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spenciegoob · 3 years

Text

Cracked Mirror

A/N: hi, I continued to see a bunch of “season 2 Spencer would be so scared of season 12 Spencer, so I decided why not write them meeting? let’s do it, baby super angsty :P it took everything in me to not tag ‘how it should’ve gone’ but basically this is ‘how it should've gone.’

Summary: Spencer Reid? Meet a very much older Spencer Reid.

Pairing: Season 15 Spencer & Season 2 Spencer

Category: Angst

Content Warnings: no ship, mentions of drug addiction, drug abuse, Tobias Hankel, Maeve, mentions of Jeid

Masterlist

Word Count: 2.4K

_____

Spencer 15:

The smell was always the first thing I noticed when I woke up from a restless sleep. It meant I was alive, that the terrors that danced across my eyelids like a ballad of the doomed were not real. I never believed in the Higher Power, but if there was an Evil Spirit, it possessed my mind the second my guard fluctuated.

The smell, however, the one made up of stiff air that paralyzed you and blood you weren’t sure was yours, that smell meant I got to live another day.

It also meant I could still die.

But now I woke up in a startle because I wasn’t supposed to be here. I escaped this place before, I made it out. Did my only indicator of life just turn into my own personal Hell? Was I finally gone, seconds ago hoping for rest only to come to the conclusion that I would never get the chance?

I was back in a gray jumpsuit, and what scared me the most was how quickly I got up to make my bed.

“Reid, you have a visitor.”

Spencer 2:

They say every person in their career has a moment that changes the way they view their job forever, and I would’ve liked to continue to believe I had mine already, when I put away the first unsub that didn’t deserve the life they were unfortunately gifted to live out. I know I couldn’t sleep much after.

But now that I hurry past empty cells and recreation rooms on my way to a stone box with a killer, I changed my mind.

This was my moment.

I had to keep up with Hotch, and I wish it was because I was scared of getting lost, but it wasn't. If I lose Hotch, I’m afraid I’ll lose my life.

We just had to reach the interrogation room, and we’ll be fine. We just have to talk to... to who?

Who are we here to see? Why am I here?

“Hotch.” The older man stopped his fast pace to turn to me exasperated. I would have that expression too if someone stopped me in a place like this, but here I am, feet stuck to ground like a fear-inducing glue because I can’t remember why I’m here.

“What’s wrong, Reid?”

“Why am I here?” Hotch didn’t get angry, or confused at my question. Instead, Hotch’s face turned into something that was a prized rarity at other times, but right now, it ran my blood cold.

He nodded at me, his face visibly relaxing with understanding, and kindness spreading from his eyes into mine.

“You have someone here you need to see.”

And then he just continued the path we were on until we reached a metal door with a window not large enough to see who was waiting for me on the other side. I didn’t get too close, giving myself a 5 foot head start in case I needed to run, but Hotch would never put me in a position like that, right?

He would never use me as a pawn in a game of life or death.

“Whenever you’re ready.” By the time all the questions flooded through my head like a tsunami that made it to the tip of my tongue, Hotch was gone.

The invisible magnetic field between myself and the door was a force backed up by science. I felt the way it tugged me forward, like negative and positive electrons charming me with the song of the buzzer unlocking it.

When I was ready, he said. Would I ever be ready for the feeling that washed over me? I felt the weight of the world rest on my shoulders, stuck in an ocean made entirely of resin, slowly hardening around me to keep me trapped.

But I still grasped the cool metal doorknob, and I wish I took a deep breath before entering. It was the wrong call on my part, because I walked in and all the oxygen left my lungs in a flash.

The air in the room felt different. It hung with the purpose of imprisoning those who dare breathe it into their lungs. Enchantment and intoxication were meant to hold beauty and grace, leading the charmed to a fulfillment in life worth living.

But the eyes of Medusa were in the room with me, and I was stupid enough to turn to stone.

“Who are you?” How could I ask that? I knew the answer by looking into his eyes. I say his, because they weren’t mine. Sure, they had the same hazel color, and the same round, boyish shape, but they looked so dull. Sadness, the kind that moves mountains and starts wars, was buried deep in the beholder, casting a shadow over his soul.

I didn’t stare for very long. I couldn’t.

“You know who I am.” His voice was worse. “I know why I’m here. Sit down.”

“I- I just... Absolutely not! This is- this, I- I can’t. I have to get out of here.” Insanity! It had to be. I was staring at a person I didn’t know, yet knew every little detail about, and I couldn’t breathe.

“Sit down before you panic.” There was no point in lying and saying I was fine, he knew it would be a lie. We weren’t just profilers.

So I sat, taking my time to round the table and pull the chair farther back to establish a far enough distance between us. He did the same. Of course he did.

“Answer my question,” I whispered, looking down at the place where the leg of the table met the top.

“There are far better questions to ask me.” He was right, there were more pressing matters at hand, but how do you ask someone what landed them in a jumpsuit when you were terrified of the answer?

“Did- is time travel a thing?” The second the question left my mouth, I realized how absurd it was, but so was staring into the cracked funhouse mirror I was currently stuck in front of.

“Come on, we don’t have much time, and that’s what you want to ask me? Dig deeper.” Is this how Morgan feels when I’m always right?

How could I dig deeper when it all went so far that the only thing consuming my soul was a bottomless black hole? The memories flashing from projectors all around me as I sank further until eventually my oxygen ran out. Going deeper meant letting the weight of my heart push against my chest like a rock thrown into the depths of the ocean, but I suppose he would follow me.

“What happened?” I looked up to see him take a deep breath, leaning back in the chair with careful contemplation. There was something more though, something that lingered the second we met eyes.

Jealousy. There was nothing of myself to be jealous about, however.

“We made too many mistakes.” We. Only one of us was in the jumpsuit. There had to be some way to avoid that, right?

“God, this is insane!” I promptly shouted, standing up frantically. “You’re the prisoner here, not me, okay? I didn’t do anything. You did. How am I even here? What is happening, I don’t understand.” At the end of my yelling, I was so far out of breath that I had to lean against the wall. “What is this?”

“Tobias Hankel.” No no no, it can’t be. Am I dead?

“Sit down.” I listened immediately this time, too exasperated to care about being cautious about it.

“You’re with him right now, and from what I can tell, you’re probably in a drug-induced dream.” My head shot up at the mention of Tobias’s coping mechanism for myself. “When you wake up, I don’t expect you to hold onto hope, but for that quick second you let go, don’t feel guilty about it. It will eat you alive if you do.”

“You’re insane.”

“Maybe, but I’m right, and you need to listen to everything I’m telling you.” I was never one to make demands like this.

“And if I do? Will it stop me from becoming you?”

“No, probably not.” Before I had the chance to get angry again, I watched the way his eyes started to glisten with tears. I watched him crack a little bit more, adding to the already gaping slashes across his heart. How many more until he breaks?

“Leave them in his pocket,” he continued after taking a grounding deep breath. “You don’t need it.”

“What are you talking about?” Secretly, I knew what he was meant, because after this nightmare ended I would be back in a far worse one silently begging to return to this interrogation room.

There were so many thoughts running through my head that it was hard to focus on just one. Plus, I wasn’t really getting any context here.

“I don’t think I can give you many details. I don’t even know if we’ll remember this, or how I got here, but we don’t have much time. There are so many things you need to know.”

“I know practically everything.”

“No you don’t, kid. You know nothing.” He suddenly stood up, walking over to the wall on our left, leaning a hand against it and hanging his head. “When you feel like something is wrong with him, don’t keep it to yourself. Tell Hotch, request time off, do whatever you have to do. Just, go visit him.”

“Who?”

“You’ll know.” There was so much guilt in his voice that I felt it in my chest. It was like a hole was drilled into me, leaving my heart exposed to vultures who wouldn’t hesitate to rip pieces from me.

“What about my mom? Do I... you know?”

“No, you don’t, but promise me something.” He turned to look at me again, hazel meeting hazel. “On days that she’s lucid, tell her everything. Tell her what you ate for breakfast, and that one time Morgan fell trying to kick a door open. Tell her about the dark parts, about how much you love her. Tell her everything.”

“Oh God is she-”

“No. I don’t think I should be telling you that, but no. Don’t think like that.” As if remembering something, he rushed back over to sit down, pulling his chair in and leaning over the table. “Stop running every negative outcome of every situation in your head. Be careful, but don’t be so careful it becomes reckless. That’s how people get hurt, including you.”

“Is that what happened to you? Is that how you ended up here?”

“No. I’m innocent, always was. I ended up in here because I let myself get blinded by a fantasy I had no business dreaming about. There’s going to be times for you to have dreams bigger than yourself, but the second they start to become nightmares, you have to pull yourself back. Don’t get trapped, kid.”

“You know, Morgan calls me ‘kid’. I don’t really know if I like it or not.”

“You’ll come to love it, but with Morgan, don’t push him away. He’s one of the only few people in this world that won’t scrutinize or judge you, and you need to be honest with him.”

“Why?” After asking, I immediately regretted it, because his answer was the one I’ve been dreading the most.

“Because things are going to hurt you, and it’s okay to ask for help every once in a while.”

“What things? Tell me,” I begged, rushing my words and internally cringing at how desperate I sound, but I needed to know. I needed to know the truth.

“When you fall in love, tell her.” He casted his eyes downward, staring at his hands rough and calloused from the years, kind of like Hotch.

“Is it... is it JJ?”

“No,” he let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head softly. “You’ll learn one day the difference between being in love with someone, and just simply loving them.”

I couldn’t help the disappointment spread through me for a second, but I quickly gained my composure when I remembered I’m sitting across a profiler.

“This is too much.” My brain was starting to hurt.

“I know, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything.” A question crossed my mind causing my hands to stop their fidgeting for just a moment, but as quickly as it came, it was gone and my hands resumed. He caught it though. Of course he did.

“What was that thought?”

“My d-” I cleared my throat before continuing. “William. Did he ever...?” I let the words fade out, hoping that he would understand where I was going. He did. Of course he did.

“No.” He took a deep breath, eyebrows furrowing and jaw clenching tightly. “He didn’t.”

“Oh.” While I was disappointed, he looked angry. As sick and twisted as it was, I wish I was more like him. Even with the despairing look in his eyes that came with agonizing memories, he was the man everyone expected me to be.

He looked at me as if he also wished the roles were reversed. Of course he did.

The edges of the room slowly started to get fuzzy, my vision blurring for a second. “You’re waking up.”

“Can- can I ask you something?” Even though I was terrified of the answer.

“Of course.”

“When did it all go wrong?” He let out a long sigh before running his hands down his face.

“I can’t tell you the exact moment, because even I’m not sure. I can tell you that even when it doesn’t feel like it, you’re alive. You survived, and on some days that’s all that’s going to matter.”

“Do you smell that?” Please say yes, because the smell of burning fish hearts and livers was burning my nostrils and clouding my head.

“Wake up, Spencer. It’s okay.”

“Wait!”

Spencer 15:

My eyes shot open only to be met with blinding lights that seared my pupils. The beeping coming from the machine next to me was the second thing I noticed, and the third was a very alarmed Penelope.

“What happened?” My voice was raspy, and my throat burned intensely.

“You don’t remember? Spencer, you collapsed.”

“Oh.” I couldn’t think of what else to say. Logically, I knew I probably sustained a head injury from the explosion, but when I tried to think beyond that, my brain got fuzzy.

“Are you okay? You know, besides the whole passing out thing?”

“Y-yeah, I just.” I stopped talking. Just what? Penelope hummed curiously for me to continue, but I couldn’t.

“I think I got a second chance.” No matter how vague it was, how little she knew of what that truly meant, Penelope beamed with joy at my answer, and I smiled right back.

“I’ll go get the doctor.” And when she left, I stared up at the ceiling, hoping that the scared kid I used to be took my advice.

____

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squaaash · 5 years

Text

like the holding of hands, like the breaking of glass

read on ao3

Summary:

Aziraphale is alive. Armageddon was stopped. The bookshop was saved. Aziraphale is alive.

Throughout his tenure on Earth, Crowley has found that he greatly enjoys sleep. He’s learned that it’s nice to have a break from, you know, eternity. But he never knew how much he had come to rely on it until he couldn’t sleep through the night without being woken by–

By the fire.

And it absolutely baffles him. Because Aziraphale is fine. Aziraphale is alive, as he reminds himself every second of every day. Crowley should be fine too. (Except he’s not.)

Author’s Note:

hey everybody! guess who's still down the good omens hole! it's me. and this one hurts.

please take care reading this one! it involves nightmares, some issues with reality, some suicidal thoughts and very explicit descriptions of panic attacks along with imagery of fire and being burned alive (there's no gore, but again it's rather explicit about the concept) so please be careful if any of this might be a trigger

i've done my best tagging this for those things, but i'm rather new to posting on ao3, so if anyone has any advice on how it could be better tagged so people can navigate their triggers, don't hesitate to let me know!

that said, i'm pretty proud of this one, so please enjoy!

Text:

Crowley can’t breathe.

He doesn’t necessarily need to breathe, but the impact of the firehose against his chest forces all the air out of his lungs as it knocks him flat on his back.

An ice-cold sensation seeps into his clothes, his skin, his bones, his everything.

But it’s not the water. It’s something much, much worse.

Aziraphale is dead.

The thought makes his fingers go numb and his head go fuzzy.

He stays on the ground, his face tilted upwards towards the burning pages fluttering through the air like ashen doves. Aziraphale’s precious books. His misprinted bibles, his prophecies, his poetry. Centuries of collection used as kindling.

But it doesn’t matter anyway. There’s no one left to miss them.

Aziraphale is dead.

Crowley takes a long, ragged breath, letting the smoke settle deeply into his lungs until it stings something awful. He wants to stay here. He wants to let the fire burn up his corporeal form. He wishes it would take everything else that makes him up with it.

And so it does.

As the flames crawl up his scalp, lick at his sleeves, swallow him up right down to his snakeskin shoes, he doesn’t find himself back in Hell. Somewhere, in the depths of his mind, he knows for certain that he’s finally approaching the end. The release.

Crowley will be gone. The world will end. Adam Young will make it so. And that is fine.

As Crowley slips away, he’s thankful.

Because Aziraphale is dead. And life without Aziraphale is no life at all.

But Crowley wakes up.

He bolts upright, half expecting to be met with unbearably humid air thick with the smell of sulfur. The smell of Hell.

He’s in bed, his entire body is covered in a cold sweat, tears streaming down his face. His breath is coming in shallow gasps as his body tries to hack up the smog that isn’t truly there.

He exhales shakily. He has this routine down to a science now.

His clock read 3:36 AM. He shuts his eyes and presses his hands over them tightly.

Aziraphale is alive. Armageddon was stopped. The bookshop was saved. Aziraphale is alive.

He needs to shower. Crowley knows by now that there’s no use trying to get back to sleep. He could easily rid himself of all the sweat and tears with a single thought, but a cool shower always helps him come back to himself a little easier.

The first time that Crowley had a nightmare about the bookshop, he got violently sick.

It was so vivid, so faithful to the experience he had, that he didn’t quite realize what was going on until he was slumped on the tile floor of his bathroom, sobbing and retching into the toilet like some hammered university student. He’d hoped it was a one-time thing, a fluke brought on by all the recent Armageddon-induced stress.

It’s been weeks like this.

By the fire.

And it absolutely baffles him. Because Aziraphale is fine. Aziraphale is alive, as he reminds himself every second of every day. Crowley should be fine too. (Except he’s not.)

It occurs to him, he should probably reflect a bit on that, as he strips and steps under the cooling spray, but his nightmares leave him too drained to think much of anything other than his new mantra.

Aziraphale is alive. Armageddon was stopped. The bookshop was saved. Aziraphale is alive.

He rests his flushed forehead against the tile.

Aziraphale is alive.

–––––––––

Aziraphale also can’t leave well enough alone.

“Respectfully, Crowley, you look awful.”

“You say the sweetest things, angel.”

He’s stopped by the bookshop a few hours prior to their plans to dine at the Ritz, dropping himself onto the sofa with propped his legs up on the arm, his feet dangling over the side. (He visits more often now for the purpose of staying rather than going out. It eases his heart to see the place intact.) Aziraphale has abandoned his finances for the moment to pester Crowley about the dark half-moons he’s sporting under each eye.

He had been fine for a while, but now the lack of sleep is truly taking its toll on him. He’s the kind of tired that stuffs your head full of cotton and lines your bones with lead. It makes your eyes burn and your feet drag. And as oblivious as the angel can be at times, he’s noticed the recent change in his best friend.

Crowley knows he looks awful, and he knows why he looks awful, but that doesn’t mean he has to admit it.

“Are you sleeping, Crowley?” Aziraphale peers at him over his reading specs (that he doesn’t need) and furrows his brow.

“Don’t worry about me, Aziraphale. I was marathoning Golden Girls all night, had a lovely time.”

“I always like a good chamomile tea in the evening if I’d like to sleep that night, puts me right–“

“Come on, I brought this on myself and it’s fine. You can drop it.”

The angel narrows his eyes at him, but abandons the subject for now and turns back to his computer.

Thank G–Thank… Someone.

So Crowley relaxes into the sofa as Aziraphale babbles on about a lovely new bakery that opened down the block recently, letting the lilting tones of his voice wash over him.

Before he knows it, his eyelids are getting heavy.

He thinks about fighting it, sitting up and listening more closely in the hopes of keeping his exhausted body awake. Surely his falling asleep would only exacerbate Aziraphale’s worries just as Crowley’s gotten him to drop the subject.

But he’s just so tired. So he gives in.

He’s awoken by the sound of crackling flames.

He sits up, his eyes wide. His head still feels thick with sleep, he’s not sure how long he’s been out for.

He’s still in the bookshop, Aziraphale is still at his desk, chattering away as he works.

But there’s fire coming up through the floor beneath him.

Hellfire.

“Aziraphale, get away from there!” Crowley wants to jump up and pull him away from the flames, but he’s rooted on the spot, unable to move.

Aziraphale turns towards him, entirely unbothered. “Whatever are you talking about?”

The flames snake upwards, slowly engulfing Aziraphale as they go.

Crowley wants to scream and yell and fight. He wants to drag the angel out of the blaze. But his voice is trapped in his throat as if he’s choking on his screams. His muscles refuse to move an inch.

Aziraphale’s tan trousers and cream-colored jacket turn black as they burn.

The angel doesn’t seem bothered by the heat. He’s looking at Crowley with concern on his face. (Entirely misplaced concern, as Crowley isn’t the one who’s currently being burned alive.)

The heat stings his eyes but he can’t look away. He has to sit and watch as the inferno eats his best friend whole.

Aziraphale is dead.

Finally, a scream rips its way out of Crowley’s throat.

“Aziraphale!”

A sharp pain on his face snaps him back into reality.

“Crowley, dear, are you alright?”

Crowley’s on the ground next to the sofa. As he rolls over, he suspects that he smacked his cheekbone against the floor when he fell. The impact’s left him somewhat dazed as he takes in the bookshop around him, breathing hard.

There’s no fire.

Aziraphale is kneeling next to him, looking absolutely distraught. Crowley takes a deep breath.

Aziraphale is alive. Armageddon was stopped. The bookshop was saved. Aziraphale is alive.

“Crowley, what on earth is going on? You were yelling in your sleep. And your cheek! It’s already bruising. Oh, you poor thing!” The angel reaches for Crowley’s face to better inspect the bruise, but he flinches away, no matter how badly he craves the grounding touch.

He has to squeeze his eyes shut against Aziraphale’s devastated expression.

“Crowley, please talk to–”

“I have to go. I’ll take a raincheck on the Ritzsss– On the Ritz.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, this is– Crowley, stop!”

He can’t do this. He scrambles to his feet, startling Aziraphale enough to fall backward from where he’s crouched on the floor. The longer he looks at Aziraphale, the more vividly he remembers the sight of him ablaze. Dead.

So Crowley does what he does best. He runs away.

–––––––––

He’s in the Bentley, breaking every traffic law known to man as he speeds back to his flat.

He’s tripping up the stairs, he doesn’t trust his hands not to shake as he unlocks the door, so he opens it with a thought.

He slams it shut and collapses against it, slapping a hand over his mouth to muffle his sobs and squeezing his eyes shut to keep the tears inside. And it hurts.

God above, does it hurt.

It’s a feeling that starts deep in his chest, a pressure that grows and grows until it permeates not just his body but his being, everything that makes Crowley, Crowley. It makes his lungs shudder, his stomach turn. His fingers go numb and his vision goes spotty. It makes his head spin and his heart ache. The worst part about it is that it just doesn’t make sense because Aziraphale is fine.

Aziraphale is alive. Armageddon was stopped. The bookshop was saved. Aziraphale is alive.

Aziraphale is alive. Aziraphale is alive. Aziraphale is alive.

He wants it tattooed on the insides of his eyelids. So that even if he doesn’t know anything else, even if he doesn’t know himself, at least he knows that Aziraphale is alive.

Because since that day, the fear has been ingrained in him like a program that can’t be rewritten, the fear that Aziraphale is–

Is Gone.

Just the thought drives all the air out of his lungs. He feels somewhat faint. His head is pounding. Pounding. Pounding… On the door?

He should yell at whoever it is to go away. Or open it. He should do something, anything, but he just can’t. He’s gasping desperately for air and his skin feels too tight. It’s as if there's a spring wrapped around him coiling tighter and tighter until he’s crushed in its center.

He can distantly hear someone speaking. It’s as if he’s underwater. Drowning. Sinking down, down, down.

The water runs down over his shoulders. It’s almost soothing.

Wrong. Not water. Hands.

Hands.

Crowley takes a slow, ragged breath. The smog and confusion start to clear from his brain. He takes stock of himself: He’s curled into a ball on the floor, knees up against his chest, face pressed tightly down against them, arms wound over his head. Somewhere between the bookshop and his flat he’s lost his sunglasses. His back is up against the inside of his front door. There are hands on his shoulders and a voice speaking in soothing tones. There’s an urgency to the voice, though. A fear. A fear that the voice’s owner trying and failing to conceal.

Crowley exhales. Lifts his head and opens his eyes.

Aziraphale.

“–that’s better, isn’t it? There you are, just keep breathing with me, just a little bit slower, love, breathe with me. You’re in your flat, and I’m here with you. I’m not going anywhere, just watch me and breathe, darling–”

It’s a steady stream of sweet nothings and nonsense, but it’s steady so Crowley hangs onto it with all his might.

He keeps his gaze locked on Aziraphale’s and he breathes. They breathe.

Aziraphale is alive.

Crowley’s not sure how long they stay there, him curled up in a ball and Aziraphale cross-legged in front of him, but he feels the some of the tension drain out of his body, his head lolling to one side as his exhaustion catches up with him once again.

Aziraphale takes both of his hands. “Crowley, will you please tell me what’s wrong?”

His voice is solemn and deep in a way that it so rarely is. Crowley sighs, his eyes fluttering shut as he nods. He knows that this is a conversation that needs to happen, but it doesn’t make it any less difficult.

Crowley refuses to take his eyes off of his toes as he concedes, “I’ve been having these… dreams–” Oh, he hates how small his voice sounds. “–Nightmares, I suppose, is the more accurate description.”

When he doesn’t continue, Aziraphale nudges him a little further. “And what happens? In these nightmares?”

“Well, they vary, from time to time, but there’s–” His voice catches in his throat. He’s already worked up again at just the thought, at the way Aziraphale looks so anguished, so he drops his forehead to his knees once again, squeezing his eyes shut and focusing on the grounding feeling of Aziraphale’s hands in his. His voice escapes as a strangled croak once he forces himself to continue. “But in every single one, you die Aziraphale. You burn just like– Just like I thought you did, that day in the bookshop. You burn, and you’re dead, and I’m all alone and it’s–” His throat closes up and he can’t continue. There are tears gathering in his eyes again. Aziraphale’s hands tighten around his before disappearing.

Crowley panics for a moment, eyes flying opening as he picks up his head, fearing the worst. But Aziraphale is only shifting to sit by his side instead, wrapping his arms around Crowley’s slight frame and drawing him close so that he can rest his head against the angel’s chest. Crowley spares a thought that he’ll ruin Aziraphale’s shirt and vest with his snot and tears but then gentle fingers are carding through his hair and he really can’t be bothered.

“Listen, Crowley, right there. You can hear my heart beating,” He could. He could feel it, too, a gentle thudding sensation against his cheek. “It’s symbolic more than anything else, really, but it’s proof. I’m here and I’m not leaving you, Crowley. I’m here, I’m alive and so are you.”

Aziraphale is alive and so am I.

The dam breaks and Crowley weeps.

But it’s different than before. It’s not out of terror, or loss, or the sensation of hot smoke in his face as everything burns down before his eyes. For the first time since Armageddon, a sensation of catharsis sweeps over him as he cries. He cries for little Adam and his friends, swept up in something so much bigger than themselves, he cries for Anathema and Newt, the weight of the world upon their shoulders. He cries for Aziraphale, so good and human and ineffable.

And for once, Crowley cries for himself. Because he’s literally been dragged to Hell and back again and he’s tired. Tired of the overarching plans and orders and the bigness of it all when there’s so much pleasure to be found in the smallness. The smallness of people and their cups of tea and television programs and postcards and fancy wines and CDs. The smallness of the smile thrown his way when he’s said something witty, pink flustered cheeks, and the feeling of soft hands in his.

Crowley trembles and wails and it’s fine because now there’s someone there to hold him.

Soft kisses in his hair and on his forehead, fingertips wiping away his tears, and a soothing hand up and down his spine.

Eventually, his sobs subside and they stay curled up against the door as Crowley sniffles against Aziraphale’s chest.

“How long has this been going on?” Aziraphale asks quietly, continuing his comforting touches.

“Since that day.”

“Oh, love.” The angel sighs and rests his cheek against the crown of Crowley’s head. “Gosh, I should’ve noticed–”

“You did notice. And I was doing everything in my power to hide it from you.”

“Still. I hate the idea of you going through that on your own,” Aziraphale lifts his head and shifts himself into Crowley’s eyeline, purposefully meeting his eyes. “Please come to me, the next time your experiencing something like that. You’re not a burden, it’s not a difficulty. I want to be there for you, and I’d love it if you’d let me.”

Crowley nods and places a hand on Aziraphale’s cheek, drawing him in for a chaste kiss.

Thank you for being here when I need you. I love you.

Aziraphale kisses him back, placing his hand over Crowley’s.

I love you, too. I’ll always be here.

“Well, I think it’s about time we get you to bed.”

“Will you stay with me, angel?”

“Always.”

#good omens #good omens tv #good omens fic #go #go fic #gomens #ineffable husbands #neil gaiman #Aziraphale #crowley #squaaash #joldiego #ao3

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wo-the-wolf · 6 years

Text

Warrants for Swing- One Shot

First of all big shout out to

@yugissisterdeath

for tagging me in a post where I can make a bunch of one shots for some fun writings :D and secondly ---->

This is inspired by

@sarcasmandfoxes

and their post regarding several different human like quirks. Hope you all enjoy!

FINALLY: Do note from now on with my stories, I will specify whether or not it is a one shot, a main character following, possible warning regarding rating, as well as how many parts I THINK it might be. Enjoy!

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Concept

“The way we repair things with tape or glue or whatever. Especially when it could still be dangerous to use afterwards, like wires wrapped in tape instead of replacing them.”

Setting

Ryker Station, One of the largest Hives of Criminal Activity (Essentially a second Citadel, or Omega Station for my fellow Mass Effect fans).

Demographic: Mostly Dangerous Criminals and Spice Traders, species level are highly mixed.

Galactic Location: Outer Rim, Southern Quadrant.

Characters

Name: Veccoth Re’zora

Nickname: ”Vec”

Species: Saurian, humanoid Lizard like being.

Age: 32

Occupation: Ex-Special Operations Counter-Terrorism Unit, Currently Detective

Name: Quinn Tethras Emrick

Nickname: ---- Species: Human Age: 32

Occupation: Ex-Black Ops Sargent Specializing in Wetwork, Currently Detective

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The music pounded away in a club filled with night owls of all different species, all out enjoying their evenings, some gambling and drinking, and others making their shady deals. Ryker Station was as it seemed, a place for criminals of all types to hide; From simple thugs and smugglers, to war profiteers, high stakes gamblers, and drug kingpins. Assassins and hackers galore, any criminal worth their salt would find refuge somewhere in the glowing casinos and hotels, or the grubby underbelly of the stations bowels.

It was here Vec and Quinn, our two Citadel Detectives, found themselves sitting at a table above the gambling den, watching over the suits and their cheers for the high rollers. “Ah the night life of casinos and strip clubs alike. The music is really what takes me back to when I was younger. All those bright lights, the electronic swing, the lower sections and the dark bass. Oh it takes me back Quinn.”

“Back to when you were smuggling guns and dope or?” Quinn leaned back in her chair, arms folded and keeping her sunglasses on. The glasses brightened a bit and showed her a HUD, scanning Vec who grinned at her comment.

“Back when my scales were nice and bright.” He chuckled before also putting on a pair of sunglasses.

“CT’s really hit home with you,” Quinn smirked.

Vec shrugged and opened his mechanical arm, taking a look at it before resting it on the table, “I’m certainly quite the catch, ask any lady on the Citadel.”

“Templar Squad, please focus on your objective,” a digitized voice stated. A red woman with red hair literally on fire appeared on their left portion of their eye glass screen. An AI, frowning at them, “Target Objective: Wasp is moving to your sector. Krusheayle Lien. Here is his picture,” she brought up a picture on both of their lenses to show a human, Asian, and probably in his early 40′s.

“We got it Ruby, just let me finish my cocktail real quick,” Vec smirked as he sipped on a bright clear liquid, topped with a festive little umbrella. From the front of the dance floor, their intended target entered the room with his entourage of four armed guards. He calmly walked around the dance floor, unaware of the hunters now stalking their prey.

“Agent Vec, please use reason, you must begin pursuit now if you are to catch him.” Ruby frowned, arms behind her back as she insisted.

“For thousands of years my species were the king predators of our world, let me decide when it’s right to strike,” he downed the last of his drink, as the target passed under them and continued on his way to another door.

“Agent Quinn?” Ruby inquired.

“Like now,” Vec chuckled before throwing the glass at the DJ. The cup shattered across his head, knocking him out cold as he face planted the DJ both, changing the music to something a bit more adrenaline inducing.

“Section, move in,” Quinn ordered, as the agents witnessed their target suddenly turn and look panicked. From behind them, the doors opened and two Cageth aliens moved in, executing the guards with silenced weapons and grabbing the target, pulling him back through the doors.

“Roger Agent Queen, target is secured, moving to extract.” a response came from their radio.

“When did they get there?” Ruby questioned with a frown.

“Too many people on the floor, we called for back up. Vec get moving on the door.” Quinn pointed down the walkway they were on at a maintenance entrance.

“You got it,” he smirked before leaping to action.

Upon getting to the door, Vec continued to try to get it open, but was becoming more frustrated as it wouldn’t budge. “Damn, security probably got a bead on us and is locking things down, it won’t open.” Vec growled.

“Hurry up,” Quinn nudged him along before seeing guards coming out of both doors. “Shit, Section we got bad guys inbound from your last location, respond, Over?”

“We are good, Agent Queen, moving to Extraction, enemies are right behind us but obstruction should be minimal.” The Cageth responded over the sound of blaster fire.

“Keep safe, Section.” She ordered before seeing the guards begin to point at them. “We don’t have time,” she brought her leg up and slammed it into the control panel for the door.

“Hey what the hell are you doing?!” Vec shouted before the door slid open. “That was sheer luck.”

“Come on we’ll argue later.” she said before stepping through and hitting the emergency lock on the door. It swung shut, and they nodded before heading off through the tunnels. Soon the alarms along the station in their area began going off like crazy, alerting every guard and thug looking to earn some favor with the local Kingpins. “Come on move!” Quinn shouted as they both ran into one of the hanger bays where a ship waited for them. The Cageth from earlier waved their hands for them to hurry and board, before opening fire at guards turning the corner to make an attempt at stopping them.

“Up and Adam,” Vec yelled as he had hopped on and turned to give Quinn a hand. The ship was already off the ground and preparing to depart, and as Quinn loaded up she hearing the tearing of flesh rip through the hull of their transport. Their Cageth alley had been shot in the arm, tearing open a massive gash in his arm.

The ship blasted away out of the hanger, Objective in the back and under guard as Quinn scrambled over to their injured comrade. “Shit, Medic!”

“We have no medical supplies aboard this vessel, we will shortly aboard the cruiser.” one of the other Cageth replied.

“He won’t survive that long with this bleeding,” Quinn shook her head before digging around in her bag, “Fortunately for us I have a solution,” she finally pulled out a roll of Duct Tape.

“What the hell? When did you start carrying that?” Vec looked at her with utter bewilderment.

“I always carry Duct Tape, it’s mother nature’s greatest bandage,” Quinn bit away at it and began wrapping it around the Cageth’s arm.

“That is highly dangerous, when you tear it off he will bleed again,” One of the other Cageth cocked his head to the side, as confused as Vec.

“It’ll keep him from bleeding out till then, besides my old man showed me how to keep your car doors on tight with Duct tape and industrial glue.” She replied as she finished wrapping his arm. “There. . . You’ll live,” she nodded, proud of her work as the bleeding was stopped temporarily.

“Damn that’s.... Remind me never to go driving with you on our day’s off, unless it’s my ride.” Vec shook his head, “I always wondered what the hell was on your car door.”

“My car is fine,” she rolled her eyes.

The ship continued to their large cruiser, loading up and shipping out before station security could come and pick a fight with them. What happened afterwards, is a story for another time.

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HEY YOU! How’s it going? It was a pleasure to work on this arch of the short stories I’m doing this to pass time during my last year of university. Once again don’t forget, if you have any prompts you want me to work on just send me them, tag me in them, anything at all! I will put them in the que if I like em! All my stories are connected so never fear, old characters will always come back! Until next time, Fly safe fellow Explorer’s of the unknown.

#HUMANS ARE WEIRD #humans in space #humans are space orcs #humans are space oddities

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