?”

Crowley let out a strangled laugh. He’d recently been given a very stern and painful reminder of what his relationship with angels was supposed to be like, and he’d discarded the plan he’d been about to present to Aziraphale. “Forget about it.”

Trapped by his mounting guilt and indecision, Aziraphale didn’t budge.

“Hey,” said Crowley, his voice thick. “Why does it have to be like this, you know? I mean, why like this? You always seemed a decent enough guy…”

Aziraphale waited for some confirmation that Crowley was mocking him, but none came.

Aziraphale looked at the knife in his hand again. Crowley succumbed to another wet coughing fit.

Aziraphale really didn’t want to kill him. The idea was tremendously distasteful. Had he come to…like this demon? Maybe he could sort those feelings out later.

But was the alternative to just leave him…? “I ought to at least move you somewhere more comfortable,” said Aziraphale. It was only charitable. He could make up some lie if another angel caught him moving Crowley around.  He hauled Crowley up. “No,” Crowley groaned.  “Come on…”

Aziraphale slung Crowley’s arm over his shoulder, putting his other arm around Crowley’s midsection to steady him. He was so sluggish that Aziraphale practically had to drag him.

“Where are we going?” Crowley asked miserably. “Just let me die already.”

“I’m just moving you away from the church,” said Aziraphale.

Aziraphale checked the sky to make sure it was free of any watchful eyes. He hauled Crowley into the street, using a small miracle to deter human passersby from noticing them.

Aziraphale soon found himself with another quandary, however: where to put the demon down. Surely now they were far enough away from the church that Crowley wouldn’t be affected by the holy ground, but if he just left him out here in the open, he might again catch the attention of Gabriel’s escort, and human passersby couldn’t help him.

Crowley’s head lolled onto Aziraphale’s shoulder, and he coughed a vivid stain onto Aziraphale’s tunic.

After taking a series of increasingly uncertain turns, Aziraphale eventually dragged Crowley all the way out of town. He didn’t stop until they came to a grassy hill leading up to a rocky outcropping not far from the ocean. There was a small grove of trees cresting it, including what appeared to be an apple tree.

It seemed appropriate. No one would find him here, away from the city and the holy symbols that had hurt him in the first place. And it was surrounded by pleasant trees and the salt-stung air.

There were worse places to die. Aziraphale still couldn’t shake a lingering sense of guilt, as though he should be responsible for the demon’s survival somehow.

He spotted a drop-off under the trees that was slightly sheltered, tree roots sticking out from the dirt. Aziraphale lay Crowley out under it and was shocked to see he was crying. He had thought demons couldn’t, or simply didn’t.

“I don’t want to die, angel,” Crowley managed.

Now he’s just trying to earn pity, Aziraphale thought. Of course none of them wanted to die, but it happened sometimes. You dealt with it. You got another body and came back.

Aziraphale got to his feet and turned to leave.

“Are you ever afraid to go back?” Crowley said weakly to Aziraphale’s back. “To Heaven, I mean. When you die.”

Aziraphale started to walk, ashamed. He couldn’t face Crowley or his question, not like this.

Consumed with guilt, Aziraphale returned within the hour.

He’d left Crowley on the cold ground. It was chilly, and the point had been to make him more comfortable, not leave him to freeze. That made him no better than Gabriel’s guards.

It was hard to see Crowley in the dark—he blended in so well—but Aziraphale found him eventually. He was exactly where Aziraphale had left him, but he’d curled up and tucked himself against the wall.

“Are you cold?” said Aziraphale.

Crowley, his nose buried in the dirt, adamantly said nothing.

Aziraphale built a fire, waiting for Crowley to turn around in his own time. He struck rocks to try and make a spark, but ended up cheating with a miracle out of sheer frustration. He figured it was all right since he had gathered the kindling and done everything else by hand.

Crowley turned over when he felt the heat on his back, and then wordlessly scooted closer.

“Sorry, dear boy,” said Aziraphale. “I forgot how cold it can get out here.”

Crowley said nothing. Aziraphale only realised he’d used the affectionate term after it’d slipped out of his mouth, and he wondered where it could’ve come from. He struggled to think of some way to retract it, second-guessing himself.

Crowley ignored him. Maybe he hadn’t even heard it. He was staring into the fire.

Aziraphale hugged his knees to his chest, feeling chilled himself. Now would be the time to leave, but he hovered for reasons he refused to articulate.

He looked over at Crowley, the flames dancing in his bestial eyes. “Did you…” Aziraphale paused, realisation dawning on him. “Earlier, did you ask me if I—are you afraid of going back to Hell?”

Crowley’s laboured breathing was audible even over the crackling of the fire. He sat still for a few moments before nodding almost imperceptibly.

Crowley’s dread at the thought of being discorporated suddenly made sense to Aziraphale. He’d just assumed Crowley was throwing a fit at having to go through the physical pain of dying.

“Why would you be afraid of that?” said Aziraphale. “You’re a demon.”

Crowley didn’t respond.

“Are you having trouble hearing me again?”

Once again, Crowley remained silent.

Aziraphale reached over to shake him and make sure he was still alive, and Crowley let out a pained hiss.

“Watch it,” he snapped, and spat blood. Talking seemed to be extremely difficult for him. Aziraphale thought his lungs had probably filled with blood.

The angel retracted his hand. “Apologies.”

Crowley rolled over, gasping like a fish out of water.

“I could heal you, you know,” said Aziraphale, shocked by how easily the suggestion presented itself. It seemed so perfectly natural that it took him a moment to remember they were supposed to be enemies and therefore not help each other.

“But you’re not going to,” Crowley grunted, baring his teeth in a strained sneer.

He thinks I’m mocking him, Aziraphale realised. Or gloating. “No, I mean…I used to be a cherub. Healing is one of their skillsets. I still have it, although I haven’t used it in a while…”

Crowley pulled an angry face, coiling more tightly about himself. “Oh, piss off.”

Aziraphale was aware of how ludicrous the suggestion was. He wasn’t supposed to heal demons. He wasn’t even sure if an angel’s healing powers would work on a demon, or if it would burn like holy water…or church bells.

On top of that, healing required bridging the auras of the healer and the patient in such a way that the injured angel was extremely vulnerable, baring their innermost and most sensitive spiritual energy. Usually it wasn’t a problem, because of course an angel would trust another angel trying to heal them, but a demon…

Aziraphale could do permanent damage to Crowley if he wasn’t careful. Or if he were inclined to do so, which he wasn’t, but Crowley would probably take some convincing on that front. He had no reason to trust any angel, even one he had tried to meet for drinks, after being reminded so violently that angels, generally, have it out for him. The idea that a demon might trust an angel enough to expose himself in such a way was almost as absurd as…

…As the idea that angel would want to heal a demon in the first place.

Aziraphale mentally distanced himself from the situation and questioned his own motives. His Make Crowley more comfortable while he dies had slowly morphed into Make Crowley more comfortable, which was gradually becoming a question of why he had to die at all.

I mean, he’s just going to get a new body and come up again, thought Aziraphale. It’s not like killing our kind really does anything. So neither does saving a life, really. What’s the harm?

Our kind. Well, that was an uncomfortable insight, wasn’t it? Aziraphale pushed the pesky thought aside. He wrung his hands. “I mean it. I can heal you, if you like.”

Crowley rolled over and squinted at Aziraphale. “You must think I’m stupid,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

“So you’ll trust me with your death, but not with your life?”

Crowley put his head back down and muttered.

Cautiously, Aziraphale reached out with his aura, extending it to where Crowley’s began. Crowley visibly stiffened, and Aziraphale felt iron-clad walls slam shut around the demon’s aura, defences at the absolute maximum.

Aziraphale withdrew immediately. He was disappointed, but not entirely surprised, that Crowley had closed himself off after what he’d just gone through. They had always been fairly cordial with each other, and Aziraphale had hoped perhaps they could keep it up.

But just because Aziraphale had strange and illogical feelings of fondness for his adversary didn’t mean they would be reciprocated. He’d been foolish to think otherwise.

“All right,” muttered Aziraphale, heaving himself up and dusting his tunic off. “Have it your way, then.”

Aziraphale came back again. This time, he brought two tankards of beer.

Crowley barely noticed his presence. His body felt like it was on fire,**and his lungs were filling with fluid faster than he could cough it out.

[**He knew what this felt like from experience.]

Why that pesky angel hadn’t just killed him was a mystery. He either had some severely misguided heavenly compassion, or he was toying with Crowley in a way neither of them had ever done to each other before. Revenge for being stood up? How petty.

Still, part of Crowley clung to every scrap of pain, knowing it was what was keeping him from Hell. As soon as it stopped, as soon as he died, he would end up back there.

Crowley’s eyes flew open as he felt a hand gently tilting his chin up. Aziraphale’s concerned face was a foot away from his own.

“You’re dying now, aren’t you?” the angel said.

Crowley’s eyes drifted down to the two pints the angel had brought. Optimistic of Aziraphale to think Crowley would be able to drink his, but the gesture didn’t go unnoticed. Misguided compassion it was, then.

Crowley coughed again, struggling to talk past the blood in his throat, wondering how many sentences he had left to get out. He looked up at the moonlit sky, stars visible through the branches of the apple tree above them. It was so utterly quiet and utterly beautiful…Crowley was glad he was here and not burning in an alley near a church. “Not a bad…spot…you picked out for it…angel,” he said, chest heaving. “Thanks…”

Crowley felt Aziraphale’s soft, plump fingers brush his cheek. He didn’t have the energy left to express his surprise at being shown such tenderness.

“I think I can heal you,” Aziraphale said. “Won’t you at least let me try?”

Crowley shuddered and pulled up what remained of his energy to fortify his aura’s defence.

He trembled as he felt Aziraphale’s aura brushing against his own once more. The only time he’d felt anything like this was when he’d been smitten by other angels, but that was markedly less pleasant. Still, he redoubled his efforts to keep Aziraphale at bay; the sensory memory of being so close to angelic power overwhelmed him with panic. The exertion racked him with wretched, moist coughs.

Their connection vibrated with a gentle thought from Aziraphale. Please let me heal you. You’re scared of Hell. You needn’t face it.

Crowley screwed his face in concentration.  He was so, so tempted by those words, but the sneering and laughing faces of the angels playing deadly games with their swords was still so close in his mind. He kept the wall up to preserve his privacy even as his body began to fail, darkness creeping into the edges of his vision. He felt his heart slowing.

Aziraphale lowered his own defences, baring himself, and a cascade of emotions burst through their shared mental channel, giving Crowley a look at Aziraphale’s thoughts. Pity, and the helplessness of someone who can prevent needless suffering but was not being allowed to for reasons he considered foolish.

Crowley pushed back on the channel with his own thoughts: a collage of images, all the horrible things an angel could do if permitted access to Crowley’s deepest, most vulnerable areas. Aziraphale could sever him from his connection to his body and leave him trapped in a dead corporation; he could pull him out and put him in a bottle and block him from seeking reincorporation in Hell; he could tear him apart from the inside out so this slow dying was happening simultaneously in two planes; he could destroy whatever parts of Crowley he wanted; he could sever his wings. He could violate him in any number of ways that Crowley threw back in his face with a defiant addendum: Is this foolish?

Aziraphale withdrew slightly, not wanting to make Crowley feel like he was being forced into anything. Crowley closed his eyes, wheezing.

And yet, Aziraphale’s ethereal essence echoed in his mind, you’re thinking about it, because you hate Hell. Why?

Crowley bitterly shoved through their mental connection a torrent of images of what Hell was like: suffering and fire and torture and all manner of horrible things everyone expected him to like. Other demons withholding his new corporation from him until he did something unsavoury for them. Other demons sensing his desperation to get out no matter how he tried to hide it, of seeing who he really was and not approving, of being known and hated and taunted with the possibility that he might not get a new body at all and would be reassigned to do paperwork in the Eighth Circle. Demons with real authority over him threatening that if he didn’t do the vile things they thought he should be doing up on Earth, they would keep him trapped. Never allowed back up to Earth to see the green grass and the beautiful black starry sky under the apple tree and taste alcohol with that insufferable, beautiful angel—

Aziraphale recoiled in surprise, but did not let go.

Crowley paled, absolutely mortified, positive Aziraphale would blast him to dust on the spot after letting that slip.  He squeezed his eyes shut in anticipation, but all he felt was Aziraphale’s hand gently running through his hair.  He opened his eyes to see Aziraphale’s kind face had broken into a smile. “You asked Why does it have to be this way? It doesn’t. But it’ll never change unless someone takes the first step.” Aziraphale held out his hand. “You said I seem like a decent guy. Won’t you let me try to help you?”

Wracked with shudders, thinking he might be making either a decision he would greatly regret (or a decision for which he’d be grateful for years to come), Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand and let his aural defences slide down. He nodded gravely.

“All right,” said Aziraphale, kneeling and getting into position to work. He placed a warm hand on Crowley’s chest. “Now, I’m not one-hundred percent certain this will work. I’ve never healed a demon before. But I’ll try my best. Let me know if something doesn’t feel right.”

A wave of apprehension rolled over Crowley. It took all his willpower not to recoil as Aziraphale reached out, brushing Crowley’s aura and stroking the raw wounds in his true form.

“Ready?” said Aziraphale, and a tendril of ethereal essence snaked its way into him and rested around his demonic core, which trembled at the touch. “One, two…”

Crowley’s grip on Aziraphale’s hand tightened as he felt something like divine fire licking through him, almost overwhelming him. Aziraphale seemed to notice his distress and eased up a little, pouring warm and gentle liquid light on the wounds.

Crowley let out a shaky breath, overtaken with relief.

“Is that better?” said Aziraphale, concern apparent on his face.

Crowley raised a hand to wipe sweat away from his face, letting out a nervous chuckle as the pressure in his chest finally lifted and the blood drained from his lungs under Aziraphale’s deft motions. “Yeah. Oh…”

Crowley let out a moan. Aziraphale’s hands worked over his chest in light circles, causing his flesh to writhe and draw itself back together.

Crowley’s head was a little clearer now, so he tried to think of a snarky one-liner to recover some sense of pride, but nothing came to him. He was just so damn caught up in how good the miracle-working he was getting felt. It was like Aziraphale was massaging his very soul.

In sharp contrast to the defensiveness he’d felt earlier, he was actually quite disappointed to feel Aziraphale’s healing aura withdraw. He opened his eyes and looked the angel up and down. “Why’d you stop?”

“Er,” said Aziraphale, fidgeting with a branch on the ground. “That’s enough to keep you alive. You won’t die now. So I’ve kept you from Hell.”

“Oh,” said Crowley. He heaved himself upright and leaned against the rock wall behind him, a root from the apple tree sticking out of the dirt wall behind him poking his back slightly. “Thanks.”

Aziraphale smiled lightly.

Crowley was disappointed to still feel a slight pain when he inhaled. “You could…”

Aziraphale looked up sharply. “What?”

“You could…I don't know, you could finish if you wanted to.”

Aziraphale’s face lit up, and his aura snaked back out.

Crowley welcomed him with no hesitation this time. He bathed in the angelic aura like a snake basking in the sunlight. The now less-than-mortal wounds left in his corporation quickly knit themselves together.

Aziraphale withdrew gradually this time, and the two of them felt like they were glowing, having broken a boundary no angel or demon had ever dared approach before.

“Thank you,” said Crowley. He reached down and touched his chest, which was now whole again.

“Don’t mention it,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley let his fingers wander over to the angel’s hand, trying to decide whether or not he should hold it.

“No, really, don’t mention it,” said Aziraphale. “I could get in big trouble, especially if Gabriel’s guard had orders to kill you. Er…”

Crowley nodded grimly, yanked back into the seriousness of the situation by the tone in the angel’s voice. He nudged one of the tankards of beer. “So…that for me?”

Aziraphale slid it over to him. “Yes… I thought, well…You wanted to get drinks earlier and failed to make that appointment. I thought we could make-up the date here, under this tree.”

Crowley took a swig of beer. It was the good stuff. “Thanks.”

“You can buy next time. Cheers.”

They clinked their glasses together.

“So,” said Aziraphale, staring at the foam in his tankard. “There was something you had wanted to talk about. Perhaps now you’ll feel comfortable sharing it?”

Crowley gazed into his beer. “Oh, yes. Well, you know, I’ve been thinking… This wouldn’t have happened if I’d known Gabriel was in town. I was only here for one mission, and this whole situation could have been avoided if someone else had been in town to carry it out for me.”

Aziraphale cocked his head. “Surely you’re not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting.”

“You had a mission to do three towns over, didn’t you? Yet they made you run all the way over here to meet Gabriel, which hardly gives you enough time to meet your deadline. Yet I was in that same town, bored out of my skull. Seems like if we just…talked it over a bit, we could pick up each other’s slack. We’d get a lot more done in a much more efficient way, and we could stay out of the way of other angels and demons.”

Aziraphale looked down into his cup, thinking of an unpleasant run-in he’d had with a demon not as approachable as Crowley on his last mission. “That sounds…reasonable. You’re proposing an Arrangement of some sort?”

“That,” said Crowley, raising his glass, “is precisely what I am proposing. A formal business relationship between you and me. One based on mutual respect and trust.”

Aziraphale looked into his honey-golden eyes, as full of hope and positivity as the smile reaching them, and once again clinked their glasses together. “I’ll drink to that.”

#good omens #my writing #my good omens fanfic #gohe

[evilasiangenius]

TITLE: Anthony J. Crowley is Going to Burn Down a Goat (Yule)

SUMMARY: …and Aziraphale is going to try to stop him.

PAIRING: Aziraphale x Crowley

TAGS: Aziraphale is So Done with Crowley, Crowley is a Little Shit, Crowley Wears Pink, Love, Fluff and Humor, Food, Travel, Gävlebocken, Swedish Yule Goat, Cuddling & Snuggling, Kissing, Birds, Hot Springs & Onsen, Seasonal but Non-Holiday

STATUS: Ongoing, 4/5

WORD COUNT: 4.2K

For @thelaithlyworm and @sigmastolen.

Chapter Four: Falling Snow

Snow fell, lightly dusting Crowley’s dark hair, and for a fleeting moment it reminded Aziraphale of the glitter of stars seen through the gauzy veil of great interstellar clouds, but that image faded as discrete crystals of snowflakes melted and soaked into Crowley’s hair.

“Perhaps we should go. The snow is getting heavier,” Aziraphale began, wondering if they too should leave the rapidly emptying square.

But instead of getting up, Crowley reached up and dragged Aziraphale down onto his lap.

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaimed, surprised, and then the demon enfolded the angel within a warm cocoon of soft fluffy pink blanket.

“Mmm,” Crowley sighed, resting his head upon Aziraphale’s thick chest.

“You’ll be cold like this, my dear. The blanket’s not big enough for both of us, not like this. Not when you put all of it around me,” Aziraphale began, putting his arms around Crowley’s back where the blanket had slipped away.

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” Crowley said, and he tugged off the sleep mask, placing it upon Aziraphale’s head where it sat like a bandana over his forehead. The silk was still warm from the heat of Crowley’s body. “Angel, let’s stay the night. We’ll go home tomorrow. Or the day after. I want to go see the northern lights. Can we see the northern lights from here? What do you think, Aziraphale? I could rent us a car and drive as far north as we need to go to see them. Haven’t seen them in a while. Do you think there’s a place we can go out in the wilderness where there’s an outdoor thermal spring? And we can sit in the hot water and watch the northern lights?”

“I think perhaps I could manage a day or two away from the bookshop. If you were to rent us an electric car. And if you lend me your fancy smart phone, I shall look it up for the both of us, a nice place with an outdoor thermal spring where we can watch the northern lights,” Aziraphale said with a smile, leaning down to kiss Crowley who drew the angel close, his cool fingertips warming upon Aziraphale’s cheeks.

A few minutes later, the angel and the demon stood up to leave. As they walked away, a chattering clattering of jackdaws descended from the sky like a excitable black cloud upon the ground around the bench they left behind.

Crowley leaned against his shoulder, sharing the warmth of the pink blanket as they walked close together. Aziraphale slipped his arm around Crowley’s lithe waist beneath the concealing blanket, but then turned his head for one last lingering look at the towering gävlebocken in its snowy enclosure.

“No burning goat this year?”

“No burning goat this year,” Crowley said, with a surreptitious gesture behind his back as they walked away.

A moment after Crowley and Aziraphale left the square, thick heads of fresh-harvested grain appeared miraculously throughout the chemically treated bundled straw, interwoven tight into the existing material.

The sudden appearance of fat aromatic golden spikes of grain caught a jackdaw’s attention, a bird whose pale blue-gray eye just happened to be upon the gävlebocken just as the miracle happened. With a hop upon a newly healed foot that was no longer encumbered, that no longer throbbed with pain, she flapped over to try the grain upon the gävlebocken’s head, pecking with curious taps of her short beak. Finding it delicious, she enthusiastically called to the others to join her.

While a few members of the clattering searched under the park bench the angels (fallen and otherwise) had left behind, hoping to find more half-frozen mealworms, the rest began to explore the bundled straw, tearing the grain free from the gävlebocken.

Tiny bits of straw began to rain down upon the snow-covered ground beneath the monolithic goat.

Excited calls grew louder and louder as more and more black-feathered jackdaws were called to the unexpected wintry feast. Friends, neighbors, mates and family – every clattering from all over Gävle was invited to the bright-lit square.

As the birds ate, pecking and tearing, more straw began to fall, raining down in a golden flurry blurred by the falling snow.

#crowley #aziraphale #good omens #ineffable husbands #good omens fic #fic: crowley goat burn #last chapter will post in a few hours

[evilasiangenius]

TITLE: Anthony J. Crowley is Going to Burn Down a Goat (Yule)

SUMMARY: …and Aziraphale is going to try to stop him.

PAIRING: Aziraphale x Crowley

TAGS: Aziraphale is So Done with Crowley, Crowley is a Little Shit, Crowley Wears Pink, Love, Fluff and Humor, Food, Travel, Gävlebocken, Swedish Yule Goat, Cuddling & Snuggling, Kissing, Birds, Hot Springs & Onsen, Seasonal but Non-Holiday

STATUS: Ongoing, 3/5

WORD COUNT: 4.2K

For @thelaithlyworm and @sigmastolen.

Chapter Three: The Jackdaw and the String

They sat on the middle bench of a long, miraculously empty series of benches facing the looming snow-dusted figure of the massive straw gävlebocken behind its barricaded fortress of protective fencing. It was around three in the afternoon but deepening twilight was already obscuring the square from sight though not the gävlebocken, which was already illuminated with bright floodlights.

The glaring white light which reflected off the flecks of falling snow made the very air about the gävlebocken seem to sparkle tantalizingly.

“Did you come to thwart me, angel? To stop me from burning down a straw goat? Or did you come because you wanted to come with me?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale demurred. “Can’t it be both?”

“I suppose,” Crowley said, disappointed. “Is it a force of habit then? To go about thwarting my nefarious schemes. Even if they’re no longer infernal schemes.”

“Perhaps. You know, my dear, for you to convince a human to do the dirty work would involve them taking on quite a bit of risk in terms of financial penalties and jail time, and that is if they can get past the guards. It wouldn’t be fair to them. Not if you’re doing this for your own...ah, ahem, principles.” The angel was quite proud of himself for somehow avoiding the word ‘amusement’.

“No, I suppose not,” Crowley replied absently. “How do the birds manage?”

“Hmm?”

Crowley pointed, and Aziraphale finally noticed the flutter of wings from a solitary black-feathered bird as it landed on the spiky protective barricade surrounding the gävlebocken. “Alone like this, angel, in the dark that comes so early. How do they manage?”

“I suspect the light draws insects. Artificial light really has changed life for birds in cities, hasn’t it? I see birds around at all hours of the night, and not just the nocturnal ones.”

“Oh, this one’s probably not alone,” Crowley said, as the bird hopped awkwardly over to inspect them, hoping for handouts. “It’s a jackdaw, probably out scouting for a meal. Looking for a mark, right?”

The jackdaw bounced up onto Crowley’s right knee, glaring at him with a serious, pale blue-gray eye. It opened its beak with a voice that sounded almost like a rook’s voice if it had been put through a digital modulator to pitch it higher and speed it up, began to go through its entire repetoire: children to feed, family and extended family to feed, mate(s) to feed, and maybe could the angels (fallen and otherwise) point them out to a good source of worms or snails, the hungry children liked worms and snails, growing children needed worms to survive the bitter winter, etc.

“Nice schtick. Great spiel, almost believable, but first of all, all you had to do was ask. You didn’t need to go through all that,” Crowley said, and with a gesture scattered a generous double handful of fat live mealworms onto the ground that the bird eagerly hopped down to eat, limping after the wriggling insects. “And second of all, I know you’re a single female which is the only reason why they sent you out to scope out marks in the first place. Low on the pecking order, that’s how it goes for jackdaws. No kids, especially not in this season, no mate(s)...eh, extended family, maybe? Probably.”

“Oh, worms? Crowley,” Aziraphale scolded fondly. “What if someone saw? And it’s all right if this one stretches the truth a little. Look, her poor foot’s all tangled up in string. No wonder she was limping. Here little one, come over here for a moment.”

The jackdaw hopped up onto Aziraphale’s left knee, and the angel busied himself untangling the thread that had twisted in a hard-tangled knot about her foot.

“There now, here we go, everything is all right…” Aziraphale murmured, miraculously breaking the knot free.

With a gesture, torn and sore toes straightened and mended themselves. The jackdaw fell silent, imploring message forgotten, and then suddenly flew off in a frenzied flutter.

“People had ought to be more careful with loose threads and hair. They’re a hazard to birds,” Aziraphale said, getting up for a moment to deposit the tangled knotty bit of dirty string in a nearby wastebin near a food stand. He wiped his fingers clean with a handkerchief, though it was more of a miraculous sanitizing obscured by the cloth as if a magician’s act.

“How kind of you,” Crowley said, looking up at Aziraphale as the angel returned. There was a genuine smile upon the demon’s lips, not just one of amusement, but of a warm fondness that made Aziraphale blush.

“I am just doing what any reasonable being would do. Besides, it can’t be helped,” Aziraphale said. “I can’t help myself when it comes to something like this. I know what it’s like to be like that jackdaw from the old story, the one with a string around one foot, fleeing from captivity. Even if the string could not be seen, even if it were long–”

“It still tangles strangling tight no matter what you do and how far you try to run,” Crowley’s expression grew dark, closed. “Yeah. I know how that story ends. But that’s because he tried to manage it alone. If he had help, angel, if he had someone who could help him untangle that string, to break that entangling knot, he could have flown free.”

#ineffable husbands #aziraphale x crowley #aziracrow #good omens #good omens fic #fic: crowley goat burn

[evilasiangenius]

TITLE: Anthony J. Crowley is Going to Burn Down a Goat (Yule)

SUMMARY: …and Aziraphale is going to try to stop him.

PAIRING: Aziraphale x Crowley

TAGS: Aziraphale is So Done with Crowley, Crowley is a Little Shit, Crowley Wears Pink, Love, Fluff and Humor, Food, Travel, Gävlebocken, Swedish Yule Goat, Cuddling & Snuggling, Kissing, Birds, Hot Springs & Onsen, Seasonal but Non-Holiday

STATUS: Ongoing, 2/5

WORD COUNT: 4.2K

For @thelaithlyworm and @sigmastolen.

Chapter Two: Serious Regret

“It was not very nice,” Aziraphale said, “for me to be left dragging you about like that.”

An elderly person walked by, giving Aziraphale a skeptical look. A mother with young children gave him a wide berth, crossing the street to avoid him.

“Why?”

“Because everyone who saw us thought I was a murderer carrying a corpse in a carpet. A gangster. Some kind of vicious criminal. Until you wriggled free, and now they think I’m some...some kind of kidnapper or something. Or worse yet, a kidnapper and a pervert!”

“Relax, angel. They probably just think you’re doing a performance art. Or that I am doing a performance art. Perhaps we are both doing one together. It’s fine, it just means that people will leave us alone while we do a performance art.”

“That sounds perverted,” Aziraphale whispered sharply, dropping his voice so as not to be heard by others. “A performance art. In public? Goodness gracious, Crowley.”

“That’s always useful for getting nefarious doings done. The hint of perversion. Or the hint of performance art,” Crowley said, as he waved cheerfully to a man walking by who averted his gaze and hurried past without a word. “Adds a little spice. Perhaps I shall think up an interpretive dance to go along with the nefarious doings?”

Then again, perhaps it wasn’t just the insinuation of something questionable so much as not many men or man-shaped creatures in central Gävle stood around in a very stylish formal all-black ensemble with shiny snakeskin boots and a suit and shirt and tie on the razor-sharp papercut edge of fashion but then swathed themselves in a cheery bright pink fluffy blanket/scarf/shawl with a pink silk sleep mask slipped up over their forehead making bits of their hair stick up, despite already wearing a pair of fancy designer black sunglasses, all while staring at a straw Yule goat.

Someone walked by muttering invective about British tourists.

“But must you really burn down the goat?”

“Hmm, good question.” Crowley gave the goat a long considered look. “No, you’re right. Now that I see it, burning it down really does seem rather uninspired. And I aim to do something inspired.”

“Would inspiration be improved perhaps by a hot drink? Something caffeinated, perhaps, or mulled.”

“Temptation to inspiration: accomplished,” Crowley said wryly.

It was warm in the coffeeshop, but Crowley did not take off the blanket which was now draped about him quite stylishly in a way that suggested a model or an influencer to fashionable humans but really suggested something more like an ancient chlamys, pinned at the shoulder by infernal means.

“In case you were wondering,” Crowley said, his hands around a mug of hot mulled wine that was warming his fingers though not as comprehensively nor as comfortably as Aziraphale could, “I don’t know how I did it alone.”

“What?” Aziraphale blinked, glancing up from his mug of hot chocolate, swimming with plump marshmallows and whipped cream. “I was actually wondering how you convinced a barista to serve you mulled wine. I’m quite certain they don’t serve wine in coffeeshops...”

“On the train. You asked me how I managed to do it alone. I don’t know. I just did,” Crowley shrugged. “Every year, every month and week and day and hour. For thousands of years, just doing whatever it took to do the job. By myself. Trudging through mud, or on horseback (blech), or what have you. Lots of dusty roads and heaving ships and such. I don’t know how I managed.”

“When you put it that way...I don’t know how I managed either,” Aziraphale mused. “Yet at the same time, I can’t imagine what it would have been like otherwise.”

“Sorry,” Crowley said.

“Hmm?”

“I’m sorry. I should have gone with you to Scotland. And Caerdydd. And that time to Dublin. Tokyo. Paris. Tenochtitlan. And you should have come with me those other times. Scotland. Caerdydd. Dublin. Tokyo, Paris, Mexico City, Alexandria, Rio. Kaffa. No wait, maybe not Kaffa, that was an unmitigated disaster. But remember Kyiv? That was fun when we went together, that time before the war. Not this last one, but the other one. The previous, previous one. The turn of the century one. Anyway, not enough witches on Bald Mountain, that was disappointing. Do you think there are still not enough witches there?”

“I suppose anything’s possible. It’s been some time since we’ve been. Perhaps they have multiplied over the years. But you don’t have to be sorry, my dear...”

“No, I am. Maybe that’s my only real serious regret, angel. Er, at least one of the top ten Real Serious Regrets. All those times I should have gone with you and I didn’t. All those times I left you to go alone when I should have come too. We could have managed better, if we had done it all together.”

“It’s all right, my dear. I don’t mind that you didn’t accompany me. I know you don’t like to travel,” Aziraphale said, omitting the part where it was ungodly difficult to travel with Crowley.

“I don’t dislike everything about travel. Okay, I hate a lot of things about traveling. Hot dusty days. Wet rainy days. Mud. Bad hotel beds. Airport security. I mean, I don’t know how many bones I’m supposed to have, who the hell knows these kinds of things? They’re, they’re always on about me not having enough or having too many or they’re in the wrong place...

“Oh and horses. I hate anything to ride that’s four-legged, really, except camels. I like camels, but not to ride. But I like driving,” Crowley said thoughtfully, watching the humans pass by the cafe windows. “And I like walking. And ships, especially ones that depend on wind and sails. I like seeing new sights, listening to new people, and I like the things you can do by yourself. But...I don’t mind any of that if it’s with you. Even the things I don’t like, or the things I like doing by myself. It’s fine when it’s with you.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, with a blush that made the demon smile.

“Now finish your cocoa, angel,” Crowley said, downing the steaming wine in one go, licking his lips. “I’ve got a goat to burn.”

“Oh no...”

#crowley #aziraphale #good omens #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #good omens fanfiction #fic: crowley goat burn

[evilasiangenius]

TITLE: Anthony J. Crowley is Going to Burn Down a Goat (Yule)

SUMMARY: …and Aziraphale is going to try to stop him.

PAIRING: Aziraphale x Crowley

TAGS: Aziraphale is So Done with Crowley, Crowley is a Little Shit, Crowley Wears Pink, Love, Fluff and Humor, Food, Travel, Gävlebocken, Swedish Yule Goat, Cuddling & Snuggling, Kissing, Birds, Hot Springs & Onsen, Seasonal but Non-Holiday

STATUS: Ongoing, 1/5

WORD COUNT: 4.2K

For @thelaithlyworm and @sigmastolen.

Chapter One: Crowley in Pink

December 13, 2023

“I, Anthony J. Crowley, am going to burn down a goat.”

“Hmm?” Aziraphale looked up from his accounting book. His spectacles slipped down his nose and he adjusted them, glancing at the clock “It’s quite early or very late, depending on how you consider the time, but if you want birria or a kebab for breakfast, do be a dear and give me about fifteen...no, twenty minutes so I can finish this and we can go find something together, perhaps there is something open all night–”

“No, I’m not talking about food, I’m talking about a goat. A straw goat. A straw Yule goat. In Sweden.”

“What about a straw Yule goat in Sweden?”

“I’m going to go burn it down.”

“…Crowley,” Aziraphale began.

“I know that tone of voice and don’t you dare try to stop me. And besides, I wouldn’t be doing it directly, just a little infernal inspiration to some hapless human–”

“Crowley, you don’t work for Downstairs anymore, you don’t need to be–“

“Yes, yes, I know. It’s not that, it’s not for them. This is a matter of Principle.”

“How? Is burning down a straw goat a matter of principle?”

“You wouldn’t understand. Look, I’ll be back in...erm, a few days? Just need to pop over to Sweden and take care of some things. Burny things. Burny goaty things.”

“No, Crowley, don’t you dare–“

“I’m fully daring. I’ll see you soon.”

Soon turned out to be very soon indeed.

“Wasn’t it nice that our seats were upgraded to first class? Overbooked flight,” Aziraphale explained. “That does happen quite a bit these days, what with airline companies trying to maximize profits and then making a mistake in their capacity calculations. Mathematically troubling for them, but quite beneficial for us.”

“I wonder how that happened,” Crowley muttered, eyes obscured with an Aziraphale-provided sleep mask. It was pleasingly pink and ruffled along the edges. The cool silk seemed like it would be quite soothing over his eyes, or would have if he had bothered to take off his sunglasses. He was swaddled in a blanket of the same color, though of a soft-woven woolly material.

“Did you really want to keep wearing that mask? Or did you want me to continue to feed you bites of your breakfast?”

“Yes.”

Aziraphale huffed a sigh. “All right, here comes the aeroplane…try not to move the hangar so that I don’t poke you in the nose again with a spoonful of yogurt.”

“Crowley, are you actually asleep under there or do you just like traveling blindfolded?”

“Mmm,” Crowley answered, reasonably.

“All right, so you are actually sleeping...but what a shame. You are missing some very lovely wintry landscape, my dear. All drab and dreary, overcast, with a blue-tinted monotone over whites and grays and black. Stark and snowing just a little bit, but the contrast between that colorless cold and the warm golden light in here makes everything inside seem that much cosier. As I’ve often said, the view from a train is far more inviting and intriguing than that from a plane. Though I suppose to humans, the plane may have more novelty, given that they can’t otherwise see the Earth from such heights without technological aids…”

“Mrrgh,” Crowley responded, resting his head upon Aziraphale’s broad shoulder and drawing the woolly pink blanket up over both of them.

“If this is how you like to travel, how did you ever manage it alone?” Aziraphale wondered, snuggling close to Crowley, stroking the demon’s dark hair where it stuck out in strange directions under the stretchy band of the sleep mask.

“I’m not certain why you insist on bundling up like this in the taxi, Crowley, but will you please, please take off that stupid mask and untangle yourself from this blanket. It’s only four minutes to the square, we could have walked. In fact we should have walked, the carbon emissions we could have–”

“Eh,” Crowley said by way of explanation, nuzzling against Aziraphale’s shoulder, eyes blindered.

“I don’t even know why I am doing this,” Aziraphale muttered. A moment later the taxi lurched to a stop and the angel paid the cab fare. Dragging the drowsing swaddled Crowley out, he slung the pink burrito-esque bundle of gangly demon over his shoulder and headed to the castle square.

#crowley #aziraphale #good omens #good omens fanfiction #aziraphale x crowley #Gävlebocken #fic: crowley goat burn