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goodomensblog · 4 years

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Afterward - Part 14

A Good Omens Choose Your Own Adventure Fic

Here’s how it works:

I’ll write a scene.

At the end of each scene, you’ll be presented with 2-3 options for what the characters will choose to do next.

Comment or reblog to vote for your choice. I’ll count all votes after the first 24 hours after each update is posted.

Read: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13

(#1 won! Crowley is off to investigate!)

Afterward - - - Part 14

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Scrolls jut from towering shelves, a canopy of yellowing paper arching overhead. Crowley strolls beneath, jar of Hellfire tucked under his arm.

The painted Bentley is flaking, an echo of the colorful fresco it had undoubtedly been, once upon a time. Nowadays, Heaven is pale, sterile, and sprawling. The decorations of old had likely been purged with each of Heaven’s remodelings. All, it seems, but this one here.

Crowley stops short in front of the mural. Tilting his head, he studies it, tentative fingertips tracing curling edges of paint. The Bentley is painted in hues of black that long ago faded to shadow grays. From beneath it’s wheels, brush stoked flames crawl. The pale, peeling flames encircle the vehicle, climbing in and out of the windows. The car is painted as if it is emerging from a wall of fire. And beyond that - the mural is obscured.

Eyeing the dark shelves, Crowley places his hands on cool wood. Bracing, he gives a single, solid push.

It scrapes effortlessly over marble, and the mural uncovers, inch by inch. When the wall is clear, Crowley, wiping sweaty palms on his pants, steps back.

The mural is - broken.

Entire patches of it have worn away, a likely combination of age and neglect.

In one corner is the flaming Bentley. Above it and slightly to the right, half of an electric scooter drives along; it’s hunched riders are ghosts, little more than pale outlines amidst peeling paint. Nearby, a boy stands, blue jacket billowing, flaking golden paint encircling his head. His small hand is raised.

The scene is hauntingly familiar.

Narrowing his eyes, Crowley strolls along the mural, tracing his hand along rough paint. Slivers flake and fall, drifting like snow upon the marble floor.

The mural is ruined and peeling in the areas immediately surrounding the boy. Beyond the stretch of pale wall, the mural choppily resumes. Rendered in harsh strokes, a red-eyed being claws its way from brutal cracks in the earth, black mist rising. Patches of paint are worn away, and when the mural resumes, Crowley’s fingers are running over the blood mad eyes of Hell hounds, who are painted with their heads thrown back in grimacing howls. The sky above them is red.

The mural goes patchy again, but Crowley’s pretty sure he can make out the whitewashed gates of Heaven, and - huge, clawed and pale fingers curling possessively over it’s top.

“Hm,” Crowley says, giving the clutching hand a once-over. “That doesn’t look good.”

Nearly the entirety of the remaining mural has fallen into ruin - except for a splash of paint at the end. Or, more specifically, two splashes of paint. Clear, crisp white and rich, velvety black collide in a crash of colors.

Upon closer inspection, Crowley notices that there are figures within the splashes.

Squinting, Crowley leans in, and realizes the vaguely shaped beings within are reaching toward one another. Where their outstretched reaches touch, a rainbow of color blossoms. Beneath, nearly entirely erased by time an age, precise black lettering spells: Bilanx.

“Balance?”

What does it mean?

Before Crowley has much of a chance to consider, the room rumbles, rocking. Crowley stumbles back as scrolls, tipping from their precarious stacks, begin to tumble down around him.

Alright then. Crowley thinks, giving the mural a last fleeting look. Time to go.

Clutching the Hellfire under one arm, Crowley charges the stairs. This time they cooperate, and he’s out of the Hall of Records and back to sprinting across the atrium in moments. In the marble hallways, the lights have faded to a barely-there glow and are flickering rapidly on then off.

Crowley takes corners at a full sprint, shoes skidding on the smooth floors.

He’s relieved when he sees Gabriel’s doors are still closed. If something had come for Aziraphale, Crowley reasons, they wouldn’t have taken the time to close the door after themselves.

Crowley flings the suite doors open.

“Angel!�� he calls, striding in. “I got the-”

He stops.

The room is silent. And bare.

No, wait. Not entirely bare. A small, dark shape is curled, motionless on the couch.

Not daring to breathe, Crowley pivots, looking over the room.

“Aziraphale?”

Silence is his only answer.

He crosses the room, shoes sinking into the infuriatingly plush carpet.

“Aziraphale? Where are you?”

Clutching the Hellfire to his chest, Crowley turns in a small circle.

The lump on the couch hasn’t moved. Lifting his glasses, Crowley squints.

“Beelzebub?”

The Lord of Hell is curled in on themselves. Beneath them, the couch is soaked in dark, stale blood. Their face, leeched of color, is partially obscured by black, matted hair.

“Shit,” Crowley curses, hopping over the coffee table.

Gripping the demon lord’s shoulder, Crowley pulls them onto their back. They roll, limp, head lolling back.

Cursing under his breath, Crowley gives their shoulder a shake.

Nothing.

He shakes a little harder.

Still nothing.

“Oh come on! Wake up!” Crowley hisses, and gives them a rough, abrupt shake.

Chapped lips part; Beelzebub heaves a low, jagged breath.

“See? Knew you hadn’t kicked the bucket,” Crowley says, breathless, and sinks limply down on the table’s edge.

“You….have the Hellfire?” Beelzebub rasps, squinting a tired, pale eye open.

“Got it right here,” Crowley says patting the lid, “And I’ll happily use it to patch you up right as soon as you tell me where in Heaven Aziraphale-”

“Your angel left,” Beelzebub says, breath rattling between words. “We felt the...thing. And the angels started….screaming. He waited....but the screams got louder and louder….and then screams turned to pleas….and your angel begged my forgiveness,” Beelzebub adds with a dry, bloody chuckle, “then left.... to try to save them.”

Crowley surges up, jar of Hellfire loose in his grasp.

“When? Beelzebub, how long ago did he leave?”

“...ten minutes...I’d say. For a few minutes now….it’s been silent.”

Crowley straightens. Fingers, only slightly trembling, shove his sunglasses higher on his nose. He has to go. Now.

“....you’re going to leave me, aren’t you?” Beelzebub, rasps, their pale eyes cool and discerning. “At least….leave me the Hellfire….to give me.... a fighting chance.”

Crowley can feel his pulse down to his fingers. Jaw clenched, he looks down at the jar.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Aziraphale has gone to help the angels, and is presumably facing off against whatever the thing is that has broken into heaven. Crowley has returned with the jar of Hellfire, to find Beelzebub still alive - but inching closer to death with every passing moment. Desperate to follow after Aziraphale, but with Beelzebub’s life hanging in the balance, Crowley makes the difficult decision to...

Stay just long enough to heal Beelzebub with the Hellfire. Crowley can’t stand the thought of Aziraphale facing danger without him….but as much as he wants to rush after Aziraphale, Crowley can’t ignore the feeling that leaving Beelzebub to die is wrong. He may be a demon, but he’s never been a monster.

Go after Aziraphale, but leave Beelzebub with the Hellfire so they can at least try to heal themselves. Crowley will never forgive himself if something happens to Aziraphale. He knows it is wrong to leave Beelzebub without helping them, but he is willing to be a monster, just this once, if it means potentially saving Aziraphale’s life.

Piggy-back Beelzebub and heal them on-the-go. Crowley is a demon of many talents - multi-tasking being one of them. As a firm believer that one can absolutely have their cake and eat it too, Crowley decides he will immediately go after Aziraphale WHILE healing good old Beelz. What could possibly go wrong?

Please comment or reblog to vote! :) Thanks for reading!

Part 15

#my writing #choose your own adventure fic #ineffable husbands #ineffable partners #good omens #ineffable husbands fic #ineffable husbands fanfic #ineffable husbands fanfiction #multi-chapter fic #aziraphale #crowley #good omens beelzebub #choose your own adventure

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the-moon-loves-the-sea · 5 years

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You know what, I don’t think Aziraphale did know Crowley meant him when he said, “I lost my best friend.” Hence the sad, confused little “I’m sorry to hear that,” and then moving on immediately to strategy. Because he doesn’t think he deserves to ask who that was, and he already knows it’s not him. He had said horrible things to Crowley the last time they’d talked—had denied he liked him, had refused to choose him, and had made himself cry when he said it was over, because he thought it really was. He didn’t think he’d get another chance with Crowley if he chose heaven over him, but he thought doing that was his duty. Still he didn’t expect to be forgiven, since it felt so wrong even to himself, which is why (I think) he looked so shocked when Crowley asked him back to his place, after everything. It’s obvious he wants to—his look goes from stunned to wistful in a second—but he says immediately that heaven won’t like it. We know he doesn’t trust them any more, he called them bad angels and said he wasn’t a good one—he left them. But I think he left them to go down fighting. I think there was a good chance he hadn’t thought past I have to do something and when the world didn’t end he had no idea what to do next. He thinks he’s already hurt Crowley too badly to get his trust back; he rejected him, twice, when Crowley had just laid his heart out, and he wouldn’t forgive himself for that. He thinks heaven is all he has left and he has to try not to alienate them any more, even if that’s a doomed effort too. He might think Crowley is just being kind by offering him a night’s shelter—that he doesn’t mean anything by it. Or he might be testing to see if Crowley means it—if Crowley would still face down heaven’s wrath for him, after everything, the way he faced Satan himself when Az asked him to. Which is why it’s so important that to Aziraphale’s “My side wouldn’t like that,” Crowley says immediately, “We don’t have sides any more.” He’s echoing what he said at that bandstand. He’s telling Aziraphale that he’s forgiven him; as far as he’s concerned, they can still be on their own side. He’s letting him know that the offer to run away with him—even just to run away home—still stands.

#i have more feelings #good omens

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lady-divine-writes · 4 years

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Angel, Angel, Burning Bright (Rated M)

Summary: In a dystopian society where free thought and speech are both outlawed, and firemen set fires instead of putting them out, Aziraphale is a rebel, trying to rescue books from incineration, with the help of his friend, Crowley, who happens to be a fireman. (4422 words)

Notes: Human AU. Inspired by Fahrenheit 451. Warning for angst, hurt/comfort, mention of oral sex, injuries involved with a blow to the head and burning, description of which get moderate towards the end, but not too tremendously graphic. You wanna hate Gabriel more? This is the story for you XD

Read on AO3.

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” Aziraphale says, gathering the books that are the least damaged out of the ruins of the destroyed Bodleian Library. He picks through what remains of the tattered volumes, frowning at the ones that simply fall apart, turn to ash at his touch.

“Look who’s talking, angel.” Crowley tosses aside a few charred tomes and rescues a mostly intact manuscript. “I’m a fireman. At least I have an excuse for being out here. You … you’re likely to be killed on sight!”

Aziraphale scoffs but goes about his business.

Crowley hands over the manuscript to Aziraphale, whose arms are just about full. “What?”

“Fireman.” Aziraphale exhales sharply. “I remember when we were little - you wanted to be a fireman. A real fireman. Back when firemen put out fires. Now you’re the ones who set them. Demons … the lot of you …”

Crowley feels splinters of old arguments prickle beneath his skin like angry sea urchins anxious to break free. He appreciates what Aziraphale is going through, everything he’s lost.

His mother’s bookshop was one of the first places to go.

Then the firemen descended on Oxford.

The two places Aziraphale has ever called home up in smoke, and Crowley was there on the front lines pulling the trigger. But regardless of his actions, Crowley isn’t the enemy. Unlike Aziraphale who chose the life of a rebel, Crowley didn’t get a choice.

Crowley’s caretakers aren’t quite as forgiving as Aziraphale’s.

And Crowley understands all of this, understands how his involvement hurts Aziraphale, cuts him to the bone. He’d change it if he could, and every day he searches for a way.

Till then, he refuses to be Aziraphale’s punching bag.

He grabs Aziraphale’s shoulders, nearly knocking the books loose from his grip.

“Do you think I like this?” he snarls in a low voice. “Do you think I want to be one of them?”

“No,” Aziraphale says, accepting Crowley’s anger coolly. “I don’t. But you don’t seem to have balls big enough to walk away from them either.”

“Bastard!” Crowley holds onto Aziraphale a little longer, squeezes his arm a little harder before pushing him away. “Easy for you to say. You have no obligations. No one’s putting your feet to the fire.”

“I have friends,” Aziraphale says, ignoring Crowley’s vitriol. “I have them to look after.”

“Right. That computer major drop-out and his weird-ass witchy girlfriend?”

“You, too, you idiot. Or have you forgotten?”

“I can look after myself.” Crowley goes back to picking through the ashes to keep Aziraphale from seeing the smile on his face because thank Go---someone (not God because where they Hell are they? Not here at the moment, that’s for damned sure!) Aziraphale hasn’t given up on him. Not after this fight.

Not after all the fights.

He can’t lose Aziraphale. If he does, he might as well turn his flamethrower on himself and pull the trigger. He’d have nothing left to make this apocalyptic bullshit life worth living.

Sifting through the splintered, blackened wood of the library shelves masks the sounds of footsteps coming their way.

Crowley and Aziraphale don’t hear them until it’s too late.

“Did you see the way it collapsed?” a voice echoes through the deserted halls.

“Yeah!” a second voice cackles. “Once the flames hit the support structure, the whole thing crumbled like a house of cards!”

Crowley’s head snaps up from the wreckage beneath his feet to look at Aziraphale. Aziraphale looks back, frozen with the books cradled against his chest.

“Go!” Crowley hisses, pointing to the caved-in doorway they had come in through. “Go home! Quickly!”

“What about you?” Aziraphale calls back in a hoarse whisper.

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Go!” he repeats, motioning with his hands. “Now!”

Aziraphale bounds forward a few steps, but his foot hits a loose patch of ash and he slides forward. His feet fly out from under him and he falls into the pile, landing on his tailbone, sending dust and debris spilling like an avalanche toward the exit, blocking his escape.

“Shit, Aziraphale!” Crowley races toward him, the heavy fuel tank of his regulation issue M2 flamethrower bouncing against his back. “Can’t you do anything right!?”

“Well, you’re my best friend,” Aziraphale grumbles, scrambling to get to his feet, “so apparently not!”

“Hey! Crowley!” the first voice calls, footsteps becoming louder as the young men head for the gutted library. “What the Hell are you still doing here?”

Crowley turns quickly, shielding Aziraphale’s prone form with his bulky gear-covered body.

“I could ask you the same thing, Gabriel.”

Gabriel used to be an Oxford student like Crowley. His pudgy little minion Sandalphon, however, hails from another university Crowley has never heard of before.

Nor does he care.

“I’m just showing Sandalphon here around the old alma mater,” Gabriel preens, clapping him on the shoulder. “This was his first major burn. I wanted him to take a moment to appreciate it.”

“Good for you,” Crowley sneers. “We’ll be sure to get you a medal.”

“You’ll have to forgive Crowley,” Gabriel says, his words infused with the assumption of superiority. “He’s still a little attached to this place.”

Crowley stares Gabriel down. “Forgive me for valuing education.”

Gabriel chuckles, utterly unaffected. “That’s rich coming from the man who claims to not read.”

“Like you need an education,” Sandalphon adds, words punctuated with jealousy. “Word has it you have enough money to buy yourself a small country.”

“Right …” Crowley nods in sarcastic agreement, “aren’t I lucky? Well, if you don’t mind, I’m having a moment here …”

The sound of muffled scuffling can be heard clearly when the conversation drops off. Gabriel grins, the curl of his lips becoming more suggestive the wider it grows.

“Ahhh.” He takes slow steps forward. “Did you bring someone here to gloat over your big masterpiece?”

Crowley holds his breath. From behind him, the scuffling stops, and Crowley knows Aziraphale is waiting to hear this new information …

… the details of how his oldest friend in the world demolished Aziraphale’s beloved Bodleian Library.

“His masterpiece, huh?” Sandalphon asks.

“Yeah! You should have seen him!” Gabriel takes a step closer to Crowley as he speaks. “He totally took the charge! Came storming in here first thing!” Gabriel shoots Sandalphon a heated look. “I think he wanted all the glory for himself. But his technique sure leaves something to be desired.” He bends over and picks up a thin publication, entirely unscathed except for some charring around the edges. “Take a look at this one! It’s still readable!” Gabriel turns to Sandalphon and gives him a nod. Sandalphon’s wolfish grin takes up his entire face as he reaches for the flamethrower slung over his shoulder. Gabriel tosses the book like a Frisbee, and Sandalphon pulls out his weapon, firing on the paperback as it spins in the air, setting it ablaze. The book drops amid another pile of partially burned books, setting them on fire. Gabriel watches a small bonfire start, then turns venomous violet eyes back to Crowley. “You see? Even newbie here knows how to get the job done. How come you have so much trouble?”

Crowley isn’t about to admit with these two asshats present that he had done it on purpose - led the charge into the library to make sure the books didn’t get burned too badly. That way he could bring Aziraphale back here to collect them afterwards. He had it planned out from the day the firemen were told that the library at Oxford – Aziraphale’s library – would be the next place on the government’s hit list. Crowley would put forth the appearance of doing his job, even being zealous about it, so the group of men who had already begun to side-eye him with suspicion would be none the wiser.

Then Aziraphale might think he was a hero.

But that plan is falling apart at the seams as these two try to pick him apart in front of the only person in his life that truly matters to him – the one shivering at Crowley’s feet with an armful of books, most likely thinking that Crowley is the worst kind of liar and traitor.

None of that matters when out of nowhere, after his attempts to hold it back for this long, Aziraphale sneezes, and the two goons with their flamethrowers cocked seem to suddenly remember that someone else is in the room.

“So,” Gabriel says, fondling the weapon in his hands, “aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?”

Crowley holds his ground, mentally screaming at Aziraphale to keep still.

“I’d rather not,” he says, pulling his own flamethrower off his shoulder and holding it defensively in front of him.

“And why is that?” Sandalphon asks, tilting his head and taking a step to circle around Crowley while Gabriel does the same on the opposite side. “Any friend of one fireman is a friend to us all.”

“Yeah,” Gabriel agrees, taking another step. “Maybe your little friend would like to join us. You know, fight the good fight.”

“I don’t think my friend’s interested.” Crowley watches the two circle around him like jackals vying for whatever Crowley is protecting.

Aziraphale can’t stand it anymore.

He can’t stand waiting to be sniffed out by these two heathens. He can’t stand hiding behind the man he thought he knew so well. Why? Why would Crowley do such a thing, especially when he knows how much those books mean to people? To him? Part of Aziraphale’s brain – the part not currently trying to plan his escape - tells him that he should have more faith. Crowley had to have a reason for torching the library - Aziraphale’s favorite place in the whole world.

Aziraphale knows why Crowley became a fireman. He did it because he was forced into it – asked too many questions, hung out with the wrong people, people he thought he could trust. They have something over him – something he won’t admit to Aziraphale. They threatened to turn Crowley over if he didn’t join up.

Whatever it is he’s protecting is worth his freedom, his principles … and his life.

Crowley is right - he didn’t have a choice.

Crowley does have a choice putting his life on the line to help Aziraphale, and Aziraphale recognizes that huge sacrifice, but sacrifices are being made all over. He can’t discredit the sacrifices of those rebels hiding underground, sticking to their beliefs, not giving in, relying on him.

Ugh! Aziraphale can’t afford to be this confused! Not right now!

“You know, we’re a brotherhood,” Gabriel says. “Brothers have each other’s backs.”

“And brothers don’t keep secrets,” Sandalphon points out.

“You’re no brothers of mine,” Crowley growls, releasing the safety on his flamethrower.

“Is that a threat?” Gabriel asks, a predator’s grin on his face – spread lips and white teeth.

“It sounded like a threat to me,” Sandalphon says, affecting the same hungry grin.

“We don’t like being threatened.” Gabriel stops and aims his flamethrower at Crowley. To his left, Sandalphon does the same. The air becomes strained with the threats being tossed about as the stand-off begins. On the floor, hidden from view, Aziraphale carefully puts his coveted pile of books down. He unbuttons his shirt and unzips his slacks.

“I think we should just torch them both.” Sandalphon releases the safety on his flamethrower, a small lick of blue flame dancing from the barrel of his weapon. “Let the authorities sort it out later.”

“Might be difficult though,” Gabriel says. “They’ll need to sift through their cremated remains to separate them first.”

“No!” Aziraphale screams, jumping to his feet, holding his arms up in a gesture of surrender. “Don’t! It’s not his fault! I---I wanted to come here.”

Crowley doesn’t see Aziraphale step out behind him. He can only see the expressions of the two men staring at them, eyes blank and brows furrowed in confusion. Aziraphale comes around Crowley, and Crowley lowers his weapon in surprise.

He’s never seen Aziraphale without a shirt on before.

Aziraphale isn’t exactly what one would call an athlete. He only runs when chased. So Crowley has never seen him undress - in the locker room or anywhere else. Crowley has spent many an evening lying awake wondering what Aziraphale’s body looks like beneath his clothes, imagining undressing Aziraphale slowly in the quiet of his bedroom.

Reality, Crowley decides, is remarkably better than anything he came up with.

But with Aziraphale’s trousers falling down around his hips, Crowley forgets how to breathe.

“What … what the fuck is this!?” Sandalphon asks, livid.

“That’s the big secret?” Gabriel asks with a hint of disbelief in his voice. “Crowley is gay?”

“Ye-yeah,” Crowley stammers, struggling to pull his eyes away from half-naked Aziraphale. “That’s … that’s it. That’s the secret.”

“Well, fuck!” Sandalphon sputters. “That’s barely worth wasting any juice over. Half of the students on campus are some kinda queer, aren’t they?” He powers down his weapon and slings it back over his shoulder.

“Now, hold up, Sandalphon. What were you guys doing in here?”

Crowley wraps an arm protectively around Aziraphale, his hand splaying out over Aziraphale’s bare stomach, feeling his skin jump beneath his touch. “I would think that would be obvious,” he says, pulling Aziraphale as close against him as he can.

Gabriel’s eyes rove once over Aziraphale’s body in a shameless, filthy way before returning to his face.

“What is the reward for burning down library though?” Gabriel asks, his stare driving deep into Aziraphale’s blue eyes. “A blowjob?”

Aziraphale stares back, unwilling to be intimidated by this mindless ox who ransacks houses, bullies people, and burns the only things left in the world that have any meaning.

“Yes.” He relaxes against Crowley’s body, his hands tracing his friend’s hips and down his legs as far as he can reach. “Definitely.”

Crowley, caught in the middle of this ruse, swallows lightly, trying not to focus his attention on the hands exploring his body.

Gabriel leans in closely. Aziraphale can smell the stench of alcohol on his breath and gasoline on his clothes. It’s the smell of ignorance and reckless destruction.

“I think that’s something I’d like to watch,” he whispers, the tang of him growing stronger beneath Aziraphale’s nose. Aziraphale’s stomach turns to jelly but he doesn’t let it show. He’s not going to let Gabriel have the satisfaction of knowing that anything he says affects him.

“Well, I don’t,” Sandalphon balks. “I mean, come on, Gabe. Gross-ville. Let’s get out of here.”

Gabriel doesn’t move. He tries to see through Aziraphale, but Aziraphale doesn’t let him. His hands roam absently over Crowley’s body as he waits, as if he has all day to stand here and nothing better to do.

“Right.” Gabriel backs away, not appearing too fooled by Aziraphale’s ploy. “Come on, Sandalphon. Let’s leave them to it.”

Gabriel grabs the arm of Sandalphon’s thick, fireproof overcoat and tugs him along, throwing a look over his shoulder every five steps to see that Aziraphale and Crowley stay as they leave them, with the plump, partially dressed man still groping at his fireman.

When they retreat through the double doors and disappear from sight, Aziraphale collapses to the floor.

“Fuck!” he sighs, raising a hand to his face and unwittingly wiping ash onto his skin. “That was close.” He crawls back to his abandoned shirt, leaving Crowley stunned where he stands, all thought of his near death experience dissolving with the memory of Aziraphale’s hands running over his body.

Crowley turns, catching Aziraphale right as he pulls his shirt over his arms and starts to zip up his fly.

“Aziraphale,” he says, watching Aziraphale collect the books off the floor, “I … what Gabriel said … a-about the library … I didn’t …”

“No,” Aziraphale cuts him off, “you don’t have to explain. I think I understand.”

Crowley sighs, relieved that his friend saw through them and their Evil. Aziraphale knows that Crowley is different, always has been.

“You do?” he asks, helping Aziraphale fit the last few books into his arms.

“Yeah. I mean, you need to save face. You have to make them think you believe in all this book burning shit, right?”

Crowley deflates at Aziraphale’s words.

No. He doesn’t understand after all.

Crowley opens his mouth to explain, but a sharp pain to the back of the skull sends him straight to the floor.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale screams, but a pair of thick boots steps over Crowley’s body, pushing Aziraphale backward.

“I knew there was something fishy about you,” Gabriel spits into the fallen man’s face. “I knew! I just didn’t have any proof. Now I’m going to turn you in …” Gabriel looks at Aziraphale, grinning to end all grins. “And I’m going to finish the job you didn’t.”

“No!” Aziraphale holds the books to his chest and backs away. “You don’t have to do this!”

“Yes.” Sandalphon comes up behind his friend. “We do.”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley groans, trying to rise from the floor, his head spinning, lights colliding behind his eyelids. “Put the books down and run!”

“No.” Aziraphale trembles, nearly out of his skin, but he keeps his eyes on the men with the flamethrowers pointed at him.

“They’re going to burn the books, Aziraphale, whether you’re holding them or not!” Crowley implores. He looks into Aziraphale’s soot stained face, pleading with bleary eyes, saying all of the things with one look that he doesn’t dare say out loud. Whether Aziraphale understands his message or not, he’s made his decision. He holds the books tighter to his chest.

Gabriel continues forward with his flamethrower at the ready. “He warned you.”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley manages to kneel, attempts to crawl forward over the uneven mass of decimated books and scorched wood. “Don’t be stupid! They’re not worth your life!”

“You’re right! They’re worth more! There aren’t that many left, Crowley! I can’t let them go!”

“Let it alone, Crowley.” Gabriel shoves Crowley to the ground with a kick of his boot. “He’s made his choice.”

“Yeah,” Sandalphon says. “It’s not like we weren’t going to punish him anyway.”

“No!” Crowley screams. “You can’t …!”

“Yeah.” Sandalphon looks from Crowley to Aziraphale with a grotesque smile on his face. “We can.”

“I don’t understand you rebels and your love of books,” Gabriel says as he closes in on Aziraphale, herding him out of Crowley’s reach. “Stupid material possessions with nothing but other people’s thoughts scrawled in them. So I say burn the books and think for yourself! Or better yet … let us think for you.”

“I’d rather burn!” Aziraphale replies.

Gabriel shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

“No!” Crowley lurches forward, but the men with their weapons – and his beloved, stubborn Aziraphale - are too far out of his reach.

Aziraphale turns to run, but he’s not quick enough.

Little in the world can outrun the fire of an M2 flamethrower.

The wave of orange flame that engulfs Aziraphale is hotter than anything he’s ever felt in his life. More than a thousand sunburns, more than the scalding hot water that spits out of his shower unexpectedly in the rat infested basement he’s been hiding in for months ever since they took over – the regime that doesn’t believe in independent thought or free speech, the new government that turned its people into refugees. The fire consumes Aziraphale’s body and his entire world becomes pain.

Against his wishes and all his impulses, the books fall from his arms. Their pages loosen from their bindings and fly free - the blackened feathers of scorched wings deteriorating in God rays of the late afternoon.

The last sound Aziraphale hears above the crackling of the fire is Crowley wailing his name before his mind shuts off to avoid the agony of his body burning.

Then everything goes black.

***

“Aziraphale …”

One word.

That’s the next sound Aziraphale hears.

He doesn’t know if he hears it days later, weeks later, or months later, but it’s a welcome sound.

One of the most welcome in the world to him.

“Newt,” he tries to say. He thinks his mouth moves, thinks he makes the sound, but it turns out none of it is true. He can’t say a word.

His lips are fused together.

And whatever other damage has been done to his body hides beneath a powerful concoction of morphine and valium, both fighting to drag him back to sleep.

He wants to move his eyes but he can’t open his eyelids. He doesn’t try, afraid that maybe they’re fused shut as well.

If they are, he doesn’t want to know.

How Newt even knows he’s awake is a mystery if he can’t talk and he can’t see.

Maybe it’s his fiancée, Anathema, who knows. She has a sixth sense about things.

“Can he hear us?” Newt whispers.

“I believe he can,” a woman’s voice responds. Aziraphale knows that voice, too. It’s Madame Tracy – a lady that some of the grad students rent rooms from. She used to be a nurse … he thinks. He doesn’t know too much about her, but she sure seems to know the ins and outs of the human body. She escaped down to the sewer with her husband - a grisly old man who most of the guys call Sergeant but whose real name is Shadwell. A few young kids from a nearby secondary school - Adam, Warlock, Pepper, Brian, and Wensleydale - found their way down to the hideout, too. They’d been playing hooky on the day the firemen set their school on fire.

As far as they know, no one else made it out alive.

“Look at how he’s trying to move his mouth, the way his eyelids flutter. That’s not just a nerve response. He’s waking up.” Tracy tuts sympathetically. “It’s a miracle he’s not dead right now. Someone upstairs definitely wants him alive, I’ll tell you that.”

Aziraphale’s body shudders as her words ignite his memory, and a sudden burst of pain along with them.

“Look at him!” Brian cries. “He’s convulsing!”

“Calm down, love,” Tracy whispers. “You’re gonna be all right. I promise. Just calm down now.”

Aziraphale hears whimpering. It takes him a moment to realize it’s his own voice. His throat burns, the sting of gasoline rising up in his sinuses where it had settled but he can’t swallow. But he needs to speak. He needs to know what happened.

Where is Crowley? Is he alive? Is he safe? Did Gabriel and Sandalphon set him on fire, too?

Aziraphale feels a wash of calm flow through his veins, cooling down his body from the inside, settling his nerves, keeping him calm. He slips back to sleep without a single question answered, unable to stay awake in his weakened state, not that he wants to try.

“Yes,” Tracy coos, “that’s better, isn’t it, sweetie?”

Aziraphale’s whimpers stop in his throat without him doing anything. He relaxes, melting into the bed beneath him, and sleep wins its battle.

“We’re going to need to find him more morphine,” Tracy says with a troubled sigh. “We’re starting to run out.”

“We’ve never had anyone burned as badly as him in the infirmary before,” Anathema points out, sniffling back tears.

“We’ll get him some,” Adam offers.

“Yeah,” Warlock concurs. “No problem.”

“Thank you, boys,” Newt says with a sad smile. “Thank you very much.” The time when Newt would turn down their offers for help as too dangerous have long gone. Even if he strictly forbids them to do anything as dangerous as stealing from the hospital, they’ll wait till nightfall and do it anyway. So far, they have yet to be discovered. He prays they never are.

The penalty for stealing from the government (and everything belongs to the government) is immediate incineration.

Newt can’t imagine what it must be like for them. Everyone they know and love is gone. This ragtag group is all the family they’ve got now. Keeping them from helping? That would be a crime.

But Newt’s heart hangs heavy knowing that the majority of the food and supplies they have have been provided due to the bravery of eleven-year-olds.

“There,” Tracy says as the twitching in Aziraphale’s muscles stop. “I think he’s back asleep. That’s best for him for now.”

Everyone nods, grateful that he’s still alive.

Aziraphale has sort of become the unelected leader of their group simply for the fact that he gives them hope. He reads to them, plays them music, performs magic for them, gathers them together and has them put on plays for one another.

Shakespeare is his favorite. He knows all his works by heart.

Recently, he had them perform Hamlet.

He threatened them with Romeo and Juliet if they didn’t.

He feeds them plain toast with scrapes of butter but promises them that they’ll eat crepes with him someday, and cheesecake and puddings and pies, talking them up so vividly they can almost taste them in their mouths while they chew stale bread.

Every day, he reminds them what in this world is worth living for.

He inspires them to go on when they would rather give up.

But barely a one of them can look him in the face.

It’s gone, every distinguishing feature morphed into a single blackened lump of flesh. He’ll never talk again, probably never see. He’ll be locked in his body for the rest of his life … if his injuries don’t kill him first.

“What do we do with the fireman?” Pepper asks. “I mean, he saved Aziraphale’s life.”

“If you can believe him,” Anathema snaps.

“Why would he lie?” Adam asks. “Why would he risk his life bringing Aziraphale here, knowing what we might do to him?”

“He brought him here because we’re the merciful ones,” Wensleydale deduces. “The government says that makes us weak and stupid.”

“But it doesn’t,” Pepper counters. “It makes us strong.”

“I believe him,” Warlock says.

“Yeah,” Shadwell says, “but you know the rules. They’re in place to keep us safe. And the rules apply to us all.”

“You’re right,” Newt says. “I do know the rules. And they do apply to us all. But if he’s telling the truth then that fireman killed two other firemen to save one of us. He’s a hero with nowhere to go. So now he’s a fugitive like us.” He puts an arm around Anathema’s shaking shoulders and hugs her tight. “He stays here. It’s the least we can do.”

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #anthony j crowley #aziraphale #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley

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eveningstarcatcher · 4 years

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Ineffable Valentines - Day 2: Roses

The day was grey and dreary. Rain was drizzling down and Aziraphale left the bookshop sign flipped to “CLOSED”, choosing to spend the day with a mug of cocoa and a good book.

Crowley was dozing on the couch, his steady breathing and the gentle patter of rain a soothing soundtrack for reading.

Aziraphale settled into his chair. He loved days like this. Days he could spend inside, with all of his favorite things. A nice mug of cocoa that will warm him from the inside, a book that he can get lost in, the cozy and familiar interior of the bookshop, and his dear Crowley napping just a few feet from him. Aziraphale’s heart felt full as he looked at Crowley’s sleeping form, all long, sleek lines, black fabric, and red hair.

“I’m so glad you feel comfortable here, my dear,” Aziraphale whispered,. “This may be my home, but it doesn’t feel complete without you here.” He looked a moment more, then kissed his hand and blew it towards Crowley. He giggled at himself, feeling a bit foolish for the act, but gave Crowley one more look, then opened his book.

They spent the next few hours this way. The only noises were the shuffle of a turning page, a small murmur of Crowley in his sleep, and the steady ticking of the Grandfather clock.

Aziraphale was surprised when he heard a knock at the door. It was so faint that at first he didn’t hear it, but the second time it managed to pull his attention out of the pages before him. He carefully placed a bookmark to hold his place, set the book on the desk, and hurried to the door.

He unlocked the bolt and opened the door to find a delivery man holding a clipboard in one hand and a pot in the other.

“Delivery for Mr. Fell,” the man said, dressed in shades of brown and tan, the company logo proudly displayed on his shirt and cap. “Please sign.”

“Thank you very much,” Aziraphale smiled, signing his name on the clipboard and taking the pot from him. “Have a nice day.”

“You too, sir. Thank you, sir.” The delivery man smiled before turning and striding back to his van.

Aziraphale took a look at the grey sky and saw that there was no sign of the rain stopping. That didn’t bother him, he was having a lovely day.

He closed and locked the door and returned to the backroom. He set the pot down on the floor to his right and swept the book up again.

He was lost in the pages again, soaking up every word and feeling printed there. The handsome hero, who, despite the written descriptions was tall, thin, and redheaded, was sweeping the beautiful lady, blonde haired and blue eyed, off her feet. He brought her flowers, he spoke tender words, and he dashed in and saved her from the villain in the nick of time, earning her love and her hand in marriage!

Aziraphale giggled to himself, remembering the Bastille. Crowley’s hair had been terribly dreadful, but he had been there to rescue him, had even agreed to have lunch with him. He remembered that night during the Blitz when Crowley had braved consecrated ground to find Aziraphale and save him from the Nazis. He had remembered to save Aziraphale’s beloved books from the bomb while Aziraphale was focused on saving their corporations.

He also remembered how cruel the words he had used with Crowley were. They echoed in his mind and created knots in his stomach.

You go too fast for me, Crowley.

We’re not having this conversation. Not another word!

Do you know what trouble I’d be in if they knew I’d been...fraternizing?

I don’t even like you.

There is no our side, Crowley. Not anymore.

It’s over.

He wiped a tear from his eye at the memories of all the pain he had caused Crowley over the years. It could have been over so many times. Crowley could have simply walked away and never sauntered back into his life again. He was so patient with Aziraphale, so generous and kind.

“What’s wrong, angel?” Crowley was sitting up, eyes barely open.

“Nothing, my dear. Go back to sleep,” Aziraphale set the book down on the desk.

“No, m’done sleeping. Why are you crying?” Crowley knelt down in front of Aziraphale, setting his hands on his thighs.

“I was thinking about us. About all the terrible, hurtful things I said to you and how you always came back even after I pushed you away,” Aziraphale placed his hands over Crowley’s and closed his eyes, fighting the tears that pooled there.

“I knew you didn’t mean it. I knew the grip Heaven had on you and I never blamed you. Not once,” Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s hands.

“I should have chosen you. You were the one who was always there for me, the one who cared for me when Heaven turned its back on me. I’m so sorry, my dear.” Aziraphale slumped forward, his head resting on top of Crowley’s.

“You want to know what I remember?” Crowley asked, his thumbs rubbing circles against Aziraphale’s thighs. He felt Aziraphale nod against his head. “I remember you protecting me from the rain in the garden, inviting me to lunch in Rome, agreeing to the Arrangement, giving me the holy water, despite your better judgement. I remember every time you were worried about Holy Water destroying me, each time you told me I was kind. I remember when you forgave me. Those are the things I remember. Yes, the other things you said hurt, but you always reminded me that you cared, that you didn’t mean what you said, that they were just words you used when you were afraid that Heaven would hurt you.”

“Or you,” Aziraphale whispered against Crowley’s hair.

“But they can’t. They tried and failed and here we are,” Crowley shifted his head and cupped Aziraphale’s cheeks in his hands, wiping his tears away.

“Here we are,” Aziraphale gave a weak smile.

“You have forgiven me, Aziraphale. Please forgive yourself,” Crowley said softly.

At this, Aziraphale threw his arms around Crowley’s shoulders and slid down to the floor beside him. He held Crowley close, breathing in the earthy, smoky scent of him and feeling his heart beating against his chest.

“You’re quite right, dear,” he said after a few minutes. “If you’ve forgiven me, I should forgive myself. Release the fear and the guilt and start anew.”

“Yes, angel,” Crowley ran his fingers through his pale curls. “Never had to forgive you, though.”

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale sat back and gave Crowley a bright smile.

Crowley pressed a kiss to the angel’s forehead and moved to stand up, but something caught his eye.

“What’s that?” he asked, inclining his head to the floor behind Aziraphale.

“Oh! Well, I was planning to save it, but this seems like a good time!” Aziraphale shuffled on his knees to the pot and brought it over.

“It’s for you,” Aziraphale beamed and handed it to Crowley.

Crowley took the pot in his hands and smiled. It was a small bush of hybrid tea roses sporting deep red blossoms as well as white.

“I was sure to get the bush, so you can plant it. I thought you might not like the cut ones, since they’d die. This way you can cultivate it and be reminded of me every time you see it.” Aziraphale explained, running a finger lovingly over the soft petals of a red rose.

“It’s beautiful,” Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand and placed a gentle kiss to it, earning him a blush on his pale cheeks. “Thank you. Although, I don’t need flowers to make me think of you.”

“I should hope not, but I thought they were lovely and I wanted you to have them.”

“Too cold to plant it now. Where should I put it until the ground thaws?” Crowley asked, glancing around the room.

“I believe they like a lot of sun, so how about right here in the window?” Azirphale gestured to an empty spot on the sill. “Not much sun today, but I’ve heard the forecast is supposed to be nice this week.”

Crowley gently placed the pot in its place and stepped back, offering a hand to Aziraphale and pulling him to his feet.

“It’s perfect.” Crowley wrapped his arm around Aziraphale’s waist and held him tight as they smiled at the small roses.

For @mielpetite‘s @ineffable-valentines Also on A03

#ineffablevalentines #ineffable valentines #good omens #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #fic #my writing

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purpleblackmask · 5 years

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GO theory: Crowley suffers from depression

Making clear that I'm not a psychologist and that all of this is just a theory of mine and/or a character's study from a wanna-be-actress' pov, I'd like to expose this thought that followed me since it first came to my mind.

Let's begin from the start.

Crowley is a demon. But actually he wasn't born this way. Like every other demon, he was something else. Something considered better, pure, flawless.

He was an angel.

Most of all, he was one of God's children. If we consider the Raphael!Theory, which I support, he was one of God's most beloved children. An archangel.

Now let's consider what angels are supposed to be. Soldiers. Or, in a tenderest way, the perfect sons who obey their father's will. No matter what.

Even when He (or She, in this case) creates mankind.

"And when He again brings the firstborn into the world, He says, 'And let all the angels of God worship Him,'" (Hebrews 1:6).

But then Lucifer rebelled and we all know how the story goes on.

Crowley? He fell too.

In the show he actually refers to his fall four times.

But not in a way a demon would do.

If we take John Milton's Paradise Lost, what made Lucifer leave Paradise forever was his pride. Now he is content with his horrors, for he is a king, a ruler. He can do what he wants. He achieves freedom. And all the other demons are free to persevere in their evilness. This gives them a sort of satisfaction.

But when Crowley refers to his fall, he is not satisfied at all.

On the contrary, you can perceive a deep sense of regret.

"I never meant to fall. I just hung around the wrong people."

In.

"I didn't really fall. I just, you know... sauntered vaguely downwards."

Every.

"I only ever asked questions. That's all it took to be a demon in the old days."

Word.

"I never asked to be a demon. I was just minding my own business one day and then... oh, lookie here, it's Lucifer and the guys."

Are you going to tell me that is absolutely normal to refer to something four times in a TV show that's only got 6 episodes? I mean, It's almost one per episode, come on.

These aren't the words of a demon.

These are the words of someone who belonged to somewhere and was forced to leave because different.

Because he asked questions.

Because he was a disappointment.

He is a son whose father decided he was just not good enough, not perfect enough, simply not enough, and so threw him away.

He never wanted to cause a war, or to be greater than God or anything like that. He just wanted to be a good son.

A good angel.

But failed.

That's how Crowley feels every second of his eternity.

A failure.

First great cause of a depressed temperament.

And this leads us to the plants.

I personally think that the plants bits are seriously phenomenal. They tell us so much about Crowley just in a few words.

If we analyse him as a human, Crowley is a man with a trauma, the one we underlined before. And, as in the majority of probabilities, it is common to reproduce a trauma on something or someone else.

"What he did was put the fear of God into them. More precisely, the fear of Crowley. In addition to which, every couple of months Crowley would pick out a plant that was growing too slowly, or succumbing to leaf-wilt or browning, or just didn't look quite as good as the others, and he would carry it around to all the other plants. "Say goodbye to your friend" he'd say to them. "He just couldn't cut it...""

The plants scene is terrific in this way. He threatens the plants to grow better, to grow perfect, or they will die.

I think the echoes in his head whispering "Be perfect or you'll fall" murmured by his fellow angels while he was still in Heaven still haunts him when he takes "care" of his plants.

Is he finally satisfied?

No.

He's just being cruel because something cruel happened to him. But he can't erase the past. He can't change what he is.

And he knows that.

That's the worst part.

"I won't be forgiven. Not ever. That's part of a demon job's description. Unforgivable. That's what I am."

He permanentely struggles between a constant denial and the acknowledge of his self being.

He is not what he wanted to be.

That's why he decided to go away.

He couldn't bare the dark, gloomy, crowded halls of hell. Something that reminded him of his condition. That's why he went up on earth. Because it's the closest thing to heaven he could still approach to.

And there he found Aziraphale.

Aziraphale, who is not like other angels.

Who is not afraid to talk to a demon.

Who is kind and soft and naive.

Who gives Crowley a kind of hope.

Maybe Crowley was convinced that he would have spent all his eternity alone (because, sooner or later, he would have realised that he couldn't fit anywhere, not in hell, not in heaven, not on earth), and sincerely, I think he would have committed suicide very soon.

But Aziraphale gives him a reason to live.

He gives him a friend.

He gives him someone who, deep down, doesn't quite fit well on his side, too.

And that is enough for Crowley.

Enough to stay alive.

And so he starts to find himself little things to distract himself, temptations, demonic works to keep himself occupied. He even starts to have fun with them.

But then something happens.

Aziraphale risking his own life.

For a silly reason of course, but then Crowley starts to think.

Ok, I saved him because I was around, but what if he's risking his life again and I'm not there to save him? What if I'm not able to see him again?

Or what if this happens to me? What if my side finds out I saved an angel? What would they do to him? Or to me?

And that's why he decides to have assurances.

That's when his depression strikes back.

He asks Aziraphale for holy water.

Because after all they did together, after all the relief he had felt all those decades on earth, he can't bare to watch it shatter away.

He can't allow it.

And if that means ending his own life, so be it.

I will not pause on Aziraphale's fear of Crowley committing suicide for it is a parenthetis of the analysing of Aziraphale that would add more pain to this post, forgive me please.

Once achieved the pill of suicide, Crowley comes back to his daily routine, which involves, by the way, hours of sleeping.

This is another sign of depression.

As a demon, he shouldn't need to rest at all. But if we return to analyse Crowley as a human, this is perfectly normal.

The lack of energy and anxiety cause the body to being forced to bed. Crowley sleeping for a whole century because "he hated it" could be equal to a person sleeping all day to avoid the problems of life.

Furthermore, the end is nigh.

The Apocalypse is bringing Crowley's (and Aziraphale's) biggest fear. The disappearing of that life they built together on earth. The distruction of their peace.

And who is the one who first proposes to stop it?

Crowley.

And he fights in every way to avoid Armageddon. Even if he doesn't manage, he's still with his angel. They could go away together. Alfa Centauri or wherever they want. But together.

Because he can't let it happen. He can't leave it all and fight on his side which has never been and never will be his side. He can't go back down there. He can't let his depression overthrow him again.

But suddenly "together" becomes "alone".

Suddenly, there's no more a demon and an angel. There's just one demon, who is terrified of what happens next, of what he's going to go through on his own, who is living the nightmare of a lifetime.

He tries to reach Aziraphale one more time, but fails.

The nightmare is much closer.

It swallows him definetely in a burning bookshop.

This is it.

This is where all his world breaks apart in front of his eyes.

He lost.

He lost the chance of a new start. He lost hope. He lost his best friend.

He lost his fight against depression.

Don't try to convince me that if he hadn't already shed it on Ligur, he wouldn't have used holy water in this exact moment to end his own life.

Because nothing had sense now.

But here he is. Without Aziraphale. Without holy water. Trapped in a glass full of alcohol reminding himself for the fourth time that he never wanted to be a demon.

When Aziraphale comes back it all changes.

Life comes back to his body.

It's not over.

And then they manage. They stop the Apocalypse. They stop each other's death. They're finally free.

Crowley and Aziraphale are alone. On their own side.

But that is enough for Crowley.

Depression can wait.

NOT MY GIFS.

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #go #go theory #go headcanons #depression #this took much more than i thought #i'm sorry for all the pain #my post

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nicnacsnonsense · 4 years

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A while back I made a post about a Good Omens You’ve Got Mail AU that was a little... unconventional. And I still stand behind that version 100%, but my brain decided it was time to circle back around to this particular AU. And the end result I have here is still a little unconventional, but much less so.

To start with we’re going to go ahead and update the setting to present day. Well, not *present* day but like 2018/2019 present day. So obviously meeting in an AOL chat room is a nonstarter. Instead they meet on Goodreads. Crowley leaves a long and scathing review of Hamlet because those are his genuine feelings on the play and because he likes stirring up shit. Aziraphale sees this review and is appalled, so sends Crowley a message in response debating his points. From there they get to talking and keep talking and next thing they know they’re virtual pen pals. At one point Crowley tries to look Aziraphale up on social media, but fails to find anything. He instead just asks him if he has an Instagram or Twitter or something. Once Aziraphale understands the question, it is established that Goodreads is as social as his media gets. They decide maybe they’ll just keep it to emails and keep it all anonymous; that that could be fun.

Now here’s where we start to veer into a little unconventional. Crowley is the small business owner. He owns a plant shop/nursery. He got kicked out of the house at 16 and had to scrape and do some things he’s not proud of to get by, but now he’s got himself his own shop and is doing pretty well. Anathema and Newt are his employees and he oscillates between acting annoyed at their couple-y behavior and being super smug claiming he’s the one who got them together since they met at his shop.

Aziraphale owns a one-third share of a chain of general merchandise big-box stores he, along with his older siblings Gabriel and Michael, inherited from his mother. Gabriel and Michael spout a lot of the rhetoric about how their stores are a good thing because they offer one stop shopping at discounted prices and other such things. Aziraphale echoes the same sentiments, but it’s clear he has some private doubts about the way they run business. His job in the company is head of PR, which he doesn’t necessarily enjoy but his siblings want him there because he comes off as very likable. Sandalphon is the VP working under Aziraphale, and he is very through about filtering information so Aziraphale only has to see and deal with the things he needs to know — the standards as to what Aziraphale does and more importantly doesn’t need to know are set by Gabriel. Aziraphale also has a friend, Madame Tracy, who he met because they go to the same manicurist.

Our story proper starts with a new superstore about to be opened up not far from Crowley’s shop. This is a problem for Crowley because the store is going to have a garden center, which will be direct competition for him. Not every store in the chain has a garden center but this one, located in the same neighborhood as a local plant shop, will. Funny how things turn out like that.

Aziraphale is out walking, getting a feel for this neighborhood where their new store is going to be, when it starts to rain. He planned ahead and brought an umbrella, but Crowley, who was making a quick trip to grab some coffee, did not. Aziraphale finds him hiding out under an awning and offers to share his umbrella and walk Crowley back to his shop. They do, and Aziraphale fawns over Crowley’s plants, they talk and flirt a little, then Aziraphale leaves. Newt and Anathema tease Crowley a bit, pointing out he should have asked for Aziraphale’s number and Anathema suggests Aziraphale is Crowley’s email boyfriend. Crowley tells them both to shut up and it’s all good banter. (Side note, neither Crowley nor Aziraphale have any sort of preexisting significant other in this version.)

Jump ahead to the next time Aziraphale and Crowley meet in person at a charity event or whatever. Crowley is understandably pretty upset when he finds out who Aziraphale really is and gets very accusatory. Aziraphale gets defensive and the conversation does not go well. From there we get the back and forth with Crowley attacking the superstore to protect his and other small businesses, and Aziraphale trying to defend his company and their actions.

Eventually Crowley starts getting really weighed down with all this and decides fuck anonymity, he wants to meet his virtual not-boyfriend and get in-person support (and, look okay, he’s not saying he wants or expects cuddles, but it they’re on the table, he’s not going to say no). Aziraphale agrees and they arrange for a place to meet. Aziraphale gets there first, and when Crowley arrives he does a sneak peek in the window and sees Aziraphale sitting there, wearing the tartan bow tie he chose as an identifier. Crowley freaks out and basically turns tail and runs.

He wanders aimlessly for a long while, continuing to have a mental breakdown over everything. Eventually he makes his way back to the meeting spot with the vague idea that he needs to tell Aziraphale what’s going on. But when Crowley gets there Aziraphale is walking out the door, bow tie nowhere in sight and trying very hard to pretend he’s not crying. So Crowley feels like shit and certainly can’t tell Aziraphale the truth *now*. Instead he offers Aziraphale some comfort over, you know, whatever it is Aziraphale is upset about, obviously Crowley wouldn’t know anything about it. Aziraphale is surprised and touched and in return offers a semi-apology for everything going on between their two companies, throwing out that line that it’s not personal, it’s just business. Crowley refutes that, sharing some of his backstory to highlight how it’s very personal to him. He then follows up with some pointed questions about the things Aziraphale’s business is doing, but for once makes it clear that he’s not trying to attack Aziraphale personally and genuinely believes that Aziraphale might be innocent and ignorant of it all. They part ways fairly amicably.

Crowley goes home, freaks out some more, goes to work the next day still freaking out — not helped by Anathema pointing out that she did try to tell him way back in the beginning that Aziraphale was his mystery guy — and continues to freak out for the rest of the day and the next. Finally he manages to mostly sort through it all in his head and decides he forgives Aziraphale. And now that he’s not fueled by spite he acknowledges that while he does have a good chunk of money saved up to keep the business afloat for a while, it’s not sustainable, and he’s better off quitting while he’s ahead. He sends Aziraphale an email apologizing for missing their meeting, blaming work stuff that came up. He goes on to say, without getting into too much detail, that he’s having to close his business down. He says he’s still processing and doesn’t want to talk about it right now, but he’ll reach back out later. At this point he has no intention of doing that; he’s forgiven Aziraphale but he doesn’t want any part of the unethical business Aziraphale is helping to run.

Meanwhile, after their conversation Aziraphale goes home and frets, then ends up looking further into some of the claims Crowley made. He finds out they’re true and frets about that and what it means. Then he gets the email that his friend is shutting down his business and frets about that too. Then the next day he’s in a meeting with Gabriel and Michael and a lot of the other company heads fretting and is told that Crowley’s announced his business is closing down. Which is now really just too much at once; his friend and Crowley — who’s actually not that bad at all — both having to shut down their businesses at the same time and— Wait a second. The lightbulb comes on and Aziraphale realizes Crowley is his virtual pen pal. He stands up, right in the middle of the meeting, quits, and just walks out.

Without even really thinking about where he’s going he ends up in front of Crowley’s shop. At which point he realizes what a terrible idea this is; in the email Crowley had said he didn’t want to talk and even if he did want to, he certainly wouldn’t want to talk to Aziraphale. But Newt sees him standing out there and tells him to come in. There’s a few awkward exchanges between Aziraphale and Crowley, and then Aziraphale suddenly erupts into word vomit. Crowley was totally right about everything, his company was up to shady stuff, and Aziraphale didn’t know, not that that’s any kind of excuse, but he did quit as soon as he heard and—

Crowley’s brain shuts off for a minute there after that, and boots back up when he realizes Aziraphale has stopped talking and is just standing there super anxious. Crowley asks to confirm that Aziraphale quit his job and Aziraphale says yes he did. So then Crowley suggests, hey we’re both unemployed now, tempt you to lunch? Which is not in the least what Aziraphale was expecting, but he agrees, and they go off for a lunch date at like 10:45 in the morning.

For those keeping score at home, yes at this point both Aziraphale and Crowley know the other is their virtual pen pal, but neither of them know the other knows and they’re not telling. Because they’re idiots. So during this courtship time we establish that Crowley is planning on going to school to get certified for landscape design — something he’s actually been interested in for a while but never had time to do. Aziraphale comes to a deal with his siblings for them to buy out his portion of the company. He plans to use a small chunk of the money to support a comfortable but modest lifestyle, and the rest is going to fund activism against unethical practices in large corporations. Fortunately Aziraphale has a lot of experience in handling public relations which will come in handy for that kind of thing.

Eventually, with a couple of kicks in the butt by Anathema and Madame Tracy, Aziraphale and Crowley “confess” to each other that they are the other’s email buddy. Cue friendly laughter over them both being idiots, and they live happily ever after. The end.

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #azcrow #fandom fusion #fanfiction #you’ve got mail #you’ve got mail au #long post

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somethingjustsouthofbrilliance · 4 years

Text

Too Weak to Fly (chapter 3)

Back to chapter 1

@swanheart69 @cosmic-malarky @tonystark5ever

Chapter 3

Anathema is waiting for them by the gate, face pinched with grim worry, hands clasped together in front of her in a nervous knot. She steps forward as Aziraphale parks the car, helps the angel wrangle the barely conscious demon out of the passenger seat.

“Come on,” she urges once they’ve got Crowley settled between them – a will-less, gangly weight across their shoulders. “Let’s get you both inside, so I can get that wound looked at, okay?”

“The children?” Aziraphale asks as they begin a cautiously hurried trek toward the cottage.

“They’ll be staying with the Youngs for now,” Anathema responds with an awkward half-shrug, careful not to dislodge Crowley’s arm. “Newt, too. It’s easier that way.”

Safer, Aziraphale hears, though she doesn’t say the word out loud.

The door to the cottage has been conveniently left open, and Anathema swiftly brings them inside, leading them past the ever-cluttered kitchen into the adjacent bedroom.

“Set him down here.” She points at the large metal frame bed that takes up over half of the room. Ducks out from under Crowley’s arm, letting Aziraphale take on all of his weight, while she goes to pull up a small bow-legged table that holds a small basin filled with water and an assortment of medical supplies from a standard first-aid kit.

Aziraphale shifts his hold, trying his best not to jostle his friend, as he wraps his arm gently around the demon’s waist and begins to shuffle toward the bed. But Crowley stiffens suddenly in his grip, slender trembling fingers grasping Aziraphale’s wrist, calling him to a halt.

“A-adam…,” comes the breathless murmur of a reminder, and Aziraphale sighs, his shoulders sagging with defeat.

“Let’s sit you down first, darling.”

Carefully, ever so carefully he helps settle Crowley on the edge of the bed. Sits down beside him, arm looped around the demon for his own reassurance as much as for the other’s support, as Crowley sinks heavily into his side, the hollow of his cheek resting against Aziraphale’s shoulder.

The angel spares him a glance, his heart clenching as he takes in the unhealthy cadaveric gray of the other’s complexion, the bloodless lips, parted to suck in labored, panting breaths, his eyes – a spilled over sea of molten lava, dulled by exhaustion and pain. They are running out of time. Crowley is running out of time. He knows this, a certainty just as palpable as the minute tremors that rack the gaunt frame ensconced within his grasp. They shouldn’t do this, he thinks. Shouldn’t waste what little time they’ve got. But he had promised Crowley, he had agreed, and it is the right thing to do. But he wishes, so fervently wishes, that doing the right thing didn’t feel so terribly wrong.

Crowley’s fingers tighten a fraction on Aziraphale’s wrist, pain-dulled yellow eyes surveying him intently as though the demon somehow managed to glimpse the panicked, backtracking direction of his thoughts. Aziraphale nods, forces a crooked twitch of a smile in response before moving his gaze over to where Anathema stands ripping open a pack of sterile bandages in preparation.

“Would you mind calling Adam, dear girl?”

“I already did,” Anathema responds distractedly. “Right after I got off the phone with you. He’s on his way. Driving down from uni.” She glances at her wristwatch. “Should be here soon. We can wait for him if you like, or–”

“That won’t be necessary,” Aziraphale interrupts her, his voice tight. “But if you wouldn’t mind calling him again, please. Now.”

She hesitates a moment, a look of troubled suspicion on her face as she surveys the two of them. She picks up the phone nevertheless, dials the number. “What do you want me to tell him?”

“If you could just turn on one of those extra loud functions…”

“Ssssspeaker,” Crowley supplies breathlessly beside him, and he nods his thanks with a fleeting glance to the side.

“Speaker, yes, if you could turn that on, please.”

Anathema taps obligingly on the screen, places the now loudly ringing phone on the table before them, and Aziraphale takes a deep, fortifying breath, preparing himself just as Adam’s distracted voice comes over the line.

“Anathema? Hey, tell them I’m almost there, okay? You can start without me and I’ll–”

“You’re on speaker, Adam,” Anathema cuts in, skewering Aziraphale with her unnervingly penetrating stare. “Aziraphale wants to tell you something.”

“Uncle Z?” There’s hesitation in Adam’s voice, an undeniable strain of worry. “Is uncle Crowley…?”

“Are you inside the village limits yet?” Aziraphale interrupts, forcibly ignoring the question that threatens to send him into a tailspin of nauseating fear. There’s no time for that now, they need to hurry.

“I just passed Mr. Tyler’s house, yeah. Like I said, I’m almost–.”

“Thank you, my boy, that will do.” He feels Crowley’s head shift against his shoulder – a minuscule nod of encouragement. Keep going. Yes, he needs to keep going or he will lose his resolve. Will beg Adam to ignore him and rush here as fast as his car will take him.

He sucks in a breath, small and woefully inadequate for a being that shouldn’t need to breathe at all. Forces himself to plough on. “I’m afraid I’m going to need you to pull over now.”

“You what?” The near-outraged bafflement in Adam’s voice is echoed in Anathema’s shocked gasp of “What are you doing?”

He looks away from the wide-eyed judgment of her stare. Focuses on Crowley’s hand instead where it clings to his own, on the long slender fingers that tremble lightly against the skin of his wrist.... I can do this, he tells himself. I have to do this. I promised.

“The people that are hunting us,” he begins, his own voice feeling as unsteady as the weight of Crowley’s fingers on his wrist, “they are not very… discreet about their methods. There’s quite a good possibility that innocent bystanders could get hurt, and that is a risk that we simply cannot take.”

Not “we”, he corrects himself with brutal reproach. Crowley. It was Crowley who reminded him of his true nature when he had become practically senseless with the fear of losing him. Crowley who insisted, breathless with pain and the exhaustion of an unnecessary argument, that Aziraphale would never forgive himself if he allowed humans he cared about to be hurt to save a demon’s corporation.

It didn’t matter that this particular demon meant more to him than all of the cosmos. Didn’t matter that for Crowley to lose his corporation this time around with Hell desperate to get its vengeful hands on him would mean a fate much worse than death. None of that mattered… because Crowley was right. Crowley was right and Aziraphale hated himself for it.

“Crowley believes…” There’s the barest hint of pressure against the inside of his wrist and Aziraphale corrects himself with a resigned huff, “We believe that you might be able to hide Tadfield from them, to make it appear unremarkable, as it were. Not worthy of note.”

“Make them lose interest in this place,” Adam muses over the speaker.

“Precisely. Do you think you could do that?”

The speaker crackles with a reluctant breath – not quite a rejection, not quite an agreement. “I suppose so, but… shouldn’t we get uncle Crowley sorted first?”

He can’t help it, the pleadingly hopeful glance he throws Crowley’s way at these words. But he knows the answer to Adam’s question. Knows it even before he sees the rueful twitch of Crowley’s lips, the tiny shake of his head. It was the answer they both agreed on – an implacable caveat to Crowley’s acceptance of Aziraphale’s plan.

“Th-think about it, angel. Thisss, all of thisss will be pointlesssss if they find ussss again. You know I’m right.”

He nods, heaving out a sigh that feels like it’s ripped something deep inside him on the way out. Leans in to brush a dry-lipped kiss along the pale clammy skin of the demon’s temple.

“I’m afraid not, dear boy.”

“If I do this, if I create a… a shield over Tadfield… I won’t be… I won’t have enough power to…” And Adam sounds so young all of a sudden, so very much like the lost, frightened 11-year-old boy that he and Crowley met all those years ago. And Aziraphale wants nothing more than to reassure him, but the only reassurance he can offer is as empty as Heaven over the last few millennia.

“Sssss’alright, Adam, we got thisss,” Crowley cuts in unexpectedly, his voice stronger somehow than the last time the angel heard it, and Aziraphale can’t help a flare of unabashed admiration and love for the lengths this demon, his demon, is willing to go to to reassure the boy.

Crowley pays for it a mere instant later. Chokes on a sudden harsh-sounding breath and twists in his arms, and it’s all Aziraphale can do to keep a tight hold on him as the demon presses his face into Aziraphale’s coat to muffle a series of wet, rattling coughs that seem to tear him from the inside out. The coat, when Crowley finally pulls away, is stained with bright red blood.

“Crowley’s right, my dear,” Aziraphale forces himself to say, though his hands feel numb and he is shaking so hard he thinks Adam might be able to hear it in his voice. He hugs Crowley tighter instead, tries to steady his voice as much as he can. “Anathema and I will handle things on our end. You just… you focus on stopping these men.” He is pointedly not looking at Anathema as he says this, but it doesn’t stop him from feeling the heated weight of her glare.

Silence crackles over the speaker, brittle, hesitant, worried, and Aziraphale holds his breath as he waits for Adam’s response, hoping for a “yes” even as he secretly, desperately wishes for a “no”. But mostly, mostly he just wants him to answer and get it over with, because Crowley won’t allow himself to be treated until they get this sorted out, and with every passing second, with every fresh drop of blood that soaks into the hopelessly ruined jacket, their window of opportunity is rapidly slamming shut.

“Alright,” Adam responds finally, grim and quiet. “Gimme a minute. I’ll text you when I’m done.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale breathes out past an ever-growing spiky lump in his throat. “Thank you.”

The connection clicks off, and Anathema reaches over to pick up the phone. Watches the two of them with a pinched, reproachful expression. “You were the one who asked me to call in Adam,” she accuses, the undisguised worry in her voice muting the low undercurrent of disapproval. “You said we’d need his powers to–”

“I changed my mind, alright?!” he exclaims, feeling his composure crumble. The hold he has on Crowley has got to be beyond uncomfortable right now, but he can’t bring himself to loosen it. “I reviewed our options and I changed my mind.” And he absolutely, positively cannot bring himself to look at Anathema now. Can’t possibly hope to defend himself if she continues to pry.

Turns out he doesn’t need to.

“Don’t blame him.” Crowley’s voice is barely above a whisper now, a rasped out, broken hiss of a breath that spills past the blood-spattered lips. “Wasss my desssision. My ch-choisssse.”

The phone dings an incoming message, interrupting whatever Anathema was about to say, and she lets it go with nothing more than an unhappy frown. Glances briefly at her screen. “It’s Adam. He’s done it.”

And to Crowley those words must have been like a permission to let go, for in the next instant the shuddering tension seeps out of his body – swiftly, all at once, and Aziraphale cries out in alarm as the demon grows suddenly, terrifyingly limp in his grasp. And his voice shakes with traitorous fear when he begs Anathema to “Hurry, please, hurry!”

#good omens #good omens fic #my writing #crowley #aziraphale #sjsob good omens fics

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thinkingisadangerouspastime · 5 years

Text

a most holy sin

i watched Bohemian Rhapsody and cried at least 12 times so of course i was (loosely) inspired by it and had to write an ineffable husbands fanfic. i definitely listened to a Best of Queen playlist while i wrote it, too. i hope you enjoy and please forgive historical and medical inaccuracies because im sure there are some. also for some reason the line break isn't working?? i'm going to try to add it again later.

(I know Gabriel does not technically outrank Aziraphale but for the sake of plot he's gonna be in charge of Earthly affairs.)

WARNING: There is usage of homophobic slurs at a point in this story. If you are sensitive to such, either be wary as you read or simply do not read this fic. Don't worry, you won't hurt my feelings if you keep scrolling.

~*~

"I'd like to be temporarily stationed in America."

Gabriel looked up from his desk, every inch of it covered in paperwork. Glasses that Aziraphale knew very well the archangel did not need slid down his nose. Gabriel pushed them back up. "Why?"

Succinct. As per usual. Aziraphale pretended that he was not twisting his ring anxiously around his pinky as he spoke. "Well, I do read American papers every so often, and I've been keeping tabs on a certain, er, an epidemic, of sorts, that is happening over there."

Gabriel removed the silver frames from his nose, folding them and placing them on his desk. "Right. The AIDS epidemic."

"Yes," Aziraphale murmured. "Yes, quite. I assure you that I don't intend to miracle up a cure for the disease. It's best to let humans work through that on their own, I assume. I simply wish to - to ease the pain of those in the final stages."

Gabriel was silent. Aziraphale began to wonder if he was pushing his luck with this request. He'd nearly been discovered with Crowley only two decades or so ago, not to mention his boss was not known for being the friendliest or the most sympathetic of angels -

"Yes."

Aziraphale blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said yes, you may go." Gabriel sighed, scrawling his signature on a document in glittering gold ink before shoving the paper away. "I have also been keeping up with information on the epidemic. Those victims could certainly use some angelic kindness right now, what with so many being rejected by their families even as they're on their deathbeds. Beelzebub undoubtedly has a special place in Hell for those sorts of nasty people, I'm sure."

"And we have a special place in Heaven for the victims?"

"Precisely." Gabriel returned his attention to the stack of papers in front of him. "You're dismissed, Aziraphale. Don't stay too long."

"Of course," Aziraphale breathed, nodding. He was almost unable to believe everything had worked out so well. "Thank you, Gabriel." Not wanting to overstay his visit and risk having the decision reversed, Aziraphale promptly left. He considered taking the back exit out, but it wasn't as if he was in a rush. He still had to pack, after all.

It was quite a shame he couldn't simply miracle himself to America. Airplanes were... Less than enjoyable, in Aziraphale's opinion. But miracles had to be preserved.

He didn't want to think about how many he might have to perform in the very near future.

~*~

America, circa 1990

Aziraphale had ditched his usual tartan suit for new tartan scrubs. He was posing as a nurse, working in a ward delegated specifically to victims of AIDS in the final stages. As much as it pained him, he refrained from miracling them back into health. God probably would not take too kindly to that, what with the circle of life and all, even considering Her infinite generosity. Instead, Aziraphale eased their pain as they passed to Heaven. If nothing else, they deserved to know that good things awaited them on the other side.

"Room 636, Nurse Fell," a woman called to Aziraphale as he walked down the hall. Her voice had the rounded edge of a faint Southern drawl. "He's got family with him right now, but they'll be out soon."

"Right. Thank you." He nodded at her as she passed. Aziraphale had memorized the layout of the hospital before he'd started "working" there - it helped him maximize his time with the patients. Not to mention he had to be back in Soho before the end of the year.

"This is your own fault, you know."

Aziraphale froze.

"You're the who grew up and decided to be a fucking fag, goddamnit!"

He recognized that tone. It was one he heard all too often in the AIDS ward.

"And now that choice is killing you. Just like it killed your little queer boyfriend."

Aziraphale resisted the urge to swear. Of course the voice was coming from room 636.

"Hope you're happy with yourself. Hope you're proud."

The man's words were laced with more venom than the world's deadliest snake could provide. Aziraphale reached for the door handle, only to find that it had been locked. Very much against hospital regulations, but also rather common in these situations.

"This is the devil's consequence. You know why they're calling it the 'gay plague'? Because only fags are getting it." The man sighed, an intensified frustration bleeding into his tone. "You just had to be a queer, didn't you? You had to be the family disappointment." His voice dropped, and he growled the lethal blow. "I can't believe I ever called you my son."

Aziraphale didn't care if Heaven reprimanded him. He snapped his fingers, unlocking the door and entering the room without a moment's hesitation. He straightened his back and stared down the father. "Sir, I am going to have to ask that you leave here immediately."

The man's lip curled in disgust. "A queer nurse? I should have known."

Aziraphale ignored the comment, standing his ground. "I must insist that you leave, or else I'll be forced to call security."

For a moment, Aziraphale was afraid the man wouldn't go. But after a long pause, he left in a furious silence.

Aziraphale rushed over to the patient's bed. He was young, in his late teens or early twenties. Still a boy, really. And that only made it all the more heartbreaking.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that." Aziraphale checked the IV in the boy's arm, making sure it remained connected. "You don't deserve to be treated like something is wrong with you."

"Maybe there is something wrong with me."

Sweat beaded the boy's forehead, and Aziraphale's heart ached a little more when he saw tearstains on his cheeks.

"Am I really going to Hell, nurse?" the boy whispered. "Was falling in love really a sin?" He closed his eyes, biting his lip in a clear attempt to keep himself from sobbing. "I loved him. I loved him so much. All I did was fall in love."

"My dear boy." Aziraphale pulled up a chair next to the hospital bed before sitting down. "Of course you aren't going to Hell. Believe me, falling in love is no sin."

"That's not what my father thinks." His voice was bitter. Much too bitter for someone who likely had just started university.

"Well, fathers don't know everything," Aziraphale replied. "Trust me, dear boy. There is nothing you have to fear in death."

The boy wiped tears from his eyes. "Yeah? How would you know?"

Aziraphale snapped his fingers. The Almighty really was not going to be pleased with him. So many miracles only a few minutes apart was sure to get him reprimanded. Or maybe it wouldn't. He never could tell what exactly She would approve or disapprove of.

The boy's eyes widened as he took in the sudden change of his surroundings. He tried to sit up, but Aziraphale stopped him.

"Careful, now. I'm simply giving you a peek into what awaits you."

The boy shook his head in disbelief. "Is this - is this Heaven?"

"Indeed." A part of it, at least. A lovely little spot of paradise that was reminiscent of Eden. Many enjoyed it when they first ascended to Heaven. A place to get acclimated.

The boy stared at Aziraphale. "You're an angel."

Aziraphale's wings fluttered, as if responding to the query. "Yes, I am. I requested to be stationed in America to help ease the pain of those suffering from AIDS. People in the... Final stages of the disease."

The boy nodded. A faint smile appeared on his lips. "That means I'm dying, then."

Young people truly were getting more perceptive. "I'm afraid so, my dear." Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and the vision of Heaven dissipated. Regretfully, his wings went, too.

The boy sighed, leaning back more deeply into the hospital bed's pillow. "Would you believe me if I told you that I'm going to miss my father?"

Aziraphale didn't respond. He knew an answer wasn't expected.

"I'm going to miss him. Even if -" The boy's voice cracked. "Even if he hates me, he was the only family I had. I forgive him, and - and I want God to forgive him, too."

"She will," Aziraphale murmured, his voice so low only he could hear it. "She always does."

The boy's heart rate was dropping. Aziraphale resisted every instinct in his body to save him. He could not interfere. It was not his responsibility to influence Earthly life and death.

"At least I'll get to see Miles again," the boy breathed. Tears were trickling down his face. "It's been a long year without him."

He closed his eyes.

The machine flatlined.

Aziraphale could sense the boy's spirit leaving his body. He returned the chair to the side of the room, then slid the curtain shut around the bed.

"I'm sorry, angel."

Aziraphale didn't know when he'd started crying. "I can't imagine even your lot could be responsible for this, Crowley."

There was a pause. "AIDS itself is one of the final gifts of Pestilence unto Earth, despite that they retired eons ago." Footsteps echoed in the quiet room, moving closer to Aziraphale. "But only humans could be so cruel to one another."

"I know," Aziraphale whispered. "And I think that's the worst part of all." He didn't even blink as Crowley stepped in front of him, brushing away his tears with his thumb.

"There's nothing you can do, angel," Crowley murmured. "You know that."

Aziraphale did know that. He hated it, but he knew it all too well. "I just - I just don't understand. All they do is fall in love, Crowley! What could have wrong in human history where they started to believe that love was sinful?"

Aziraphale expected a witty comment in response. A dry quip about Catholics, or the Shaker community. He certainly had not prepared himself for a serious answer.

"When did Heaven and Hell start believing it?"

Crowley's sunglasses slid down his nose. He took them off, tucking them into his jacket. They stared at each other, eye to eye.

"I've been - I've been wondering that myself," Aziraphale stammered. His voice was hushed. "But it's not my place to question it."

Crowley shrugged. "The Almighty has been more forgiving as of late. Since it's you, She just might allow it."

"I - I couldn't possibly."

"I know, angel." He sighed. "I know."

Neither spoke after that. But neither made a move to walk away.

Aziraphale knew he had to leave. He had to report the death of the young man so the room could be available for other patients. But he couldn't bring himself to step away from Crowley.

The stood only inches apart. Aziraphale wasn't certain whether he'd reached for Crowley's hand or if the demon had grabbed his, but their fingers were intertwined and Aziraphale knew damn well he didn't want to let go.

"How did you find me?" he finally asked. "I don't recall telling you I was leaving Soho. Or where I was going." In fact, they hadn't spoken since 1967. The night in the Bentley.

Crowley shrugged. In a rare moment of tenderness, his thumb gently brushed over Aziraphale's knuckles. "The city feels different when you're not there."

"O-Oh. I see." Aziraphale found his gaze drifting down from Crowley's eyes to his lips. He didn't fail to notice that Crowley had lessened the distance between them even further.

"Is love a sin, angel?" Crowley whispered. His free hand moved to cup Aziraphale's cheek. "Because if so, it must be the holiest sin there is."

Aziraphale would have laughed had the tension between them not been almost suffocating. "Well, my dear, I really don't think there's such thing as a 'holy' sin -"

He was cut off as Crowley captured his mouth with his. Aziraphale found himself melting into the kiss, pulling the demon towards him. Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale's waist, and Aziraphale placed his arms around Crowley's neck.

He shouldn't be doing this. He didn't know why he shouldn't be, because every atom in his body was telling him that this was right, that this was love, that Crowley was all he needed -

But he couldn't.

Aziraphale pulled away, certain that regret was written all over his face. He couldn't bring himself to look Crowley in the eyes. "I'm sorry. You deserve - you deserve better than me."

Crowley laughed. It was harsh. Bitter. "I'm a demon, angel. I don't 'deserve' anything. It's part of the job description. In the fine print. Non-negotiable. You know that." He yanked his sunglasses out of his pocket and shoved them onto his face.

"No." Aziraphale's voice refused to move above a whisper. "You deserve everything, my dear. Anything you want. The whole world."

"I don't want the whole damn world. I only want you."

Aziraphale forced himself to look at Crowley. The demon's expression was unreadable behind the black lenses. "I can't, Crowley. Not now. Not yet."

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "'Yet'?"

Aziraphale nodded. "One day, I'll - I'll be ready. To go faster. As fast as you. I swear it. Just - Just not today." And he meant it. More than anything he'd ever said. "Will you... Wait for me?"

A small smile appeared on Crowley's lips. It was a rare sight, but one of Aziraphale's favorites.

"For you, angel? Always."

Aziraphale blinked, and the demon was gone. He didn't know when they'd see each other again. He didn't know what the future would hold for them, either. But when Crowley had left, he'd taken all of Aziraphale's tears with him. As he so often did.

Perhaps his demon had a point.

If love was a sin, it truly was a holy one.

Maybe even one worth Falling for.

~*~

im a mess, y'all. i love these two more than i love myself. i hope you enjoyed! feel free to send me prompt requests for them or for ineffable bureaucracy because both are such good pairings.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #anthony j crowley #anthony crowley #good omens fanfiction #good omens fic #my post #my fanfic #my writing #fanfiction #archangel gabriel #tw: homophobic slurs #aids crisis #amy writes

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impishnature · 4 years

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Feather Fall (Part 1)

AO3 Fandom: Good Omens Rating: T+ Summary: What is an Angel without a connection to Heaven? A/N: @sightkeeper asked a while back for Aziraphale whump with the line ‘Blood? Oh it’s not mine’ and I wrote 18k words from just that. Warnings: Thoughts/talk of falling. Graphic violence (later). Panic attacks, blood, self harm. Some of these warnings are for another part but I’m putting them all here.

It had been three months since they had saved the world.

Three whole months. Ninety days. Two thousand, one hundred and sixty hours and counting.

And he was counting. Minutes, seconds, days, weeks, it all bled into one as he waited for something to happen- because for some reason it didn't feel like they had saved the world at all.

There had been no joyous occasions, no fanfare or parade. No celebrations except their own minimal affair. Just the peaceful, quiet hum of life continuing on it's path, never knowing just how close they had come to seeing it all crumble around them.

Well that, and the score of snarling angels and demons on their tails.

He could almost understand the demons vicious rage, but the angels? His family? How could they so blindly follow old texts that no longer truly aligned with what the world and humanity had evolved into? How could they sit idly by and watch it all burn, content to fight in a war with no real meaning or end other than complete annihilation? Was the world that the Almighty had created, truly just collateral damage in the wider scheme of things? Did none of them see the contradictions? The hypocrisy? How did their faith override their reason so easily?

And beneath all the questions, all the unfulfilled answers, there was a deeper ache; yearning, cold and hollow. It stung deep in his chest, pulsing pitifully with every fluttering heartbeat- a dagger thrust there by those who should have understood him, should have stood beside him.

Instead, they had tried to kill him with hellfire.

All for choosing humanity over an unjustifiable war.

All for asking the questions no one else seemed to be asking.

...Had he been so wrong?

Aziraphale sat, lost in his own thoughts, his book forgotten on his lap. It threatened to slip off him onto the floor at a moment's notice that he wasn't even present enough to feel or hear happening. It had been three months. Three months and the only contact his brethren had had was to try and kill him. He'd hoped that it would all blow over, that they'd see the error in their ways and realise that he and Crowley had made the best decision for everyone.

It was wishful thinking, he knew that now.

Neither side would ever admit they were wrong, nor admit defeat. It wasn't in their nature.

A human hundreds of years ago had seen the truth, but it had taken watching his own body be dragged up to heaven for him to accept his fate.

Thankfully, he hadn't been himself then, nor had Crowley been soaked in holy water as the other side had decided. But there had been a hint of barely quelled fury in Crowley's eyes when he returned that let him know that it was not just the actions or hellfire that had spoken out loudly at that meeting. He knew Crowley would never tell him, he'd sugarcoat it or brush it off, but then again he didn't really need to know what had been said. The dagger in his heart still twisted at the implications regardless, that deep rooted sadness that refused to leave.

Aziraphale tried to shake himself in his seat, the thoughts a dark cloud that needed to be swatted away. He brushed at his chest subconsciously, as if there was a physical item embedded there that he could tug out and be done with. It didn't matter what had been said. They wanted him dead, plain and simple. And when that hadn't worked, they'd cut him off.

He hadn't realised until then what true freedom tasted like.

For a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased, his mind slipping to warmer thoughts. It had been blissful at first. He'd felt lighter, brighter, like a weight had lifted from him, chains that he hadn't even realised he was wearing crashing to the floor. He no longer had to hide himself, to dim his light to quell questions and curiosity at his actions. He no longer had to subject himself to their whims even when he disagreed, to bite his tongue and smile dutifully at every snide remark or reprimand. And best of all; he could go about his life in peace, spend his days with Crowley without fear of what management might say or think, because none of them had any right to say anything anymore. They may judge him, but without the fear of consequences looming above his head, what really was there to stop him from giving into temptations and living life, however he saw fit?

He was already dead to them, or he would be if they had gotten there way, so, what more could he really do to anger them more than they already were?

But then the doubts had spread.

It had started as a small voice, that hint of sadness, that he couldn't quite escape. And then like a creeping vine it had taken hold. It grew and grew, tendrils reaching into every crevice of his skull, strangling the happiness that he had thought he finally deserved.

Aziraphale swallowed, his eyes open and unseeing as his shoulders raised defensively around his neck. He hunched forward, arms gripping tight to his knees, a bid to protect himself as the cold seeped back through his lungs and the dagger pushed deeper still.

His family had deserted him.

As much as he disagreed with them, as much as he was glad to no longer be under their scrutiny, it still didn't feel quite right to be completely isolated from Heaven. To have their full and unabated disappointment echoing through the silence of a disconnected phone line.

Was this what it felt like to fall? The ache of loss that he couldn't control or reason away. Grieving over something he hadn't even truly wanted, but now that it was ripped entirely from his grasp, never to be his again...

The thought sent a shudder down his spine and he propelled himself from his seat without thought, giving into the need to move, to pace. The book crashed to the ground at his feet, to be stumbled upon and kicked away with little remorse. Shame and repulsion slid heavily into his gut; a meal he wished he hadn't eaten and put him off eating ever again, whilst guilt and fear fizzled through his extremities, tingling down his fingers to keep them restlessly twining together as he paced.

It was nauseating and disturbingly unfamiliar, as if a beast had taken up residence inside his core and refused to be abated until he begged for forgiveness for crimes he hadn't even committed.

It roared to life inside of him, it fed on the panic and the paranoia, the doubts and the disorientation. It didn't care who was right or who was wrong, only that he reach a resolution and fast. It whispered insidiously in his ear, voice shifting between Gabriel's and Her's until his heart was clattering against his ribs and beating in his throat, and no amount of reminding himself that he didn't need a heartbeat would halt it.

You need to fix this. You are the fault, the issue. Heaven's closed its gates to you, how long until that is irreversible? What do your opinions matter against that?

Your fall is imminent- that is, if it hasn't started already...

"Don't be ridiculous." The words ground out of him amidst gritted teeth and an uncooperative tongue. The voices hushed against the sound, the beast curious and patient at his interruption. The blood pumping through his ears receded as his own commanding voice took centre stage and pushed the fear back in its place, down to the depths where it belonged. Or perhaps it wasn't his own voice, perhaps it was the accompanying shocked hiss, a spark of gold in the darkness, that lit up his brain and soothed his racing heart.

We picked our side. We picked the human's side. We did the right thing. Heaven and Hell are against us, surely that's got to mean something?

"I'm not falling." Aziraphale stood up straight, closing his eyes for a second to take a deep breath before glaring out at the open air, as if his aggressors were there in the room with him. "I would know. Crowley refuses to talk about his fall, and I will be damned if we place this- this- tiff at the same level as his suffering."

It was abhorrent, disrespectful, that his mind would put the two anywhere near one another.

The beast was subdued for a moment, irritated but conceding. It shrunk in size and let him breathe easier as clarity and logic took over his thought patterns.

...The peace didn't last long.

Her voice, quiet and questioning, echoed past all the others. It created space where it needed, growing in form and consistency, engulfing him in its reverberations.

How would you know?

"I'm sorry?" The words stuttered out of him before he could stop them. A puff of irritation fizzled through his chest, his hands clenching into fists.

What was he doing apologising to an imaginary voice? It wasn't real. It was just his mind playing tricks on him.

She wasn't here. She wasn't talking to him.

And if She was, he hoped that he would have enough in him not to shrink at Her presence, that he could ask all the questions that, over the years of silence, had begun to sit and multiply at the back of his throat every time he thought of Her.

His resolve didn't stop the flow of the voice though. The one that slid across the surface of his brain and mingled with his own thoughts until he wasn't sure if it was Her or him that spoke them into reality.

It was pervasive, humoured by his ignorance and strengthened by his doubts.

How would you know what falling feels like?

Aziraphale swallowed past the lump in his throat. A strangely hysterical part of his mind was proud of himself for having the foresight to close the shop early that day. Humans weren't all that fond of people having fights with themselves nor imaginary people. "I don't... I've seen it, heard about it. The Fall. They fell from- it wasn't a slow process. It's never been a slow process. There was never any doubt that they had fallen."

Well, that was then. No one's fallen in millennia. There was also never any doubt that they had lost sight, that they had lost faith. They fell for their reasons, you're falling for yours.

A sharper voice grated through, Her voice opening up the floodgates for it to return from the depths he'd cast it to. It was darker, less hypothetical, and more disparaging as it snarled at him.

You never could do anything right. Why would this be any different?

He was suddenly finding it hard to breathe, the need for oxygen to unnecessary lungs somehow desperate and required. The room was closing in on him, shrinking into a suffocating prison built purposefully for him. Each book, each shadow, opened another set of eyes that dispassionately watched his descent, judging him for every little action, every thought, every word, every minuscule movement-

Her voice slipped through the soft breeze, sending goosebumps trailing across his flesh and the hairs raising on the back of his neck.

Perhaps every day you make the choice to fall just that little bit further...

A soft clatter dragged some of his awareness back into the room. His eyes focused in and out on a small button rolling across the floor away from him with no recognition or recollection of where it had come from.

It wasn't until there was the remains of a bow tie held too tightly in his hand that he realised he'd been tugging at his collar in an effort to get his breathing under control.

And one day you'll realise with a shock that you haven't been an angel for a very long time.

"Stop it."

The cacophony of voices abruptly left him, like he had snapped the lid shut on whatever horrific chest they had manifested from.

Aziraphale stood in the deserted silence, breathing hitching and twisting as the shift took him by surprise and left him hollow, his own voice the only one now flying around his head in a wisp of fear and paranoia born from no one but himself.

He wasn't sure if he had accidentally miracled the others away or if this was some new harsh punishment set out by his old management.

At least, when the voices hadn't been his own he could pretend that this wasn't all his own doing.

Your choice, your choice- your fault. Can't blame anyone else for this. You stepped over the edge, you made the choice, no one else.

"This is... absurd." He swallowed, his patience and practicality paper thin and fragile against the onslaught, but still there, a thread of sanity in a tumultuous sea. "Utterly ridiculous." Every word added a layer, a knot, another steadying, gratifying breath to his heaving lungs. "You're fine, for Go- goodness- for goodness sake."

The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.

"We did the right thing."

Silence rang back at him across the empty room, disapproval and condemnation cloying the air like a stagnant smell that refused to budge. It didn't matter if they could hear him, not really, not when the answer would always be the same.

So many eyes upon him but so desperately alone.

"We did." If only he could believe it himself without a shadow of a doubt- without thinking about how many of his compatriots disagreed, how much pain they were happy to put him through because of his decision- perhaps then the dam would break and the fear of holy retribution would finally leave him. "It was the right thing to do."

The silence remained. His new unwanted companion. How many times had he wished for freedom from their scrutiny? Yet now as the feeling of being watched dissipated into the ether, he couldn't help but feel that every utterance from his mouth turned another spectator away from him, taking a piece of his grace with them.

Turning their backs, one by one. He didn't want their forgiveness- but he needed it all the same.

"It has to be."

Whether or not he wanted it, he was alone. No longer watched, no longer listened to.

He could do as he pleased.

As long as he was happy to fall for it.

Aziraphale moved. He wasn't sure where or what he was doing at first, just that there was a sharp need at his core to do something. His common sense and logical approach just weren't cutting it today. No amount of philosophical reading or prayer could fix the anxious storm that brewed inside his skull. He'd been able to tamper it down before, even forget its existence when in the company of a rather distracting friend, but it had always returned when he was alone, always bubbled back up, thick and oozing through every pore as if to suffocate him.

So now it was time for another approach.

Before he knew it, he found himself in front of a mirror, one that he wasn't even sure had been there before this very moment, though he didn't have the mental resources to really think that through at present. It was also rather reminiscent to one he had seen in someone else's apartment, but again- now was not the time to think of such things. Instead he found himself staring at his reflection, inspecting it, almost as if he would be able to see the difference his actions had caused. As if he would see some kind of blemish that would prove his fears correct, or crush them to non-existence with little fanfare, if only he could prove to himself that all was as it should be.

A rather optimistic and unrealistic notion perhaps, but one that he couldn't help but hold onto.

In reality, he wasn't really sure what he was looking for.

He was unkempt that was for sure.

Aziraphale stared into his own almost unseeing eyes, filled with a strange sheen of dread that he wasn't used to seeing. His chest was rising and falling in sharp bursts, his breathing still quickening under the stress he'd managed to put himself under. He tried to brush past the fear, ignore it for the time being, and instead stare deep and wide eyed into his own gaze for a hint of- something. Something new, something wrong, something- well, different.

The watery gleam to his expression may not be familiar, nor the pasty pallor of his skin, but it was still undeniably him.

He gave a soft, long, exhale, some modicum of certainty seeping into his system.

As much as he had a soft spot for a certain serpent's eyes... they were hardly subtle.

If he really were changing, he would expect a rather more dramatic change in his appearance, something that would say 'beware of me!' to humans.

If anything his reflection looked rather more human than it had any right to. With it's soft tremors and heavy breathing, hair wild and matted from fingers he didn't recall running through locks. With his shoulders hunched defensively around his ears as if to weather any storms thrown at him from the outside world.

Not to mention his suit.

A soft noise of distaste clicked across his tongue as his crumpled suit finally made it's way into his vision, taking his attention gladly from rather more important matters. He tried to straighten himself out; dusting off his shoulders, brushing down his sleeves and tugging at the hem. It was a frustrating task, one that usually took only moments, but for some reason was proving rather futile as he twisted and tugged to get his appearance back in order.

It was only when he gave up with a soft huff and went to the final task of straightening his collar, that he finally noted the distinct lack of a familiar bow tie, fingers flitting over non-existent material without thought.

He shook himself, ignoring the drop in his stomach at not noticing a rather vital part of his outward appearance. Pushed down the clamouring voices to check- check again, check everything, you missed something, you're wrong. He didn't need his bow tie, he wasn't going anywhere. Aziraphale continued his ministrations around his collar as nonchalantly as possible, as if he hadn't noticed anything amiss at all. All he had to do was fasten his top button and he'd be able to look at his reflection again and all would be well-

Oh.

His top button was missing.

His fingertips ran over the yielding fabric, thumbing the hole on one side and pulling perplexedly at the few stray threads on the other where a button had once been.

When had that- oh. Oh, he remembered now.

Aziraphale swallowed, closing his eyes. He felt his adam's apple bob against his knuckles as he tried to think straight. He'd read about this, hadn't he? Humans had all kinds of words for these situations. Where panic made the mind go blank to the outside world. When just being inside a struggling body was hard enough to cope with, let alone spending energy and effort on anything else.

The only thing was- he'd never heard of an angel suffering similarly.

Then again, he'd never heard of a demon being afflicted either.

Having said that, though... He wasn't sure he'd heard of any angels or demons going against the grain quite like they had, at least not since the Fall.

He found himself laughing without intention, a mildly hysterical chuckle that rattled through him until he wasn't sure if they were morphing into sobs.

Who was he fooling? No one had ever done what he and Crowley had done before. No one had attempted the things they had achieved. Why on Earth did he think that anything that happened next would have any semblance to what had come before?

All the research, and all the time in the world, would never be able to prepare them for whatever came next.

Because no one had any inclining as to what would come next.

They were all completely in the dark and there was no light coming.

They had to make their own way from now on, their own choices- and whether they liked it or not, the other angels and demons were in the same boat as him and Crowley.

Just like the humans.

Aziraphale blinked, his eyes finding his own reflection once more, not even comprehending the moisture clinging to his eyelashes and leaving glistening marks down his cheeks.

Just like humanity.

His laughter bubbled up again, this time hollow but accepting. Humanity had dealt with this for as long as they could remember. Faith and belief only got you so far, the rest was a choice you made every day. To be good, to do good- there was nothing stopping them, not really, only their own thoughts and feelings and those around them.

Every day they dealt with the knowledge that they truthfully- knew nothing at all.

And that was OK.

It had to be OK for them.

And now, it had to be OK for everyone else as well.

None of them had ever known Her plan. Not really.

They'd hoped they understood, they'd hoped She wasn't setting them up for failure.

Because why would She?

Her and Her plan- they were ineffable. That's all there was to it.

But then on the other hand- they were ineffable.

How on Earth could they ever live up to a plan that they had no way of comprehending? How could they follow those distinct orders without knowing why, or how, or even whether they were following them correctly?

Maybe She hadn't set them up to fail, but at the same time, She had doomed them to failure.

They would forever fall short of Her expectations. Because none of them knew what Her expectations were.

Perhaps, they weren't all that different from humanity, after all.

"Different..."

The word left him in an almost reverent hush.

There was one rather glaring difference.

Between humans, angels and demons.

He just wasn't sure he was ready to visualise the outcome of his transgressions.

"Stop being ridiculous." He growled, his teeth clamping together as his watery gaze hardened to ice. Self-loathing was bubbling up thick and fast, eclipsing all other thoughts and feelings as it heaved and seethed throughout his frame, it twisted his earlier tremors into something almost unrecognisable, more forceful, sharper in his twitching muscles.

No other angel or demon would have this much trouble looking at themselves in a mirror.

Not unless they had something to hide.

And he didn't. He didn't-

A soft low swish muffled and dampened the electric air around him. Warmth encircled his frame, his wings unfurling from the ether to rest either side of him, downy and light against the fabric of his suit. Feathers brushed against his neck as, just for a moment, he let himself be cocooned in their embrace, soothed by his own heavenly essence when no one else would embrace him or remind him that he wasn't alone.

Aziraphale let himself stand in that tranquil darkness for a few moments. Let himself breathe in the subtle smell that lingered from the ether they were kept in. He hardly ever got them out and the brush of nostalgia that the sensations brought forth was sustaining him in that instance, reminding him of all the good that he had done, all the times from long before when it had been the norm to wander with them proudly visible. That is, before the humans came along and didn't understand, needed answers to questions they couldn't give and they had begun to hide amongst them instead.

But this wouldn't do.

This wasn't what he had come here to do.

He took a deep inhale, holding his breath for a few more seconds before he unfurled his wings on the exhale. He gave them a cursory glance in the mirror, scrunching up his face in mild contempt at the sorry state they were in, dusty from their containment.

"I'm glad it's only me here right now. The higher ups would have a fit." The words came out in a soft grumble, a half relieved sigh at the notion that he was alone slipping past the pit of loneliness that had been consuming him.

He really was such a contrary being. One moment he hated it, the next he rejoiced it.

He ignored the hissing notions that still wormed their way into his head, instead turning away from the mirror to find a suitable place to groom himself. His fingers had already started before he had found a place to sit, twisting and tugging at itching feathers that were making themselves known the longer he had them out in the open. "When was the last time I did this? Too long ago. That's for sure."

He continued to tut and tsk at himself as he plopped himself down, focusing on one wing and then the other. It was an arduous task, one filled with somehow knotted together feathers and tweaking unruly down until it lay flat and in position like it should. There were a few that came away altogether but he ignored them as they fell, knowing in the way they dropped off into his hands and fluttered to the ground, that they should have been gone a long time ago if he'd thought to check on them. There were a few difficult spots, frustrating, irritating tangles that he couldn't help but curse and bemoan at, all the while ignoring his heart, threatening to beat out of his chest, every time a stubborn piece of dirt took longer than it should to leave his white shimmering wings.

It wasn't until he finished, back in front of the mirror, fiddling with the hardest to reach feathers on his back that he realised they were all the spotless white they had always been.

There were no darkening stains, no grey spaces or sparse black feathers leaking through like ink on gleaming snow.

Fear and paranoia shed from his back like another layer of itching feathers, his shoulders falling as the weight on them lifted.

"See?" The word left him in a puff of air, misting up his reflection in one relaxing exhale.

He continued to fiddle with some feathers, pushing and pulling them to make sure they stayed in position, ever the perfectionist now that he had a task before him. "I really should do this more often."

He dropped his hands, letting his wings relax before miracling his collar back to how it should be, running a quick hand through his hair to tame his wayward locks.

"Absolutely nothing to worry about."

#good omens #Good Omens Fanfiction #Aziraphale #crowley #hurt/comfort #Feather Fall #tw: blood #tw: falling (religious)#tw: self harm #tw: mental breakdown

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aziraphaleswings · 5 years

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I Don’t Want The World To See Me

[Read on AO3]

The first time it happened was on a quiet, peaceful night a few weeks after the Armageddon that wasn’t. The first time Aziraphale finally found the courage to take that final step into Crowley, he did so with shuddering breath, with shaking hands, with nervous glances and hesitant lips.

“Do you want this as much as I do?” he had asked quietly, seeking assurance, and Crowley, quite beyond himself with affection, had replied with a voice almost breaking that he did. He always had. He had wanted this for as long as he could remember. Aziraphale had seemed braver then, had taken his hands and pulled him in carefully, and yet with all the reckless love in his being. The first gentle brush of dry lips had both of them gasping, both of them pulling back the slightest inch with six thousand years worth of practiced fear and restraint, both of them searching for and seeing the promise of “it’s okay” in each other’s eyes, both of them gravitating back in.

The first time Crowley got what he wanted, what he had always wanted, what he had wanted to give and receive and show longer than he had known his true name, the gentle affection of it quite nearly made him see stars. It was so simple, he thought, as his hands slid around Aziraphale’s shoulders, as he tilted his head to get a better angle, and Aziraphale offered a hand to his cheek as if guiding him closer, as he tasted honey and sweet wine and clear mornings and sunlight and featherlight softness in his mouth, as a sound came from deep in Crowley’s throat that was anything but composed, and yet Aziraphale still chased after it.

It was so simple, so human, and yet so incredibly divine that Crowley was amazed that he didn't discorporate on the spot. He half felt like he had, for all the breath was gone from his lungs - although who really needs air when one’s focus could be entirely dedicated to something far more life-sustaining than oxygen? - and he was sure that his legs were going to give out from beneath him any moment, and he could feel his heart was thrumming against his ribs so loudly that he was sure it was actually jumping out of his own chest and into Aziraphale’s. It should have been something terrifying, the depth of his own desire, but all Crowley could think of was how desperately he had wanted this for so long, and how it was happening now for the first time, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing in all his years that could have possibly prepared him for it. He could have died happy in that moment, he decided. He could have sunk into the cold earth and never wanted again.

Crowley thought he’d rediscovered the true meaning of Heaven on Aziraphale’s lips, because this, oh, this was the sort of thing that the humans sang of in their churches. This was the sort of thing the humans believed in with their whole lives; this was the sort of perfect, ineffable Goodness that was only spoken of in temples and in the hopeful whispers of the forgotten. This was the sort of thing that a demon could never deserve, and yet here his angel was, offering him it, offering him unconditional affection with two gentle hands and two parted lips and all the warmth held in his perfect, soft body.

But then - because of course there had to be a “but then”, didn’t there? Good and beautiful things didn’t last, not for Crowley - everything went sideways.

The first time Aziraphale kissed him was also the first time his soft fingers had begun to trail higher, above his cheekbones, up near the sides of his eyes, and Crowley remembered tensing. Those fingers had bumped against, then hooked around the arms of his glasses, and tugged them slightly forward, asking, asking. Crowley remembered going stone-still. Oh, don’t. No.

And then he remembered pulling himself sharply back as if he had been burned, retracting his arms from around the angel, and bringing up a hand like a barrier between the two of them to push the glasses sharply back into place with an incoherent noise of defensiveness as he bit back the words too fast so sharply he nearly nipped through his own tongue. He didn’t remember more than flashes of Aziraphale’s apology, his genuinely worried expression, how his hands had drawn back cautiously towards his own belly, coming together in that way he always held them like a man in prayer, asking forgiveness. Crowley barely remembered any of it, because after he had pulled back, he had immediately excused himself from the bookshop before anything else could be said or done.

He had excused himself and stumbled all the way to the Bentley and had driven back to his flat, not thinking, just trying to run - run run outrun it faster faster go faster than the fear, faster than the past - as far away as he could, hoping his heart would eventually stop pounding before he had to rip it out and silence it himself. The car had found itself outside the flat all too soon, and so then Crowley had simply leaned over the steering wheel and frozen for an entire half hour as everything sunk in, letting out a scream of frustration once he finally trusted himself to take in breath again.

He had just run from Aziraphale, hadn’t he? He had just run from his angel, from the one he loved and who loved him and who he trusted more than anyone else in the world. He had just run from the moment that he had been dreaming about for centuries. It had all been perfect. It had all been right. So why was this happening? Why was he still scared? Why was his heart still screaming and thundering and reminding him of not just the panic, but the intimacy he had left behind, the intimacy he had been craving for millennia? Why were his hands still trembling so fiercely he could hardly grip the steering wheel? Why was he still reaching up to check that his glasses really were in their proper place every five seconds? He forced himself to move, ripping the keys from the ignition in frustration as he exited the vehicle and trudged up to his apartment, fighting the itch to look over his shoulder at every step.

He was being delirious; ridiculous, even. Absolutely erratic. He could think of a hundred more words to describe what an utter dolt he was being at the moment, and he berated himself with all of them, each insult sharp as knives, except… He stomped up the steps like his feet had suddenly grown heavy, fighting back another scream. The more he thought about it - and he really was not enjoying thinking about it, but there was absolutely no stopping something this fresh - he began to realize that only one person other than himself had ever removed his glasses before, and that memory had been awful, as most memories associated with Hastur were.

He was overcome with a sudden burst of anxiety at the realization, and shot an admittedly desperate look behind himself as he took the next stair. The hallway was empty, but yet the black eyes of the past still felt close enough to breathe down his neck. His hair stood on end. The disgusting toad had ripped the lenses from his eyes in the safety of his own car and had then gone so far as to shatter them in front of him. It had been a gesture of control, stripping them away; an invasive cruelty meant solely to get under his skin and make him feel powerless, make him feel vulnerable and exposed.

He should have bitten off Hastur’s hand before he got the chance, he thought, but he knew he had been too shocked, too scared, too suddenly raw to have acted so quickly. The glasses were a symbol of Crowley’s connection to earth, yes, but they were also a self-defense, a personal shield. They kept others from seeing the echo of the ache of his Fall still in his eyes, kept Hell from seeing the truth of his snakelike deception and lies, kept humans from being unnerved and mistrusting because of his appearance, and finally, kept Aziraphale from seeing how deeply he hurt sometimes, how achingly he loved, how many burning questions he silently asked, how unchecked and explosive his emotions were at times. He had always been self conscious about exactly how much his eyes betrayed, so much so that he had quite successfully ingrained it in himself that others would be just as disgusted by it as he was.

But going back to his original point; control was not, he knew, what Aziraphale was trying to exercise over him. And yet… Crowley finally reached his room and furiously pulled it open. He slammed the door behind him as he entered, kicking at his chair in frustration before circling it like a predatory serpent encircling prey. His issues with Hastur should have been over by now, shouldn't they? After all, he hadn’t even seen the disgusting bugger since he had discorporated from the heat in Crowley’s Bentley like a stain being cleansed in the wash.

Aziraphale had told him that Hastur had been scared out of his wits at the trial and Crowley knew for a fact that Hastur, if anything, was a spineless coward. There was no chance of him coming after them now, so his actions and influence absolutely should not still bleed into Crowley’s life like this, especially not into his time with Aziraphale, where everything was safe and warm and deeply unlike Hell.

And yet, that overwhelming safety and love apparently hadn’t mattered. The enormity of Aziraphale’s tenderness couldn’t protect Crowley from his own mind, could it? - especially when his angel didn’t even know - and all of that shock, all of that fear, all of that vulnerability had come flooding back to him, feeling too much like ripping a bandage off to expose tender flesh. Crowley gritted his teeth and tugged off a shoe to hurl across the room, before flinching at the noise and instinctively looking around to ensure that no one was lurking near him. Again, he scolded himself, hissing at his own behavior. The reaction was ridiculous, he was being ridiculous, and yet he unfurled his massive wings to protect his back from any invisible harm anyways as he continued to think.

Aziraphale had seen his eyes before. Hell, the angel had seen his eyes more than any other being on the planet had. He’d been alongside Crowley since the Beginning, far before humans had even thought to invent eyewear, and he’d seen his eyes dozens of times in the modern era too, when Crowley got comfortable enough after a few glasses of wine; defenses and inhibitions stripped away as he lay coiled and smiling on his couch. But all those times had been different somehow. Perhaps it was that all those times hadn’t been… intimate? There had been some kind of distance, and there hadn’t been open affection. No, no that wasn’t the problem. He had looked at Aziraphale with unabashed love in his bare eyes before, he was certain of that. This was different.

It had always been his own choice, he realized, taking a step back as if he had been hit by a train. It had always been his own hands peeling the tinted layers away from his eyes. His own movements. His own decision.

He flexed his wings out behind him, listening as they swished through the air and taking notice of their shifting weight just to remind himself that their protective presence was there. Demon wings were technically of the same stock as angel wings, so they were quite effective in guarding others, but they served to protect him well enough. To sneak up on him from behind and cause harm would require fighting through the masses of powerful midnight blue feathers, and it would be utterly impossible to do so undetected. Crowley extended the wings behind him, stretching them out as fully as they could, and then brought them back in again, letting the tips of his feathers brush against the floor, feeling a bit better. And then he started nagging at himself, unleashing scathing questions.

Is that all? Is this just because you didn’t realize that was what he wanted, just because this wasn't your decision, or is there something more? Why does it bother you so much; the idea of being seen?

The answer, of course, was one that Crowley didn’t like. He had always worn his heart on his sleeve, even against his better judgement, and he had always offered his gaze, even when Aziraphale was too frightened to return it, but one could get used to shields, and one could convince themselves that the thing they were guarding was actually really too terrible to be seen. Now the concept of this vulnerability, this nakedness in freeing his expression… the very idea of it was petrifying. Just the thought of it stole his breath again, even as he stood in the flat, reminding him of how he had fled, driven by a primal fear and the pounding ache of not ready, not ready, not ready.

He left the chair to flop down on his bed and groan, wings sprawling out dramatically behind him like a blanket as he wondered miserably if this was how Aziraphale had felt for 6000 years; loving and wanting and struggling to keep his affections deeply buried in order to keep himself safe. He wasn’t sure how Aziraphale had managed to survive it.

~~~

Crowley wasn’t ready to face the angel again for an entire week. He had tried sleeping away the paranoia, but his dreams were all full of reaching hands and the inevitable look of disgust in the angel’s eyes when he finally wrestled the lenses off of him and after three nights of that he had given up, and resorted to barking at his plants.

Talking aloud was something of a comfort; it served to ground him, remind him of where he was and what had happened, and also to give himself some sort of control over his spiraling thoughts. It was in one of his shouting matches with a particularly flourishing fern that he abruptly realized that he had left Aziraphale without any sort of explanation and without any sort of idea as to what the angel had been thinking. And that had prompted him into an entirely different swing of emotions.

Somebody help him, the angel must have been confused. How could Crowley have done that to him - no, no, it wasn’t his fault, he had barely realized what was happening to himself in the first place, he couldn’t expect himself to go back in time and calmly rewrite the moment to involve him cheerily adding “Oh, by the way, Aziraphale, darling, before I storm out of your shop like a man possessed, please be aware that I’ve simply experienced a kind of trigger that is causing me to relive some previously unrealized trauma, which, apparently, has me so tightly around the throat that it has ruined our first night of kissing. Terribly sorry. Wish me luck!” Besides, and perhaps more importantly, how was Aziraphale handling this time of complete radio silence? The fern did not answer, so he furiously spritzed it with his plant mister.

Everything would eventually be okay, he assured himself, the optimist in him wriggling to the surface. He’d eventually get a hold on this new - and decidedly stupid - panic that rose in his chest at the very thought of the other night, and then he’d be able to go back and apologize, and everything would be okay again.

He slunk past a mirror and realized that he hadn’t taken off his glasses in the entire six days he had been home.

On the seventh day - and wasn’t that poetic, like some kind of literary Biblical metaphor, Aziraphale loved seeing all the fun humans had with those - he realized the fear wasn’t going to go away as long as he holed himself up and convinced himself of whatever horrible things the angel was thinking of him. If he admitted it to himself, one of his favorite things about the angel was that he couldn’t predict what the bastard was up to, and so all of this was really entirely ridiculous. But, the matter remained that no matter what he talked himself into believing, it wasn’t going to go away until he saw the angel again himself. And so, at around 4:27 in the morning on Thursday, he forced his fingers to dial the number of the bookshop, and asked Aziraphale to meet him for dinner the next day.

The real Aziraphale, not the fake one he’d been grappling with in his brain for the last week, had sounded delighted to hear his voice on the other end of the phone, and Crowley had been half sure that if he pressed the receiver to his ear hard enough, he’d be able to feel Aziraphale’s smile from the other side. The angel, bless him, had enthusiastically agreed, and they were to meet up at the old sushi restaurant in town.

Crowley had then spent the next twelve hours flying - literally flying - away from the fear that swallowed him the moment Aziraphale hung up. What if seeing him again made everything worse? What if the angel would be angry with him for vanishing? What if what if what if? Crowley was an inquisitive being by nature - he prided himself in that - but dear bastard angels above, he was exhausted from the questions.

He spread his wings and soared above London, above everything. Unseen, unnoticed, unreal to everyone but a few other birds, who just looked at him like he was a particularly annoying vulture. It didn’t matter, he had breezed past them with a single swoop. By the time he landed back at the flat, folding his wings into nothingness behind him, he felt something akin to readiness.

~~~

For all his fretting, when Crowley finally arrived to pick Aziraphale up, glasses firmly in place and Bentley screaming “The Show Must Go On”, the mere presence of the angel calmed him down immensely. It was impossible not to feel safe around those eager eyes and genuine smiles. Aziraphale was overjoyed to see him, he could tell that easily, and his fears of lingering resentment melted almost immediately, and Aziraphale had only asked once how the demon had been (to which he had very firmly said “irrelevant”, and the angel had thankfully left it alone) before launching into telling Crowley about a lovely book he had discovered over the week, one on the lost queer language of Polari.

Dinner went exceptionally well - Aziraphale had even convinced Crowley to try a bite of his food - from his own chopsticks, of course - and soon enough they were back in the Bentley, stopped outside of Aziraphale’s bookshop. The angel had then turned and looked at him, and Crowley had felt something akin to ice creeping up his chest. This was it, the moment everything could still go wrong.

“Would you like to come in, my dear?” His voice was suddenly careful, as if testing out the waters for the first time. He had asked this question a hundred times before (two hundred and fourteen times, exactly, since it had opened in 1800), but this time felt like the first all over again. He was hesitant, and Crowley would have laughed - as if he would rather be anywhere else in the world but with him - if he didn’t know exactly why the angel was hesitant. He hated the uncertainty in Aziraphale’s eyes, hated that he might possibly think Crowley would turn him down again, hated himself for running so thoughtlessly before.

“Absolutely,” he responded, his tone assuring him that there was no doubt in his mind, and Aziraphale basically glowed.

“I still have some of that delightful drink from last time, if you'd like,” the angel offered, stepping out of the car and leading them both to the shop. “Or, if you'd rather something new, I could look for another…”

It all felt familiar from there. Both of them chatting over bottles of wine, reclining in various parts of the shop, going over what new books Aziraphale had gotten, and how Crowley’s plants were faring, stirring up a squabble over whether the pretentious fern deserved to be replanted or not. It was comfortable, it was warm, and it was just as safe as it had been a thousand times before. Crowley found himself smiling softly as Aziraphale scolded him about how harshly he threatened those poor houseplants, and thinking about how he had fought for this. Both of them had fought for this, for this simple right to enjoy each other's company without any pretense of business, and now that he had it, Crowley would be content to stay here with this fussy angel forever, at ease and at home. He stood suddenly from the chair he had been draped over, and moved to drape himself over Aziraphale instead.

The angel gave little noise of surprise and a quick glance around them - 6000 years of habits were hard to break - before fixing the demon with an affectionate look.

“You know I just replant them.” Crowley murmured, in response to the angel’s scolding. Aziraphale rolled his eyes, and the demon ignored the movement by putting his legs in Aziraphale’s lap.

“Comfortable?” They were close now, with Crowley’s arm casually around his neck, and Aziraphale’s hand unconsciously coming to rest on his side. Crowley used his free hand to check one last time if the glasses were still in place, before nuzzling closer into his side and humming in response, distracted by the sudden proximity, letting the warm moment of togetherness drag out.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale asked, gently breaking the moment. “Stop me if you’d like, but I want to ask what upset you last time.”

Something in Crowley’s stomach dropped. He hesitantly shifted in the angel’s lap so he could see him and opened his mouth to lie, but the words twisted in his mind, and he found that he simply couldn't. Not with Aziraphale so close, not with those eyes so affectionate and sincere. He deserved to know. And maybe Crowley deserved to be understood.

“…Didn't know.” He managed to choke out, his voice cacophonous and unsteady as he fought to keep it together. Honesty; pure, unfiltered, raw and out-in-the-open honesty, was not his strong suit, and he tried to ignore the way his hands began trembling, and his eyes darted away from Aziraphale’s face to flit about the room. “You— glasses. Last person who tried to take them off of me without asking was Hastur. Somehow it got all connected in my head, and—” he flailed for words, and simply settled with waving a hand to symbolize his vanishing off into the night.

“Oh,” Aziraphale blinked, looking down and thinking, somehow sounding as if he had made sense of Crowley’s blabbering. The demon shouldn’t have been surprised, Aziraphale had always understood him a great deal more than he was prepared for. “Oh, my dear, I’m terribly sorry. You’ve taken them off around me before, so I had just assumed… Oh, I should have asked.”

“Wasn’t your fault.” Crowley assured him, moving himself carefully out of the angel’s lap so he could look at him better. “I had no idea either. I should be the one apologizing.” The burn of regret clawed back up in his throat and tasted like bile. “The whole panicking and running and avoiding thing was entirely stupid and ridiculous, and—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale cut him off. “Listen to me. None of that is ridiculous. You were upset, it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s.”

“I’m sorry I ran away.” Crowley breathed, voice lowered and careful.

“My dear, if space was what you needed, then I’m not. On the contrary, I’m glad you did. Of course, I would much rather be of assistance to you if I can, but I know that allowing yourself to gather your thoughts in solace can do wonders. You needn’t feel sorry, Crowley. I’m not angry with you. I never was.” Aziraphale looked at him seriously, eyes practically overflowing with affection, and if someone didn’t make a joke soon, Crowley was going to cry.

“I’m glad,” he admitted softly.

“And,” Aziraphale added, because apparently he wasn’t done yet, and wasn’t that great for the lump already forming in Crowley’s throat. “You don’t need to worry about those glasses. I’ve seen your eyes before, as you know, but, whatever you’re comfortable with, whatever makes you feel safest, that’s what goes. I won’t try to take them again without your permission, I swear.”

“Hrg.” Crowley responded, appreciative. His body relaxed some at the assurance, more lingering tension fading. “Thanks. Although, for the record, I can’t figure out why you’d want to see a demon’s eyes to begin with.” He had meant for it to come out like a joke to cut the tension, but somewhere between his brain and his mouth, the instructions had gotten muddled, and the admission sounded like what it really was: a confession, and a question. His eyes widened, and he fought the urge to physically reel back from his words, and settled for pinching his brows together. “I mean—”

“Isn’t it obvious?” The angel sounded a little put out as he interrupted. “Because they’re a part of you, and I'd much like to love every part of you that you’ll allow.” He stated it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and Crowley gawked.

“What?” That couldn’t be right, his eyes were a menace. Regardless of how vulnerable they made him feel, his eyes were the symbol of his Fallen nature, the one thing about his appearance that he could never change, no matter what form he took. His eyes were snakelike, twisted from the natural, horrifying to any and every human that looked upon them, and to an angel they had to be even more awful. They were a declaration of what he was: unforgivable, unlovable, demonic. Even Aziraphale had to know that. He’d never flinched from them in the past, but Crowley had talked himself into believing that was because Aziraphale was too polite to openly reveal how uncomfortable they actually made him feel. He glanced back up hesitantly and found the angel looking at him with patience.

“Crowley, we’ve talked about this. After everything we’ve been through, after everything we’ve survived, you know how I feel about you. Those feelings extend to everything about you, you know. Even that horrible bebop you enjoy. Even those gorgeous eyes.”

Crowley felt a bit like he was melting. He briefly considered turning into a snake. “Oh.”

“I’m serious.” Aziraphale said, softer this time, shifting closer. He paused, looking over the demon and biting his lip for the briefest of moments before continuing. “Could I try again?”

Crowley went still. He knew what the question meant, and his first reaction was to say no, not wanting to tempt the corner of his mind that desperately screamed for him to stay hidden, and he opened his mouth to deny him, but paused. If he was honest, a part of him did want this. He had buried and hidden that secret part of himself long ago with desperate hands and grave dirt, but it was now slithering back up to the surface with all the cautious hope of a flower opening its petals to the morning light, reminding him of the truth he tried to conceal from himself.

He did want to be seen, and the way Aziraphale was looking at him now almost made him believe he could be loved for it.

He wanted to give him that chance, he wanted to try, even though he didn’t know if he was ready. This could be different, he pointed out to himself. Aziraphale was asking this time, Aziraphale was being careful. He knew, and he understood, and he was trying to offer Crowley something, not trying to take anything.

“You don’t have to say yes,” Aziraphale added when he saw Crowley falter in his response. “And you can change your mind if—”

“Yes.” Crowley interrupted, barely a whisper. “Please.”

Aziraphale swallowed, and nodded. He raised his hands to the sides of Crowley’s face first, cupping his cheeks with warm palms, tender and affectionate. “Alright. Now, I’m taking these off because I want to look at you, my love. Not to hurt you, never to hurt you.” He waited for Crowley to nod encouragingly, before he took a breath and reached up, carefully taking hold of the arms of the glasses.

Crowley felt his heart kick into action, but he kept his eyes trained on Aziraphale’s, focusing on that love with everything in him. I can trust him. I can trust him. I can trust him. He loves me. I trust him.

“I love you,” The angel assured, looking closely for any sort of quiet request for him to stop, and, finding none, slid the glasses off a little, slow and deliberate. “I want to see you as you are, I want to love you fully for every piece of you.” His voice sounded almost holy like this, like he was promising himself to Crowley just as much as he was assuring him. The breathless whispers sounded something like prayers, and something like a choked off groan escaped Crowley in response.

“Ngk.” He offered helplessly.

“You can tell me to stop whenever,” Aziraphale reminded him, and Crowley believed him. The glasses were almost off of his nose, and the angel reassured him one last time, “I want to adore you fully. I want to see you fully so I can adore you all the more for every beautiful part of you there is, if you’ll allow me.”

Crowley’s eyes slid shut as the glasses came all the way off, and he held tightly onto Aziraphale’s shoulders as he let out a breath. There was a moment, and he didn’t hear the lenses shatter, and his eyes slid open again with surprise as he felt Aziraphale tenderly push the glasses into his jacket pocket with all the affection he gave his books. Crowley looked down, slightly breathless. Aziraphale hadn’t set them down somewhere safe, or vanished them, or hooked them onto his own clothing or anything he might have expected him to do. No. He had put them back in Crowley’s control, put the choice back in his hands. He looked back up, speechless, and Aziraphale smiled as he saw understanding in his now bare eyes.

“I want you to feel like you can change your mind,” he confirmed, thinking aloud, and then he leaned forward just the slightest amount to see Crowley better, and the serpent’s eyes were close and full of gratitude and understanding and absolute affection and Aziraphale let out a breath so deep at the sight that he must have been holding it in for at least a thousand years. “Oh.”

His palms cupped the sides of Crowley’s face, and he brought him in even closer, studying him with such fierce care that it was as if he’d never seen something worth loving before that moment. Something stung the back of the demon’s eyes, and he blinked it away furiously, refusing to choose now as a moment to cry. “Beautiful,” Aziraphale murmured as he continued studying him, running a thumb over his cheek. “Beautiful beautiful beautiful.”

“Beautiful,” Crowley agreed breathlessly, talking about something different entirely. He let himself look back, let himself see his angel up close, no shadows and film of darkness, no lenses, no barriers. lHe’d never before realized how many different colors hid in Aziraphale’s eyes, had never quite noticed the small rings of gold around his pupils, like tiny halos encircling his sight, had never quite been able to see the flush of his skin with such clarity, and Crowley’s hands found themselves reaching out, one brushing over his cheek, his thumb gliding across that perfect blush, and the other tenderly catching his soft side, wishing him impossibly closer. Come closer, come closer.

Aziraphale swayed in place, eyes wide and reverent, and one of his hands moved so he could reach out and gently brush his fingers over the seam of Crowley’s mouth. Crowley felt himself relaxing into the touch, the usually harsh line of his mouth turning soft under the pad of his thumb as Aziraphale traced from one corner of his lips to the other and again, and again, and again; slowly, adoringly, as if attempting to map and memorize every millimeter of his skin, until Crowley found himself overcome with need, and a sound made its way from his lungs like he had attempted to speak to get the angel’s attention, but the words got stuck in his throat on the way out.

Aziraphale looked back up at his eyes at the prompting, and Crowley felt his breath catch again at the sight of raw desire and affection mingling with the blue-green of the angel’s iris. Aziraphale’s hand slipped from the demon’s face, falling to graze oh so slightly against his throat, and the movement of his knuckles against his skin as Crowley swallowed in anticipation felt like hot fire. It took a tremendous amount of effort to keep himself from pressing flush against the angel right then, but a final hesitation held him back; a final question, a final need for reassurance. Are you sure? Out of everyone, are you sure it’s me you want? After all that? After all the running and panicking and the failed explanations and the ridiculousness? Are you sure you choose a serpent and a demon and a mess to love? Are you sure it’s me?

Against his will, some of the words slipped out in a voice so quiet, so fragile, he could barely hear himself say it; “Are you sure?”

“Oh my love,” Was all Aziraphale could offer as he dipped his head low and crossed the last three inches to kiss him.

The distance was much less three inches and much more the entire journey from Heaven to Hell and back up to Earth, much more a journey of trust, of recovery; choosing to meet Crowley where he was for who he was, choosing him and his pain and his fears and his sorrows and his joy and his interests and his love and everything everything everything. It was a journey of faith; a prayer, a vow.

Aziraphale’s mouth was even softer against his own than it had been last time, and Crowley found himself all but shaking as Aziraphale made a small, delighted little sound, and proceeded to slowly work his lips against Crowley’s as if with the intent of carefully memorizing every fraction of his skin, every single line on his lips and every single bud on his tongue. He kissed him slowly, deliberately, in that special way that felt so real and intimate, like he was seeking to know Crowley’s mouth better than his own, and Crowley felt quite close to utterly breaking apart from the intensity of it all.

His shoulders shook with a held-in sigh, and his chest burned something wonderfully awful as Aziraphale’s hands and lips left his skin scorching. He allowed Aziraphale to take him apart, and all he could do in return was cling to the angel’s coat like it was a lifeline, and try not to let his knees buckle with the weight of all the Divinity pressed against his mouth and wrapped around his waist, with the weight of the only one he’d ever truly trusted, ever truly wanted, ever truly waited for, ever truly loved.

Crowley couldn't hold back a groan as Aziraphale’s hand found itself a more firm place against the side of his throat, and his tongue found its way under Crowley’s and the sigh escaped him before he even realized it had, and something snapped, and he relaxed into the kiss, sinking into the angel’s hold, pressing back as much as he could, even though he’d never felt more weak in his life. One of his hands found its way into Aziraphale’s hair and he could feel the angel smile; a beautiful, joyous, holy thing, pressed right up against Crowley’s own desperate mouth, and he all but surged forward, reaching all the way back from Hell into Heaven to chase the sunshine of it, to chase the warmth and affection and happiness in the grin.

Aziraphale laughed against his lips with the joy of it, and then Crowley found himself chuckling too, and then they were both forced to break apart, giggling like lovestruck teenagers overcome with feelings of attraction for the first time.

It didn't last long, Crowley managed to shove down his own laughter long enough to reach back to pepper small, adoring smooches across Aziraphale’s cheeks and chin as he grinned, writing a poem of devotion and affection across his face as the angel continued to laugh. Aziraphale caught him long enough to pull him down and press a kiss to his forehead - nearly against his hairline - and then back down to his mouth, pressing that perfect, warm love against Crowley until he could feel how much love was contained in the simple gesture, until he could taste the joy and the warmth and the simple affection of it all. It was enough that Crowley somehow felt entirely undone and remade in the same moment, and he could hardly stop smiling long enough to continue kissing Aziraphale.

Eventually he gave up trying to hold back, and pulled the angel into an embrace instead; as close and as tight as he could manage, feeling his own heart thump against Aziraphale’s.

I am yours, I am yours, I am yours. He wanted to say.

He wasn't quite sure if the words ever left his throat, but it didn’t matter. He was safe, and he had all of eternity to show their meaning, even if he never quite managed to speak them.

#suddenly got emo abt this fic again and realized i hadn't posted it in this format yet so!!!!!#here y'all go!!! I'm gonna keep annoying you guys about it bc im very rarely proud of my own works #so when i actually am proud of something and i STAY proud of it #then it's a very huge deal and i don't shut up about it for a while #ineffable husbands #good omens #good omens fic #ineffable husbands fic #anna speaks #my writing #fic #tumblr fuckin killed the format i had to italicize everything AGAIN im tired of italics #anyways. read abt ur favorite snake coping with TRAUMA #featuring AS MUCH self indulgent bullshit as i could PHYSICALLY cram in #fave

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 4 years

Text

Sapling

I’ve fallen VERY far behind in @drawlight‘s advent challenge! But I knew what I wanted to post for day 9 all along, I just never had a chance to work on it. Here it is now!

(Fun fact: a big part of the delay was me being unable to decide if Crowley or Aziraphale should be the POV character. Behold: a very unexpected solution!)

09 - Chestnuts (1,928 words)

Small trees are not aware of much.

The little sapling didn’t know what a volcano was, or what an eruption meant, or how close it had come to being subsumed entirely in boiling lava. It was rather shocked when a sudden rush of earth broke loose from further up the slope, completely burying it and all the other plants growing nearby.

It should have snapped, been torn completely out of the ground, like all the others. The little sapling had only emerged from its chestnut this past spring, had only reached the sunlight a few weeks before. But luck, perhaps, had been on its side.

A few leaves on one side of its forked stem (too small to even call it a trunk) still stood above the earth. Not much at all. It should have died, slowly starved of sunlight.

Except that a pair of hands, digging in the earth, uncovered it. They were gentle and patient, not at all matching the grumbling voice that came along with them.

“Lousy place to grow. Whatever squirrel buried you here didn’t do you any favors. Might as well have just eaten you and saved you the trouble.”

The sapling slowly emerged, long as the arms that were digging it free, thinner than the smallest finger. Its stem was bent, snapped almost through along one branch of the fork.

“Ah, bless it. That doesn’t look good. You’re going to give up now, aren’t you? Going to tell me it’s too much damage, you can’t go on. I don’t want to hear it. Once I get this cleared, I don’t want any excuses from –”

“Crawley? Is that you?”

“Angel.” A growl. “What are you up to? Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Why are you here? Is this your doing?”

The hands moved away, the black robed figure springing up. “My doing? You think I run around causing volcanic eruptions and landslides and natural disasters?” The foot lashed out, kicking aside a few rocks. “I seem to remember, last time we talked it was your side pulling all that.”

“My side – That was an entirely different situation.”

“Yes, apparently God was angry and drowned all the sinful people in a great Flood. Well done. How’s the recovery going in that area? Still sin-free?” The silence might have been telling to another man-shaped being, but the tree was still trying to work out what a Flood might be. In a softer voice, the figure continued: “How do I know you’re not here to wipe out all the people on this island, too?”

“I’m not. If they’re good people, they don’t have to worry about that.”

“Don’t they? What are the rules, Aziraphale? Do they even know what not to do?” He settled back down, continuing his work, moving earth from around the sapling. “Why did you even come here, Angel?”

“I was…well, I was looking for you, in a way. There have been rumors that some monster lives on or under this mountain. Er, a man with a hundred fire-breathing snake heads I believe.”

The figure through back his head and laughed. “Humans! What will they think of next?” He tossed aside a few more stones. “And? I assume they sent you to find out if the monster was really a demon. Now what are you supposed to do? Kill me? Bury me under the mountain for all time?”

“Hardly!” The second figure’s voice went very high. “I’m only here to…to determine whether you are causing these disasters.”

“This again?” The figure ran a finger along the sapling’s stem, trying to get it to stand straight, but the stem had become too soft and weak in the earth. “The mountain erupted because it’s a volcano. It keeps erupting because it’s a very active volcano. I spread a rumor that a horrible monster lives here so that people wouldn’t try to make their homes on a volcano because humans are just the right combination of stubborn and stupid. And I’m here now because…” Fingers gently rubbed one of the sapling’s leaves. “…because humans aren’t the only ones who get hurt in these disasters.” He stood up again.

“Where are you going now?”

“Well, apparently after all the work I put into digging it out, this sapling doesn’t want to stand up anymore. Lazy plants. I’m going to go find a stick or something so I can stake it upright. Probably just get buried again in the next eruption, but maybe it’ll get lucky.” Feet stomped away across the bare earth.

A few moments later, the other figure approached. “I honestly don’t know what to make of him,” he confessed, half to himself, half to the sapling. “Angry and coarse and unkind, and yet…and yet, here you are, free of the earth. Why?” Soft fingers felt their way up the stem, and every where they brushed the sapling felt stronger, grew straighter. The broken fork knitted itself back together. “There. That should help.”

“Can I tell you a secret, little tree?” The white robed figure bent closer. “I don’t think he’s really unkind at all. He speaks as if he is, oh, he says some awful things. But the questions he asks…well, they make a lot of sense.”

The figure sucked in a breath, sat silent for a long time. The only response to the comment, though, was a small breeze that stirred the sapling’s leaves. The figure finally continued in a thicker voice. “I… I always understood that questions, doubts, those were signs of a sick mind. A lack of faith. Some strain of selfishness or cruelty, seeking things better left unknown. But his questions…how are the humans supposed to be good if they don’t know what we want? How does killing them help them learn their lesson?”

Fingers combed through the earth. “Why wasn’t I sent to help after the eruption? Why is he the one here to heal the mountain, while I come looking for a fight?”

Even the sapling recognized that these questions had not come from the first figure.

“Do you know what they would do to me, little tree, if they heard me asking these things? No, leave these questions to the demon. I… I must follow orders. But there’s no harm, I suppose, in following my orders in the way that seems best to me.”

The fingers gently ran across a leaf. “Grow strong, little tree. He cares for you, in his way, and, well…I suppose we don’t want to let him down, do we?”

Footsteps echoed across the mountainside. “Still here, Angel? I hope you’re not teaching that sapling to be all soft and pitiable. No one’s going to come and care for it up here.”

“Of course not.” The second figure stood up, brushing off white robes. “I was just wondering… is there anything I can do to help? I do have to thoroughly check this mountain for hundred-headed snake monsters, and I may as well make myself useful while I’m about it.”

“Nh.” The black-robed figure knelt beside the sapling. “I suppose there’s a lot of ground to cover. Head over that way and see if anything else is sticking out of the ground.” He gestured vaguely. “I’ll come show you what to look for in a minute.”

Once the other figure was gone, he began hammering a long branch into the ground beside the sapling. “Useless angel. Probably doesn’t even know a live plant from a dead one. He’ll spend half the day trying to rescue dead bushes.” A heavy breath. “At least he’s trying. That’s more than I ever expected, really. Sometimes I even think he actually listens.”

The fingers paused, picking at the edge of the robe, pulling out threads. “Do you have any idea how rare that is? Of course you don’t, you’re a tree. Barely even that. But no one – no one – listens to me. Just ‘shut up, Crawley,’ and ‘do your assignment, Crawley,’ and ‘one more question and you’ll regret ever trying to have an original thought…’”

Each thread was carefully looped around the sapling, tying it to the branch, showing it how to grow straight. “Questions are dangerous. He shouldn’t ask. I shouldn’t try to make him ask. If anything happened to him… Well, I’d say ‘I’d never forgive myself,’ but I’m already unforgiveable, aren’t I? But I won’t let that happen. I won’t.”

The figure paused, looking at the sapling and the piled-up earth around it. “That’s enough from me. You’ll get enough sunlight; you have room to grow. It’s up to you now.” He placed two fingers on the ground where the stem emerged. “I saw him talking to you. Sign that he’s going mad, if you ask me. But I guess he likes you. So you’re not allowed to give up, no matter what. You hear me? He deserves better than that.”

The second figure called from the distance, “Crawley! I think I found something!”

“We’ll see about that,” he growled, standing up and walking away. “Angel! Don’t even touch it until I get over there.”

And the sapling was left alone. Growing quietly on the eastern face of a volcano, with nothing for company but the memory of the touch of an angel and a demon, of the words they had spoken, words brimming with emotion that they could no more understand than the little tree could.

But all that emotion worked its way into trunk and root and leaf. And the tree grew, and grew, and grew.

And five thousand years later, a figure in black and another in white visited Mt. Etna again. The circle of enormous trunks formed a grove almost two hundred feet across, all linked in one root system, growing as strong as ever. A fence protected the Hundred-Horse Chestnut tree from curious tourists, but barriers had never kept these two from where they wanted to be.

“According to this,” said the figure in white, “this is the oldest tree in all of Europe. And the largest! Can you imagine, my dear?”

“Eh, it’s not that old,” grumbled the figure in black, digging through a bag of roasted sweet chestnuts. “I mean, it isn’t as old as us.”

“I’m sure we’ve been here before. This mountain looks very familiar.”

“Of course we have. We’ve been everywhere before.” He popped a chestnut into his mouth and chewed threateningly where the tree could see him. “If it’s important, you’ll remember.”

“I suppose I will. Oh, look over there!” The figure in white wandered off to look at the way one of the trunks grew, tall and slightly twisted.

The other figure leaned against the thickest trunk at the front of the grove, continuing to pick at the bag of chestnuts the shop had insisted came from this very tree. “I think you’ve done well for yourself,” he said, gazing up at the bare branches that still grew in thick with green every spring. “Didn’t give up. Don’t expect applause from me, though.”

The eyes – hidden behind black lenses – drifted over to the other figure again. “I’m starting to think I did well for myself, too. Don’t tell him I said that. He’ll just get all sappy. To tell you the truth, I don’t know why he sticks around, but I’ll never take it for granted.”

He pulled off his lenses to glare at the next trunk beside him. “Now I’m getting all sappy. You just keep growing or you’ll hear from me again.” Then he pushed off and sauntered into the grove. “Angel, are you going to eat these or not?”

(The Hundred Horse Chestnut tree on Mount Etna, Sicily, is the oldest tree in Europe and likely one of the oldest in the world. Estimates range from 2,000 to 4,000 years old, with some arguing almost 5,000. Despite being only 5 miles from the crater of a very large and very active volcano, it continues to thrive.)

(Also, despite various legends of Mt. Etna being the prison of Typhon or the forge of Hephaestus, not to mention very real and very dangerous earthquakes and eruptions, humans have been living on it since at least the 8th century BC. The fact that volcanic soil is incredibly fertile probably keeps bringing them back, despite Crowley’s best efforts...)

#good omens fanfiction #good omens prime #ineffable husbands #31 days of ineffables #aziraphale and crowley #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable demon (crowley)#my writing #crowley and plants

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sylwritesstuff · 4 years

Text

013) Blood (865)

Part of the Light to Dancing 100x100 List.

Rating: G

Featuring: Alternate take on a canon scene

—-

“Angel!”

He didn’t know how to feel about the voice. He’d spent the entire night waiting at the bandstand, hoping, thinking, mind whirling and tumbling end over end. Go off together. As if they really had anywhere to go. There was nowhere for them to go together safely.

Which is what had made his thoughts turn to the Almighty. If anyone could do anything - if anyone would - it would be Her. Why would She have made him the protector of all of this just to end it? So much beauty and sparkle in this world, even beyond the comforts and delights he cherished in particular. Even Crowley had different things he enjoyed, different things he loved about this world. Every single human had different things they loved. The joy was endless.

Why would She take it away? She’d given them Her son. Why would She take all of this away now? So that was the answer. He had to find out. He had to do the unthinkable and question the Lord. Convince Her, somehow, that everything didn’t have to end.

He’d just really believed that, after leaving him at the bandstand, Crowley had gone off somewhere safe. There wasn’t time for one of his naps or what-have-yous now, not this time, not this argument. He couldn’t be moody. He had to go.

And yet...

“I’m sorry. I apologize. Whatever I said, I didn’t mean it.”

Aziraphale’s heart shattered in his chest, shoulders collapsing.

“Work with me, I’m apologizing here. Yes? Good. Get in the car.”

“What? No!” He was nearly at the shop. He didn’t have time to get in and chat.

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

That was worse. That was even worse than actually hearing an apology. Crowley was in actual danger, the thought making his blood run cold. Why was he still on Earth? Stupid, stupid-

“But we can run away together. Alpha Centauri!” Aziraphale looked up when he pointed, hearing the desperate hope, feeling the flashes of something in his demon that they had never and could never admit aloud. “Lots of spare planets up there,” he continued as Aziraphale took a steadying breath and began to shake his head. “Nobody’ll even notice us.”

“Crowley, you’re being ridiculous. Look, I-I-I’m quite sure that if I can just-” He couldn’t mention the Almighty, could he? Talk of her usually irritated him. “-just reach the right people, then I can get all this sorted out.”

“There aren’t any right people,” Crowley protested, and then brought the Almighty into it himself. “There’s just God! Moving in mysterious ways and not talking to any of us!”

“Well, yes, and that is why I’m going to have a word with the Almighty, and then the Almighty will fix it.” He nodded insistently, silently pleading with Crowley to understand, to accept, to go somewhere safe.

“That-! Won’t happen. You’re so clever. How can somebody as clever as you be so stupid?”

Despite the words, it was more than a flash now. It was unveiled, it was desperate. Love pulled at him so strongly that Aziraphale nearly echoed it, nearly put it into the world aloud. But if he did-

If he did, Crowley wouldn’t leave. Or, nearly as bad, he would have leverage to get Aziraphale to go with him. He couldn’t, though. He had to try.

But he couldn’t leave him with nothing. This demon who believed he was unforgivable when he was so much more. So, so much more and in too much danger for Aziraphale to risk saying anything that would keep him on Earth. He was in Hell’s grasp, a fate Aziraphale would never wish on him. He’d so much rather he go off to the safety of his stars.

“I forgive you.”

“Oh...” Crowley sighed it, weaving back and striding to his Bentley, parked so awkwardly on the kerb. “I’m going home, angel. I’m getting my stuff, and I’m leaving. And when I’m off in the stars, I won’t even think about you!”

It broke what was left of Aziraphale’s heart, but he held his tongue. He watched him pull away, hoping desperately that he would do just that. And maybe... Maybe after speaking to the Almighty, he’d go bring him home and say the real words.

“I’ve been there. You’re better off without him.”

Aziraphale’s thoughts came crashing to a halt and he turned to look down at the well-meaning stranger. He rushed off before a response can fully form, but it was just another part of humanity to love, isn’t it? Another reason for Her not to destroy them. There was such a strong, all-encompassing capability for compassion.

Even though the man was very wrong. Crowley was in danger. Hell knew. He wa surely in the worst of their bad books now.

So it wasn’t Aziraphale who was better off without Crowley; it was Crowley who was better off without him. He hoped, beyond anything else, that his demon did indeed run far and fast. At least until he could go find him and bring him back home, to a world undamaged by the Apocalypse. It wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t.

He’d do his best.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #good omens fic #crowley #my writing #fanfiction #fanfic #100x100 #013 #blood #light to dancing

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amuseoffyre · 5 years

Text

Crossing Paths - 994BC - Jerusalem

Notes: Yet another Bibbley story and as usual, playing a bit fast and loose with the precise dates, since no one is 100% sure of exactly when it allegedly all happened.

994BC – Jerusalem

“Who’s this clown?”

Aziraphale jumped, startled. “Oh! Crawly!”

The demon gave him a curt nod, then jerked his head towards the throne on the far side of the crowded throne room. “What happened to Saul?”

“Ah…” Aziraphale winced. By Heaven’s standards, it had all been a rather embarrassing affair, but no one wanted to point out that the Almighty was the one behind all the policy decision. “Yes. Well… it… there was… well…”

“Hold on.” The demon squinted. “It’s the bloody harp player! That boy they brought in!”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

Crawly waved a hand emphatically at the man on the throne. “Him!” He snapped his fingers impatiently. “Oh… whatsisface… the one that got all cosy with Saul’s boy! You know! Slingshot boy!”

“You…knew David?”

“Knew him?” Crawly shook his head. “Nah. Heard him play a few times.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened in horror. “You were the evil spirit sent to torment Saul?”

Crawly beamed at him. “Yeah! Must’ve done a good job of it if you heard about it.” He sniffed thoughtfully, then looked back at his throne. “Didn’t Saul have kids? How did lambchop over there end up stealing the shiny chair?”

Aziraphale cleared his throat self-consciously. “He’s… God’s anointed.”

“God’s anointed,” Crawly echoed dryly. “You mean, just like Saul was God’s anointed, right up until he wasn’t?”

Aziraphale bristled. It was true, but it didn’t make it any easier to hear. “You know Saul disobeyed the Almighty’s will.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Crawly circled around behind him, peering at the gathered crowd. “Had a barbecue too early, didn’t he?”

“Sacrifice!” Aziraphale protested indignantly.

Crawly made a face, wrinkling his nose. “Six and half a dozen, really. Dead beastie, toasted and, oh look, the Priests have a nice grilled steak for dinner.”

“That’s not– it’s a religious–” Aziraphale threw his hands up with a huff. “What are you even doing here?”

“Apart from annoying you?” The demon grinned. “Heard about the fuss out west. Thought I’d pop by to catch up on all the news. Give or take a couple of years of wandering east. D’you know they’ve made a wine from rice? S’bloody good stuff too.”

“A couple of–” Aziraphale shook his head with a sigh. “He’s been on the throne for years now. It’s hardly news.”

“Eh. What’s a dozen years and more between friends?” Crawly shrugged. “Wonder if he still plays.”

At that, a small smile crossed the angel’s lips. “I’ve heard he does. They say if you sit on the rooftops in the evening, you will hear his music across the city.”

“S’that so?” Crawly rocked on the balls of his feet. “Might need to stick around.” He flashed a grin at the angel. “Fancy a drink this evening?”

“I shouldn’t–” Aziraphale began, though it was awfully tempting after so long without company.

“Me either,” Crawly replied, leaning closer conspiratorially. “Gonna do it anyway.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “You are a terrible influence.”

Crawly snorted. “Obviously. Is that a yes?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighed with not entirely feigned reluctance. “I suppose I must. I’ll be at the synagogue shortly after sunset. I have some things to attend to before then.”

“Right-o.” Crawly gave him one of the stiff, formal bows of the locals and backed away out the nearest doorway.

“Idiot,” Aziraphale muttered ruefully, though whether he was talking about himself or the demon, he couldn’t be sure. He turned his attention back to the King’s court and the reports coming in from the siege of Rabbat Ammon.

By the time evening fell and all his duties were done, a pleasant calm had settled over the city. It was a warm evening and Aziraphale sat on the wall beside the synagogue gates, watching the sky turn from shades of blue to purple then red and gold.

The first stars were out when Crawly finally appeared, sandals slapping against the ground, a panicked look on his face.

“ Crawly?” Aziraphale rose at once. “Whatever’s the matter?”

Crawly held up his forefingers, panting hard. “First–” He doubled over, taking a deep breath, then straightened up. “Right. First off, wasn’t my fault. Total accident. No idea it was going to happen. Second… er… how happy was…” He waved Heavenwards. “I mean, Their first anointed was sent the way of the dodo. This one – good, bad, indifferent?”

Aziraphale’s heart sank. “What did you do?”

“Now, in my defence,” Crawly said, waving his finger. “I absolutely didn’t do anything.”

“ Crawly.”

“I’m just making it clear I wasn’t there with any instructions or–”

“ Crawly!” Aziraphale snapped. “What the Hell have you done this time?”

“I just wanted to listen to him playing!” The demon wailed. “How was I meant to know there would be some daft baggage having a bath on the roof next door?”

Aziraphale made a small, faint sound, remembering the occasion when Crawly had mentioned cows to the wandering Israelites below Sinai. “What exactly happened?” he demanded.

“He remembered me,” Crawly said, twisting his hands in his tunic. “I mean, he remembered scaring me off with his music. So he was playing and stuff and I was listening and then I noticed someone moving about on the roof and he came over to see what I was looking at.”

“Oh no…”

“Hey! I didn’t make him ogle her!” Crawly snapped. “Not my fault she had her…” He waved vaguely to his chest. “She should know better than to get her kit off when her building isn’t the highest one in the bloody city!”

Aziraphale sat back down on the wall, feeling rather queasy. “It– it might not be all bad,” he said with weak optimism. “I mean, a King needs wives, doesn’t he? Maybe it… perhaps it was the divine plan for him to see her?”

Crawly winced. “Ah. Yeah. About that…”

Aziraphale stared at him. “What?”

“She’smarried.”

“She’s…” Aziraphale swayed back on the wall. “Oh dear Lord…” He clasped his hands together, trying to think. “Well, if I head up there now, I can try and undo this mess…” He trailed off at the look on Crawly’s face. “…how much worse does this get?”

The demon fidgeted. “Um. Well. When I left… um… he was….” He cleared his throat. “Let’s just say he was… getting to know her. Very enthusiastically.”

“He literally saw her an hour ago!” Aziraphale wailed. “He’s a good and honourable King! What the Hell did you do to make him do… that?”

“Not me!” Crawly yelled back at him. “Absolutely not me! His Royal Perviness and little miss Peep-show did it all by themselves!”

“But he’s– he was anointed!”

“So was Saul! Didn’t stop him lobbing a spear at your boy’s head, did it?”

“You tempted him into that!”

Crawly looked momentarily abashed. “Yeah, but it was funny at the time! Bet you wish it’d hit him now!”

Aziraphale got up, walking back and forth as he tried to gather his scattered thoughts. “This is a disaster! The King, God’s chosen, a common adulterer?”

“Free will, angel,” Crawly said, tugging on the end of his belt. “S’what they do.”

Aziraphale nodded unhappily. “I… I suppose I could convince him to pretend it never happened, couldn’t I?”

“Worth a try,” the demon said, “unless… you know…” He drew a curve in front of his belly, then laughed dismissively. “But what are the chances?”

“Right. Yes.” Aziraphale nodded. “That’s what we’ll do. Tell him to make the necessary sacrifices and seek the Almighty’s forgiveness for this… momentary lapse in judgement.” He forced a bright, brittle smile. “Everything will be fine.”

Several months later

The clay cup tapped on the wall beside the angel.

He looked down at it, then up at the person who had delivered it.

“Thought you might need that,” Crawly said, sitting down on the wall by him.

The night was cool, the stars sparkling across the sky, and the city was quiet.

Aziraphale picked up the cup and drained it, then held it out mutely. Crawly refilled it.

“Didn’t see that coming,” the demon said quietly.

“Mm.” Aziraphale gulped down the second cup. “My suggestion didn’t… go as planned. He – the husband – he was meant to come back and be with his wife and everyone would… assume it was his and everything would be…”

“Fine?” Crawly prompted.

The angel flashed a glare at him. “This isn’t amusing.”

“I’m not laughing,” Crawly pointed out. “You didn’t make any… other suggestions, did you?”

The angel shook his head. “I thought it would be enough.” He looked in the direction of the house of Uriah the Hittite. The wails and lamentations were still ringing from the new widow and her household. “I wanted to believe it was a coincidence.”

“I bet.” Crawly nudged him. “You sure he was behind it?”

“Oh, yes.” Aziraphale’s face twitched in a bitter impersonation of a smile. “I double-checked with…” He pointed upwards. “Apparently it’s…” – he exhaled shakily – “all part of the plan.”

Crawly hissed through his teeth. “Course it bloody is.” He leaned over and filled Aziraphale’s cup again. “How much time do you have?”

The angel shrugged. “Why?”

“Because we’re going to get you properly and utterly drunk.”

Aziraphale did manage a smile at that. “Perhaps,” he said, with considerably less reluctance. “Just this once.”

#fic: crossing paths #good omens fic #crowley #aziraphale #good omens

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