#just wanted to draw aziraphale being just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing. ie. with immense top energy | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

aethelflaedladyofmercia · 3 years

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Visibility (Good Omens Fic)

Written for Lesbian Visibility Day, 2021

(26 April, 1972)

“What did you szzay?”

Beelzebub glared at the empty space before zir throne, listening to a pair of feet shuffle awkwardly.

“I just…woke up like this,” Crowley explained, in what was probably supposed to be a casual voice. “At first, I thought I was coming down with something. Flu. Hangover. Allergies. All very contagious this time of year. Really, if you haven’t been to Earth before, April is – just wait at least another month. But then I realized, s’not going away, and I thought: curse. Definitely a curse. Probably one of those angels, thwarting and all, you know how they are.”

“An angel.” The Prince of Hell tapped one finger on the arm of the throne, swarm of flies flitting around, trying to make sense of what zir own eyes weren’t telling zir. “Iszzn’t that hideouszz pieczze of real esztate you live in warded?”

“Probably. You know how it is. Get home late, really tired, swear you locked the door, but…” The footsteps – echoing as those ridiculous heeled boots struck the ground – began to circle the room. Beelzebub didn’t keep many possessions – at least, not the material sort – but Crowley seemed determined to touch them all. “Anyway, you know angels. Clever bastards.” An ornate dagger on the far table began to spin. “Or witches. Not quite as bastardly, but they cause trouble. Oh, or a cursed artifact.” Papers began rearranging themselves. “I just…I haven’t been thrift shopping in years, you know, not really my scene, not anyone’s scene anymore, but I saw this really spectacular jacket, I thought, what the Heaven? Might have some age-old horrific curse, or bedbugs, but it’s going to look stunning on the dance floor.”

Pinching zir nose, Beelzebub tried not to imagine the foolish way she was probably grinning. “And by complete coinczzidenzze,this angel, witch or…garment, juszzt happened to make you completely inviszzible on the day of your department budget review?”

“Yup.” A selection of goblets toppled to the floor with a clatter, bouncing and spinning across the floor. One rolled as if kicked, but not even Beelzebub’s cleverest flies could locate the blasted demon who had caused the mess. “I mean, not just a coincidence. Plenty of reasons. Er. The angel. Just last week, that – uh, that Aziraphale, I foiled one of her plans. Thoroughly. Foiled like…like leftover chicken. So. This could be revenge. Very unfortunately timed, but you know.”

“Indeed.” Beelzebub rose, stalking from zir throne across the floor to the spot that most strongly radiated incompetence. “And the curszze breakerszz haven’t been able to turn you back?”

“I mean, they tried.” More footsteps, hastier now, so that the echoes made them harder to track. “Course they tried. But,” she clicked her tongue, “couldn’t do it. Said they’d never seen anything like it before.” Ze would have to speak with them. No, too much trouble. Beelzebub would send the Hellhounds to take care of those idiots. “But, they did say it should wear off in…twenty-four to forty-eight hours. You know. With bed rest. Pity about the budgetary review.”

“How szzo?” Ze asked, lip curling. Every twenty-five years, like clockwork, like the courses of the blessed stars, the day of Crowley’s review, something – something highly improbably – tried to disrupt things.

“Well. I mean. Bed rest. Suggested by your curse breakers. And anyway. Can’t go like this, can I?” One of the goblets floated up from the floor, spinning in an unseen hand. “Might be disruptive.Wouldn’t want to draw attention away from Dagon – I heard, she has some fantastic charts this year. Pie graphs. One of those ones with the dots and the lines. Look at this!” From behind Beelzebub’s throne floated a ceramic pot filled with tall green plants, three dozen flies happily flitting around the attractively scented leaves. “Is this dill? Excellent choice. I’ve been doing some gardening lately, too, and let me tell you—”

“I cannot imagine anything” Beelzebub snapped, snatching the plant out of her invisible hands, “that could make you more diszzzruptive than you already are. But it appearszz you can szztill szzee, hear, and – unfortunately – szzpeak.”

“Just lucky I guess.” More pacing.

“Szzo. Dagon will be exzzpecting you in…four and a half minuteszz. I’m czzertain everyone iszz eagerly awaiting your planszz for the coming quarter-czzentury. Dagon, at leaszzt, could probably uszze the…amuszzement.”

“Course. Right. Perfect.” The footsteps began to lead towards the door. “I’ll just—”

“Szztop.” Beelzebub’s hand flew out, snapping tight around the demon’s wrist exactly as she walked past. “The otherszz will need to szzee where you are.”

“I could whistle,” she volunteered, launching into something that sounded like a tortured bird.

The Prince considered ripping her arm off and stuffing it down her throat, but the last time ze did that, the satisfaction hadn’t been worth the days of cleanup.

“Juszzt put on a hat or szzomething.”

A snap of fingers, and a band of glittering silver cloth appeared around where her waist should be. “Better? Can I go now? I’m…extremely eager to start my presentation. Ngk. Everyone is going to be impressed. This – this decade is going to put me on the map.”

“Go.”

The silver band of cloth sauntered out of the room, echoing the moronic way the demon walked. Checking the dill plant for damage, Beelzebub lowered zirself back onto the throne.

Which had, inexplicably, moved several inches back, causing zir to fall onto the floor, the potted plant shattering. “Crowley!”

“Brilliant, just brilliant,” Crowley muttered, stalking down the hall towards the meeting room. She’d spent a week putting this curse together, combining ones from six of Aziraphale’s most obscure grimoires, and yet she still had to make her bloody presentation. “Next time, I’ll just give myself the plague.” That had almost worked in the fourteenth century. Just needed a more impressive plague.

Ahead on the right, a door with a piece of paper taped on it reading Temptation Department Budget Group Lambda. She hesitated, fingers hovering just short of pushing it the rest of the way open. Had Beelzebub warned everyone she was invisible? More often, ze expected demons to take care of such things themselves, on pain of pain. Two minutes to spare; might as well try.

Crowley dropped the silver belt on the floor outside and slipped through the partially-open door, transforming her extremely cool boots into a pair of quieter slippers. That, at least, she could do without being sensed; shifting the shape of her feet didn’t alert the other demons the way a real miracle would.

A dozen of them sat in chairs around the conference table, grumbling about their project proposals, miracle allotments, and soul quotas. An overhead projector sat at the front of the room. It was the one with the cracked glass, projecting a broken circle of light onto a white wall. Dagon stood beside it, shuffling papers.

Crowley could try writing dirty words on a couple of the pre-made transparencies, but that didn’t seem properly demonic. Scanning the room, she spotted the wheeled coffee cart tucked in the corner, laden with a coffee pot, Styrofoam cups, plate of pastries and various flavorings. Horrid stuff. All demons were required to drink three cups of it per meeting, and to eat one of the scones, which this time appeared to be…pickled herring flavored? With orange marmalade?

There wasn’t much she could do to make that worse. She grabbed a few anyway, tucking them down the front of her shirt, and dumped the marmalade into the molten coffee, turning the temperature up as high as it would go. She’d managed to grab a fistful of wet soil and some dill from Beelzebub’s plant. Most of that went into the coffee pot, a little into the sour creamer, and the rest into the alleged sugar – probably an artificial sweetener, those were all the rage lately.

What else? She stole all the spoons, then pulled off an earring and started poking holes in the bottom of the cups with it.

With the perfect sense of timing honed from millennia of avoiding one more second in the company of her coworkers than necessary, Crowley managed to slip out the door, put on the belt, and waltz back in exactly as Dagon demanded, “Where is the demon Crowley?”

“Sorry, sorry. Feeling a bit under the weather today.” Only about three demons glanced her way with some level of surprise; the rest just got up and headed over to get their first requisite cup of coffee. “You wouldn’t believe the morning I’ve had. And the traffic! The roads just get worse every year. Anyway, here now. Ready and eager. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She snagged an empty seat and dropped into it, crossing her boots on the table with a heavy thud.

Dagon sighed. “Do I even want to know what happened this time?”

“Pissed off an angel. Utterly ruined her plans. Cursed me out in the most unbelievable language, and then, well, you see. Or don’t see.”

It was certainly true enough. Aziraphale had been very upset when the “fine dining establishment” Crowley had selected for their meet-up turned out to be the hottest disco in the city. And the way she managed to express her disappointment while technically not swearing certainly strained credulity.

“Did you kill her?” Ligur asked. So unimaginative.

“No, I did something much worse.” She’d dragged Aziraphale onto the dance floor and managed almost twenty-three seconds of enthusiastic disco next to her before the angel – now bright red and flustered – had stormed out entirely. “But, we’re not here to talk about me. Let’s have it. Numbers. Spreadsheets. I heard a rumor we might see that climate change graph.”

A general groan ran around the table.

“Shut up,” Dagon snapped. “Listen up, you lot – all you idiots, and Crowley in particular. Every one of you worthless wastes of matter needs to explain what you’re going to do in the next quarter-century, how that’s going to secure souls for our Master, and why we should waste any number of miracles on your pathetic hides. Until then—”

With an icy shiver, Crowley felt her miracles vanish.

“Now. Let’s start on the success rate of last quarter-century, and if I hear one word of complaint, you can scream it from the bottom of a sulfur pool. And don’t forget your blessed coffee.”

As Dagon started her presentation, Crowley watched the coffee cart. Someone had helpfully wheeled it next to the conference table, so the demons could more easily torture themselves. Seven managed to soak their shirts and trousers from leaking cups before the marmalade clogged the pot entirely. That, however, would never be enough to cancel the meeting. Heaven, a few of them even said it tasted better than usual. Should have seen that coming.

Still. It was a start.

Crowley played with her earring, then grinned, thinking of a possibility.

“Ow!” she shouted dramatically. “Something bit me!”

“Wasn’t me,” Hastur said sullenly.

“W—no, I mean. Some kind of insect.”

“Don’t see one,” grunted another demon called Krang, sitting right beside Crowley.

“It’s right there!” Silence. Oh, right, no one could see her pointing. “There! On the coffee pot!”

Eyes narrowing, Krang leaned forward, glaring across the table at the pot, which was rattling slightly. Crowley jabbed them in the back of the neck with her earring.

“Arg! It got me!” Krang slapped at the spot, leaping out of their chair. “Did you see where it went?”

“There! On Hastur’s head!”

“Where—?” Hastur managed before Ligur swatted him so hard he fell out of his chair.

“Ah, shit!” Crowley shouted. “It got me again! No, wait, I think it’s a different one.” The demons anxiously glanced at each other, but no one else stood up. Not enough. “Oh, no! My…my hand!” Crowley tried to think of something suitable “It’s burning! Like Holy Water!” She jabbed the earring into the arm of the demon on her other side.

“Bloody—It got me too!” He was on his feet in an instant. “I can feel it burning already!”

“And me!” That demon wasn’t even near Crowley. She grinned. It was working.

“What are these things?”

“I can feel it crawling on my leg.”

“My neck is swelling up!”

“Sit down!” Dagon snapped, baring her teeth. “I don’t want to hear another word about bloody insects. You’re demons. Act like it! Or I’ll make it four cups.”

The room froze – silent, apart from the now-continuous rattle of the coffee pot – as a dozen demons weighed the fear of some sort of terrifying unseen holy insect versus drinking more of the vile brew.

So Crowley ripped a handful of scone out of her top and crumbled it. “What – my hair!” She tossed the crumbs across the table. “Are – are those larvae?”

Everyone shuffled back a few steps.

“I don’t think you heard me—” Dagon started, in a tone that suggested Crowley was about to lose the room. So she went all in.

“Oh, Satan!” She shouted, falling dramatically from her chair. “They’re – they’re crawling into my ears!” That earned a few nervous glances, so she took a deep breath and gave her best horror-movie scream. “That angel! She did something to me!”

“Crowley!” Dagon shouted. “Stop acting out right now,or I swear to Satan, I’ll—”

She never found out what Dagon wanted to do to her, though, because at that moment the coffee pot exploded, lid flying off, scalding brown liquid splashing in every direction, along with blobs of now-runny marmalade.

Never one to let an opportunity go by, no matter how unexpected, Crowley cried, “Eggs! They’re nesting in the coffee! Who drank that?”

A perfect panic set in, and there was nothing Dagon could do to stop all the demons – including Crowley – from evacuating the room.

In the confusion that followed, everyone lost track of a certain invisible demon. How sad. And totally unexpected, Crowley thought, climbing into the Bentley. Too bad I kept the radio off and didn’t go to the cinema. Otherwise, they could summon me back. If she were careful, she could have days to finish coming up with her proposal.

But first, a little fun. Grinning, she tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, wondering what kind of trouble she could get into next.

Well. One way to find out.

The London police were extremely disappointing that morning. It took nearly eight minutes of driving around at top speed, running red lights, and blaring her horn outside rich-looking homes before one finally started chasing her.

Slamming into top gear, she raced down the busiest streets, whipping around corners, weaving through traffic, making sure not to get too far ahead. The second patrol car joined in somewhere near Oxford Street, the third during a quick jaunt up towards Regent’s Park. When she’d collected four, sirens blaring as they struggled to keep up with her flawless driving, she spotted a side street and lurched into it with a complicated 270-degree-spin finished with the nose of the Bentley facing the approaching cars.

Then she settled back in her seat and waited.

The black monstrosity finally slid to a stop. Officer Mills kept her eyes on it while her partner slowed their own car to a stop.

“We sure he’s not just going to run?” She asked, trying to spot the driver. The glare off the windshield must be playing tricks on her eyes; she couldn’t see a thing.

“We surround it,” Harmon said. “Got to be enough of us, even if they try to make trouble.”

Six officers eased out of their cars, silently trying to decide who should approach the window. Mills won – or lost – and took the lead, Harmon close behind her. He was the only one armed; she felt a little better for that, in case the driver turned out to be dangerous, though most likely she figured he would try to plow through the police cars to get away. They couldn’t do much in that case apart from try to kick the tires in passing.

“Think it’s stolen?” Harmon asked as a few others moved to try and block the street beyond the idling nightmare. “Teenagers messing around?”

“Could be,” Mills said doubtfully. “It’s vintage, though. Really old. And whoever was driving knows what they’re doing.”

Anderson waved from the far side of the vehicle. Everyone was in position. Mills nodded and walked up to the window, prepared for a lunatic – or a drunk – or someone on an awful lot of drugs.

Instead, it was completely empty.

“What…” She glanced back at Harmon. “No one. Did he bail out?”

“We’d have seen. Check the back seat.”

“Nothing. Wait. There’s…a tin of biscuits. That’s all.”

Down the street, Anderson crouched, checking underneath. Nothing there, apparently. Slowly, the police approached, one by one relaxing as they confirmed that yes – the car was empty.

The driver side window was open. Mills stuck her head in, glancing up and down. Nothing. No sign of what had happened to the driver. The engine still gently rumbled, and the door was locked. She definitely would have noticed if someone had stayed there long enough to lock it through the window.

“I’ll call to have it towed,” Harmon said, stepping back. She could hear the confused frown in his voice. “Maybe we’ll find…something…when we search it.”

By this point, even the officers who had waited in the patrol cars had joined them, crowded along the sides of the black vintage monster, testing doors and peering through windows. Mills leaned in to unlock the driver side door. “But where could he have gone?”

“She,” a soft voice said near Mills’s ear, and something tapped against her nose. “And I haven’t gone anywhere.”

Mills stumbled back as the radio burst to life.

You know the day destroys the night Night divides the day…

Everyone spun in place, looking for the source of the music from a nearby window or door, shouting at shadows, so only Mills was watching as the pedals and gear stick moved themselves.

Tried to run Tried to hide Break on through to the other side Break on through to the other side…

The ghost car – what else could she be? – shot backwards up the street, faster than should have been possible, spun a full 360-degree turn, then straightened up and drove away, blending into traffic with a cheerful toot of the horn.

Mills finally blinked.

“Harmon?” She called. “You do the paperwork on this one. I need a drink.”

Crowley danced in her seat far more than she usually would, but for once no one could see her.

Made the scene Week to week Day to day Hour to – Crowley!

She nearly slammed on the brakes as Jim Morrison began to sound an awful lot like Dagon. Shit. Forgot about that.

“Ahhhh…speaking?”

“Who, exactly, gave you permission to leave?”

“Oh. Ahhh.” She glanced out the window at a row of businesses and pulled over in front of some kind of barber shop. “I thought, what with all the insects—”

“There were no insects!”

“There weren’t?” Crowley really needed to work on her innocent voice. “I must be hallucinating. Better go home and lie down until it passes.”

“Crowley. Your budget proposal is due by the end of the day. Do you want to be stranded up there without miracles? Do you know what we do to demons who fail to meet their quotas?”

She knew that. She’d been told, several times, exactly what to expect. “Nnnnnh…I’ve got – it’s going to be a big project. Very big. More souls than…than wasps have larvae. Just need to work on my proposal in a secure, bug-free location.”

“Crowley! Do you think for one second—”

“Ah! They’re coming out of the radio!” Crowley cut the sound.

She sat in the Bentley, tapping her fingers on the wheel.

I just hung up on Dagon. They’re going to kill me. Worse, they’re going to send me down to file in the archives for a thousand years.

Then again, they’d have to find her first.

And, she was finding, her current state presented the kind of temptations even a demon couldn’t ignore…

Graham Palmer had been trying to get into the barber shop for twenty minutes.

The door was stuck fast. No matter how he rattled and pulled, it wouldn’t budge, as if something enormous had pinned it shut. And yet, every time he stepped back to let other patrons try, the door opened easily, but slammed as if pulled shut whenever he approached. He even tried slipping through behind another customer, but then it stayed shut until Graham stepped back. There was just no way in.

Now he hammered on the window, trying to get his barber’s attention. “Stuart! Stuart! What the hell are you trying to pull?”

The barber looked up from his current customer, blinking in confusion, and jerked his head towards the door.

“I tried that, it doesn’t bloody work!” A young man half his age walked past, giving Graham a funny look, and pulled open the shop door. Graham dove to follow him, but again it snapped shut, almost catching his nose. He pounded the door with his fist, glaring at the customers inside. “I’m going to be late!”

Across the shop, Stuart put down his scissors and shouted something. All Graham caught was “…break my glass…”

There was an idea.

He crossed the pavement to where an ancient black car was parked, removing his jacket. Wrapping it around his arm for protection, he charged forward, bracing himself for impact.

The door swung open in front of him and before he could stop himself, Graham tripped over – something – there didn’t appear to be anything – and sprawled on his face, sliding across the linoleum floor.

“Watch yourself, dearie,” a cheerful woman’s voice said, but when he looked up, no one was there.

Crowley strolled around the park, her new domain, another time.

Over there, at the edge of the path, was the Strange Chill area. Anyone who paused there, perhaps studying the slightly askew sign that seemed to indicate the exit was in the fountain, would feel a touch on their shoulder, a tickle on the back of their neck, or hear heavy breathing with no source.

Over here, near the ice cream cart, was the Creepy Bush. Originally just generic ghost noises, Crowley eventually discovered what really freaked humans out was a disembodied voice whispering their name, or something they’d said in private a few minutes before. She followed strolling couples around, listening in on anything good, and when one stopped to by the other ice cream, just really let loose on the one standing by the bushes. They usually started clinging much more closely to their partner after that, so really, Crowley was doing them a favor. Instant relationship counseling.

Across from the fountain sat the Haunted Bench. Crowley really went wild with that one. Children’s songs in a creepy voice. Branches shaking with no wind. Possessions floating away from wherever they’d been set down. Really, anything was allowed.

The narrow path leading through the tulips was the Asshole Road. Anyone Crowley caught being an asshole in her park was subtly sent that direction, pickpocketed, and then beset by bees, or at least a very convincing humming and a few pricks from an invisible earring.

The fountain itself was Rare Coins and Lost Items. Her third pickpocket victim had been carrying a tube of very powerful epoxy, and it turns out the coin-stuck-to-the-sidewalk trick was even better when you glued it underwater. A few pieces of jewelry at the bottom were also glued in place, but most of the valuables were simply tossed in or – if they weren’t waterproof – hung from the sculpture of frolicking animals in an amusing way. Crowley mostly just kept the cash, and even then only if the Assholes had been particularly cruel. So far, she’d accumulated almost five hundred pounds.

It was either the best park in London, or the worst.

She leaned against the clock – now set forty-eight and a half minutes slow – and surveyed the chaos. Two teenagers were frantically trying to get something out of the fountain, while the Asshole who’d sworn at that lovely gay couple was now soaked through, desperately trying to get his watch back from the ear of a sculpted rabbit seven feet high. That had been hard to get into place, but certainly worth it. The couple, meanwhile, were hand-in-hand, clutching ice creams and hurrying away from what had been for them the Creepy but Oddly Affirming Bush. The lady with the dog that had made a mess by the roses was trying to report the Haunted Bench to a cop, who tiredly insisted it was her lunch break and that the lady would not believe the morning she’d had.

Crowley grinned up at the sky. This – this was what it was all about. Forget budget meetings and presentations. Who did that make miserable, apart from the demons themselves? This park had everything: temptation, fear, frustration, justice, ice cream, and perfect weather.

“Hey. Hey you feathered wankers,” someone shouted, followed by the sound of rattling pebbles and angry quacking.

Tipping down her invisible shades, Crowley spotted some young idiot chucking handfuls of rocks at the ducks. Most were fleeing, but one flapped her wings, panicked and possessive, over a nest. One of the eggs had already been broken.

Looks like another volunteer for Asshole Road. Crowley was already eying their watch.

Every bakery has that one customer. Probably every place that sold food.

The one that demands impossible standards, not because of any particular love of fine cuisine, but just because they can.

The one that counts the blueberries in their muffin and lets you know if there aren’t enough.

The one who spends five minutes shouting, “No, not that one, that one,” while providing no other information, until their server had touched everything in the display case.

The one who complains that their brownie is too chocolatey.

The customer who somehow gets away with murder on account of being someone’s spouse, or sibling, or old school friend.

Victoria Lockwood was that customer, and as Riley watched her approach, they held their breath in trepidation.

“This scone,” she snapped, dropping her plate onto the counter, “is not right.” Then she glared at Bailey, waiting for a response.

“Is it…” Bailey’s mind raced, trying to work out what might be wrong. “The wrong flavor?” Victoria’s face only darkened. “Um. Is – is it dry?” But most of that batch had sold without a single complaint. “Did you want…more lemon curd? Or—”

“It is not hot enough.”

“Ah.” Of course. They’d taken that batch out nearly an hour ago; the next was ready to go in. “If you’re willing to wait, um…twenty minutes? I can give you the first—”

“Twenty minutes? What kind of service is that? I want my scone now.” She glanced at the tray coming out of the oven. “Why are you making me wait? What are those?”

Bailey glanced back and relaxed for a moment. “Oh – yes, I can get you one right now. They’re Raspberry Almond Butterm—”

“Disgusting!” Victoria rapped her hand against the counter. “That is not what I ordered! I demand you warm this one up, immediately.”

“I…” Bailey glanced at their coworkers, but everyone was avoiding eye contact. “That’s…I can put it back in the oven but that would probably dry—”

“Fine.” She shoved the plate towards them. “Be quick about it, young lady, I don’t like to wait.” She clearly noticed the way Bailey flinched. “If you don’t want to be mistaken for a girl, I suggest you get a proper haircut. And not that hideous shade of pink.”

“Y’s ma’am,” Bailey muttered, because some arguments would never be worth it. They took back the scone and put it on a baking tray. Maybe if it was only in the oven for a minute or two—

“Victoria Lockwood!” Bailey spun around, searching for who had called out. Not anyone else behind the counter, they all had their heads ducked, concentrating on some other tasks. But there – on the counter – a scone sat on Victoria’s plate.

She looked up from her makeup compact, smiled triumphantly, and took a bite out of it.

Her face immediately went green, and she dropped plate and pastry, running out of the bakery faster than Bailey had ever seen anyone move. They rushed forward, ready to call after her, but very much not wanting to, and picked up the discarded scone – it smelled awful, like vinegar and fish.

There was also an enormous wad of banknotes on the counter, wrapped up in a scrap of paper with a note: Kid – Don’t take that shit from anyone. Flip off your boss when you quit. <3 C

The bakery door opened and shut on its own.

Well, there was an entire day’s pickpocketing gone in a moment, but it wasn’t like Crowley had a better use for it. She still had a few rare coins, but after the fountain, sticking them to the ground seemed an anticlimax. She’d had some fun modifying the haunting routine for the bus or Underground, but both would be filled with commuters now a ghost that swears when you elbow her in the ribs on a crowded train is…not as impressive.

Still. Not a bad day overall. The most expensive foods in the corner marked had all been re-priced, several examples of hostile architecture had been mysteriously destroyed, enough people would be sharing stories of “hauntings” that the whole city would need to be exorcised, and – just for the Heaven of it – she’d followed a particularly annoying human for almost an hour, up and down the streets, buzzing in his ear.

Really, it was the simple pleasures that made the world so enjoyable.

And speaking of simple pleasures, Crowley had left one particular part of the city for last.

Strolling down the streets of Soho, which was just waking up while more respectable – but far less fun – parts of the city were winding down, she kept her eyes open for anyone who might make a good target. A few possibilities presented themselves, but in the end her destination proved the stronger draw.

A. Z. Fell’s Bookshop.

It was just the right time of day, when the customers would still be bothering Aziraphale, and she would be running short of patient ways to refuse them and start turning to biting sarcasm and, on occasion, outright threats. She’d probably appreciate a little haunting to help chase them off, once Crowley had finished stealing her cocoa, moving her bookmarks, and changing the record in the gramophone.

But, glancing in the window, Crowley saw something that poured cold water all over her brilliant day.

Gabriel.

Michael and Uriel, too. Probably Sandalphon lurking around.

Aziraphale stood before her bosses, hands clutched anxiously, that eager, ready-to-please face that made Crowley’s chest ache. Some, when faced with the beings who had hurt them so many times, became afraid, or angry, or distressed. But Aziraphale…just wanted approval. A kind word.

Crowley glared at Gabriel. The Heaven are you up to this time?

For once, she would be able to find out.

“And, I really think,” Aziraphale said, hands twisting like captured rodents as she rambled, “that this past decade in particular,I’ve – I’ve accomplished many things. Um. I – I prepared a list…somewhere…” her eyes darted to the disaster she called a desk, and she started shifting material objects around, smiling nervously. Guiltily.

“Is this going to take long?” Gabriel asked with a pointed sigh.

“No! I just…one moment…”

“We’re already running late,” Uriel commented. “We’d expected you to be better prepared.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale snatched up a book and began flipping through it frantically, as if it might contain the answers she needed. “Only, ah, you didn’t actually say when you would be coming…”

“We did say between the 3rd of January and 28th of October,” Michael pointed out reasonably.

“Oh. Um. I…”

“Something doesn’t seem…right,” Sandalphon said, stepping close to Aziraphale, putting a hand on her shoulder. The book she held tumbled from her fingers. “This whole place has a…smell about it.”

The door slammed behind them. Gabriel glanced back, but couldn’t see it from where he stood. Sandalphon gave Aziraphale’s shoulder another squeeze, then headed over to check on it.

“I thought,” Gabriel said slowly, making sure the slow-witted Principality heard every word, “I told you to lock the door.”

“It was.” Aziraphale’s eyes had gone wide. “I – I mean I did.”

Gabriel pursed his lips and shook his head. This had been a particularly disappointing review. Disappointing in the sense that their agent had once again conclusively failed to present evidence of meaningful victories towards Heaven’s cause. Less disappointing in that, whether she knew it or not, Aziraphale had already given him what he needed to take the arrogant fool down a few pegs.

In six thousand years, she’d barely managed to do a single thing right, yet somehow always came to him simpering and smiling like she deserved all the accolades of Heaven. Well, he’d been patient, as suited an Archangel, as patient as he could. But once per century, he had the opportunity to make his opinion perfectly clear.

Take away her miracles for a start, he thought. Though that didn’t seem to work nearly as well as it had a few centuries ago. Maybe recall her to Heaven for a year or two, re-educate her on the basics of her duty. There might be enough for a period of isolation. With restraints. They’d done that once, about three thousand years before, after a particularly poor review. Seven years chained up in an empty corner of Heaven, and Aziraphale had been wonderfully pliable for centuries after. Perhaps it was time to revisit.

“Look – look here, I have a list of…oh.” Aziraphale held out her book again, which seemed to be filled with irregular scrawl instead of the usual neatly printed words. “I started a list of accomplishments, but ah…I became busy the last few years. Um. Quite a lot has happened since…”

Uriel took the book and studied it, face impressively calm. “Interesting,” they said, not giving anything away as they turned the pages over. Gabriel trusted them to spot anything useful.

As the Archangels waited in pointed silence, Michael walked her fingers across a table. She pressed a thumb against a book, sliding it to the edge. Aziraphale stared as it teetered, then found its balance again. Michael watched it, disinterested, then moved on to another book, sliding that forward as well.

Sandalphon stepped back beside Gabriel, shrugging his shoulders. No sign of anything. Well. More questions for later.

Uriel reached the final page.

“What happened in 1967?”

“Nothing!” At the panic in Aziraphale’s tone, all four Archangels raised their eyebrows. “I – I – I mean, yes, lots, many – many—” One of the books beside Michael fell to the floor with a slap. The Principality winced. “I – I’m terribly sorry, could you be more specific?”

“Your final entry,” Uriel held the book out to Aziraphale, “says 1967 – Prevented… Prevented what?”

“Ahhhhhh.” Aziraphale squirmed. “Well, I…I…there was…ummm…”

“As I recall,” Michael said slowly, “you briefly visited Heaven that year, but didn’t officially report to any of us. And then didn’t return for at least…six months? Very unusual.”

“You haven’t been hiding something, have you?” Gabriel smiled, his heart rising. More than isolation. He could probably take away this shop, for a start, give it to a more trustworthy angel.

“Nnnnno.” Aziraphale gave that particular smile, the one that meant she thought she was about to get away with something. The one she thought Gabriel didn’t know about. “But, ahhh, if you could, um, quite a lot happened in the world in the…the last ten years or so.”

Something crashed on the other side of the building. No, he’d have the place demolished. It was falling apart already. Aziraphale could watch. Maybe he could order her to help. An eminently suitable punishment for wasting his time. “As I understand it,” he said, taking a step forward, “the last decade saw…war, riots, assassinations…”

“Well, well, yes, I…but, if you look at progress with, um, civil rights, ahh…anticolonialism…”

More made-up human terms. Gabriel and Michael shared a pained glance. “Look. Aziraphale.” Gabriel pressed his hands together. “It’s not that we don’t appreciate you taking the initiative, but…what does any of this have to do with your orders?”

“Or, for that matter, with your visit to Heaven?” Michael moved her fingers across the table again, coming to rest on one of those stupid little figurines Aziraphale had accumulated. Like a packrat. A human depiction of an angel, as some kind of soft, happy baby with wings. Not a warrior at all. Michael’s finger tapped against it. “What were you trying to prevent?”

“Did it have something to do with…Holy Water?” Sandalphon suddenly asked.

“That’s right,” Gabriel said. Something clicking in his mind. “There was that storage jar that went missing.” Did Aziraphale look more guilty than usual? “What year was that?”

“1967,” Uriel said.

He couldn’t hold back the smile. If he could prove Aziraphale had taken Holy Water for some sort of personal use, well.

He’d pretty much be justified whatever he decided to do.

“I – I – I can explain.” The Principality tried to back away, but was stopped by her own desk. “There – there was this demon, an – an especially, ah, wily, cunning, um, crafty demon—”

“Was there?” Michael’s finger twitched, sending the false angel off the table. It fell—

Then hovered, halfway to the floor.

Slowly, it lifted, rightening itself in the air before them. There was no trace of a miracle, no power of any kind. It simply…floated. Drifting through the air to land on the desk beside Aziraphale.

“Clever,” said Gabriel, watching the Principality’s face for any sign of deception. “How did you do that?”

“I…”

The pages of a book, laid out on the stand behind her, began to turn, flipping faster and faster, slamming shut.

“This…isn’t me.” Aziraphale said.

Behind her, books began to float off their shelves. One rocketed across the room towards Gabriel. He dodged it easily, but it was followed by another, and another. The lights flickered overhead.

“If it isn’t you,” Gabriel began, but a small table by the door to the next room began to rattle. Atop it lay a black-and-white board covered with formless carvings, which lifted into the air, then exploded, pieces flying at the Archangels. Gabriel easily batted them aside, but now one of the armchairs began to shift.

Without a word, the four prepared for battle, Gabriel stepping back, Michael and Sandalphon moving to the front. At least, that was the plan – the moment he tried to move, Gabriel fell, his feet somehow tightly bound together. The same happened to Sandalphon and Uriel, and even Michael stumbled, knocking over a table in her haste to stay upright.

Glass rattled in the back of the shop.

“It’s…” Aziraphale cleared her throat. “It’s that same demon again! I thought I’d banished her!”

“What?” Banishing wasn’t exactly something angels did.

“The – the Holy Water!” A bottle of something hovered out from the back room, moving slowly but threateningly. “Did you bring any? It’s the only thing that can stop her.”

“What are you talking about?” Michael’s sword manifested in her hand. “What demon?”

“Crowley! She – she seems to have grown even more powerful!”

“Crowley?” Not that worthless snake again. How many times had he been assured – through Michael’s secret back-channel sources – that Crowley was the most useless, incompetent, lazy demon in Hell? And yet somehow, not a single angel had ever successfully dealt with her – except Aziraphale.

“I thought I smelled a demon,” Sandalphon said, pulling his shoes off and tossing them aside. “But I can’t sense demonic power.”

“Obviously not!” Aziraphale’s wings burst from her back, and she held out a hand towards the hovering bottle. It slowly lowered itself to the ground. “Why do you think she’s so difficult to defeat? The power she uses – it’s not of Heaven or Hell! I – I can barely counter it!”

“Let me, then,” Michael said, predatory gleam in her eyes. Like Sandalphon, she’d removed her shoes; Gabriel was working on his own, but somehow the laces had become wound together like snakes, something sticky sealing the knot shut.

Sandalphon and Michael stepped forward, swords at the ready. “No!” Aziraphale turned to block them, and immediately the rattling started up again – this time from the metal stairs to the upper floor. “You – you don’t understand! Wh – when she gets like this – the fires would only make her stronger.”

Something – horrible, screeching noises – began emanating from the back room, like some animal being torn apart.

“That’s – that’s why I need the Holy Water! In the proper ritual, it – it – it’s too complicated to explain!”

A cupboard burst open, revealing a display of holy items – consecrated Bibles, holy symbols, sticks of incense and jars of oil. “No!” Aziraphale shouted, genuine panic in her voice.

The largest, heaviest of the Bibles lifted and shot across the room. It didn’t reach the Archangels, but Gabriel could see smoke rising from its cover.

Next came a crucifix, spinning end over end, which Michael caught out of the air. The wood was burned all along one side.

“Don’t you see?” Aziraphale said, eyes round. “Nothing I have in there can stop her! What could a flaming sword even do? I need more Holy Water.” A jar of oil fell to the ground and immediately began to boil, bubbling and steaming. “I’ll try to hold her back as long as I can.” Aziraphale’s face furrowed in concentration as she walked across the shop. “Please, it – it’s far too dangerous for you here…”

“Right.” Gabriel glanced at the other Archangels. Something wasn’t right. But they couldn’t risk themselves against an unknown force. “We’ll…we’ll get some Holy Water. You do what you can.”

With a thought, the ascended to Heaven.

Gabriel quickly stood up, brushing down his clothing and trying to school his expression. “Well. I think the best course of action is to wait a day or two, then go see what the damage is.”

“And Aziraphale’s review?” Uriel asked, face somehow still calm, despite everything that had happened.

“I just hope we don’t have to give her a damn commendation again.”

The Arch-Wankers vanished in a shimmer of blue light.

“Ow, ow, fuck that hurts!” Crowley gasped, stumbling away from the spilled oil and shaking her hands. “What kind of stuff do you keep in there?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale started to rush forward, then froze. “Where are you? Can’t you – reveal yourself, or whatever?”

“Nnnnnnnnope. Rrrrrgh, how does this hurt more than walking in a church?”

“I…I’m sorry, my dear girl,” Aziraphale said. “I’ve been worried lately that if – if your side realized what was happening…I thought it best to have a little insurance of my own.”

“Well it works.” Crowley managed to reach one of the shop chairs and sank into it. “Over here…no, here! Where’s…” She nudged the rug with her least-burnt toe, folding a bit of it up. Aziraphale immediately ran over.

“That was – well, that was clever, Crowley, but highly unnecessary. I – I was only having my performance review. I thought I was doing quite well.” Her soft hands found one of Crowley’s and picked it up, fingers tracing across the palm.

“I…” Crowley had seen the way Gabriel’s eyes lit up at the mention of Holy Water, while she was on the ground gluing his shoelaces together, and she counted it among the most terrifying things she’d ever seen. “I’m sure you were, but vanquishing some super-powerful demon? Saving the Archangels? Well, that’s only going to help, right?”

“Hmmm.” Another brush of her fingers, and the sting started to go out of Crowley’s palms. “And, I’m sure, spark a few rumors that might help you?”

“Oh.” Crowley grimaced, looking out the windows. “Unless those rumors spread really fast, I doubt I’m going to get much benefit.”

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale sank to the ground, patting around until she found one of Crowley’s feet. She gently lifted it, stroking from ankle to toe and giving it the same healing treatment. “And why are you like this?”

“Just lucky, I guess.”

“Crowley.”

“Right. Um. I…may have…borrowed a few of your books and…designed a curse to get out of my quarter-century budget review. But in my defense – it’s so boring.”

Aziraphale sighed – or possibly blew a healing breath across Crowley’s feet. No, probably the sigh, but at least they felt a bit better. “My dear, it’s only a meeting. There’s no need for these – these histrionics.”

“Histri—Angel, that is – I am not – can you grab a dictionary? I need to know how upset I should be.”

“Extremely.”

“Right. I am. And…I thought it would only last a few hours. Have a bit of fun. But…I need my miracles for, you know, ambient healing, and…look, they cut off our miracles during the review, and only give them back once you’ve wowed them with your project idea.”

“And you don’t have one, do you?”

“Not…as such.” Crowley hung her head. “I…I thought I could get an extension. Just long enough to think of something.”

“So you cursed yourself.” That pained look, the I-hate-to-tell-you-how-much-you-failed-but-also-I-love-it look. Only slightly ruined by the fact that it was aimed somewhere over the demon’s left shoulder. “Crowley, did it never occur to you that in the time it took you create such a thing, you could just as easily have come up with a project?”

“Nh.”

“And did you come up with your brilliant idea during your delay?”

“Nnnh.”

“Well. At least you’re sorry now, I assume?”

“Nope.” If she hadn’t skipped out, Crowley wouldn’t have been here to help Aziraphale. She’d saved her friend countless times over six thousand years, but sometimes…she was quite happy the angel didn’t notice. “No, demons don’t get sorry. We get…” she grunted. “We get annoyed at ourselves for…ngk…for hanginupndagonnpissinheroff.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“For hanging up on Dagon and pissing her off.” Crowley rubbed her face. “Unless I can think of the greatest project any demon ever came up with…” Her stomach dropped as the reality of it hit. A thousand years in filing meant a thousand years without Aziraphale’s bastard looks and gentle touches. “I’m…probably going to be gone for a while.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale stroked her fingers across Crowley’s foot one more time. “No, that won’t do at all.” She looked up with that icy, determined look. The let-me-speak-to-your-manager expression that made Crowley go completely light-headed. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to do something about all this.”

“Like what?”

“How are your feet?”

“F—hmm? Oh, fine.” They were – Aziraphale seemed to have removed all the pain. Or at least, she’d removed some of the pain, and the fluttery feeling in Crowley’s chest allowed her to ignore the rest. “So. Um. What did you have in mind? Oh!” A grin stretched across her face. “Dagon and Beelzebub already think you cursed me. Maybe we can stage a second fight where they see it. I’ll definitely get an extension that way.”

“Or.” Aziraphale found Crowley’s hands again and laced their fingers together, pulling her to her feet. “We can go for a drive in that beastly car of yours and actually come up with a proper idea. Something convoluted, demonic, and with that…Crowley style.”

“I have a style now?”

“Hmmm. Yes. Not as refined as mine, but I think we can make it work.” Her right hand squeezed Crowley’s, and her left slid up the demon’s arm to her shoulder. “You know, I had a little over a century apart from you. And I have absolutely no desire to repeat that. In fact I…I rather think I prefer your company to, well. Anyone’s.”

“Nnnnh.” Crowley shuffled her feet and clutched Aziraphale’s hand back, guiding the angel to stand just a little closer. Needing to say something. Afraid to say too much. “Ssssss. Mmmm. Yeah. I, uh. I like it better up here, too. Y’know. Where you are.”

“Yes, I know.” Aziraphale’s left hand slid further up, coming to rest on the back of her neck. “I can see right through you. My dear Crowley.” With the lightest pressure, she tipped the demon’s head down.

And kissed her, soft lips covering Crowley’s shocked mouth.

“Oh…” Aziraphale gasped, pulling back slightly, hardly at all. “I, ah…I meant to…” Her breath still tickled Crowley’s lips. “I…forehead…”

“Nrrh.” Crowley’s free hand drifted forward, finding Aziraphale’s hip, resting on it, barely a touch. It was all she dared. “Ah…?”

Neither of them moved. Or both did. Or they stood still and the world around them shifted. Whichever way it was, their lips touched again, and held this time. Slowly, they drifted closer, caught in each other’s gravity, a decaying orbit. Crowley would surely burn up on approach, but it was worth every moment.

Eventually they parted, once more just enough to breathe, to speak, to remember that they were two beings and not a single, burning soul.

“Not…” Crowley swallowed. “Not too fast?”

“I…” Aziraphale bit her lip. “I don’t know. But…Crowley…I know…where I want to go. Eventually.”

Their foreheads pressed together. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Aziraphale nodded, dropping left hand falling away, right thumb rubbing the back of Crowley’s hand. Her eyes fluttered open and she gasped. “Oh, my word!”

“What?” Crowley glanced at herself, black cloth trousers flared wide at the legs, tight red sleeveless shirt cut scandalously low in the front and back, boots with heels that made her even taller than usual—

She was visible again.

“I…I suppose I was still healing you when we…oh…oh, Crowley…what are you wearing?”

“Angel, it’s – I look fashionable, you look – have you changed anything in the last century?”

“I…a few things! Were you honestly planning to give a presentation like that?”

“I was going to be invisible, yeah!”

“You…are…” Aziraphale pressed her eyes shut. “I am going to get my jacket. And then I’m going to get you a jacket, because it’s cold at night, and you are cold-blooded.”

“M’not,” Crowley muttered.

“And then we will go for our ride and determine what evil, dastardly plan I will spend the next twenty-five years thwarting. Is that clear?”

“Yes.” After a moment, Crowley said, “Ah, Aziraphale?”

“What is it now?”

“At some point, are you going to let go of my hand?”

Aziraphale glanced down. “Oh. Hmm. I suppose we’ll find out.”

(Fifty Years Later)

Crowley sat beneath the apple tree, her hand clutched tightly in Aziraphale’s, leaning back against her angel’s chest. “And that,” she concluded, “is why we call the 26th of April Lesbian Visibility Day.”

The Them stared at the two supernatural beings, mouths slightly open.

“You…” Pepper started, “are full of so much shit.”

“Oi!”

“Actually,” Wensley said, “that’s…one of the worst stories I’ve ever heard. How are you supposed to budget miracles?”

“If they could cut you off that easy,” Brian jumped in, “why didn’t they do it when you left Hell?”

“Oh, ummm,” she glanced up at Aziraphale.

“Tactics,” the angel said enigmatically.

Pepper didn’t even seem to be listening. “How did you know what all those people were thinking?”

“That’s right,” Wensley nodded. “Particularly Gabriel.”

“He…he has a very expressive face,” Crowley argued.

“How’d you actually move around like that, without anyone hearing you? The whole day?”

“Shouldn’t you’ve been, you know, way more worried about getting killed?”

“At least one of those bookshop attacks wasn’t even possible, unless you were in two places at once.”

“And how d’you accidentally leave your healing on?”

“How could you possibly mistake her lips for her forehead?”

“This was rubbish.”

“What do you think, Adam?”

The former Antichrist looked up from where he was playing with Dog. “I think…” He gave the angel and demon a penetrating look, then shook his head, smiling as if he’d just seen the joke at the center of the universe, and it had turned out to be a truly terrible pun. “I think you should just tell us the next story.”

“Which one’s that?” Crowley asked, settling back into the curve of her angel’s arm, fingers still twined together.

“The one with the greatest project any demon ever came up with.”

“Oh.” Grinning, Crowley tipped her head to meet Aziraphale’s shining eyes. “Wahoo.”

The song is "Break on Through (To the Other Side)" by the Doors, because Queen had not yet put out their first album, though there was a lot of pressure in the Discord to have Crowley dancing to Abba instead.

Final scene set next year because we'll all be sitting together under apple trees with our loved ones and telling BS stories to kids before we know it.

For everyone who contributed non-anonymous suggestions:

@amidst-innumerable-stars @tangle5ancer @fenrislorsrai @feuerkindjana @bowser14456 @taksez @yeahhiyellow @infinitevariety @gargelyfloof118 @lourek @soft-forest-rain @undertaker991 @jules-al-c @lov-lyness2 @thisleadstohollyhocks @marianrios33 @aux-barricades @lostmemimi @joybones @derederest @myusernameispie @mothmans-favorite-lamp and @n0nb1narydemon (yes I did find a way to level up the coin gluing!) and of course @5ftjewishcactus who encouraged me when you really shouldn't. Sorry I couldn't fit in everyone's suggestions!

112 notes · View notes

zigraves · 5 years

Text

So anyway I wrote the thing with the plants and the bonemeal and the recycled divinity.

Under the cut: SFW, only a little mild blasphemy, and a bunch of horticulture and historical christian persecution references. Wordcount unknown ‘cause I wrote it on tumblr. Saunters vaguely downward into the theologically sentimental.

It starts, as all things do, with an apple.

Long before man bred Malus into a thousand forms, there was the Apple. After the fall from on High, after the expulsion from the Garden, after crawling wretchedly from the receding Flood, there was the apple.

And bloody useless it was, so far as Crawly - Crowley, Crowley now - was concerned. He was certain that, for an inanimate fruiting tree genus, the damnable things were smug. Taking half the credit for his early work, thank you so much, and crossbreeding with itself like some sort of horticultural pervert. Practically as bad as oak trees. Worse, even.

The worst thing about apples, he’d decided in Greece, was that everyone liked them so damnably much. And it was hard to avoid eating any of the sodding things when you were trying to look social and interesting to get some good bad work done. Pomegranates were fine - tiny little pistils you could just swallow, untasting. Grapes just slid down, easily chased by wine, so you barely had to notice them. But apples. You had to eat apples. Get your teeth right in there and chew the things, really taste them, and maybe that was fine for some people, but it was anathema to someone who spent so much time as a serpent that he largely didn’t bother with fiddly things like chewing.

Or, at least, that was Crowley’s excuse.

The alternative would have been to admit the truth.

He knew how an apple should taste - crisp, sharp, almost tart enough to make you howl, sweetness coming through low and clean after scraping your palate clean enough to fully appreciate it. And these, these post-flood things, these Eden cast-out cultivars, they lacked it. They were ash and grit. Soil in his teeth, mud under his tongue, and he couldn’t just blame them for it when all the food of mortal man was such, but... G-d, he still remembered manna. The taste of all things, cleansing and pure and crisp and sharp and clean and sweet and made of love, love in the highest, love beyond reach and comprehension. Love he could not taste again, nor any lesser foodstuff.

He is resigned, every few decades, to having to take a bite or two of a damned apple.

It is in Rome when he, cup of wine ready in the other hand to wash out the taste with the burn of alcohol, bites into an apple while making eyes at a Senator over some trivial persecution of those new Chrestian people. When he drops the wine and entirely forgets the Senator. When he tastes it again.

Sharp, crisp, clean, scouring his mouth and then lingering with the flavour of Love.

He tastes it.

For one moment of hope, horror, confusion, he feels like he could have somehow have been Forgiven as he devours the thing in desperate bites.

The next apple is ash and mud in his mouth, and Crowley aches in a way he’d almost managed to forget as the loss is made fresh all over again.

---

Crowley finds it again, the sudden burst of taste, of memory, of Love On Highest, lingering in the dregs of a bottle of under-fermented fig wine. There’d barely been enough alcohol to make it worth drinking, but the sediment in the last drip of the bottle hits his tongue and there it is.

An apple in Rome.

Fig wine in Jerusalem.

A sliver of overripe wild plum in Lyon.

Rosehip jam from Smyrna.

Years - decades - between them, and all else just dust ground between his teeth and dirt on his tongue.

And he realises, at last, at last, when he plucks idly at petals from Golgotha’s wild chrysanthemums and unthinkingly licks the petals’ stain from his thumb.

It’s enough to knock him stumbling back almost off his feet.

Horticulturalist even then, tending to his own little garden that could never be the Garden again, he knows full well that plants feast on blood and bone. Crushed bone for calcium, phosporus. Blood for iron, organmeat for nitrogen. Plants grow stronger when they feed on dead things, and he’d slipped the odd steak to a rosebush he particularly wanted to cultivate, but he’d never considered...

The chrysanthemums grow wild and lush on the site of Jesus’ martyrdom, fed by his blood in the soil. Holy blood and the bones of martyrs and the flesh of saints, filtered through years of decay and remaking until it’s very nearly more blasphemy than a benediction. Scouring and sweetness, and the memory of manna.

---

He spends a century or so haunting graveyards across Europe, Asia, north Africa, anywhere that Judaism and Christianity may have left their dead and graves untended by chance or otherwise, anywhere that a holy body could have been laid to rest and not dug up for relics. Runs into the angel once or twice, when Aziraphale is quietly consecrating a church and finds him skulking in the graveyard behind it, or Aziraphale is commending a brave sacrifice and Crowley is eyeing the mass graves with the eye of a keen amateur gardener.

Aziraphale becomes politely concerned at this morbid new fascination with lurking around the dead, though he doesn’t understand the cause of it and Crowley will not, cannot explain it to the angel. The arrangement hasn’t gained its capital A yet, and he cannot tell an angel what it’s like to lose the flavour of G-d’s love and every taste with it. He cannot tell Aziraphale what it’s like to Fall, and lose so much, and then be taunted with the memory of it every time the angel eats some sweetmeat and sighs with satisfaction.

The century passes.

He grows a handful of grapevines on the hillside remains of a forgotten little Portuguese ossuary (once said to contain the bones of some saint or other), and sleeps for a year until the wine is aged enough to be decanted. Aziraphale, unsubtly pleased that Crowley has finally found a healthier hobby than graveyard touring, commends the wine as a very good first attempt, and Crowley fights his impulse to throw the damn bottle at the wall when he realises the distillation has profaned the lingering hint of the sacred. The vineyard is sold, and fails within a decade or so of Crowley ceasing to pay attention to the vines.

Another century passes. The Arrangement grows stronger, and Aziraphale learns just enough tact that he no longer attempts to press a morsel of dessert on the demon when they meet for a dinner and Crowley drinks only wine or coffee or hard liquor.

Aziraphale is off fixing some miserable mess for the both of them in Sweden while Crowley picks at blackberries in England and spends an hour savouring a single fruit that’s barely ripe and tart enough to draw his cheeks tight up against his teeth.

Crowley heads off to France, arranges a handful of terrible convent fires and an equally convenient number of miraculous escapes, and sows wild artichoke in the ashes. Aziraphale stays back in London, setting up a bookshop.

---

When, finally, Aziraphale finally grants him the little tartan thermos, Crowley very nearly takes the lid off just to try feeding a dropper of it to an aloe plant he’s been cultivating.

The lid stays on, and the thermos stays in his safe. He takes the leaves off a dandelion growing in Canterbury, a nettle in Lancaster, wild garlic flowers outside Manchester. Makes coulis out of raspberries growing in an allotment in York. Secretly, privately, when he is truly alone and there is nobody to see his weakness, he eats the second-hand blood of saints and almost weeps to have this brief moment of reprieve.

Aziraphale has finally, entirely and wholly, stopped suggesting any snacks that he thinks Crowley might like. He’s witnessed enough that he knows how Crowley hides his disgust at every bite he takes to keep up appearances before the mortals. Once, drunkenly, Crowley admitted that he only drinks coffee because it’s hot and bitter and technically counts as a poison rather than a food so he can still just about get away with it, as long as he’s not stupid enough to add sugar or milk. Aziraphale isn’t sure if Crowley remembers it, and hasn’t brought it up again. No wonder he never takes mixers with his liquor.

The end of the world turns up and then shuffles back off again.

Nobody’s really supervising any more.

For the first time in millennia - in ever - they take a holiday.

At a very nice little winery in Armenia, Crowley absently steals a grape from the vine and pops it into his mouth. He doesn’t realise quite what he’s done until he catches Aziraphale staring at him, and his heart breaks at the hope in Aziraphale’s eyes. He knows the expression too well. He wore it himself in Rome, at that bite of the first apple.

“Sorry to disappoint, angel, but no,” he says, before the hope in Aziraphale’s eyes can transmute itself into words or actions. “It’s not what you’re thinking. But the Sasanian Empire used to reach all the way out here. Vicious bastards, back in the day- do you remember The Persecution? The Nestorians?”

“Oh. Yes. Dreadful business, brother against brother and all that.” Aziraphale does not immediately make the connection, and Crowley cannot blame him; it took him the better part of two hundred years to notice, himself.

“I’m not being Forgiven any time soon, Aziraphale. To be honest with you, I’m pretty sure I’m actually committing blasphemies when I do this, if anyone’s still bothering to keep score.” Rather than explain himself, he shoves the winery’s informative pamphlet at the angel and then shoves his hands back deep in his pockets, where they cannot get him in any more trouble.

After a minute, he takes them back out, googles “bloodmeal for plants”, and shoves that in front of Aziraphale as well. And the bible verses about the serpent condemned to eat dust.

It still takes a while before the connection dawns, as the angel has never been much of a gardener, nor taken the time to understand the intricate ways that soil’s nutrients influence the flavour of the plants that grow on it. He just barely knows the thing about Champagne and chalky ground, and Crowley’s generally been content to leave it at that. He wishes he hadn’t, now, as the wait is killing him while he watches Aziraphale’s face for the expressions that shift across it.

“So... you’ve been...”

“That’s me. Foul fiend, feasting on the flesh of the dead.” It’s dry, wry, but Aziraphale cannot miss the fragility of that sharp voice, nor the way Crowley is looking at anything but him.

“Oh. I wish you’d told me. Maybe I could have... oh, I don’t know. Blessed the creperie, or something.”

“Doesn’t work. Too direct. Gave myself one hell of a stomacheache when I snuck some communion wafers to test that particular theory. Don’t even like to risk eating out in case it’s properly halal and someone’s blessed it. Sorry.”

“Oh, Crowley. What must you think of me, all this time and I’ve been inviting you out to restaurants. I thought you just didn’t like food, I didn’t - didn’t think, not even after you had that little vineyard out near São Roque and then suddenly shut it all up. I’m so sorry, my dear.” Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hands gently, puts himself in front of the averted sunglasses. “I won’t do it again. We can go to more plays, or nice little bars, or museums, or any sort of thing.”

“What? No, no. Angel. No. Just because I can’t eat out, that doesn’t mean I don’t like going to restaurants with you. I like seeing you get to enjoy things, I like the secondhand indulgence. I like the face you make when someone’s done that creme pat stuff just right and you get all wiggly about it.”

“Wiggly.”

“Yes you bloody do. We’re going to go back to the hotel and you’re going to have that bozbash soup stuff you like that they don’t do right anywhere else, and I’ll have the local vodka, and it’ll be fine. Aziraphale. Please stop making that face.”

With visible reluctance, Aziraphale allows the issue to be shelved. The bozbash really is excellent, and Crowley was right that nowhere else got the quince and lamb just so.

---

The issue remains shelved back in London, though from time to time Crowley catches Aziraphale looking at Crowley’s plants in a speculative manner, as if realising that not a one of them is even remotely edible, not even in a recreationally poisonous manner.

Crowley has to be the first one to sort out dinner reservations again, and shove everything back into its proper track. The new chef at the Ivy does well enough that it doesn’t take long for his souffle to settle everything back into its right place.

He continues to buy Aziraphale truffles and pears and crepes and sushi until the angel stops moping about it and trusts that Crowley knows his own sensibilities best.

---

There is a garden, out on the chalk swathe near the south coast of England. Occasionally a fossil will unearth itself from the chalk beneath the turf. A handful of slightly yellowing apple trees grow along its borders, and clematis climbs the cottage that abuts it. Rosemary, sage, thyme and fennel run along the walls by the flint-studded path up to the door.

When Aziraphale introduces Crowley to the place, currently a holiday home but on the market for potential buys, he does not miss the way Crowley looks at the apple trees.

“No,” he agrees. “There haven’t been any famous martyrs buried in chalk. I don’t think there’s ever been anyone buried here at all, really.”

They book it for a fortnight’s getaway anyway.

Crowley tends the plants with his peculiar mix of bittersweet care and straight up bitter cursing while Aziraphale reads out on the lawn, and doesn’t notice when Aziraphale joins him to watch while he’s arguing with the marjoram. He’s got a sturdy set of gardener’s waterproof gloves on to keep the soil from getting under his black-lacquered nails or ruining the polish, and his watering can is some newfangled efficient sort that rarely drips when it’s not wanted to.

Aziraphale’s hand strays to the watering can, fingers dipping into the cool water within, and he murmurs a soft prayer.

“Oh lord, Who planted the first Garden. Bless this water, that it may sustain and nourish.”

Crowley does not openly flinch at the blessing happening three feet from him, but does give the angel a Look.

“Is this your way of telling me to stop gardening and make the tea, or something? Trying to discorporate me with my own watering can?”

Aziraphale shakes his head.

“I thought... well. If you can stomach the ones grown on bloodmeal and so on, maybe this would be worth a try. I promise not to bless the actual garden!”

The Look morphs into something much more thoughtful, and after a moment Crowley resumes his gardening.

Aziraphale quietly purchases the property with money that has been wholly legally obtained, and the summer fortnight stretches out and out into autumn as the garden flourishes like never before.

On a warm afternoon when the first autumn rains have been and gone and the apples are very nearly ready to pick, Crowley plucks at a leaf of marjoram, places it upon his tongue, and sobs so quietly that Aziraphale almost does not hear. He holds the sprig of the plant like a benediction, like a weapon, like a relic. Aziraphale steadies him with an arm about his shoulders as Crowley shakes at the taste of the divine, nearer now than it has been in six thousand years and more. When he tilts Crowley’s face, angular and tear-wet, down to kiss him, Crowley’s lips taste of salt, sweet balsam and holy camphor. The demon shudders against him, drowning in the taste of second-hand divinity and the wash of Love.

The apples grown in the South Downs are crisp, sharp, almost tart enough to make you howl, sweetness coming through low and clean after scouring you through. They taste, wholly and completely, of Love.

#Good Omens #fanfiction #no betas we die like mne #I wasted two hours reading about the history of apples only to use exactly zero cultivars in this #Crowley doesn't miss Heaven but he does miss the food #sfw

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spootiliousrps · 5 years

Text

First Ineffable Husbands (My descent into the abyss has begun!)

You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!

You both like ineffable husbands.

Stranger: “You don’t have a side anymore. Neither of us do. We’re on our own side.” The way Crowley said that, so confident and sure and gentle, it made Aziraphale feel, for a fraction of a second, truly free. No more fear, no more looking over his shoulder and fretting after every meal with Crowley or night spent drinking together. It wasn’t the explosive “We’re on /our/ side!” from their tiff beneath the gazebo. When, he’d admit, he’d said some things he rather regretted. Aziraphale was left feeling unmoored. Vulnerable. Very human. But not alone, with his knee and thigh pressed to the side of Crowley’s, who’d slumped down in his seat on the bus ride back to central London. Aziraphale’s hands were folded primly in his lap, sitting up straight. He felt like he was holding his breath. Six thousand years of weight on his shoulders and divine eyes on his back, gone. “‘My side wouldn’t like that.’ That wasn’t a no, you know,” he said, breaking the silence. He wanted to go home with Crowley. He /needed/ it, more than anything.

You: [reading]

You: Crowley could feel the heat coming from Aziraphale's skin, even through the fabric of his trousers and Crowley's too tight jeans. Thats just the way it was, he supposed. Az was a divine being, it only made since that touching him would be searing. Over the years however, he had grown accustomed to it. Now, it was more like a scorching fall of water in a shower washing away the soreness of a hard day of labor. It was comforting... soothing. He tried not to dwell on it however, as he glanced away from the angel. His words were true: Neither of them had a side now. Though it wasn't as if Crowley had really been working too hard for hell over the last few centuries. Humans were really good a being bad on their own anyways. The angel's response caught him off guard a bit, though and he allowed his head to lull back a bit to look at him. "I would assume not, Angel." He countered, with a small teasing curl of his lip, trying not to give away how the blackened remains of his heat seemed to beat a bit. "Just... Stay away from the plants, yeah? Last time you stopped by it took me the better part of a weekend to remind them of their place. I can't have you encouraging them again." He huffed, in feigned annoyance as he faced forward once more, still slumped in the uncomfortable seats.

Stranger: Aziraphale really didn’t know how Crowley could take on that posture comfortably whenever he sat down, all spread legs and arms, taking up as much space as possible. It was very typical of him, larger than life. And he’d be lying if he said it didn’t... draw attention to his hips. He’s all too used to squashing thoughts like that as they arise, but now he can let it go without fear. He sighs in relief, spared from actually having to ask again. “Oh I couldn’t help myself, they’re just so beautiful,” he insists with a suppressed smile brightening his cheeks, glancing down in embarrassment. He’d been surprised the first time, how alive Crowley’s plants were, how they’d seemed to reach for him as he walked passed. “You still have that garish throne you call a chair I assume?” he asked, though there was no malice behind his voice, only exasperated affection.

You: Crowley gave a small snort at the mention of the plant's beauty. "Keep, giving them encouragement like that and they won't stay that way for long." He scoffed, though there was no real malice behind the words. Still, the words stroke a cord of pride in him that he could help but try and ignore. He'd been complimented on his shrubbery before but it only ever seemed to effect him when it was Aziraphale dishing them out. "It's not 'garish'." He huffed, glancing back at the angel once more, mocking the way he said the word and instantly regretting it as he caught sight of the large grin on the Angel's face. How did he always manage to be so adorable? It caused Crowley's frown to deepen. "Your kind simply doesn't know how to appreciate real art. I'm still trying to find out whose side Van Gogh was on... He is the one with the ear right? That had to be one of your's... otherwise it would be someone else's ear lopped off. Only a divine loon would do that to themselves." He mused, giving his own grin.

Stranger: Aziraphale was close to laughing. Part of it was the release of all the stress from the day, bubbling up in his stomach like champagne, especially when he looked at Crowley. Intoxicating was the right word for it, rather drunk off all the excitement. “I believe he’s on ours, yes.” Though ‘ours’ has a new connotation, Crowley understood what he meant. “I think it’s rather futile trying to get ‘my kind’ to appreciate art. You should have seen how Gabriel ridiculed my books.” That was one thing he agreed upon; other angels simply had little appreciation for earthly things. Aziraphale bumped their knees together as the bus his a bump in the road, enjoying the solid presence of his demon beside him.

You: Crowley gave a shrug, shifting to allow his other elbow to rest on the back of the seat, his hand hovering limply between them, forearm brushing slightly against the fabric of Aziraphale's coat, enjoying the heat radiating from him there as well. "Ah, I remember Gabriel. I met him once or twice before the garden." He admitted with a shrug. "Never really was that bright. Seems he's still as much as an idiot as ever. I suppose time /doesn't/ heal all. There's no fixing that level of ignorance." He mused, grin still in place.

Stranger: Aziraphale nodded in agreement. He wasn’t sure if he could go as far as to say he hated Gabriel, but he certainly made him uncomfortable. He muses the rest of the way home, Crowley’s mention of a time before the garden sending his thoughts on a spiral. He hadn’t met him before then, hadn’t known him before the fall. It’s hard to imagine him as an angel, even if he knows there’s some good in him. Always the serpent, a trickster in his mind. He’s rather sentimental about it. Aziraphale performs a silent, minor miracle on the bus, taking them right up to Crowley’s flat’s building instead of the bus stop a few streets away, and follows him out with a quiet ‘thank you’ to the very confused driver. He’ll miraculously find a few extra pounds under his seat when he goes home for the night.

You: Crowley doesn't mention the miracle as the bus stops and he moves to saunter down the small steps and onto the curb. Who was he to turn down a free ride. With the lack of Aziraphale's close proximity, however, the London air feels a bit brisk and he straightens his dark jacket with one quick tug before heading for the door to his home. A quick snap of his fingers and the door is open, light spilling out into the pathway. "Actually, since you're here... I might have made a bit of a mess with that holy water you gave me... Could use some angelic grace to clean it up. I'd do it myself but... Well... I haven't bathed since the dark ages, why start now?" He joked as he moved into the entrance hall and silently offered to take the Angel's coat.

Stranger: “Crowley!” he whispers, affronted, letting him take his coat nonetheless. The feeling of his fingers brief against his shoulders linger after he’s slid out of his coat, moving ahead of him down the hall to where the holy water spilled. It’s been decades since he gave it to him, he’s touched he still had it. With a wave of his hand it’s gone, not a drop left. “I hadn’t thought you’d use it for... that,” he remarks as he stoops down to pick up the remaining bucket, setting it back down next to a potted plant. He’d taken ‘insurance’ to mean something else, other than a weapon in case another demon came after him. A way out of sorts. After all, it wasn’t as if Crowley could give him bottled hellfire in return.

You: Crowley hung the coat neatly on the rack, knowing how much it meant to Aziraphale before following after him, allowing a bit of space between them just in case. "I'm well aware what you thought I'd use it for." He shrugged, all amusement gone from his voice, though it was obvious he took no offense. "I can't say it hadn't crossed my mind but I much rather have taken one of those annoying bastards out before I went. and I didn't really have enough for two doses so... Greater of two evils and all." He shrugged, with a small prideful half smirk, at the thought of him destroying Ligur. "Well worth it, I'd say."

Stranger: Aziraphale nods, willing his heart to stop racing. Had Crowley ultimately made that decision... he couldn’t imagine it, those last few moments before the world ended, without him. But it didn’t happen, he can let it go. “I hope you know I’m not doing that again.” He felt awful enough the first time, like he was giving him a loaded gun. Aziraphale breaths a sigh of relief as he passes back by a rather large plant, one broad leaf reaching out to brush against his arm in greeting. He gives it a gentle touch back before Crowley can catch him. The flat is still mostly empty, dark and cavernous, and makes him long to put a few bookshelves in at least.

You: Crowley arched a brow at that, leaning against the wall non-nonchalantly as he listened to the other man speak. "Whatever you say angel. You've always been so good at telling me know, that I suppose I'll simply have to be inclined to believe you." He deadpanned, obviously being sarcastic. Az always tried to deny Crowley's temptations but in the end... He never won out. Well... Except perhaps the apocalypse but if the end of the world wasn't a good enough reason to make an exception to one's life long self destructive decision making than what was?

Stranger: Aziraphale crosses his arms as he comes to stand in front of him, brow furrowed in an effort to look serious. Crowley always gets what he wants out of him in the end. Their arrangement, then the holy water. The only thing he hadn’t acquiesced to was running away to Alpha Centauri with him. And he’d desperately wanted to, but he’d been afraid. Too afraid of the consequences, so /sure/ he could still save the earth, talk the almighty out of the war. How foolish of him. He means it this time, but doesn’t press the issue, doesn’t let Crowley know just how much it hurt him. “Well.” He clasps his hands together, attempting to cut the tension. “I suppose I’ll be taking the couch then.” He mourns momentarily his warm bed in his flat above the bookshop, now surely burned to ashes.

You: "Worried I sleep on hell fire?" Crowley countered with an amused flash of teeth. "You'll take my bed. The last thing I need is you complaining about a sour back tomorrow. It'd be grating." He added for good measure. "I'll take the couch." He pointedly demanded. "At least that way I can keep an eye out for any good influences on my plants." He grumbled under his breath as well.

Stranger: “No, I just... it would be rude of me.” Aziraphale shifts uncomfortably. He’d hardly complain, since Crowley /was/ letting him stay over. He can’t recall if they’ve ever slept in the same vicinity, save for the times passed out drunk on the couch, in the back room behind the shop. It would be strange sleeping in his bed, and the thought brings heat to his cheeks, dusting them a bit pink.

You: "Oh, live a little. Be ru-" Crowley began before pausing as he caught sight of the pink marring Aziraphale's pale skin. He reached up to tug his glasses down a bit to peer over them at the man. "What in the Heaven is that on your face, Angel?" He asked, sounding concerned but a large smile splitting his features in two. "Is that... Are you blushing?" He teased.

Stranger: “Absolutely not.” He wasn’t aware he /had/ been, only that he’d been thinking about sleeping in Crowley’s bed, turning his face into the pillow, catching the scent that always seemed to linger about him. Demon have their own scent, Gabriel had remarked on it. Labeled it as simply ‘evil,’ though Aziraphale knows most smell like sulfur or something rotting. Crowley is neither. More like woodsmoke and... his face heats further. “Really, there’s no need to keep those on when it’s just us,” he sighs, exasperated, before pinching the glasses off his face. He likes seeing his eyes anyways, the teasing, tempting glint they take on.

You: Crowley suddenly tensed as Aziraphale pulled his glasses away, surprised by the boldness of the action as well as the intimacy of it. He blinked a bit in shock before his smile faded and he forced his yellow gaze away, taking on the same slumped look as usual. "Habit." He excused, tasting the lie. He hated his eyes, they reminded him of his fall, of every wrong decision he had made, of every reason Aziraphale couldn't return his feelings. A demon with feelings was a sorry enough excuse for a demon to begin with but his kinship with Aziraphale had started at the beginning of time... In the garden... After centuries of trying to impress the angel however, Crowley had eventually given up his pursuit and accepted his place in the 'friendzone'. Hell, he practically invited the syndrome. Pathetic really. "Take the bed." He instructed flatly. "I've got some things I need to get done. Best do it now before the head offices come after us." He sighed.

Stranger: The petulant look on Aziraphale’s faces fades to disappointment, even regret as Crowley drops his teasing tone, his grin disappeared. He’d deny he was blushing, to a point, but he liked when he hounded him. Perhaps that’s what made him so different; he /liked/ the demon’s mischievous attentions. Regret crosses his features as he tucks his folded glasses into Crowley’s jacket pocket, in a gesture perhaps more intimate than the first. “Fine.” He gives in. The mention of ‘head office’ sends anxiety tightening in his chest once more, but for once, he can banish the thought. “What do you need to do?”

You: Crowley's hand moves to rest on the glasses in his pocket as if to reassure himself that they're there as he tries to focus on Aziraphale and sigh. "Well, the head office is not going to let this slide; that much is for certain. Which means I can either stay or run. Either way I'll need to find someone to take care of the plants while I'm gone... or dead." He shrugged moving past the shorter man and into his sitting room. "Then theres the matter of my bank accounts. I certainly can't have them donating all my hard earned cash to..." He gave an exaggerated shiver. "Charity." He said with disgust as he plopped down on the sofa. "Maybe I should spend it all on a giant golden statue of myself." He grinned, dropping his head onto the back of the sofa.

Stranger: Aziraphale can’t believe what he’s hearing, and remains where he’s standing in the entryway to the sitting room. He feels sick. Obviously their respective authorities would not let this slide, but he hadn’t thought they’d retaliate so quickly. He’d been so caught up in the thrill of a vanquished apocalypse, caught up on /Crowley/, that he hadn’t even thought of it. Foolish. He swallows thickly. “You can’t...” They can’t /kill/ him, he’ll find a way out of it, it’s /Crowley/. He can feel it rising in his voice, like their argument under the gazebo. “Where would you go?” He asks instead, because Crowley is /not/ dying. “Is there anywhere they won’t find you?” ‘Or me’ he thinks silently, thinks of Heaven.

You: Crowley gave a small soft chuckle. "Relax Angel, I doubt they have an arsenal of holy water on their side." He teased lightly. "I'm not /that/ easy to kill. No, most likely they'll try and lock me away somewhere for eternity. It's nothing I can't handle; though the boredom is sure to drive me mad, no doubt." He mused. "I suppose I could run but the only place they wouldn't be able to follow me would be Heaven, and I'm certainly not going up there."

Stranger: * feel distress rising in his voice

You: [Did my reply go through?]

Stranger: ( I don’t think so

You: [Sorry. How about now?] Crowley gave a small soft chuckle. "Relax Angel, I doubt they have an arsenal of holy water on their side." He teased lightly. "I'm not /that/ easy to kill. No, most likely they'll try and lock me away somewhere for eternity. It's nothing I can't handle; though the boredom is sure to drive me mad, no doubt." He mused. "I suppose I could run but the only place they wouldn't be able to follow me would be Heaven, and I'm certainly not going up there."

Stranger: ( got it!

Stranger: “That’s still awful.” Either way, he’d never see him again. He tries to wrangle in his own emotions, willing away the knot in his throat. He clenches his hands together, nervously fidgeting. Crowley can’t see him from the couch, and for that he’s grateful. He can’t see the horror on his face. Not just for Crowley’s sake, but for his own. Oh, they’ll destroy him for this, or worse. They’ll cast him out. He’ll /Fall/. “I don’t know how you can be so... flippant.” The irritation bleeds through his voice.

You: Crowley pursed his lips into a thin line at the sound of Aziraphale's irritation with him. Still he acts as if it has no affect on him. He gives a small shrug. "I've spent the last decade raising a child, who wasn't the antichrist, and who I knew would destroy everything anyways." He pointed out. "I've considered this for quite some time now. Still, it will be nice to know that Earth will go on." He admitted. "Maybe if I get out the world will have gone full circle and we'll actually have some decent music again." He offered. [It's 5am here... I'll probably have to go soon.]

Stranger: ( okay, it was great rping with u

Stranger: ( have a good one!

You: [Any chance you may want to continue at another time maybe have a specific tag or via email?]

Stranger: ( I only rp on here, so we can make a tag if u want

You: [Yes please! I've really enjoyed this! How about...

You: I've got nothing ^^;]

Stranger: “Ineffable husbands ************” ?

Stranger: ( just going off ur last line

You: [Lol sounds good. I hope to see you again soon. I'll save the log.]

Stranger: ( sweet, me too, have a good night!

#Ineffable husbands #ineffable boyfriends #ineffableboyfriends #omegle #roleplay #rp #gay #good omens #crowley #aziraphale

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