#my crowley mood has shifted a lot recently | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

aethelflaedladyofmercia · 4 years

Text

The Whole Truth - 5

(As promised - some answers this time, as well as angst, and fluff, and a bit of sap. It’s a long one, so get comfy, here or on AO3. Enjoy!)

Thursday

Aziraphale paced the shop, wringing his hands.

What on Earth had he been thinking yesterday? With any of it?

Crowley would think he’d gone mad. Probably already did.

Had he actually touched Crowley’s arm during dinner? Repeatedly? Let their knees brush together under the table? Ordered a shared dessert? His stomach hurt to think of it.

Not that the cake hadn’t been lovely, but he’d insisted on feeding Crowley a bite and, oh –

He pressed his hands to his mouth, wanting to remember every moment, wanting to forget entirely.

What if Gabriel had come to check-in? He’d said Friday, but it was always a possibility, always. He would have caught them, sharing a table, laughing over cups of coffee about humans they’d known through the ages, leaning close, so very close. Or walking back to the Bentley, hands brushing against each other, smiling like…

He picked up the telephone for the third time this morning, desperately dialing Crowley’s flat. He needed to tell the demon not to come. Needed any excuse to keep him away, or he…he didn’t know what he’d do.

But again, the line rang, and rang, and the foolish machine picked up, asking him to leave a message. He waited for the tone, then snapped, “Crowley. It’s me again. Do not come. Don’t – you need to stay as far from me as possible. I can’t—”

The roar of an engine, the muffled sound of Queen, and he looked up just in time to see the long black car stopping in front of his door.

A moment later, Crowley stepped out, another bag from the bakery. And…were those flowers?

It was worse than he expected. Aziraphale backed away in horror.

“Angel?” Crowley called through the door. Was it too late? Could he hide in the back room? “My hands are full, could you…?”

This shouldn’t be hard. Open the door. Tell him you don’t want to see him today. Don’t accept the lovely flowers. Don’t thank him for the pastries. And whatever you do, don’t pull him through the door, slam him against the wall and –

Oh dear.

He opened the door a crack. “Crowley. I. Oh, did you…change your hair?”

Crowley tossed his head, and now all his hair was loose and free, gleaming in the sun, and of course one strand got caught across his face and Aziraphale wanted to tug it free, to set it in place, to run his fingers all through that dazzling mass of red until—

“Just a bit. Thought I could use a change. Do you like it?”

“I do, I really do.” He slapped his hand over his mouth.

Crowley smiled, and it wasn’t sarcastic, it was genuine and heartbreaking. “Good. I – I thought you might. I, um, I got you these.”

Aziraphale’s eyes fell on the white-and-yellow bouquet. “Daisies? Oh, I adore daisies. So bright and warm…”

“Yeah, I know. And they, um, remind me of you.” Crowley shuffled his feet, still on the doorstep. “I thought, if we’re going to be poring over that book for two more days, might as well brighten the place up a bit.”

“I.” Send him away. “I thought.” Send him away right now. “I don’t believe I…invited you.”

If the smile had been heartbreaking, the way it fell nearly destroyed Aziraphale on the spot.

“You. Aziraphale. You never invite me, I just…come.”

“I know.” He tried to keep his face straight, his resolve firm. “And that’s…that’s very much the problem, isn’t it? You just show up whenever you wish, unannounced, regardless of how I feel, or what I’m doing or – or who might be visiting!”

“Is someone there now?” Was Crowley even aware of the way his whole body tensed when he worried, coiled, preparing to spring into action? He wasn’t a fighter – he always preferred to flee and hide – but somehow any time his mouth pressed into that line of resolve, Aziraphale just felt safe. “Do you need me to cause a distraction? Just say the word.”

It was the perfect out. Tell Crowley Gabriel was here, that he had it under control.

“No. I’m alone.”

“Then what’s the problem? I told you last night I’d swing by as early as I could. Yes, I should have called first, but it’s not that big a deal, is it?” He moved as if to step through the door, though Aziraphale still stood in the way.

“Yes, it is!” Aziraphale pushed the door almost completely shut, so he could see nothing but Crowley, and the flowers. “It is very much a ‘big deal.’ You never think about these things, Crowley, and I have to worry on my own. You never change. What would you have done if Gabriel were here? Hmm? Do you even remember the time you almost walked straight into him, or did you conveniently forget that as well?”

“Of course, I remember.” Crowley’s voice was a low growl. “But you just said he’s not, so it does not matter.” He took a step back at least. “What’s he going to do, anyway? Put a bad comment on your quarter-century review?”

“He might! He might do a lot worse than that! Do you think anything like this—” he gestured between them “—this has ever happened before?”

“I don’t know, Angel. What is this? Tell me that!” But under the anger there was a note of desperation, and Aziraphale had to gnash his teeth to keep from saying something that would make the situation worse.

“Crowley,” he finally managed, sounding half-strangled even to his own ears. “I don’t want you to come in.” There was a strained silence, broken only by the crinkle of the paper around the flowers.

“Angel. Just tell me—”

“No, Crowley. Don’t ask me any more questions.” He was terrified of what answers he might give. “Just leave. Go – go far away, and do not contact me until I ask you to.”

“Fine.” The bundle of daisies tumbled to the step. “Fine.” Crowley strode back to the Bentley faster than Aziraphale had ever seen him move. “And don’t think I’ll be standing next to the phone when you call. I have better things to do with my time than wait for you.”

“I doubt that!”

But he was gone.

Aziraphale let the door drift open, as the flowers scattered and blew away in the wind.

He glanced up from the book, blinking blearily at the light. It must be afternoon by now.

Aziraphale didn’t remember much after the fight with Crowley – he rarely did, not for the serious fights – and the cup of ice-cold tea and stack of notes four centimeters thick were the only real indicators that time had passed at all.

He folded his arms across the book, leaning against them, breathing in the spicy smell. Tried not to think about how much he missed Crowley’s jokes and snide comments, the way he would bend over Aziraphale’s shoulder to look at the page, breath warm on his cheek.

“Don’t think about that. He wasn’t helping.” He scolded himself. But, really, for all his notes, he’d contributed as much to this translation as Crowley. Aziraphale was getting nowhere, and he only had another day.

What would Crowley do, if he were here?

Terrible question. Better to ask what Gabriel would do, or one of the Scribes of Heaven. They would surely have some wonderful idea for a new angle to attack the text from that would force it to reveal its secrets, and not a moment too soon.

But Crowley would suggest going for a walk. Feeding the ducks. Getting something to eat.

It took ten minutes of searching to find a satchel, just the right size for the book. He slid the heavy tome inside and headed out.

“Seven, huh?” Eliza smiled, sliding the last tiropita into the customer’s bag. “Guess you like these.”

“Oh, yes, they’ve been my favorite mid-afternoon snack for the last two millennia.” The customer – she recognized him as the old man from the bookshop down the street, the one that was never open – seemed startled by his own joke. “Only they’ve been rather out of fashion in this part of the world until recently, so it’s nice to have them available again.”

“Right,” she smiled, punching the order into the till. “Well, I hope they��re as good as you remember.”

“Oh, the modern recipe doesn’t use nearly enough honey, but I find I enjoy them nonetheless.”

Weird bloke, she thought, fighting to keep her customer-service-smile in place. Probably harmless, though. “Going for a walk?”

“Yes, I’ve been rather caught up in a project, but I’ve made no progress on my translation for several days. I’m hoping a change of scenery will help.”

“Oh, translation, huh?” she showed him the total, and he handed her a few notes. “I’m taking German this year. Supposed to help with the grad program I want. What’s yours?”

“It’s a text of no known language that foils every attempt at decipherment,” he said as she counted out the change. “Furthermore, there is a curse upon it which could destroy half of London if tampered with.”

“Yeah.” She handed over the coins and bag, trying to make sense of that one. “My sister said the same thing about her Latin class, but she’s always been a bit mad.” Eliza glanced out at the sunny street, wishing her shift would end already. “Enjoy the weather.”

“I hardly think that possible, as I had a terrible fight with a very dear friend this morning, and I don’t believe he will talk to me again for quite some time. I would much rather it were raining, to suit my mood, but the nearest storm clouds are over France. Summoning them now will almost certainly have unforeseen consequences to the regional climate. Good day.”

He backed out of the shop and hurried up the street. Definitely weird. “Can I help who’s next?”

Up and down the streets of Soho he walked, unable to stop himself from talking.

Waiting for the light to change, he told a family how the Trojan War wasn’t entirely his fault, but things had gotten rather out of hand. “I never should have let him tell me the apple would make a good prank. My word, did everyone take it so seriously.”

Wandering past the duck pond, he explained to a confused group of students that, had he really known who Dante was, he never would have given the job to Crowley. “I just thought, poor chap needs a vacation, he’d had a terrible century, might as well spend a few weeks in Italy, all he has to do is go drinking with a poet and cheer him up a bit. And, frankly, if my orders were just a bit less Ineffable maybe I would have seen this coming!”

Sitting on a bench with an older couple, he tried to describe the outfits he and Crowley had worn in that church in 1941, though the couple seemed confused and kept interrupting to ask questions about the flowers or guests. “No, there weren’t any guests, just these awful people I thought I knew. But Crowley arrived and got me away from there, oh it was really something. Dancing all down the aisle.”

Leaning against the wall outside a bar, he pleaded with every passerby: “I wasn’t really thinking, I just – they didn’t have any way to protect themselves, it was going to be dark, and raining, and the lions. So, I handed over my sword. I didn’t mean to disobey. I didn’t mean to, I just – it was the right thing to do, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?”

He didn’t pay attention to where he walked. But it was no surprise at all when he found himself in Mayfair, staring at a long black Bentley and a tall, modern block of flats.

His fist pounded on the door. “Crowley? Crowley, please.” Aziraphale knocked again. “Crowley, I just – I need to talk to you, please, I know you’re here.”

The door opened so suddenly, he nearly toppled in. Crowley scowled at him, blocking the entrance, hair slicked back once again. “Oh. Aziraphale. I don’t remember inviting you.”

“I know. I know, please, I – I need your help.”

“Oh, now you need my help? Is that how it’s going to be? I just sit around waiting until you need me—”

“Crowley, this is serious! Will you just listen?”

The demon leaned against the door frame, crossing his arms. “Go on then.”

“In…in the hallway?”

“Yes, in the hallway. Seems fitting.”

Aziraphale nodded, watching his own hands twist and wring against each other. “I deserve this, of course. After the frightful way I treated you, and not just this morning. So many times over the years—”

“Oh, spare me the passive-aggressive speech,” Crowley groaned. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”

“I am, Crowley. This is what’s wrong. The – the curse. It’s started to affect me, quite – quite frightfully.”

He glanced up, just in time to see Crowley swallow. “Are you dying?” His voice was painfully neutral.

“No, nothing like that.” Yes, it was easier to address this whole conversation to his shoes. “I just…can’t seem to stop talking.”

“Well. It’s a terrible curse, but I’m sure you’ll survive somehow. If you’ll excuse me, Golden Girls is coming on—”

“It isn’t just that, Crowley, I can’t – I can’t lie.” Icy silence. “I’m compelled not just to speak, but to say the truth, the absolute truth. I’m finding it nearly impossible to conceal anything at all.”

He waited for the door to slam in his face.

“Get in, you idiot.”

Head jerking up, Aziraphale found that Crowley had stepped aside and opened the door wide. Nodding his thanks – knowing if he tried to voice them out loud, he’d say something he truly regretted – Aziraphale entered the flat.

He looked around in every direction, trying to avoid Crowley’s gaze. The demon was still tense, still leaning against the wall with arms crossed. “I say, this is the exact opposite of cozy,” Aziraphale commented cheerfully. “You seem to be missing nearly all your furniture. The walls are very white, aren’t they?”

“It’s called minimalism,” Crowley grunted. “You should try it.”

“Oh, is this the modern style of decorating?” There was a black sofa facing a television, a broad plain desk, the top of it a thin plate of glass, and an oddly shaped chair. A few pieces of sculpture were scattered around, though they didn’t seem to fit the general look of the place.

“It was. Bored with it now. Maybe go retro next, I don’t know.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale bit his tongue. He pulled off the satchel holding his book, placed it on the floor next to the sofa, trying to find something polite to say. He failed. “Only, it seems a very strange color choice, as it makes your whole flat rather look like—”

“Don’t say it,” Crowley snarled, pushing off from the wall.

“I can’t help it! I told you, I can’t seem to stop talking. Half of Soho now knows things about me I’ve never said before, and I just…I can’t stop.”

“Really?” he stalked forward. “So, if I asked you a question right now, you wouldn’t be able to lie, or avoid the subject or any of those other things you do?”

“Crowley, your expression right now does not at all make me feel safe.” He stepped back and closed his eyes. “But I suppose…yes, that’s fair. You can ask.”

“Oh, thank you for the invitation. Tell me, did you lie when you said you like having me around?”

“No, I…I think it had already begun to affect me.”

“Interesting.” Crowley’s voice was coming closer, but Aziraphale kept his eyes firmly shut. “Then you lied when you told me you wanted me to leave this morning?”

“No, of course not. I was quite incapable by then.” He stumbled back another step. “I knew letting you in the shop would be disastrous – not that I was fully aware what was going on – so it seemed the best thing was—”

“The best thing was to get rid of the demon, not to tell me that something was wrong? Bless it, Aziraphale, even when you tell the truth, you’re so – so twisted!”

“I didn’t – I don’t—” He stepped back and collided with the table; nowhere else to go. Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered open, and Crowley stood so close, towering over him, teeth bared, and the angel trembled like a mouse before a serpent. “It’s not that I like deceiving you, Crowley. I don’t. But I’m not – I don’t feel safe without them. My lies. I feel…exposed…naked…” He closed his eyes again. The words cut deep wounds across his heart.

“So, that’s why you didn’t trust me this morning? You don’t feel safe around me? What, do you think I’m going to take advantage of this? That I’m going to hurt you?”

“Of course not! I’m not afraid of you I’m—” He struggled to hold on to the one secret he had left. “Crowley, if I can’t break this curse by tomorrow, I’ll – I won’t be able to stop myself from telling Gabriel—”

“Telling him what?”

“That I love you!” The words tore through Aziraphale’s last layer of defense, shredding him, leaving him open to the world. He sobbed, leaning against the desk behind him, practically sitting on it as his legs gave way. “I love you, Crowley,” he repeated, much quieter. “You’re my best…you’re my only friend. And I love you so very dearly. And I can’t…can’t ever let anyone know…not even you...”

He heard something click onto the table beside him, and looked up to see Crowley, glasses gone, eyes brighter and wetter than Aziraphale had ever seen them. “There. Now we’re both naked,” he said softly.

“I’m…I’m sure this comes as – as something of a shock…”

Crowley chuckled. “What, that? I’ve known for centuries. Millennia, Angel. I just…I didn’t think you knew.” His hand slid up and cupped Aziraphale’s cheek, and the angel leaned against it, drawing on Crowley’s warmth and strength.

“I…I hid it, even from myself, for so long. I never let myself acknowledge…but, no, I’ve known since…the church. The bomb. Couldn’t really deny it after that.”

“And you know I…I feel the same.” His serpent eyes almost blinked. “That I have…for so long.”

“I hoped so?” Aziraphale’s voice was tight, straining. In Crowley’s movies, these conversations didn’t hurt. They were always full of laughter and smiles. Instead, Aziraphale felt torn to shreds, he felt raw, and he saw the same pain reflected in Crowley’s eyes. “I worried, every time I lied, that this would be the last straw, the thing that sent you away for good.”

“I’m not going to leave—”

“Sometimes I wished it would be. That you would just – just go. Because it would be…so much easier…”

“They would punish you, if they knew,” Crowley said slowly. “Hurt you. Make you Fall.”

“I don’t care about that.” Aziraphale felt the first tear slide down his cheek. “It’s not – I don’t lie, and hide, and shut you out to protect myself. They would destroy you, Crowley. And I would rather die than…than see you hurt…”

Suddenly, Crowley’s arms were around him, pulling him into a surprisingly strong embrace, one hand cradling the back of his head. “Oh, you stupid, stupid Angel. Don’t worry about me.”

“One of us has to.” Aziraphale pressed his face into the curve of Crowley’s neck, felt his arms slide across Crowley’s back. Pushed himself fully onto the desk so he could wrap his legs around Crowley’s, pull him close, keep him safe. “I will protect you, my dear Crowley. I will. Anything to keep you safe.”

“Aziraphale. I don’t – I just want you to trust me. Talk to me. Let me help you." The angel shook his head, burrowing deeper into Crowley's embrace. "We can keep each other safe. You don’t have to do everything on your own.”

“I…I don’t…I don’t want to be alone,” Aziraphale managed.

“You never will be. Let me be there for you.”

“Crowl—” he tried, but all that he managed was a throttled squeak. He nodded, face still buried in Crowley’s shoulder, and let himself be entwined - engulfed - absorbed in that love.

“Aziraphale,” his demon whispered after a moment. “I want to kiss you.”

“I…want you to…” Crowley’s hands cradled his face again, pulling him back until their eyes met, and oh, that look on Crowley’s face now hurt even more than the sappy, hopeful smile this morning. “But you can’t,” Aziraphale ground out, despite his raw throat, his heart straining to burst free.

“Why not?” He leaned closer, until Aziraphale could feel his warm breath.

“Because…my dearest…if you kiss me, I’m never going to stop.” Crowley chuckled. “No, I mean it. I love you. So much. Every moment that I’m not kissing you is a lie. It’s why I’ve been so blasted affectionate the last few days. I need - I’m compelled - to express my love. To say it. To show you, and it hurts to stop.”

“I can stop us.”

“We can’t risk it. I can’t. Not when it’s your life at stake.”

“That’s my choice.” The lips were so close, he could practically taste them already. If he just leaned forward the tiniest bit…

“Please,” Aziraphale begged. “Don’t.”

The hands holding Aziraphale’s face tightened – and tipped his head down, pressing his forehead against Crowley’s. “Alright, Angel. Anything you want.”

Aziraphale tried to find his breath again. He didn’t think his heart would ever stop hammering.

“And we will find a solution to this, Aziraphale. I’m not going to lose you now.”

“I don’t think you’re going to have much choice in the matter. I will betray us both. By tomorrow I won’t be able to resist telling everyone I’m madly in love with a gorgeous, kind, wonderful demon, whose soul sings like the sweetest music, whose heart burns with the passion of the stars, and – oh, there I go again.”

Crowley growled, playfully. “I’m not any of those things.”

“Well, I hardly could have lied, could I? So, it must be true.” Aziraphale sighed. His heart and head ached, he just wanted to sit here leaning against Crowley forever, but there were things to take care of. He let go, allowed Crowley to step away. “I’ve had no luck with the book at all.”

Crowley pressed his lips into a line. “I…I told you I asked around Hell. Not one word about this raid.”

“Well, it’s entirely possible they’re keeping it from you.” Aziraphale stood, stretching. “No offence, darling, but you’re not exactly a high-ranked demon. According to Gabriel, your side was quite soundly defeated. Perhaps they’re covering it up.”

“Yeah, maybe, but,” Crowley backed away, pressing a hand against his hair, smoothing non-existent fly-aways back into place. “Even then, they’d never keep it a secret for long. Any time one of the lords of Hell weakens, the others swarm like…like…some sort of…blood-thirsty insects…”

“Sharks.”

“Sharks aren’t insects,” Crowley reminded him.

“No, but they do swarm. Quite ravenously. You remember that film we saw.”

“I don’t think Deep Blue Sea is a documentary.” Crowley frowned, but without his glasses, Aziraphale could see how his eyes danced. “Anyway. Maybe someone low-ranked was trying to organize a coup but…doesn’t feel right.”

“Perhaps it was some sort of ruse,” Aziraphale considered. “Pretending to lose in order to get the book captured. That would mean,” he realized with alarm, “the text itself is false, entirely untranslatable. Just a way to lure a researcher in, while the curse takes effect. But who could it be intended for?” He began to pace, struggling to focus through the whirl of emotions. “It might make sense for the target to be one of the Archangels, but they don’t do their own research. And how did the demons plan to capture the angel, once the curse was fully developed?”

Crowley cleared his throat. “I, uh, I have an idea, but I…need to be sure first. I need to see the book.”

Aziraphale picked up the bag, but hesitated. “Gabriel told me not to let anyone touch it. I gave him my word.” His fingers brushed down the leather spine. “What if…being touched by a demon sets it off?”

“It won’t,” Crowley soothed, but didn’t reach for the book. “I know how to handle cursed objects. Do it all the time for Hell. And if I’m right…” He glanced down at the bag. “I’ll be careful, I swear.”

The book felt heavy in Aziraphale’s hands – heavier than any book had a right to – heavy enough to drag them both to destruction.

“I trust you, Crowley.” He held it out, letting the bag fall to the floor. “But. Be careful.”

The moment Crowley touched it, his golden eyes went wide. He quickly placed it on the desk, wiping his hand on his shirt. “Well, that’s…” He glanced at Aziraphale. “I’ll know by morning. Why don’t you get some rest? When was the last time you slept?”

“1941. The ride back from the church, remember?”

Aziraphale never slept, usually. But sometimes, on particularly thrilling days, days fraught with too many emotions, his mind would buzz, overstimulated, until it felt numb. Then, he would lie down and drift away, and wake in the morning feeling himself again.

He’d felt that edge of over-exhaustion as they walked out of the church fifty-eight years ago, terrified by the newly recognized emotion that had bubbled under the surface for so long. Crowley had brushed a finger across his forehead and invited him to sleep, and he’d dozed off in the passenger seat of the Bentley, feeling warm and protected in ways he’d never known, not in all the long eternities of his existence. He woke the next morning on the shop sofa, bag of books resting on the floor beside him.

He felt it again now, that exhaustion, and knew it would only get worse the longer he fought it.

“Come on. This time you can use a bed.” Crowley put an arm over his shoulders and steered him, past a room full of vibrant green plants, and into another as empty as the first. A single bed pressed into a corner, white duvet and black pillows; a plant in a white pot on a black bedside table. That was all.

“Honestly, Crowley, this is where you sleep? It’s so infernally drab I can’t imagine how you manage.” He sat on the edge of the bed, pulling his shoes off.

“Eh, it’s fine. All bedrooms look the same with your eyes closed.”

When Aziraphale was comfortable under the thick duvet, Crowley sat on the edge of the bed, fingers brushing his forehead as they had in 1941. “Sleep, and dream of—”

“I’ll dream of you,” Aziraphale said. “Damned honesty curse. I always do, though.”

“Well, then.” Crowley leaned forward and pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s hairline, just for a fraction of a second. “Too much?”

“No, dear. Never.”

Crowley stood beside the bed in the dark.

He’d found his answer just before midnight. He knew who Aziraphale’s enemy was. A solution had already started to form in his mind, but it was a terrible thought.

Would Aziraphale believe him? Would he agree to what needed to be done?

Could Crowley go through with it?

No choice, he reminded himself. Aziraphale needs you. It was all he ever needed to steel his resolve.

“Angel.” He reached out and gently shook Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Time to wake up.”

“Crowley. C’m to bed.”

His heart rattled in his chest like a busted engine. “No, Aziraphale, we need—”

“Need you.” One eye opened just enough to reveal a gleam of blue. “Just…few hours. Let me have that. Please.”

Crowley wasn’t in the business of denying Aziraphale anything.

He lay down on top of the duvet, curled on his side to watch Aziraphale sleep. “Like this?”

The angel struggled a moment, until his arm came free, groping weakly in Crowley’s direction. “Can’t find you.”

“I’m coming.” Crowley wiggled closer, turning around until his back was pressed as close to Aziraphale as he could get it. The angel’s arm looped around, crossing his chest, pulling him closer, until his breath brushed warm on the back of Crowley’s neck. Until their hearts beat together. “How’s that?”

“Love you,” Aziraphale whispered. “Safe…” but soon he was asleep again.

Not long after, Crowley drifted off, into the best night’s sleep he’d ever had.

Aziraphale woke the next morning with Crowley in his arms.

He held Crowley and cried, quietly, his heart overflowing with love.

(Alright! One more long chapter to come, and it’s going to be another emotional rollercoaster. Look for it on AO3 or comment “tag” so I’ll tag you here!) @black-velvet-roses-tea @witchingwhovian

22 notes · View notes

mageicalwishes · 4 years

Text

Read on AO3: here

Summary: Baz takes Simon to see the stars, but they end up doing a lot more speaking than stargazing. "Simon Snow’s schoolboy fixation has finally found some real-world truth - I’m plotting. Although, this time I’m not focused on bringing about the Chosen One’s destruction. I just want to make him smile." Inspired by Carry On Sparks, Week 4 - Plot @carryonsparks (Even though this is literally 3 weeks late. I write so slowly!)

TW - There is a brief mention of what happened in the forest in Carry On, so suicidal intentions are mentioned. It's nothing graphic or anything like that, but I thought it would be best to mention it!

Words: 9,221

Baz

Simon Snow’s schoolboy fixation has finally found some real-world truth - I’m plotting. Although, this time I’m not focused on bringing about the Chosen One’s destruction. I just want to make him smile.

Two years ago today, back at Watford, Simon showed me the stars. It’s a day neither of us will ever forget. In all of our, admittedly, limited conversations about our relationship, he’s always maintained that, that was the day he felt something shift (Even if he didn’t fully realise it at the time). There, somewhere between our stiff beds and the infinity of space, something happened that changed us. That remade us. And I think it’s finally time that I repay the favour.

Unfortunately, though, I’m unable to just conjure up the universe with a flick of my wrist like he did (I’ve tried numerous times, to no avail), so I’ve had to concede to taking a more normal approach to replicating the magic of that night. I'm taking him on a date. Somewhere where the stars can shine down on him.

In all our time together, we’ve never actually managed a traditional date (What with all the mess at Watford, the absolute catastrophe that was our “Great American road trip”, and all of our recent avoidance), so really, it’s long overdue.

Only ... I'm not entirely sure that he'll actually be willing to go with me; given our current situation. But I suppose there’s little harm in asking - Things can’t really get much worse than they already are, and as they say … ‘Fortune favours the bold’.

“Snow,” I call, prodding at his thigh. “I need you to get up.”

He’s flopped, utterly lifeless, on the sofa again - His threadbare pyjamas stained and crumpled, and a ghastly stack of unwashed glasses and plates littering the floor around him, where his tail lays, limply.

It hurts to look at him like this; so far from himself. But that’s how it is most days. Simon Snow: the boy who was promised the world - promised glory and gold - and left with nothing, lying vacant and depressed in his living room. Some days are better, of course; but most aren’t.

After America, I had hoped that things may be a little easier for him. That maybe some of his regained zest would stay with him. But nothing substantial changed. Without the sun, and the space, and the danger, he fell right back into it, all too easily.

Bunce and I do our best to help him, of course - Offering our companionship, or dragging him outside with us for some fresh air (I’d even considered spelling him with a ‘Cheer up, buttercup’ a few times). But realistically, there is little that we can do. He’s traumatised. He’s hurting. And all the magic and good intentions in the world can’t soothe his pain (As much as I wish they could).

I try not to beat myself up over it, but it’s hard sometimes. I know I do all that I can, but my best efforts just aren’t good enough. They don’t make him happy. They don’t take away his hurt. I don’t know how to help him. So … I’m as good as useless to him now.

Hauling himself over, he scowls at me. His eyes flat and ringed with red - The light behind them having dimmed, long ago.

“For fuck’s sakes, Baz!” He gruffs. “Can’t you just leave me alone? I’m trying to sleep.”

He gets snappy like this, sometimes - When he's let himself stew in his feelings for too long. But it's alright. He always apologises afterwards, when the haze has cleared. And I’m not exactly above losing my temper, either - So I have no real reason to complain.

“I know, and I’m sorry but … I wanted to do something with you. Something time dependent. It’s already nine PM, and I really can't wait much longer, love."

“Yeah well, you’re the one who woke me up at seven AM, to go and buy you blood from the fucking New Forest, when there’s a perfectly good butcher down the road! You know don’t mind getting you what you need, but that was seriously taking the piss! So forgive me for being a little sleepy!"

I gulp, guilt prickling in my stomach.

I knew he was mad about that, but I’d hoped that he’d have forgiven me by now - Considering that I'd already let him take my car, and supplied him with a, frankly, outrageous amount of chocolate, as a sorry. Because while it is true that I sent him on a three and a half hour round trip back to Hampshire (under the false pretense that the blood there tastes better because it’s ‘free range’), I really didn’t do it to be a prat. I only did it to get him out of the house for a while, so that I could whip up a batch of his beloved sour cherry scones, without causing suspicion. And while there were probably less infuriating methods of Simon Snow removal, I really couldn’t think of any at the time - So I had to make do.

I just hope that when all is revealed he can find it in himself to forgive me.

“I know,” I sigh. “And I do appreciate it. I didn’t mean to take advantage, it just … really is better.”

Dropping his shoulders, his face twists with remorse as he reaches upwards, pawing at his neck roughly. For Crowley’s sakes, now I’ve gone and made him feel worse! Just brilliant.

“Okay,” he mumbles. “I’m just … tired. Sorry. I didn’t mean to -”

“It’s alright, I understand. I’m sorry too - For waking you up. But … if it’s alright with you, I’d still like to take you out tonight. I've got somewhere special in mind.”

“Why?” he asks, suspicious. “What’s so special about tonight?”

"You don't get any clues, Snow," I chide. "That'll only spoil the surprise. But, if you come with me, then I can show you. It'll be just us two, so you don't have to worry about getting dressed up, or anything like that. And ... you don't have to come at all, if you're not feeling up to it. But you may end up liking it, if you do.”

Gnawing at his lip, he tugs at the hem of his shirt, awkwardly.

“No. I just - I haven’t - I need to, like … get ready. I haven’t … showered. Or done my teeth."

As painful as it is to admit, that doesn’t really surprise me. He struggles to take care of himself, sometimes. I don’t know if it’s just because he forgets, or the effort feels too insurmountable, or … what? All I know is that he does. (I’m convinced that if Bunce and I didn’t keep him so well loaded with takeaways that he'd forget to eat half of the time). So, with a wordless shrug of agreement, I slide myself down onto the sofa besides him to wait (Clearly he’s rubbing off on me).

————————————————————————————

“Is this it?” he asks, as we pull into the carpark.

He’s been jittery the whole ride here - His leg bouncing nervously, and his bottom lip ruddied where he’s been chewing at it. Like he thinks that this is all some elaborate ruse.

“Well no,” I say, smirking over at him, as I undo my seatbelt. “This is a carpark, Snow. I had something a little nicer than this in mind, don’t you worry. I just need to go and set it up, first.”

“Set it up?”

“Don’t fret, you numpty. You can trust me. It’s nothing sinister.”

Chuckling quietly, I reach forwards - Pressing my hand against his knee, in what I hope is a reassuring gesture.

“Alright,” he murmurs, wriggling out of my touch, curtly (He still isn’t sure about me touching him sometimes - Says it makes him feel trapped). “Be quick then”.

I’m as quickly as I can manage (Although I definitely spend slightly too long fussing with my decorations). And soon enough, I’m pulling a blindfolded Snow behind me, our hands slotted together, loosely, as we stumble across the grass. The rough warmth of his skin against mine sending my heart aflutter.

“Baz,” he coughs, his voice creeping with uncertainty. “Seriously, where are you taking me?”

“We’re in St James Park, Snow. We’ve been here before. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”

“But … It’s late. What if we get mugged or something?”

“If someone tries to mug us, then I’m sure you’ll scare them off with a cocktail stick sword, or something. And if worst comes to worst, you pack a mean punch. Either way, you’ll save us,” I shrug.

Puffing out a slight laugh, he presses our palms a little closer together.

“So … cocktail sticks. We’re having a picnic then?”

“Hush, you,” I scold, miffed. “No more guessing. We’re almost there, so just wait and see, you impatient brute."

Pulling us to a stop, I falter. Looking at it with fresh eyes, it’s a lot. It’s an awful lot.

Besides a large willow on the edge of the lake, I’ve created a wonderful spread for us - All of his favourite foods sat in a wicker basket, in the centre of Bunce’s picnic blanket.

For aesthetic appeal, I’ve surrounded our space with an assortment of candles, held firmly in place with a ‘Stay Put’ (Since I imagine that setting ourselves alight would probably kill the mood). And I’ve spelled the raindrops, still clinging to the damp grass reeds, iridescent with a ‘Twinkle in their eye’. The glow of the flames dancing, ethereally, in their newly mirrored surface, so that the ground comes alive with a million watery fireflies.

But I want this. I want us to have this. So there’s really no benefit to backing down now.

“Alright,” I drawl, reluctantly dropping his hand, and taking a few steps away from him. “You can look now.”

Urgently, he reaches upwards, tugging the makeshift blindfold from his eyes, and taking it all in. His face transforming into some shade of panicked horror, immediately. Merlin and Morgana. Curse my flare for the dramatics! It’s definitely too much.

“Baz. Wh - What is all of this?” he stammers.

Tense, I twirl a lock of hair between my fingers, in a hopeless attempt to focus on anything other than what a massive cock up this whole evening has been.

“Well … I wanted to show you the stars.”

“The stars?”

“Yes, Snow,” I bite. “The stars. You know, the little twinkly things in the sky.”

I shouldn’t do that - The being rude to him. But for some reason it still seems to be my default defense setting.

“I know - I know what a star is. I mean … why?”

“Two years ago, today. Back at Watford. 'Twinkle, twinkle little star' … Ring any bells?”

“Oh,” he breathes.

“Yes. ‘Oh’,” I copy, my voice softening significantly. “I just - I wanted to repay the favour. I know that we had the truck in America. And, I know that this isn’t quite the same as the original. But … it’s the best I could do. We aren’t all supernovas, you know.”

“Yeah … No. I mean … it’s nice. I just - I don’t know.”

It isn’t at all convincing, but I do my best to let his slither of praise ground me.

Hesitantly, I step forwards, holding out my hand to him, in offering. He doesn’t take it this time, so I let it flop, grimly, to my side.

“Simon, we can go home if you’d prefer,” I try. “It was just an idea. Nothing an 'As you were' can’t fix.”

He gawks at me like I’ve sprouted another head (Which is ironic considering that he’s the one with the dragon appendages).

“No. I want to look at the stars,” he rejects, jutting his jaw out, determinedly. “I just don’t really … deserve it. I didn’t even, like … realise. I mean, how do you even know the date of that?”

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I sigh. “If you seriously don’t think you’re worthy of cheap finger foods and Fanta, then I’m afraid I’m going to have to revive some of my more creative Watford insults, because that is idiotic. You do deserve it. This and more.”

Staring down at the ground, as if ashamed, he tugs his lips upwards into a weak smile.

“And I only remembered the date because, at the time, I thought that, that was all we would ever get. That it was the closest we’d ever be to what I really wanted. So … I clung to every detail. It’s horrifically embarrassing, really. And painfully sappy. But … there we are. I didn’t expect you to remember, though. So please don't worry that you didn’t,” I reassure.

We’re slightly better at this now - The talking.

We had a huge fight in the toilets at Heathrow after America (Since there really was no point in pretending that I didn’t know what he was trying to do on that beach), that basically boiled down to ‘You never tell me things’ ‘Well, you never tell me, either’. So, we’ve been working on being a little more open with our communication, since then. I try to be honest and tell him how I feel (However humiliating it may be), and he does the same.

It’s clunky and unnatural, and it doesn’t always work (Obviously). But we’re trying. So it’s a start.

We haven’t gotten onto any of the more ‘heavy’ stuff just yet - The state of our relationship, the Mage, how afraid I am, how sad he is. Mostly we’ve just started fessing up to small things from our past - Like how lovelorn I was at Watford, or why he ditched his therapist. But, it’s only been a month. We stick to the past, right now, because the present is too painful (And I don’t really want to hear him say we have no future). But there’s hope. There’s a spark. There’s effort. So maybe one day we’ll get there.

“Okay,” he agrees, his voice noticeably strained. “Then … let’s do it. I want to stay.”

I grin, despite myself, and gesture towards the blanket.

“After you, Snow.”

————————————————————————————

“Holy shit,” he laughs, holding a hand out in front of his smile in an attempt to hide the mush of scone in his mouth. It doesn’t work, but I don’t really care (I’m disturbed). “They taste just like Watford’s. How the hell did you make these? Or did you steal them from Prichard?”

Biting down a smile, I arch my eyebrow up at him. Bright and smiling, he tries to copy me - Both of his eyebrows jumping upwards, clumsily. And I wish that I could tell him how amazing it is to hear him laugh again, but I don’t want to risk upsetting him. He’d probably just take it to mean that I only like him when he’s happier, which is just objectively untrue. I’d like him however he is.

“Oh please, petty theft is below a Pitch,” I breeze.

“Then how?”

“I bribed her with enough Champagne to bring down a Dragon, and she gave me the recipe. It was really very simple, Snow. I’m surprised you didn’t manage it yourself”

“What? Seriously?” he beams, the corners of his eyes crinkling, charmingly. “How much did it take? I offered her, like, half of my Goblin Gold for it, and she still wouldn’t budge!”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. My bank probably thinks that I have a severe drinking problem now, but no matter. It’s worth it to see you smile.”

Darting his eyes downwards, his face flushes with heat.

“Penny would spell you silent if she heard you saying such sickly things, you know,” he complains, scrunching up his nose in disgust.

It’s all fake, though. I know he doesn't really mean it. Whether he wants to admit it or not, he loves it when I’m soft with him. One whispered 'Love' or 'Simon' is enough to make him melt, even now. It used to be enough to get him to kiss me too, but not anymore (Practically nothing is). Although I don’t really care - It’s still incredibly endearing.

“Oh I don’t doubt it. But, look … Bunce isn’t here. I’ve managed to lure you up here all alone, so I’m free to be as saccharine as I please, I'm afraid."

“Whatever,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes. “You’re so weird.”

“Ah yes - Being nice to my boyfriend. Truly, I am a freak,” I tease. “Just … lay down, you nightmare.”

“Lay down?”

“Yes. It’s a very simple instruction, Snow” I deadpan, flopping myself back down onto the blanket, with a puff of laughter.

“Yeah but … why?”

“Because ... unless everything has gone loopy, the stars that I brought you out here to see are above you. So lie down and look. I’m not going to jump you, don’t worry.”

“Alright,” he says, carefully resting himself down on the blanket. “If you say so.”

————————————————————————————

He’s tucked up against me now, staring up at the stars, happily - His head resting, heavily, against my outstretched arm, and his right leg draped over mine. It’s a little uncomfortable, to be honest, but I daren’t tell him. He’d only move away, and I so desperately want him to stay.

Pointing up at a the sky above us, I draw his attention to a particular cluster of stars, and can't help but wonder whether they're the same ones that filled our room, or hung above us in America - Or if even they have changed, too.

“That one is Aries,” I explain. “The Ram constellation.”

“I don’t see anything,” he whines, pouting out his lips, childishly.

Rolling my eyes, I grab a hold of his hand and pull out his ring finger, directing it’s point to trace the stars’ outline.

“That’s just a random line.”

“Nope. It’s a Ram ... Although, I will admit that the resemblance is a little tenuous.”

He turns to me, smiling brightly, and my heart clenches at the sight of him, so close and carefree.

“It’s a line, and you know it,” he chuckles. “How do you even know so much about stars, anyway? They all look the same to me.”

“We have a couple of astronomy books back in our home library. My mother liked to stargaze,” I say, waving dismissively. “And … they remind me of you, so I like learning about them.”

“They remind you of me?”

“Yes. All of your moles are like constellations. I’ve always thought so. And, obviously, that night with the stars only reinforced the link.” God, I’m disgustingly sappy. How can he bear it?

“I see,” he sings, snuggling his head down against my chest. “Well … thank you for showing me.”

We lay together for a while, like that - His head moving with each rise and fall of my chest, and my shirt scrunched up in his fists. We don’t talk about all that much - just chatter about university and the new Nordic bakery Simon found just off of the Golden Square - but it’s nice. It’s normal. It’s us.

Smoothing a hand down his waist, I take a deep breath, readying myself for what’s next.

“Simon -” I start, my voice barely a whisper (Talking at full volume amongst the fragile calm that has settled between us feels far too disruptive).

“Hmm,” he hums, the vibration of his voice tickling against my skin.

“I need to tell you something. Something I should’ve told you a long time ago.”

Instantly, I feel his body stiffen, every muscle pulled taut with tension.

“It’s nothing bad,” I reassure. “Or … I don’t think so, anyway.”

“What then?” he asks, looking up at me, his brow knotted with nerves.

“I just … I Love you.”

And with those three words, he pulls himself away from me, once again. Yanking his arms backwards, and wrapping them around himself in a defensive self-hug, as he shifts away.

“Simon?” I call, uncertain. “Are you okay?”

He doesn’t answer; just yanks at his curls and shakes his head no. Fucking Hell. I’ve really messed up now.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to … ruin things. I just wanted you to know. Please don’t - it’s alright.”

“No, Baz,” he trembles.

“No, what?”

“It’s not - I just - I don’t -”

Stumbling over his words, he jabs the heels of his palm into his eye sockets, in frustration. And I cringe, involuntarily, at the sight of it. It must hurt.

“Just … take your time, love,” I ease.

He sniffs, pitifully, then, and I think he may be crying. I’m on the verge, too - My throat thick with regret, and my eyes stinging, warningly - but I hold it in. Just. Crying would only make this worse, and it really doesn’t need to get any worse. I shouldn’t have said anything. I shouldn’t have forced my love upon him.

Hanging his head forwards, he gives himself a moment to recollect his faculties - His breath thick and shaking.

I wait, silently - Counting the stars above me in an attempt to ease my mind. Knowing that he’ll speak when he can - When he finds the words.

And sure enough, picking at the grass beneath him, he finally does - Sobbing and broken though they may be: “I just … don’t understand how you can anymore?”

“Understand how I can what?”

“How you can, like … love me.”

My heart clenches at the sound of him, so earnest and afraid. Of course. Even after everything we’ve been through - Even after all I’ve told him - he still can’t see that I do. Still can’t believe that I do. And it’s my fault, I know. I haven’t managed to tell him properly before now. Not in a way that he believed. Not in a way that he could let in and hold onto. I should’ve tried harder. I should’ve just dropped my pride and told him outright and simple, rather than messing about with poetics. I should’ve told him months ago. Years ago! I’ve known for long enough. All I needed to do was let him hear it. But I didn’t. And now it’s too late.

Helplessly, I reach out, cupping the softness of his jaw with my hand, and turning him to face me. He resists, slightly, but lets me do it. He refuses to meet my eyes, though - Staring down at the floor, blankly, a teardrop hanging from the tip of his nose.

“Simon, listen to me. I’ve loved you for years. There’s plenty of reasons why I can, and do … I love your kindness. I love your morality. I love your bravery. I love your stubbornness. I love your fierceness. I love your smile. I love your heart. I love your mind. I love getting to spend time with you. I love how when we sleep, you always leave a light on for me because you know, even though I’m too proud to admit it, that I don’t like the dark. Or how … you always leave me a bit of your food for me to try -”

He’s staring at me intensely now, his eyes squinted and scanning across my face.

“- I could wax poetic about all the parts of you that I cherish forever, if need be. But, to keep it simple, I love everything about you. Even if you don’t … necessarily understand it, it’s the truth. You just need to believe me. You need to trust me. I loved you then, and I love you now. Nothing has changed, in that respect.”

“I’m a disaster,” he mumbles, looking away, his brow furrowed, and deep, frowning creases forming besides his mouth.

“I’ll give you that,” I smile, hoping to lift the mood. “But I love disasters.”

“Baz,” he huffs, planting his head in his hands. “I’m being serious.”

“Hey, look at me -” He doesn’t. “- So am I. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

“But, I - I mean, I can’t even do it back, properly. It’s not that I don’t - Don’t, like, you know. I just … I can’t do this properly. I thought, at the start, that maybe I could. But I can’t. We’ve been together for ages now, and all I’ve done in that time is be an absolutely terrible boyfriend to you! Even by my standards.”

“Well, you did try to warn me,” I joke, shuffling slightly closer to him. “But … you’re not a terrible boyfriend, Simon. Don’t be unfair to yourself. This is good. You are good. And … after all, I’m the one who sent you on a pointless trip to the New Forest this morning. So, I reckon, if anyone is a terrible boyfriend right now, it’s me.”

“But you - I mean, you deserve better,” he whispers. “I’m not enough for you, anymore. I don’t think I ever was, really. You’re … you, and I’m just me.”

“You’re more than good enough for me, you halfwit,” I scold, softening my tone “Simon, you’re everything I want.”

“No, but … look around us. You did all of this, and I … I haven’t done anything.”

“Oh, hush! You’ve done plenty. You’ve given me more than I ever could’ve hoped for. Even if you don’t see it.”

“But that’s the point!” he groans, yanking at his curls. “You should want more than that! What little I do, isn’t good enough. You’re just clinging onto when things were alright! But they’re not anymore, don’t you see?!”

I stare at him blankly, trying to figure him out. Why he can’t just accept what I’m saying, I’ll never know.

“Look … I’ll admit that things between us have been a little difficult, as of late. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t love you, or that somehow you’re not ‘good enough’ for me. I want you however you are. And sure, I'd love if things were a little easier - For you, and for me. But there’s no rush.”

“Things have been 'difficult' for months now, Baz!” he cries, his voice bitter and defeated. “I’m so sick of lying to myself, and pretending that I’m going to get my happy ending. My head went wrong long ago! At this point it’s best if we just cut our losses, and accept that I’m unfixable.”

I clench my eyes shut, pained. The utter hopelessness in his voice, a bitter pill to swallow.

“You’re not 'unfixable', Simon. You don’t even need to be 'fixed'. Just … Listen to me,” I plead. “I understand why we are where we are, and I don’t mind. We just need to … work through it. What happened to you - I mean, Merlin, it’s your whole life! The Mage was despicable. He used you. He abused you. He stole your entire childhood, without even a second of thought over what it might do to you! But … what happened at White Chapel was awful. You shouldn't have had to watch that. But, it's so much more than that - Than him. It's everything. All the instability of your early years. The Humdrum. All the killing and the fighting. Whatever happened to you and Bunce at the end of term. How the Coven just … ditched you. Christ, even me, Snow! I mean, I wasn’t exactly compassionate towards you at Watford, was I? I tormented you. I just … everything that happened - That kind of trauma doesn’t just vanish overnight. It takes time. And I know that you’ve been told that a million times before, and you’re probably fed up of hearing it, but it’s true. It’s fine that you’re not … fine, right now. I don’t expect you to be. I don’t need you to be.”

Turning away, he shakes his head.

“But it's not,” he protests, his voice whining. “I’m no good to you like this. I’m no good to anyone, anymore. I’m not some superhero. I’m not some supernova. I’m just … nothing. I’m a burden - To you and Penny. All you do is go to uni and babysit me! And, we still haven’t … I mean, I can hardly ever even be kissed without getting all weird! What kind of fucked up boyfriend am I?”

“There’s more to life than snogging, Snow,” I chastise. “I enjoy your company, whether we’re doing … those sorts of things, or not. I’m not babysitting you, I’m spending time with you. And you’re not a burden. Needing help doesn’t make you some kind of problem. You’re our friend. You’re my - We want to help you.”

“Yeah, but … I just want to be normal again. I just want it to all be simple. This is - I’ve ruined this.”

“Not true,” I argue. “This isn’t ruined. You just … keep focussing on what we don’t have, rather than what we do.”

Reaching across the blanket, I grab a hold of his hand - Tracing my fingertips over the rough calluses there.

“This-” I enunciate, squeezing his palm for emphasis. “Is a lot more than we had two years ago. Nothing is ruined, it’s just, perhaps, not exactly what we’d expected.”

“Yeah but … it’s a lot less than we had when we first left Watford. I used to be able to … do it all properly. I don’t know what happened. I thought - I mean, it’s not your fault. I don’t know why I can’t just … do it.”

“I know -” I sigh.

Because he does have a point. Simon never really liked to be touched first - To feel pressured. But it used to be manageable. We could hug. We could kiss. Sometimes we’d even end up snogging on the sofa, for the better part of an hour. And as long as he was in control for the majority of the time, he could surrender himself to luxuriating in my affections, occasionally.

Nowadays though, even a chaste kiss on the cheek feels incredibly risky, so I rarely try to initiate anything. It’s better to let him decide when we can or can’t. There’s no need for me to be greedy about it.

And while I cannot deny that I miss it - being able to be close to him, in that way - I don’t mind. Not really. My whole life has been a practise in maintaining control over ‘powerful’ urges (Both Snow and non-Snow related), so I’ve had plenty of of experience in holding myself back. Screw the erotic gropefest that teenage me had always envisioned! As long as he’s comfortable, and he still wants this, then I’m happy to give or withhold whatever he needs. Being a little touch starved won’t kill me, but losing him probably would.

“- I understand that it’s frustrating, really I do. But … sometimes you have to take five steps backwards for each step forwards. And I appreciate that it hurts, but as long as you keep on walking, you’ll get where you need to be, eventually. If we carry on trying (And I mean really, actively trying), then I’m sure things will get a little easier for us soon, love. But you need to give it time. You need to give yourself time … That’s just the arduous nature of progress, I’m afraid.”

Sticking out his tongue in a fake vomiting gesture, he laughs - A little hushed and wet, but genuinely amused, nonetheless.

“Fucking hell! Don’t be so grim, Baz. You sound like a therapist!”

“Yes, well … there is a reason people pay to go and see therapists, you know.”

Rolling his eyes, he shoves his hands into my chest, jokingly.

“Yeah, and there’s a reason I stopped going to mine, smart-arse. Too much of that sort of crap!”

“I know, I know,” I laugh, wearily - Not trusting this brief flickering of emotional relief. “I don’t mean to be all preachy - God knows you probably won’t listen, anyway! But, as disgustingly cliche as it may be, it’s true.”

He pauses, sucking in a shaking breath.

“I know, but - I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“Can’t everything, Baz!” he explains, utterly exhausted. “I mean you just - And I didn't … you know, do it back. I ruined it.”

“You didn’t ruin it, it’s fine. You don’t have to say it back, Simon. That wasn’t the point. I just wanted you to know. I wasn’t counting on reciprocation. I don’t need that from you, it’s alright.”

“It’s not ‘alright’, Baz!” he snaps. “None of this is alright! Just … stop saying that! You always say that!

“But it is alright,” I assert, leaning towards him slightly. “I’m only saying it because I mean it! I didn’t intend to make you feel … obligated. I seriously didn’t expect you to say it back, or for it to be some huge ‘thing’. I’ve just … never managed to tell you, properly, and after America -” After seeing him lying there on the ground, lifeless and beaten, his wings twisted and covered in blood. As good as dead. “- I just needed for you to know. Everything is perfectly fine, I promise. I don’t care that you didn’t - I’m not upset by how you responded, Snow.”

“Well you bloody well should expect me to say it back! You should care! That’s the whole point! You’re supposed to want things from me. You’re supposed to expect things from me. You’re not just supposed to sit there and take whatever bullshit I give you, and keep on telling me that everything is fine and dandy, Baz!”

“I do ‘want’ things from you, Snow,” I sigh. “I just want them to be on your terms, when you’re ready. There’s nothing wrong with being accommodating. And … I’m only telling you it’s fine because it is! Just because something is somewhat positive, doesn’t make it a lie - You only think that it does. And, I’m sorry but … you’re wrong. I don’t mind that you aren’t ready to say it back - Whether it’s because you’re unsure of how you feel, or you don’t want to, or you just can’t. I want you to say it when you want to - Not before. I wanted to say it now, so I did. If you don’t, then don’t. Simple!”

He growls at that, just like he used to do when I’d insult him. Except this time I really don’t understand that objection.

“But - even if that’s true, it isn’t just that!”

“Then what?” I ask, exasperated.

I don’t mean to lose my temper with him, and I don’t really think I am (Not quite yet), but … I’m tired of arguing with him over even the smallest things. Everything I do is wrong. If I’m kind, he doesn’t believe me or accuses me of ‘babying’ him. If I snap, he takes whatever cruel thing that comes out of my mouth as my ‘true’ thoughts. If I hide my wants away, he has a problem with it. If I tell him, I’m pressuring him. All I do is lose. And while I know that I’m the one to blame, for being unable to figure out how to best be what he needs, I just wish that it would stop. I just wish that we could fix it. But we can’t. We don’t know how.

“Well, like … I see the look in your eyes when I pull away, or I shove you off, or I snap at you, or when I just … lay there. It’s like - You’re so sad, but you never say! And … I know that it’s my fault, but I can’t seem to stop myself from doing it, and I don’t know why! I don’t want to do it. I just - I just want to be normal again. And I want you to stop lying and saying everything is fine, when it clearly isn’t.”

“Snow, I’m not lying to you! I’m telling you that it’s fine because it genuinely is! How many times do I have to go over this? I don’t understand the problem.”

“The problem is that I just - I don’t believe you,” he huffs.

“But why not? I wouldn’t lie to you. I just … wouldn’t.”

“Because … it just - it means nothing to me, anymore, Baz! You got beaten down so many times in America, and all you did was keep on telling me that everything was fine, and reassuring me, and swearing that you were happy, when anybody who was paying attention could tell that you weren’t! So … how am I supposed to believe you when you tell me it’s alright now? How do I know you’re not just telling me what you think I want to hear, because you’re too afraid of me to tell me the truth?”

“I’m not afraid of you, Snow,” I drone. “I could drain you dry in a half a second, if I wanted to.”

And of course my insistence on being a petulant little git doesn’t help the situation at all - Only adding fuel to the, already, engorged fire. But it’s too late to take it back, now - So I let my little dig steep in the space between us. Rotten and unnecessary.

“Not like that,” he groans. “You know I don’t mean it like that! Don’t be such a dick! I just mean, like … it’s like you’re afraid of hurting me. You think that I can’t take the truth, so you keep on hiding it away from me, but you’re wrong. I can take the truth! I want the truth! I’m not - I’m not made of butterfly wings, and it pisses me off when you treat me like I am!”

“I don’t mean to … treat you differently,” I explain, taken aback. “I just don’t want to … pressure you, or make some idiotic mistake that’ll mess things up. But when I tell you things are fine, I’m not doing it to spare your feelings, I’m doing it because I mean it! All I’m doing is telling you the truth. I mean, what would you rather me do, Simon? You haven’t done anything wrong, and I’m perfectly fine, so what else is there? What, I mean - Do you want me to get mad at you over nothing? Because I'm telling you right now, I won't do it."

We’re both heated now - jaws clenched and words spat. And it’s just like old times, but it aches. It aches so bad. There’s no rivalry here, no facade, and no game. It’s just us - Fighting because we don’t know what else to do. And it’s so painfully real - so painfully vulnerable - that it near shatters my heart.

Tonight was supposed to be a relief, not a rematch. But here we are, once again - Right where neither of us wants to be.

“At least then I’d know you’re not being fake, just to protect me, or whatever it is you think you’re doing!”

And with that, he jumps up, and stomps over to the edge of the lake - Sitting himself down in the mud, away from me. End of conversation. End of argument. But there's no point backing down now. If we're going to do this, then we may as well do it properly, and get this whole catastrophe over with ASAP. So I trail after him, helplessly.

Dropping myself down besides him, the words come tumbling out before I can stop them - So desperate and broken. My mask well and truly dissolved.

“Simon, I’m not like that, anymore. You know that. I don’t want to fight with you.”

“No, Baz,” he whines. “I shouldn’t have - I know that you don’t want that. Neither do I. I just mean that … you’re allowed to, like, complain. You’re allowed to fight back. You’re allowed to tell me when I’m being a prat - Or when I’ve hurt you. None of that would make you a bad person. None of that would put us back where we were. All it would mean is that I know what you’re feeling. What you’re really feeling. I want to know. Even if you think I don’t.”

“You know what I’m feeling,” I plead. “I keep on telling you.”

He shakes his head in disagreement, apparently unconvinced.

“Only sometimes. And half the time you ‘telling me’ is just you saying you’re fine when you’re not. I know it is. You’re hard to read, but even you slip sometimes,, and I can tell that I’ve hurt you, or that something is bothering you, but you just … don’t say.”

“No, but … even if things aren’t necessarily great, I’m still fine. I’m still okay. I’m still happy. I’m not lying to you, Simon. What would be the point?”

“I don’t - I mean, I don’t think you are ‘lying’, exactly. I just - I don’t mean to make it sound like I’m calling you a liar. I know you wouldn’t … do that. But I think, maybe, you honestly do think you’re fine (Which is why you say that you are), when you’re not really.”

“What?” I ask, glancing over at him. “I’m not sure that I understand what you mean. Can you - Can you explain?”

“I don’t know, Baz,” he winces. “I just - I’ve been speaking to Penny … about you.”

Shifting himself forwards, slightly, he stares, expressionless, in front of him - His gaze a thousand miles from where we are. And I wait for him to elaborate, but it doesn’t come.

“Okay,” I drawl. “And what did Bunce have to say exactly?”

“Um, well … I, like, tried to explain to her what I think you’re doing - You know, when she pulled me out for one of her ‘chats’. And I mean, don’t worry - I didn’t tell her any detail about your personal business, or anything. I just wanted her to help me understand. And … she said that you sound like you’re in … denial.”

“‘Denial’,” I repeat, confused (And, perhaps, a little defensive). “In denial about what?”

“How you are,” he explains. “I just mean … I think she has a point. I don’t think you’re, like … normal.”

Finally, he looks over at me, and I raise an eyebrow in question - Unsure of what to say.

“Shit. Not like that,” he moans. “I don’t mean it in a bad way. I’m just - I’m not good with my words. I just mean that ... while, you may be better on the outside, I think that inside, you’re just as bad as me.”

I pause for a moment, unsteady, trying to find my words. But, unhelpfully, the only one that my brain seems to be capable of supplying right now is ‘Fine’. Maybe they do have a point, after all.

“Snow,” I huff. “You don’t have to worry about me. I don’t want you to. I’m perfectly normal … mentally.”

“But you would say that! I really don’t think that you are, though. You’ve never been fine. Not the whole time I’ve known you, Baz.”

“That’s not true,” I insist. “I. Am. Fine.”

He looks at me like it’s a lie; but it’s not. I mean it. And while I will concede that perhaps I’ve had a few moments of … concern, compared to him I’m golden. He’s the priority right now, not me. Because despite whatever may have happened in the past, I’m fine now. I can cope. Whereas he … well, I’m not sure that he can.

“Then what was that night in the forest about? Hm?” He challenges.

I steel, suddenly - His words suffocating my body.

We both know what was happening in the forest that night, but we’ve never actually spoken about it properly (There was no need to - I coped). I was overwhelmed and I acted a little … rashly. A moment of weakness - Nothing more, nothing less. It’s not like I’d ever try to do it again.

“That was a blip,” I dismiss.

He scoffs - Dull and unamused. “You can hardly call that a ‘blip’, Baz. I mean ... what if I wasn’t there. What would you have done? -”

I don’t answer him, because I can’t. I don’t know for sure what I would have done. Maybe I would’ve … gone through with it. But maybe I would’ve snapped out of it - I always had before.

Mercifully, though, he spares me the discomfort of having to reply.

“- And even if it was a ‘blip’ (Which it isn’t), what about the night I found you in the catacombs? Or all the nightmares? Or all your family stuff? Or how stressed you get about school - How hard you push yourself? Or the whole vampire thing? Or everything that happened with … Lamb?”

I cut him off before he can continue (Since I really don’t need a list of all things I’ve been weak enough to let my hurt show over). “I’ve told you there was nothing with Lamb. He convinced me that he could help. And I was playing a part, just like I was supposed to - I didn’t mean to make it sound like …”

“I know,” he sighs. “I didn’t mean like that. I know that. I just meant - I mean, I could tell that you were beating yourself up over it - over what he’d done - but … you were only trying to help us find Agatha. You couldn’t have known.”

“Okay.”

“But … that wasn’t my point. Specifics don’t really matter. My point was that … you’re not ‘fine’. And I know that … I’m not either. But, I just wish that you didn’t feel like you have to pretend to be perfect and unbothered all the time, because of me. You should be able to get help, too. You should be able to … feel whatever it is that you’re feeling, without panicking about someone else seeing.”

“So … you’re saying that, really, we’re just as bad as one another?”

“Sort of. I mean … it’s not, like, a contest, or something. I just meant that, maybe, we’re both not exactly one hundred percent.”

I laugh, bitterly. “We match.”

“We match,” he echoes, nodding his head.

“But even if what you’re saying has some merit -”

“Which it does!” he interrupts.

Glaring over at him, I roll my eyes, but don’t object.

“- Which maybe it does. I don’t understand why you’re bringing it up now. How I am is irrelevant to my little ... confession. And it doesn’t affect my ability to be honest with you?”

“Okay,” he breathes. “Just … let me try to explain, then.”

“Okay,” I nod. “Go ahead, Snow. I’m listening.”

“I’m bringing it up now because … I don’t want you to hide yourself away from me, anymore. It’s getting us nowhere. I just want - I mean, I want you to try and … not to do that. If you want something, ask. If I’ve upset you, say. If I’m being unreasonable, let me know. Don’t just … sit there and take it because you think it’s the noble thing to do, Baz. Please. I know that I … do the same sort of thing sometimes, but I don’t want you to, as well. I just - I don’t know how to tell what’s real or what’s just something you’re doing to try and be kind - Or to, like, protect yourself, I guess?”

I gawp over at him, chest heaving unsteadily.

He definitely has a point. I’ve been walking on eggshells around him for months. Carefully skirting around all that I want - all that I feel - in an attempt to stop it from consuming me. From consuming us. Convinced that it would destroy us both - Everything inside of me far too large, and hungry, and frightening, to handle.

“I just think that, if I know that you’re being … open with me, then it will be easier for me to believe you. To … believe all the nice things that you say or do, rather than questioning why you’re doing them. Whether it’s ‘cause you want to, or ‘cause you think it’s because that’s what I need from you in the moment, or ‘cause now’s the only ‘safe’ time to do it. I know … you’re not lying when you say you’re okay, but I think maybe you’re oversimplifying things, or, like, hiding the bad bits of how you feel. I just … if you say instead, it might help us. You won’t have to be so … frightened. And I might find it easier to accept what you say at face value, you know? I don’t know … maybe it’s stupid.”

Exhaling, he stares down at the floor, gnawing at his bottom lip, anxiously - His words heavy on my mind.

And, swallowing my pride, I speak - My voice crackling with emotion: “It’s not stupid. It makes sense, I - understand where you’re coming from. And, given that, I promise that I’ll ... try to be a little more forthcoming about how I’m feeling - More accurately descriptive. Even if it isn’t, necessarily, what I think you might want to hear.”

“Really?” he asks, disbelieving.

“Really.”

“Good,” he says, lips sparking upwards into a faint smile at my offer.

“But … I’m somewhat apprehensive about it?” I break.

“‘Apprehensive’? Why?”

“Because I don’t want to end up accidentally pushing you further away from me. You’re already so … far, sometimes. Talking about how I feel really isn’t essential for me. I’ve always managed perfectly well without doing it, before -” He scrunches up his face, clearly objecting, but he let’s me continue uninterrupted, this time. “- I don’t mind being … cautious. I like being cautious. If I just blurt out every single thing I’m thinking or feeling, you may … get the wrong idea. And it’s not that everything I think about us is negative, or anything like that, it’s just … occasionally a little bleak. You already doubt that I’m committed to this - that I still want this - and I'm do everything I can to prove it to you, but I’m not sure that the message has gotten through to you. I want to stay. I want you to stay. I want us to be … together. And, I’m afraid that, if I’m entirely open, I may scare you away. That you’ll mistake my … desperation, for dissatisfaction or unhappiness, and think that I don’t want you. When I do."

He nods, understanding.

“The absolute last thing that I want to do, is to mess this up,” I continue. “And, I’m not entirely sure that what you’re asking for won’t end up doing that. I just … want you to be sure that this is really what you want, before we go ahead and commit to it.”

“I know,” he whispers, sliding closer to me and grabbing hold of my hands. “I don’t want any of that bad stuff to happen, either, but I’m sure that this is what I want. I want to try it. Avoiding how you feel isn’t helping either of us, but ... maybe this will.”

“You avoid things, too,” I argue. “I understand that you don’t want to seek professional help at this point, and that’s your prerogative - But you still refuse to talk to Bunce and I about how you’re feeling. How is that any different to what I’m doing? Surely that isn’t helping us, either?”

As the words pour out of my mouth, my stomach pangs with shame. I don’t know why I’m, seemingly, so keen on shifting the blame over to him. We were working towards a resolution, and none of this is his fault (I’ve never thought that it was his fault). But maybe I’m just too cowardly to admit that my attempts to help have only hindered us. Maybe I just don’t want to bear the viscous twisting of guilt alone. Or maybe I’m just an arsehole (It wouldn’t surprise me. As much as I try to be a ‘good’ person, I so frequently miss the mark. It’s a wonder somebody as righteous as Simon can even tolerate my presence, to be honest, yet alone enjoy it).

He doesn’t rise to the bait, though - Just sighs tiredly, and thunks his head down onto the edge of my shoulder.

“I know I do. And you’re right … that doesn’t help us, either. But - I promise to try and stop, if you do. I want to get better, Baz,” he chokes. “I want us to get better.”

Lulling my head over, I look at him - His Adam’s Apple bobbing, showily, and his boring blue eyes brimmed with tears. And, utterly overcome, I press a quick kiss to his hairline - Chaste and feather-light.

“I want that too,” I admit, mumbling against him. “So we can do it together. I’ll do my best to be open with you about the more … difficult things, and you do your best to reciprocate. Sounds simple enough.”

It really doesn’t, if I’m honest. It sounds about as much fun as pulling teeth. But if this is what he wants - if this is what he needs - then who am I to argue? Trying something is better than trying nothing, after all.

“With our track record, probably not,” he chuckles. “We really aren’t very good at this.”

“True,” I breath. “But I’ve always loved a challenge, Snow. Why’d you think I went after the one guy I couldn’t have?”

“Because you couldn’t help it,” he softens, pressing closer - The heat of his face against my chest, welcome in the dwindling temperature of night. “You’ve told me that much.”

“I know. But, Snow… if we’re going to do this, then I need you understand that whatever I say - whatever I think - I still like you as you are, right now. I still like us as we are, right now. I’d rather work with you through a rough patch, than lose you all together. I wouldn’t - I really wouldn’t be happy anywhere else. I choose you, Simon - However ‘you’ may be. Good or bad. Through thick and thin. Okay?”

“Okay. I’ll … try to remember. And - I’m sorry … about today. I didn’t mean to mess it all up. I wanted to say it back, I just … panicked. I didn’t mean to - I never mean to ruin things. To ruin us. I really do want to be able to, like, love you properly … ‘Cause I do … love you. I - I love you, Baz.”

Endlessly pleased, I take his face into my fands, and turn him around gently - Meeting his eyes face-to-face. My heart soaring gleefully within my chest at the sight of him - His cheeks flushed and a sweetly shy smile spread across his face. Because there it is - Finally. It’s all out in the open now.

I love him and he loves me.

“You see that is more than ‘proper’ enough for me, Snow,” I beam, impossibly light. “So don’t go giving up on us yet. There will be plenty of time for us to figure out all of our … mess, later. But, I think that we’ve done more than enough talking for one day. So just … forget about all of that right now, and stay with me here. Okay?”

“Okay,” he agrees, his voice wobbling, slightly. “You - Do you wanna’ show me the stars again, then? I’ve forgotten which constellation is which, already.”

“Of course you have,” I laugh. “You’re a hopeless study, I’ve always said so. But yes - It would be my pleasure to reeducate you.”

And so, taking his shoulders in my hands, I roll us over so that he’s flat on his back - Holding myself up above him, and resting our foreheads together. Simon breaking into a smile, beneath me - Wide and bright and shining. And he’s a little bit of a mess - fat streaks of tears still staining his face, and his hair pulled into a wild matte - but it’s everything that I’d wanted. Everything that I’d hoped.

Simon Snow is beautiful when he’s happy.

“Just … one more thing.”

“Anything,” I smile, smoothing his hair backwards.

“Say it again.”

“Say what again?”

“Basil ... you know what,” he coos.

And I do, so I give it to him without hesitation (We’ve already had more than enough of that):

“I love you, Simon Snow. Now and always.”

And he smiles … and smiles … and smiles.

#carry on #wayward son #snowbaz #snowbaz fic #simon snow #tyrannus basilton grimm pitch #my fic

19 notes · View notes

anotherhawk · 5 years

Text

Good Omens Fic - Making Plans

Random short piece of fluffy getting together nonsense which is absolutely none of the fics that I’ve been talking about or writing randome lines for.

Summary - A few weeks after the notpocalypse Aziraphale frets, Crowley broods and in a rare display of competence they actually manage to do something about it.

“He frowned at the money tree trembling in his face. “Honestly, what does he do to you?” he asked, going on to murmur a litany of soothing words. In response the plant promptly shuddered and produced a shiny red apple, almost bending in two beneath its weight. “Yes, well…” Aziraphale looked aside in embarrassment. It wasn’t the sort of thing he’d ever been crass enough to bring up, but inanimate objects tended to take on a life of their own around Crowley. The Bentley had its own tastes and Opinions for a start, and there had been that viol a few centuries back which Crowley had been so fond of and which Aziraphale would swear had bit him one night after he’d misguidedly plucked a string.”

Read the fic on AO3, or click the read more link.

Aziraphale was fretting. It was an activity he was both naturally suited for and very well practised in. On this particular occasion he was expressing his fretfullness by making numerous cups of tea and allowing them to grow cold, picking up and reading the first few pages of several absolutely blameless books before setting them aside, and glancing frequently at the telephone and the bell above the shop door, both of which adamantly refused to ring.1

It wasn’t as though he had any reason to worry, he told himself firmly. Crowley hadn’t said he was going to come over today, they certainly hadn’t had any plans. It was just that…well, it was just that since the notpocalypse Crowley had made a habit of popping in to see him of an afternoon. Most afternoons. All afternoons. And now it was well after teatime and heading towards dinner and not a word. Surely heaven or hell couldn’t have got a hold of him. They’d both been sure they’d be left alone for the time being at least. And if either side had figured out their little body switcheroo surely they would have descended on both of them.

He took a deep breath and carefully laid the book he had been trying to focus on aside. Really it wasn’t like he should expect Crowley to just show up. In the beginning they’d gone centuries without seeing each other after all.2 But centuries had gradually turned into decades then years and in recent times what with young Warlock, and then the apocalypse and being on their own side and everything, well, they’d practically been living in each other’s pockets.

It would make sense that Crowley might want some time to himself. He only wished, rather selfishly, that the dear boy had just said something. He’d rather thought they were heading towards something new here. Redefining the nature of their relationship, as it were.

A horrible thought suddenly struck him. If that was what they were doing hadn’t he been relying on Crowley to make all the effort? Here he was waiting for Crowley to come over or call…maybe he hadn’t been showing enough commitment of his own? Maybe Aziraphale hadn’t been appreciating him enough, and now Crowley thought his presence was unwelcome and he was going to stop popping round and get into one of his moods again and do something unfathomably silly, like sleep for another century,or move to America and cut off all his lovely hair again, or find whatever new intoxicants the humans were using and overindulge. And heaven…no-one only knew whether he’d remember that being discorporated wouldn’t just mean a quick trip down below for some unpleasantness and paperwork in order to get a new body.3

At that thought Aziraphale snatched up his coat, ran out the door and hailed an idling cab whose previous fare had miraculously decided to get out and walk the rest of the way.

1Actually the shop bell had rung twice that day, but on both occasions it had proved to be a customer which was the last thing the bookshop needed.

2This wasn’t quite true, in the Beginning they hadn’t known each other at all, and in the time immediately after the Garden, which was more what Aziraphale had in mind, their temptations and blessings had been very much focused on the one existing family and so they’d seen each other nearly every single day, though they’d rarely exchanged more than the odd embarrassed nod.

3You might think that this is rather a lot of panic and suppositions over someone who has only been ‘missing’ for a few hours. But Aziraphale had had a very trying time of it lately and the effects of adrenaline take longer to fade in those of angelic stock than in humans.

He had been to Crowley’s flat before of course. Well. Once. The night after armageddon’t. But even if he hadn’t he’d have been able to find it by following his awareness of Crowley through London, though admittedly that particular method of navigation would have been difficult to explain to the cabbie. The door was locked and he knocked a couple of times before walking in, rationalising to himself that he was just checking that everything was as it should be.

“Crowley?” he called from the hall, shifting uncomfortably as a wave of heat and humidity hit him. “It’s me, dear. I thought I’d see if you wanted to get dinner?”

There was no answer. He moved deeper inside, telling himself that he wasn’t really intruding, after all they’d known each other for 6000 years and Crowley was always popping into the bookshop unannounced. Turnabout was fair play and all that. It really was very warm in here. Perhaps Crowley was just taking a nap. He always did like the temperature far too high, old serpent that he was.

Giving the spot on the floor where once had lain the foul remains of a demon and a thermos of holy water a wide berth and an unhappy grimace1, he followed a sense of fear and anxiety through a closed door at the end of the hall and was confronted with a wall of green. Oh, yes, of course, Crowley’s plants. Gardening was one of those human preoccupations that Crowley had always been partial to, like sleep or music or gender. Aziraphale didn’t exactly understand it, but he had once read that having separate interests was very important so that was alright. He didn’t have to.

Well, this seemed to be where the anxiety was originating from anyway. He frowned at the money tree trembling in his face. “Honestly, what does he do to you?” he asked, going on to murmur a litany of soothing words. In response the plant promptly shuddered and produced a shiny red apple, almost bending in two beneath its weight. “Yes, well…” Aziraphale looked aside in embarrassment. It wasn’t the sort of thing he’d ever been crass enough to bring up, but inanimate objects tended to take on a life of their own around Crowley. The Bentley had its own tastes and Opinions for a start, and there had been that viol a few centuries back which Crowley had been so fond of and which Aziraphale would swear had bit him one night after he’d misguidedly plucked a string. It wasn’t like Crowley went around whispering 'Let there be life’ all over the place, it was just that he could get a little overfocused on his obsessions.2

“Anyway,” he said brightly, dusting off his hands and getting back to the original point. “Crowley! Crowley, dear boy, are you in?” He tried another door and found himself in a study of sorts with…was that a throne? He pressed his fingers up against his lips, suppressing a ridiculous. How absolutely ridiculous, he thought fondly. And how typical.

There was a slight noise behind him and he turned quickly to see a twelve foot long black snake with a bright red hood inches away from his face.

With a yelp the angel leapt back about three feet. With a hiss, so did the demon.

“Really, my dear,” Aziraphale said, brushing off his lapels carefully. “You startled me.”

“Ssstartled you?” Crowley exclaimed, surprisingly expressively for a snake. “I’m ssorry, whosse home are we in again? I wass assleep.”

“Yes, well.” Now that he was actually here in front of a Crowley who was evidently unharmed and wasn’t noticeably pining away he felt rather silly. “I thought we’d been going out this afternoon and when you didn’t show up I thought maybe I should meet you here.”

Crowley reared back, his tongue flickering agitatedly. “We didn’t have planss, did we? I would have remembered plansss.”

“No,” Aziraphale said stiffly, somewhere between the point of wishing himself far away and actually miracling it. “I suppose I just rather assumed.”

They stared at each other for a long moment.

Eventually Aziraphale coughed. “Well. I won’t intrude any further,” he said, turning to walk away.

“Don’t!” Crowley transformed in an instant, hand reaching out to lightly grasp Aziraphale’s sleeve. “I’m sorry, angel. I didn’t mean to chase you away. I was just surprised to see you is all. But not all surprises are bad.”

“Well.” Aziraphale felt his cheeks pinken. “That’s alright then. Shall we have some wine?”

1Aziraphale had been the one to carefully miracle it away that night. But he would always know it had been there.

2Aziraphale did have the grace to be aware he was being something of a hypocrite here, but in his own defense his books had never expressed any emotions of their own.3

3They did tend to take on the emotional aura of those around them, however. In most cases Aziraphale’s collection reflected love.

A few moments later found them on a leather sofa that was impossibly comfier than it looked, drinking a vintage that was rather superior to the one it had been when Aziraphale had bought it.

“I didn’t know you were scared of snakes, angel,” Crowley said, pouring them another glass.

He sat up indignantly. “I am not! Why would anyone be scared of snakes?”

“Dunno. But lots of humans are. Think maybe it’s because they think all snakes are poisonous?”

Aziraphale quickly glanced towards him and equally quickly looked aside. “Well, my dear, that would only be a problem were I planning on eating you.”

He hid his smile behind his wine glass as Crowley choked.

“What have you been doing today anyway,” he asked before the demon had a chance to fully recover.

The light vanished from Crowley’s face in an instant. “Oh, this and that. Thinking, mostly.”

Brooding, Aziraphale mentally translated. “There’s nothing…wrong, is there?” he asked hesitantly. “You haven’t heard from…” He gestured vaguely downwards.

“No. No, nothing like that, ’s just…” He tilted his head back to look at the ceiling. “Do you think Warlock’s doing okay?”

Aziraphale blinked. He hadn’t been expecting that. “Oh, I’m sure he is. Why wouldn’t he be, after all?”

Crowley drained his glass. “Well, I mean, it’s just that I’d – we’d – always been there for him since before he can remember, and now we’re not. And you know what his parents are like.”

He nodded, even though in his experience Mr and Mrs Dowling had been perfectly unobjectionable. His lips twitched. “You’re worried about him.”

“No! Course not. I put a lot of work in with him, that’s all. I’d hate to see all that go to waste. Who know what influences he’s going to fall under now? They might be nice. They might not know when to make him the hot chocolate with the stars and when to just sit and play Minecraft with him until he’s ready to talk.”1

Aziraphale blinked again but more slowly this time. Apparently there was quite a lot he’d missed while he was out in the garden. “Maybe - “ he started, but Crowley was already talking again.

“Sudden changes can be extremely distressing for children, all the books say so.”

“Books?”

Crowley looked at him and Aziraphale just knew he was rolling his eyes behind his shades. “Yess, books. I can read, you know.”

“I know you can, I just didn’t know you had,” he tried to explain. “No, hang on, that sounds worse.”

“Do you have any idea what kind of qualifications you need to be a nanny these days? I thought if I didn’t know any of the latest buzzwords it might look suspicious. So I glanced through some child development books in preparation. Which, I might add, is more than you did to be a gardener.”

He couldn’t help the smile. “I love you,” he said, immediately following it up with “Meep!”

“Real gardeners don’t encourage slugs, and do you even know the first thing about compost…what did you just say?”

Aziraphale currently had both of his hands clamped against his mouth. “Mmmph,” he said, hoping that somehow that would be enough.

Crowley was staring at him, sitting rigidly upright on the edge of the sofa like he was considering either running or just discorporating there and then. “I…you…no, you can’t…are you sure?”

One of them was going to have to be brave. Unfortunately it looked like it was going to have to be him. “Quite sure, I’m afraid. I’ve known for, oh, almost seven decades now.”

Crowley continued to stare.

He shifted nervously, wondering again about miracling himself somewhere far away. “My dear, it would really help if you said – mmph!” He was interrupted by Crowley surging forwards and kissing him.

It wasn’t a very good kiss, all things considered. There were far too many teeth clattering together, and Crowley never had been all that sure just how human tongues were supposed to work. The second one was much better. As was the third.

Later, soberer, they lay back on the sofa together, feathers lightly entangled.

“We could take a trip to go and see Warlock tomorrow,” Aziraphale suggested.

“If you like,” Crowley said, like it was a great favour he was willing to confer.

He was, as always, happy to play along. “It would make me feel better. We could say goodbye properly. Maybe even give him a forwarding address.”

Crowley squeezed his hand tightly. His sunglasses were gone now and his eyes were luminous in the dim light. “Aziraphale…you know I do too, right? Love you, I mean.”

“Oh, yes,” he said, and he did. And that was everything that seemed to matter.

1For those wondering what an ancient demon and an eleven year old not-antichrist might build in Minecraft, the answers vary from a volcano lair complete with McDonalds, a theme park filled with screaming villagers, and a remarkably accurate recreation of the hanging gardens of Babylon.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #my writing

24 notes · View notes

our-smooty · 4 years

Text

Flowerbeds and Fertile Soil: Chapter 9

Fandom: Good Omens

Rating: Explicit

Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens, )Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer

Tags: Kidfic, Mpreg kind of, they can choose to present however so idk, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has A Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has A Vulva (Good Omens), OCs Galor, parenting, using your snake form to avoid confrontation, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Pregnancy, if I missed a tag lemme know

Summary: They could do anything, go anywhere, all without the worry of Above or Bellow making a fuss. Even so, they mostly kept to their little patch of Eden, their cottage and garden and the simple life they’d carved out among the locals. Aziraphale opened a book shop in town, where he only occasionally sold any books (and the ones he did sell, were all modern and stocked specifically for that purpose). Crowley focused his attentions on the garden, and if he occasionally helped their elderly neighbour with her disobedient willow tree, then that was a secret no one needed to know. Lately, however, they had both been feeling rather restless, unbeknownst to each other. Aziraphale tried reorganizing his store, changing the way he tied his bowtie and even ate pizza –something he considered to be far too messy for him personally. Crowley had branched out into birdwatching, and then car maintenance (the human way), and even reading. Nothing scratched the itch for either of them.

Ao3 Link

Things improved slowly. Not the being sick, or the dizziness, that was still rubbish, but between him and Aziraphale. Aziraphale was much more mindful of his hovering and Crowley was getting used to actually asking for things instead of keeping everything to himself. It made life a lot easier, even if it was uncomfortable. He didn’t have to pretend to be alright all the time for one thing, which meant he didn’t have to feel as bad about not taking Aziraphale out for meals and dates. He didn’t have to, though he still did sometimes. It was something that still kept him up some nights, the idea that he wasn’t giving Aziraphale enough anymore. If that was the case, then the angel hadn’t said anything, but Crowley still worried.

His morning sickness hadn’t faded, though the tea and herbs helped in the moment. Most mornings and many early afternoons had been spent with a bucket at the bedside and Crowley’s head pillowed in Aziraphale’s shoulder as he took tiny bites of cracker and even tinier sips of tea. Usually by midafternoon he was feeling alright enough to get up and putter around the garden, though with the quickly changing weather there wasn’t much to be done for the plants themselves. And doing the raking by hand was a little more than he could manage most of the time. So he did what he could without throwing up everywhere, and used a miracle for the rest.

About a month after Alfie’s birth Crowley was sick--no pun intended--to death of being laid up in bed. He wanted to go out and do things again, especially with Aziraphale. There had to be something they could go out and enjoy together. He could have texted Anathema for ideas, but after the way he stormed out a few weeks ago… well it wasn’t high on his to-do list.

“Angle,” he whined one afternoon as they were once again relaxing on the sofa. Aziraphale had his nose in a book, one he’d read and re-read enough times to have it memorized. “Angle I’m bored. I want to go do something.”

Aziraphale hardly looked up from his book. “Like what dear? We tried going out to eat last week but the food and the smells made you sick. We tried walking around town and you nearly collapsed fifteen minutes in. I thought we agreed to take some time to relax, at least until you’re feeling better.”

“I am feeling better,” Crowley said with all the petulance of a 4-year-old child. “I didn’t get sick at all this morning, did I?”

Aziraphale thought for a moment, and Crowley felt the beginnings of a victorious smile on his own lips. “No, and you were out of bed earlier than normal. I guess if you’re up to it we could--”

“Yes! Whatever it is yes just get me out of this house!” Crowley sprung up, his clothes magically shifting into the jacket and skinny jeans he usually wore out. Around the house he’d taken to leggings and comfortable shirts out of convenience, so it had been a little while. His trousers felt tighter than normal which made him wiggle his hips with discomfort. “Now. Let's go now.”

Aziraphale blinked for a moment, startled by Crowley’s sudden movements, but smiled fondly. It made something in Crowley’s stomach match the funny feeling in his hips. “You don’t even know what I was going to suggest dear.” The book was set aside anyway, it’s well-worn and well-repaired cover thumped softly against the wood. “What if I was going to say we should go to that town hall meeting being held in the village?”

“You wouldn’t.” Crowley narrowed his eyes, the yellow slits piercing and unwavering. “You hate those meetings just as much as I do. What was it you called Mrs. Thompson after the last one? A fussy old bi--”

“Yes, well. I wasn’t going to suggest that. Just teasing you dear,” Aziraphale interrupted, a tinge of pink to his cheeks. “I thought we might take the Bently out, down some of the country roads. Take in the Autumn leaves.”

Crowley hopped from foot to foot excitedly. “Good, good. We can do that, let me get my keys.” In his eagerness he nearly tripped over his own feet as he grabbed his jacket--the one Aziraphale had gotten him that always seemed to radiate the warmth his own reptilian body couldn’t. Behind him he could hear Aziraphale’s exasperated sigh. “I’m good, I’m fine. Let's go.”

They drove around for hours, Aziraphale admiring the changing leaves and Crowley enjoying the feel of the Bently’s engine rumbling smoothly beneath him. The back roads were completely clear, which may have been Aziraphale’s doing, he wasn’t sure, but it meant that he could go as fast as he wanted, his previously bland mood bleeding out through the shaking steel. There was something about driving that was so different from any other mode of transportation and pushing his car to the limit of its speed capabilities always gave him a special kind of rush.

“Did you see that oak back there? What a lovely shade of orange. Oh and that maple! Simply gorgeous! I do wish I’d thought to bring my camera.” Crowley was only half listening because the road was getting particularly windy and he needed to focus. “We could have a picnic when you’re feeling up to eating more.”

“Mhm,” Crowley answered, taking a particularly tough corner nice and smoothly. A tingle went up his spine at the satisfaction of a well pulled off maneuver. “Sounds good.”

Aziraphale happily flapped his right hand in Crowley’s direction. “Wonderful! Hopefully that will happen soon, Anathema did say hers got much better after the first trimester.”

Crowley still wasn’t paying attention, but he knew that wouldn’t deter his angel from nattering on for the foreseeable future. Aziraphale could, and would talk for hours uninterrupted, especially on a topic he was passionate about. Picnics and food in general were definitely two of those topics.

“Do you remember those little sandwiches we had last year, at that delightful bristo with the sunny garden patio? I know you say watercress is boring but you have to admit the bread really balanced it out. Anyway, I recently found this bakery the next town over and their bread is so much like the one from the bistro I thought I might take a crack at making a few sandwiches of my own. And wouldn’t that be lovely, making a picnic spread by ourselves instead of ordering the food. Even if we have so many wonderful options…”

Crowley let Aziraphale’s voice fade into the background, a familiar drone. One that he’d enjoyed for millenia and it was comforting in a way. Between the rattle of the Bently’s frame and the sound of Aziraphale’s voice he was essentially, exactly where he wanted to be. Exactly where he needed to be to relieve the intense boredom that had plagued him while he’d been basically house-bound

“--and we could bring a comfortable chair for you; I read somewhere that carrying a child could be dreadful on the back. But we could also do something else if you prefer, maybe a trip somewhere warm where those dates you still like are in season?”

Of course Aziraphale was always thinking about him and his comfort. Things had been easier since Crowley started asking for things and Aziraphale started offering instead of just doing. It made accepting the angel’s care less complicated if his brain couldn’t skew it as charity or pity. If he asked for it, then he could control it, control how much other people were involved. Sometimes he almost wanted to laugh at how stupid it was but it worked.

An unsettling wobbling feeling in his stomach made Crowley ease up off the accelerator for a few moments. Was it the morning sickness making itself known as they were easing into mid-afternoon? Because the name “morning sickness” was complete and utter bollocks as far as Crowley was concerned. It didn’t feel like he was going to be sick though. Move like a restless moving feeling. Maybe it was because his pants weren’t fitting right? He couldn’t think of any other reason for the weird feeling, so he pushed it aside and slammed the pedal to the floorboards once again. Aziraphale continued on talking.

“--and a picnic would let us relax and enjoy the scenery, which I can only see a little of now. I do wish you’d slow down, at least on the turns darling. There’s so much we’re probably missing!”

“Trees, fields, idyllic countryside views. Not missing much we don’t see every day,” Crowley quipped, though he may have still slowed down a tad over the next few minutes. Aziraphale shot him a sidelong smile and reached a hand across the gear-shift to rub at Crowley’s knee.

“Are you feeling better? You’ve been rather quiet.” Crowley’s manic driving had taken them far out of town, so far they were surrounded by fields filled with free-roaming cattle. He let the Bently roll to a more socially acceptable pace because he knew Aziraphale had a bit of a soft spot for cows. The strange wiggling in his stomach continued, and he wanted to be able to pull over and get out quickly if he had to be sick. Vomit in the Bently was not something Crowley wanted to deal with.

“Think so. Stomach’s feeling… weird but not in the usual way,” Crowley answered. Just the fact he was feeling more talkative was a clear sign that the strange mood from earlier was passing. “Not like I’m gonna be sick or anything, so don’t worry about your trousers.”

Aziraphale laughed, a beautiful tinkling sound like antique teacups against their saucers. “Thank you for the reassurance, my love. Do you think you might be hungry? I know you don’t usually go in for that sort of thing often but with the baby your body might be craving things outside your usual fair.”

Another, more insistent fluttering feeling had Crowley gasping and bringing a hand to his stomach. It didn’t hurt, and it wasn’t exactly unpleasant, but there was something strange about it. “Think my trousers are too tight. They didn’t fit right this morning anyway.”

In fact, the button of his pants was digging into his belly right this moment and that was unpleasant. One hand still on the steering wheel he tried to adjust the waistband with the other. It didn’t help. “S’like they’re too small, but these are the same ones I always wear. Miracle must have gone wrong.”

Crowley kept his hand on his belly, just over his shirt and under his jeans. And that was when he felt it. The wiggling feeling from before but now he could feel it against his palm too.

“Holy shit!” he yelped slamming his foot against the break and making them both shoot forward against their seatbelts (an addition Aziraphale had insisted upon when they began taking regualr drives together). “What the fuck?!”

“What in Heaven’s name was all that about?” Aziraphale asked, his hands still braced against the roof and dash. “You’re lucky no one was behind us!”

Normally Crowley would have snapped about how he would have known if there had been someone behind them because he was a semi-omniscient being. But this time there was no witty or snarky comeback because something was moving inside him. He hadn’t done a lot of research about pregnancy--it was still a little too much for him, reading all that human stuff--but this had to be--it really was—

“They’re moving,” he whispered, awe and fear and trepidation colouring his voice. “Angle, they—”

Aziraphale’s hand immediately shot from Crowley’s knee to his belly, right alongside Crowley’s own. They both waited silently, breath held until there was another flutter. If Aziraphale had been a human he probably wouldn’t have felt it. The look on his face when he did made Crowley infinitely glad they both had heightened senses.

“My word…” Aziraphale breathed, bodily leaning over the gearshift so he was pressed up against Crowley’s side. The atmosphere in the car was heavy, but in the way a warm blanket in the early morning is heavy--soft, comfortable, and warm. “Crowley that’s them! That’s our baby. Oh Lord, that’s them.”

“Yeah…” For some reason his eyes were stinging. The Bently had put itself into park and was keeping the engine idle by itself, so he used his other hand to wipe at the quickly-forming tears. Up until now he hadn’t really realized, or he had but not all the way, that was their baby inside him. This was happening and Aziraphale was right there with him, just as excited and awed as Crowley was. “I didn’t know--little shit’s been dancing down there all morning and I didn’t--”

“Don’t call our baby that, Crowley!” Aziraphale complained, shooting him a scolding look. Crowley rolled his eyes and huffed.

“They can’t hear us angel, s’not a big deal,” he insisted. Another movement under their hands stopped their bickering in its tracks. Crowley grunted softly as the squirming intensified, then ended again. “Active one, aren’t they?”

“I love you,” Aziraphale said abruptly. He pressed his free hand to Crowley’s chest, just over where his heart was hammering away. “Crowley this is--you’re amazing.”

“No you,” Crowley shot back, laughing weakly. Tears began to streak down his face but for once, they were happy ones and not sad. “This’s real, isn’t it?”

He looked over at Aziraphale just in time to catch the possessive, loving look on his face. Suddenly Crowley realized that they both had a hand part-way down his jeans, pulled off to a secluded spot at the side of the road. Pressed close together like this Crowley couldn’t help but lean in, seeking the warmth and comfort and closeness to his lover. His sensitivity to smells had been decreasing as well, and so for the first time in a few weeks, he took a long, indulgent sniff of Aziraphale scent without trepidation.

“Are you just realizing that now dearest?” Aziraphale must have noticed Crowley’s reaction to him because there was a little bit of teasing to his voice. “And are you sniffing me? I do hope my cologne isn’t too strong for you.”

“You smell nice,” Crowley squeaked as Aziraphale’s hands both shifted down. The one on his chest landed around his right hip, while the one in his trousers gently traced the very top of his pants. “A-ah, you—?”

Aziraphale hummed, his fingers dipping under Crowley’s pants. “Seeing you like this… it makes me want to have you again and again.” An embarrassingly garbled noise escaped his throat. “I love you so much. You are my everything Crowley.”

“Ngk,” Crowley moaned. He wished he could be as good with words as Aziraphale, a least when it came to things between them. Aziraphale was always better at the softer things, at being a good person, even if he could be a bastard at times. “We’re in public?”

“Not really, we’re far out from any of the farms and I haven’t seen another car for at least an hour now. But if you don’t want to, we can drive back and—”

“No no I want to, just let me—” he popped the button on his jeans open and sighed in relief. “Much better. You can keep going now.”

Aziraphale laughed again and his mouth was so close to Crowley’s neck he could feel the vibrations. “Better turn the car off then, hadn’t we? And maybe we should move to the back seat, there’d be more space at least.” But Aziraphale’s hand was still moving further down his front, cupping his sex in his warm palm. The tips of his fingers dipped ever so slightly between Crowley’s lips, a tantalizing tease.

“Get your hands out of my pants then,” Crowley grumbled, making no effort to remove Aziraphale’s hands himself. In fact, he may have willed the driver's seat to recline a little bit more, to give the angel more space to work. The car shut itself off, and the music cut out completely, leaving them in silence save for their breathing and the sound of wind outside.

“You don’t want me to do that,” Aziraphale sing-songed, pressing a little firmer with his fingers so he was brushing Crowley’s clit. “At least the car’s off, it wouldn’t do to be creating pollution.”

“N-no.” Crowley was answering out of habit, rather than actual understanding. He hadn’t been wet before, but that was quickly changing. Aziraphale’s touch, familiar at this point, always caused a sort of reaction in Crowley’s body. One that screamed more more more. “Aziraphale, need you—!”

“I’ve got you my dear,” Aziraphale assured him, stilling petting with the barest pressure against Crowley’s clit and labia. “I can never get enough of you.”

“H-hedonist,” Crowley stuttered, ending in a cry as Aziraphale gave one firm press to his clit. Bastard.

“Call me what you want to, but I think you benefit from my overindulgences too, don’t you Crowley?” Crowle squirmed against the leather seats, wishing that for once he’d left the house in his trackies. “Well anyway, you don’t seem to be complaining.”

Crowley groaned, his hips bucking and twisting impatiently. Aziraphale tutted and put more pressure on Crowley’s hips, pinning him to the seat. He loved it when Aziraphale showed off his angelic strength. Crowley was better built for sneaking and slithering while Aziraphale had once been a warrior. Though it had been millenia since the angel had wielded a weapon of any kind, that strength remained and Crowley greedily hoarded the opportunities to experience it.

“Fuck, fucking get on with it!” he whined. His fingers wrapped around Aziraphale’s wrists, urging them deeper. The crotch of his pants was soaked through and his slick was beginning to make his thighs damp and sticky. It was gross and uncomfortable and he needed more of it right now.

“Oh very well.” Aziraphale pulled back completely which made Crowley’s eyes shoot open in shock. “Don’t look like that dear. If we aren’t going to make it to the back seat I thought this might be the most appropriate.” He settled back into the passenger seat and patted his lap. Crowley’s mouth went dry; one of his most overplayed fantasies from back before they were together was Aziraphale fucking him in the Bently. They’d just never gotten around to it. Until now.

He’d deny it if Aziraphale ever brought it up, but Crowley made a mess of climbing over the space between the seats and into the angel’s lap. When he settled down on Aziraphale’s thighs the angel was obviously trying to hold back a chuckle. Crowley glowered.

“Like to see you do that with your trousers half down,” he grumbled, redfaced and out of breath. “Aziraphale, come on, don’t make me beg.”

“Not this time, maybe later. I would like to ride you, make you ask for my permission to come while I use you for my own pleasure,” Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully. He snapped his fingers and both of them were bottomless, putting Crowley’s drooling pussy on full display. At least Aziraphale seemed to be just as excited, a messy dollop of precome pooling at the tip of his member. “It has been a little while and I must confess I’ve been thinking about it far too much.”

“Yes,” Crowley hissed, grinding down so Aziraphale’s cock rubbed against the full length of his cunt. “Wanna be in you, wanna give you whatever you want.”

Aziraphale grabbed his hips and stilled his rocking. “Right now I want you to be still and let me set the pace, alright? I want to look at you. Is that alright dearest?” If he hadn’t been seconds away from losing it, Crowley would have laughed. Didn’t Aziraphale know he could do anything with his body, that Crowley’s entire form (metaphysical bits included) belonged to him? Crowley hissed out an affirmative noise and stopped struggling against the angel’s grip.

“Good, thank you love. Thank you.” Aziraphale guided Crowley down, his cock catching against the rim of his entrance. “I love you, you wondering creature. With everything in my being, Crowley, everything I am, you are so precious to me.”

The praise would have been a little much if it hadn’t been making Crowley melt like ice cream in the sun. Loath as he was to even think about it, there were still times where he doubted Aziraphale, where he needed reassurance. Aziraphale was more than happy to provide those things and did so profusely. Especially when they were having sex.

“Ngk—!” Crowley screeched as Aziraphale pulled him down those last few inches so they were hip to hip. No matter how many times they did this it always took a few seconds for Crowley to adjust, to get over the overwhelming feeling for Aziraphale inside him. It wasn’t even that the angel was too rough, or too big, he was just Aziraphale. And this was something he never thought he could have, but it turned out he could and sometimes that was a little bit too much.

“Put your arms around my neck dear, there’s a lamb,” Aziraphale murmured into the demon’s neck. His voice was strained like it was taking a huge amount of effort for him to keep still. “Hold onto me now, I’ve got you.”

Crowley did as he was asked, locking his arms tight around the angel’s neck like he would never let go. To be perfectly honest, he might not; being attached to Aziraphale for all eternity didn’t sound too bad. And this way the angle was better, each thrust adding fuel to the fire burning inside him. Who cared if the leather seat was sticking to his forearms and there was probably going to be some significant staining, this was everything he ever wanted.

“Sssssshit Aziraphale!” he hissed, his eyes drawn down to the space where they were connected. Everything was slick and messy, mostly thanks to him. “I wanna--mmm!--wanna kiss you, angel.”

Aziraphale didn’t bother saying anything, which Crowley appreciated gently. He rather gracelessly flopped forward, his hips still driving into the demon even as he connected their lips. Somebody, the spark of Aziraphale’s lips on his was almost more intense than the sensation from below. Almost. Crowley focused hard on kissing back as much as he could without losing control and letting his corporation begin to slip. It wouldn’t do for his fangs to pop out and cut his angel.

As they kissed their near-frantic pace slowed to match the slide of their lips and tongues. The feel of Aziraphale weighing him down and keeping him still as he pummeled up into him made Crowley moan helplessly against the angel’s mouth, powerless to do nothing but kiss back and take whatever Aziraphale wanted to give him. Crowley wanted everything and anything.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale gasped into the almost non-existent space between them. “Crowley, God, you beautiful creature how did I ever--how are you mine?”

“Always yours,” Crowley gasped rawly. “Since fucking--ah shit!--Eden. Since Eden--!” And even though they’d had a decade together it still made him ache with the satisfying completion of finally being with his other half. Aziraphale’s hands came down to smooth over Crowley’s chest and belly, pausing at the slight swell between his hips.

“Are you close dear?” His tone was breathless and desperate. “Please, I can’t--not much more--”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Crowley keened, arching his back to get a better angle. “Close--need a little m--!” Aziraphale’s hand slipped down to circle Crowley’s clit once, then twice. That was all Crowley needed to come, a wordless gasp wrenching its way out of his gut as his muslces clenched and released. Aziraphale followed soon after with an unflattering whimper, like he’d been waiting for Crowley to go first and barely hanging on himself. In the immediate seconds afterward Crowley couldn’t help himself from nestling his head in Aziraphale’s shoulder and nuzzling.

Aziraphale shifted so he was half lying on the seat, half lying on top of Crowley. One of his hands, the one that wasn't covered in various fluids, splayed over Crowley’s stomach possessively.

“Alright love?” Aziraphale asked, his voice husky and sleepy. Crowley answered with a satisfied wiggle and a huff, suddenly realizing he was still wearing his sunglasses and they were terribly smudged. With a floppy hand he batted them off and onto the floor, where they’d probably be lost forever. “I assume that’s good?”

“Very,” Crowley hummed, returning to nuzzling against Aziraphale’s neck. “Think all that rocking put them to sleep though, it’s quiet down there.”

“I can feel that. It really is quite extraordinary, isn’t it?” Aziraphale was petting his belly like some sort of dog but Crowley let it slide because it felt pretty nice. “I wasn’t too rough, was I?”

“Pshh, you were perfect.” As their bodies began to wind down the stickiness and general prevalence of sweat began to make itself known. “Not sure the Bently made it out unscathed through. The seats sticking to me.”

“I think that may be my fault. Here, let me.” Aziraphale snapped briskly and the mess disappeared. They were also both dressed, though Crowley’s skinny jeans were replaced with a pair of the comfy stretchy trousers he kept at home.

“Mmm, don’t wanna drive home now.” Crowley was very comfortable, and just a little (a lot) sleepy. “Think I’ll take a nap.”

“On the side of the road?” Aziraphale asked, like they hadn’t just had sex on the same roadside less than ten minutes ago. “My dear you’ll get a sore back all cramped up like this.”

Crowley grumbled unhappily and tightened his grip on the angel. “Then miracle us home. Cause I’m not driving and if you drive we won’t get home for hours.” For as much as Aziraphale complained about Crowley going over the speed limit, he wasn’t much better at following the rules of the road. He’d learned to drive in a time before regulations and decided that there wasn’t much point trying to keep up with the every-changing rules of the road. What resulted was a strange mix of driving under the speed limit while completely ignoring most rules and driving etiquette norms. Crowley had banned him from driving the Bently outside of emergencies in the mid-’50s after a few hair-raising outings.

Aziraphale tutted. “Such a frivolous use of a miracle.” But still, Crowley heard him click his forefinger and thumb. When he cracked open an eye he could see the eves of their cottage through the window. “Did that little trip make you feel better?”

“Much,” Crowley said, a smile in his voice. “You couldn’t just put us inside though?” He knew he was being a whiney brat, but he also felt like he deserved a little bit of pampering. Nevermind that Aziraphale had basically been waiting on him hand and foot for the past month.

“Spoiled serpent,” Aziraphale said fondly, tucking a sweaty hank of fiery hair behind Crowley’s ear. “I think it’ll be good for you to get up and stretch. Besides, I didn’t want to risk forgetting the Bently behind, I know that would set you off.”

“It wouldn’t let itself get left behind, it knows better,” Crowley grumped, but still he unwrapped himself from the angel and sat up on his elbows. With his shirt back on he couldn’t see the bump anymore, but he knew it was there. It was only going to get bigger too, and eventually no amount of clothing would be able to cover it up. The thought made him blush a little.

“Are you feeling ok? You’re looking a little flushed,” Aziraphale asked, his brow furrowing a little. Crowley nodded and looked away; it’d be easy to blame his glowing cheeks on the return of his morning sickness, but he really didn’t want to spend another week in bed.

“Yeah, yeah. Just uh, we’re not gonna be able to do stuff like this once it gets bigger, are we?” Aziraphale sat back as well, maneuvering around so he could shuffle over and get the door.

“I guess not. We’d better make good use of the time we have now.” Crowley squeezed himself through the open door. Immediately Aziraphale’s hands were back on him, one grabbing his hip and the other taking his hand. Crowley loved when the angel was like this, when it was like he couldn’t bear to be without him for even a minute. It soothed the still-healing edges of ragged want in his soul. After ten years of constant tending that wound had only just begun to scab over and it would probably take many, many more for it to fully close. But he was getting there, slowly.

“Round two, after we take a bath?” he asked, leaning into Aziraphale’s embrace. The laugh that startled out of him was surprised and maybe just a little turned on.

“Fine, but this time I want to do what we discussed before. Is that agreeable?” Aziraphale’s eyes sparkled with mischeif while Crowley smirked slightly.

“As if you need to ask. You know I like being inside you.”

“Marvellous. Let's get going then dearest!” Not the way Crowley had expected to alleviate his anxiety and boredom, but maybe exactly what he’d needed.

#fanfic #fbafs #wtf is the good omens ship name??#gomens #aziraphale/crowley #azirapahel #crowziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #Good Omens

1 note · View note