kay-jaye

[kay-jaye]

when it finally happens, crowley freezes where he’s standing in the bookshop. he’s between shelves, fingers lingering over the spines of books like he’d been running his hand along the leather. he hadn’t. crowley can’t bring himself to touch anything in here, sit on any of the furniture, move a single item out of its place. it’s stupid, he’s afraid to burn himself without the angel here. stupid.

there was no bell chime of the door opening. only a shift in the air, like warmth returning to the limbs after falling asleep, and suddenly there’s an angel standing where no angel should be, just inside the entrance.

they find each other immediately. the angel looks surprised but not by much, and very, very tired. he shoulders bated relief and fear, while managing to look determined still. crowley doesn’t know what he looks like. drunk maybe.

“i’m back,” aziraphale finally says, breathes, really.

crowley says fuck somewhere in his mind, but what comes out is “i can see that.”

you’re bound to experience déjà vu when you’ve been alive as long as he has. crowley sees this playing out somewhere nicer with an apology dance and champagne over dinner. but that would’ve been months ago, and he knows better.

the angel knows better, too. that’s how crowley justifies it.

“forget something?”

that breaks aziraphale’s shaky resolve down into something shameful, and crowley is equally ashamed at the painful satisfaction it gives him. “crowley—” the angel tries.

“no, that’s not it.” crowley’s aware of the ice-cold wave that washes through the room and how it’s probably his own doing. “i’m pretty sure you knew you were leaving that behind.”

there’s a pause, and then aziraphale says, “i didn’t think you’d be here.”

crowley lets out an unimpressed noise. they’ve known each other for too long. “lying never looks right on you angels.”

the silence that follows is awkward and angry. the longer they stand there, unmoving with miles of space fitting in the feet between them, the more it begins to feel like an act. the scowl on crowley’s face starts to edge off, and he’s afraid of whatever real expression will be there when the mask drops.

aziraphale refuses to move or say or do anything. crowley thinks maybe this place is neither of theirs anymore. maybe aziraphale needs permission to be here. maybe crowley will burn if he stays.

but maybe there’s nothing left they can give each other.

crowley is bitter, but he’s also done.

“do whatever you need, aziraphale. i was just leaving.”

he should’ve waited for the angel to come to his senses and move out of the doorway, grab whatever book, paper, or trinket he missed so badly in heaven that he had to come back down here for. but crowley can do it. he can walk past him and hold it together and get in the bentley and go to sleep for a couple years like he should’ve months ago. crowley starts for the door.

closure is for humans who have expiration dates and ducks to get in rows.

he’s almost in the clear, so close to the angel that he can feel the nervous energy radiating, and crowley already knows he’ll be dreaming of that cologne for the next decade. he thinks briefly that there will be some magnetic force that kicks in and things will be like they were supposed to.

then the angel moves, reflexively, and a hand to crowley’s chest stops him in his tracks. the pressure is minimal, but it still knocks all of the air out of his lungs.

crowley barely gets a good look at the angel before arms are wrapping around him. it only takes a moment, and then, like warmth waking up the limbs again, he’s hugging back without another thought.

it’s nothing like the kiss—rushed, desperate, final. it’s wrong and it’s right. it’s over and not.

aziraphale says something into his shoulder, but crowley won’t let go to pull away because he doesn’t want to hear. to know if this is goodbye. the angel just continues, and crowley realizes he’s singing softly. out of tune and out of breath.

something about nightingales.

it both fills and breaks his heart.

“i would’ve followed you anywhere,” crowley whispers, “just not there.”

aziraphale nods, quiet, and eventually slides his hands away. crowley lets him. the angel looks him in the eyes, as if the sunglasses aren’t even there, and then without sparing a single glance at anything else in the room, the angel leaves.

[kay-jaye]

Nothing lasts forever... ___

ID: Digitially painted Good Omens fanart; a series of one long strip of images cut into smaller images. The first panel reads "Oh Crowley", all subsequent images depict Crowley during a different era. The first is him as we see him at the season 2 finale, the second at the season 1 finale, the third as he appeared in 1967, followed by him in 1941 holding the gun from the bullet catch scene, then we see him as he appeared in 1601, followed by how he appeared in 41 AD, next is him in 33 AD during the crucifixtion, followed by him dressed as Bildad the Shuhite in 2500 BC, second to last is his appearance in 3004 BC before the flood and finally we see him as he appeared on the wall of Eden. The long strip of images is followed by a series of images showing angel Crowley; initially without wings and by himself, before we zoom out to see Aziraphale first looking at him and then glancing away with a worried expression. End ID.

[kay-jaye]

“only love can hurt like this, must’ve been a deadly kiss”

“say i wouldn’t care if you walked away, but every time you’re there, i’m begging you to stay”

oh, hello again, good omens song association brain rot

[kay-jaye]

apology dance (1650's version)

for my dear @lillioba. thanks for inspiring me to write this! 6k words of blood, sweat, tears, two mental breakdowns, and tons of historical research. i might be starting the whole "i was wrong dance" series. i've got plans.

we could have lived this dance forever by kayjaye (T)

“You know,” Aziraphale said, hushed tone drawing the demon’s gaze, “in regards to forbidden things, well, there’s always the…underground scene.” “Underground,” repeated Crowley. “Sounds hellish.” “No, not like—” Aziraphale glanced around them, aware of his voice resuming normal volume, then fell back into a whisper. “Not like Hell.” “Aziraphale, are you enlisting me to engage in an illegal theatrical gathering?” “I was simply asking if you’d care to join me for a show, dear.” * Or 1650 presents...Underground theater, the Adultery Act, and an apology dance. Starring: - Aziraphale “the Puritans made me do it��� Fell AND - Anthony J“who said lust was my specialty?” Crowley

read on ao3 or here!

*****

“Are you even listening to me, Crowley?”

Crowley took a swig of his drink—or it could’ve been Aziraphale’s drink for all he knew. It was alcoholic (that was what mattered), tasting distinctly of fruit, but unlike any wine or sherry he’d known Aziraphale to frequent.

He scolded the smile off his face, hiding its stubborn remains behind the rim of the beaker. “By default, certainly not the one doing the talking right now.”

Aziraphale fixed him with a disapproving glare before folding, unfolding, and folding his hands on the table. The pub was at half capacity, but no one paid much attention to the copious number of beverages served in their direction.

Crowley didn’t plan on running into Aziraphale in London. In fact, Crowley tried very hard not to make a habit of planning on the angel at all, but the shreds of hope were tolerable and, more importantly, excusable. He wouldn’t be too let down, and they wouldn’t have to recognize the blatant defiance against their respective sides that came with scheduling meetings. Coincidence was safer.

Poetic, even.

“Those damn Puritans,” mumbled Aziraphale.

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up. “Rather blasphemous,” he mused. “Are they? Damned?”

“You— I mean, theaters, Crowley, really? What’s the point in shutting down entertainment? And during war? Sometimes, it’s as if they want to be as miserable as humanly possible.” Aziraphale searched the table for a moment, spotted the cup in Crowley’s hands, and slumped forward. “It’s not—”

“Fair?”

Aziraphale sighed. “What’s not fair is you polishing off the rest of my drink.”

“It was on me anyway,” Crowley said. “I’ll get you another.”

“No, it’s quite alright.”

Staring at the being in front of him, Crowley pointedly set the cup down. “Seems you’ve got plenty of dramatics to make up for the lack thereof,” he said, not as successful at hiding his amusement this time.

Crowley knew Aziraphale’s grievances were partly rooted in the simple pleasure of having someone to tell them to. As soon as he received news about the Puritan ban on public stage plays, the likelihood of a vexed angel appearing increased tenfold. Not that he kept track of the events he was sure Aziraphale would have words for, but when they did happen to run into each other, he was extremely pleased with the accuracy of his subconscious guesses to the real thing. Wasn’t very demonic of him to take pride in how well he knew an angel, but he could blame the snake in him for wanting to see just how unangelic he could make said angel as he registered his complaints.

“It’s been years!” Aziraphale threw his hands up, finally attracting the eyes of a few patrons across the pub.

“No need to lose your head about it, angel. Would hate to see you end up like ex-King Charlie,” Crowley said as he stretched his arms and collapsed back against the chair. “And it’s been eight years. We’ve been around for—”

“So you’re counting too.”

A snort escaped him as he lounged deeper. “Only because in 1642, you stormed in to fuss about good ol’ Willy’s forced retirement.”

“I did not storm—”

“Oh, it was a great storm. Plenty of lightning.”

“Or fuss—”

“I would’ve argued he stepped down in 1616, you know, when he—”

“Good Lord.”

“Careful,” warned Crowley. “She might actually answer you one day.”

He was afraid he’d taken it too far when Aziraphale didn’t respond with some version of quick-witted chastisement. If Crowley blinked more often, he would’ve missed the once-over from Aziraphale, as though the angel were just now realizing they were in each other’s company. He was about to say something—not of any comprehensive language, maybe an indecipherable noise caught in the back of his throat he could play off as a change in conversation—but Aziraphale wore this loaded expression on his face, and Crowley refrained from interrupting, keen on hearing whatever thought had Aziraphale’s jaw set in such a way.

Then he shook his head. “You are insufferable,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley nudged the empty cup lightly across the table, humming, “You must be fond of suffering, then.”

…And that was his cue, a sign that he’d had too much and needed to call it a day—a night—how long had they been here? The sun dipped lower without him noticing, light collecting in a slim orange line at the bottom of the nearest window. Thank Someone, Crowley had yet to reach the point of drunkenness that loosened his tongue and left him completely oblivious to it. So far, just the former, and he could work with that.

“Not of suffering, no,” came Aziraphale’s rebuttal.

Crowley’s mouth twitched at the carefully placed denial, and he wondered if it had been purposefully crafted to sound more like a confession instead. With that statement, Aziraphale seemed to lay something out on the table, but when Crowley looked down, there was nothing except the angel’s hands, still folded far too prim and proper for someone who’d drunk his fair share tonight.

But like every time Aziraphale waved this olive branch in front of him, doubt swallowed Crowley. He could be mistaken. It could be any other plant-based stem. He was undeniably selfish when it came to this particular temptation, and even so, Crowley could not bring himself to reach out and take it, in diametric contradiction to his nature, concerned with doing the “right” thing (not by Her standards, mind you; by a mostly rule-following bastard, if anyone) and remaining complacent in speaking with words capable of passing undetected.

If not that, angel, what are you fond of?

It was a question that could not receive an answer, he knew that.

Hesitant to end the night but equally at a loss for excuses to prolong it, Crowley sat up and gestured for their cups to be retrieved. By the time the table was cleared and Crowley had slipped back into his jacket, Aziraphale worked up the nerve to say what he’d conceivably been trying to say all evening.

“You know,” Aziraphale said, hushed tone drawing the demon’s gaze, “in regards to forbidden things, well, there’s always the…underground scene.”

“Underground,” repeated Crowley. “Sounds hellish.”

“No, not like—” Aziraphale glanced around them, aware of his voice resuming normal volume, then fell back into a whisper. “Not like Hell.”

Crowley took his time inhaling, well-practiced at feigning impassivity, for the sake of testing whether Aziraphale had it in him to address a request directly. He leaned forward, elbow propped on the table, chin in hand, and cocked his head, fully committed to just as much dramatic flair as his counterpart.

“Aziraphale, are you enlisting me to engage in an illegal theatrical gathering?”

Aziraphale smiled, and his hands finally unclasped. “I was simply asking if you’d care to join me for a show, dear.”

Thank Someone for his glasses; Crowley didn’t want to think about how his eyes lit up at the mere suggestion. His reply was the same as it had been since Rome, even if Crowley tacked on, “Because it’d be a shame to miss an angel partaking in unlawful activity,” in the interest of saving some face.

Following Aziraphale out, Crowley nodded his thanks as he ducked past the angel holding the door for him. They walked in step, the evening quiet blurring into the background.

With an excited, tipsy lilt, though sober enough to avoid stumbling when he walked, Aziraphale recounted how he knew the venue host. A noise of acknowledgement forced itself from the demon’s throat, but he couldn’t recite the name of the English nobleman funding the illicit show or explain how Aziraphale obtained access to such private affairs if prompted. Crowley’s attention waned in favor of watching Aziraphale slip his fingers beneath his shirt collar, tugging the fabric to rub his neck. Crowley swallowed, told himself it was the stitching that was admirable and nothing else.

The outside certainly didn’t look like any theater Crowley had ever attended, granted he didn’t usually note the architecture of the places Aziraphale coerced him into. Unlike the Globe, this one promised a complete roof. Initially mistaken for any regular tavern or pub, a brick arch preceded the pillar-lined entryway suitable for a respectable manor. Aziraphale led them through a maze of hallways, and Crowley blankly surrendered to either requiring Aziraphale’s assistance or a literal miracle if he intended to leave this labyrinth. Finally, they came across a young man standing guard outside a pair of ajar ballroom doors.

If you considered his thin frame and fidgety disposition guard-worthy characteristics, that is.

“Mr. Fell, glad to see you could make it,” he addressed the angel.

“As am I, Walter,” said Aziraphale, cheery as ever.

The man turned to Crowley, suddenly apprehensive. “And you, sir…?”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale cut in, leaning forward as if to tell a secret. Crowley half expected to see the angel’s giddy wiggle at anything remotely sneaky. “He’s with me.”

That, though…that was not what he was expecting.

Despite his best efforts, Crowley fought a losing battle in the struggle to maintain a stoically cool expression. Shock? Or satisfying pride? At least his jaw didn’t hit the floor. It was strikingly far from He’s not my friend. We’ve never met before. We don’t know each other.

And it was altogether so easy to misconstrue:

He’s with me. We’re together. How silly to think otherwise.

A pregnant pause before Crowley noticed Aziraphale looking at him, waiting for…ah, yes. He extended a hand blindly in Walter’s direction and forcibly dragged his heavy gaze away from the angel.

Not quick enough to avoid narrowing blue.

“A friend of Mr. Fell’s,” he said matter-of-factly, and perhaps a bit indulgently. “Anonymity is essential at these types of things, is it not?”

Walter smiled and shook his hand. Something about that little human gesture always tickled Crowley when he was on the other end of it. A deal with…well, not the devil, but by association, sure. His returning smile was more amused than pleased to meet, and Aziraphale knew exactly why. If the admonishing eye-roll, accompanied by a soft laugh, pivoting into a muffled cough, and then an attempt to clear his throat, was any indication.

While Aziraphale exchanged pleasantries with Walter, Crowley took the opportunity to peek into what he assumed was the house, surprised to find a large audience already sitting. A candle-lit chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting overhead light along with the sconces on the walls, punctuating each row of seats. The stage itself appeared brighter, most likely the work of reflectors.

Crowley was impressed, not only with the set design but also with the number of people willing to face fines for attending clandestine performances.

Hell probably loved all the rule-breaking.

Likewise, Heaven probably loved the Puritan devotion to having no fun.

The ghost of Aziraphale’s hand appeared, hovering just above the small of Crowley’s back, not touching but burning all the same. “Ready?” Aziraphale whispered behind him.

Crowley bit down, his focus solely on resisting the urge to lean back and close the distance, forgo dancing flames and feel the fire firsthand. Such an effort required utmost concentration, so if the noise Crowley made sounded strained, it was purely because he’d forgotten to breathe.

As they settled in their seats, the ambient murmur of conversation gradually tapered off, drowned out by the resonant thud of the closing doors echoing through the theater. Crowley folded his glasses into his pocket, now concealed in dim darkness where attention would undoubtedly be centered on the stage. An anticipatory silence enveloped the room, broken as an actor dashed into view, waving a letter in his hands and declaring word from Don Pedro.

One of the funny ones, then. Crowley was just relieved it wasn’t a tragedy.

The play progressed smoothly into its second act with practiced precision, succeeding yet again at impressing the demon. Periodically, he observed Aziraphale’s reactions to the parts that elicited laughter from the crowd, and he was met with the same angel delight present during the premiere some 40 years ago.

That is, until the abrupt scene change. He’d heard of improv before, but introducing a completely new character seemed like a stretch.

“Oi, Thomas!”

A man emerged on stage.

Crowley leaned forward for a better look at the newcomer striding across the floor, and next to him, Aziraphale straightened as well.

“Is there a Thomas in this one?” Crowley whispered, glancing at Aziraphale, but the confusion was obvious in creased white-blond eyebrows, too. He could’ve sworn this was Much Ado About Nothing. Like the actor evidently named Thomas, Aziraphale shook his head in puzzled bewilderment.

Benedick-now-Thomas took a step back, managing a shaky, “Henry?” before the advancing man reached his target and responded with a rough shove against the actor’s shoulders.

“You knave! You slept with Catherine.”

A murmur rippled through the audience.

“I don’t remember this part,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley spared another glimpse at the angel focused on the unfolding scene, an uncertain crowd waiting for things to make sense. It was a familiar feeling—trouble brewing, boiling under the surface; he was used to being the cause of it, however. Crowley crossed his arms and relaxed back into his seat.

They came for a show. A show it would be.

“Catherine?” Thomas said. “Your wife? By God, Henry, I didn’t��”

“You may be on a stage, but don’t act daft,” said Henry. Balled fists were enough of a threat to send Thomas knocking into props. “Just last night, I saw you and that bedswerver enter the Star Inn together.”

The other actors stood awkwardly, some peeking offstage for further instruction but ultimately conflicted on how to react to the sudden intrusion. Crowley saw several audience members whispering to each other.

“I didn’t sleep with her,” Thomas insisted.

Henry glared at the man with a curled lip so ugly, Crowley could make out the sneer from where he was sitting. “I ought to have this place shut down,” said Henry, “but I’m sure you’re aware of the price of adultery these days, fitting as it is.”

Commotion buzzed through the audience again.

“You’d have them execute your own wife?!”

“She ceased to be that the moment you had her.”

“I haven’t, Henry, I wouldn’t—”

Crowley turned toward Aziraphale, ready to make a comment about drama writing itself, a callback to the world being a stage or the world being an oyster (oysters were a touchy subject for Crowley…as in they kindled a stifling desire for touch), but the angel had gone stock-still. No more craning his neck for a better view, just frozen silence pulling the ends of his mouth down.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale stared straight ahead, but Crowley suspected he wasn’t actually looking at anything anymore, rather thinking with his eyes open. “It was me,” Aziraphale said, barely audible.

“What was you?”

“I was the one who met with her.”

Crowley blanched. Snakes are cold-blooded creatures, but the ice flowing through his veins was an entirely new sensation.

“You” —think of a different word, think of a better word, there are so many other words— “fucked her?”

It was almost comical, the seconds between the time it took Aziraphale to register Crowley’s question. His distracted stupor morphed into panic as he zeroed in on the demon, and Crowley received a pair of wide eyes mirroring his own. He witnessed the angel’s frantic grapple for words that hit a blockade and went down the wrong pipe. Even in the low lighting, the rosy hue of flushed cheeks and burnt ears stood out as Aziraphale choked on his reply.

Meanwhile, Crowley was busy trying to wrap his head around the image of Aziraphale engaging in…ngk, let’s not go there.

To Aziraphale’s mouth, currently agape in alarm, but reminiscent of what else those lips might part for. To Aziraphale’s fingers slithering farther than just his shirt collar. To Aziraphale’s hands and their branding heat. To Aziraphale’s insatiable hunger for food that must surely translate to other mortal appetites.

And even worse, the softer fantasies. The love wafting off in waves. The “my dear” pressed into bare skin. The assurance of never hitting the ground again. Arms so safe they could make a demon forget what falling feels like.

Had he ever really stopped? Was he still plummeting through layers of ozone and dirt? Did the stomach-sinking, wings-burning, halo-shattering ache ever disappear, or was he merely used to the eternal descent?

Used to being dropped.

And there it was at its core—yearning to be held. Crowley didn’t know how he knew, but unforgivable as he was, damned and disowned, he knew.

Aziraphale would hold and hold and hold.

He was probably that kind of lover; he was an angel, after all.

An angel.

Holy fuck. He was an angel who made an effort—

“No!” hissed Aziraphale.

Most of the audience had resorted to shifting in their seats, peering around the room and filling the space with growing chatter after Henry marched off stage and Thomas darted in the other direction. The remaining actors floundered until someone announced a brief interlude.

Aziraphale floundered too before grabbing Crowley’s wrist. “Come on,” he said, and they filed out of the theater with a few other deserters.

Crowley kept his thoughts to himself as Aziraphale hauled them outside where the temperature had noticeably dipped. The angel halted, surveyed the area, too paranoid to be inconspicuous, then walked farther down the street to turn the corner with Crowley in tow.

Now alone, the atmosphere felt as surreptitious as public stage plays.

“I didn’t—” Aziraphale said, finally releasing his grip on Crowley.

The demon waited.

Aziraphale crumbled into a pout. “...with her. I didn’t—We didn’t do that.”

“So you didn’t fuck her?”

“Really, there’s no need to be crass.” Aziraphale took a breath. “Mrs. Beckford and I met at the Star Inn to talk about the play. Like I told you before” —when Crowley was definitely paying attention; the pinnacle of an avid listener at all times, him, obviously— “her husband affords the theater. He makes the whole thing possible.” Suddenly, the brick wall behind Crowley became curiously fascinating as Aziraphale averted his eyes and said, “I wanted—well, you liked this one back in 1612, so I just asked if…”

Without the weight of his glasses, Crowley couldn’t discern how successful he was at disguising the toss-and-turn in his head. Shock expired, spoiling into bitterness, soon replaced by awe. He couldn’t decide which was more embarrassing: that he only enjoyed Much Ado About Nothing because Aziraphale loved it so much, or that Aziraphale took it upon himself to request a show he thought Crowley would appreciate.

“So I suppose it’s my fault for the misunderstanding?” Crowley quipped, prepared to brush past the admission.

“Well, isn’t it?”

Crowley frowned. “I was joking.”

“It won’t be funny when Catherine gets killed for something she didn’t do,” Aziraphale said. “And Thomas, wrongly accused.”

“So what? You’ll tell them it was you instead?” Aziraphale seemed to actually consider it, which made Crowley groan, “Mr. Beckford—Henry, or whatever—sounded pretty convinced of what went down.” Satan knows they never believe the women. Witches, all of them. “Angel, you’d be ki—discorporated. You know they execute the woman AND her lover, right?”

Aziraphale started to place his hands on his hips, then thought better of it and crossed them over his chest. “Yes, well, you would know, wouldn’t you?”

Crowley’s frustration narrowed into a glare. “What’s that mean?”

“You’re the reason for this awful adultery law, aren’t you?” said Aziraphale, assertive even in his flustered state.

“Sorry?”

“Did you want me to forgive you?”

Crowley almost flinched. “I meant, what are you on about? I didn’t start the law,” he said. “Adultery is one of your side’s Big Ten.”

“Not killing people is also a commandment,” Aziraphale stated.

Crowley bristled at the angel’s disdainful tone. “She’s always been rather hypocritical when it comes to violence. Bit of an oxymoron, holy war,” he said hotly.

“Either Hell assigned the Adultery Act to you,” Aziraphale said, steering back to the original point, “or you just…”

“I just what?”

“Or you’re just the Serpent of Eden!”

The fight knocked clean out of him.

Aziraphale shrugged in exasperated defeat, and all Crowley could do was stare. “Tempted Eve and doomed them both,” he continued. “A test of faith and irrevocable punishment sounds right up your alley.”

Crowley refused to call it betrayal, so he chalked it up to the consequences of mixing low expectations with hope. Aziraphale felt guilty about Catherine and Thomas, he knew that, but Crowley had been labeled guilty for a long time.

“Test of faith and irrevocable punishment,” Crowley echoed. “I think you’ve got it wrong, Aziraphale. You know who that does sound like?”

He looked up at the sky.

Aziraphale didn’t respond.

“And I am the serpent,” said Crowley, forcefully venomous. Then softer, “You were there, remember?”

Neither of them spoke, but the demon offered a single lingering opening that went untouched. He turned and walked away.

The angel let him.

———————

Crowley woke up hungover, something he didn’t usually allow. The light pouring through the inn window was far too bright, but no matter how hard he tried to miracle the shutters closed, he couldn’t escape the splitting headache of being awake. He reluctantly sobered up, exerting most of his energy toward the endeavor and rolling his eyes at the realization he’d no doubt get plastered again in a few hours. It was already late afternoon when he coaxed himself out of bed.

At least he’d been too drunk to dream. He did not need to see the angel anytime soon.

Serpent of Eden.

Her book loved to paint him as some vile creature instigating the fall. Every translation since man managed to hold a pen, the depiction of deceit.

True, he did tempt Eve. He liked Eve, though. She never quite forgave him outright for the apple, but it couldn’t be helped. He’d stuck around after the garden, known her as they lived out their separate retributions. In his opinion, he reckoned knowledge made her all the more likable. Except for that infuriating habit of pointing out when a certain guardian of the general eastern direction was looking. She’d teased him until his face was redder than forbidden fruit, and then she’d teased him about that, too.

Crowley’s aforementioned statement turned out to be false; he hadn’t expected to see Aziraphale, but when he set foot in the pub that evening to find the angel waiting for him, it was definitely something close to need. Godawful hope ruining his stony front yet again.

He should’ve picked a different pub. He should’ve started drinking earlier. He was too sober for another argument. And damn it all, he should’ve left London last night, but he couldn’t. Not when the angel would’ve turned himself in, the absolute martyr. Could give Her son a run for His money.

Of course, Crowley couldn’t step in for Him, but he could do something about the angel. He’d be damned (again) before he let Aziraphale ridiculously, needlessly, discorporate himself. Even if he was mad.

Once Crowley begrudgingly made his way to their table, and let it be known the idea of hightailing it out of the establishment did cross his mind, Aziraphale wasted no time asking the question awaiting its exhaled release.

“What did you do?”

Crowley practically fell into his seat. “Can I get drunk first?”

Aziraphale shook his head incredulously but didn’t stop Crowley from ordering a dram of whiskey. “I went by the Beckford estate this morning to speak to Catherine—to confess to her husband,” Aziraphale said, “and she told me the strangest thing.”

Crowley threw back his drink and willed the alcohol to kick in sooner.

“She said the accusation of adultery wouldn’t hold up in court because, miraculously, no record of her marriage to a Mr. Henry Beckford existed.”

“Well, you know the courts,” said Crowley. “Dreadfully hesitant to rule irrevocable punishment without proof. Funny isn’t it, how most marriages in England are unregistered?”

“Crowley.”

He aimed for indifference— “I do believe I fixed your problem” —and landed somewhere between smug and stressed.

Aziraphale’s expression softened. Crowley debated a refill.

“Don’t,” the demon said. “I performed a slew of demonic miracles last night. Can’t be held responsible for what I may or may not have miracled. Did you know they were out of whiskey here?” He waved his cup in distracted demonstration. “Restocked the whole town.”

Like the prior night, the pub was relatively vacant. An absence of clinking silverware and subdued tavern talk saddled the air with uncomfortable tension.

For Crowley, anyhow. Aziraphale seemed content to tough it out.

“Ok,” Crowley conceded impatiently, “so I made a couple documents disappear. Big deal. Call it wily, angel. Were you or were you not on your way to untimely discorporation?”

Aziraphale looked relieved and somehow even more guilty. “You didn’t have to do that,” he said. “Thank you.”

Politeness was second nature for an angel, but they both grasped the absurdity of it directed at a demon.

“I don’t have to do anything,” Crowley corrected. “‘M a demon. Can do whatever I want.” He pushed his glasses higher up on the bridge of his nose for good measure. “You think I haven’t been twisting the fine print of that law since they wrote it? I was the one who added the bloody clause about not including women whose husbands were absent for three or more years. They wanted to start chopping off heads left and right.”

As if Aziraphale encountered a new version of Crowley every time he opened his mouth, the angel looked on the cusp of several routes to take. Crowley almost wanted the angel to pick up where he left last night, call him a snake, and remind him how foolish this entire arrangement had been. Not the Arrangement, but the messy web spun full of unspoken-rules and uncrossable-lines. Though he’d been privy to their creation and placement, Crowley was prone to forgetting the location of these silk strand glue droplets and stepping on them like landmines, unraveling the whole thing. He could never seem to find his footing without setting off explosive repercussions.

Crowley wasn’t sure if he was a spider caught in a web of its own making, or a fly in Aziraphale’s.

“I’m sorry, Crowley.”

Perhaps it was the famine of the word that made Crowley go slack, but the apology dropped into the pit of his stomach and rubbed in the starvation he’d so skillfully ignored.

“I shouldn’t have assumed you were behind the act,” Aziraphale said. “I actually, uh, checked in with Gabriel and the others.” Crowley raised an eyebrow, and Aziraphale cast his gaze on the ground. “Turns out they sanctioned it. For the noble cause of Puritanism.”

“I take it they were also fans of putting a pause on ‘lascivious mirth and levity’?”

Aziraphale pulled a face. “They see value in banning the plays as well, yes.”

“Yeah, well, for what it’s worth,” Crowley said, words slightly bitter with a burned edge, probably from the whiskey, “Hell enjoys the blatant sexism of the Adultery Act, too.” He tilted his cup and watched the last few drops pool to one side of the bottom. “Heaven. Hell. Two sides of the same coin.”

If Aziraphale disagreed, he held his tongue, opting for a pinched expression of pain or worry that Crowley figured was due to something more. “But I should’ve— Hell is one thing,” Aziraphale huffed. “What I’m trying to say is I know you.”

You do not know me, a faint memory of Crowley’s objected. Something doused in suspicion, mixed with a hint of a challenge, and drowned out by bleating goats. Something he would’ve said back then, and something he couldn’t bring himself to say now.

“Do you?” he asked. Because it wasn’t total denial, and temptation did happen to be his job, and maybe he just wanted to feel less unknown.

Aziraphale looked at him, saw straight through the act, and with such conviction, spoke more words than what he actually said.

“Yes.”

Crowley stared back, as though Aziraphale might rescind his statement, but the angel’s determination never faltered. Upstairs and Downstairs might read it as Yes, I know you well enough to thwart any wiles you may throw my way. But Crowley, well-versed in silent tongues, saw it for what it was:

Yes, I know you’re doing this on purpose. Asking questions to see if they’ll get you in trouble once more because everything is a test of faith with us, isn’t it? I know you miss the unicorns. I know you have a tendency to criticize living things—those poor, terrified plants—but you like to see them grow anyhow. I know you in spite of whatever lead balloon comes crashing down, and yes, I know you well enough to also know the Serpent of Eden was just as shy as he was sly. Because I was there.

If the public ever found out that Crowley could never stay mad at Aziraphale for long, it would surely ruin his demonic reputation. He hummed in thoughtful acceptance.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said again.

Though he wasn’t mad, he could still make the angel squirm. “Did you want me to forgive you?” Crowley mimicked in his best posh accent.

Aziraphale cringed. “I suppose that would be nice, yes,” he said, equal parts hopeful and sheepish.

“Demon. Not nice,” Crowley growled, this time setting his glass down to point a finger between the two of them. “And forgiveness from me would just cancel out or something.”

Aziraphale considered this, shoulders sagging and hands unsure of what else to do other than grab onto each other. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but the disappointment bled right through.

A merciful demon? No, Crowley just couldn’t stand to see Aziraphale sad for very long either.

“I’ll tell you what you could do, though,” he said.

Aziraphale perked up.

“Dance.”

A furrowed brow lifted into pink surprise as the angel tilted his head. “Uh, with you?”

Yes. “No,” Crowley said a bit too fast. “Give us a little jig, y’know, a song and dance. You like the theater. They say emotion is best expressed through art.” He attempted to reason his way out of this one. “Show me how sorry you are, angel.”

“I…don’t dance.”

“And I’m not nice,” Crowley said, but he was smiling now. “Unorthodox apology for unorthodox forgiveness sounds like a fair trade to me.”

A beat passed between them, and Crowley almost thought Aziraphale wouldn’t do it. He wasn’t exactly serious about it either; it was just the first thing that popped into his head and out of his mouth.

But then Aziraphale stopped chewing on his lip, made a decisive noise, and stood up from the table. Crowley’s speechlessness was remedied only by the screaming voice in his head that this might be the best accidental idea he’d ever had.

Aziraphale took a small step backward, looking over his shoulder once before realizing he’d rather not make eye contact with anyone, which was an unheard prayer because Crowley slid his glasses down far enough to peer over them, settling yellow eyes right on him.

“Go on,” said Crowley. “Really sell it.”

Aziraphale shook his head at the demon, but took a deep breath to fuel his singsong tone.

One hand on his hip, the other palm up, “You were right,” both arms outstretched, “you were right,” a graceless spin, “I was wrong,” and a clumsy curtsy to top it all off, “you were right.”

Aziraphale lifted his chin but stayed stiff in his pose, waiting for approval.

A dancing angel, Crowley figured, would be something along the lines of embarrassing. Like watching a child try to take its first steps. The never-before-seen aspect completely captivated him, and it suddenly hit him that this was for his eyes only. It was embarrassingly silly. Turns out, silly really does it for him.

Or maybe that was just Aziraphale.

“Right, then.” Crowley nodded with a coughed-out laugh. “That’ll do it.”

“Oh, good,” Aziraphale exhaled in exhausted relief and straightened finally. He plopped back down into his seat with a forest fire ravaging his cheeks. “Thank you.”

“The pleasure was all mine, I assure you,” Crowley practically purred.

Aziraphale’s frown failed to be anything less than fond, and then switched to contemplative. The blush didn’t seem to be dying down anytime soon. Not that Crowley was complaining, but he grew more concerned with each shade of red that he’d have to find a water bucket to cool the angel off.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “It’s certainly not an excuse for blaming you, and obviously I know you didn’t do it,” Aziraphale said, “but truthfully, I just figured you would’ve had something to do with a law dealing with lust.”

Crowley squinted at him from behind his glasses.

Aziraphale fretted in the silence, then tried to clarify, “Adultery is often associated with lust, as I understand it.”

“Aziraphale,” began Crowley, and he couldn’t believe he was about to say this, “I’m not an incubus.”

“Of course, I know that,” Aziraphale said hurriedly. “I just thought because you’re so…you know. I thought—” He gestured to all of Crowley, wildly searching for the correct term. “You and lust,” he said, like it was clear as day.

The pieces weren’t clicking. Crowley let out a punched, “Wot?”

“Nevermind it,” Aziraphale said, waving off the conversation. “It’s over now. I appreciate what you did, despite what I said that night.”

Crowley grunted, positive his face was just as flushed now. “Would’ve been unfortunate if that Thomas lad got dragged into something he wasn’t involved in, let alone sentenced for it.”

“Ah, yes, well,” and Aziraphale spoke the next part very slowly, “they are in love.”

“Who?”

“Thomas and Catherine.”

“But I thought—”

“Yes, I know you organized the document mishap,” Aziraphale said, raising his eyebrows in a little nod that usually meant Crowley was supposed to listen carefully, “but a nonexistent marriage might as well be the case. Catherine was so unhappy—had been for a long while. Frankly, I was surprised her husband made such an outburst, especially considering the rumors of his own infidelity.” He looked as though he wanted to say more about Mr. Beckford’s trysts, but did not. “During my conversation with Catherine, we discussed the theater, but she also confessed she’d fallen in love with Sir Thomas. Nothing like an arrangement— I mean, her arranged marriage. Something real, Crowley. But she was afraid of what might happen. The Adultery Act was the reason they never… Thomas isn’t a liar. Catherine wouldn’t lay with him because she couldn’t bring herself to condemn them both, I suppose.” Aziraphale paused, suddenly remembering himself, then added, “At least, that’s what she told me.”

Crowley was silent. The risk of spouting idiocy, loaded like bullets on his tongue, waiting for the slightest tremble to set off his hair-trigger self-control—that was too much, even though he was fairly certain the alcohol hadn’t taken effect yet.

Did she want to though?

I think I’ve heard this story before.

Oh, now you’re not even trying, angel.

You know I’m already condemned.

So he clamped his mouth shut because the recoil would’ve sent him reeling, and it could only ever end in someone bleeding out.

“Well,” Crowley said, “drink, then?” Before Aziraphale could even nod in agreement, the demon was already in the process of flagging down the tavern keeper. “What’d you have last night, angel?”

Aziraphale broke into a grin. “You drank mine, and you didn’t even know what it was?”

“Obviously wasn’t whiskey,” Crowley grumbled, but he was immensely glad to hear the angel laugh.

Don’t stare too long. There’ll be stars in his eyes when he opens them.

But Crowley was not a saint by any means; he couldn’t deny himself the view. And there were. Stars. A twinkle in shining blue that sent a thrill up Crowley’s spine. A relic of a past life and what it meant to create entire galaxies all wrapped up in a celestial being’s eyes.

“Cider, dear,” Aziraphale said. “I thought you would’ve known.”

Crowley could’ve sworn he was going blind as the angel had the audacity to fucking beam.

“There’s just something so remarkably alluring about apples, wouldn’t you say?”

*****

i now know too much about the Adultery Act of 1650, theater terminology, the Little Ice Age and alcoholic cider, 17th century lighting and candle reflectors, and the Anglo-Scottish wars.

i’m not kidding, i watched an entire 30-minute YouTube video recapping the English Civil Wars.

well, there’s my take on 1650, hope i did it justice, and thanks for reading!

[kay-jaye]

you know that scene in around the world in 80 days of DT's back? yeah

[kay-jaye]

crowley hasn't cried like this before.

not when he fell.

not even when freddie mercury passed.

there was that time the bookshop caught fire and his godforsaken heart actually stopped beating because he's never not been able to feel aziraphale's presence—this sunshiny, anxious buzzing energy always a metaphorical arm's length away, a hop-skip-and-a-miracle away. but crowley cannot miracle himself to where he cannot feel. and he could not feel aziraphale then. he couldn't feel aziraphale even before he saw the flames, and he still ran into that burning building.

he was drunk when he cried after that. it was an excuse. aziraphale didn't ask about it when he'd come back to his senses.

he's not drunk now.

primarily because the bentley refuses to move, and he's too far gone to manage the simple miracle of calling a glass of whiskey to his hand. he curses the car, and then he curses himself, with half a mind to hit the steering wheel until something breaks—the wheel, his bones, he doesn't care—but the blurriness in his eyes threatens the accuracy of his aim, so he doesn't.

he's not drunk. and he can't feel aziraphale now. and that makes it incredibly worse.

there's a taunting voice in the back of his head, pointing out how stupid it is that he's hyperventilating in the driver's seat when a demon like him shouldn't even need to breathe. it's all ragged gasps for air and embarrassingly pitiful hiccups and shaky sobs that fill the interior of the vehicle, and he's almost glad aziraphale isn't here to see this.

he tells himself he's glad aziraphale isn't here at all.

and he tells himself to believe it. to get it through his fucking head. to go back to the damned lies because he tried telling the truth, and it only took 15 minutes for his world to end.

he thought they had prevented that.

but here he is.

apocalypse again.

[kay-jaye]

hozier music is an awakening experience every time, without fail. my writing got influenced by piles and piles of religious undertones after unreal unearth. food and plant metaphors for the win!

I remember being a kid and scoffing at poetry lessons in school because my mom hates poetry. but you know there's something very freeing in allowing myself to be poetic in my writing, finding metaphors and double entendres and meaningful ways to describe things. and funnily enough, I gotta give credit to Unreal Unearth by Hozier for fully reawakening the poet in me

[kay-jaye]

I have a lot of feelings about the rise of he would not fucking say that attitudes in fandom spaces and the paralysing effect it can have on creators. As a writer i think it’s important to just write what feels true to you and not what you think others will “approve” of. Like even as a reader i have enjoyed a variety of different characterisations that all work because the writer makes them work for a particular story. And a fic that’s written out of character to some will be in character to others. Writing fic is not your job you’re not being paid it’s your hobby please. Make them as close to canon as possible. Make them completely different. Who cares! Have fun! Have so much fun! There is an audience for every kind of fic and every kind of character interpretation i promise

[kay-jaye]

just woah. this is...i love this take. the burning, good lord.

i'm on fire (ineffable remix)

XXIII. I’m On Fire - Bruce Springsteen

At night I wake up with the sheets soaking wet / and a freight train running through the middle of my head

Crowley wakes with a gasp into a darkened room. His room. His twenty-first century room. The sheets are soaked and he’s wet with sweat. Another dream, then. He’d been overdue. They’d gone out to dinner a few nights before at that little French cafe down the street from the bookshop and towards the end of the meal Aziraphale had - uncharacteristically - stretched under the table, letting out a groan of relief as he’d done so, and their legs had tangled together briefly, Aziraphale’s shin pressing into the side of Crowley’s calves, both legs trapping one of Crowley’s own, the brush of his shoe against Crowley’s ankle as he’d pulled back, blushing, stammering apologies. Crowley’d said, s’fine angel, but Satan, he was on fire, starting at his legs, flames licking their way up his body. And he should’ve gone home, he knew he should’ve gone home, but he hadn’t been strong enough to say no to Aziraphale, to turn down what Aziraphale had offered him. He’s pathetic that way. Aziraphale had turned, bookshop door half-open, Crowley standing behind him on the sidewalk, hands shoved into his pockets, trying to come up with an excuse, any excuse, to leave, to run back home, to take the matter in hand, so to speak, before it got worse. But Aziraphale had turned and looked expectantly at Crowley, pursing his lips, and so Crowley had given up, had slunk in behind him like a snake into a garden. Slunk in to drink, to watch Aziraphale’s face flush gently across from him, to watch him maybe even loosen his bow-tie and collar a little. Slunk in to sure damnation.

He had known better and now he’d had another one of those wretched dreams and now here he is in agony. Crowley’s burning with heat, with the hellfire of his desire, a flush prickling his face, his chest, his arms and legs. He’s sweating, beads of it running down his temples, dampening the hair on the back of his neck, his skin slipping against itself as he moves. Flashes of his dream return to him. Hands buried in soft white hair, and the dream had been so vivid he’d been able to feel it, soft cloud-silk, he’d wondered for millennia what it had felt like and finally, finally he knew. He’d been able to feel fingers sinking into hot flesh, feel Aziraphale around him, gasping, and these dreams are so unnerving because when he wakes up he’s never sure if they’re real or not; if they’re not real, how are they so vivid? He wonders that humans can handle it, dreaming like this every night. His face, buried into Aziraphale’s hot neck, Aziraphale’s frantic breath.

The bedsheets around Crowley begin to smoke, slightly. He growls, and gets up to stand in the cold shower for a few hours. There’s another day wasted, then. Crowley doesn’t let himself visit Aziraphale for three days after one of these dreams, afraid he’ll see it in his eyes, be able to smell it on him, somehow, although that’s not right, that’s Crowley, not Aziraphale. Crowley, who can scent lust wafting off Aziraphale when it begins to well up in the angel. He wonders if the angel even knows what it is he’s feeling. He must, he’s not stupid, but Crowley wonders how the angel must struggle with it. Like when their legs tangled and he could feel it curl through Aziraphale like - well - a snake. Like all the times he’s looked at Crowley when Crowley had been looking away, and sighed. Or like when he’d slide a palm across Crowley’s arm, like the other night, as Crowley reached for his empty glass. Here, let me, he’d say, and he’d bustle across the room and back and Crowley could feel it, the holy lust in him, stretching out across the room and then collapsing back in on itself like a rubber band as he bustled back over and pressed the refilled glass into Crowley’s hand. It had taken everything Crowley had, every single ounce of self control to be sure that their fingers didn’t brush, and then he’d had Aziraphale’s disappointed little face as recompense. But he’d had to, because if he didn’t, he’d have another night, or two, or three of those dreams and then he wouldn’t be able to face Aziraphale for days because of the guilt.

Because when an angel lusts, oh, it’s forbidden, sure, but it’s bright and shining, sun on wet pavement after a rain, a good clean thunderstorm rumble promising rain, the sweet movement of a rushing river. But when a demon lusts, it’s a terrible thing, uncontrollable and burning, evil and ruinous for both the demon and the desired. It’s not pleasant. It’s not supposed to be. It’s why he can never, ever act on it, even though he knows Aziraphale wants it. Knows Aziraphale waits in his bookshop, and thinks he burns for it. Aziraphale knows nothing of burning. Crowley, though, his skin on fire, his muscles on fire, feathers smoking, even his very bones molten with hellfire, every miserable scale sparking, the shower water turning to steam as soon as it hits his burning skin. Crowley dreams, and he burns.

Also at:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/52878844/chapters/138819388

[kay-jaye]

That time when the demon visited the artist’s studio…

[kay-jaye]

so writing good omens fic is like a mini history lesson in itself cuz tell me why i spent a solid hour researching the popular types of alcohol in the 1600s and what types of cups those drinks would be served in???

[kay-jaye]

Crowley got a new packer for that grey sweatpants temptation

(he knows exactly what he’s doing)

[kay-jaye]

op, i don’t even have words for what you’re able to do with WORDS!!!!

___

hello, i wrote another crowley poem. this one is best read when yawning, i think, words slurring and tired. i was inspired by breathing meditation techniques, being generally a bundle of stress and also, just how hard it is to quiet your brain (especially when you want other things than simply. sleep)

[kay-jaye]

listen, whatever you do, do not imagine, after they have reunited, made up, and confessed feelings, do not imagine them teary eyed and crashing into a slow, passionate kiss as the music swells, Aziraphale wrapping his arms around Crowley's neck to pull him closer and Crowley squeezing his waist, and then the camera slowly pans down and all we see is a chainmail scarf being thrown on the floor followed by a tartan bowtie. i repeat, do not imagine it.

[kay-jaye]

now that's just cruel, darling

A small thing, sometime in the 1950s when Crowley gets lonely.

*****

Crowley had been extra fidgety since he entered the bookshop that night. The closest thing to a reply Aziraphale received when he asked the demon if he was alright, was a discombobulated jumble of noises, but Crowley had accepted the cup of tea and invitation to stay nonetheless.

At least out loud, Aziraphale didn’t dare attribute Crowley’s behavior to loneliness. The way Crowley seemed to linger in every door frame, even when Aziraphale only needed to pop into the next room for a moment, like he was afraid to let the angel out of his sight, certainly pointed that direction, though.

When Aziraphale grabbed a book and made to settle on the couch, he watched the demon hesitate, unshielded yellow eyes darting between the space next to Aziraphale and the armchair by his desk. Aziraphale would’ve rolled his eyes if he wasn’t so worried for Crowley’s sake, but instead procured another blanket and patted the cushion beside him.

A few minutes went by, enough time for Aziraphale to become immersed in his book. That was how long it took Crowley to give up on bouncing his leg and set down the empty teacup he’d been cradling in his hands. When the cushions dipped, Aziraphale’s eyes didn’t leave the page as Crowley curled onto the couch so that he was lying with the top of his head pressed against Aziraphale’s leg.

The itch to care almost overrode his motor control, and he felt red hair brush his wrist, felt the exact moment Crowley relaxed into his side. The curve of the demon’s nose buried itself into a soft thigh, and Aziraphale glanced down, fighting the urge to reach out, touch, do anything worth a semblance of comfort.

“Darling,” he sighed.

Crowley’s head shifted, digging the point of that nose deeper into Aziraphale’s leg, then retreating so that Crowley could mumble into his own chest. “Aziraphale,” he said, looking and sounding so much smaller. There was a certain tenseness now that hadn’t been there before. The once boneless demon had gone rather stiff, and Aziraphale could hear the coming wave build as Crowley tightened his arms around himself. “Why do you do that?”

Aziraphale didn’t like these moments. He enjoyed the unspoken-ness of it, the quiet closeness during nights like this when Crowley would take a step over the carefully drawn line, and Aziraphale would let him right up to the point when Crowley would ask. Greedy, that’s what he was, and selfish too. Principality Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate, just as merciless as Her when it came to punishing angels for asking questions. The truth was, Aziraphale liked these moments until they culminated in a hard stop, and he was forced to walk them both back to reality. It was always nice while it lasted and dreadful when it ended because Aziraphale would wait years for Crowley’s courage to make an appearance again just to wash it away like the tide coming home.

“Do what?” Aziraphale asked.

“Aziraphale,” repeated Crowley, more exasperated and frustrated and entirely too heartbroken. “For an angel,” he said, “you say the cruelest things.”

Crowley sat up, hands on either side of his legs, fingers gripping the edge of the couch. His posture looked so out of place compared to his usual lounging.

The ache in Aziraphale’s bones, however, was all too familiar. “Crowley—”

“Darling.”

Aziraphale’s heart lurched at the sight of yellow eyes firmly on his. The word was sweeter on Crowley’s tongue than he could’ve imagined.

Be still; he’s not calling you that, you idiot.

“I’m a demon”—Crowley shook his head and turned away—“but sometimes you’re just as cruel, angel.”

Aziraphale vaguely recalled a line supposed to be here somewhere, but it had transformed into something twistedly snake-like. He was unsure which side they were on anymore.

There was always a bit of anger in conversations like these. But Aziraphale knew Crowley was tired. He was lonely. What was one night out of 6,000?

Aziraphale placed a hand on Crowley’s shoulder and gently maneuvered him back down. This time, he allowed his fingers to card through hair. Crowley made a small noise.

“You know,” Aziraphale said.

Nothing but silence for a beat, then Crowley murmuring back, “I know.”

Aziraphale found it difficult to focus on reading, but he refused to put his book down. A façade. If Heaven was really watching, they would’ve noticed he didn’t turn a single page the rest of the night, but the hand on Crowley’s head never stopped.

“Nngh, you can…” Crowley nudged Aziraphale’s leg once more. “Be as cruel as you like, angel.”

But only when Aziraphale was sure Crowley had fallen asleep did he whisper it again.

[kay-jaye]

For FIVE HUNDRED NOTES, I present:

Self-Appointed Ambassador of Earth, Get The Fuck Off My Lawn, Anthony J. Crowley.

You Bullied Me And Now I Am Your Fucking Boss, Bitch, Supreme Archangel Aziraphale.

Coming to cause problems for Heaven and Hell, at a Season Three near you.

A million thanks to @beelzeebub for their AMAZING rendition of my vision! Go buy their art they are amaaaaaazinnng!

[kay-jaye]

Periodically, it hits me like a ton of bricks that this scene exists:

With the windows framed as their wings, the hand fluttering to the back, the most emotionally devastating kiss ever to be filmed...

I am still not well.