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feralbutfluffy · 8 months

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40: Aziraphale

Chapter 40 (!) of Too Wise to Woo Peaceably

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“Before, in the bookshop, when you said you had a plan… Was there actually a plan?"

Aziraphale really wished Crowley would let this go. "Of course there was!"

"You didn't just pop up here on a wing and a prayer then..?"

"That was a dreadful pun. If you must know, we were going to meet with The Metatron, discuss our concerns, and come to a compromise. Make a deal, if you will.”

“A deal,” Crowley repeated slowly.

“Yes.”

“With The Metatron.”

“Yes. Are you going to repeat everything I say or just most of it?”

“And how did that go?” asked Crowley, brushing past Aziraphale’s last remark.

“Poorly.” Aziraphale gave him a withering look. “Obviously. He was… Well, he wasn’t particularly happy about us having removed you without his permission.”

“Blasted hypocrite. No qualms about removing me without my permission.”

They stood over The Metatron. Crowley was draped over Aziraphale for support, warm and angular and so close the angel could bury his face in his neck if he only turned and tilted his head.

Which he wouldn’t, obviously.

But he could.

Crowley leaned more heavily on Aziraphale so he could shift his weight onto one foot, and used the other to nudge The Metatron with his toe.

Nothing happened.

“Not sure what I was expecting,” he said, and then after a pause, “What a bastard.”

Aziraphale nodded in agreement and sighed. “We should do something about this.”

“About what? The dead behemoth?”

“Yes. A little combined miracle perhaps? Just to conceal the crime, as it were. That would work, surely?”

Crowley moved his head from side to side, considering Aziraphale’s suggestion.

“Ngn. Sure. Why not? Might as well try it. But only so long as once it’s done we head right back down to Earth-” He narrowed his eyes when Aziraphale nodded. “... I mean instantly, Aziraphale. If a siren goes off I don’t want to be around to hear it.”

“Oh, I doubt you can set sirens off in Heaven from the inside...”

“If it’s all the same to you I’d rather not test that hypothesis,” said Crowley dryly. “Alright. What’s the miracle? Make it so nobody knows this occurred? Hide it? A sort of… Grim Jim 2.0?”

Aziraphale thought for a moment. “That should do it.”

“Right. Okay. Hand-”

Aziraphale didn’t move. One of his hands was still wrapped round Crowley’s ribs, holding him up. The other was clutching at the arm he’d slung over Aziraphale’s shoulders, keeping him steady. He wasn't sure which was more essential to Crowley’s stability.

Crowley noticed his indecision and made the choice for him. “Here, look, instead of my forearm, just grab my hand. Use your other hand for the wavy bit.”

Aziraphale loosened his grip and his fingertips traced down along the inside of Crowley’s wrist until he reached his hand. Crowley interlocked his fingers with his own, pressing their knuckles together far more tightly than Aziraphale thought was strictly necessary.

“Ready? Count of three?”

Aziraphale nodded. “One… two…”

There was a sound of powers being brought to bear and then the room shifted, Aziraphale blinked, and everything was different.

They both stared.

The room looked completely undisturbed. The Metatron and the sword had vanished, as had the broken silver quill. There was no sign of struggle, not a single smear of ichor. There was nothing at all to indicate anything had happened there recently other than perhaps the filing of paperwork.

Aziraphale opened his mouth to say something, but Crowley cut across him. “Use your fancy archangel powers and get us out of here?”

The angel gestured with his fingers and then they were back in the bookshop.

They stood motionless for a moment, both quietly trying to process things, fingers still intertwined against Aziraphale’s chest. Crowley broke the silence.

“What the fuck?”

Aziraphale turned his head slightly to look at Crowley. “Quite.”

“Was that your-?”

“No, and I’m assuming it wasn’t your intention either. We were trying to hide him, not make him disappear completely.”

“Where the blazes did he go?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Crowley groaned and drummed his fingertips against his forehead. The swelling on the left side of his face had gone down, leaving dark mottled bruising in its wake. He called out for Muriel and Saraqael, but the bookshop was quiet.

“Probably just taking the long way home,” Aziraphale said, patting Crowley’s side reassuringly. “Saraqael will have needed a new chair.”

“They’d better be somewhere safe.”

“I’m sure they are.”

Crowley swore and flicked his wrist to look at his entirely-too-complicated watch. “I’m giving them one hour and if they’re not back here by then…”

He sounded very much like a parent grousing about their child breaking curfew. Aziraphale considered the gravity of the situation and wisely decided not to point out the similarity.

Crowley sighed and threw his head back. "Alright, The Metatron disappearing... That’s not good.”

Aziraphale furrowed his brow. “...Isn’t it?”

“You don’t think anyone is going to wonder about the disappearance of The Metatron?”

“If you really think about it, nobody really marked his presence the last time we…” He trailed off, not wanting to bring up that painful day in the bookshop. “In fact, you were the only one to recognise him. I really think that actually, with a little bit of luck on our side, it could be quite some time before anybody notices anything amiss!”

“Except…” Crowley sounded worried and Aziraphale dipped his head to look into his face. He was worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, eyes dazed, and Aziraphale quickly looked away, his face flushing with unexpected heat.

Ridiculous.

Ridiculous to think he looked appealing in such a stressful situation. He felt depraved for even noticing.

He struggled to keep his voice level. “Except?”

“Well, except God, right?” Crowley tilted his head and Aziraphale was convinced he could actually feel him staring. “God’s bound to notice.”

“Ah,” was all Aziraphale could manage. A minute of silence passed. He was still staring. Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to meet his gaze.

“...Ah?” Crowley was incredulous. “Is that the full and finished thought?”

No, Aziraphale wanted to say. There are no full or finished thoughts in my head, only buzzing, only bees.

He cleared his throat. “Let’s move you over to the Chesterfield.” Maybe he’d be able to think more clearly if he could establish some space between them.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Crowley shake his head, but he made no complaint. Together they shuffled towards the nook by the desk. Aziraphale gently lowered Crowley onto the sofa, half sitting down himself in the process. He dropped his arm from around Crowley's waist and pulled away slightly with the intention of extricating himself, but the arm over his shoulders stiffened and Crowley’s fingers tightened round his own, keeping him anchored fast.

He let himself sink down into the sofa.

So much for space.

“I don’t think we can worry too much about the Almighty,” he said eventually, if only to distract from the fact that he was now sitting on the sofa with Crowley’s arm draped across his back, casually holding his hand.

His chest felt tight, as if it was suddenly two sizes too small for his lungs. “After all, her plans are-”

Crowley’s fingers clenched round his, pressing a warning into his hand. “ Don’t you bloody say it. ”

“...Ineffable!” The word came out at rather a higher pitch than Aziraphale had intended.

Crowley muttered something inaudible.

“I'm going to choose to believe that whatever you just said was complimentary,” he said primly.

“Believe what you like,” Crowley grumbled, but Aziraphale thought he heard amusement in his voice, and he relaxed a bit, allowing himself to sink deeper into the sofa. His side pressed against Crowley’s as the cushions dipped beneath their combined weight and lightly tipped them towards each other.

He felt Crowley flinch, and his body arched carefully away from Aziraphale. It was subtle, but not subtle enough; Aziraphale could imagine why, and the thought made him sick to his stomach.

“I should have asked if this-” He swallowed. “Is this alright?”

Crowley gave him a sidelong glance. “Is what alright?”

“This.” He gestured between them. “The fact that we’re so close together, that we’re, well, that we're touching …”

Crowley went incredibly, excruciatingly still and Aziraphale felt his muscles harden beneath his clothes. Tension filled his face. “Is it alright with you?”

“Me?”

Crowley looked profoundly uncomfortable. “I can-” He started to pull away.

“No!” Aziraphale tugged at him. “I just mean after everything they did to you-, after how they pretended to-”

“Oh.” Crowley seemed to sag against him. There was strange and quiet relief in his voice. “Yeah. Well. Like I said, knew it wasn’t you.”

“Looked like me, though,” Aziraphale said miserably.

“Looked like you,” agreed Crowley, then bumped his shoulder with his own and gave him a lopsided smile. “Gave me something nice to look at while they were tearing strips off me.”

“That's not funny.”

Crowley said nothing.

They sat in silence, lounging back against the leather, Aziraphale trying not to stare at the way Crowley’s fingers were still entwined with his. The sun was starting to come up, and it bathed the bookshop in an orange haze. Some of the dust particles Muriel was so fond of were glowing by the window. It was quiet and warm and Aziraphale was sure this was his favourite place in the world.

“The sun’s coming up,” he said, in case Crowley had possibly missed the obvious.

Crowley rolled his head against the back of the sofa and looked up into Aziraphale’s eyes, and he was so close the angel’s heart stuttered in his chest.

Embarrassing.

“This is the best I’ve felt in…” Crowley hummed low in his throat. “It’s the best I’ve felt since Gabriel arrived on your doorstep stark naked with his memories crammed into a fly.”

A real smile then. The tip of Crowley’s tongue was resting against a pointed cuspid tooth, and Aziraphale was fairly certain his heart stopped altogether before starting again at twice the usual speed. He knew he should turn his head, but he couldn’t look away, and Crowley’s laughing mouth was right there, and his pupils were blown so wide they almost looked human, and Aziraphale swayed closer without meaning to, and Crowley must have seen something in his face because his eyelids lowered, and the smile faltered, and he dropped his gaze to Aziraphale’s lips, and-

The door of the bookshop swung open and the sound separated them instantly. Aziraphale jumped up to face the door, and Crowley rolled his head back to stare at the ceiling, flexing his fingers against his thigh.

Muriel and Saraqael were in before curfew.

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avelera · 9 months

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Hi there! Wow, Good Omens 2 was a ride. Do you have any thoughts about Aziraphale pulling out his halo? For such a tightly written season, it seemed to just sort of… happen, without any real significance other than to be the thing that called all the big players in Heaven and in Hell into the same room after the whole Thing with the demons. Do you think the Halo Fix (as I’m now calling it) is likely to be important at all in season 3?

*Sigh* Honestly, that beat was something of a bummer for me because it teased at the plotline that I found far more interesting, without actually fulfilling it.

Now, it could still happen in S3, so I don't want to entirely dismiss the possibility that I simply misjudged the pay-off for what I took as a bit of foreshadowing, but I was really expecting that halo toss to go in another direction as far as consequences go and I was very disappointed when it did not.

(Details below the cut)

See, I thought that Aziraphale was tearing off his own proverbial wings at that point. I thought Aziraphale was about to Fall.

My hope for the season was that it would end with Aziraphale and Crowley knowing they were in love, even sharing a kiss over it, but that the tragedy would come from them ending up on opposite sides at the same time.

I wanted Crowley, who so struggled with his faith in God, to finally find peace in some way, to see Aziraphale's argument, perhaps through their long association. To ascend back to being an angel perhaps as accidentally as he fell to become a demon.

I wanted Aziraphale, who we are shown over and over to be questioning God, to be treading the edge of the very same mistakes that led Crowley to Fall, to finally tilt over the edge irrevocably, accidentally, tragically because he just can't do it anymore, he just can't keep believing in the ineffable plan when he keeps seeing the wickedness of his fellow angels.

I wanted the proverbial "I sold the watch to buy the hair clip, I sold my hair to buy you a new watch band" moment, two ships passing in the night, a kiss that seals the fact that they both, finally, through their long association managed to get through to each other, that they both managed to convince the other of their argument, one to abandon Heaven, one to return to God, and for them to awaken to the cold, horrifying realization that they did too good of a job tempting/saving each other and now as a result, they can't be with one another and they're both on a side that is utterly alien, utterly foreign to them, utterly uncomfortable, because Aziraphale's sensibilities DON'T belong in Hell and Crowley's repelled by the angels in Heaven with their casual cruelty and willful blindness.

... So, long story short, I was super bummed when the halo toss didn't have anything to do with switching sides or Falling or Redemption. I don't understand why he didn't just summon his flaming sword if the plot point was just that using a Heavenly weapon would accidentally make this an official conflict. I didn't understand wtf was the point of Shax, then, if they could blunder into a fight with an angel wherein the angel couldn't use their official tools to fight back without starting a war? What was the point of that Shax plotline in that case? I mean, I found everything with Shax annoying and infuriating and dull, but it felt like that moment even undermined what little purpose and tension there was to that battle in the first place.

And not only that, whatever danger was raised was IMMEDIATELY dispatched by Crowley dispelling the whole situation and making it not a big deal, so... why? What was the purpose of it? Why not just have it be the flaming sword or something??

#good omens #good omens spoilers #spoilers

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kerflooey · 9 months

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i hadn't rewatched good omens season one since about a week before season two aired and i'm bursting with thoughts i'll try to phrase as eloquently as possible, but my main statement is (and has been since the season dropped) that aziraphale's decision to go back to heaven makes nothing but sense.

i'll start by saying that for the most part (except for some moments in the flashbacks and the very final scene at the ritz) the difference in aziraphale's behavior towards crowley is striking to me . not to say that the way he feels is different, he is just very determined to ignore it and play the part he's meant to play.

this is because heaven is his priority, it's his purpose. he might have his doubts about how things are done (not why!) and he might not necessarily enjoy the company of other angels, but he truly believes in God. he truly believes that any decision he disagrees with is justifiable because well, they don't know humans like he does. if he just explains it should be fine! or, he has leeway to make it fine (see: job). if he didn't, there would've been consequences already.

he truly believes in doing good (and he can be extremely arrogant about it too, because he clings to his 'i'm an angel therefore nothing i do could possibly be wrong' philosophy like a lifeline. ironic considering who put it in his head in the first place), and that to keep doing good is the most important thing. why wouldn't he? it's his entire reason for existing.

he's allowed himself to expand and grow beyond that, but without ever decentering it. just look at what he loves: art (and a very specific kind of art, mind you. i don't really see him enjoying any sort of overcritical or cynical pieces), food, storytelling ... all things that have been historically used as a way to perpetuate faith and repurpose, justify, glorify even any suffering. martyrdom is pretty!

so when armageddon comes around he is at an impasse. it's the moment to choose between heaven and himself (and crowley). and in so very typical aziraphale fashion he chooses to go with both - as far as he can. when it truly comes down to it, he chooses heaven. and the choice doesn't happen in the bandstand - it happens the moment he finds the nice and accurate prophecies and decides to hide it from crowley, look into it alone and report to heaven about it first. (my god he really did give so many signs).

once heaven doesn't respond the way he expects he decides it's time to try his leeway and go to crowley, but when crowley doesn't do exactly what he wants either and suggests to do nothing instead of good aziraphale chooses to turn to heaven instead. again.

he loves crowley, he really does, but from where i see it he also mistakenly thinks crowley has a lot more freedom of choice than he actually does. he can't not be good and he would never want to be bad, but crowley (in azi's eyes) chooses to be good many times. so every time they've had this argument he thinks why won't you choose to be good and do the right thing!

it's the bandstand, it's the arrival and it's the decision to go back to heaven. for him it's the right thing to do. not only has he struggled tremendously being entirely disconnected from heaven (he loves knowledge and he loves God, of course he misses reporting to heaven and feeling like the decisions - to do good - he makes have purpose and recognition) but he doesn't want gabriel to struggle with it either. he doesn't know what happened to gabriel and never does find out why it happened.

martyrdom is pretty, so it only makes sense that he would choose to leave what he's built - including this new sense of freedom and exploration of the situationship with crowley - behind for the opportunity to do Good. the opportunity to have All The Leeway, and make the decisions, and he will know best. it makes perfect sense! and no, he wouldn't want to do it without crowley, he loves crowley, he knows crowley pushes him to be better by forcing him to see and do things he'd rather ignore, but to him, crowley is the one choosing not to do good with him.

and everyone hates the line but it makes sense that he would say 'you're the bad guys!' in that moment because in his eyes crowley is actively choosing to be bitter and selfish instead of selfless and good. crowley who taught him the right thing isn't always the comfortable thing. because can he not see how good he'd be, they'd be for heaven? with more plans afoot how could he possibly not want to get involved and make sure everything is Good? he feels just as abandoned. the kiss destroys him because it reinforces his impression that crowley wants them to be selfish, he says 'i forgive you', i forgive you for making me want this and want it more desperately than i want the greater good, which is my purpose and my duty. and that last look they exchange is a plea from both sides.

#i don't even know what to tag this i'm just thinking rumminating marinating my thoughts #anyway #some of this also comes from my general annoyance at the fandom's (not anyone here ofc ily all i mean personals and twt)#refusal to see azi as his own person !!!#not just the object of crowley's affections who must live to be cute and perfect and make crowley happy #which is Not who he is At All #idk i have too much time in my hands besties

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overlord-of-chaos · 9 months

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OH MY GOD OH MY GOD GOOD OMENS

(Spoilers ahead for series 2 if you had not already guessed.)

So first of all oh my god. OH MY GOD. I may never recover actually. I’m not sure I want to.

Secondly oh my god. I was expecting something spectacular. And I’ll be damned if Neil Gaiman did not deliver.

(I am writing this in the middle of a field. Well, technically the edge of a field, but it’s right next to another one so it looks like I’m in the middle from a distance. Why am I in a field, you might ask? Because that FUCKING ENDING was so *gesticulates gayly* that I needed to find somewhere to scream at the world. (It’s very cathartic actually I should do it more often.) If anyone nearby is concerned by someone screaming in a field it was probably me. I’m not fine, but I’m not in mortal peril either so no need to disrupt the field screaming. If you own the field and did not want me traipsing through it, I’m terribly sorry I advise you take it up with Mr. Gaiman.)

They kissed they kissed they kissed I mean the ineffable husbands were basically canon from the beginning but I never expected this. (I should know better. I know.)

I tell you what I am loving how many shows/movies at the moment basically seem to be going “gay ‘subtext’? no no darling this gay is text and you cannot argue otherwise” my lil gay heart is delighted actually

And I mean, beyond that… (I’ll come back to it. I’m not done. But I need to give the rest of the plot its due as well.) I’ll admit, I got halfway through episode 5 and thought “how on earth are they going to wrap this up in the space of about an hour? I don’t have any of the answers at all.” I should never have doubted. I know I should never have doubted. But in my defence, who could’ve seen that coming? I hope Gabriel and Beelzebub are very happy together.

Oh, and the opening scene of episode 1? They knew each other when Crowley was an angel? (It does not suit him, but he did make a lovely galaxy.) And then at the very end, Aziraphale offering to make him one again? There’s some poetic symmetry or something in there that I don’t currently have the brain capacity to analyse

(I’m sitting in a tree now, in case anyone was wondering. I bailed on the field because there were humans in it. And by in a tree, I mean it is hollow and I am inside it. I couldn’t climb it even if I wanted to, it’s massive.)

It was worth the wait. It would always have been worth the wait, of course. It would have been worth the wait if it had taken 50 years although I’m not sure my heart would have been able to take the ending by then. And even though I want more already I hope they take all the time they need to make series 3 and make it well. (If they do not series 3 I will riot and given my general worldly (lack of) competence will probably injure myself in the process so they’d better get one.)

Of course no (rant? rave? gay breakdown?) post about Good Omens series 2 would be complete without giving Nina and Maggie my beloved all the respect they deserve. Especially Nina. You tell Crowley. He clearly needed it. You gay meddle right back in Aziraphale and Crowley’s love life, after all, they did gay meddle in yours.

And Aziraphale. Aziraphale. Darling. Angel. Please. Crowley does not want to go to heaven. His communication skills only stretch so far and only when prompted by other meddling gays. You both really need to learn the art of open communication sometime. It will solve a lot of these problems.

Oh, and! And! “I forgive you”? “I forgive you”? “I FORGIVE YOU”? Yeah just go ahead and break my heart as well as his why don’t you??? I have not yet seen what has become of my feed in the last 24ish hours because I had to go straight to writing this down somewhere but I imagine the entire fandom is feral right now OH MY GOD

This was amazing. It was all amazing. Saraqael was amazing. Jim was amazing. I’m struggling to come up with any other adjectives because my brain has been fried clearly

I would go and rewatch it all immediately but I need to form the semblance of a functional human being for this afternoon so I can go out into the world and do things. I will probably have rewatched it before the week is out.

I briefly considered watching this as soon as it came out (midnight UK time, meaning I’d finish at about 5 in the morning. I did this last time. It was an Experience) but decided against it since I had work in the morning. It was a wise decision since there is no way I’d have been able to go the day with no one to talk to about it and finishing it on a Saturday instead gave me the freedom to immediately go scream in a field.

Oh my god. This was one hell of a series. I cannot think coherently about it all I know is that I loved it.

And Neil, if you ever see this: Thank you. For all of it.

#GOS2Spoilers #go2 spoilers #good omens s2 #good omens #good omens spoilers #*incoherent gay screaming*

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good-omens-classic · 3 years

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Been thinking about the modernization of the narrative of Good Omens from the novel to the TV series prompted by those last posts. DISCLAIMER: its actually been a while since i either watched the TV show or read the book so i might be misremembering stuff 😅

If i remember correctly, in the early stages of production of the TV show Neil Gaiman stated the aesthetics of Heaven and Hell were being updated to be less like countries at war, as they were in the novel, and more like factions of a corporation, with Heaven being the top office and Hell being the basement. And he said this was to representing the shifting social anxieties of the time - the novel was written on the heels of the Cold War, and so has a lot of spy and soldier aesthetic to it, whereas nowadays we are all looking with a skeptical eye at Disney and Nestle as large corporations do whatever the hell they want without consequences.

I think this modernization is an effective one, but one that changes the flavor of the narrative slightly, and in a way that makes it less appealing to some people and more appealing to others. One is not necessarily better than the other, and given one is a new TV show and one is an old novel so it’s hardly accurate to compare the size of fanbases, I can’t even say one is necessarily more or less appealing/popular than the other. I think that the TV show was well-made, but there were a few small key changes in the writing that move the narrative away from the reasons why I got absolutely obsessed with the novel. I think that David Tennant and Michael Sheen did a pretty good job acting the directions and script they were given, my main things I don’t like are kind of with the writing decisions (and tbh the costuming still but that’s petty 🙄)

I think it’s probably part of my upbringing, which was fundamentalist Protestant and honestly, obsessed with violence, that I don’t want to engage with a story where Hell is bad because it’s the dirty basement of an office building. That’s a legit way to depict Hell, and one that has interesting thematical implications, but I personally want to read stories where Hell is fire and brimstone so that I can watch the protagonists defeat that. I don’t fantasize about breaking free from an office job, or co-workers caught up in office petty politics, stories about finding softness and love amidst an actual war where violence is expected are what appeal to me. The demons in the TV series are violent, but it’s just because they’re mean people, not because there’s a system put in place that forces them to be....which is honestly kind of part of why I liked the universe of the novel so much, because I liked to see Aziraphale and Crowley fight a system that tries to force them to be violent and fight and stuff?

The depiction of a narrative’s bad guy, even with subtle changes, can have some pretty significant impacts on how the audience feels about the narrative if what they’re looking for in the story is catharsis and wish-fulfillment. For example, I often see people gripe about their DMs including homophobia and transphobia in their world-building in DnD, as though the ideal setting would be free from those things (and indeed, that’s the ideal setting for someone who wants escapism), but if you want to roleplay a character who struggles and overcomes those social issues, because they affect you in real life and you find it cathartic, constructing a world where those issues are very mild is not going to provide the same outlet that being victorious in a truly grimdark world is going to. It’s not for everyone, but due to the novel’s vagueness about certain things, it allowed the fandom some level of flexibility in interpreting their version of the supernatural in whatever way they wanted (the only other angel we see “on screen” other than Aziraphale is Metatron, for like 3 pages, so it was really whatever your imagination cooked up to fill in those gaps), whereas the TV show fandom is working with more concrete building blocks.

This leads me to another gripe I have--making God female. I understand this appealed hugely to a lot of people because they love the progressive implications of God not being male, and how it upsets religious bigots, but I honestly did not think this was super revolutionary or groundbreaking for the reason that Good Omens is a work of satire--it is criticizing God, and honestly? I don’t think God is super kind and loving in either version of the story, Heaven is harsh and filled with asshole angels, Crowley was thrown out for just asking questions, and God plays games with his/her servants. Not everyone sees it this way but I honestly feel like God in the GOmens universe is borderline abusive and gas-lighty, as a proxy criticism of the Christian Church, and the church has historically also been extremely misogynistic, so I think that aspect of it kind of falls apart when God is suddenly female.

That line about dinosaur bones being a joke that God played on humans hits differently when child-you went to a school that taught creationism in science class and thought you were going to hell if you didn’t believe what they told you.

But getting back to my main point, the TV show had the narrative updated for the times much more significantly than the radio play that came out in 2015--for that one, it was mostly cosmetic changes, such as tossing in a mention of X-boxes, whereas the TV show updated the basic narrative structure to reflect changing culture. I think it was an effective change, but one that made the narrative less appealing to me personally. A lot of people who were in the fandom before the TV show came out, or who just read the novel after watching the show to compare, seem to agree that the worldbuilding and the characterizations have subtle differences between the two incarnations, which to a casual consumer is not really that noticeable, but if you like one or the other because it hits a very specific sweet spot it might make a difference. For me I liked it mostly because it provided a blank canvas with some very good building blocks for, like, my imagination to run off with, and the TV show closed a lot of those avenues by filling them in with something more concrete. That’s not necessarily a bad thing and I can see myself experiencing this from the opposite side when I go into fandoms having just consumed the newest incarnation of a thing and quite liked it, only to find the fandom has people who liked it before that adaptation and hate it a lot! That’s just the nature of the beast and an inevitable side effect of obsessing over something way more than you’re meant to, but it’s also why I’m not really interested in reading or writing fanfiction set in the TV ‘verse. Anyway Im kind of rambling now but this is just kinda my thoughts and my onion so if anyone has any other thoughts on it feel free to share your onion with me too :)

#good omens #book omens #long post #SORRY IT'S SO LONG #voice of mod

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goodomensblog · 4 years

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Afterward - Part 13

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

(Another landslide winner! #2 was the clear favorite. Thank you for voting!)

Afterward - - - Part 13

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

“If you want to keep that hand, demon, you’ll release me. Now.”

Crowley, despite very much wanting to keep said hand, does not let go.

When Gabriel reaches over his shoulder, pulling his Heavenly sword from the aether, Crowley twists out of the way. “Woah, woah, woah - hey! Hold on. Just wait.”

“Just wait?” Gabriel snaps, voice dripping with incredulity. “Heaven is under attack, and you want me to just wait?”

“What about Beelzebub?”

“What about them? Maybe - just maybe it’s a bunch of demons who are fighting my angels right now!”

“That thing, whatever it was we felt - that was not demonic, you know it as well as I do.”

“Then what the fuck are my angels fighting?” Gabriel asks, his knuckles going white around the sword pulled halfway into existence.

From beyond the hall, the cries have grown louder, fiercer - more desperate. There is a static crackling in the air and the acrid, burnt smell of ozone.

Crowley, after risking a glance at the sword, releases Gabriel’s sleeve - and instead, grabs him by the wrist.

“Something,” Crowley hisses, “that was strong enough to bust into Heaven with one blow. Something that I’ve never encountered - and I once traveled all the universe hanging stars. Something that’s, by the sounds of it, carving through ranks of highly trained angelic warriors like butter.”

“That’s why,” Gabriel says, giving his arm a savage yank, “I need to-”

“That’s why you’re gonna want a bloody Lord of Hell in fighting shape!”

At that, Gabriel’s struggles momentarily cease. He blinks, scoffing, “You can’t seriously think-”

“I think that Beelzebub wants to live. And they - like Aziraphale and myself, are currently stuck in Heaven with you, a bunch of angels, and whatever the fuck that thing is. So be smart about this, you giant idiot. Save Beelzebub. Help us find out what they know. And maybe, just maybe we can all use Beelzebub, Lord of Hell, to help us get out of this god damned- er, blessed - augh - whatever! Predicament!” Crowley finishes, chest heaving.

It isn’t exactly a lie. While Crowley is certain Beelzebub, like a cornered cat, will indeed willingly fight whatever this thing is, he is not at all sure how battle ready old Beelzebub will be after just a handful of Hellfire.

But Gabriel doesn’t need to know that.

White knuckled fingers loosen their hold on the sword’s gleaming hilt. Gabriel sinks back. Running a hand up and over his face, he mutters to himself, and sharp, ugly curses fill the spaces between his breaths. When his eyes open, his razor-edge gaze zeroes in on Crowley’s hand. “Seriously. Stop touching me.”

Crowley’s hand snaps open.

“I won’t abandon my soldiers. Not now. Not when they need me,” Gabriel says, yanking his jacket straight. “So you’ll have to retrieve the Hellfire.”

Crowley, who had realistically expected this conversation to end with one of them flipping the middle finger and the other attempting to administer a beheading, takes a moment to process this development.

“I - wait - you want me to-?”

“Yes. Obviously. Shut up.”

“Right. Okay,” Crowley says, and shakes his head. “Wait, where-”

“Do you remember where the records are stored?”

Crowley pauses at that.

His memory of Heaven - it’s strange. In many ways, it blurs together, a mural of incandescent colors, textures, half-recalled musical notes, voices - that from up close, are nearly incomprehensible.

But there are moments of clarity. As if he has, for a second, stepped back a pace, and sees just a glimpse of the full thing; an expansive mural that his mosaic memories press together to create. He knows he hung the stars. And he knows, from some forgotten space in him mind, where in these white marble halls the records are kept.

“Yes,” Crowley says, because he can picture the room in his mind now: those twin pillars on either side of that tall, golden door.

“It’s stored on the highest level, in the silver chest,” Gabriel says, curt.

“Got it,” Crowley says, already retreating - because now that Gabriel has given him the information he needs, Crowley doesn’t want to go and give the archangel a chance to change his mind.

But Gabriel has already turned away. Black, polished shoes tapping smartly against white marble, the angel strolls down the hall and draws a gleaming sword out of the air.

Crowley is mentally mapping his route. He’ll need to take the first door on the right, then cross the atrium and -

Gabriel’s shout catches him before he can leave.

“By the way, I’m not an idiot, demon. I do know that a single jar of expired Hellfire’s not exactly going to do any demonic miracles.” Gabriel stands at the end of the hall, violet eyes bright in the half light. “And I know Beelzebub’s not going to help anyone anytime soon.”

Crowley stops, turning fully back.

Gabriel lifts the sword, jabbing the blade in Crowley’s direction. “After all this is done, I will be in touch. I expect Beelzebub to share the information they promised me.”

Crowley stares, baffled. “What are you-”

“No - nuh - shush!” Gabriel snaps, waving the sword. “In my room, there’s a passageway out of Heaven. It’s behind the tapestry. After you heal Beelzebub, take them and go.”

“Ohh-kay,” Crowley says, trying to wrap his mind around this second surprising development. “You - that’s - uh - huh. You know, that’s actually pretty nice of you, Gabriel.”

“Yeah, no - zip it,” Gabriel bites out, shifting with obvious discomfiture. “The last thing I need is anyone finding a couple of demons and a bad angel in my private rooms. Take Beelzebub and get out.” And with a final jab in Crowley’s direction, Gabriel spins the sword with a flourish and disappears into a beam of screaming light.

“What a nutcase,” Crowley says to the empty hallway.

He crosses the atrium at a sprint, keeping a careful eye out for angels - but the atrium and surrounding halls are empty. Heaven’s full forces have been mustered, then. It’s a sobering thought, and one that makes Crowley run just a little faster.

As he runs, he can’t help but think of Uriel and Gabriel’s conversation. God is….missing? Could it possibly be true? Crowley’s head tilts back, as if he might spy Her amongst the arched ceiling tiles stretching forlornly above.

She couldn’t be gone, right?

After all, where would She go?

The entrance to the Hall of Records is as abandoned as the rest of Heaven, and Crowley flings open it’s arched doors. The Records Room is - staggering. Crowley’s step slow as shelves and stairs rise up around him. His footsteps echo - from marble floors, between pillars, up winding stairs, and fading as they rise into the cavernous dome extending far, far above.

Crowley swears softly, and that echoes too.

As his shoe touches the first stair, he thinks of where he wants to be: the top floor; and when he reaches the second step, the domed ceiling is suddenly directly above him - and the top floor, bathed in gold, is before him, as though it had always been.

Crowley doesn’t have time for surprise or awe, so he focuses instead on the chest; which is sitting, unbothered, at the far side of the room.

He half expects some kind of booby trap, so when the silver lid slides unhesitatingly open, Crowley can’t help but flinch back.

Nothing happens.

Brows lifted, Crowley peers tentatively over the chest’s edge. There, at its center, sits a black jar. Sniffing the air, Crowley can just make out the slightest hints of sulfur.

Tensing, he reaches a hand in - and is relieved when his fingers close over the lid of the jar. He draws it out - and breathes a grateful sigh when no traps spring and no alarms blare.

Kneeling before the chest, he cracks the jar’s lid. When roaring heat surges forth, he snaps the lid back.

“Yep, that’s the stuff,” he says, and screws the lid tight.

Crowley takes the stairs at a run. On the first step, he thinks of the ground floor, and on the second step, he steps confidently into - a room stacked with scrolls.

“Huh,” he says, craning his head back to look at rich oak shelves and the layers of pale scrolls artfully piled upon them. “You’re not what I wanted.”

Deciding to try again, Crowley is turning back to the stairs when faded paint catches his eye.

He stops.

The mural is nearly entirely covered by shelves and scrolls. The visible section is a web of cracked paint and fading colors - a stark contrast to Heaven’s typically immaculate decor. But even faded as it is, Crowley can make out, clear as day, a Bentley - his Bentley, painted in peeling fresco.

Crowley blinks. Rubs his eyes. Squints, and blinks again.

“That’s....weird.”

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

Rushing back with the Hellfire, Crowley has stumbled upon an impossible oddity in the Hall of Records. When faced with this strange omen, Crowley will…

Investigate. He doesn’t have much time to spare, but he can’t leave without uncovering the other side of this mysterious mural.

Leave. The mural is strange, but time is of the essence. Crowley can’t risk the detour.

Please comment or reblog to vote! I can’t wait to see what you all choose :)

Part 14

#good omens #my writing #ineffable husbands #ineffable partners #choose your own adventure fic #good omens choose your own adventure #aziraphale #crowely #aziraphale x crowley #good omens gabriel #good omens beelzebub

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sparkkeyper · 4 years

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Whumptober Day 14: Heat Exhaustion

Yeah I'm basically finishing WIPs and then trying to find a prompt that fits them, haha. The time period on this one is vague, but probably somewhere pre-Great Flood.

***

It wasn't the first time the demon Crawly had been discorporated.

It wasn't even the worst, all things considered. It had been quick, at least, and he'd even brought a few of his murderers with him when he ended up Below. The paperwork was almost worth it to see the looks on their faces when they realized where they were.

But finally, after ages of red tape and very pointed threats from his superiors, he'd been issued a new corporation and had made his way topside again.

The entrances to Hell were ever-shifting these days in an attempt to keep up with the movement of the humans who had multiplied into the tens of thousands and spread out across multiple continents. The defiled ground Crawly crawled out of was over two dozen miles from the town of his next temptation assignment, so he brushed the dirt off his clothes and began the long walk.

And was it ever a long walk.

It was the height of summer and the weather was determined to live up to expectations. The sun beat down mercilessly against the black fabric of Crawly's robe and he pulled his hood lower against it.

It took him two hours to find the trade road, by which time the sun was already high in the mid-morning sky and he was thoroughly irritated. Something felt off but he couldn't put his finger on it. He cursed the arid climate, he cursed the empty open space between settlements, he cursed the scrawny trees that weren't even tall enough to shade the road, he cursed the weather and the seasons and the sun itself. It didn't make him feel any better, of course, and he cursed that fact too.

He trudged on. The journey was monotonous, as long journeys often were. There were little in the way of landmarks and it felt like he was looking at the same trees and shrubs over and over again. In fact they seemed to shimmer, almost double up.

Crawly rubbed his eyes. The heat was getting to him, making him lightheaded and miserable. Well at least he wasn't soaked in sweat-

Oh.

Oh no.

It finally clicked what was wrong. He wasn't sweating. At all.

A quick check confirmed that everywhere that should be sweaty and disgusting by now - armpits, scalp, back, crotch, etc - was completely bone dry. "Sssshit," he muttered, a hiss slipping through. Closing his eyes, he ran something close to a diagnostic on the human systems inside him. He could control some of them to a degree - breathing and heartbeat, for example, he didn't technically need but the processes were built automatic into the corporation and it took more effort to override them than he usually cared to spend - but others were out of his hands.

He could feel nothing from the systems in charge of temperature regulation. "Sssshit!" The corporation was defective. Crawly cursed a blue streak at Downstairs' incompetence. He'd be lucky if he made it anywhere near his assigned town in this state, much less through an entire temptation. Would it kill Hell to at least give him a waterskin when they sent him back up? Hydration wouldn't do much with a corporation in this condition but it would be something.

First things first, he needed to get out of the sun. There was precious little escape from it out here, but if he could make it far enough down the road, hopefully he could find an inn or a caravan or even a cave he could use for shelter.

Crawly stepped up his pace.

***

He'd lost track of time by now. All the landscape looked the same. It felt like he'd been walking for ages but he couldn't tell if he'd gone one mile or ten. Every time he tried to remember the geography of this region, his thoughts struggled to focus on anything.

The sun blazed down on him. He'd shed every layer but the basic tunic and hood in an effort not to trap more heat, but it was already a lost cause. He could feel the mounting flush under his skin as the heat throbbed with nowhere to go. He blew across his forearms as much as he could reach but it brought him no relief. His breath was coming fast and shallow, his heartbeat quick and erratic in his chest...

The path spun alarmingly and Crawly stumbled, losing his balance as the world dipped to the side. He staggered into the paltry shade of a young tree and sank to the ground. A rest. He needed...

The last thing he needed was to discorporate so soon after being issued a new body. Dagon would be furious. There would be a fine. It wouldn't matter if the corporation was put together wrong, it would still be considered his fault for losing it. And Hell's fines were paid in a combination of time and how much blood or screaming they could ring from you...

If he could survive until sundown, the evening would be cool enough to let him make it back to the desecrated pit that served as the nearest entrance Downstairs. Then he could raise absolute Heaven with the demon in charge of issuing corporations and get a new one without such serious defects. He tried to distract himself from the throbbing heat by fantasizing about just what he would say to the corporation department clerk, just what scathing threats he would make...

***

He wasn't aware he'd slumped to the ground until sometime later. Crawly tried to push himself back up but his arms were heavy, refusing to cooperate. He tried the legs. Not much better.

Oh, not good. Not good.

The shade had shifted, leaving him in direct sunlight once more, and he couldn't move well enough to crawl back to it. He tried, of course, in a pitiful attempt that only ground dirt under his nails and that he thanked Satan nobody else actually saw.

There was no way he was making it until sundown.

Crawly swore under his breath, and it came out weaker than he expected. Nothing for it, then. He'd just have to wait until the heat took him and pay whatever fine Downstairs decided to levy...

***

Crawly drifted in and out as he lay in the blaze. His head pounded and he felt odd, untethered, even as his cheek pressed into the rocks below him. A little like being hung over, but without any of the fun memories of being drunk...

Every muscle ached, and the flush pulsed within him, trapped. He suspected he was beginning to cook from the inside out...

A vague shape blotted out the sun. "Crawly? My goodness, is that you?"

Crawly tried for a laugh but it strangled before it could get past his lungs. His chest heaved with shallow, labored breaths. Of course that angel would find him now, of all times, when he was helpless. He wondered dizzily whether discorporation by angel smiting would look better or worse on his performance review than discorporation from heat stroke.

"Whatever happened here?" A hand placed itself over his dry forehead.

"Corporation'sss defective," he rasped. "Won't sssweat. Won't ssshiver. No thh...ther...thhhermoregulation at all really..."

His corporation shifted. It took an inordinate amount of time to realize he was being picked up, and he had no strength to resist. The cloudless blue of the sky filled his vision, broken only by the occasional glare of the burning sun as his head lolled.

Shouldn't be that unexpected, his thoughts swam. Probably moving the demon off the road. Or finding a better smiting place. Or finding a place to...to...

To what, he wasn't sure. Slippery thoughts slid right off of anything they might have grabbed onto and lost themselves in the endless blue of the sky. The rhythmic swaying of the steps beneath him was unmooring.

Like spinning a satchel only to let it go, flinging it off into the distance, into the sky, out of sight, out of...

Out of...of...

***

Crawly came back to himself slowly.

Something was rocking him, something gentle but insistent. It was soft and rhythmic and...

And cool.

Water.

He worked his eyes open to find himself submerged up to his chest in the shallows of a river, his back against a rock. Water plastered his hair to his face as though someone had poured it over his head. Satan below, he had never been more grateful to wake up soaking wet.

Crawly let out a quiet groan and sank down until the river lapped at his neck, feeling the inferno slowly leech from him. The relief was incredible. Cool water slid over the arteries in his throat, wrists, thighs, chest, allowing the heat trapped in his bloodstream to seep out into the river and away.

"Better?" came the soft voice from beside him. Odd that the angel was still here, but not wholly surprising.

"Mmmm." His tongue felt thick in his mouth. "Much."

"Call it a favour, then. Now you owe me one."

Crawly cracked an eye at Aziraphale, and at the white robe that didn't seem to be wet despite hanging in the river. "Ssssuppose I do."

"Is your destination very far?"

The demon shifted, testing his muscles. There was still damage to the corporation but now that he wasn't actively cooking, he could feel it starting to repair itself. Slowly. Very slowly. "Think I'll just sssstay here until sundown, actually."

"Oh good. That way I'll know where you are, and that you aren't causing trouble. I'm afraid you've been thwarted rather soundly for today."

Crawly closed his eyes and let himself relax against the rock. "So I have. Best let me wallow in my defeat, angel. Figure I can get a good several hours of wallowing in before night falls and I head back to get this defect fixed. When do you expect to call in your favour?"

A hand touched his shoulder just briefly, then the water rippled as Aziraphale rose and made his way back to the road. "Oh, no rush. I'm sure you'll pay it back in time."

And despite himself, despite the day he'd had, Crawly smiled.

#good omens #whumptober2020 #My writing #crowley #Crawly #Give your snek both heat AND coolness so he can thermoregulate #Also may have inspired that drawing I did of Mesopotamia Crowley with his foot in the river last year >.>

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lady-divine-writes · 4 years

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Good Omens - I Was Given Four Rules to Follow ... I Broke Every One: Chapter 3/3 (Rated PG13)

Summary: When Warlock Dowling is summoned to the old South Downs cottage of Aziraphale and Crowley to help clean out their attic, presumably after their deaths, he is given four rules to follow.

... He breaks every single one.

Read on AO3.

January 15th –

He opened his eyes!

He opened his eyes and looked at me!

After hours of waiting in the dark and in the cold, despairing every second and wishing I was dead myself, he opened his eyes.

But it came close to being all for naught because I almost died myself right then and there.

It was good to see him with his eyes wide open, but the golden eyes I loved so much are gone.

These new eyes are white on white, the pupils infinitely dark, the irises torn. They stare without blinking. They look into me, into my soul, it seems. They connect to the love that runs deep within me, to every touch he has ever left on my skin, to every promise we both made.

But they do not recognize me.

Am I, at all, familiar to him?

I don’t want to reject him, whether he knows me or not. But those eyes unnerve me.

There’s so much about them that’s innocent and frightened.

So much about them that’s desolate and dead.

We literally spent the morning just looking at one another.

I would give anything to know what’s going on in his mind.

What does he see when he looks at me?

I want to reach out and touch him, but I’m afraid. I know it won’t be the same. He won’t be warm, won't be comforting. What could be worse than a dead copy of a once alive and loving creature? I don’t know.

But whatever this is, it might be.

He won’t smell like Crowley. He won’t have his cheek, won't have his soothing voice. It’s almost as if I adopted some wild animal and decided to make it my husband.

What have I done?

***

January 16th –

All day long, he tried to move, grunting with the effort of struggling to stand up and get out of bed. He didn’t speak words; he just groaned. I wanted to help him. I wanted to pretend that he was simply convalescing after a horrible illness. I wanted to bathe him and dress him. I wanted to sit him down in front of the television, prop up his feet, and feed him brandy and ice-cream. I wanted to put this chapter behind us and get on with our lives.

I wanted to make believe him dying had never happened.

But I’m not that good an actor.

He behaves exactly the way the old woman warned me he would. He reminds me of a child.

I never wanted children.

This is the ‘in sickness and in health’ part of the marriage package, which I agreed to without hesitation.

Never mind the ‘till death do us part’ portion.

This comes with my vows, and I will honor them.

My love will help him. I know it will.

…

Can I really do this, or am I fooling myself?

***

January 17th –

I’m trying my best to take the bad with the good.

I managed to get him to the living room sofa. His legs were stiff, and he couldn’t seem to bend his knees.

He had been declared dead-on-arrival because of the injury to his neck. But I wonder if anything else is broken. I wasn’t really paying attention to the doctor when he went over the extent of Crowley’s injuries. After I heard the word dead, I tuned out.

I should get a copy of Crowley’s hospital records.

But if his legs are broken, how will I deal with that? Will the potion magically fix everything? It brought him back to life. Could fixing broken legs be more difficult than reanimating a corpse? What is the extent of the potion's effects? Do I need a secondary potion of some kind to repair internal injuries?

Maybe I should call the shopkeeper back and ask.

We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

He stumbled numerous times and fell on me. I did my best not to cringe at his touch or accidentally drop him. But those eyes, so close to mine, were like looking into a nightmare. I could see through them to the veins and arteries behind, the blood inside them black and unhealthy.

The fourth time he stumbled, though, I got the feeling that maybe he was falling on purpose so that I would be forced to catch him.

I even thought I saw the shadow of a smile cross his lips.

I watched him as he sat in front of the TV and renewed his passion for The Golden Girls. That show had been one of his favorites since he was a small boy.

He sat so still.

He didn’t swallow.

He didn’t appear to breathe.

The only time he moved was when he looked over to where I sat, I think, to make sure I was still there.

He sat for hours and watched TV.

There was nothing else for him to do.

I fed him salad for dinner, let him stay in front of the television instead of making him go to the dining room table. I didn’t see any reason to move him. He leaned down and sniffed the cold lettuce leaves, but he did not eat.

Neither did I.

***

January 19th –

After a full day of limping him around the house, Crowley is surprisingly steady on his feet. He can make it from the bedroom to the living room sofa by himself. It takes him a while, but he can do it.

His body is still in rigor, but he seems to be getting more comfortable with it.

I should be jumping for joy at his progress. The more mobile he becomes, the less dependent he will be on me. Every day that he improves, even a little, he is closer to becoming the man he was.

But I don’t know how comfortable I am with that anymore.

***

January 21st -

He doesn’t sleep. And now that he doesn’t rely on me to get around the house, neither do I. I know he sees me as a parent-figure, so he won’t hurt me. But he’s such an alien creature. Not like the old Crowley at all.

It’s strange having this version of him around the house.

When Crowley was

Before the accident, Crowley was so independent. He didn’t need me, didn’t need my help with anything.

But now, he needs to be near me all the time.

I understood there would be a change in our dynamic, but it’s such a striking change that it’s difficult to get used to.

I took a shower for the first time in days. I left him in the living room watching TV, but when I finished and opened the curtain, there he was, standing there … staring.

I fell asleep for about an hour afterward, and when I woke up, he was kneeling beside me, again staring at me.

He’s always staring.

What does he think about doing when he stares at me?

***

January 22nd –

I finally broke down and gave Crowley a shower. He didn’t stink, but there was something about him, something that smelled … well, I can't seem to find the words to describe it.

I just wanted it gone.

I’ve seen the injuries to his chest numerous times, but I haven't paid much attention to his back.

When I saw them, I almost threw up.

And he noticed.

He heard me gag.

I gasped, held in my urge to be sick.

He turned to face me, and for the first time, he had an expression on his face different from his blank one … but also different from that smile I thought I saw when I was helping him walk around the house.

He looked hurt.

***

January 27th -

Each day that he improves, I debate telling our friends that he's here. I know they miss us terribly. But in the end, it would be too cruel. He’s not himself anymore. He never will be. Most days, I curse myself for doing this to him. My motives were selfish. I wasn’t thinking of anyone but myself when I made the decision to bring him back.

I wasn’t even thinking of him.

Our lives are unrecognizable. We’ll never travel the world like we'd planned. Who knows if I’ll make it back to my bookshop? Should probably shut it down and have my books transported here. The way things look, the rest of our days will be spent in this cottage.

I have to be okay with that.

But what about Crowley?

If you asked rational me if I think he wants to live this half-life, with no potential to be anything other than a human puppet, who only barely resembles the man that was Anthony J Crowley, I would have to say no. Absolutely not.

But I can’t turn back now.

What am I expected to do? Poison his tea? Smother him in his sleep?

Would attempting to kill him even work?

And what about his soul?

If there is a Heaven, I surely pulled him out of it with my cock-eyed plan. What if there is no going back for him?

I can only hope that my love for him is enough to keep him from hating me when he’s able to comprehend what I’ve done to him.

***

February 1st –

I’ve finally gotten him to eat – bits and pieces mostly, bites of vegetables and corners of bread. It doesn’t seem like he likes it, but he eats it, and that’s good. He eats because I tell him to. It shows that he trusts me.

He’s more self-sufficient now.

He showers and brushes his teeth on his own. He picks out his pajamas and dresses himself. Sometimes he tries his hand at making the bed. He is attempting to be more vocal, but he has yet to say a single thing that isn’t a grunt or a moan.

I’ve been looking up the subject of speech delay on the Internet, trying to find ways to help him learn. I came across one website in particular with fun, creative ideas. I started making flashcards of consonant blends and one-syllable words. I felt so accomplished, so hopeful, like I was actually doing something positive toward the goal of moving us forward. I felt confident that after a little work with them, everything would be all right. I was so excited to show them to him, but then I realized …

… I have no idea if he can read.

***

February 3rd –

I tried calling the old woman at the antique shop in Soho to ask about the effects of the potion, but the phone has been disconnected.

I guess they went out of business after all.

It doesn’t matter. Nothing appears to be broken. Or maybe it’s that he doesn’t feel pain.

I was teaching him how to cook, hoping it would bring a bit of the old Crowley back. We used to cook together all the time. Honestly, we weren't all that good at it, but that didn't stop us from trying. We had just gotten the hang of a decent souffle before ...

Anyway ...

I started him small.

I had him grating cheese.

Seemed simple enough. The grater stands on its own, so not much to juggle. But he pressed too hard, ran the grater over the backs of his fingers, scraped off skin. He didn’t so much as flinch. I think it bothered me more than it bothered him. I bandaged it up and, without thinking, I kissed the wound. I looked at him in utter shock …

… and he smiled.

My heart leapt.

It’s so nice to see him smile again.

I never thought I would.

***

February 4th –

I took off Crowley’s bandage, and his wound from the cheese grater is gone! There’s not a trace of it left!

I guess that answers that question.

I should be relieved, but it bothers me, and I don’t know why.

***

February 21st –

Today was the most unexpectedly intense, depressing, and wonderful day all at once.

It started when Crowley woke this morning. He got up before me and tried to make me crepes. I had no idea why. He hadn't tried to cook by himself before, didn't even show an interest in cooking without me. He burned them, himself, and the stove all in one go. The fire alarm woke me, blaring in my ears. I managed to get to the extinguisher in time, but poor Crowley looked heartbroken over his ruined pan of blackened food.

Then, before lunch, he wanted to go outside. I think he was trying to sneak out, but I caught him jiggling the front doorknob (he has yet to master the bolt - thank God). When I caught him, he slammed his hand on the door in frustration and sprinted for the back one. I followed him, knowing it was locked and that he wouldn’t be able to open it. When I reached him, he was trying to wedge his way out of the old cat flap. (Note to self - board up the cat flaps! I don’t know why we kept them. We’ve never owned a cat.)

I patted him gently on the shoulder and asked him what he needed. He stood up and groaned, moving his mouth and wiggling his tongue, making nonsensical sounds. When he couldn’t say what he needed to, he pointed out the window to the garden. I assumed he wanted to check on his dahlias. I’m a disaster with flowers, and, unfortunately, I haven’t been able to keep them up the way he could.

Of course, it's one degree outside. The poor things are frozen solid. They're not even flowers any longer, I don't think, but the frigid remains of what they once were.

But he’d had yet to show any interest in them, either, before today.

I shrugged, repeated that I didn’t understand. He pointed more forcefully, jabbing at the window with his index finger.

“I don’t know what you're trying to tell me, my dear,” I said. “Do you want to go for a walk?”

I've taken him walking around Soho a few times. I've been trying to tie up loose ends, decide if selling the bookshop is the road to take. I wrapped him up in a full-length coat and scarf with just his eyes peeking out. I guess he enjoyed it, but he’d never asked to go outside. He shook his head and pointed again, this time at the dying rose bushes that I hadn’t had time to deadhead. I didn’t get it. I shook my head, and he stormed off to the bedroom.

I followed him there, but he blocked the door.

I could hear him inside, moaning. It was horrible. It sounded like pain and embarrassment and frustration, all rolled together. And I couldn’t help him.

He wouldn’t let me.

I tried to lure him out several times, but he didn’t come out till dinner time.

And when he did, he was dressed in a black Bergdorf suit.

Crowley has dozens of expensive black suits, and he looks stunning in all of them.

But this suit.

This suit in particular.

This suit had been hanging front and center in his closet.

Because it was the suit I had planned on burying him in.

It threw me for a loop, dragging me kicking and screaming back to that day I found out he had died, before I’d decided to try bringing him back, before I knew that I could. I took out the suit to air it. I guess I hadn’t put it back with the others because there it was, standing before me with the living corpse of my husband inside.

The sight took all the air out of my lungs.

“Take it off,” I said quietly, trying not to alarm him, but how was I supposed to explain to my somewhat dead husband that I didn’t want to see him dressed in the suit I had planned on putting him in the ground in?

He looked confused and shook his head, opening his mouth and groaning.

“Please, Crowley,” I begged, hoping he would hear my anguish and understand, “take it off.”

He stomped his foot and shook his head, the way a petulant child would. It should have been cute, but I couldn’t handle it. I've had issues getting used to his looks lo these many weeks, but for the first time since he came back to me, he looked dead.

“Take it off!” I screamed. I ran at him, grabbed the lapels, trying to tear it off his body. He held me, pinned my arms, and I could feel his renewed strength. I hadn’t really let him touch me before, but now I knew that if he wanted to, he could probably hurt me.

I stared up at him, realizing that he was hovering above me, and I was lying on my back on the floor. My heart stopped. He had never looked menacing before. Even in death, he seemed so innocent. But now, he looked like a monster. He had a piece of paper balled in his grasp, and he tried to make me look at it, but I couldn’t take my eyes away from his face – pale and cold and lifeless, regardless of the fact that he was my Crowley.

He stared at me, trying to speak.

It hit me like a pile of bricks.

Speak.

That’s exactly what he was doing.

His lips were moving in exaggerated, grotesque ways that shouldn’t be able to turn sound into words, but they were.

“A … Az … Azi …”

Crowley blinked and shook his head.

“Azir …”

“Aziraphale?” I asked in awe that he was trying to say my name.

Crowley laughed. It was a glorious, hollow, frankly frightening sound, but I couldn’t help smiling when I heard it. He put his fingers to my lips.

I guess he didn’t want me to steal his thunder.

“Azzzir-uh-phale,” he said, smacking his lips. “I … lo … I lov …” Crowley swallowed again, closing his eyes, trying to make the words in his head match the movement of his lips. “I … love … you … Azzzir-uh-phale.”

Crowley tapped again at the paper on the floor. This time I did what he wanted and looked. He had torn off the current page from the calendar and was poking at a box circled shakily in red. I peered down at it.

I could have cried.

“Our ... our anniversary?” I asked, looking into his broken eyes. He sighed, nodding.

It was our anniversary.

He’d wanted to make me breakfast in bed … for our anniversary.

He’d wanted to get me roses … for our anniversary.

My husband had wanted to do something nice for me … for our anniversary.

My husband had spent all day teaching himself how to say, “I love you, Aziraphale,” because there was nothing else he could do for me.

My husband remembered our anniversary ...

... even when I had not.

***

June 4th -

Five months-ish later…

I can’t believe it!

I cannot believe it!

Five months later and we’ve made it! Despite the odds. Despite the difficulties and the heartaches. Despite every time I thought about giving up, here we are.

Happy.

Together.

We spend our days wrapped in each other’s arms. We watch TV. I read books out loud - he sits and listens. Crowley is re-learning how to drive, and I’m on the hunt for a new Bentley. Our lives might not be what they were before, but they’re perfect for us.

We’ve managed to go to the city more, spent a few glorious nights at our flat in Mayfair. We've even interacted with one or two of our old friends. It's a wonder what some foundation and blusher can accomplish! I told them it was a medical miracle, and they believed me.

Because that's what Crowley is.

A miracle!

Okay, maybe I am tempting fate. But maybe fate needs to be tempted from time to time!

His vocabulary has expanded immensely, and a hint of his old suave confidence has come back, along with the muddy accent I so often teased him about.

I am finally at a point where I am optimistic about the future.

Because I’m beginning to think that there might actually be one for us.

***

August 13th –

I woke this morning to a strange squealing noise. At first, I thought it might be the smoke alarm again - odd since we got the cooking situation sorted, I thought. The longer I listened to it, the more I realized it wasn’t the smoke alarm. It didn’t sound familiar at all, so I didn’t worry too much about it. As long as an errant sheep didn’t get hit by a car, there was really no reason to jump out of bed and investigate. After a few minutes of listening to the goings-on outside, I determined that wasn’t the case, so I considered going back to sleep.

But then I noticed that Crowley wasn’t laying beside me in bed.

That isn’t too unusual. He’s normally the first one up on any given day. I just curl back into a ball holding his pillow to my chest until he returns.

He always returns.

The squealing wasn’t really that weird. I’ve thought for the last few months that we might have rats. Or squirrels. Or possums. I’ve heard that same squealing a few times before. But seeing as I can’t find any evidence of rodent-caused destruction anywhere in the house, I haven’t been too aggressive about hunting it down.

My stomach began to growl. I guessed I had been asleep for longer than I thought. Instead of returning to bed, I decided to make some waffles for breakfast. So I got up and went out into the kitchen.

That’s where I found Crowley.

He was crouching on the floor …

… covered in blood …

… biting into the spine of what used to be a raggedy old Maine coon …

I looked at him.

He looked at me.

He grinned his old, sly grin, licked his bloody lips, and said, "Hello, Aziraphale. Can I get you a cuppa tea? I know just how you like it."

He winked at me, and my heart stuttered.

…

I may have a problem.

***

Those are the last words on the page.

A page where the ink is smeared from tears, and the edges crusted in blood.

I haven’t seen Aziraphale or Crowley in decades. They used to send the occasional letter, but those stopped a while ago, and they never call. But something tells me neither of them ever left this house alive.

I’m afraid my time, too, has run out. I came to this house alone. But huddled in the darkest corner of the attic, I hear footsteps coming closer, a sour voice on the wind calling my name …

Ka-thunk …

“Warlock …”

…

Ka-thunk …

“Warlock …”

…

Ka-thunk …

“Warlock …”

…

KA-THUNK!!

***

“Warlock Dowling!” Crowley calls, barging into the attic, footsteps heavy on the worn floorboards. “Are you recording another one of those Clip-Clop thingies again?”

“It’s TikTok, Nanny,” Warlock replies, rolling his eyes, “and no. I’m reading a story for my YouTube channel.”

“Well … you done getting a costume together or wot?” Crowley asks, changing the subject, saving face that he actually understands anything Warlock just said. “Adam and his hooligans are gonna be here in a minute. Aziraphale is gonna have kittens if you’re not ready to go Tricks or Treats!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Warlock says, gathering up his camera. He loves Halloween with a passion, but he’d been eyeing this one journal in Aziraphale’s bookshop for some time now. This video he’s been putting together promises to be epic - the crowning achievement of his burgeoning story channel. Most horror story channels get their material from the Creepypasta Reddit, but he has a unique source of original material … when he can get out to Soho, that is. “I’m coming.” He pulls the lapels of the leather jacket he’s borrowing for the evening together in front to tighten it up.

It’s slim fit as it used to be Crowley’s from back in the day, but thirteen-year-old Warlock still swims in it.

Warlock marches to the door under Crowley’s watchful eye. Before he can make his way through, Crowley stops him, slipping a hand underneath the jacket and rescuing an extraneous prop - an antique journal.

“Have you been snoopin’ through Angel’s old manuscripts again?” Crowley asks, wiping the cover clean. “You know how he feels bout that.”

“I know,” Warlock admits sheepishly, “but my audience loves them! I get thousands of hits off his stories! Besides, I put my own twist on them, freshen them up a bit.”

“Do you now?” Crowley asks with an unamused eyebrow notched.

“Why didn't he get them published?” Warlock shifts gears before the lecturing can start. “He’s an amazing writer!”

“He had his reasons,” Crowley mumbles, flipping through the pages. After skimming a passage or two, he puts it down on a pile of similar journals, a shiver sliding down his snakey spine. “Oof! Those things’ll give you nightmares.”

“They should terrify you. He’s murdered you in every single one!”

“Ah, but he does it with love.” Crowley grins wide enough to swallow his whole face. “It’s an honor.”

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #tricketyboo2020 #ineffable husbands #ineffable lovers #aziraphale #crowley #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 4 years

Text

Irresistible/Immovable

Yesterday, the DIWS Discord server went a little feral after a discussion of handholding this was my result. As always, I’ve taken something of a soft-angst approach, after the bus ride back to London...

Also available on AO3

The bus arrived in London, rolling to a stop a block from Crowley’s flat.

“Seemed fair,” Crowley whispered. “The streets get narrower and there’s no place to turn around…”

Aziraphale wasn’t listening. Still staring out the windshield, past the driver. He hadn’t moved for at least three miles.

Crowley reached up and tapped his shoulder. No response. He tried again, pushing harder, shaking until Aziraphale finally blinked and turned, just a little. “Come on, Angel. Time to go.”

Another gentle push and Aziraphale finally slid out of his seat, standing in the aisle. Crowley clambered out after him, unfolding.

All through the long, terrifying ride they’d said hardly a word to each other. Crowley knew he should, offer some reassurance or show of courage, something to make Aziraphale feel less hopeless.

He didn’t have it in him, no strength to spare, no words, no hope. He’d offered his flat for the night. Beyond that, well, his mind buzzed with ideas. Impossible ideas. Ones that would take a being far more powerful and confident than he to enact.

This morning he’d offered to run to the stars. Perhaps that could still work, fleeing forever, across the infinite emptiness of space, never again to rest, to laugh, to enjoy the taste of food. In its own way, that was as frightening as oblivion at the hands of their former sides.

He led the way up the aisle, down the steps, but Aziraphale didn’t follow. Instead, he paused beside the bus driver, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you for…” he seemed momentarily uncertain. The driver was still in a daze; in five minutes he would realize he was in London, not Oxford, and wonder why. “Yes,” Aziraphale patted his shoulder again. “Thank you.”

From the side of the street below, Crowley felt the faint tingle of a miracle echoing down. A small blessing, protection from harm, a promise of a turn of good luck in the next 24 hours.

Amazing, Crowley thought. Even after all this, he still has strength to spare. He watched Aziraphale step down, slowly, to join him on the street.

Crowley’s hand hovered – almost touching his shoulder – wishing to draw some of that infinite steadiness into himself.

“This way,” he said, pushing his hands into his pockets as he walked into the darkness. “Not far.”

After a dozen steps, he realized he was walking alone.

Aziraphale stood on the street corner, staring at the sky.

London at night never became truly dark, not the way that little Oxfordshire village had, or indeed the way London had a mere century before. All that new electricity, all those signs and streetlamps and 24-hour Tesco’s. The edges of his vision seemed to glow amber as the light from windows bounced off the air, reflecting down. Giving the city a halo of sorts.

Under the right circumstances, he might have found beauty in it, of a kind.

Instead, he felt lost, adrift.

“We should have stayed,” he murmured. “No stars.”

“What’s that?” Crowley’s voice was strangely distant, but it took the click of only a few quick steps across the pavement to bring him back. He hovered, almost in sight, tossing his head in that way he had.

“Just that…I’d hoped there would be stars. In the end.” He laughed a little, or at least made a sound like laughing, and wasn’t that close enough? “I might see them when they drag me back to Heaven. Some of the rooms look out on the night sky. They don’t get used as much these days but…but I could try and ask. Do you think Gabriel would allow a last request? Or would that just make him…make him angrier…”

“Hey.” Crowley’s hand pressed into his back, gently, just below his ribs. “Don’t…don’t say things like that. We’re going to figure it out.”

“Figure what out?” Aziraphale stared at the blank sky above. “There’s no one to appeal to, no higher authority, no…no clever way to get out of it…”

“Oi.” His eyes flicked down, just a little, just enough to see that Crowley stood close – very close – eyes uncovered, staring directly into Aziraphale. “We’re going be fine. Do you hear me? We’re going to walk home, we’re going to talk this through, and we’re going to figure it out.”

“How can you say that?” Aziraphale was surprised at how calm his voice sounded. “There’s…nothing to figure out.”

“There’s the prophecy,” Crowley said. How could he have so much energy? How could he still move, still shuffle his feet as if in his endless dance, everything in motion except that hand, resting on his back. “Choose your faces wisely? Playing with fire? Agnes wouldn’t have sent us that prophecy if there was nothing we could do.”

“Perhaps.” His eyes drifted up to the empty sky again. “Perhaps it was only intended to…give us a chance to…prepare ourselves, I suppose.” He tugged on his waistcoat and tried to imagine himself facing Gabriel and Michael with dignity. He might be able to muster dignity. Defiance was asking a bit much, but he could try to face his punishment standing tall.

��Out of the question.” The hand drifted from his back, brushed his elbow. “Because I already lost you. Three times, actually, and you know what? It sucked. So I’ve already decided. Not happening again.” The hand returned to Crowley’s pocket; his other lifted the glasses, pressing them back into place.

“Crowley…” he remembered a voice in the strange white darkness, as he’d scoured the Earth for a suitable body. A familiar voice, filled with pain, but still going on. A lifeline in that endless void. “I’m…I truly am sorry…”

“Nothing for you to be sorry about,” he said, turning away, voice as cool as ever. “Just. Don’t give up. I have ideas, but they won’t work if you give up. So just…don’t.”

Crowley started walking, and Aziraphale struggled to keep up. He tried, struggling to go forward, but his legs shook, he stumbled, would have fallen, but he reached out and caught Crowley’s elbow.

The demon froze.

“I’m – I’m so terribly sorry.” Aziraphale stepped back, brushing his hands against his coat furiously. “I – I – obviously, I didn’t – It won’t happen again!”

“It won’t,” Crowley said, and without quite facing Aziraphale, he held out his hand.

The angel stared at it for a long moment.

Perhaps he was misunderstanding. Perhaps Crowley intended a miracle of some kind and was – oh, warming up or some such thing. Perhaps…perhaps…perhaps…

Aziraphale brushed his fingers across the palm, uncertainly, pulling them back. He’d almost expected it to burn. It did, in a way, a tingle all across his fingertips, a jolt up his arm and directly to his heart.

He tried again, this time letting them slide until his palm was pressed against Crowley’s, and started to wrap his fingers – no, surely not—

Crowley’s long fingers closed around his hand. “Is this…better?”

“Ah. Oh. Um. Yes?”

“Don’t let me go too fast.”

All Aziraphale could do was nod. Crowley started walking again, and with a tug on his arm, the angel found himself following, pulled in his wake, as he always was, the most natural thing in the world.

Crowley was as brilliant as the stars he’d once made, and all else fell to the force of his gravity – humans, and cities, and Aziraphale.

It wasn’t a bad thing, to be in the orbit of such a marvelous creature. One foot followed the other, on and on, into the night.

Crowley wanted to get inside as soon as possible. They needed to talk, needed to plan, and that couldn’t be done in the open. He felt exposed here, vulnerable. Every instinct was to dart for cover, for darkness, for safety.

But as he walked, he felt the tug at his arm, and glanced back to see Aziraphale, still holding his hand, still struggling to keep up.

He slowed his pace, until the angel was beside him again. Their shoulders brushed, and just for a moment he felt anchored. Grounded.

Aziraphale’s eyes were glued to the sidewalk before them, deep in thought.

“Now what?” Crowley asked, wishing it didn’t sound so angry, but he couldn’t stop himself sometimes. He needed to move.

“Nothing,” Aziraphale said quickly. “I’m perfectly fine. Just…”

He squeezed Crowley’s hand, and it was hot, beyond anything he’d ever felt, hotter than the fires at the center of stars, hotter than the heat of Falling when everything was torn away, hotter than damnation, hotter than salvation – that little bit of pressure ignited everything in him.

Then Aziraphale pulled his hand away, and left him cold.

“I – I – I had a thought…” Aziraphale twisted his own fingers in front of him. “About the prophecy. What if…what if choosing our faces…” He stopped, illuminated in the orange-yellow light of the streetlamp. “What if it means that…that only one of us need be destroyed? That perhaps there’s some way I can…I can sacrifice myself…”

“No!” He darted over, grabbing Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Look at me, no. I told you, you – you’re not allowed to give up!”

“It’s not giving up. It’s – it’s the logical solution. Heaven would of course wish to see me punished. If they make me Fall – through the-the Fires of Creation, then Hell would have me to…to…” He swallowed. “I think both would be satisfied with this solution. And you could…”

“We’re not doing that,” Crowley growled desperately. “And I have just as much a right to – to sacrifice myself, anyway.”

“No, dear. I don’t think Gabriel would care much for your death, I’m sorry to say. This is the way that makes sense.” He looked up, and there was a strength in his eyes, the strength of all the earth, unmovable, implacable, powerful enough to outlast eternity.

Without realizing what he was doing, Crowley brought his head to rest against Aziraphale’s shoulder, wrapped his arms around the angel, trying to absorb that strength, wondering what it would be like to have it flow through his veins.

“Angel,” he whispered. “We can’t. I don’t…What would I do? With you gone?”

“Crowley, I’m sure you could…”

“I’m not strong enough. I don’t know…without you…” He thought of himself, sitting in that bar, waiting for the end of the world. There had still been that drive to do something deep inside, but without Aziraphale, he was adrift. Lost. “Don’t make me go through that again.”

His voice sounded weak, desperate. Crowley had never begged, not for anything, not even when they cast him out of Heaven. He begged now, pleaded, deep in his heart.

Aziraphale shifted in his arms, and he felt those soft, powerful hands settle on his back, rubbing gently as if he were precious, as if he were delicate, as if he might fall apart.

“Don’t leave me,” he whispered.

“Of course not,” Aziraphale said softly. “How foolish of me.”

Crowley stood there, leaning on him, drawing that infinite calm into himself, until he was ready to go on.

Very suddenly, Crowley pulled back, stepping away, fading into the darkness while Aziraphale remained in the light of the streetlamp.

Had he ever seen Crowley in such a state? It shook Aziraphale to his core.

For the first time since stepping off the bus, he looked directly at his friend – not at the sky or the earth, glancing from the corner of his eyes. Directly into those black lenses, into the heart of the being he had bound himself to, slowly, irrevocably, for millennia.

He thought they were opposites, destined to forever be pulled together and repelled, dragging each other back and forth through eternity. The light and the dark. The order and the chaos. Forever cancelling each other out.

But it wasn’t like that at all. Everything he felt – all his fear, his uncertainty, his doubt weighing him down – he could see echoed in Crowley, transformed into a limitless energy that could power them both.

Crowley stood in shadows, created by the light of the lamp; the lamp only existed, only had purpose, because of the darkness.

They weren’t opposites. They were halves of a whole, part of each other. Reflections of a sort.

Aziraphale stepped forward, his toes on the very edge of the shadow. Crowley stepped closer to meet him, light reflecting off his glasses, his tie, his fancy watch.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said, straightening his bowtie. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Any time, Angel.”

Crowley held out his arm, offering his elbow, and Aziraphale wrapped his hands through it. Pulling close. Feeling the heat pour in along his side where they pressed together. Finding the will to keep going.

They walked together up the street, the irresistible force and the immovable object. Arm-in-arm, completing each other.

Perhaps together, they could bend even Heaven and Hell to their will.

Thank you for reading! Also available on AO3.

#good omens #good omens prime #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #ineffable husbands fic #Aziraphale #crowley #protective aziraphale #protective crowley #the bus ride #after the apoclypse #holding hands #walking arm in arm #Hugs #my writing #ao3 #ao3 link #Irresistible/Immovable #aziraphale and crowley

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aziraphale-rights · 4 years

Text

If there was ever a good place to pick up bad habits – it was Ancient Rome.

When Aziraphale arrived in Rome, he hadn’t actually eaten anything in about a century. No, that’s a fib; he’d eaten a bowl of goat curry on a high-altitude outpost in the Himalayas, and a side of boar bought somewhere in Gaul after narrowly avoiding a discorporation, and he could remember both of those meals with a depth of detail that was truly remarkable. So, not nothing, but not very much, not since he sent in his report about the Caledonian assignment.

The painstaking project of establishing a chosen family as a prosperous local influence was one that had gone rather well, actually, and he’d submitted his lengthy report with the hopeful expectation that Head Office would be pleased with him for once. He couldn’t have been more wrong. Michael was in his room not three hours after the report got sent up.

‘Three meals a day?’ she’d demanded icily, without preamble, holding the document aloft between a rather disdainful forefinger and thumb.

‘Er,’ Aziraphale had answered, recovering the unlit tallow candle he’d dropped on the ground in surprise when she manifested. ‘Yes. The humans really rather – ’

‘And you didn’t think that was disgusting?’ continued Michael, with dangerous calm.

‘Well… no,’ said Aziraphale, painfully aware that this was the wrong answer. Not that he’d known about it before now. He’d fallen into the pattern by accident, mostly, trying not to be too conspicuously inhuman while settling in to spend a decade with a close-knit tribe. Then it had become apparent just how much the pattern humanised him to his marks. So he’d embraced it. ‘Actually, it helped a great deal with the assignment, so I thought I’d include it in the report as a sort of – as a tip. They really listen to you, when you eat with them. The same way they listen to each other.’

Michael still looked calm. It still felt dangerous. She lifted an eyebrow.

‘You’re saying you want us to recommend that other angels do this kind of thing?’

‘Oh. Recommend is rather strong. I only meant it as a, as a, as an observation. In case anyone else might find it helpful. I just thought… well, as the only angel permanently stationed on Earth, I thought – ’

‘You’re the only angel permanently stationed on Earth,’ Michael took over, ‘so it’s inevitable you’ll be forced to do unpleasant things from time to time. For appearances’ sake. But it’s disturbing that you no longer keep degrading behaviour like this to a minimum, Aziraphale.’

‘Oh,’ he said again, nonplussed. ‘I see.’

To tell the truth, he was rather embarrassed at the discovery that he might have been blithely committing misconduct all this time. He wasn’t quite sure whether this policy against eating was new, or if he just hadn’t known about it before now, but it didn’t seem wise to ask Michael, in case it turned out to be the latter. (Come to think of it, there had been quite a number of times recently when his superiors had dropped in on him while he was eating. He’d found this disconcerting, but hadn’t thought the pattern was intentional. Now he wondered if it was a hint, and he missed it. Oh dear.)

Nor did it seem wise to ask whether the policy had really come from the Very Top. That might seem impertinent.

So he asked no questions.

Michael went on:

‘Luckily for you, I’d rather turn a blind eye than write out a reprimand for something so vulgar, but I must remind you informally: the more you stain yourself down here, the harder it will be to clean off.’ For a moment it seemed like this was all she had to say, but then she closed her eyes and adopted a perfectly revolted expression. ‘And, Aziraphale. Whatever you have to do to get by on this job… for the love of God, don’t make me read about it.’

Then she disappeared from his room without a farewell, as if unable to stand the sight of him for another second.

So, Aziraphale stopped eating.

This decision turned out to be less straightforward than he expected. Later on, he would struggle to remember when, exactly, the attempt to eat less had evolved into an outright ban. He just knew that it had proved worryingly difficult.

He’d simply never had to think so much about food before. It had always been a part of the job, of course. Not the most disagreeable part, either. He worked with humans, and their social practices made it inevitable that an affable, human-looking sort would get offered food fairly often, if he was hanging around them enough. If it was expedient, or pleasurable, to say yes – Aziraphale would say yes.

It was after Michael’s visit that he first encountered hunger, a feeling angels are not supposed to know. He’d always been able to go months without eating, during long journeys and famines and floods, and never experienced any discomfort. Now, for the first time, when someone offered him food, he had to remind himself to say no, even when it would have been expedient or pleasurable to accept it. And this made him notice something altogether new. Every time he said it, an unfamiliar something tugged at a spot in the middle of his chest. Not a painful tug, exactly, but there. Sometimes, difficult to ignore.

He observed this change in himself with concern. The more you stain yourself down here, the harder it will be to clean off. He’d never accepted so much food as he did in that little Caledonian village, never allowed his corporation to settle into a rhythm of predictable eating before. Clearly, doing so had left a lasting impression.

And why hadn’t he given it any thought? How had he not realised the other angels would be disgusted by it? He’d eaten so much he’d had to go to the midden every day, like a human, not just to pass water but the other thing – oh, goodness. And he’d told Michael about it. No wonder she had been upset. Aziraphale might as well have sent her a long description of his defecation habits.

When this thought dawned on him he went cold all over, and then he couldn’t seem to get it out of his head. It would come back to distress him several times a day, always at very inconvenient moments, and so intensely that he would draw alarmed looks from nearby humans as he groaned aloud and banged his fists on his forehead.

Not to mention the torture he went through after dark. He’d wasted plenty of nights worrying about his professional missteps, of course, but for some reason this humiliation crawled right under his skin in a way his previous errors had not. Aziraphale would go over and over and over the whole incident in his mind: what Michael must have thought when she read the report, what she must have said to the other archangels, whether they had laughed about him, what they now knew. Worrying about it was futile and painful and childish, and soon he was doing it every night without fail, robbing himself of his usual hours of privacy and peace. Just one more lasting consequence to his thoughtlessness. Along with this new need, this hunger.

Still, lasting didn’t have to mean permanent. He had trained himself into it, so he must be able to train himself out of it again. It wasn’t that he planned to avoid food forever. Only until the problem was fixed. If he fought it for long enough, surely, the hunger would go away.

Aziraphale waited to find out how long this would take. The answer certainly wasn’t ‘a short time’. In fact, the more time went on, the harder that something seemed to tug. Soon it was happening not just when he had to say no, but also when he heard others saying yes, or when he passed a group of humans eating together, or when he thought for too long about food. After a decade or so, the tug had become so insistent that occasionally, when someone started enjoying a meal in his vicinity, he would have to simply walk away, because the sight of it was more than he could stand.

But he didn’t give up on the idea of re-training himself. If anything, he felt more committed. His increasing discomfort only underlined the importance of getting rid of the hunger, and resisting it was relatively easy, if not very enjoyable, during that first century. Aziraphale faced little in the way of temptation, in most of the places he passed through. Head Office kept sending him to dusty little villages and remote backwaters, where people had so little that they couldn’t afford to offer any part of it to guests, and that meant there was more than one good reason to turn it down if they did. He got thinner, and people started trying to give him food more often. He miracled himself to look fuller, so they wouldn’t.

He felt pleased with himself, really. He didn’t know when the tug would go away, if a hundred years wasn’t enough, but now he knew how to ignore it, and that meant he could wait as long as it took, until it did.

And then Aziraphale walked into Rome.

Rome where they had just discovered dining culture, and takeaways, and celebrity chefs. Rome where all his wealthy marks flaunted the fact that they had far more to eat than they needed, where guests were routinely greeted by slaves with platters, where restaurant doors were flung open and street vendors sizzled their wares on the street and the scent of it was everywhere you went, like Gomorrah all over again.

Heaven hated them, these big cities, where they drank and danced and touched and ate. Aziraphale tried not to go into them, because of how much he liked them and how much Heaven hated them, but in the end he got an assignment that meant there was absolutely no avoiding the place that was currently the epicentre of everything, so he walked into Rome.

Aziraphale went almost a clean century without eating anything, and then he walked into Rome, and he could not think about anything except food.

(To be continued...)

#good omens #eating disorder cw #WIP wednesday wahoo #sorry it's such a long extract but that's how i roll #hnergh it makes me nervous to post this #aziraphale is hungry tag

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flameraven · 5 years

Text

Good Omens Fic Recs Masterpost

(aka, I wanted to organize all my favs so I might as well share them) (No smut fics on this list bc that is extremely not my jam. I’m on the asexual relationship train all the way with these two. There are some very Vague Implications in a couple of these but no more than that.) UPDATE: PART 2 HERE: https://flameraven.tumblr.com/post/613697745862230016/good-omens-fic-rec-masterpost-part-two

Wingfic

Birds of a Feather - Kedreeva // Short wingfic collection

If We’ve Got Nothing, We’ve Got Us - Kedreeva // After the apocalypse, Aziraphale and Crowley find their feathers coming in grey.

With Drooping Wings - werebear // (hurt/comfort) - Crowley gets drunk, remembers some trauma, and has a nightmare. Aziraphale comforts him.

by flash and thunder fire I’ll survive - jessikast // Crowley and Aziraphale discuss wings and snakes and winged snakes. There are cuddles.

When in Rome - Kedreeva // Aziraphale teaches Crowley to read, and Crowley shares a secret.

In All Things, Balance - Kedreeva // Gabriel comes for the ineffable husbands, and the universe gets some recalibrating.

One Last Thing -TheLadyZephyr // Crowley has a bit of trouble falling asleep

The Soft Zone

A Sky Full of Stars - Kedreeva // Aziraphale takes Crowley as close to Heaven as they can get, these days.

get religion quick (’cause you’re looking divine) - brinnanza

lift your face the western way - brinnanza

Build Our Kingdom - Mackem // Crowley and Aziraphale finally go on that picnic

exhale - darcylindbergh // Crowley wakes up, and for the first time, he’s not alone

when the earth is trembling - stammiviktor // Crowley cooks Aziraphale dinner and takes him on a date

from madrid to heaven - darkavenue

An Honest Surrender - Kedreeva // Aziraphale and Crowley get married (though not in the way humans mean)

Constellations -worldinmymind // Stargazing and confessions

Shall I Stay (Would It Be a Sin?) - WinterSky101 // Aziraphale stays at Crowley’s for the night

And I’ve Waited For You - ineffablefool // Aziraphale finally catches up to Crowley

A Descriptive Study on Angel Kisses by Anthony J. Crowley -smudgesofink

Pompeii under Vesuvius -smudgesofink // The first time Aziraphale reaches for his hand and holds it, Crowley experiences a slow sort of meltdown

a picture's worth a thousand words -pyrrhic_victory // Crowley takes Aziraphale to the National Gallery and submits to the mortifying ordeal of trying to compliment him.

All This and Heaven Too - rattatatosk // Aziraphale reassures Crowley that they’re finally on the same page (with cuddles)

Never Doubt - Mackem // Crowley takes Aziraphale to see Hamlet.

I love you (it’s okay) - forineffablereasons // The absence of terror is the terrifying thing.

let us cling together -brinnanza

Ready -lady_divine_writes - They don’t touch right away.

Warm and Fuzzy -returnsandreturns // The husbands meet Newt and Anathema’s daughter

Pet Names -thisvictoriangirl

Used to Wanting -acuteangleaziraphale

Names, Pet and Otherwise - elsajeni

Crowley sees Aziraphale - acuteangleaziraphale // Crowley sees Aziraphale in the sunrise and it reminds him what it means to worship.

I’m Going Home - Frenchibi // Aziraphale can’t believe how lucky he is.

Blessings - humanityinahandbag // Aziraphale blesses Crowley to keep him safe.

Husbands - victorianfantasywatson

Coiling - forineffablereasons // Crowley stakes his claim

Snake!Crowley / Wiggleverse

You’re the Only Prayer I Need - Kedreeva / Aziraphale stumbles on Crowley as he’s preparing to shed.

let sleeping snakes lie - kythen // Crowley takes an extended nap after the end of the world

Today I Met a Cryptid -thelibrarina // an encounter with a bookseller and his pet snake.

Getting a Wiggle On - Kedreeva // Crowley attempts to prank Aziraphale. It does not go to plan.

In Which a Rose by Any Other Name Would Smell as Sweet - OlwynnDylluan // The sneklets are named.

In Which Crowley Does Not Expect a Family Outing - OlwynnDylluan // The family goes on a picnic in the park.

In Which the Kitten Does Not Get Et Because Aziraphale Is a Textual Purist -OlwynnDylluan // (Wiggleverse) Aziraphale tells the sneklets a bedtime story

In Which the Children Are Indisposed and Aziraphale Panics -OlwynnDylluan // The sneklets experience their first shed. (Also the only one of these - so far- in which Crowley is an actual snake.)

Hurt/Comfort

Pear-Shaped - smarshtastic // Crowley is hurt and goes to Aziraphale for help. (also wingfic)

In the (Second) Beginning - cherryfeather // The inevitable aftermath as all of the week’s trauma catches up to Crowley.

above us, only sky - stammiviktor // With the War looming, Aziraphale and Crowley have to confront the terrible possibility they might have to fight each other. (Don't) Say My Name - CosmicOcelot // Crowley gets trapped in a summoning circle by an all too human sort of monster.

Hell to Pay - battle_cat // Crowley’s lot do not, in fact, send rude notes.

Burnt - flamethrower // Or, How Did Crowley Survive Consecrated Ground, anyway?

Angst (With a Happy Ending)

Just One Yesterday - Kedreeva // Crowley and Aziraphale fail to stop the Apocalypse the first time ‘round, but they manage in the end.

we’re not out of the tunnel, I bet you though there’s an end - mygalfriday // Crowley thought his last words to Aziraphale were “I won’t even think about you!”

I Will Take This Weight to Hell - buttface // Crowley struggles to cope after they survive the end of the world.

how deep the sand -Handful_of_Silence // Have you read Sandman? Remember that glass bottle Dream got trapped in? Aziraphale gets trapped in something similar. It goes about as you’d expect. (Very angsty, definitely worth it though. Part 2 is significantly more comfort than hurt.)

Cry for Absolution - forthegreatergood // Crowley is convinced he cannot touch Aziraphale without causing him pain. (wingfic)

it’s high time that you love me, cause you do it so well - mygalfriday // Crowley cannot say the word ‘love’. So he shows Aziraphale instead.

it was only a kiss - pyrrhic_victory // Aziraphale has never been kissed before, and, assuming Crowley has a lot of experience, asks him to demonstrate. Misunderstandings are had.

the wonder that keeps the stars apart -nilmiel // Crowley, Aziraphale and two encounters with Holy Water, fifty years apart

This Feeling Calls for Everything (I am not) - rattatatosk // Crawly is struck speechless by Aziraphale in Eden. By Rome, he knows he's lost.

we both matter, don't we? -ToEdenAndBackAgain // After the bookshop burns, Crowley goes to yell at God

Replacement - rainydaydecaf // Hell replaces Crowley as their agent on Earth.

Outsider POV

Good Omens/The Magnus Archives - Handful_of_Silence // 6+ fic series, crossover. Generally follows the format of the Magnus Archives, a horror fiction podcast documenting encounters with unusual phenomena. Featuring eldritch!horror Aziraphale and Crowley

Adventures In Attempting To Purchase A Book From That Weird Old Soho Bookshop, A. Z. Fell & Co.

So You Need To Get Into A.Z. Fell & Co.; Now What? (A Guide For Unfortunate Bookworms)

Long Term - idiopathicsmile // Observations from the minister hired to officiate the wedding

Regulars - irisbluefic // Various outsider observances of the duo

a snake by any other name - asideofourown // a young herpetologist spots an unusual snake in AZ Fell’s bookshop and has to investigate.

Other/Uncategorized

such surpassing brightness - Handful_of_Silence // Aziraphale as Patron Saint of queer self-acceptance

it’s the light (it’s the obstacle that casts it) -Handful_of_Silence // The Patron Saint of London's LGBT Community is real, and he lives in Soho.

a very near understanding - ballentine/FeoplePeel - Aziraphale and Crowley experience some side-effects from their body swap.Hell

To Forgive, Divine - rattatatosk // Crowley didn’t mean to Fall, and he didn’t ask to be Forgiven, but both those things happened anyway. Character study on a Risen Crowley

Champions (of the World) - phlintandsteel // Aziraphale, Crowley, and the forces of Humanity face off against Heaven and Hell

#good omens #good omens fic #fic recs #good omens fanfiction #good omens fic rec #ineffable husbands

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angelofrainfrogs · 3 years

Text

My World is Only You

Fandoms: Good Omens

Description: Aziraphale and Crowley find each other at a party in 18th Century England. Conversations and confessions ensue, leading to an evening neither of them quite expected.

Rating: T

Genre: Romance/Humor

Read on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27273958

This story was written for @Waywarder during the 2020 Ineffable Wives Fic Exchange. Check out the collection here: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/wivesexchange2020

You showed me feelings I've never felt before We're making enemies, knocking on the devil's door But how can you expect me not to eat When the forbidden fruit tastes so sweet?

So let's be sinners to be saints And let's be winners by mistake The world may disapprove But my world is only you And if we're sinners then it feels like heaven to me

-“Sinners” by Lauren Aquilina

***

England, 1740

Crowley lurked at the edge of the grand ball, sneering into her wine glass as another man plucked up the courage to walk over and attempt a conversation. A party like this was certainly not her preferred scene, full of loud music and equally boisterous people on a night when all Crowley really wanted to do was sleep. But, Hell’s orders dictated that she must tempt one of the attendees into making a greedy financial decision that would eventually lead to bankruptcy, and who was she to deny her assignment[1].

Crowley used a quick miracle to divert the incoming man’s attention back to the woman he’d arrived with and let out a sigh. It seemed as though the only gentleman she hadn’t talked to this evening was her target, who had yet to show up. Just as she started to debate the consequences of leaving early and falsifying her report to Hell, a sound cut through the crowd and made her eyes widen behind rounded glasses.

“Oh goodness, that really was quite clever!” said the ethereal voice with a tinkling laugh that anyone but Crowley would have taken for genuine. However, Crowley could hear the mild annoyance in Aziraphale’s tone and promptly set off to investigate. She found the angel by the dessert table, caught up in conversation with a man leaning rather closely into Aziraphale’s personal space. A ripple of deep annoyance slithered up Crowley’s spine[2].

“Well, well, Aziraphale—fancy meeting you here!” Crowley said, striding up to the angel’s side with a grin. She turned her smile on the man and he took an involuntary step back at the sharpness of her teeth.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed, relief evident in her tone. “How lovely to see you! And what impeccable timing; Jonathan and I were just finishing our conversation.”

“Oh, but I—” the man began to say, but knew he was finished when Crowley looped her arm through Aziraphale’s and physically turned her away.

“Alright, Angel?” Crowley asked as they walked towards the balcony, plucking a drink off a passing waiter’s tray and handing it to the woman-shaped being at her side.

“Yes, I’m perfectly fine; thank you dear,” Aziraphale replied, taking the drink and downing it in one go. Crowley raised an eyebrow, and she smiled sheepishly in response. “Ah, it’s been a long night. I usually don’t mind these sort of gatherings, but I must say the people at this one have been rather… aggressive.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Crowley responded, her gaze shifting down to Aziraphale’s crème and blue dress, which accentuated the more feminine features of her corporation in a way that made Crowley’s mouth run dry. Crowley herself wore a dress in a similar style, as was the fashion of the day, though hers was crafted from deep reds and black. Both dresses had a low neckline[3], a large bustle, and half-sleeves in which the dress fabric stopped at the elbow to be replaced with soft lace. The intricate embroidery throughout each outfit was a focal point; while Aziraphale’s dress contained mindless swirling patterns, if one looked hard enough they could find serpents coiling around each other throughout Crowley’s ensemble.

Though her eyes were shaded, Crowley knew Aziraphale caught her ogling a bit too long when she felt a light pinch on her arm. “Oi! Don’t get mad at me when you’re the one letting everything hang out!”

“I am not letting everything ‘hang out!’” Aziraphale said, turning up her nose. Crowley noticed, however, that the angel had yet to remove her arm from where it was still looped through hers. “This is the fashion of today, and while I would certainly prefer a higher neckline, it makes it a bit difficult to talk to people when I’m presumed as too ‘stuffy.’”

“But… you are stuffy,” Crowley responded, then laughed at Aziraphale’s pout. “I’m only joking, Angel; you’re only boringly dull on rare occasions.”

Aziraphale rolled her eyes as they made it through the glass doors leading to the balcony. She snapped as the doors shut, locking them and also diverting attention from anyone else who might want to get some fresh air. She gently pulled her arm free of Crowley’s and walked to the edge of the balcony, sighing contentedly as she surveyed the night sky. The autumn air was crisp, a wayward breeze lifting a few ringlets of soft blonde hair that had escaped the intricate curls atop Aziraphale’s head.

Crowley stared, momentarily forgetting to keep up the ruse of breathing as a jumble of thoughts suddenly consumed her mind. These thoughts soon coalesced into:

My God—Satan—Someone… she’s absolutely gorgeous.

“You can really see the stars tonight,” Aziraphale commented, and Crowley could hear the smile in her voice. The angel pointed to a particularly bright cluster. “Oh! Didn’t you make that one, dear?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah,” Crowley said, snapping back to the present. She physically shook herself, trying to chase away the thoughts[4] and the pale blush on her face. Once sufficiently calm she sauntered to Aziraphale’s side and gripped the balcony railing with one hand, grounding herself with the cool stone as she followed the angel’s gaze. “I also made that one, those few over there, and… yeah, and that one right there.” She pointed to each star as she mentioned it, then mistakenly glanced at Aziraphale and promptly forgot how to breathe again.

The angel was watching her with a fondness Crowley had rarely seen. Aziraphale’s face was usually kind—she was an angel, of course, and a truly good one at that. Her default setting was “compassionate and reassuring.” However, that kind look often had an underlying quality to it, as if she were repeating the mantra: “Angels must love everyone, it’s my duty,” especially when dealing with the more unsavory side of humanity. After knowing her for so long, Crowley could tell when Aziraphale was looking at something she truly adored, like a book she’d been after for decades or her favorite dessert.

And at that moment, Aziraphale was looking at her in exactly the same way.

I’m seeing things, Crowley thought, an unbidden blush creeping up her neck. My stupid fantasies are clouding what’s actually in front of me or… or maybe it’s the wine… that must be it.

“My dear…,” Aziraphale began, and as Crowley fully turned to face her she was acutely aware of how close they were. The only thing separating them was the ostentatious bustles of their dresses, which were very good at keeping unwanted people out of your personal space but were very counterproductive in situations like these.

“Hn?” Crowley choked out, unable to form a coherent word. Time slowed as Aziraphale reached out a hand, cautiously bringing soft fingertips towards Crowley’s flushed cheek. The demon’s breath quickened as the angel’s hand inched closer and closer. What felt like hours later, yet was still too soon for Crowley’s mind to catch up with, she felt the faint brush of trembling fingertips against her cheekbone and—

They both jumped violently as something slammed into one of the glass doors, breaking whatever spell they’d been under. They turned in unison, Aziraphale’s hand snatched back to her side as if ready to pull a flaming sword out of thin air, Crowley’s hackles raised and a hint of fangs visible behind red-painted lips.

“Oh for Satan’s sake,” Crowley groaned as she realized it had just been a drunk partygoer crashing quite spectacularly into a waiter, knocking them both down and into the door. She heard Aziraphale let out a shaky sigh as the angel fixedly watched the humans get to their feet. Only once things inside had gone back to normal did Aziraphale finally release the tension in her shoulders.

“I apologize for startling like that,” she began, wringing her hands together, looking at the floor. “I thought it might have been…”

“Yeah, me too,” Crowley agreed, sharing the mutual concern that their sides could pop in and check on them anytime they pleased, no warning necessary. “But it’s alright, even if they had shown up, it’s not like we were doing anything… bad.” She waved her hands struggling to come up with an explanation. “Not… not cavorting with the enemy or something like that. I mean, that’s what we’d tell them at least, right?”

“Yes, yes, if we said that I’m sure we’d be…. We’d be fine.” Aziraphale bit her lip, still staring hard at the ground. Crowley stood absolutely still, waiting for her to speak again. Eventually, unable to bear the silence any longer, Crowley asked the biggest question currently plaguing her psyche[5].

“Angel… what was that just now?”

Aziraphale’s eyes snapped up to meet hers, wide and frightened.

No, not… frightened, Crowley thought with a frown. Worried?

“I… I missed you,” Aziraphale said, voice nothing more than a whisper. If it weren’t for Crowley’s demonic senses, she probably wouldn’t have been able to hear her. As it was, Crowley did hear, and her mouth dropped open in shock.

“You… what?” she asked, just as quietly.

“I said…” Aziraphale trailed off, bit her lip, looked everywhere but at Crowley, then focused back onto the demon and took a large breath. “I said that I missed you, Crowley. A-And I’ve realized that I tend to miss you whenever we’re apart.”

Crowley made a sound without any consonants, taking a small step back in shock. Crowley had felt the same way for a long time[6], but wasn’t sure that it was a mutual feeling. She’d gotten used to the unrequited pining over the years, and even when there had been vague hints that Aziraphale might feel the same way, they were quashed by talk of “sides” and “hereditary enemies.” By this point, Crowley had resolved to seeing every opportunity she spent with Aziraphale as a sort of ironic blessing, cursed to covet the thing she wanted most but unable to ever have it.

The fact that Aziraphale might feel the same way was not a possibility Crowley thought existed outside of her own mind.

“I’m… I’m just as surprised by this revelation as you are,” Aziraphale said, playing with the ring on her right hand nervously. “And I understand if you don’t reciprocate the feeling—you’re certainly under no obligation to, and—”

“Oh Angel—Angel no!” Crowley exclaimed, realizing that Aziraphale had taken her backwards step for a rebuff. She quickly closed the gap between them[7] and took Aziraphale’s hands, stopping their nervous fidgeting. The angel looked up at her, and now there definitely was fear in her eyes. But, surprisingly, it wasn’t fear of Heaven’s wrath—it was fear of something else that Crowley was all too familiar with, but entirely unprepared for seeing on her angel’s face.

Aziraphale thought that Crowley might reject her.

Aziraphale. Thought that Crowley. Might reject her.

At this utterly unfathomable thought, Crowley began to laugh. It was a wild, unruly sound, making her body shake and tears build at the corners of her eyes, though she couldn’t tell if they were from the ridiculousness of the situation or from her own worries being reflected back at her. Aziraphale watched her, mouth agape, before snatching her hands back and turning away.

“Well, how rude! If you’re just going to make fun of me, I’ll be on my way—”

“Aziraphale… Aziraphale wait!” Crowley exclaimed through gasping breaths. She’d heard a tremor in the angel’s voice, and that certainly wouldn’t do. She reached out and caught Aziraphale’s sleeve, making the angel whip around and yank her arm away, holy fire burning in her eyes.

“Crowley, I swear to the Almighty, I’m not in the mood for you to—”

“I missed you too, you daft angel!”

At this confession, the entire world seemed to still. Crowley had stopped laughing, all humor at the situation snuffed out after the realization that Aziraphale might actually walk away for good. The demon stood limply, face unsure of what expression it should wear, and even the noise of the party had ceased as they gazed at each other.

“Crowley… did you stop time?” Aziraphale questioned, sparing a glance through the doors to see the humans frozen in place. Crowley’s eyes darted to the sky, and over the top of the glasses Aziraphale could just barely make out that her irises were completely golden.

“Sorry, I just… couldn’t deal with all that noise for this conversation,” Crowley admitted. She heard Aziraphale’s light chuckle and found another one of those beaming smiles when she met the angel’s gaze.

“My dear, I…,” Aziraphale began again, but for once it seemed as if she were unable to think of what to say.

“Angel,” Crowley began, deciding to take her chance. It was now or never. She paused for a few seconds, gathering her thoughts as best she could, then cleared her throat. “Aziraphale… I missed you, too. I always miss you when you’re not around. I’m… not sure how to describe it, only that it feels like there’s a part of me that’s lost whenever we’re apart. I, um… I understand if you don’t feel the same way, but it seems like you do, y’know, since you brought it up first, so I-I thought I’d just… lay it all out there.”

“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly, and this time her fingers did actually brush Crowley’s cheek. Crowley instinctively nuzzled into Aziraphale’s palm, realizing a moment too late that this physical affection might be unwanted—might be too much, too fast. But, when she tried to pull away Aziraphale quickly placed her other hand behind Crowley’s head, grasping her hair gently but firmly enough to keep her in place. Suddenly, their faces were closer than they’d ever been. Crowley could feel Aziraphale’s breath against her lips and for once in her long, long existence, she decided to make a move before questioning it first.

Aziraphale’s lips were even softer than expected. She tasted faintly of wine and sweets, but mostly of Aziraphale. Crowley remained still as a statue, waiting for the angel to reciprocate before moving forward. After only a moment’s hesitation, Aziraphale was kissing Crowley back, softly at first and then fiercely, possessively. The swipe of a forked tongue against her lips made Aziraphale moan, the sound traveling straight to Crowley’s core.

It was eons before they parted, and it was only because Crowley’s grip on time began to slip as the emotions overwhelmed her, crashing through her mind a sea that ebbed and flowed and screamed:

This is real.

No, this can’t be real.

Actually yes, this is definitely real.

When they tried to break away, they found themselves more tangled than anticipated. Astoundingly, they were still upright, though if Aziraphale were tipped back any farther she would need the help of a miracle to keep her on her feet. Their hair was awry, random pieces pulled free of the carefully-crafted up-dos as hands had grabbed and tugged and held on. Crowley made sure Aziraphale was stable before snapping her fingers; their hair and rumbled dresses righted themselves and time restarted, the noise of the party drowning out the last of their panting, recovering breaths.

“…Well,” Crowley said eventually, sparing Aziraphale a side-eyed grin as they watched the humans inside. Her glasses has gotten knocked off somewhere in the middle of all the kissing, and with another snap they appeared back in her hand. She tucked them in the middle of her bodice, noting Aziraphale’s pleased little smile at this action. “You certainly weren’t the person I was supposed to tempt tonight, but I can’t say I’m complaining.”

“Oh, stop it, you wily serpent,” Aziraphale chided, giving Crowley’s arm a light smack, though there was no malice behind it. A sudden thought occurred to Crowley and she grasped Aziraphale’s hands again, squeezing them to get her full attention.

“That was a joke; you know I’d never actually tempt you, right?” Crowley’s eyes were full of sincerity, and Aziraphale nodded.

“I know, darling,” she replied, then tilted her head questioningly as Crowley made another unintelligible noise.

“You’ve… never said that one before.” Crowley blushed, eyes darting to the side. “’Darling,’ I mean. ‘S always ‘dear’ or ‘dear girl’ or… or sssome variation of that.”

Aziraphale smiled so radiantly that Crowley felt she were staring straight into the sun.

“I think with what you just initiated, the least I can do is give you another term of endearment meant only for you,” Aziraphale said, reaching up to caress Crowley’s face again, and the demon melted at the touch.

“So, um…,” Crowley said after a time, reluctant to let the moment pass but knowing that there was a lot to address. “What, uh… what does this mean for… us? I mean, that was amazing, what we just did, and I’d very much like to do it again, but I don’t want to, um… misinterpret things?”

As Crowley had expected since the first press of their lips together, familiar doubt began to creep back into her mind. Aziraphale was a hedonist, and both of them knew it. Crowley didn’t want to misunderstand these actions as more than they were and needed to know if Aziraphale simply wanted to add more physical intimacy to their relationship, or if this was something more—something that Crowley once thought might have been impossible, but now wasn’t so sure.

“Well, what did it mean for you, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, holding the demon’s gaze steadily. Crowley let out a huff and pressed a quick kiss to Aziraphale’s palm.

“That’s a loaded question, angel.”

“You asked it first.”

“…Right.” Crowley took a deep breath and reached up to cover the warm hand on her face with her own. “I think it means we have a lot to talk about, and we should probably talk about it tonight, or we might lose our nerve.”

“I agree.” Aziraphale gave another beaming smile and then took her hand back, clasping both in front of her waist. “I’m staying in a rather nice little place nearby; it’s quiet and would be a perfect place to talk. You’re more than welcome to stay the evening, if you’d like.”

“Oh my, Angel, are you asking me back to yours?” Crowley said, wiggling her eyebrows, but the hungry look in Aziraphale’s eyes made the rest of the jibe die on the tip of her tongue[8].

“It seems as though I am, doesn’t it?” the angel responded primly, and at that moment Crowley was certain Aziraphale knew exactly what she was doing to her. Before Crowley could freeze time again and suggest they have whatever “conversation” they were going to have right there and then, Aziraphale held up a hand with a laugh. “Patience, demon. Do you have a job to do tonight, or were you merely visiting the party? Oh, dear, I never even asked that earlier, did I?”

“Sssod the job,” Crowley replied, a hiss slipping out unintentionally. “It’s not top priority; Hell won’t mind if I get the paperwork in a few days late. What about you?”

“I finished my assignment earlier this evening; I was just trying to enjoy a few more of those delectable pastries they’re serving before I left, when that man decided to strike up a conversation.” Aziraphale rolled her eyes. “Honestly, the audacity of some people.”

“Mm,” Crowley hummed in affirmation, the exaggerated once-over she gave Aziraphale now completely obvious without the protective shading of her sunglasses. The angel instantly flushed crimson, the color starting high in her cheeks and swiftly rushing down to her chest. Crowley bit back a strangled noise. “Right, let’s get back to your place because there are a lot of things I want to say and also a lot of things I want to do—provided you’re amenable, of course.”

“Oh, I think I’d be quite amenable for what you may have in mind,” Aziraphale responded, and to Crowley’s utter astonishment, she actually winked. Then, suddenly, she began walking back towards the doors leading into the party, sparing a glance over her shoulder as she called: “Come along, darling!”

As always, Crowley was helpless to resist. Without hesitation, she followed her angel into a night of long-held confessions and a happiness that never seemed to end.

***

[1] Not that she truly had a choice in the matter, anyway. The job would get done regardless, and if Crowley wasn’t able to accomplish the task, another demon would be sent in her place and she would have literal hell to pay for her failure. [Return to text]

[2] She knew Aziraphale was perfectly capable of handling herself in most situations, but the flash of anger was so sudden and primal that Crowley was unable to stop it. [Return to text]

[3] Bordering on dangerous for Aziraphale—Crowley couldn’t imagine how she had even gotten into the dress, let alone how she was keeping everything in place. She reasoned a miracle must be at play. [Return to text]

[4] As best she could, for they’d been increasingly hard to get rid of as the years wore on. [Return to text]

[5] She knew this was probably the stupidest decision she’d ever make, but she couldn’t stop herself. Crowley had never been known to shy away from tough questions, after all. [Return to text]

[6] Since Eden, if she was being honest. [Return to text]

[7] As much as she could with those damned dresses… she longed for the time large, unwieldy skirts went out of fashion, and vowed to burn every single one on that day. [Return to text]

[8] It was one of Aziraphale’s many famished looks Crowley had seen when they’d dined together. This one was fairly rare, and reserved for her absolute favorite meals—a dark desire peeking out of sky blue eyes that nearly sent Crowley over the edge when coupled with Aziraphale swiping her tongue expectantly across her lips and then moaning into her dessert. Crowley had occasionally wondered what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of this captivating gaze, but, as with everything else that happened that evening, wasn’t actually prepared for it to happen. [Return to text]

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #aziraphale/crowley #ineffable wives #ineffable wives exchange #ineffable wives gift exchange #ineffable-wives-central #fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 #romance #humor #footnotes #phantomhivemast3r

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elphenfan · 5 years

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Nesting (Good Omens) 6/?

Chapter One I Chapter Two I Chapter Three I Chapter Four I Chapter Five I Chapter Six I Chapter Seven

I can only apologise for the time it’s taken me to get this out.

Thank you @top-crowley-central for the rec, that was...wow! <3 <3 Andthank you for everyone’s feedback.

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His breath caught in his throat the moment he’d said it, painfully, waiting for the verdict, for the confirmation. The personal doom.

Aziraphale looked at him with an expression of sheer incomprehension.

“You mean you…you don’t know?” he asked, his voice mirroring his expression, though it also held a stronger version of the previously displayed hope.

“No, of course I don’t, or I wouldn’t be asking, would I?” It was meant to come out snappish but instead it came out sort of quiet and just a little bit shaky. “It’s not Gabriel, is it?”

He forgot that he’d previously discounted him, the name simply being the first angel that came into his mind.

“Ga – Gabriel?” Aziraphale spluttered, gaping. “No, of course – why, of all angels, would it be him? He’s terrifying!”

It didn’t register with Crowley at the time that this was the first time he’d heard Aziraphale say something outright negative about another angel. He hadn’t even cushioned it with something pleasant or deflective.

He opened his mouth to say something but Aziraphale beat him to it.

“It’s not Gabriel. Nor anyone else up there. I promise you.”

“But who else could it be?” Crowley said, mostly addressing himself. Could it be…?

Aziraphale hesitated for a moment, looking everywhere but the demon. Then, lifting his eyes back up, seemingly with some effort, he said, “You…Crowley, you have to promise me.” He sounded earnest, insistent.

“Promise you what?” His heart leapt up to say ‘anything, I’ll promise you anything you could possibly want’, but he pushed it down, so it didn’t make it past his lips.

“That you’re genuinely asking these questions and not just trying to, to, to spare me.”

“Spare you? What from?”

“Promise me.”

“Yeah. Course.” Probably not the way to go word choice-wise, all things considered. “Yes. I promise. I’m genuinely asking you these questions. So…who is it?” Satan, his heart was creeping into his throat again.

In response, Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand tighter. That only got him a frown.

“It’s…I’ve built it for…” He faltered but didn’t look away from the other as he spoke.

“Yes?” the demon prompted, as gently as he could. He could do gentle, however much his heart was in his throat, burning and freezing him simultaneously.

The angel swallowed, hard, inhaled deeply and sharply then began speaking.

“I built it for you, Crowley – but it’s okay if you don’t, I mean, you don’t have, it doesn’t, we don’t have – if you’d rather pretend I didn’t then we can do that, without any problem, I of course understand that you’ve probably never had a single thought in that direction but I kept thinking about it, ever since…and I thought that I might just start clearing up but when I realised what I was doing, then – well.”

It came out as a torrent, a rush of words that was barely distinguishable from one another but nevertheless, the ginger did catch most of it. Though, to be honest, his mind caught somewhat on the very first part of that whole ramble.

I built it for you, Crowley.

He’d built it for…for…no, he couldn’t have. He must’ve misheard. That was the proper explanation. Only, that didn’t tally with the rest of what he was saying, so…he must assume that what he’d heard was true. But what he’d heard was that…he’d built the nest for him.

For him. Not for a human. Not for an angel birdbrain who’d suddenly turned his head something fierce. For him, Anthony J. Crowley, and nobody else. To – but perhaps, Crowley’s mind tried to supply in an unreasonable effort to find any weak points in the idea that would come back to harm him, he’d built it as a token of their friendship?

But nests weren’t friendship bracelets. No feather placed somewhere about the nest ever signalled a wish to be ‘BFF’ to another angel. It was for a romantic, dedicated pursuit and for that alone.

Even so…built it for him. Aziraphale had…

Waiting for such a thing for so long, millennia, really, knowing that it would never happen and resigning himself to the fact while simultaneously hoping desperately, with every fibre of his being, to be proved wrong and have Aziraphale return his feelings, that had been hard enough.

To now have it within his grasp, as real and tangible as it had ever been for him, though, he found that he was hesitating. Backing off from what he should’ve leapt for joy for.

Because this didn’t happen. Not to him, not without some sort of twist or renege on the whole thing. God sure had an odd, and unpleasant, sense of humour. The joke tended to be on everyone else playing.

“Crowley?” The warm voice that was so familiar cut through the jumbled discord of Crowley’s mind. “Please. Say something? Anything, really. Even a curse, just…something. Please!”

“Why the Heaven would I curse you?”

“Why? Because…because I just admitted to having made an advance that you have no interest in, with no consideration for how that might – “

“Who said I have no interest in it?” Crowley interrupted.

“You…you’ve been sitting there, completely immobile since I started speaking, which seems pretty clear indication that you’re…you’re not on board with the idea, not to mention the fact that you’ve not responded at all to how I’ve decorated or….or any of the rest of it, either. Which is quite alright, really, I wouldn’t have expected you to – “

“You nested. For me.” He needed to reiterate that out loud, just to make sure that it had actually happened rather than it being merely a figment of his imagination that had finally bloomed and poisoned everything in there.

“Ehm, yes, I, I did.” Now Aziraphale was actively fidgeting, evidently struggling not to look away. “But like I said, if you – “

For the first time in this entire debacle, Crowley’s heart began to feel a little lighter, the roots of hope gently being scooped up and replanted into their soil.

At the time, he didn’t clock all the clues he’d scooted past or misinterpreted as he’d investigated the bookshop and the resulting faulty conclusions he’d come to. His brain was caught on the revelation that –

“You made a nest,” he repeated, interrupting the angel. “For me. Not for someone else. For me. In the proper sense of a nest.”

Aziraphale bit his lip, looking embarrassed, dejected and rather hurt. “Really, Crowley, must you keep on mentioning it? I know I’m in the wrong and I should never have started, but I would have hoped – “

“But angel, you built a nest for me!” He couldn’t have kept the wonder out of his voice if he tried.

However, it seemed as though the other didn’t hear that part, focusing instead on just the words.

“Yes, I bloody well did!” Aziraphale burst out, surprising himself as much as the demon. “I meant, I did, and it was intentional but that’s not to say that if – “

Crowley, feeling hopeful and happy in a way that he couldn’t remember feeling, took a tremendous chance, or so it felt like, and leaned forward, far enough to kiss Aziraphale. For a moment, he debated going for the cheek or the forehead but recognised that that would be chickening out. It might do for Aziraphale and he’d be overjoyed to receive any of those touches but for him, no. Especially not at a time like this.

It would be the mouth or nothing at all. And nothing at all wasn’t an option. Not now.

This is going to be a mistake, the voice in his mind whispered. You’re going to tip your hand all the way and even if he’s amenable to it now, it’s because he doesn’t know any better and you’re going to be the first nesting pair to ever have a divorce that early.

The thought made him swallow but he didn’t stop. He wasn’t going to stop now, he promised himself. Hell for leather, eh? Or something.

Luckily for him, Aziraphale remained still so he could actually reach him without toppling off the sofa.

If Crowley had had the presence of mind to register it over his own nerves and fears and hopes, he might have noticed Aziraphale’s eyes flicking all over his face, shock, worry and hope warring for dominance on his own. He would’ve spotted the hitch of breath from the angel and the way he leaned forward himself.

As it was, all the demon was aware of over the cacophony of his mind was the lips straight in front of him and the implications of what he was about to do, not to mention the reality of it and how utterly it would alter everything, either for the better or for the absolute worse.

When he made contact, it was soft, both in terms of the pressure exerted and the texture of the lips beneath his. It was oh so wonderfully, amazingly soft and exquisite. It shouldn’t have been, probably, but it was.

More than that, though, more than the touch of soft skin to his own, no matter how wonderful it felt, was the knowledge that this was Aziraphale. He was actually, genuinely kissing his angel, on the lips, however chase it might be – and this wasn’t a daydream, a fantasy or otherwise a construct of his mind. He knew…no, he was almost certain of that.

Please don’t let me wake up back in my flat, either having been already kicked out or about to go in here.

Would he go in at all if this was the dream he had? Yeah, truthfully, he probably would.

He hadn’t even gotten to the realisation that Aziraphale wasn’t responding in any way yet, never mind to the fear and worry that realisation would cause, when the angel let out a small, nasal gasp and pressed back. It wasn’t forceful or demanding, rather it was sweet and hesitant, but it was unquestionably a response.

However, it wasn’t long before he pulled back. In fact, it may only have been a few seconds and Crowley’s heart ached the moment they started to. No, not yet. He wasn’t ready to…not yet!

Only, when he tried to protest or plead his case, he felt lips crash into his again and he realised that it hadn’t been the angel who’d been pulling back but him.

It was still soft and sweet but there was a bit more force behind it. Or perhaps it was better to call it intentionality. And maybe a bit of force.

When they pulled apart this time, it was more of a mutual decision. Even so, Crowley was rather reluctant. He felt certain that the moment they did, reality would crash back in on him and deliver him some sort of twist to what seemed such a positive, wonderful thing.

He opened eyes he hadn’t realised he’d closed, to find Aziraphale looking at him from a much shorter distance than he had expected. He was, in fact, less than half a foot away.

And he was smiling. Crowley couldn’t see his lips, not this close, but the smile was reflected in those gorgeous eyes, even if it was small and wobbly in its uncertainty, it was also warm and, well, there.

“So, you…you weren’t building a nest for anybody else, then?” he asked. It managed to come out lightly joking, which he’d intended, but it masked a need to be sure.

The smile widened a little as the blond shook his head. “No. I’ve only ever wanted to build for – but are you sure? You’re not lying to me?” he asked, the light dwindling just a bit.

“Why would I lie, angel? After everything, why would I lie to you on something like this?”

“But you’ve – you’ve never ever said anything. Is this a recent development?” He squeezed their still entangled hands for unneeded emphasis.

Bloody – no, he might not have outright said anything, but he’d left plenty of hints and indications, hadn’t he? Perhaps he only thought he had, or they hadn’t been all that clear.

Then again, to be completely fair, hadn’t he also been very scared of the angel finding out and had acted accordingly?

Not to mention the glass houses once again.

“Does the day we met count as recent?” the ginger asked.

He watched Aziraphale’s eyes widen to an almost comedic level as he pulled his head back somewhat. Crowley would’ve protested but didn’t; he was still close enough that it was easy to close the distance.

“I – but, that was – but my dear, that was so long ago.” His eyes, if possible, widened further and an edge of guilt crept into his voice. “Have I…oh, my good Heaven, have I been – “

“Leave Heaven out of this,” Crowley interrupted and there was just the hint of a growl in his voice. He did not need to be reminded of those smug white peacocks up there, especially not at a time like this.

“But all this time and you’ve never…at least, not as far as I know, but perhaps…” Aziraphale hesitated and momentarily bit at is lip again. “Crowley, are you absolutely sure you don’t mind?”

“That the one you’ve nested for has been me the whole time? Yeah, I’m sure, in fact, I’m positive. It – it has been, hasn’t it?”

“Always,” Aziraphale confirmed, the smile returning, if only briefly.

“Then why have you been trying to keep me out? And you haven’t said anything that might – “

“I haven’t been trying to keep you out!” the blond exclaimed, frowning in puzzlement and slight indignation. “You’ve been the one who’s turned around and refused to go into the shop. Well, perhaps you…perhaps I wasn’t quite ready to show you yet but when you seemed so adamant that you didn’t want to be here – “

I never said that! Crowley wanted to say that, but he wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t, at least in deed if not in word. Because he hadn’t wanted to be there, had he? He hadn’t wanted to ever leave his angel’s side but at the same time, the thought of him nesting for someone else had been too much to bear.

“I thought you were nesting for someone else. Well, you’ve probably already sussed that,” was what he ended up saying out loud and in an odd way, it was cathartic, even though he’d said something similar earlier. Maybe it was the next part that made the difference. “I thought that it couldn’t possibly be me you were nesting for. No, I knew it. I mean, why would it be?”

An expression of both concern and love, guilt and adoration settled itself on the angel’s features. He brought the hand he wasn’t still grasping Crowley’s with up and, with only the briefest hesitation, settled it carefully on one somewhat hollow cheek.

The demon immediately leaned into the contact.

“Oh, dearest, I am sorry. It was never my intention to…I thought you knew it was for you. I couldn’t ever imagine it not being for you.”

“But you…you said that you weren’t aware of doing it,” the demon pointed out. “You were being cryptic earlier about who it was you were nesting for!”

“Ehm, ah, yes. Well, you see…” Aziraphale stopped, swallowed and gave a smile that was more of a tight, nervous little grimace. Then his shoulders slumped ever so slightly.

“I’m a coward,” he admitted, his voice quiet. “I was afraid of telling you even as I told you - and perhaps I thought that if I wasn’t being direct, then it would be more up to you whether or not you…well, you could, what is it you call it? Take or leave it be?”

“Something like that, yeah. But angel, did you – you really did all of that when you thought I wouldn’t be interested?”

Not like you, eh? The one who has remnants of his own nest attempts scattered all over his flat – the plants, for instance, making them perfect even though they were part of your very first nest for Aziraphale, the one you were stupid enough to almost show him?

He felt his heart clench somewhat at that, but it was true.

Then his attention was caught by something else entirely; there was a faint but nevertheless distinguishable colour rising in those soft cheeks. To be blushing again, for the second time in this conversation and also only the second time he’d ever seen it, that was…well, actually, it was incredibly endearing, even if it was because he was embarrassed about something and not in a good way.

“I did hope,” the angel admitted, as quietly as before. “Ever since I realised…And I found that even once I knew what I was doing, I still couldn’t stop it – nor did I want to, really.”

He gave another tight, almost self-deprecating little smile. “I told myself that if you didn’t want it, it was okay, I’d at least have had the joy of imagining it while I built it.”

“I – “

What could you say to something like that? But he had to try because the expression on the blond’s face was quickly passing from adorable to heart-aching.

“Angel, I do. I do want it. So fucking much. I never thought you would do that for me, but I’ve never wanted anything else. I was just so scared to lose you and I’m sorry.”

Aziraphale blinked, a little thrown. “Why wouldn’t I do it for you?”

“Why? Because – “

Because I’m a demon and you’re an angel! Because I’m a failure now as a demon as I was as an angel. I can’t even manage one or the other or take care of you the way you should be. I screw things up constantly and my head is a mess. I don’t deserve your love and kindness and certainly not for you to risk the wrath of Heaven for becoming the nestmate of a demon.

The words, so often repeated in his head when he was starting in on a black mood, sprang easily to his lips but there they stayed. He couldn’t make them go past and become sound, so they lodged, painful, in his mouth and throat.

He swallowed, but in that action, something slipped past.

“Because I’m not…not good enough for you,” he whispered. “You deserve so much better.”

Even with everything here, just before him, apparently for his taking, it seemed he was determined to sabotage himself. Though it was an indisputable fact that Aziraphale deserved better.

The hand, which had fallen away from his cheek at some point without his conscious knowledge, returned to gently cup the cheek, its thumb smoothing over his cheekbone once then again and again. He leaned into the contact, savouring it.

“Now please listen very carefully,” the angel started, careful and determined to keep eye contact and keep his voice warm, it seemed. “I cannot imagine how I could possibly deserve more than you, my dearest. You are brave and kind and charming and just lovely and perfect in every possible way that I can think of. I know you probably don’t want to hear that but nevertheless, it’s true. You know me and I know you and I could not imagine spending eternity with any other person than you. My nest is yours, if you’ll have it, and even if you don’t, then it and my heart is still yours.”

He closed the distance between them to kiss the demon as softly as a feather landing on snow for one long, wonderful moment before he pulled away.

“I’m sorry I’ve been such an idiot about all of this – “

“Hang on, no. If anyone has been an idiot, then it’s me,” Crowley interrupted, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t have – “

Oh, the list was ever so long on that score.

But Aziraphale interrupted in turn before he could get further. He did cheat somewhat, by giving another kiss, more of a peck than anything, to the ginger’s lips as well.

“Perhaps we can summarise and say that we have both managed to be idiots about all of this, yes?” he said.

He removed his hand from Crowley’s cheek and instead grabbed the hand he was still grasping in both of his own, well-manicured ones.

Possibly he meant to say something then but if he had, he must’ve changed his mind because what he did was bring the hand up to kiss it.

The gesture, while in itself perfectly innocent and chaste, innocuous even, once upon a time a relatively casual introduction – oh, the etiquette humans put around even the smallest of gestures, it was endlessly pointless and amusing – was done with such reverence, such naked adoration that it took Crowley’s breath away.

There was a noise that was more the sensation of noise than actual noise. Said sensation was of a whole murder of crows taking off at once or perhaps one enormous bird beating its wings downwards.

Though there realistically wasn’t actually enough space for them where they sat, Crowley’s wings spread out behind him, far more gracefully than they probably would have if he’d done it consciously. The feathers, groomed to perfection, almost glistened in the light of the bookshop as they stretched out.

Aziraphale watched the unintended display keenly, it seemed, and when Crowley became aware of what had happened and coloured, he smiled the softest smile possible, his eyes sparkling.

“They’re just as beautiful as I remember,” the angel said. He reached out with one hand only to stop himself almost immediately, fingers curling back as though to illustrate the decision to curb their desire.

That wouldn’t do. Crowley was tempted to reach out himself and drag the plump hand over so he could touch them if that was what he wanted. It would be sensitive, as wings always were, and the demon couldn’t remember the last time his wings had been touched by someone other than himself, if they ever had, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Aziraphale was willing to touch them, even if he felt hesitant to do so.

Before he could carry out that idea, however, another thought struck him. One which was far superior to the previous one, as well as much more appropriate given the circumstances.

He still reached but it was behind him and to the side rather than towards the angel. At the same time, he curled one wing closer to his body so that he could easily reach.

Long hours of practice while grooming them meant that he could do it with ease and without having to watch what he was doing. Which in turn meant that he could look at Aziraphale while he did it.

Aziraphale, who was watching his hand quite intently.

Even so, when Crowley’s hand reached the feathers and ran softly across them, he could feel not only a shudder run through him at their sensitivity, possibly heightened by the tension in the room and what had gone before, but also that his hand was shaking somewhat.

Was he really going to do this? There would be no going back after this. Or, well, there would, technically speaking, but he couldn’t see how. At least, he couldn’t at all see how he’d ever be able to cope with it should Aziraphale choose to back out of this. He knew he himself would never renege on it.

But the thought of doing this monumental, irreversible decision after waiting and pining for six millennia without ever thinking he’d get more was terrifying, and that was putting it mildly.

Then he answered his own question; of course, he was. He was in the best possible position he could be, given what other possibilities there were, and however terrifying it was, it was also beyond exhilarating and breath-taking and he was feeling lighter and more hopeful than he had for decades, possibly longer.

This might be a precipice that he would topple off by doing it but even though he would, he knew that he wouldn’t fall, as he had someone to catch him. Not just someone, either; Aziraphale.

He could do this. He was not alone.

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wanna-b-poet31 · 5 years

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A (expect a part 5) 4-Part Good Omens Meta Part 4: Crowley’s 5 Harmful Coping Skills + 1 That Heals

So Expect a part 5 maybe tomorrow maybe the next day, and perhaps a part 6. Honestly, the Ineffable Duo has a lot of trauma and abuse issues that deserve more time and energy than my metas, but I hope this helps unpack some??? of their experiences and helps explain their recovery journies. Obligatory apology for somehow turning into a Good Omens blog overnight

So what you missed on these outrageously long metas

Part 1 TLDR: Crowley’s love for Aziraphale helps heal him from the abuses of Heaven

Part 2 TLDR: Aziraphale’s love helps Crowley cope with his trauma and their no-strings-attached relationship enables him to begin healthier healing processes despite the abuses of Heaven and Hell.

Part 3 TLDR: Aziraphale’s abuse doesn’t allow him to cope with the fact his bosses and his instincts are telling him to do 2 very different things. He manages to cope but only by using denial and repression...which is hella unhealthy. It is only when he finally puts down his defenses and being honest with himself that he is not in a good place in Heaven, but he is in a good place with Crowley, that he can start working toward recovery.

The Road So Far:

So Where Aziraphale is badly abused and Traumatized by Heaven and the fear of falling, Crowley lived it, he fell, he lost his sense of self, and he struggles with isolation. In short, it’s much, much worse. While I’ll be arguing his coping mechanisms are not AS toxic as Aziraphale’s (which, let’s be honest that’s a low bar considering how deep in denial Aziraphale is), he still doesn’t cope with his loss in a healthy manner.

This being said, Crowley IS further along his recovery path than Aziraphale, it is their relationship with the angel that allows him to finally come to terms with his issues and start forming healthy strategies for overcoming, or coping with, his considerable loss.

CROWLEY (please someone >Aziraphale< give him a hug)

So whereas Aziraphale is drinking some top-shelf quality Repression and Denial, Crowley is not allowed such a luxury. Unlike his angel who will not/ cannot touch his trauma with a 10 and a half meter pole, Crowley is intimately aware that he is fallen, and that that kind of loss (abandonment) does not heal easily.

First, he is shown to believe that he is responsible for all of the bad things that have happened in the world. For example, he takes responsibility for things “humans beat him to”. but we can see (in the book at least) that many of the horrific terrors (like the Spanish Inquisition) caused him so much pain he drank for a week. Also, he frequently says things to the effect of “I am bad” (i.e. I’m not nice), “I am undeserving of love” (i.e. I’m unforgivable), and “no one can be trusted (i.e. the trees have ears).

Ultimately, this trauma manifests in low self-esteem for the demon, and enforces his reckless, and often destructive, behavior. All of this negative perspective stems from losing supposedly unconditional love, and Hell’s expectations for him as an “evil” demon.

You can see some of this at work when Aziraphale says “I hope you are forgiven” and Crowley responds “I’m unforgivable”. As noted in Part 2, this interaction demonstrates Crowley’s low approximation of himself. Worse, it also indicates that he has internalized the idea that he, by mere providence of his being a demon, is unworthy of love, forgiveness, and unconditional care. Since Heaven tossed him out, and his genius is unappreciated in Hell, he is isolated from the rest of the divine creatures for his humanity, as he is isolated from humanity by his divinity. He does not see himself as worth forgiveness, attention, or any “positive” emotion.

Because his self-esteem has been thoroughly broken by God, he fails to properly assign blame. Meaning, when he should be pointing to the key abuser (in this case God) as the reason for his abandonment, he instead blames himself and other demons for falling.

Let me reiterate again, Crowley is not at fault for being cast out. It was God who, in her abusive “wisdom” chose to cast him out and banish him from his home. In reality, he didn’t “saunter vaguely downwards” or “hung around the wrong crowd” or “simply asked questions”, he was tossed out. Each of his “reasons” for being a demon is not an act of reclaiming his identity. He is not saying “I left because you are an abusive power hungry parent and this needs to stop”. Instead, he’s saying “I’m looking for a reason to justify why I was abandoned”. Each of his responses places the blame on him for his lack of etherial-ness do not directly address the cast-outer as the one at fault.

Consequently, he constantly has outbursts of anger (see: screaming at plants), guilt (see: apologizing to Aziraphale for “whatever I said, I didn’t mean it, Look at me I’m apologizing, now get into the car”), and shame (see: his response whenever he talks about falling, because it’s not pride or joy, but fear and sadness producing shame). He also has a significant about of fear that he won’t be successful, that the earth will end, and that motivates his desires to Run. The. Fuck. Away.

Although I can not and will not diagnose Crowley with PTSD, according to the Anxiety and Depression Association of America Crowley demonstrates many worrisome behaviors that come with untreated or poorly treated trauma, causing negative effects to recovery from abuse.

By and large, Crowley responds to the trauma of falling not by denying and avoiding, but by internalizing all of the negative stereotypes placed onto him. Where many of the other demons revel in their designation, truly trying to kill and undo humanity, Crowley doesn’t do that. Instead, he finds other, unhealthy outlets for his trauma.

This is also followed emphasized by his aggressive behavior and irritability towards practically everyone, sentient or not (his plants count). Along with his reckless and often self-destructive behavior (like speeding, drinking, yelling, saving Aziraphale, and running away to Alpha Centauri).

Like Speeding:

While Crowley’s Bentley is practically his child, and he does love it, he drives recklessly in it. There is something to be said about the miracles he presumably places around it to avoid disaster, Aziraphale’s correct in pointing out that it is, without a doubt, DANGEROUS behavior.

We see 3 different instances where Crowley is straight out a reckless driver. First, while delivering the anti-christ he is so consumed with his fear for the end of the world that he almost crashes into oncoming traffic. Second, he HITS Anathema on her bike (which under normal circumstances could have resulted in his, Aziraphale’s or Anathema’s death). Third, he drives THROUGH hellfire, and across the English countryside with a car on fire. Yes, I know that he survives because “damn it he’d started in the Bentley, he’d end in the Bentley”. But, as we see with Hathur, the fire is normally deadly (inconveniently discorporated-ly) even to Demons. His desperation is noted, but also dangerous and reckless.

Each of these reckless instances is in direct response to traumatic triggers. Namely: the fall, rejection, and death.

Almost hit by a semi-truck? It is likely that the end of the world, the end of humanity, and the celestial war to follow is reminiscent of the first rebellion. I mean, the first war that would have resulted in Crowley’s fall. Being tasked with delivering the very thing what will make the “end times” realized is a hard reminder of the “beginning times”.

Actually hitting a girl on a bike? He’s talking to Aziraphale about love and as someone who has been rejected (several times at this point) by the said angel, and we can tell based on the 1970′s rejection, that it’s not a healed wound. His relationship with Aziraphale is one of the healthiest in the whole series, as well as, I wager, the most healing ones. But, it doesn’t work if/when Crowley is afraid of rejection or reminded of the 7(ish) times he’d been rejected previously.

Your car’s on fire? What’s the “perfect” response to being stuck on the M25 while something that could “kill” you surrounds all of London? Why not drive right through it? No! We, the audience, can tell that’s a terrible idea, but, because Crowley’s self-preservation skills are 0 and Hathur just threatened to kill him (and alluded to the death of Aziraphale again which, we will be getting to) it’s the only response to the threat he can figure out. It is only by a miracle (perhaps many) that he doesn’t die in the car fire.

Like Drinking

Although both Aziraphale and Crowley indulge in drinking, with an assumed frequency, Crowley uses it as a coping mechanism when faced with his traumatic triggers. He drinks because it’s the end of the world and needs to not be rejected by Aziraphale. He drinks because he’s scared about what the end of the world means and having nowhere to go. He drinks because Harthur mentions his fall. He drinks because Aziraphale’s bookshop burned down and likely died.

Yes, you could say that because he’s demonic, and alcohol doesn’t have the “same” impact on him as it might someone else, he uses it as a crutch to process a lot of his fears and trauma. And, regardless of the effect, getting drunk/drinking heavily is not a healthy coping mechanism. We can see this fantastically displayed when he has hit rock bottom and his only support system (all of 1 angel, Aziraphale) up and dies on him. He has no other place to process his trauma except at the bottom of a whiskey bottle. This is not healthy and does not allow him to process the grief and retraumatization he’s experiencing with the loss of his best friend. It is only Aziraphale who can pull Crowley out of the stupor he’s in, because Aziraphale is the only reliable thing in Crowley’s life, and even he comes with a few triggers.

Like Yelling

Although I like to think he doesn’t actually destroy his plants for “disappointing him. We can’t know that. We can only know that, with little prompting, he can and does fly off the handle and yell, scream, and yell abuse at his plants. Now, while it sorta seems like his plants are semi-sentient, in general, this coping mechanism isn’t the worst. However, it too does not get at the root of his problem, being cast out of Eden. He needs to address the elephant in the room which is, that he, in this scenario, is taking his anger out on plants which did nothing wrong JUST LIKE God treated him. It can be therapeutic, to enact and confront the issues he's’ dealing with, but without the confrontation part, reenacting his cast-out moment only serves to reinforce that he, not God, is at fault for his fall. Which is decidedly unhealthy.

Like Saving his angel

I love in Episode 3 we see just how head over heels in love Crowley is for Aziraphale. However, this often comes at >surprise surprise< great personal pain or danger. He cannot walk on consecrated ground without causing himself a great personal injury. However, he can’t stand the death of Aziraphale more. It is clear that when faced with the loss of his one friend/lover/partner, he would walk 500 miles of consecrated ground, and then walk 500 more just to be the one to see Aziraphale happy at his door.

Normally, Demons are specifically unable to enter holy sites, or else be burned or otherwise injured. Despite this! He does into the church anyway for no other reason than to save Aziraphale.

Now, I love this. This moment makes me happy and we get to see Aziraphale also recognize how in love Crowley is with him. BUT doing so is reckless and dangerous, and there was a non-zero chance he may have been harmed in a similar manner to Holy Water. Continuously placing himself in these kinds of dangerous places (like in the 1970′s) is destructive and could even constitute a form of self-harm. Aziraphale certainly thinks so (at least the dangerous part) when he tries to talk Crowley out of the heist. Azi goes out of his way to ensure Crowley won’t go into a church and harm himself again and knows only giving him Holy water will ensure there won’t be another (maybe) self-harm repeat.

Like Running Away

Crowley doesn’t avoid things like Aziraphale does. But, he does, as a last-ditch effort, use it as his only tool for coping with the prospective loss of Aziraphale from his life. But like with yelling at his plants, it doesn’t cope with the trauma of loss, or rejection, or death. It only puts off the stress and distracts from the events he needs to focus on. He, at this moment, NEEDS to focus on the end of the world, no matter how painful it is. He needs to focus and get Aziraphale out of the pit of denial and repression. He needs to be on his own side, creating a plan to save humanity. But he wants so badly to run away, and live, happily ever after with Aziraphale. Unfortunately, he can’t without working through some of his underlying issues first.

Plus The Like One Healthy Coping Mechanism

Which brings me to my whole reason for this meta. A brief look at the one healthy coping mechanism he has developed in his life. It is only his relationship with Aziraphale that Crowley can healthily begin his recovery journey. He works so damn hard for his relationship with Aziraphale, and using it to confront his fears and triggers is a healthy approach to an otherwise traumatic life.

Aziraphale is his support system. He is the person he relies on the most to be honest, true, loving, and appreciative of humanity. Together, they both work to lift each other up, validate their concerns and worries, and ensure that they can focus and tackle the underlying trauma they otherwise can’t cope with.

When Cowley does not have a support system (read: Aziraphale) he is unable to channel his trauma into a productive way (see part 2 for more details). Moreover, each of his other coping mechanisms does not deal with his significant trust issues which results from the fall. God certainly doesn’t love him, the angels don’t trust him, and many of the demons think he’s “gone native”. But Aziraphale? Aziraphale trusts and loves him like an equal. He talks to him with more care and reverence than anyone else who has ever existed. Together, the two of them work as equals, trying to make sure the world breaks even.

Which makes his frequent rejections and repressed feeling for Crowley all the more painful. It’s also not that Aziraphale means to hurt Crowley, but where he is in his recovery journey, he simply doesn’t have enough tools to confront his heavenly abuse. And, to be fair, for the most part, Crowley is understanding and patient. Crowley is more than willing to find the speed he needs to go to make Aziraphale comfortable so they can be on the same page.

Crowley already sees the writing on the wall. He knows that he needs someone to love, and that’s his best friend. He knows that through developing healthy, consistent communication and telling the truth (being vulnerable to that rejection and not isolating himself) is he able to begin overcoming the memory of his fall. However, they both need to see the that they’re their own side for it to go from “a celestial security blanket” to “a healthy and healing relationship”. To get through their trauma, they need both of them are on board and seeing each other as equals. And Crowley knows that.

The shift to 100% “healthy coping system” is most easily seen at the end of the series where, after being tortured (I see you, Gabriel, you abusive asshole). While he knows the hellfire won’t kill him, there’s still a trauma inherent in knowing his <lover> would not have. Moreover, there’s trauma inherent in not getting a trial from the supposed “good guys”. While Crowley takes glee in scaring the angels, it’s not an easy space to be in. However, once both Aziraphale-as-Crowley and Crowley-as-Aziraphale make it back to the park, they are able to cope with their joint traumatic experiences together. No secrets. No lies. No “my side won’t like it”. Just the two of them, working through their issues together.

TLDR: The 5 harmful coping mechanism of Anthony J. Crowley, and the 1 that helps him (so long as they’re both aware they’re in this together).

Thank you for coming to my TedTalk.

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biblioxceleste · 4 years

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ineffableduality‌:

“Angel, wait!”, called Crowley. He sat up straight in the bed as Aziraphale scurried away, sheets wrapped around his curvy, plump, sweet body. Even without using his tongue to taste the air, the demon could smell a cloud of vulnerability, hurt and shame around his beloved angel. His heart felt like a holy spear was piercing through it. Bless yourself, Crowley! You are a fucking idiot! He could have hit his head against the edge of the bed.

“Aziraphale, it is not you”, Crowley said and got up. He wrapped the blanket around himself. “I do not regret sleeping with you or how you look like. I actually think you have a really cute tummy and your skin is adorably soft. I think you look beautiful in your own way. I do not care that you may not match typical beauty standards. It is not about you. My regret has to do with me entirely.”

He sighed. “I admit”, Crowley said, “Me, blurting out what I said may not have been the smartest move. But when I said that, I did not mean it in the sexual connotation.” His body tensed and he clasped his upper arm with his hands. Crowley looked down. “I meant literally eating you. Swallowing you headfirst until your body lands in my stomach, where my digestive juices break you appart…”

He pressed a hand on his stomach. “For Heaven’s sake, just saying that outloud makes me sick.” Crowley snapped his fingers and in the flash of a second a bucket landed between his feet. Not a minute too late. The snake demon dropped onto his knees and vomitted into the bucket. Since Crowley barely ate anything unlike Aziraphale, his cooperal form could not really throw up much. Just spit, gastric juices and bile.

Crowley shuddered as he slowly rose his head and looked back at Aziraphale. He croaxed: “I don’t know why but whenever I sleep with somebody, the snake wakes up after a while. Maybe it is because of the smells and the sounds, maybe the movements remind her of struggling prey… I do not know. Point is: As much as I love you, I was so terrified that she would regard you as prey. Hence why I blurted out what I said. I was glad that it didn’t happen.”

Crowley got up on his feet again. He said: “I get it, we should have had that conversation a lot earlier. It is just… I was so scared you would hate me, if I brought it up. I’ve gotten so good at pretending to be civilised around you that sometimes, if I squint hard enough, I believe it myself. But that does not change the fact that deep down I am a wild animal. An animal, I hardly know a thing about as I have kept her suppressed as much as I could. For your sake. You know I hate to be what Hell expects of me. And according to the majority, demons are supposed to be animals. And I do not want to be that. Especially not around you.”

@ineffableduality

Crowley’s frantic words soothed Aziraphale’s still frantically beating heart. His own insecurities had gotten the better of him, it seemed, betraying the vulnerability that still lurked beneath his soft and plush surface. There was no reason to doubt Crowley’s sincerity - Crowley, after all, had not once lied to him. Slowly, feeling suddenly very foolish and silly for jumping to conclusions so quickly, Aziraphale turned back to him.

“Oh, my dear!” Instantly, as soon as Crowley had fallen to his knees and retched, Aziraphale was at his side, petting his hair and back in dismay. A snap of his fingers and a glass of water appeared, to help clear the demon’s mouth of the wretched bile taste he surely had to be experiencing.

It was rare that he saw the true Serpent of Eden in all her glory. He had been under the impression that Crowley kept that part of himself tightly under control. Was this the reason why? His heart ached then for his lover. How long had he feared the scenario he’d described? How long had he suffered alone, afraid to share his worries?

“You are not an animal, Crowley, and I would never, ever hate you,” The angel said, softly, taking one of the demon’s hands in his own. “I… don’t want to dismiss your fears, my love, but I suspect they are not quite as rational as you imply. You… I know in my very heart that you would not hurt me, no matter the form you took. Not once have you ever raised a hand against me, even when I perhaps would have deserved it. She may be a part of you, but she is not all of you.”

He pressed plush lips to Crowley’s elegant hand, peppering kisses across the arch of his knuckles. “-And, well. You should know as well as any that snakes do not, ah, consume their mates post-coitus. Actually, sexual cannibalism is rather rare in the animal kingdom, as I understand.”

“… Now, if you were perhaps, say, the Praying Mantis of Eden, or the Black Widow Spider of Eden, this would be a different conversation entirely,” Aziraphale joked gently, “But you are not. You are the Serpent of Eden. You are my serpent, my most beloved adversary. And I know you would never harm me, at least not intentionally.”

#ineffableduality #☾ v. lose my own head next ☽#☾ineffableduality | thread 02 ☽#tw: emetophobia

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