#go fic

[rainbowpopeworld]

Really got to set expectations for what you mean by “slow burn” when the canon is 6000+ years 😂

#good omens #good omens 2 #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable motherfuckers #ineffable husbands #ineffable* #aziracrow #gomens* #ao3 #good omens fanfiction #go fanfic #good omens fanfic #go fic #slow burn #good omens season 2 #good omens s2 #go2 #gos2

[phoen1xr0se]

Chapter 39 of Don't Fall Away From Me is up on AO3! (M)

Art Credit: @wisesnail

Chapter Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley find themselves revisiting an old haunt as they prepare to meet their maker. Aziraphale's faith is tested to its limit.

🖤🩶🤍🖤🩶🤍🖤🩶🤍🖤🩶🤍🖤🩶🤍🖤🩶🤍

Author's Note: I hope you are enjoying this story. The comments you leave on AO3 mean so very much to me, I treasure every one of them. Without them I'd have given up by now!

Next chapter should be up fairly shortly, but am in hospital Monday and Tuesday which, annoyingly, has impacted everything. I'll still do my best.

🖤🩶🤍🖤🩶🤍🖤🩶🤍🖤🩶🤍🖤🩶🤍🖤🩶🤍

Enjoy, and again, please leave a comment on AO3 if you can:

The opening to Chapter 39 is below the cut (no spoilers):

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Aziraphale had been on Earth for a very, very long time.

His feet had touched the cool grass of Eden on the day of its creation, felt the sun’s first rays as they caressed him through the leaves of the apple trees, enveloping him with a warmth he hadn’t ever realised had been absent. Aziraphale had seen the plans for this planet and its population, but nothing could have prepared him for the soft, tender fragility of petals on a brightly blooming flower, or the hopeful, sweet song that filled the air from the winged creatures that flew up above. As he had walked through the garden, surveying all that he had been chosen to protect, the heart inside his new corporation had swelled, fit to burst, at all the good it saw.

Yes, Aziraphale had loved Earth, and everything on it, since the beginning of its creation.

He had watched as the world grew, evolved, blossomed – and he, too, had changed with it. The world kept on shifting, and Aziraphale found that the angel he had been designed to be was no longer fit for his new assignment. Humans, in all their unique and messy beauty, craved things he couldn’t understand, thrived not only in the love of God but of one another, in shared moments of laughter, connection and intimacy.

And his heart, the heart that had been filled with all this goodness, all this humanity, had, unbeknownst to him, been shifting, changing, blossoming. Aziraphale found himself longing, wanting. Wondering, in lonely moments, if perhaps there was more.

In almost all of those moments, there had been Crowley.

He’d once thought that the demon materialised during those weak moments as a test, a temptation, a slap on the wrist, stinging with guilt and shame, every time he caught sight of that flame-red hair.

It had taken him centuries to realise that Crowley was none of those things, but, in fact, everything he had been seeking, the hollow, aching thing his heart had been craving for. Not a test, not the apple, not a question, but the answer to the puzzle, the sated feeling after a feast, the fixed point upon which the Earth had kept turning.

It had been the two of them, and the Earth, since the Beginning.

And now it was the two of them, and the Earth, at the End.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #crowley #aziraphale #don't fall away from me #phoenixrose314 #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #good omens fandom #post season 2 #go fic #go fanfic #go fandom #go fanfic rec #good omens ao3 #ao3 good omens #good omens fanfic #phoenixrose #dont fall away from me #dfafm #demon muriel #the second coming #abaddon

[thewolveswolf]

chapter 10 of london, libraries & love is up!

please enjoy nearly 5K of... well. bickering, really. highlights include:

crowley watching aziraphale eat a scone

aziraphale realising that maybe he actually likes crowley. just a little bit tho. nothing crazy. (okay denial 😬)

crowley being a bastard

aziraphale being a bigger bastard

mustache porn????

literal bird shit

bonding™

what can i say? i am but a vessel for good omens idiocy

#lll #good omens #good omens fic #fic #go fic #gomens #ineffable husbands

[dorywhynot]

Illustration 3/3 for @dustandhalos and the printing of their gorgeous fic, "Stalwart Sun, Wily Moon." 🖤

Preorder the book!

Read the fic!

#stalwart sun wily moon #sswm #good omens #go fic #human au #aziraphale #crowley #illustration #drawing

[suzypfonne]

Crowley is stretched out across the sofa, in the little sitting area at the back of the bookshop. There's a book opened over his eyes, blocking out the blinding lights from above. His sunglasses are folded on the small, wine-glass-littered table beside him. The bell over the bookshop door tinkles.

Without moving, Crowley flatly calls to the intruder, "Shop's closed. We don't have what you're looking for, and we wouldn't sell it to you even if we did."

"Crowley?" a small, familiar voice speaks tentatively into the librichor-drenched room.

The former demon bolts upright, the book falling to the floor, landing miraculously, undamaged. Crowley stares harshly at the beige shape standing in the shadow of the entry way.

"Crowley..." the angel's voice is shaking. All of him is, he fidgets absentmindedly with his ring. He clears his throat and begins, "We've known each other a long time. We've been on this planet, a long time..."

"Don't mock me, Aziraphale!"

The angel takes a step forward into the light, and continues, "I could always rely on you. You could always rely on me." He's sobbing.

Crowley stands suddenly and strides quickly across the shop, stopping a few feet short of the angel. "Stop it! You can't do this, Aziraphale! You can't just show up and throw my own words back at me!"

"We're a team, a pair, a set. Matching bookends. And while we have spent our existence pretending that we aren't. I would like to spend..." his voice cracks remembering how utterly broken Crowley had looked the last time he saw him, eyes brimming with uncried tears.

"I can't do this again. I can't hide. I won't! We can't keep doing this... fucking... ineffable dance. It's insane. I'm going insane, Aziraphale. "

Haltingly, Aziraphale resumes, "I would like to spend... whatever life we have left... together. Being an us..." he trails off as he searches Crowley's face, hoping against hope that he's not too late.

Crowley's angry, bowed posture softens. "What?"

"I love you, Crowley. Please, however you'll have me. Boyfriends. Husbands. Wives. Any of them. All of them."

"Aziraphale... Angel...I..."

In the silence that follows, Aziraphale steps closer and closer, narrowing the gap between them. "I love you. In a way that humankind scarcely has the words to describe. Oh, dear boy, I could spend millennia trying and never quite get it right."

"I love you, too, angel. I tried to say it, before. You already had one foot out the door. I-I never thought I'd see you again. I never hoped to hear those words."

"Oh Crowley. My Crowley. How I've missed you. Please, do it again?"

"Do what again?"

"Kiss me? Darling, please, again and again and..." and the angel's lips are stopped with a kiss. A proper kiss.

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #fix it fic #my brain made me do it #david tennant #michael sheen #ineffable lovers #go s2e6 #ineffable fanfic #ineffable ficlet #go ficlet #go fic #aziracrow

[snarky-synesthete]

A "Season Three" Fic to Heal the Soul

I know I've posted this fic before, since I wrote it last summer. I had a conversation with someone yesterday who was feeling sort of hopeless about the third (and final) season of Good Omens. I sent him my fic and got a message from him this morning. He'd stayed up reading it all night. I hassled him about it: "It's almost as long as the Good Omens novel! You have work today, you idiot! This is an April Fool's prank, right?"

It wasn't. He said that no matter what happened in S3, he'd be able to at least think of this fic's ending as the "comfort food" he wanted...the South Downs ending, not as a "happily ever after" but as a real conclusion: complicated, warm, and human (or at least, as human as two immortal beings can get).

He said he'd wanted to read it back when I wrote it, but he just couldn't get past the word count...but he told me today that if he'd known where it was going, he would have been more likely to start the journey. So under the read-more, I've put the section he suggested. It's not the whole epilogue - just a snippet - but he said this was the part he needed to read to settle his ambiguous anxieties about S3...

(you can read the whole thing here:)

So again – it wasn’t perfect.

Crowley had to teach himself how to want things, rather than just avoid the things he didn’t want. Aziraphale had to teach himself that his opinion wasn’t necessarily the correct opinion simply because it was his own. They were both still learning to de-code their interactions with each other. It was a challenge, after so long, with such high stakes. Still, they were learning. The lads helped. Nina and Maggie helped.

They helped each other, mostly.

The cottage sometimes sat quiet for weeks at a time. Crowley would occasionally let loose the incorporeal infernal core of himself out into the universe, slithering out among the stars he’d once helped to build (after carefully depositing his corporeal form safely in the spare bedroom…it made Aziraphale deeply uncomfortable to leave it just lying empty in their own bed). Aziraphale often lent a hand in Heaven (and, on occasion, Hell). He also spent a great deal of time in London dealing with all his business in and around Whickber Street, accepting with a begrudging respect the records that Maggie foisted off on him as he learned to become comfortable with change. (The ZZ Ward vinyls had become his favorite…Crowley had developed an almost Pavlovian response to them, in fact, as her music seemed to trigger something demanding in Aziraphale. Crowley had learned to hydrate, when the angel put on a ZZ Ward album.)

Still, they would both return. The cottage would light up again, full of music and laughter and all the other sounds of life on Earth. Aziraphale would discover new and exciting endearments for Crowley, just to watch him sputter. (Sunflower was still Aziraphale’s favorite, closely followed by honeybee. Sunflower himself refused to comment on the matter.) Crowley would put too much honey in Aziraphale’s tea just to taste it in his kisses later. Aziraphale would pick bouquets of wildflowers just to see Crowley’s sunflower-golden eyes light up, even as he complained of his bees being doomed to starvation, if you keep this up, angel, honestly.

Aziraphale never did get his favorite old waistcoat and jacket back from the park, after he had so carefully taken them off to avoid ruining them as he fought to Crowley’s rescue. The clothes were long gone by the time he was finally able to get back to retrieve them. Crowley, the darling, had searched online for them at antique clothing auctions and had scoured all the thrift shops for miles, but with no luck. Aziraphale had kissed him and thanked him for the trouble, but told him to give up the search.

After all, nothing lasts forever.

No thing lasts forever.

Luckily, love is not a thing at all.

Love is an action verb.

#good omens #good omens 2 #good omens fic #good omens fic rec #good omens season 3 #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #aziracrow #south downs cottage #love is an action verb #my fic #good omens fanfiction #go fic recs #go fic #crowley/aziraphale

[celestialcrowley]

Psst.

I’m making headway on my GO fic…

Gif credit: @di-42 — thank you!

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #the ghost speaks #aziracrow #go fic #good omens fic #fic writing

[bitchyfop]

It was like the world was sharpening back into focus. He hadn't realized it had gotten fuzzy in the first place. There was a loud thumping sound and rough, ragged - oh that was him. His chest nearly shook with the fury of his beating heart, he couldn't seem to control his breathing.

His face was wet?

"Angel."

He stared. And stared. It didn't - it wasn't computing. His hands were shaking. He was holding a sword, had it been on fire? There was still smoke in the air. Gold - there were puddles of gold everywhere. There were bodies -

"Hey. Hey sshh hey look at me. Angel. It's ok. It's ok."

Hands were on his hands. He couldn't breathe. His face was a rictus of pain.

"AZIRAPHALE."

Yellow snake eyes were inches from his. Oh. Oh GOD.

"Crowley..."

The sword clanged to the ground and he collapsed into the demon's arms.

Crowley slowly dropped them both to the ground as Aziraphale buried his head in his chest, wracked with sobs. He held the angel firmly, one hand in his hair.

"It's ok, angel. I'm here it's ok."

"Y - you were gone! I saw! They - they..." Aziraphale could barely get the words out. He hiccuped and gripped Crowley harder. "I c - couldn't."

"Sshh I know. I know, I'm so sorry, angel. I had to pretend so I could get out of there."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He couldn't stop. He had to know he had to make Crowley know.

"No sshh it's fine we're fine. Aziraphale, for hell's sake breathe! Come on deep breaths your corporation is gonna pass out. Breathe with me come on."

Aziraphale gasped and swallowed around the grief. He tried to feel the way Crowley's chest rose and fell. Up and down. In and out. The panicked edges of his consciousness started to calm.

"There ya go. There you are." Aziraphale felt Crowley nudge his nose into his hair. The angel took a deep breath.

"I love you."

The chest beneath his cheek stilled.

"I kept - I couldn't stop thinking. You were gone and I never - I never got to tell you," his voice was thick with tears. Aziraphale sniffed and pulled back to look up at Crowley's stricken face. The demon's eyes were blown-out, yellow and staring.

"Crowley. In all of creation - you are...my most favorite thing. And I have loved you for longer than I can honestly remember."

Crowley's breath hitched. His lips trembled. The hand in Aziraphale's hair slowly retracted and hesitantly, shakily, cupped the angel's face. His thumb swiping away tears. Aziraphale blinked slowly and leaned into the touch. He turned his face to kiss Crowley's palm.

"Angel. I...hrrrmm - you - yes. Always. I...fuck I love you."

And suddenly arms were wrapped around his neck and Aziraphale was surging forward. Lips met, somehow both more fiercely and infinitely softer than the first time.

Aziraphale pushed further, tongue swiping into Crowley's mouth, sucking at his lower lip. Mouths open, a high whine coming from one of them, perhaps both.

They pulled apart, foreheads touching and breathing each other in.

"Let me take you home?" Crowley's voice shook.

"Absolutely, my dear. Wherever you want to go."

#good omens #fic #go fic #aziraphale #crowley #look i just couldn't stop thinking about this #aziraphale going feral because he thinks crowley is dead #followed by love confession i mean come ON #wouldn't michael ROCK something like that? #anyway i had to exorcise this out of me like a demon

[ineffable-piracy]

Redemption - Aziraphale/Crowley

Chapter One: The White Room

Rating: Explicit (See AO3 tags for details) Link: AO3 Chapter Length: 3,989 words

Chapter Summery: Crowley finds himself alone in a small white room in Heaven. He is weak, tired, and his memories are fading. Along comes a mysterious Angel who brings him pleasures that he's never known before (or just can't remember) as well as a way out of this room. However it requires making an agreement with the Angel, apparently called Aziraphale, that Crowley isn't so keen on...

#good omens #good omens fic #good omens fanfic #good omens fanfiction #go fic #go fanfic #aziraphale x crowley #aziraphale/crowley #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #redemption

[fremulon]

hey, sorry about your blockage. something i've seen around other fandoms are drabble and vignette prompts based on single words? maybe that could help? but if you're looking for specific ideas for good omens, i'm pretty much always down for more through-the-ages fics about the work (scare quotes) Crowley has done to appease Hell's soul quota/whether it backfires on him M25-style.

Hi thanks very much for this ask and I am sorry it has taken--uh--one full month to deliver on it, but here you go, Crowley Crowley-ing himself once again:

(in which they are trapped on an Amtrak for 4 hours in Connecticut)

#good omens #good omens fic #go fic #ineffable husbands #aziraphale x crowley #i think this is my version of whump

[dranna]

Blossoming Love through the Ages

2500BC - Prologue

AO3 / Commissions / Links / Chapter 1

Warnings: mentions of death

Summary: How does their friendship and eventually their feelings blossomed through the ages? I'm attempting to rethink the scenes we saw from the seasons, adding Crowle's thoughts and additional segments.

Line art by me:)

After I finished the first chapter, I realised I should've started with a prologue (and the "Before the Beginning", so I'll start that, after I've finished this era).

I'll also stop putting "Crowley’s POV" at the beginning of every chapter, because the entirety of the fic, will be from Crowley's point of view. ( I've tried placing the Land of Uz, somewhere around the Red Sea )

The Demon with the burning hair, 

Was sitting in a cool shelter, 

Watching people’s trading fair.

How crowded was the place, 

Full of life and merry ways.

The Land of Uz was quite a spot, 

To hold a scene for many different folk, 

Because the Red Sea was a few days away, 

Many mortals visited the region there.

He haven’t realised it yet, 

But he liked watching humans’ life, 

How they go by, 

And coming up with new ideas.

How could there be, so many of them already? 

It seems like it was yesterday, 

That all of them was wiped away,  

By the huge ass flooding of the sphere.

Wasn't there only eight of them on that boat,

That carried the animal pairs too onboard? 

Huh.., how weird humans are. 

It will be a real nuisance, 

When they’ll try to eliminate them.

Within the next 6000 years. 

– exhaled interestingly, 

While he was eyeing,

A wine merchant on the street.

Ha! What sprang the plan, 

To take that little fruit they call a grape,

And then juice the meat, 

Turning it into a drink at the end? 

– It was around the time, 

When Planet Earth started it’s wellbeing, 

To host an abode for the creatures of the Supreme Being. 

It’s been quite a while, 

Since They, Up and Down plan something in a style,

I wonder what their future projects are,

Tho I wouldn't mind a little off time,

Now everything seems slow and kind—

– One of the traders’ voice of great wine, 

Started to intertwine,

With a deep, deep cry,

That came from the terrors of the basement's call line.

“Best wine of this land!

Get it only for a– little playfulness, 

A great morning, isn't it Crowley?

I have big news for you!

I’m pretty sure,

You will let out proudly

How lucky are thee,

Because you just got the task,

To kill and consume all the things, 

That God’s pet, 

Job got!

“But the holy management–”

“Do not worry about punishment, 

You just got a free pass!”

And with that, 

A parchment that looked huge and old, 

Appeared in front of the serpent’s foot.

Just when he started to enjoy existence, 

He was sent to cause turbulence. 

None seemed to notice what happened, 

It was only Crowley, 

Who grew cold instead. 

Oh for Satan’s sake!

Couldn't they have sent someone else?

He looks like a good lad, 

Punish him only because of a bet?

– After that, 

You could see the yellow eyed man, 

Standing in the gloom,

Studying the papyrus, like he is searching for a tomb. 

 Everything is written perfectly clear here, 

Demolish all his belongings and children…

Not the children!

But… You and I can't kill kids, 

They’ve done absolutely nothing! 

Why do You beat them, 

For something they didn't act?

A few hours after the exchange of that, 

Crowley stopped reading the parchment of death,

Sorrow, what felt the ruby head,

However he would never admit to that,

He started drinking all the wine, 

The vendors had left behind. 

Isolated what he felt, 

As like being a wall, 

Between him and joy. 

I’m supposed to be overjoyed, 

That I got that job,

Every Demon would be glad, 

To do the deed I have,

So why can’t I?

During the hours, when the Sun was the tallest on the Blue,

A man could be seen walking friendless,

Towards the hills in loneliness.

There was a feeling in the air, 

That didn't promise anything well,

The heat was raging in fury,

While the man was climbing the mountains fully.

No bird song could be heard, 

The figure dressed in black sad no word,

He looked like one in headache, 

Contemplating heartbreak.

˜

Thank you for reading!

Let me know if you would like to be tagged

Tags my beloveds: @giosnape

#good omens #good omens fic #good omens crowley #bildad the shuhite #good omens 2 #good omens fanfiction #good omens fandom #good omens aziracrow #aziraphale x crowley #azicrow #aziracrow #good omens art #good omens fanwork #good omens fanart #go art #go fic #prose #poems on tumblr #poem #prose poetry

[mygalfriday]

dreams of your hair and your stare and sense of belief

{ao3}

Drinking alone has always felt rather pathetic. It never stops him, of course, but let the record show Crowley feels distinctly pitiable about the whole blessed business. It’s not like he has a choice in the matter anymore. It’s either drinking alone or not drinking at all. And if there’s one thing Crowley is absolutely certain of it’s that if he stops drinking he will lose whatever shred of sanity he’s currently clinging to.

So. Drinking alone it is.

Nothing expensive, nothing too nostalgic that might send him over the edge with memories he’d rather not think about. No, nothing so dangerous as that. Crowley keeps the good wine tucked away out of sight. The cheap stuff burns like gasoline as it slides down his throat and the noxious fumes from the bottle would be enough to put off most humans. He carries it with him by the neck as he roams his flat, takes it to bed with him when his legs finally give out.

He keeps the television on, a low murmur to keep him company as he lounges against his pillows and sips straight from the bottle. His vision has gone a bit fuzzy around the edges and his throat feels scorched with hellfire but his grip around the lower shelf vodka is white-knuckled. Vodka is his new friend now. It certainly has no plans to scurry back to Heaven and kiss Metatron’s wrinkled arse.

… does it?

Crowley holds the bottle aloft in front of him and squints at it suspiciously.

“Do you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your circumstances?”

On the television, the movie he has been doing his best to ignore catches his attention. Sheltered from the storm and dripping wet, Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy glare at each other over the sound of pouring rain. Even furious and heartbroken, the longing between them is palpable. It makes Crowley want to retch. It makes him want to set fire to something. Instead, he clutches the vodka to his chest and keeps his eyes glued to the screen.

“Forgive me -” The f-word makes him flinch violently, a weak sneer curling his mouth. “For taking up so much of your time.”

Forgiveness – always bloody forgiveness. Crowley arranges his lanky limbs into a ball, eyes never leaving the television screen. He could turn it off. Change the channel. He doesn’t do either. He watches through bleary eyes until he passes out still dressed atop his bedcovers, the bottle empty and everything else numb.

Demons probably aren’t supposed to dream but Crowley does. Always has, since the first time he discovered the human decadence of napping. Tonight, he dreams of soft fingers in his hair and the gentle, fretting tone of a familiar angel. He dreams of warmth and safety and the smell of apples and honey. For the first time since Aziraphale left, Crowley sleeps through the night.

When he wakes in the morning, he expects the sun to pierce his aching eyes the moment he opens them. Instead, the room is dim and for a moment he thinks he hadn’t slept as long as he’d hoped. Blindly, he reaches for his mobile and squints at the screen. 11am. With all the caution of a human approaching a live grenade, Crowley lifts his throbbing head and stares at the blackout curtains drawn across his bedroom windows. Huh.

Usually when drunk, Crowley lacks any sense of self-preservation. And that includes giving a single fuck about his future self’s monstrous hangover in the morning. He’s certainly not generous enough to draw the sodding curtains before bed. With a mental shrug, he turns over onto his side, intending to shove his head beneath a pillow and sleep until he feels more like himself and less like a reeking pile of useless limbs. Or until he’s ready to drink again. Whichever comes first. Whichever will keep Crowley from thinking of him a bit longer.

As he rolls over, his eyes land on his bedside table and he freezes.

A bottle of paracetamol and a mug of tea are waiting for him. The tea is still fragrant in the air and steam rises from the mug, like it had just been brewed moments ago. Crowley stares at it, bewildered. With a shaking hand, he reaches out – and stops as his arm slips from the blankets. He isn’t wearing the clothes he fell asleep in. Heedless of his rapidly worsening hangover, Crowley scrambles to sit up, shoving away the blankets to stare down at himself. He has never even entertained the possibility of owning tartan flannel pajamas in his endless existence but these fit perfectly. His other clothes lay folded neatly on a chair in the corner.

Someone had changed his clothes. Someone had drawn back the blankets and tucked him snugly into bed. Someone had left him medicine and tea for his pounding head. Someone had drawn the curtains so the harsh sun wouldn’t make things worse. Someone had been in his flat while he slept, taking care of him. His eyes sting. His throat feels so tight he can’t swallow.

Briefly, and with an ache in his hollowed-out chest, he recalls the dream. Soft hands. The gentle murmur of a familiar voice. That sensation of safety and belonging he’s been chasing for six thousand years.

Crowley doesn’t reach for the medicine on his bedside table. He doesn’t drink the tea. He doesn’t rip off the tartan pajamas and burn them with hellfire the way he itches to. He doesn’t even allow the sting in his eyes or the ache in his chest to linger, shoving it all away. Burying it deep down, as far and as fast as he can. Jaw clenched tight, he locks it away. With a jerk of his hand, he yanks the blankets over his head, squeezes his eyes shut, and pretends like he never noticed a thing.

-

The first time he leaves his flat after watching Aziraphale walk willingly back into Heaven’s abusive embrace, Crowley tells himself he won’t go into the bookshop. He won’t even drive past on his way elsewhere. Elsewhere being the nearest Tesco. He’d gone through all the liquor in his flat until the only thing left had been the good stuff. Chateauneuf-du-Pape just doesn’t have the same effect as cheap vodka. And by effect, he means allowing him to black out for blissful hours at a time. So. Tesco.

Definitely not the bookshop.

When he inevitably walks through the door –

Crowley is a demon. He lies. Even to himself.

- the familiar scent of brittle pages and dust motes in sunlight nearly undoes him. He pauses in the doorway, ignoring the merry jingle of the bell, and wavers on his feet. The last time he was here, he’d lost everything. Ruined it, like everything else he touches.

With a shaky exhale, Crowley moves further into the shop and lets the door shut behind him. No one appears right away and he wonders briefly if Muriel had been recalled to Heaven too. Has the shop been sitting unattended this whole time? Christ on a cracker, Aziraphale would lose his sodding mind if people have just been walking in and helping themselves. He glances around, knowing he shouldn’t care. Really, he should hope the place has been emptied out of everything but the till. Would serve him right for leaving in the first place.

And yet.

Groaning, Crowley stalks through the crowded aisles and gives all the shelves a cursory glance. After several hundred years, he’s mostly familiar with Aziraphale’s collection – at least his favorites, anyway. Shakespeare, Byron, Keats. Every misprinted Bible in existence. The saucy little romance novels he thinks Crowley doesn’t know about. Everything looks to be where it should. No gaps in the shelves, all the most prized volumes accounted for.

At once satisfied and filled with self-loathing, Crowley relaxes marginally and allows himself to roam a little more aimlessly. It feels the same. Smells the same too. He hadn’t expected that. If he closes his eyes a moment and allows himself to really soak it in, he could almost pretend it’s any other day. Any other time. That Aziraphale is just in the back making tea – always the human way, with the kettle and the waiting. Never miracled. He’d insisted he could taste the difference.

Swaying on his feet in front of Aziraphale’s desk, Crowley reaches out a trembling hand and touches reverent fingertips to the back of his chair. There are still notes scattered over the desktop, all of them covered in Aziraphale’s neat script, as though he’d just stepped out for a moment. As though he’s coming back.

Crowley scoffs to himself and goes to turn away – except a compact yellow book catches his eye. It sits just on the edge of the desk. One nudge of his finger would send it skittering across the floor. With a wordless noise of irritation, Crowley rescues it from its precarious position. It’s soft beneath his fingertips, the leather buttery smooth and worn.

He flips through it curiously, unsurprised to find more of Aziraphale’s handwriting inside. Some sort of diary, probably. Aziraphale has always been meticulous about keeping track of names and dates and events. The amount of times Crowley had lost an argument about something he said in 1675 or 40 AD simply because Aziraphale had written down an account of his every word…

Obviously, the diary isn’t too important anymore, Crowley thinks bitterly. If it was, the angel wouldn’t have left it. He moves to toss the thing back onto the desk when he catches a mention of his own name. Against his will, his eyes scan the page.  

26 October 2019

Crowley and I had a lovely time at the theatre this evening. There was a showing of As You Like It on the West End and I can simply never resist any Shakespearean adaptation. I’ve also never forgotten that Crowley prefers the comedies so I’m certain he enjoyed himself despite his complaints. After all this time, I’ve come to understand the darling creature relishes having something to complain about. It keeps him young, bless. And how could I not have a delightful time with my dearest one? At last, I need not worry what could happen if we’re discovered or how it would look if we spend too much time together. We’re free. Eternity stretches out before us and I intend to spend every moment of it with Crowley.

“Mr. Crowley! What are you doing here?”

He drops the book as if it burns, letting it hit the desk with a dull thud. Whirling, he stares at Muriel – just emerged from the back and holding a cup of tea a bit more naturally than last time. Desperately, he tries to think of anything other than the words he’d just read. Currently burrowing deep into his brain, etching itself across his mind like a brand. Darling creature. My dearest one.

Muriel blinks at him, peering closely. “Are you alright?”

Crowley feels a hysterical laugh bubbling up in his chest and only just manages to stifle it. “Ngk. M’fine.” He swallows tightly, still seeing the yellow book out of the corner of his eye. “Just leaving.”

“But-”

Turning abruptly on his heel, Crowley lunges for the door like someone might try to bar the way. He tumbles out onto the pavement and nearly runs right into Nina. As she staggers back with a surprised yelp, he snarls, “Oi, watch it, Coffee Human.”

She looks oddly triumphant for a woman nearly bowled over by a demon – like she knows he secretly remembers her name. “Thought I saw your car round the corner. Where’ve you been?” Her nose wrinkles suddenly and she glances him over like a disappointed parent. “And why do you smell like a distillery?”

Crowley bares his teeth at her. “The results of your brilliant advice. Move.”

Nina frowns, ignoring him. “What happened? I haven’t seen Mr. Fell in weeks-”

“How’re things with Maggie?” Crowley interrupts, brows raised. “Snog her yet?” When Nina falls silent with a withering glare, he grins sharply. “Mind your business, I’ll mind mine, yeah?”

With a huff, Nina steps aside to let him pass. “Fine,” she bites out, watching him stride off. “But this conversation is not over.”

“Yeah it is,” he mutters, and heads straight for the Bentley.

It isn’t until he makes it all the way back to his flat that Crowley realizes he never even went to sodding Tesco. He swears under his breath, opening the door to his flat and stalking inside like a storm cloud – dark and furious and quietly rumbling. Fucking Aziraphale and his fucking diary –

He stops short in the foyer, the hair on his arms standing on end. The place reeks of Angel. And not just any holier-than-thou fuckface. The scent is so familiar Crowley frequently conjures it in his dreams. He’d just spent a good ten minutes standing in the bookshop greedily breathing in the same smell. Aziraphale.

He stumbles through the whole flat, wild-eyed and frantic as he searches every room for a sign of the angel’s continued presence. It’s clear that in Crowley’s absence, the place has been cleaned. The empty bottles of alcohol he’d left lying around are gone. His bed has been made and the cushions on his sofa fluffed. He’d been here. Aziraphale had just sodding been here and Crowley had missed him. “Fuck,” he hisses, standing in the middle of his plant room in despair.

Even his plants had been misted while he was away. In fact, he’s almost positive there are a few new beauties that hadn’t been there before. Bloody hell, he hasn’t seen that particular plant specimen since Eden.

Certain that he’s alone in a flat that smells like home but never really has been, Crowley immediately turns and walks back out. Vodka. He’s going to need lots and lots of vodka to sleep here tonight.

-

Crowley spends most of his days sleeping now – emerging from his nest of blankets long enough to drive the Bentley so she doesn’t get bored. He mostly takes her to Tesco for alcohol and to St. James Park to feed the ducks. Any longer trips and she gets ideas – starts playing songs she has no bloody business playing and trying to drive below the speed limit like she’s the one missing someone. The absolute cheek of it.

Which is to say, Crowley doesn’t get out much these days. And he certainly doesn’t entertain visitors so when he wakes from another forty-eight-hour nap and stumbles out of his bedroom to the sound of pots clanging together in his kitchen, his blood runs cold. Well, being of the ophidian variety, his blood is always cold. Not the point. The point is – the noise hasn’t stopped. He can hear the sound of running water and the low murmur of music. The smell of pasta hangs in the air. His traitorous heart leaps and he nearly falls flat on his face in his haste to reach the kitchen.

Maybe it’s him. Maybe he’s finally –

The sight of Nina and Maggie sitting at the marble counter in his kitchen eating pasta stops him in his tracks. The air rushes from his lungs with a sound akin to a balloon deflating. “What,” he manages through gritted teeth, “are you doing in my flat?”

Maggie looks up, beaming even as spaghetti drops from her fork and splatters sauce over the counter. “Having dinner. Good of you to join us, sleepyhead.”

Around a sip of wine, Nina snorts.

Crowley bravely resists the urge to turn them both into sewer rats.

Eyeing him as if she knows what he’s thinking, Nina pushes a plate already heaping with pasta in his direction. “We’re not going anywhere so you might as well sit.”

He doesn’t move, thriving under the opportunity to be contrary for the sake of it. Glowering at the pasta, the open wine bottles, and the pie sitting out for dessert, he demands, “Where the hell did you get all this?”

“From your kitchen.” Maggie smiles guiltily. “We planned to just stop by and have a chat but you were asleep and we got hungry.”

“Didn’t expect to find you fully stocked though,” Nina admits with a raised brow. “You don’t seem like the type to enjoy a bit of cooking.”

“I’m not,” he snaps. “I don’t eat. Only reason I ever bought any food was because-”

Because Aziraphale liked those little biscuits from the bakery down the street. Because he smiled so brilliantly if Crowley had his favorite nibbles stocked whenever he dropped by for a visit. Because if Aziraphale was comfortable here he’d stay longer, linger over wine and soft cheese. And Crowley had wanted him to stay. He stops himself before any of that manages to spill out. He needn’t have bothered – Maggie and Nina exchange a glance like they’d heard every bit of it anyway.

Feeling exposed, Crowley growls under his breath and turns away from them. Stalking to the fridge, he yanks it open. Instead of the lone bottle of tequila he usually keeps stashed in there, he finds every shelf full. There’s fruit and veg, bottled water, little pastries, yogurt, and an entire charcuterie board with every possible combination of meats and cheeses. The pantry is just the same when he checks it – fully stocked with canned goods, dry cereal, every type of crisp a human could want, and eight different kinds of tea.

Numb, Crowley walks back to the counter and slumps bonelessly onto a barstool. Heedless of the two pairs of human eyes on him, he drops his head into his hands and tries to breathe. He doesn’t technically need to but this human corporation has gotten entirely too used to the mechanics of it. It sort of just happens naturally now. At least it used to. Ever since Aziraphale stepped into that lift, it’s been a struggle. A constant ache in his chest to remind him when it’s time to inhale.

In a distant sort of way, Crowley is entirely aware of how pathetic he must look – hungover again and wearing the fucking tartan pajamas. His hair hangs limply over his forehead and he hadn’t bothered with sunglasses before he left his bedroom. He feels vulnerable in a way that makes him want to hiss at anyone and everything who might dare get too close.

Maggie rests a tentative, gentle hand on his shoulder and he tenses, wanting to snarl at her for pitying him but too tired to actually bother. And to be fair, he is pitiful. In a gentle voice meant for speaking to toddlers and the terminally ill, she asks, “What happened?”

“I told him how I felt.” He swallows thickly, preparing to say it out loud for the first time. “I kissed him.” A whimper slips past his lips without permission and he grimaces, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes until he sees stars. “Fuck, I fucking kissed him.”

Over his head, Maggie and Nina trade another of those infernal knowing glances. “And then?”

“Do you see him anywhere?” Crowley snaps, lifting his head exasperatedly. “He left. He doesn’t-” Love me. Even now, he can’t bring himself to say it out loud.

Nina arches a skeptical brow. “Sure about that, are you?” At Crowley’s blank stare, she reaches for her wine glass and shrugs. “Apparently you didn’t buy all this food. But someone did.”

With a cheerful grin, Maggie nudges him with an elbow. “My nan used to say feeding her family was her favorite way to show them she loved them.”

Crowley scowls, edging out of elbow-nudging range. “I don’t eat. I don’t need to eat. He was the one who-”

Instead of being deterred, Maggie lights up. “But that’s just it, isn’t it? He’s trying to show you, in his way, isn’t he? That he still cares.”

“If he cared, he’d be here,” Crowley grumbles. “Not baking scones in heaven.” Reaching for one of the opened bottles of wine, he grasps it by the neck and turns for the door. “Stay as long as you like. Eat all the food yourselves. Feed it to stray cats, give it to the homeless. I don’t care.”

Nina sighs. “Where are you going?”

Lifting the bottle to his lips, Crowley mutters, “Back to bed.”

-

Crowley never actually sees Aziraphale. He always seems to wait until Crowley has stepped out or fallen asleep but it’s always obvious whenever he pays a visit. In between the cleaning, the food appearing in the fridge, and the occasional new plant, there are the books. He doesn’t own many books and he’s read even less but he seems to have acquired a few without his knowledge. All of them marked for passages he has never read, with notes in the margins in a familiar hand.

The first appears on his bedside table several months after Aziraphale left. It’s the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes one morning, blinking warily at Jane Austen’s Persuasion. By now, Crowley has grown used to waking to the occasional offering. He barely hesitates before reaching out a hand and pulling the book with him into his nest of blankets. Thumbing through it, he notes with reluctant fondness the neat annotations in the margins and occasional withering comment from the angel. Only one passage has been especially marked – the place held by a makeshift bookmark in the form of a receipt from Waitrose. It has been carefully underlined in red ink.

“I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone forever.”

Throat tight, Crowley closes the book. For a moment, he debates tossing it across the room and seeing how badly it will dent the spine. He could rip out the pages and make little origami ducks. Instead, he finds himself pressing the book to his chest and curling around his pillow. He shuts his eyes and finds the words still there behind his closed lids, burning brightly like a candle in the night.

For a while, there’s a new book on his bedside table every morning. Each one contains an underlined passage in red ink, marked by whatever Aziraphale could manage to find as a bookmark at the time. A pound note. A teaspoon. A dandelion. A sternly worded reminder about eating during meetings from the Archangel Michael. Every single one makes Crowley ache. Makes him burn like someone made him swallow holy water.

“I would recognize you in total darkness, were you mute and I deaf. I would recognize you in another lifetime entirely, in different bodies, different times. And I would love you in all of this, until the very last star in the sky burnt out into oblivion.”

and

“I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest.”

and

“I’ve never had a moment’s doubt. I trust you. I believe in you completely. You are my dearest one. My reason for life.”

and

“I wish you to know you have been the last dream of my soul…I have known myself to be quite undeserving. And yet I have had the weakness, and have still the weakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me, heap of ashes that I am, into fire.”

He rereads each one a thousand times over, fingertips chasing after the words on the page as he hears them all in the angel’s voice. Imagines him saying all the things Crowley has been telling himself for centuries he doesn’t need to hear. That a broken thing like him would never deserve to hear it anyway. When the books finally stop appearing on his bedside table every morning, he isn’t sure whether to feel relieved or bereft.

Still, the signs of Aziraphale’s continued presence never waver. Crowley walks back into his flat at the end of the day and finds dinner on the table and a place setting for one. Vases of fresh flowers show up seemingly out of nowhere. The television is always showing one of his favorite movies regardless of when he turns it on. The Bentley insists on playing Frank Sinatra and Judy Garland no matter how harshly Crowley threatens. Slips of Pablo Neruda poetry appear behind sofa cushions and stuck to his bathroom mirror.

It goes on like this for weeks. Months. Until the day Crowley walks into his study in search of the mug of tea he’d abandoned the last time he wandered through – and finds a real estate listing on his desk. The photograph shows a picturesque little cottage with a thatched roof in the South Downs. Ivy climbs up the brick walls and the garden is bursting with plant life, flowers spilling over the cobblestone path to the door. It looks peaceful and cozy, exactly the sort of place he might have pictured retiring to once. Before.

There’s a little sign fixed to the waist-high gate surrounded the place, nearly eclipsed by the wild lavender growing up the sides. He can barely make it out, squinting as he reads: Eden Cottage. And Crowley snaps. His grip tightens around the listing and he feels the paper crinkle under his white-knuckled fingers. He makes the decision abruptly. Perhaps stupidly.

Reaching with a trembling hand for the sunglasses tucked into his shirt, he slides them carefully on. Forcing his stupidly weak corporation to take an unnecessary breath, Crowley gathers what little courage he possesses and speaks out loud to the angel for the first time since he left. “Alright, enough,” he says, forcing his voice not to shake and betray him. “Either show yourself or bugger off. I know you’re there, angel.”

Between one blink and the next, the air smells of Earl Grey and incense, old books and even older magic. Aziraphale stands on the other side of his desk, looking much the same as ever. Perhaps a little thinner, a little paler. His eyes are still blue – Crowley quietly offers the middle finger to all his nightmares that showed him otherwise – but the sparkle in them is all but gone. He looks tired, soul-weary in a way he hasn’t since the 14th century. Crowley aches to see it.

“I wasn’t trying to hide from you,” Aziraphale murmurs, tugging at his waistcoat in a nervous gesture so familiar it feels like someone slid a flaming sword right between Crowley’s ribs. “I was under the impression you would rather not see me.”

Instead of asking him in what bloody universe that would ever be true, Crowley holds up the crumpled listing and watches recognition dawn in Aziraphale’s eyes. “What is this?”

Aziraphale primly adjusts the cuff of his jacket. “I believe it’s what the humans call a real estate opportunity.”

“Don’t,” Crowley bites out. “Don’t you dare be flippant right now-”

Holding up his hands in surrender, Aziraphale meets his gaze steadily and murmurs, “No, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

Crowley arches an eyebrow, waiting a beat. “That all you’re sorry for?”

Hands clasped in front of him, Aziraphale is careful not to look away as he admits, “You know it isn’t.”

With a sigh, Crowley shakes his head. “Aziraphale-”

“I’m afraid I’ve made quite a mess of things.” Aziraphale manages a weak approximation of a smile. “I don’t expect you to forgive me, of course, but I have been trying to make it up to you.”

Crowley scoffs. “By what – making me tea and giving me plants?”

“By taking care of you,” the angel clarifies, blue eyes drifting over him intently. “The way you’ve always taken care of me.”

“Ngk.”

It’s hardly eloquent but it’s all he can manage. Aziraphale doesn’t seem to mind, nodding toward the listing still clutched in Crowley’s fist. “It’s yours if you want it. The address is on the back and the key is under the mat. A retired demon should have a proper place to retire to, don’t you think?”

Crowley stares. “You uh. You bought me a house.”

“It’s really quite lovely,” Aziraphale rushes to explain, as though the potential loveliness of the place is what Crowley might object to. “I inspected it myself before I made the purchase. A fireplace in every room and such a beautiful garden for your plants. It’s right between the Downs and the coast. And the local village is terribly quaint-”

“I don’t want it.”

Aziraphale looks crestfallen. “But-”

“You really don’t get it, do you?”

Askance, Aziraphale looks at him pleadingly, palms upturned. “Get what?”

“You think any of it means anything without you, you idiot?” Crowley scowls, overcome with the childish urge to crumple the cottage listing into a ball and hurl it at the angel. “You think I want a house in the country to live in alone?”

“Crowley-”

“Did you actually hear anything I said that day?”

“Of course I-”

“Then why the hell – heaven – why would you think I’d ever want -” Crowley makes an incredulous noise in his throat. “Retire, really? How long’ve I got before Armageddon the bloody sequel?”

Aziraphale purses his lips. “I really couldn’t say.”

“Oh, sorry,” Crowley mocks, sneering. “Top secret, is it?”

“Quite.” Aziraphale plucks a white feather from the sleeve of his coat and admits blandly, “I’m afraid I no longer have the clearance.”

“Well isn’t that just-” Crowley stops mid-sentence, the confession grinding all the gears in his brain to a halt. “Sorry, what?”

“Seeing as I turned in my resignation…” Aziraphale fidgets, twisting the signet on his pinky. “I’m not exactly privy to those details any longer.”

Crowley blinks – slowly. “You… quit?”

Aziraphale tilts his head and scrunches his nose in a way Crowley refuses to find adorable. “I prefer retired.”

A wordless sputter in his throat, Crowley hisses, “Aziraphale, if you’re fucking with me I swear to ssss-somebody I’ll-”

“I would never.” Aziraphale presses a hand to his chest, as though Crowley had besmirched his very honor by even suggesting such a thing. “I packed up my office this morning.” His mouth twists into a smug little smirk that does things to Crowley, despite the circumstances. “Right after I accidentally deleted all their expansive plans for the Second Coming.” He lifts his gaze to Crowley, looking pleased with himself in that way Crowley has always gone a bit weak in the knees for. With a giddy smile, he confides, “It’ll take them at least a few centuries to regroup.”

Mind racing, Crowley looks away and sniffs. “Nice one.”

“Really?” Aziraphale lights up at the praise in a way that – not for the first time – makes Crowley itch to take the lift all the way to the top and strangle every single arsehole in white who ever made the angel think he isn’t a million times cleverer than any of them could ever hope to be. “You think so?”

“Mm.” Crowley hums, avoiding that kind face and those beautifully flushed cheeks. If he looks, he’ll fall to his knees. “Their own fault, really. They never back up their files.”

Aziraphale’s eyes gleam. “An institutional flaw, to be sure.”

It would be so easy to fall back into the familiarity of their usual banter but there’s a lump in Crowley’s throat the size of a dwarf star and it burns just as brightly, refusing to be doused no matter how hard he swallows. The light-hearted words he wants to say will not come. Instead, as he blinks away the sudden sting in his eyes, feeling small under the angel’s warm gaze, what tumbles out of his mouth is simply, “You left.”

For a moment, Aziraphale looks devastated. His expression crumples and his eyes grow round and wet. His throat works as he swallows. Just as Crowley begins to contemplate jumping out a window for being the one to put that look on Aziraphale’s face, something flickers in his expression. “Oh, Crowley,” he breathes, and hearing those words in that tone again might have shattered him if not for the look in the angel’s eyes. Brighter now than they’d been when he arrived. Warm and reassuring, like an embrace. “Not even for a moment.”

Crowley could argue. He could point out how he’d watched Aziraphale get into a lift and literally leave the planet. He could mention all the times he has woken up alone since. His endless days drifting from one end of the flat to the other, haunting his own place like a ghost. Feeding ducks in the park alone. Avoiding Maggie and Nina’s pitying stares when they force themselves into his flat. But every time he considers a moment he felt lost, he thinks of all the little gestures that had followed.

Passing out drunk and fully clothed? He’d woken up tucked into bed with tea waiting for him.

Letting his usually immaculate flat accumulate rubbish and letting his plants die of thirst? Aziraphale had cleaned the whole place and watered the plants when Crowley was too heartbroken to bother.

Keeping a diet consisting of vodka and the occasional cigarette? Aziraphale had stuffed his kitchen full of every food imaginable.

Sleeping for days because really, why wake up? Aziraphale had given him something to look forward to, using love letters written across literature to speak for him when he could not.

Aziraphale hadn’t gone anywhere, not really. He may not have been a physical presence Crowley could see or reach out and touch but he never left. How could he, when his mind was clearly always on Crowley? From Aziraphale’s perspective, he’d never been out of reach. Just lurking nearby like some benevolent god, waiting to extend the next kindness. The next sign that Crowley wasn’t alone in the universe.

And now… “You bought me a house.”

The angel flushes, avoiding eye contact as he tips his head to the side consideringly. “Well, I…”

Crowley chokes, comprehension finally dawning. “You bought… us a house.”

All at once, Aziraphale seems uncertain. He bites his lip, twisting the ring around his finger again. “It’s yours,” he says, sounding determined. “I wouldn’t presume to – But I’d… love to come along.” He swallows. “That is, if you’ll still have me.”

Yes, he wants to agree immediately. He wants to abscond with Aziraphale to the Downs before he can change his mind. Lock him in the cottage and never let him out of sight again. But Crowley’s irrepressible urge to ask questions has been getting him into trouble for six thousand years. It’s a habit he hasn’t managed to break. He always has to know – “Why?” At Aziraphale’s furrowed brow, he presses, “Thought you’d made it perfectly clear what you thought about us.”

Aziraphale looks pained. It takes everything Crowley has not to round the desk still separating them and smooth away the anxious crease between his brows with his fingertips. “Actually, I’m afraid I wasn’t clear enough. In fact, I fear I may have left you with entirely the wrong impression.”

“Oh?” The question slips from his mouth in a hoarse whisper, like he hasn’t used his voice in years. “And what’s that?”

To Crowley’s horror, Aziraphale’s eyes begin to fill with tears. “I never needed you to be an angel, Crowley. I only needed you.” Crowley stares at him, frozen with disbelief. His heart feels as though it might climb up his throat and leap out of his mouth if he dares try to speak, like the treacherous organ might escape and throw itself at Aziraphale’s feet. “You are so very dear to me. I should have told you.”

He shakes his head, managing to choke out, “Don’t-”

“I was afraid.”

Crowley stops mid-protest, wounded. “Of me?”

Softening, Aziraphale shakes his head. “I have never once been afraid of you, Crowley. But I cannot remember a time when I have not been afraid for you.”

If he concentrates very hard, Crowley might be able to recall a sweet-faced angel floating among the stars, eyeing him with concern when he’d insisted on asking the Almighty a few questions. But it hurts to remember. So Crowley doesn’t.

In front of him, Aziraphale carries on bravely – the way he’s always done. “We’d just seen Gabriel and Beelzebub run away together because Heaven and Hell would never stop hunting them if they didn’t.”

Crowley scowls. “That’s exactly why I wanted to go-”

“And leave this planet we’ve spent so long protecting? To let Heaven and Hell fight over it until there was nothing left but ash?” Aziraphale shakes his head, his eyes lit up with determination. And Crowley hates himself for thinking it but he looks beautiful like this – the Guardian he was made to be. “Gabriel and Beelzebub have never cared for this planet or its people. It has never been anything more than a game of chess to them. But I could not abandon humanity and despite what you say, I know you would not either, Crowley.” He purses his lips, looking almost disappointed. Crowley suddenly wants to shrink beneath his gaze like a naughty child. “You shouldn’t have asked it of me.”

Glancing away, Crowley swallows and forces himself to admit, “No. I suppose not.” Aziraphale nods once, a silent acceptance of the apology Crowley didn’t actually manage to say. He’s always been annoyingly gracious like that. Crowley clears his throat. “So you’ve saved humanity for a few more centuries. Now what?”

“Well…” Aziraphale clasps his hands in front of him, softening once more. “Now we have time to figure out how to permanently dismantle the whole ghastly system.”

“Ngk. Dismantle the – Hang on, we?” He raises a brow behind his sunglasses. “Not worried about being hunted anymore?”

Aziraphale smiles that smug little smile again. “I may have taken the liberty of concealing the house from…unwanted visitors.”

Slowly, Crowley uncurls his fist and lets the house listing drift from his grasp and land on the desk. He makes a show of smoothing out the creases and hums a bit as he studies the description beneath the photograph. He can sense Aziraphale’s unease but he takes his time reading things over before he lifts his gaze and eyes the angel over the rim of his sunglasses. “There enough space for your books?”

Aziraphale blinks at him. “Well, I hadn’t considered – I didn’t want to presume-” He sighs, as though growing tired of his own waffling about. He meets Crowley’s gaze and admits, “To be honest, I was rather more concerned with making certain you would be there. The books seemed unimportant by comparison.”

It’s this that finally pushes Crowley over the edge. Aziraphale always thinks of his books first. It had been his first thought after the bomb laid waste to that church in 1941. Crowley had to stop him from discorporating himself at the burning of the Library of Alexandria when the angel wanted to rush in and rescue the scrolls. Aziraphale not taking into account a space for his library when looking at the cottage but making certain there was a nice garden for Crowley is quite possibly the most romantic thing the beautiful bastard has ever done.

He wrenches the sunglasses from his face, tosses them, and considers climbing over the desk for all of a second before deciding to take three long strides around it instead. Aziraphale’s arms are already open when Crowley takes his face in his hands and kisses him for the second time. Six thousand years and only two kisses. That’s a damned lot of time to make up for. He hopes Aziraphale will let him.

All signs point to yes as Aziraphale sinks into him instantly, going limp with surrender the way Crowley had been hoping for the first time. His soft hands fist in the front of Crowley’s shirt and he breathes out this delightful little noise of pure want the moment Crowley brushes his tongue over the seam of the angel’s plush lips.

Aziraphale tastes like Earl Grey and honey; he smells comforting and familiar, with the faintest sterile stench of Heaven still clinging to his coat. He kisses Crowley the way he eats that decadent little chocolate souffle at the Ritz – slow and devouring, savoring every delicate bite. When they finally part with panting breaths, still gripping at one another like the other might be stolen away if released, Crowley squeezes his eyes shut and presses their foreheads together. “If you ever do that to me again, angel-”

His voice trembles despite his best efforts and Aziraphale shushes him softly, gathering him close. He tucks Crowley’s face in the crook of his neck and strokes his fire-bright hair. It’s starting to get a bit too long – he hasn’t bothered cutting it in months. “I won’t, darling. On my honor.” Crowley melts, stifling the urge to purr when Aziraphale presses a firm kiss to the snake at his jaw. “I’m so terribly sorry for all I’ve put you through.”

Crowley presses his face against the line of Aziraphale’s throat, breathing him in. Somewhere between a sob and a laugh, he chokes out, “You’ll be doing the little dance for the next century, at least.”

“Of course, dear heart.” Gentle fingers sift through his hair and stroke the nape of his neck. “Just let me know when you’d like me to start.”

“Later, I think.” Crowley sniffs, lifting his head.

Their eyes meet and it’s impossible to contain the urge to lean in and kiss the angel again. It’s a temptation he doesn’t have to resist – and isn’t that the biggest cosmic twist since the universe began? Six thousand years. Three kisses. At this rate, they’ll be caught up in a few centuries. His mouth lingers, becoming better acquainted with that little dimple in Aziraphale’s cheek he’s spent all of human history admiring from a distance.

“After you show me the house.” He pauses and it feels a bit like the dwarf star is stuck in his throat again. Already making the decision to miracle a library for the gorgeous idiot in his arms, Crowley amends, “Our house.”

“Oh. Yes. Yes, of course. As you wish it, my dear.” Aziraphale beams, relief and adoration shining in his eyes. It’s bright enough to make Crowley weak-kneed again. Bright enough to make him believe broken things can be made new. “Ours.”

#good omens #crowley x aziraphale #ineffable husbands #aziraphale x crowley #good omens fic #go fic #my fic

[phoen1xr0se]

Chapter 38 of Don't Fall Away From Me is up on AO3! (M)

Art credit: @mistysblueboxstuff

❤️🧡💛💚��💙💜❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜❤️🧡💛💚🩵

Chapter Summary: Aziraphale begins to hatch a plan whilst Crowley checks on Muriel (!), and tensions begin to arise.

Author's Note: Ahahahahaha I cannot wait to deliver the rest of this story, and thank you to all of those who have been so patient and kind whilst I have been dealing with hospital stuff and tumours and whatnot, you are all stupendously wonderful people. Ngl I am feeling super emotional about this all ending, but it's been quite the journey, hasn't it?

Excerpt from Chapter 38 below the cut (no spoilers, dw):

Jesus' smirk turned serious.

“You know I wanted to say, actually – I saw you, that day. At the crucifixion. In the crowd. I was… surprised to see you.”

Crowley made a noncommittal noise and looked down at his shoes.

“You didn’t look away.”

Crowley shrugged. It had seemed like the only thing to do, at the time. The crowd that had gathered to watch the crucifixion had all winced or covered their faces, casting their eyes down in guilt and shame – even Aziraphale had, at the end, turned away, white as a sheet and trembling. But Crowley remembered feeling that someone should bear witness to the event – Jesus had surrendered his life to a fate he hadn’t asked for and definitely not one he deserved, and oddly, the demon could relate to that. And, well, what good was any demon if they crumbled bearing the weight of humanity’s cruelty and pain?

“You were dealt a shit hand, didn’t seem fair to leave you there with only smirking bastards around you.”

He didn’t look up, but could feel the gentle stare of the man beside him. Eventually, Jesus spoke, and his voice was quiet, as if afraid someone would overhear.

“I remember thinking, even as I was dying, that it was ironic to be dying for humanity, fulfilling the wishes of Heaven… and the only one there who gave a damn... was a demon.”

🤍🩶🖤🤍🩶🖤🤍🩶🖤🤍🩶🖤🤍🩶🖤🤍🩶🖤

#good omens #dont fall away from me #dfafm #crowley #aziraphale #good omens fanfic #good omens fic #go fic #go fanfic #good omens fandom #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #david tennant #michael sheen #ineffable idiots #demon muriel #muriel #don't fall away from me #phoenixrose #phoenixrose314 #ao3 good omens

[justtellher]

Stupidly Lovely Human Traditions (A Good Omens Fanfic)

A/N: Felt like writing something fluffy for our ineffable pair this Valentine’s Day as a little break from my current WIP.  So please enjoy this little fluffy one-shot that was loosely inspired by @gleafer’s adorable little comic that delighted my brain and spiraled out into it's own story from there.  You can also read on ao3 here.

It’s a stupid holiday, he thinks as he passes by yet another gaudy chocolate-and-heart window display and weaves through the crowded Soho street filled with both shops and people dressed in their Valentine’s Day finest.  

Humans had always had a weird sense of logic though for the organization of their holidays: from celebrating the birth of Jesus five months early so as not to lose the opportunity to decorate trees to the strange British tradition of random bank holidays with no assigned meaning.  So really, naming a holiday of love for a man who was gruesomely martyred and buried on the Via Flaminia wasn’t that far of a stretch. 

He barely manages to swing out of the way in time to avoid taking a dozen roses to the face as a flustered florist bustles by with a frankly ostentatious arrangement balanced precariously in their hands, and Crowley grumbles under his breath as he brushes a few lost petals off of his jacket.  Yellow roses, he notes amusedly, denoting jealousy.  He hopes the recipient isn’t well versed in the language of flowers.   

Few humans were anymore though, a loss of knowledge which greatly entertained Crowley anytime he passed by a stand selling rather confused messages of bouquets.  Now, it was simply roses, roses, roses for romancing one’s partner.  If you bought into that sort of thing, which Crowley absolutely did not.  Why did one need generic gifts given on a randomly appointed day to prove love for their partner?  To be fair, he’d spent most of his existence without having (or at least pretending not to have) any romantic feelings of the sort.  But even now that he and Aziraphale had finally gotten on the same page post the Second Coming of it all, he still didn’t see the point.  It felt cheesy and trite. 

Not to mention the utterly ridiculous levels of sappy, corny adverts, gifts, and romantic drivel that seemed to pour out of stores and his favorite television show breaks as soon as New Years ended.  Torturous and hellish it was. 

Which meant that naturally of course, humans had invented it entirely on their own. 

He shifts the bottle of wine he’d just purchased to his other hand and crosses the road at a light jog to avoid the Valentine acapella service currently delivering a pitchy serenade to a young woman seated outside at Marguerite’s.   Normally, he wouldn’t leave his flat on February 14th, much preferring to sleep through the nonsense, or he would slink over to the bookshop to badger Aziraphale into letting him lounge idly on the sofa.  The latter of which he had been successfully doing until said angel had suggested the possibility of a bottle of wine, the type of which did not exist in the cellar and just had to be procured by Crowley from the local shop.  

“Y’know, angel, you can still miracle things,” Crowley had protested when Aziraphale had looked over at him imploringly from his latest binding repair work.  

A put-out sigh escaped his partner’s lips, “Well, yes dear, but,” the angel’s lips formed a soft pout as his eyes sparkled at Crowley over the rims of his glasses, “it’s never the same.” 

And so off Crowley had gone to the wine shop, cursing his inability to resist Aziraphale’s pleading blue stare.   

Speaking of said angel, Crowley belatedly notices him exiting the shop just as he makes it to the door with a huff, unable to stop his brusque forward momentum quickly enough to avoid their small collision.  He slams into the angel with a small grunt, Aziraphale’s hands shooting out to grab his waist in an effort to steady them both with a small chuckle, 

“Careful, dear,” those troublesome blue eyes glint up at Crowley, and the angel leans up to press a soft kiss to Crowley’s cheek in greeting.  “Just stepping out for a quick moment, but you should go ahead inside.”

Crowley feels his cheeks heat slightly.  He’s still not quite used to this ease of unguarded affection they’re afforded now.  It feels surreal still, being able to love him openly.  He slides his own hands around the soft curve of Aziraphale’s waist and returns the greeting with a kiss of his own to the angel's upturned lips.  Aziraphale hums contentedly against his mouth, and Crowley’s heart gives a soft skip.  

It feels surreal still, that Aziraphale loves him back.  

“More miracle-less shopping, angel?” Crowley teases against his lips.  

Aziraphale pulls back, face flushed prettily as he smooths his hands up Crowley’s chest to give a gentle tug on his lapels (which absolutely does nothing to the demon’s ability to breathe deeply).  “Something like that,” he replies with an unfathomable smirk. 

“You do realize that’s almost as infuriating of a response as wait and—”  A sharp whack to his back cuts off his retort as another petite florist murmurs, “Terribly sorry!”, and scurries around them carrying a somehow even larger floral arrangement than the last one he’d been accosted with.  

Crowley groans, “Ergh, bloody ridiculous holiday this one.”  He gestures broadly, “Can’t even walk outside without being assaulted by sodding rose bushes.” 

Aziraphale regards him with an amused smile and an affectionate roll of his eyes, “Yes dear, you were very brave to go out at all.”

“Bastard,” Crowley mutters lovingly, and the smirk returns to Aziraphale’s lips as he leans in to press another kiss to the demon’s mouth, 

“So I’ve been told,” he whispers lowly against the corner of Crowley’s lips, and dammit that had no right to pulse heatedly through his veins the way it did.  He tilts his head slightly to capture Aziraphale’s lips properly again, but finds that the angel is already pulling back and out of his arms.  Crowley staggers slightly at the unexpected movement as his partner gives him a gleeful smile,

“I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb's tale.”  And then he’s disappearing around the corner, leaving Crowley to stare after him as his heart rate struggles to even back out at the abrupt change in tone.  

The doors to The Dirty Donkey open with a sudden bang, flooding the street momentarily with the blaring notes of “My Heart Will Go On”, as a raucous group spills into the busy street, and Crowley finds his earlier annoyance return to him with a start.  Groaning in disgust, he fumbles for the door handle and throws himself across the threshold and into the respite of the bookshop, flinging his glasses off as he steps down the entry stair into the shop and sets them along with the wine bottle down on the nearest table.  Sighing in relief, he takes in the familiar setting around him and freezes, mouth parted slightly in shock. 

This is not the same bookshop he left earlier. 

Tables have been shifted around so that they line the shop entryway more purposefully; Aziraphale’s prized gramophone sits on one next to two stemmed wine glasses, the gentle lyrics to I’ll Be Your Mirror filtering softly through the air from its speaker. Crowley swallows thickly against the sudden lump that’s formed in his throat.  He doesn’t remember ever telling Aziraphale that’s one of his favorite songs.  

Or that the angel even knew how to find a record he considered “bebop.” 

The rest of the tables are covered in vase after vase of flowers. No one had ever actually bought him flowers, he realizes idly, as he moves regard the tables more closely. Pristine cuttings in a riot of colors fill the space, and Crowley struggles to take them all in as his lungs make a valiant attempt to remember to take shallow breaths.  Because, oh, these flowers are not just roses; his eyes burn slightly and his chest feels tight as he takes note of the various arrangements. 

And unlike most humans, Aziraphale had not forgotten the meaning of flowers. 

He trails a tentative hand over a delicate blue hyacinth. Your loveliness charms me.  Fragrant apple blossoms–I prefer you before all–fill his senses and compete with the gentle undertones of a nearby bunch of yellow honeysuckle: Devoted affection.  Muted surprise catches his breath as he notes a stunning group of red tulips–I declare my love–and he can’t control the embarrassing stutter of his heart as he moves along the series of porcelain holders to admire the pure white bouquets of lilies and daisies.  My love for you is pure and true.  A selection of elegant dahlias sends a soft shudder through his spine–Eternal commitment–as the shop door opens and shuts softly behind him. 

“I do hope it’s not too much,” Aziraphale begins nervously.  

Crowley whips around to stare openly at his angelic counterpart, a small “ngk” escaping his mouth which makes the angel smile tenderly.  Aziraphale stands before him, evening light catching softly on his white blond curls, velvet vest shimmering slightly in the sunset, blue eyes regarding him with so much overt love and adoration that Crowley finds he temporarily forgets to breathe.  

Sometimes it still surprises him.  That someone can have that much love for him.

“Just one flower was missing,” Aziraphale continues, crossing the space between them to stand in front of the still wordless demon.  The angel chuckles lightly, “Luckily it's still very popular in human traditions.”  He reaches out a hand, and Crowley finally looks down and takes note of what the angel had stepped out to buy.  

A single, perfect red rose.  Ardent love, passion. Love found at first sight.   Crowley inhales shakily as he accepts the flower with a trembling hand, and he glances back up to meet his partner’s waiting stare. 

“Aziraphale…” he manages to whisper past the torrid of emotions swirling through his chest.  He clears his throat thickly, tries to find some combination of words that will appropriately convey the overwhelming affection threatening to burst through his ribs at this unexpected gesture, “I don’t k–”

“I know it’s a silly holiday,” Aziraphale interjects anxiously, tugging at his vest as he glances down at their feet. “It’s just…,” blue eyes look back up to meet Crowley’s with a determined sincerity, “we almost didn’t get this, and I think we deserve to celebrate these little, human moments.” A hand darts out to clasp the demon’s free one with a firm squeeze.  “You deserve lovely traditions, and—”

A loving ache tears through Crowley, overriding his overwhelmed thoughts as he leans forward and captures Aziraphale’s lips in a searing kiss. Releasing the angel’s grasp, he brings his hand up to cup Aziraphale’s cheek and deepens the kiss as his partner releases a surprised breath, parting his lips under Crowley’s with a small whimper, and the demon focuses on pouring every feeling of gratitude and love that he can into brush of his lips, the sweep of his tongue.  Words were overrated, he decides as Aziraphale clutches at his lapels in response and sinks his teeth gently into Crowley’s bottom lip, sending a flood of liquid heat up the demon’s spine and pulling a low moan from his throat .  

Maybe this holiday wasn’t so stupid after all.  

Aziraphale breaks the kiss on a shaky breath, pulling back slightly, and Crowley blinks dazedly at him as the angel’s lips quirk into a self-satisfied smile, “So, I take it no need to return everything then?  Because I can always throw it all away…”  Blue eyes twinkle in mirth, and Crowley chuckles exasperatedly.  Bastard.

He’s ridiculously in love with him. 

Leaning forward once again, Crowley presses his forehead against Aziraphale’s, “Shut up, angel.” He places a firm kiss on his lips. “S’Perfect.”  Another kiss, and then he tips his head back to meet the angel’s now soft gaze once more, “I love it,” he whispers, emotion filling his voice; he smooths a thumb across Aziraphale’s cheek and watches the swirl of gentle emotions the action evokes in it’s owner’s blue eyes, “I love you.” 

Aziraphale face alights at his words, the corners of his eyes crinkling as his mouth parts in a radiant smile.  “I love you too, my dear,” his voice trembles slightly in a kind of disbelieving wonder that causes Crowley’s heart to thump painfully in his chest. 

Maybe it still surprises them both sometimes. That they finally made it here. That they no longer have to pretend not to be a pair. 

An idea surfaces in his mind suddenly, and he reaches over to lay the rose on the closest table, giving a small flick of his wrist toward the player to restart the record with barely a skip.  Aziraphale’s eyes follow his movements curiously as Crowley takes the angel’s hands in his and pulls him gently toward the center of the floor, “You deserve lovely traditions too, angel.”

Aziraphale blushes lightly as he stares at the demon who places one arm around his waist and raises their other joined hands to shoulder height. 

“Dance with me?” Crowley asks earnestly.  Aziraphale laughs with a surprised delight and places his free hand gently on Crowley’s shoulder, stepping close to him with an affectionate press, 

“I’d love to.”

Crowley smiles openly at him in return and begins to spin them slowly around the room.  

“Did you ever meet him?” Aziraphale inquires as they move, “Saint Valentine?”

“Hmmm, don’t think I was actually in Rome at the time, you?”

“No, I believe I was somewhere in China during the 3rd century…”

One song fades into another as they continue to sway in each other’s arms; soft laughter and easy conversation echoing through the shop and filling Crowley with the peaceful, warm fondness that’s been permanently etched into his soul for the many millennia he’s known Aziraphale.  A love returned and cherished now.  His gaze catches on the myriad of flowers surrounding them, each one a love note, a card written in floral script, and he smiles broadly as Aziraphale says something unintentionally witty before leaning in to meet his grinning lips with his. 

They were rather lovely after all, Crowley decides, some of these silly, human traditions.

#good omens fanfiction #good omens fanwork #ineffable husbands fanfic #good omens fic #good omens fanfic #good omens fan fiction #ineffable fanfic #ineffable fic #ineffable fandom #good omens fics #justtellher fanfiction #go fanfic #go fic #good omens #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #aziracrow fanfic #aziracrow fic #good omens fanfic rec #good omens fluff #this little fluffy oneshot just wouldn't leave me alone this evening #so here enjoy my little valentine's brain rot of these two being soft idiots for each other #back to writing my regularly scheduled feels next #chapter 4 of give me peace is almost done #I just needed fluff for vday #I blame everyone's fluffy fanart #especially gleafers who gave me the first wiggle of an idea that then became this fic #I am not an expert on flower language #I just harnessed some well researched articles via google and took my favorite interpretations shamelessly #so don't come at me

[terresdebrume]

The first thing Crowley notices when Aziraphale finally opens the door is the screaming, crying toddler in his arms, who seems like it can't quite decide between clinging to Aziraphale like a koala to its branch or fling itself off the angel's arm like it's a cliff and salvation is at the bottom. The second thing Crowley notices when Aziraphale opens the door is—well it's still the bloody toddler, actually, because it is a noisy, leaky human with fluids and germs and Aziraphale may not have the ability to get sick but he has always acted a little bit like dirt might still hurt him somehow. So, in effect, the third thing Crowley notices when Aziraphale opens the door, is that he's wearing a powder blue polo shirt.

Then Crowley decides noticing things is overrated.

"Jesus Christ," he says, because somehow 'fuck' feels far too mild for the situation.

"I call him Arthur, actually," says Aziraphale primly.

Crowley almost discorporates on the spot.

#Matt writes #Good Omens #go kidfic #Aziraphale #GO Crowley #I NEEDED TO PUT SOMETHING DOWN NOW YOU HAVE IT #go fic #ineffable husbands #10n #15n

[chocolatepot]

Rating: G | Words: 2,400 | one-shot

Additional Tags: Fluff, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens)

“I just want a date with you, angel! One proper date. Is it really so much to ask for?” The words were just rolling out of her, and she knew she ought to pull them back, but reveled for a moment in letting out those emotions like they were a lash. “We helped stop Armageddon, we’re not even technically on any sides anymore, doesn’t that mean we can just … move forward?” Aziraphale was silent now, not even eating anymore, and her eyebrows were drawn together above her nose. She was, Crowley thought with despair, probably getting ready to stand up and bustle off in her bustle, ridiculous as it was. “But this is a date,” she finally said, and Crowley’s heart performed a complicated and painful little maneuver. Just a little silly fluff written to comfort myself after the S2 finale. Set post-S1; not S2 compliant.

#good omens #good omens fic #ineffable wives #coping first by pretending it didn't happen #will cope next with reunion fic #good omens s2 #my fic #go fic #sapphic fluff