#which just breaks Aziraphale’s heart but he can’t complain he did the same thing | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

667-darkavenue · 5 years

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inspired by a couple of the headcanons from this post by @crowleyandaziraphaleruinedme

Agra, 1659. Locked in a tower, a fallen king gazes through the bars of his exquisite prison. No other captive would have the luxury of being held at the top of a marble palace, surrounded by a sprawling view of the capital city. Sometimes, he is allowed to sit on the veranda for fresh air. His daughter comes to see him most days, which helps with the loneliness. Most evenings, the family tutor is allowed to visit. He brings Shah Jahan new books to read. They discuss the Quran and pray together.

The fallen king always liked Aziraphale. He’d been there before the death of the queen and he’d stuck with Shah Jahan after, always reassuring. Even when the world doubted his sanity for dedicating his life to what seemed like a wasteful pipe dream that would come at a colossal price, Aziraphale understood and encouraged. Perhaps, a little too much.

“A clear view of her tomb from my prison, all day and all night.” Shah Jahan frowns at the Taj Mahal gleaming beneath the moonlight. “As far as torture goes, at least the pain is sweet.”

Aziraphale finishes slipping the last of the books he brought through a gap in the bars. “I’ve invited someone to come see it, actually. I’m afraid that’s why I cannot stay tonight.”

The fallen king is unperturbed. “Tell your friend about the lost dream.”

Reluctantly, Aziraphale nods. “Not a friend, but I’ll do that.”

At the correction, Shah Jahan gives a wistful smile, which means he has now misinterpreted what Aziraphale meant even more deeply than at first.

He waits on the edge of the bazaar that night, expecting that he will be the one spotted first. Aziraphale’s appearance doesn’t change much over time, but he is never sure what to look for when it comes to a certain demon.

“Hey, a guard just told me it’s closed at night,” a familiar voice complains at Aziraphale’s side.

He did predict that Crowley would be draped in black, but the veil is a surprise. It’s of the same material as the dark, diaphanous sari Crowley wears across a full sleeved, black velvet top.

“Well, hello. It’s alright, they know I’m working with the royal family.”

“Oh, you’re fancy.”

On their stroll to the great gate, Aziraphale fills Crowley in on the past decade’s local gossip. The king and queen’s epic love, most unusual for a political marriage.

“That’s what brought you here, is it?”

“Oh, no. It took me quite by surprise. It is the reason I stayed, I admit. There’s something remarkable here.”

“There was. And now we’re standing at the gates to her tomb.” Crowley tilts his head back to get a good look at the great gate, a massive red monument that blocks the view of the Taj Mahal behind it.

An inscription in the marble catches his eye.

“O soul, thou art at rest. Return to the Lord at peace with Him, and He at peace with you,” he reads aloud, then turns to Aziraphale with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. “You sure I’m allowed in here, then?”

“It’s somewhat an artistic statement. This gate is supposed to represent a transition from the material world,” Aziraphale vaguely waves a hand in the direction of the bazaar outside, “to the afterlife.”

There’s an interesting little optical illusion that he pauses to point out to Crowley. The first view of the resplendent Taj Mahal is framed by elegant arch of the main gate. Standing in the shadows of the gate, the moon-white monument looks like a picture perfectly framed in black. As they step closer, the Taj seems to grow smaller. Even Crowley, who isn’t typically fazed by tricks, finds himself walking back to the entrance to do a double take. It seems to grow bigger as he walks backwards, away from the Taj.

“How are you doing this?”

“It isn’t me!” Aziraphale gleefully insists. “I pitched in some ideas—call it divine inspiration—but they’re so brilliant here, they figured out how to make it real all on their own.”

Crowley walks through the gate again, taking the illusion in once more. “It is a little brilliant, I’ll give ‘em that. Like a human miracle.”

“And you’re only at the entrance. Just wait.” Aziraphale barely restrains himself from skipping as he leads the way through the lush garden beyond the gate.

He chatters on about how the garden is a representation of Jannah and the water channels along the two paths symbolise the four rivers that flow through it.

“Doesn’t look anything like it, but I suppose it’s a rough interpretation.”

“It’s a symbol, Crowley.”

“I’m not hating. I like this better, even.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

More up close to the Taj now, Aziraphale can see Crowley becoming spellbound. Beneath the veil, his eyes drink up the synthesis of grace and scale as if it could quench his soul. It is a masterpiece of a kind this world hasn’t seen before. Aziraphale shows him the splendid interior, all the way into the inner sanctum that holds the queen’s final resting place. He explains how everything from the foundation to the dome is a feat of engineering. He shares the other illusions he knows the building holds and finds that this magic on a monumental scope is actually quite fascinating to Crowley.

Then, the pair row a boat to the moonlight garden across the river, designed for a perfect view of the full structure. The full moon shines above, the breeze is balmy all around, and the water laps quietly at the riverbank beneath the garden. The Taj Mahal looms directly across from them, a tangible love song that invites anyone in the world to physically walk through its verses.

“I like this,” Crowley admits. “Hamlet exceeded expectations, too.”

“Oh, you liked it?” Aziraphale attempts to sound pleasantly surprised, but it comes off as pleasantly smug.

“Yeah, yeah. So, what did you need here? Consider me sold” He turns his attention to Aziraphale, ready to talk business.

They normally get that out of the way before the fun stuff, but Crowley has no complaints about the change of pace.

Aziraphale’s mouth flaps silently a couple of times before his tongue starts fumbling a response. “Er—I—Well, it’s… Nothing.”

“Oh, spit it out.”

“I don’t need a favor.”

“Sure, you don’t. You told me to come all this way for what? Just to hang out?”

“What’s that tone for?” Offended, Aziraphale splays a hand over his own chest. “We’ve ‘just hung out’ before.”

“Yeah, when we bump into each other.” Crowley throws his hands up only to let them fall back at his side, in an impatient gesture that clinks the silver bangles around his wrists. “I was on a different continent, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale takes a deep inhale. Crowley waits for a sigh that never comes. He just holds it in.

“You miss me?” Crowley prods, eyes gleaming behind the veil.

He looks away. “I asked you to come here because I wanted to know if it was just me.”

“Just you what?”

“This place… The humans poured their hearts and souls into making an earthly representation of heaven. But the thing is—I never saw anything this sublime in heaven. Not even close.” He gazes up and down the radiant marble mausoleum on the opposite bank. “This isn’t made of the cosmos, or the divine. It’s only stone on stone. And it beats heaven.”

Such things, he could never say aloud to the devout king that he prays with. He could never admit to his own kind. He has nothing to lose from sharing it with Crowley.

“It isn’t just you,” Crowley concedes with ease. “They didn’t snap their fingers and miracle it into existence. And still, they made a wonder. That’s pretty amazing. How many people worked on this, and for how long?”

“Too many for too long,” Aziraphale mumbles, casting his eyes down. “Shah Jahan became obsessed. He practically ran the empire into the ground to build it.”

“Classic aftermath of hubris.”

“I think I caused it. I pushed it too far, Crowley.” Aziraphale chews his lip, face wracked with guilt.

Helplessly confessing mistakes to this demon has somehow become a troubling habit. It would be easier to break if Crowley didn’t choose these moments to suddenly become a patient listener.

“I was so set on this idea of this… of an ageless message of pure love, unaffected by time or war—or by the rise and fall of empires. I… I kept suggesting more. It spiralled out of hand and so many people suffered for the emperor’s devotion.”

“But, Aziraphale, I saw you in there. You love it. You’re brimming with delight in there.”

“I can’t help it,” his voice comes dangerously close to being described as a whine, “Ever since its completion, it has this—this effect. I’ve never felt anything like it. It’s so enveloping, so enormous, that I can feel it from here. I can feel it in the streets. Even in the farthest corners of the city, I’m unsuspectingly pricked by traces of it.”

“What is ‘it?’”

“Oh. It’s love.”

Crowley furrows his brow, not sensing any of what’s obvious to the angel. “The old emperor’s love?”

“No, everyone’s love. The people who come here each day and see this, they leave with the notion of love in their hearts. So much of it that it pours a trail wherever they go. And it is so concentrated, right here.”

“Job well done for you, then. Jot that on your report and they’ll eat it up.”

“Of course, they will. I just—The dark side is still there, even if I don’t tell anyone.”

“You told me. Blame it on me, over here trying to spoil a good thing.”

“Shah Jahan has the best intentions. I mean, he was named king of the world and he wants his legacy to be his great love. All this, and he never even had the chance to complete his life’s work,” Aziraphale laments. “He was deposed and imprisoned by his own family, to save the empire from the extravagance of his grief.”

“He never—You mean this isn’t done?” Crowley blinks incredulously across the river, unable to fathom what could possibly be missing from the Taj.

Aziraphale shake’s his head. “Everything in its design is symmetrical. This garden, where we’re standing… This is where he planned to build another identical mausoleum, hewn from black marble, where he would be entombed directly across from his love. The black Taj would be a mirror image of the white Taj, down to the very last speck.”

“Ah.” Crowley gives a curt nod the moment the understanding hits. “If he brought the empire to the edge of ruin to finish the white one, I see how that idea could be the last straw for his family.”

Aziraphale nods back solemnly. “They aren’t wrong. Now, I wonder where he would be if I’d never suggested it.”

“I still think it was a good idea,” Crowley says with a shrug.

For a wordless minute, they gaze at the flawless, glowing Taj on the opposite bank. Alone.

Crowley’s the one to break the silence. “I could make a Black Taj.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Aziraphale clicks his tongue. “That’s an enormous miracle. You couldn’t explain yourself when they question what it’s for.”

“Nah, it’s not.” Crowley brings his hand up to his forehead, then slowly down.

It looks as though he is beginning to do the sign of the cross, except that his hand never moves to either side. It continues down in a straight line.

“What are you doing?” Aziraphale looks over his shoulder, fearfully expecting to see a black monument rising.

“Other way, angel.”

Aziraphale’s face whips around to the white Taj, thankfully unchanged across the river. The full moon above it is sinking low, real low, and impossibly fast. Crowley pulls the moon down across the sky until it dips behind the Taj Mahal, framing the immaculate marble in its glow.

“Do you see it?” he asks.

At first, Aziraphale doesn’t see anything at all. Not until he looks at Crowley’s face and sees that his golden eyes are pointed downwards. Aziraphale follows his line of sight to the river running beneath them. He sees the Taj Mahal’s reflection in the wine-dark waters of the Yamuna, and his lips part in awe. The halo of moonlight around it creates a wavy shadow image of a black Taj Mahal.

Aziraphale turns his gaze to the fort in the distance, where he knows the fallen king spends his nights gazing at the Taj from his tower, and hopes that he is witnessing this miracle.

“It’s even better than we could’ve imagined,” he tells Crowley. “It’s magical.”

Crowley hums, making an effort not to look too pleased with Aziraphale’s delight. “I don’t move celestial bodies for anyone, you know.”

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale

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northeasternwind · 5 years

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mutual presumed dead mourning 1/2

Oh wait posts with links don’t appear in the tags.

Oh well I guess I have to post it wholesale FIC WHERE AZ ACCIDENTALLY FREES HASTUR WHEN HE CALLS CROWLEY AND HASTUR MANAGES TO FOOL BOTH HIM AND CROWLEY INTO THINKING THE OTHER IS PERMANENTLY DEAD

~~~

Aziraphale does not manage to call Crowley before Shadwell interrupts him, and this changes everything. It takes a small miracle and a large wad of cash to send Shadwell off none the wiser, but Aziraphale manages it without stepping into the circle and discorporating himself. In the moment he considers this a success, though later he will wonder if he couldn’t have spared them all some unnecessary heartache if he had failed.

Aziraphale inches carefully around the circle, returns to the shop’s phone, and dials his best friend.

He has, for better or for worse, wasted too much time.

“Crowley!” he cries, once the line goes live. He can’t wait a second longer to begin his apology, which is a shame, because he might have thought better of his next words in that case. “Crowley, I know where the Antichrist is—”

“Do you?”

Aziraphale is shocked into silence. This is not Crowley’s voice, unless Crowley’s voice has become deeper and more menacing since they last spoke in front of the bookshop.

“Excuse me,” he says, slightly baffled. “To whom am I speaking?”

The answer is a sinister laugh. “So you’re the infamous Aziraphale,” the voice goes on, apparently ignoring him. Ah, must be a—

Oh dear. Must be a demon.

The forces of Hell have figured out it was my fault.

Aziraphale feels the beat of his body’s heart quicken, a cold feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. Crowley said he was running away— but he also said he was going home first. He might not have been home, and for now Aziraphale decides to cling to that, because the alternative is… dangerous.

“I do believe you are breaking and entering,” he says with some asperity, mind working furiously. Aziraphale has occasionally met with his superiors in his bookshop, but Crowley would never invite other demons into his flat, and so he is quite confident in this conclusion. But that still leaves Aziraphale with a demon in Crowley’s flat, and Crowley not there, and no explanation for either of those truths except what his imagination can provide.

“Well, we did ring the doorbell first.”

Aziraphale has nothing to say to that. That’s actually rather polite of them.

“I’d like a change of scenery, though,” the voice continues. “And I’d also like to meet Crowley’s little pigeon friend.”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale says, out loud this time.

A maggot wiggles its way out of the receiver. He’d been expecting it, but Aziraphale still lets out a rather unangelic yelp and backs away, hastily inching back around the circle as an avalanche of writhing insects and larvae come pouring from the phone, building in a great mound that stretches its fingers out toward Aziraphale—

At least until it hits the circle, at which point some of the maggots squeal and sizzle away, and the mound collapses in on itself and grows until it is shaped like a man instead of a pile of fly children.

(Aziraphale will wonder, later, why Hastur transformed into maggots instead of, say, tadpoles. Perhaps he and Beelzebub switched.)

The newly formed demon takes a slow, deliberate look around, and Aziraphale quietly takes the opportunity to unlock the door behind him. Black eyes with a frog on his head— this must be Hastur, the demon that destroyed the records at Tadfield Manor, and the subject of many of Crowley’s multiple complaints about Hell and its inhabitants.

There was a demon in Crowley’s flat. Now there is a demon in Aziraphale’s bookshop.

Hastur sneers. “You don’t look like much. Why does Crowley bother with you?”

Aziraphale’s chances of teasing information out of Hastur subtly before violence occurs are looking rather slim, so he goes for the direct approach instead. “Where is he? What were you doing in his flat?”

And here, further, is another moment when Aziraphale’s luck runs dry: Hastur is not a smart demon, by any means, nor a particularly creative one. He does, however, know the power of watching allies die: he has just experienced it himself, was reduced momentarily to a screaming fit after watching Ligur dissolve into a puddle of demonic goo.

He doesn’t know exactly what it means to be someone’s friend, but he does know that Crowley and Aziraphale are allies, at least, and that’s good enough for him.

“Dangerous game, keeping holy water so close,” Hastur says in a low voice, and watches with satisfaction as Aziraphale’s eyes widen and his shoulders drop— as though he were a puppet cut free from its strings. “Especially when you’re expecting company…”

A high noise fills Aziraphale’s ears. Crowley is smarter than that. He wanted it for precisely this reason— to use on other demons, not to have it stolen and used on him.

Crowley is smart. Crowley is clever. Crowley would never…

“Why should I believe you?” he demands, though his voice is rather higher-pitched than he prefers. “You’re a demon. Demons lie.”

“It doesn’t matter. Our lord will call his servants to him, and you will die here, unable to stop him.”

“I’ll do no such thi—”

Here is some useful information about demons:

There are ten million of them, give or take some thousands, but the vast majority of them cannot produce hellfire. Hellfire is a resource, one that must be created and stored, and then brought out when it is called for. As such, for the lesser demons hellfire is a precious resource that most ration and guard for emergencies, or for particularly sour grudges.

Hastur is a Duke of Hell. He does have the power to create hellfire, and while he cannot make much— well, it hardly matters when he is standing in a building of flammable material, and Aziraphale is wearing flammable, human-made clothing that has seen nearly two hundred years of wear.

Hastur’s hand shoots forward, and with a startled yelp Aziraphale miracles a bookshelf into the space between them. It bursts into infernal flame and begins to tip backwards, toward Aziraphale, who reverses its fall, turns tail and flees, not keen to waste time battling a demon when the world is ending in mere hours and Crowley is missing.

Hastur spits flame onto the magic sigil, burning away just enough to turn it off, then steps forth and blows the bookshelf to pieces.

Aziraphale is already out the door.

No matter. Hastur smiles a demonic smile, turns, and begins systematically setting the rest of the bookshop on fire, so he can watch the paper curl and turn to smoke, so he can take some joy in destroying an angel’s precious possessions, and because Crowley has only one ally in the world— and if Hastur had one ally in the world he knows exactly where he would go next.

~~~

Crowley, unfortunately, arrives by way of the street Aziraphale does not flee through.

He does call Aziraphale on his way over, which helps him not at all: the phone doesn’t even begin to ring, just goes straight to informing him that his call cannot be completed, would he please try again later?

It’s the message that plays when Aziraphale is already using the phone— but, he thinks, looking at the flames that have inexplicably replaced his phone’s photo of his only friend, it’s also the message that plays when the line no longer exists.

He’s just paranoid. Ligur is dead, and Hastur is trapped. It’s probably a call from Heaven, although knowing that Aziraphale can’t hang up on Heaven to answer him instead is a pain all its own. There’s only one obvious thing for Crowley to do now, so Crowley puts the thought out of his mind and continues to speed his way through London.

It doesn’t much matter how much thought he does or doesn’t put into it, because his conclusion upon reaching his destination is the same. He highly doubts Aziraphale purposefully set his own bookshop on fire.

“Excuse me!” a firefighter shouts. “Are you the owner of this establishment?”

“Do I look like I own a bookshop?” Crowley answers sourly, and steps into the flaming building.

As soon as the doors close behind him Crowley feels it: the infernal stench of hellfire, the sort of smell that clings to you long after you’ve washed its source away. Fire is bad enough— the thought that someone might have maliciously sent Aziraphale back to Heaven, bodiless, really grinds his intestines in a way that makes his stomach complain quite passionately— but the thought of Aziraphale being gone, truly gone—

“Aziraphale!”

It can’t be. He’d been so careful, he’d made sure Hell didn’t know about Aziraphale, didn’t know they were friends and certainly didn’t know where to find him. There is no reason whatsoever for the bookshop to be literally burning in the flames of Hell, the only thing that could take Aziraphale from him for eternity. It doesn’t occur to him to wonder if Aziraphale escaped: he must be here, if only Crowley can find him!

“Aziraphale, where the Heaven are you?! I can’t find you—”

He cannot sense Aziraphale, here or anywhere else. But Aziraphale has always chosen kindness, so if Crowley shouts loud enough, if he can make Aziraphale feel his desperation, then Aziraphale will almost certainly appear to ease it.

“Crowley,” Hastur greets lowly, as though he has always been there.

Crowley freezes, and turns to look. It is definitely Hastur, and not some illusion or demonic twin he’s been keeping secret all this time. Hastur is here, and not in Crowley’s voicemail, and behind him the bookshop phone lays abandoned on the floor.

“Hastur!” Crowley returns genially, purely by reflex.

Hastur breaks into a grin that shows altogether too many teeth. “He called for you.”

Hastur, as pointed out before, is not very smart. What Hastur means to say is, ‘he called your phone and set me free, and here I am, having definitely killed him and set fire to his domicile.’

But what Crowley hears is ‘he cried out for you when I killed him, believing right up until the end that you would come save him again, and you didn’t,’ and this awakens something hot and ugly in him that 6000 years of restraint can’t control.

Crowley lets out an inhuman shriek and dives, reaching blindly for Hastur’s neck. Hastur simply miracles himself closer, so that Crowley’s hands fall uselessly past him and Hastur may grab his collar, holding him fast with a slimy smirk.

“There’s nowhere—”

He never finishes. Crowley lunges forward in Hastur’s grip and sinks demonic teeth into Hastur’s throat.

There is a struggle, though for the sake of stomachs everywhere it shall remain undescribed. All that matters is the outcome: a demon collapses limp on the floor of the bookshop as Crowley spits out his prize. Feels anger— and everything else— drain out of him. Wipes his chin.

“Gross,” he mutters, and turns to leave. His extraneous heart has stopped beating. There is nothing left for him here.

He picks up the nearest mostly-intact book— souvenir— and throws the doors open. The firefighters don’t bother him this time; there’s no point in saving his strength, or his miracles. There are nothing but enemies left now, so he may as well make whatever remains of his time on Earth convenient. No one asks him to explain as he crosses the street and climbs into the Bentley, feeling the weight of the door more than he ever has in 90 years.

He carelessly tosses the book onto the passenger seat. It slides off, and something tips out of the open pages.

Crowley doesn’t care about that or anything else anymore, but he frowns despite himself. Aziraphale has— had— a strict No Inserts Except Flowers And Bookmarks policy, and even then he mostly found other ways to dry flowers or mark his pages.

He leans down, scoops up the paper— a map, it seems— and opens it, more to wallow in curiosity over his perished friend than anything else.

Adam Young 4 Hogback Lane Tadfield

...Tadfield.

Tadfield.

“Bloody Heaven!” Crowley shouts, to no one in particular. “You clever bastard! You figured it out! You—”

Aziraphale had done it: he’d found the Antichrist, and called Crowley, and freed Hastur, and arranged his own demise. Despite all his talk of Heaven, despite abandoning Crowley for those who didn’t give one whit about him, twice, Aziraphale had made his decision— had in the end called Crowley, to tell him how to save the world.

(Abandoning is a strong word. It has never been a question of Aziraphale choosing who cares for him the most, or who he cares for the most: it has always been a question of right and wrong, because Aziraphale has spent all of time believing that Heaven is by nature good and Crowley is by nature evil, and six thousand years of temptation could never convince Aziraphale to choose evil.

Which means one of two things: either Aziraphale believes that Crowley and the Earth and humanity are good, or he doesn’t and has chosen them anyway, and both of those options are vaguely, elatingly terrifying.)

Aziraphale had died saving the world, and by Satan or God or whoever else there was to swear on Crowley would try his damned best to do the same.

“Right! Tadfield.” Heart pounding, hands shaking, Crowley tosses the map onto the passenger seat and starts the car. “They got your bookshop, angel, but they’re not getting your blessed sushi.”

#good omens #ineffable husbands #north writes

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veronica-rich · 5 years

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more one-shot fic

I may have done A Thing and wrote another little Good Omens fic. I’d complain I’m not writing original fiction, but to be honest I’m just relieved I can write anything these days, so I won’t look a gift horse in the teeth. (Oh, and it’s under my name at AO3 as well.)

Our Own Best Friends (the ineffable husbands, natch - and if you haven’t seen the entire televised series, it won’t make sense)

He thought of the little scrap of paper in his vest as he trailed the tips of his fingers over the parchment-like edge. He knew it was old stock, and smoke-damaged, and didn’t want to mess with it too much; but, he needed something to do with his hands.

This somehow tied up in his mind with his traveling companion, and how he wouldn’t have been able to snatch the scrap out of the air if Crowley hadn’t rescued the book in the first place, and the memory of utter devastation in his broken voice when he’d said he’d lost his best friend. Said companion was staring resolutely forward, undoubtedly lamenting his lost car and music now that the shock of the day was settling in. For no reason he could immediately vocalize, Aziraphale picked up the demon’s closest hand, curling their palms together, then pulling his right hand out of his pocket to place over the back of it, sandwiching Crowley’s fingers. He was surprised at the lack of immediate response, but a few seconds later, the man – man? Well, this week at least, he was male – gave a little start and turned his head, and Zira realized he’d been napping. “How you can sleep on a moving vehicle is beyond me,” he observed quietly. “Well, how you can sleep, at all. We don’t really need it, do we.”

Crowley gave his fingers a little flex in response, but Zira understood his question. “I’d rather not talk about it on the bus,” he rebutted, keeping his own eyes to the front. Long fingers flexed again, this time sliding between his own, getting a better grip. He absently rubbed his thumb along the little nub of Crowley’s wristbone. “But I do have … an idea, of sorts. To go over later.”

“An idea.” It was quiet, in the same tone he’d reminded Zira of the destroyed bookshop, which made him momentarily catch his breath and clamp down on a strangled sigh, the only thing coming out a little escaped, “Oh.” Crowley’s fingers squeezed his minutely. “Angel-“ he began, and Zira knew he understood the sound he’d made. Nobody in the history of Time had known him as well; not even, it seemed, his own Creator.

That brought him back to his earlier remark and the scrap of paper. “About them. Dealing with … things, tomorrow. Whenever.” Okay, it seemed he would rather talk about it now. “The book – Agnes’s book – there was something from it,” he explained sotto voce, tilting his head to be heard, not quite seeing his companion’s face but feeling eyes on him through the incongruous shades. “A prophecy, and I think it referred to us.” He didn’t want to remove his right hand to reach in his pocket. “Being mindful of our faces; playing with fire.” He could quote it, but that didn’t seem necessary right now.

“And?”

He breathed in deeply. “I read through the entire book. Agnes was quite literal. She didn’t really deal in metaphors or symbolism.” Or correct spelling, he mused. “If she wrote ‘fire’ … well, she saw flames, of some sort.”

Crowley caught on. “And faces – means our actual faces.”

He turned then to look up into the other’s said face. “I would surmise as much, yes.” Even under the low overhead aisle lights he could see the serpentine eyes through the dark glasses, and the brief drop of eyelids that meant Crowley was watching his mouth. His lips involuntarily parted, and he swallowed and turned to face front again. “Something about fire, and our faces, and-“ He dropped it, not knowing where his mind should go next.

Fortunately, it seemed the other made good use of the rest of the ride to mull it over, for after they were inside Crowley’s flat and Zira was mid-sip of something deeply red and deeply oak-y, the demon blew out a giant breath and said, “Switching.”

He finished swallowing and frowned. “Pardon?”

Tilting the bottle to top off Zira’s glass of wine, he repeated, “Switching. We make Heaven and Hell each think we’re the other.” He set the bottle down and came around to Zira’s side, dropping his voice further. “Rather, we don’t tip them off that we are each other, I mean.”

“That you’re me and I’m you?” He noticed Crowley was almost on top of his personal space, and inhaled the body heat and smoke that clung to his corporation. “Why are you practically whispering in my ear?”

“We don’t know who’s monitoring, do we?” he murmured. “Besides, I think I’m onto something. Is it bothering you?”

“You could not bother me, my dear.”

What sounded like a “hngk” came out of Crowley’s throat, but he asked, “Where’s the prophecy?” Zira pulled it out of his pocket as the demon removed his glasses and tossed them aside before taking the slip of paper. “Riiiiight,” he drawled, instead of reading it aloud. “Definitely looks like a switcheroo.”

“Yes, I rather thought so myself.” Zira took another healthy slug of wine and cleared his throat as he turned to face the other fully. “So …”

“So …?” Crowley repeated, cocking his head.

They watched each other for a good twenty seconds. “I mean, one of us has to know how to do this,” Zira finally broke the silence, less for something to say and more to snap the hazy gauze Crowley’s expression seemed to be spinning around the two of them. “You?”

“I know how to inhabit an empty corporation,” Crowley answered slowly, precisely. “But not like you can, with someone already in it.”

“What do you mean, with somebody-“

“You just did it, less than twelve or so hours ago!” he snapped.

“And you’ve never possessed anyone? EVER?”

“That’s not how I work.” When Zira raised an eyebrow, he shrugged. “Never seemed to be necessary, really. I just put ideas in their heads; a look here; a well-placed whisper there. Suggestion.” His eyes, shimmering and hooded, were unmoving on Zira’s own.

“Yes. Well-“ He felt flush and tried to shake it off. “I suppose I can see how that would work for you.”

“Do you?”

“Of course not,” Zira admitted. “Seduction’s not my gift, after all.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Crowley murmured, and Zira turned, putting his glass aside. “Did-“

“Surely you must know how to carry out a possession even if you’ve never done it, though?” Zira asked, interrupting whatever the other was about to add. He turned back, determined not to step away from their proximity. “Look, Madame Tracy was a receptive medium; I don’t actually know how I managed to find my way inside her body.”

“Bet that’s the first time you’ve had to say that.” Zira realized after a few beats it was a joke, and his mouth parted indignantly as Crowley grinned. Their difference of emotion balanced on a knife’s edge, tense, until Zira finally laughed, loud. “Crowley!” he admonished.

“I couldn’t resist, angel.” There was a rare twinkle of humor in his eyes, the first evidence of non-worry he’d seen in ages – and then he remembered the little twist to his lips as he’d said “I lost my best friend” less than a day ago, and what he’d known at the time were tears, even hidden behind smoked glass.

He was tired of resisting touch. He reached up and cradled the other’s face, pulling their foreheads together gingerly. “My dear,” he sighed, brushing his nose against Crowley’s. “My own lapsed angel.”

His stomach flipped as he felt eyelashes brush his cheeks, Crowley dipping his head to slide their noses together more. “Aziraphale,” he hissed hotly, hands on his back, sliding together to draw their bodies closer. “Thank Satan for that boy to bring you back like this.”

Their lips didn’t meet, instead barely hovering. “I’d wager … this, is a lot milder than what you’re used to,” Zira said with a small self-conscious chuckle, as he explored Crowley’s hair further with his left fingers, feeling short crimson locks card between them. “Not exactly den of iniquity stuff.”

At that, he suddenly had the counter in his back, as Crowley pushed him against it. “I have never been seduced by anyone the way you do it,” he murmured. “You’re just so … so damn … Your allure seems so effortless …”

Hot breath ghosted his lips, nearly as searing as he imagined the depths of hell. “You can’t mean that.” Zira was surprised to hear a growl in his own voice; that nose was rubbing his gently, the mouth almost on top of his. “I mean, the way you look, you … slink, you have got to have others throwing themselves at-“

“I don’t want them.” Lips finally touched his, just barely, and he let out a little moan. “I don’t want to touch them, to see their True Forms.” Another light kiss. “I don’t want to stroke their wings and feel their arms and roll around in their essence, angel.”

He couldn’t stand it, tightening his hold on Crowley’s face and hair and tilting his chin up for a more solid kiss. The ache wound its way up from the depths of his millennia-old soul, and he didn’t know how long it lasted before a soft breeze distracted him into breaking it. He pulled back and opened his eyes only to be looking up through slats of dark softness. “Oh, they’re lovely,” he breathed, marveling at the giant black wings curled protectively around the two of them. “I’ve always thought so.”

Soft golden eyes pinned his heart as he gave his lover a smile of pure joy and light. “Here,” he offered, pressing Crowley back several steps, then sighing and allowing his own wings to unfurl. They arched briefly, then automatically wound around the black ones, vibrating gently and brushing them. “My own heart,” he began, but was cut off by more kissing, this one a little rougher and harder. His pulse shot up and he licked the snake’s tongue he could now feel. “My beautiful serpent.”

“Careful, Zira,” he hissed, and the angel laughed joyfully, which also oddly pulled a chuckle from Crowley. “You’ll spoil me.”

“You deserve spoiling,” he said firmly. “All the things you’ve done for me.” He played with Crowley’s hair some more, used the tips of his wings to stroke the spines of the black ones beneath them, now trembling a little. “All the rescues and aid and compassion, and company, and …” He trailed off in realization, then lifted his chin to kiss the other’s nose. “All that love, over all those centuries,” he marveled. “It took me so long to see what I felt all along.”

“And with all your eyes,” Crowley grumbled, but Zira could sense the affection under the words.

“None are so blind as those who refuse to see,” he countered, pulling back to look at him again. “Well, I’m not refusing any longer. I know who’s on my side.”

“Are you sure?” Crowley frowned a bit. “I mean, yeah, but – this is something you’ve come to on your own, right? Things won’t go easy.”

“Difficulty is relative,” he pointed out. “Nothing’s been harder than not being able to credit you for how you’ve made yourself available to help me – to help humans – for all these ages, my dear.” Zira sighed. “I was never meant to guard or guide them alone. I need you; they need us.”

The demon said nothing, but kissed his temple and slowly stroked his hair, and Zira closed his eyes, basking in the touch he’d denied them both for so long. Finally, he said, “I would love to spend days doing nothing but touching you like this, but we have to figure out what Agnes meant, sooner than later. How do we make it so we each get past the other side?”

“I’m having a thought,” Crowley answered, and Zira felt the voice rumble from Crowley’s chest into his own, “that it’s a mixture of possession and glamour.” He pulled back, grinning. “Let’s give ‘em the old razzle-dazzle, Roxie.”

Many hours later …

“I think,” Aziraphale practically hummed, almost giddy with a nearly-assured victory over the forces of darkness, “it would be best if you left me alone from now on, hmm?” He didn’t even notice he’d gotten the socks wet, so focused he was on staring down Crowley’s tribunal of three shocked demons. He wanted to be certain each one looked into those snake’s eyes and realized they weren’t dealing with a tamed instrument of Satan, but instead, a dangerous and capricious foe it would be unwise to cross.

Meanwhile …

Crowley spent an inordinate time brushing down the lapels of the old coat and worn velveteen of the waistcoat, waiting until he raised his gaze and met the eyes of his angel’s failed executioners before tugging this way and that on the bowtie to even it out. “None the worse for wear,” he declared, putting as much beatific into the smile as he could muster from pre-Fall memory, “no thanks to you, of course.” He lowered his hands, fixing each with a frostier stare, gratified to see respect, at last, for the true power he knew this Principality could wield. “I trust there will be no more problems, and no interference in my work, as set out by those with … higher authority, than your order. Quite right?”

In The Beginning, Take Two …

“You told them WHAT?” Zira resisted the urge to react, scandalized, and instead laughed. “Oh dear. You had them think I’m acting on orders directly from Her?”

“Shhh,” Crowley tugged at the angel’s sleeve briefly and dropped his voice. “Keep it on the down-low; you’ve got to look like you already know all this, after all. I mean, you said it.”

“Hmm. Quite.” Zira tried to give him a stern look, but he knew it just came out fond, particularly when the corner of Crowley’s mouth lifted in such a fetching smile. He reached for their second bottle of champagne. “More, my dear?”

He tilted his flute over, and even under the dark lenses, as always, Zira could tell Crowley’s gaze was fixed on him. “Always more, angel.”

#good omens #fanfic #ineffable husbands #spoilers

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