#in my head raphael is played by alan cumming

[ddagent]

Next Fic

So, my previous fic poll ended in a draw, so let's have another go! A few different options, this time, with some supporting evidence for each to help you make your decision!

May I present the poll:

And the supporting evidence!

Option 1:

"Uh, boss, your friend is here."

Detective Anthony Crowley looked up from his notebook and turned his golden gaze back to the crime scene tape a few feet away. Behind the white and blue tape, highlighted by the flashing lights of the police cars, was Reverend Aziraphale Fell. Clerical collar, sunny disposition, and two takeaway cups in his hand. One of those was six espresso; one was hot cocoa. Ridiculous man. Snarling, Crowley shoved his notebook into the back pocket of his trousers and stomped through sand to shoo Aziraphale back to his church.

"You can't be here."

"But—" Aziraphale began, a pout forming on those perfect lips. "—I can help. I was ever so good before—"

"—we were nine, Aziraphale. We're not making up mysteries and legging it in and out of caravans and arcades anymore." Which was a pity. The mysteries Aziraphale always dreamt up for them as children were less brutal than the one that currently laid before him. Huffing out a sigh, Crowley took the proffered coffee and gestured for a uniformed officer, Constable Honey, to escort the vicar out. "I'm sorry, Aziraphale. I'll see you on Sunday, yeah?"

"We'll see each other before then, no doubt." Sure, sure. "When you realise you do need my help."

Option 2:

Swiveling his hips, Crowley slid through the open bathroom window of AZ Fell and Co. Even though the bookshop had been broken into three times now, the proprietor, one Aziraphale Fell, still had no sense of security. No locks on the window, no alarms, no cute dogs that Crowley would have to pet and stroke in order to disarm. No, Crowley was free to move around the shop as he pleased. Maybe it was because Crowley had never actually stolen anything that Aziraphale felt safe.

Bah. Crowley didn't want him to feel safe. He wanted him to feel scared. Crowley could do anything here. Anything.

Slipping into the living room, Crowley noted that Aziraphale had fallen asleep on the sofa again. A threadbare blanket was pooled at his feet; a copy of some eighteenth century novel had fallen to the floor. Moving deftly, Crowley adjusted the blanket, placed the book upon the table, and tipped out Aziraphale's hot chocolate. There. Mental insecurity. Aziraphale would know that someone had been in there. Someone who could do anything.

As it was, Crowley committed the most heinous act of all: he left a rare book upon Aziraphale's coffee table, a product of his earlier activities. Gabriel Archer, that twat, wouldn't miss it. And it would certainly give the bookshop's profits a major boost.

Option 3:

"Excuse me, I was wondering whether you had a VHS copy of The Eastern Gate?"

From behind the counter, Crowley didn't even bother turning around to address his customer, so ridiculous was his request. Yes, Crowley had a copy of The Eastern Gate: it was one of Aziraphale Fell's early works, a black and white film focusing on an angel overseeing Eden. It had been very well-received at the time but public interest quickly waned. For years it spent time on BBC 2 on Sunday afternoons - that was where Crowley's copy came from, recorded with great care and attention onto VHS.

He had one copy. And it was not for sale.

The customer cleared his throat. "Dear boy, I do wonder if you could—"

"—in a minute. This is the best part." The Bastille had come out in the 90s, part of the interest in musketeers and the French revolution. Aziraphale looked delectable in the heavy iron chains and all those pretty frills. Just gorgeous. But, with great reluctance, Crowley pressed pause and turned to 'attend' to the customer who wanted the impossible, even in Crowley's memorabilia shop. "Listen—"

But Crowley didn't say another word. Because his customer wasn't just interested in Aziraphale Fell. He was Aziraphale Fell.

Option 4:

"Crowley, can I ask you a question about Twitter?"

Crowley immediately zoned back into the room. He had been fixated on the slight tinge of silver and white at the temples of Aziraphale's blond hair; the curve of his mouth as he indulged in dessert at The Ritz. For some time, Aziraphale had been discussing his latest project: a gripping drama for ITV featuring a gay romance between two childhood friends. It was the sort of project that Aziraphale did often - but this time he had been paired opposite BAFTA winning actor Raphael Archer.

Not that Crowley was jealous or anything. He hadn't campaigned for the role. Hadn't sent an audition tape and told he wouldn't be believable starring opposite Aziraphale in a romantic role. As if he hadn't spent thirty years yearning for this man. Oh, they had played detectives together, odd-couple roles, best friends. But never romantic leads.

And the first time a project came up that was perfect, Crowley lost to Raphael Archer. That Scottish twat. Breathe, Crowley. "What about Twitter, Angel?"

"I don't use it." No kidding. "But Raph does." Oh, Raph is it? "And a lot of his followers have started using a hashtag. Something #raphaphale?"

Crowley's glass immediately shattered. Thirty years as Aziraphale's shadow and this Scottish wanker gets a ship tag?

Option 5:

He was here again. Sitting in the front row with his delicately pressed tan trousers, neat little waistcoat with the gold buttons, and the delicate puff of blond curls. In his lap (which Crowley noted, not for the first time, was rather spacious) was his paddle, with the number 666 printed in red lettering. Since the man had started attending the auctions at Eden's Auction House, Crowley'd had fantasies about that paddle.

How the hell was he going to make it through today's auction?

Still, Crowley was a professional (allegedly). So, he took to the podium, gavel in hand, and addressed the crowd. "Lot number one is a collection of Austen, incredibly preserved from the period, featuring four books - including Pride and Prejudice and Persuasion." He swallowed a number of sarcastic remarks, bit back his need to share the crackpot biography he'd read about diamond heists and whisky smuggling. Not the crowd. Never the crowd. "Shall we start the bidding at fifteen hundred?"

The man was the first to take the bid. As it was accepted, he wiggled happily in his chair. Oh, Crowley was gone.

#aziraphale x crowley #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #good omens #fic poll #in my head raphael is played by alan cumming