#so the background and Crowley would be rather dark while Aziraphale would be rather light. the background needed to be a more even

[thatskindarough]

My actual only request and probably unpopular opinion for season 3 is that they tone down the color grading. I think season 1 looked a lot better. Season 2 was way to saturated. Crowley’s skin looked orange.

[highseas-swede]

This is an amazing addition! I'd love to hear more of your thoughts on it!

For Aziraphale's collar, is it possible that it's meant to be an early clue on his promotion at the end of the show? The show loves its foreshadowing. I'm going to have to go back and look, but I find this curious because in the Before the Beginning sequence, Aziraphale's collar is a lot simpler:

His collar here is even simpler in design than the background angels we see in the Job minisode (though even they have slight differences in their collars in the gif you shared).

Angel Crowley has a similarly simple collar:

(Also, can I say I LOVE how the in this scene, despite them both being angels dressed in white, they still use the lighting in this in such a way that Aziraphale is usually shown lit up and Crowley is usually shown with the reflection of dark colors, so despite the similar outfits, Crowley and Aziraphale are still shown with this dark/light dynamic)

There's not many other indicators of rank here, but it is worth noting that their sleeves are different. Aziraphale has a gold edging on the very ends, while Crowley has a band of gold a short distance from the edge of the sleeve:

Contrast again with his outfit on the wall of Eden. I would Presume that he's a Principality at this point.

One thing I find interesting here is that he has some rather elaborate embroidering on the entire edge of the draping portion, but his collar looks ragged and not finished at all, with no gold.

So it brings up this question: We only see Aziraphale's pre-Eden rank once and then once he's in Eden he's a Principality. The Companion to Owls minisode is after Aziraphale was either demoted or promoted to Principality, so the elaborate nature of his collar in that episode probably doesn't have anything significant to do with his pre-Eden rank.

But they do make an interesting mention about providing Gabriel with "appropriate raiments" when he's demoted. It seemed a bit too focused on to be entirely incidental, but implies that Aziraphale would never be allowed to dress above his appropriate rank.

So why is his collar so elaborate? He's still a Principality at that point unless he somehow got a promotion and then a demotion between the wall and the current day.

So they make it pretty clear in Good Omens that demons when in the human world seem to always display some sign of their demon nature, whether it's Crowley's snake eyes or the frog on Hastur's head. I also noticed that Aziraphale frequently wears wing decoration items - like the pin he was using for his toga in Rome.

But one that I only noticed recently is the gold shirt collar that Aziraphale wears in the Job minisode.

This pattern fascinates me. I was initially very distracted by the pearls, they seemed a bit unnecessarily eye catching in the design. Then I really looked at the pattern.

This is a wings and eyes motif, very reminiscent of the way angels were supposed to actually look according to the old testament:

I don't know that it means anything really, but I thought it was a delightful - and easy to miss - touch on the part of the costume designers.

[sleepymccoy]

It’s radio good omens week! The radio play is fucking wild, the only thing i can really remember from it is that Crowley’s voice is outrageously sexual. Like, dripping with fuckability. He’s a total flirt and he knows it. Every time he speaks it’s like his tongue is remembering other things it could be doing better. He talks like he knows this conversation ends in a blowjob under the table. His throat is permanently raw from the horniness of his tone.

Anyway, it’s very fun and i recommend you listen to the radio drama if you haven’t already. Aziraphale’s prissy voice is a tonne of fun too, but it does sit in the shade of Crowley’s rumbling bass note of sheer sexuality imo

descrip under cut

it’s not really a comic layout so much as a collection of sketches of one evening. Comic-y style, coloured in flats with a dark red squiggle instead of a background

The first picture shows Crowley pouring Aziraphale a glass of wine, rather generously, as he runs a finger down Aziraphale’s face. Crowley is in a black leather jacket and has the wildest hair i’ve ever had the pleasure of drawing. It’s sorta like a cross between a cobra and a disrespect of gravity. There’s a big elvis-on-crack flick on top, then two matching curls over his shoulders. Each large whack of hair is as big as his head, making him look wildly huge next to little Aziraphale. Crowley’s face tattoo is a light curl of snake that ends above his eyebrow

Aziraphale is wearing a pale blue vest with khaki diamonds on it. His collar is undone with no tie. He has a mop of hair on top in tight white curls that would be groovy if he weren’t overshadowed by Crowley’s outrageous hairdo. He looks more like Michael Sheen than Crowley does Davit Tennant, but he’s kinda pokey and fussy, ya know? But in like a cute way

In this picture Crowley is saying, “Don’t make a fuss, angel, don’t. I know you like to be coy, and it does suit you, it does, but just let me pour, yes?” and Aziraphale is smiling and saying, “I’m not- I’m not making a fuss, dear.”

In the next picture Aziraphale and Crowley are looking fondly at each other. Crowley is looking kinda spaced out, while Aziraphale is more amused. Crowley is saying, “Oh, I- I forgot what I was saying. You’re beautiful.” Aziraphale says, “Oh, shush.” and Crowley says, “You’re breathtaking.”

The second image is all the one scene, in three parts. Crowley is crowding in on Aziraphale, they’re sitting next to each other and Crowley has one hand on Aziraphale’s knee (riding up to his thigh) and his other hand raised so his thumb is touching Aziraphale’s mouth very tenderly. Crowley’s speach bubb;es say, “Shh, angel. Stay here. I’ll get you a fresh pinot. I’ll be back soon. <3″

Then there’s a picture of Aziraphale sitting along, looking down at his (khaki) pants, which are tenting in a very obvious erection kind of a way. Then the next picture has Aziraphale crossing his legs tightly and looking to the side Crowley wasn’t sitting and saying, “Yes. Well. It’s going to be one of those nights, I guess.”

[toastedbuckwheat]

Hello! May I ask how you draw? I'm currently learning how to myself and would be highly interested into a step to step process by you! Like from sketch to the done thing (no color necessary)

Hello there!

I dunno how I feel about showing how I work/giving advice to someone who’s learning (and I say it as a pro artist who went through years of traditional art education) because when I do the illustrations you see here on my tumblr I BREAK THE RULES you’d learn though life drawing routine, and give in to bad habits, and my methods are rather unplanned and chaotic which makes it difficult to pinpoint significant stages. But I used my portable potato to take some photos during working on my last piece, so I’ll throw it here with a bit of an explanation of what’s going on.

Before I begin - and because you’re about to look at a mess of a WIP - I’d like to give you some general advice that generally makes life easier when you draw (again, things that I learned in traditional arts education - another artist might advise you the complete opposite, dunno!)

Work holistically. Forget them satisfying-to-look-at clips on instagram showing someone produce a hyperrealistic portrait starting from an eye, with each and every element emerging being finished before they proceed to another part. It takes a lot of talent, yes, but these are ppl redrawing a photo in a kind of a mechanical manner. Most artists don’t work this way. Especially if you’re working without a reference, or if you’re doing a life drawing - your process will be layering and changing and finding what works best to give an impression of what you’re drawing rather than reproduce the exact image, and your artwork is likely to look messy most of the time.That said: don’t start with the details. Don’t spend too much time on a particular part while neglecting others. Your goal is to keep the whole piece at the same level of ‘finished’ (even though it’s unfinished - do I make sense?) before you’re confident that everything is where it should be and proceed to the details. So sketch out the composition first. See how things fit, what’s the dynamics. You’ll save yourself from limbs sticking out from the frame, odd proportions etc etc.

Because it’s a game of relationships between different parts of the picture/scene. I ask you not to worry about finishing a single element before laying out the rest because you’ll find that said element will look different once the other part appears! For instance - you might think that the colour you picked for a character’s hair is already very dark. But once you’re done with the night sky background, you’ll find that it’s in fact too light, and doesn’t work well with the cold palette. You’ll have to revisit different parts of the image as you go to balance these relationships and make the picture work as a whole.

Give an impression of something being there without actually drawing it ‘properly’- because details are hard, mate. You’ll see that my lineart usually has hardly any, and my colouring is large unrefined stains, but the finished thing looks convincing. Like, fuck, I can never focus on how Crowley’s eyes are really shaped. So I just turn them into large glowing yellow ellipses crossed by a line, and heard no protests so far.

Don’t panic if you messed up (you probably didn’t anyway). It might turn out to be a completely unnoticeable mistake - because, remember, things work together to balance each other, so another finished off prominent element will probably drown that badly placed line that looked so visible and out of place a second ago. 

It might not look good before it’s finished. I’m mostly immune to it after years of drawing, and my recent illustrations all follow a specific method (ykno, my sunset glow effects and all that) so I can kinda predict the next stage. But I do my linearts on a specially picked crap paper, I don’t bother erasing the smudged graphite, and it looks messy af until I make the background white in Photoshop. Conclusion: you might have a moment of doubt as you work through a piece, but try to break through it - I often suddenly start to like what I cursed a minute before! - and try to finish it even if it’s meant to be bad. This way, looking through your past pieces, you’ll see the progress. And trust me, I can’t even look at my art from literally three months ago. It’s normal.

Now, pics! The sketches are paler in real life, but I increased the contrast a little so you can see something.

1. Laying out the composition! 

I wanted to just show them kissing, but I got carried away due to some Art Nouveau inspiration. As you might have noticed, most of my illustrations are quite self-contained (ykno - they look like a sticker on a plain background). So I wanted a tight swirl bordered by Aziraphale’s wings creating a sort of rounded, yin-yang like bubble around them. Consequently I made the whole composition revolve around their heads. 

2. Adding more details to the sketch. It’s messy af. It will be messy until I’m done. It’s fine.

3. These are the fineliners I use for the linearts! They are made by Uni-ball and come in light and dark grey. I also sometimes use the guy on the left - ‘Touch’ sign pen by Pentel, when I want more brush-like, wider strokes. I work in grey because when I scan it and do my usual boring trick with sunlight highlights - which is an Overlay mode layer in Photoshop - the highlights ‘burn out’ the lines too and make them vanish a little, and the lighting effect gets more striking. I also like to use the light grey ones to make something look pencil-y without actually using pencil, because pencil fucking smudges.

4. It smudges! So because I am right handed, I start inking from the right hand side, no matter how tempted I am to do their faces first.

5. You can see the composition directions here. I made it intuitively, but ofc some ppl actually use grids etc to lay out their drawings.

6. See how pale ans thin the lineart was at first? I kept adjusting it as new inked parts were appearing. It starts to look nice and consistent now! 

7. Finished lineart? There are some mistakes which I later corrected in PS. Notice that Aziraphale’s face has hardly any details on it - I tried to make the drawing suggest his expression rather than risk overdoing it. 

8. Photoshop time!! You can totally do what I did here even if you don’t have a graphic tablet. I used Curves tool to enhance the lineart, then Quick Selection Tool to select the background around around my sticker-like piece and filled it white (on a new layer ofc). I keep this white layer on top of the layer order so it works as a mask as I colour. I decided I did not like the hatching shading underneath Aziraphale’s halo, so I erased it with a Stamp tool (because I wanna keep the textured grey fill my crap paper naturally gives me!). It’s done roughly but won’t be visible once the thing is coloured. 

9. And the reason why I keep the grey shade instead of easily getting rid of it by using Curves/Levels is because when I set this layer to Multiply mode and colour underneath, it gives me this nice desaturated look like from an old cheap paper comic page. It works as a natural filter! But of course I can’t do bright colours this way, so all my glowing highlights happen ABOVE the lineart layer - on a separate layer in Overlay mode! 

Finished thing here!

_____

Commission infoBuy Me a Coffee - help me with my transitioning expenses!Prints and stickers and things on my Redbubble!

[i-write-and-therefore-i-am]

One Monstrous Miracle (Part Three)

Wazzup? I have been hit with the inspiration bug and I felt drawn to work on this story while I have all this fun isolation time. I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned this before but I have this story all mapped out, so don’t be afraid of it being abandoned. I’m gonna finish this baby if it’s the last thing I do! As always, I’m self-conscious of this chapter, especially with characterization but please do let me know how you feel about it! I had fun writing it, and I hope you have fun reading it! (Forgive any mistakes you see, I am only babey).

Previous-Next-First

Pairing: Aziraphale/Human

Summary: More barging in, some tenderness, some threatening. All in a day’s work.

Warnings: This got SIGNIFICANTLY longer than other parts, so forgive me. There’s more cursing, but I think I’m just gonna have to resign myself to the fact that this is who I am now.

Word Count: 2,889

Men are stupid. It is a lesson that every person that considered themselves attracted to men learns at some point in their life, and it was a lesson that you had apparently forgotten. You had let yourself get pulled in by the promise of exquisite, centuries-old books and now you were paying for it.

You had assumed post-breakup position: laying across your sofa in your old, but still very fluffy pyjamas, a carton of ice cream on your lap with the sound of crap telly playing in the background. You weren’t even paying attention to what was happening on screen, but you knew that the alternative was to sit in silence until it was time for work, and you didn’t know how much of that you could take.

You couldn’t understand what exactly your problem was. Aziraphale hadn’t really done anything wrong, had he? He had been the perfect gentleman from the moment you had met him and yet something in you felt…betrayed. The thought of how angry Aziraphale had gotten, the crashing sound that had come from his sitting room window, the memory of the rage in his eyes frightened you. This man who had lovingly repaired priceless works of literature, who had patiently sat and enthusiastically listened to you rant about all the things that had happened to you over the course of the day, who had somehow remembered every single one of your favourite dishes and had cooked them all himself just because he had wanted to had transformed in front of your eyes. He’d become something terrible and dangerous, and that was your problem. The switch had been too much for you, and your fear had turned into hurt.

It was ridiculous, really. You knew that it was, but that didn’t stop you from avoiding the familiar little bookshop from then on. Partly out of residual confusion and dismay at what had happened, but mostly out of an overwhelming sense shame at how poorly you had dealt with the situation. You’d run away sobbing as though Aziraphale had hit you, when all he had done was defend you fiercely to someone who seemed to be an important figure in his life. No, you wouldn’t be stepping foot near the shop anytime soon if you had anything to do about it.

Unfortunately for you, you had a great less “anything” to do with it than you thought you had.

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It had been another long day. You enjoyed your new promotion and you were eternally grateful that you had gotten it in the first place, but it came with a truckload of new responsibilities that left you singularly exhausted on the bus ride home that evening. In your efforts to avoid Aziraphale at all costs, you had recently taken to riding the bus again, much to your wallet’s chagrin. Again, the foolishness of your actions was not lost on you, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to grow up.

The bus came to a stop and you followed the stream of tourists out onto the pavement. You felt almost like you were in a daze, mechanically turning and walking towards your apartment. Your eyes seemed to see through everything, out of focus and not really paying attention to what was going on around you. Distantly, you noticed that the air had begun to smell faintly of vanilla, like the nearby bakery was baking a wedding cake. In your tired state, you had forgotten that that particular bakery would have been closed long before you had even stepped foot on the bus earlier. Your neighbourhood was not a particularly dangerous one, but it was never smart for a young person to be out so close to dark without being at least somewhat aware of their surroundings. Though you couldn’t have known this, every potential mugger, or killer, or other type of criminal suddenly remembered something urgent that needed tending to on the other side of the city. Speeding motorists found their gas petals to be a tad bit wonky, keeping their vehicles moving along at well under the speed limits. Streetlamps that had long been neglected by the council clicked on, lighting your way home. Just for shits and giggles, for no reason at all (except for one very good reason that you were not at all privy to and were unlikely to be in your lifetime), you lifted your head and turned to look across the street.

Your heart skipped a beat. It was him! It had to be. He was standing in the middle of a group of people, none of them particularly interesting in anyway, so his shockingly white curls and light brown coat stood out like a sore thumb. Your heart beat wildly in your chest. It had been so long since you had seen the man, and the ache you felt as you tried to get a better view of him was almost too much to bear. Unbidden, your arm began to raise itself and his name flew to the tip of your tongue, but before you knew it, he was gone.

You thought about the incident all the way to your building and up the stairs to your flat. You had half a mind to call Aziraphale and demand to know why he was hanging about on Dean Street not ten minutes ago, and where the hell had he gone between the two seconds it had taken you to decide to call out to him and the moment you’d realised he was no longer there. You decided, thankfully, that you probably weren’t going to come at it from the right angle, especially not over the phone, and that you’d be better off continuing as you were. You put your keys and purse down and hung up your coat, thinking about dinner but unable to keep the memory of Aziraphale’s kind smile out of your mind.

You cooked yourself some pasta, not in the mood for a proper meal. You loved cooking, you really did, but it didn’t seem to have the same… ‘umph!’ to it that it had before this whole fiasco with Aziraphale. You had turned on the television so that you could have a bit of background noise while you worked and let yourself focus on the familiar rituals of boiling and straining and stirring. Before long, you had a plate of your favourite pasta along side a glass (a rather full one, mind you,) of your favourite wine. All was well.

Your serenity was interrupted by loud pounding at your door, as if someone were trying to knock the whole bloody thing down. You jumped, nearly spilling your wine all over your face, but you saved yourself at the last minute. Furiously (gingerly) putting the glass down on your kitchen table, you stood up from your chair, intending on giving whoever was on the other side of that door a piece of your mind. Apparently, you weren’t moving quite fast enough for them, because they knocked again, and you swore you could hear the hinges give a little and the force they were being put under. You stomped over to the door, unlocked it, wrenched it open to find—

“What the fuck?” It was Aziraphale’s angry friend. He stood right outside your door, smirking at you like the little shit he probably was. Your brain paused, hit rewind, and started again. You remembered the incident in Aziraphale’s living room and you tensed, preparing yourself for a deluge of indeterminate nonsense about you being mortal? And that somehow being a problem? He was just as unnerving as he had been when you had first seen him, still swaying, still upending the Universe. The real question of the hour was—

“How do you know where I live?!” You screeched, attempting to shut the door in his face, only to be met with his arm. He smirked and advanced on you, forcing you to walk backwards into your own flat. You looked around desperately and saw a hardcover textbook that you had been using to refresh some technique for work. You grabbed it and pointed it towards him, trying to look threatening. The man reached his hand out and you backed away.

“Don’t! Don’t come any closer!” Crowley stopped moving forward, but he didn’t look the least bothered by your performance. He chuckled, leaning against the door frame.

“Well I was going to introduce myself, but it seems you remember me. Let’s put a name to the face, shall we? My name is Crowley and I understand that I may be…how do you say, fit a f? I am sorry, love but you aren’t quite my type.” He finished by making a show of looking you up and down, which only fuelled your annoyance.

“Answer my question! How do you know where I live? Why are you even here?!”

“I’m afraid that was two questions, which one—”

“ANSWER THE DAMN QUESTIONS!” You demanded. Crowley frowned behind his pitch-black sunglasses (which he wore inside, hours after the sun had set) and seemed to grow more serious.

“I—that’s not how I was supposed to start this. Force of habit, you know, it gets the best of us all.” You didn’t respond, waiting for this strange man who had barged into your life on two separate occasions and had brought you nothing but irritation to explain himself.

“See it’s…I…you are—” He stopped, annoyed with the difficulty he was having. You were annoyed that he was still in your flat. “Aziraphale isn’t well.”

Your heart stopped. What? How could that be? You had just seen him! What was wrong? Was he dying? What if—

“He misses you, love. He won’t admit it but he does. He feels awful about what happened and that you were scared or whatever and ran away and he’s been wanting to call you for weeks but he’s too scared to. He’s not himself, Y/N.” This was not what you were expecting to hear. Aziraphale missed you? He’d been thinking about you? You basked in this knowledge for a couple of seconds before your mind stuck on something.

“How do you know my name?” There hadn’t been time for introductions when he had interrupted you and Aziraphale, and you definitely hadn’t said it since he’d interrupted you now.

“Angel talks about you all the time. It’d be grand not to know your name but noooo. Everything is always “Y/N that” and “Y/N this”. “Isn’t Y/N perfect Crowley?”” He’d pitched his voice higher to indicate he was mocking Aziraphale, but you had barely noticed. This was getting to be a bit too much for you to handle. Did Aziraphale…could he actually…did he feel the same way about you that you did about him? Was it even possible? Crowley must’ve seen your confusion on you face because he softened a little.

“Look. Come back to the shop. At least just talk to him, tell him you’re not angry anymore. You’re not angry anymore, right?” He waited for you to respond. You realised that no, you weren’t angry. You missed him sorely, and if you could have him back in your life, even if everything that Crowley had told you was false, it would be more than enough to just be friends again. You shook your head. Crowley grinned at you.

“Brilliant. So, go to the shop, do whatever you two do, and I won’t have to hear about “lovely Y/N” anymore. It’s win-win-win for everyone.” He turned to leave but stopped, sighed heavily, and turned back around. “Uhm. While I’m here, uh. Aziraphale wanted me to…you know…” He cut himself off. He seemed to do that a lot for a man who had no qualms about breaking down doors and interrupting other people.

“You know how people say things that they don’t mean?” He asked, looking up at a water spot on your ceiling. You nodded. He looked down and nodded too, his lips twitching in a smile. “Good. See ya around, love!” And with that he left, the door closing behind him on his way out. You imagined that whatever had just happened was as close to an apology as you were going to get from the strange man--if that was actually what he was trying to do.

You stood and stared at the door for a good while before dropping the book on the ground and sitting heavily onto your sofa. There was so much to think about now, and your mind was absolutely buzzing. You decided that tonight was a very good night to finish off that brand-new bottle you had just bought yesterday.

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Your palms were sweaty. Your knees were trembling slightly, but that wasn’t as bad as sweaty palms. He would feel your sweat and be disgusted and kick you out of his shop before any of your nasty oily sweat got on any of his precious books. Or, replied the competent part of your brain, you could wipe your hands on your jeans and open the damned door already. Your stomach twisted as you raised your hand and pushed on the handle and walked through the doorway.

You were greeted with the sweet sound of bells. The smell of old books and wax and something that Aziraphale carried around with him washed over you, relaxing your shoulders and planting a stupidly stupid smile on your face. You were totally in love with this man, but his bookshop came a close second. You wandered around at first, partly interested in the books and partly biding time until you had to deal with the Aziraphale in the room. It wasn’t difficult to lose yourself in all of the old volumes, and you were so particularly engrossed in one that you were completely oblivious to the man behind you on the stairs.

Aziraphale was beside himself. He had been up in his apartment brewing some tea when the sound of the front door drew him out to the shop. He’d come down the stairs, expecting to find some customer that he would have to fight tooth and nail to keep from buying one of his books but instead he’d found you. After the way you had left, in tears and clearly terrified, he had not dared to hope that he’d see you again. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He couldn’t help himself from watching over you as you walked home, performing the self-same miracle that had kept you safe last night (however, he was  not responsible for you looking up at him, that was something else entirely and it had spooked him something fierce). That was all he had allowed himself to do, baring himself from calling you or visiting you, thinking that if you were so frightened of him, you would not appreciate him initiating contact before you were ready.

He ached for you. He thought of you every day; of your smile, your eyes, your intelligence, your passion for his books and your genuine desire to understand him. Over the time you were apart, he’d come to realise how much he cared for you and how much it hurt to not have you in his life. He watched, unwilling to break your concentration as you ran your fingers reverently along the books, mouthing their titles silently. You were beautiful, even with your hair in the messy bun you preferred on days you didn’t have to dress up for work, in ripped jeans and an old sweater. He couldn’t just stare at you all day, so he forced himself to break his trance and clear his throat.

Predictably, you jumped, hitting your hand on the thick wood of the bookcase. You cursed loudly, bringing your hurting hand to your chest. Panicked, Aziraphale rushed down the stairs and to your side, already reaching for your hand.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, my dear, please forgive me! I didn’t mean to startle you, I just…Oh I feel awful!” You let him take your hand in both of his, everything you had meant to say before stepping into the shop floating away as you watched Aziraphale fuss over your hand. You smiled softly at him.

“It’s okay, Azi.” His head shot up and he stared, wide eyed in wonder. You had been the only person to call him that, and he admittedly missed the sound of it while you weren’t with him. You covered his hands with your other one, squeezing gently. “It’s okay.”

He could scarcely think. Or breathe, or do anything but blink at you like the besotted fool he was. You were here, in front of him, touching him, speaking to him, looking at him like that, like perhaps you had missed him just as much as he had missed you. Out of instinct, out of an urge that had plagued him these long months that he had known you, he slowly lifted your bruising hand up to his lips, giving you plenty of time to pull away, to leave him and never set eyes on him again. When you did none of those things, he pressed a sweet, chaste kiss to your knuckles, and then another on the angry red spot that had hit the case. Your breath shuddered in your chest, and you could do nothing but stand there.

Conversations would be had, nothing to personal, nothing close to admitting whatever it was between you, but you didn’t need that. There was an understanding that life without the other person was not worth the trouble. All was truly well.

Tag List:

@chelsdub​, @a-hoe-for-vanya​, @lordbeezyprinceofhell​, @aelin-thefirebreathingbitchqueen​, @beetlebway​, @dreamerkim​, @petalduck​

(Let me know if you want to be added. If you’ve asked before and you aren’t tagged, it means tumblr didn’t let me tag you for whatever reason, so ask me again! If you don’t want to be tagged anymore, also let me know!)

[shesthewindandsea]

make your good love known to me (or just tell me bout your day)

[Summary:

The world is filled with all sort of sensations. Crowley is learning to explore all the best ones in the South Downs with Aziraphale, even when he tries very hard not to.

Beginning Notes: Holy shit guys I did it. I literally did not think I’d see the day again when I wrote fanfiction again and put this much effort and love into it. More about it on the AO3 version here, but basically thank you Good Omens so for re-lighting my fire. Enjoy!

P.S: Huge thanks to @ineffablefool because by slowly making my way through all of their writing (if I haven’t read them all already I don’t even know) I’m learning how to insert that Aziraphale is chubby and soft everywhere and I absolutely will not have it any other way

If you listen well and close, anywhere you are, you can hear the hum of a bee as it busies itself doing whatever it is bees do. Pollinating a flower of some kind, perhaps.

“Crowley, you’re going to have to stop yelling at the poppies so much. You’re scaring off the bees.”

If you look well and close, anywhere you are, tilt your head up to the sky. You’ll see the clouds moving slowly, turning about the sky like breath on a cold winter day. The breath of God, perhaps. Only She could bide her time in such a way while She looks down.

“Aziraphale, could you push that cloud a little to the right? It’s blocking the sun— yesss, angel.”

“Of course, dear.”

Anywhere you go, take off your shoes and allow the grass to slap your naked ankles or the dirt to push itself into the grooves of your bare feet. 

“Anthony J Crowley, don’t you dare track dirt into our kitchen!”

Read more on AO3 here or continue below!!!

Take a deep breath of your own and inhale the salty taste of the ocean, the bitter taste of city smog, the dry taste of soil in the forest. Smell and taste are nearly one in the same, you know. Hasn’t your mother told you to plug your nose if you haven’t like the taste of something? 

“Imagine smelling a different food,” your father may say as he presses a spoonful of something to your lips. 

“Come now, my dear, it really isn’t bad for a first attempt.” The angel tries to reassure the demon. The kitchen air is clogged with the smell of smoke and the acidic taste of burnt food.

“You might as well be plugging your nose while swallowing, angel.” The demon rolls his eyes, but stares down at the toe of his snakeskin boots, his cheeks pinkening and shoulders rolling in. 

These days Crowley rarely wears his sunglasses. After all, it’s only him and Aziraphale so he really doesn’t have a good excuse.

“Dear, must you really continue to wear the glasses? I know they add on to your ‘aesthetic’ as you like to say, but it’s just us here.” Aziraphale was sitting on the swing in the backyard one day pretending to read his book while Crowley weeded the garden and gave a few plants a good tongue-lashing, the slackers. Aziraphale had forgotten to keep flipping the pages after a while and Crowley took notice. 

“Dunno. Just force of habit, I guess,” Crowley remarked offhandedly as he knelt in the dirt. The chickens cluck in the background, eating the insects that get too close to the garden.

The chains holding up the swing rattle as Aziraphale stands up and approaches Crowley, crouching down next to him and resting his elbows on his knees.

“Dear,” Aziraphale starts and watches as Crowley pauses in his work before taking a breath and leaning back on his heels, sticking the trowel into the dirt beside him. The dark material of his jeans are covered in dirt and some has snuck its way under the cuffs of his gardening gloves, sticking to the sweat on his wrists. He swipes his hand across his forehead and leaves a long line of dirt there.

Aziraphale can’t help but look besotted. Crowley flushes under the attention.

“May I?” Aziraphale continues raises his hands towards Crowley’s face. The demon nods shakily, gulping quietly. 

Aziraphale brushes his hands along Crowley’s face as he reaches behind his ears to take his glasses off.

“Ah, there you are, darling.” Aziraphale’s smile intensifies as Crowley’s eyes are revealed. If it were darker, he’s sure they’d be glowing. 

As he stands, he wipes the smudge of dirt Crowley left on his forehead with his thumb and holds the folded glasses in his other.

“Just a bit of dirt. Tea?”

 He misses them in moments like this, where he feels too vulnerable, too obvious. Like his eyes will reveal all that he’s kept secret for the last six thousand years. Windows to the soul is right. That is, if he has a soul. 

The angel stands from his chair at the end of the kitchen table to console the demon, his hand coming to rest on Crowley’s back, soothingly stroking up and down. 

“Why don’t you lower the heat next time? Perhaps allow it all to simmer and soak rather than rushing it along? I’m sure you’ll get it with enough time.” Looking up into Aziraphale’s eyes, Crowley tries not to look quite too obviously disappointed and allows himself to bask in the soft glow of his angel’s unfiltered adoration, if only for a moment.

‘Absolutely, angel,’ he wants to say. ‘You always know. I love it when you help me figure these things out. I’m completely useless when it comes to this stuff. I do it all for you, angel. I love you, angel.’

He nods and takes the comment into quiet consideration, storing it away for next time.

Any number of places can hold any number of your senses captive, like a bird in a cage, whether it’s of the pleasant sort or decidedly not.

The front door to the cottage creaks on its hinges as two figures push through. There’s no furniture and the floorboards moan under their weight after such a long period of disuse.

 “Goodness, look at the kitchen! I’ve never had such space at the shop. Oh, imagine the things we could do in here!” [1] The angel is immediately drawn to the space and makes a beeline for the window over the sink, throwing it open. Very little actually distinguishes it as a kitchen, but as soon as the angel says so, the room immediately smells of steaming foods and the heat of a warming oven in the summer is felt and it suffocates the cool air from the open window. One can easily imagine the aged wooden counter top covered in breadcrumbs and flour, the angel, red in the face as he presses into dough that will no doubt soon become some kind of bread or pastry.

[1] Crowley tried not to think about the graphic implications of that phrase, even if said graphic activities were not, that is to say, his “thing”.

 As much as it could be a curse, Crowley sometimes thought about what the stars might taste like up close. What they’d taste like if he could leave his human tendencies behind, spread his wings and take off into the sky. Feel the wind in-between every individual feather like a dog’s tongue licking peanut butter from the space between your fingers. The coolness of the air spreading a trail of goosebumps up the back of his neck under his hair (he’d grown it out longer again since they’d moved down here. Aziraphale ran his fingers through it more often when it was longer). The warmth and colorful fire of a nebula threatening to consume him. Allow the same feelings given to him by Her when he first began manipulating space and matter. 

Now, though, with no connection to Hell or Heaven, there’s no way he could ever leave Earth, leave behind his corporation to rot. He certainly couldn’t drag it along with him. The pressure would crush the lungs as he left the atmosphere. He’d never get a new one. He’d be alone in space with his stars. No angel in sight.

Inside the cage, there’s another. And if that isn’t enough, then what is? To brush your wings against not metal but the wings of another. To dream not of a life outside but a better one for inside.

“Crowley, dear, why don’t you come back inside? It’s getting rather cold out here and you didn’t put on any shoes,” Aziraphale murmurs quietly from somewhere over Crowley’s shoulder and he feels some kind of sticky, sick emotion clog up his throat. His eyes feel wetter even without the pool of tears lingering in his tear ducts. The tenderness and delicate tone Aziraphale uses does that to him every now and again. Overwhelms him. So he just doesn’t respond and instead holds his breath, staring down at his feet. He tastes his angel’s anxiety, worry, hesitation. It bites into his tongue and rattles his teeth. 

“Goodness, Crowley, you’re bleeding!” Aziraphale’s voice raises in pitch with his own emotions. Sensible shoes tap against the wood as he forgets to worry about carefully approaching Crowley and instead frets over the inky black blood staining the dock. He’s suddenly shoulder-to-shoulder with Crowley and Crowley feels Aziraphale’s eyes on him, questioning and confused. He wants to reach out, Crowley knows, but is holding himself back. 

He should’ve miracled the cuts gone long ago rather than letting his blood drain into the wood, tainting it. 

Aziraphale lets out a slow, soft sigh and Crowley holds in an undignified whine watching Aziraphale’s whole body move with the force of his breath. His angel is so beautiful. Big and round and soft. 

Crowley stares at both their reflections, his own eyes glaring back at him.

“I thought you wanted this,” Aziraphale says sadly. It feels he’s jammed a metal fork into an electrical socket and Crowley is the one holding it, jolting him.

 He wants to reply, say something. There are actually a great many things he wants to say starting along the lines of ‘I do want this. I’ve wanted this forever’ and ending with ‘I want this but I don’t trust myself. I want this so bad it hurts, but I can’t have it in this universe. Maybe in another, but we’re trapped in this one.’

 Crowley is so busy rooting through all the things he could say and then deciding he could never say any of them out loud that Aziraphale starts talking first.

“Of course, I noticed when I first mentioned moving down here you seemed a bit apprehensive, but I had rather sprung the whole thing on you and you seemed so happy when we actually had everything inside. I thought it really started to feel like home. One that was just for us. No Above or Below to tsk at us. No pressing responsibility to tempt this many people or perform that many miracles. No more people even. There are so few out here that it’s practically just us. And I thought that you’d like that. After all this time, it’s finally just us. Was I wrong?” Aziraphale’s eyes meet his own in the water. He runs his eyes down every precious, round bit of his angel. All the bits that went out of fashion with humanity decades ago. Ever changing, that lot. Crowley was always able to keep up with them, but Aziraphale had trouble. Too fast, too fast.

“‘S just different.” Crowley shrugs and doesn’t give any more of an explanation. He doesn’t want to muck it up, any of it, but he doesn’t know how to fix it.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to elaborate. Different than London? Different living together? Is it too much? I thought laying with you at night helped with the nightmares. I’ve heard you cry out for me.” Aziraphale says gently, like he’s approaching a wounded animal.

Crowley had always had his suspicions, but now he knows for sure. He almost feels guilty, like Aziraphale is forcing himself to comfort Crowley. Like it’s a responsibility or and irritant that needs resolving. He knows as soon as the thought enters his head that it’s simply untrue, but it’s still difficult to convince himself. 

“I thought spending more time together was good. Better.” 

Why is this so hard? Nothing he thinks to say is enough. Nothing feels adequate. 

“Was I wrong?” He says again.

“For Someone’s sake, it’s not that at all, angel!” He speaks, half shouting. His angel just sounds so sad, so resigned, like it’s already too late. 

“It’s just everything is different. Every taste, every smell, every bloody breeze coming off the blessed ocean. And being here with you, I don’t…” He trails off and watches his hands twitching at his side, his knees shaking under his weight, his eyes glimmer in the dark. 

He shoves his hands in his pockets more forcefully than he strictly needs to. He wants to touch so badly, throw his arms around Aziraphale and hold him like a lover, sweet and tender.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale whispers and breaks the eye contact he’s held with Crowley in the water, instead looking up at him. The angel’s face is pinched in angst.

“I don’t want to break this,” he says. “I don’t want to go too fast.”

“Oh, Crowley.” It’s nearly a sob when his name leaves Aziraphale’s lips and Crowley wants nothing than to soak it up with his own. He watches as Aziraphale’s reflection reaches its hand out and puts it in Crowley’s pocket, tangling their fingers together within the confines of the fabric.

“I don’t think your capable of breaking my heart quite like I’ve broken yours.” Crowley gulps. Apparently, he’s slightly more obvious than he thought. 

Too fast. You go too fast.

“I know what I said,” Aziraphale says, like he knows exactly what Crowley is thinking,  “and I know how much it hurt you. Even with those ridiculous sunglasses I could puzzle it out often enough. That pout on you face, dear. All too telling I’m afraid.” Aziraphale smiles a bit. “But I’m catching up. That’s why I wanted to come here. No mess, no noise. All the time in the world to make up for my hesitance. Don’t give up on me.” Aziraphale is rubbing small circles into the top of his thumb. Crowley is doing all he can not to weep at the feeling of his angel’s skin touch his own.

Aziraphale pulls both their hands from Crowley’s pocket and Crowley finally looks up from their reflection. Aziraphale gently squeezes the demon’s hand before releasing his grip. Crowley swears he can feel his heart stop beating. Panic grips him as he scrambles for something to say, scared that he missed his chance despite what Aziraphale said. Ridiculous, of course, because the moment Crowley opens his mouth to try and spit up something meaningful, Aziraphale takes Crowley’s wrist in both hands like he’s holding a baby bird and kisses the palm. 

Crowley immediately sputters a bunch of nonsense.

“Love me?” He croaks and steps forward into Aziraphale’s space before he can think about it. He knows the answer. He’s known somewhere deep down, trying to keep himself from acknowledging it. 

Too fast. 

But suddenly he’s completely submerged in the feeling of Aziraphale’s unwavering affection, forced to accept it. He almost feels his lungs shriveling standing so close. It felt like his heart was jumping around his ribcage. 

“Of course, dear.”

“Could you say it? Please.” 

“I love you.” Crowley whimpered a very undemon-like whimper and Aziraphale’s face lit up with a smile brighter than any star Crowley could’ve ever created.

“Again?”

“I love you, my beautiful beau.” Crowley bit down on a smile of his own and stops himself from completely melting under the complement, snaking the hand Aziraphale wasn’t hold over the angel’s shoulder, pulling him close.

“Again.”

“I love you, my dashing demon. My handsome serpent. Clever boy.” His smile breaks out across his face. He can’t help it. Crowley slots his nose in carefully next to his angel’s as his knees go weak and angel continues to sing his praise. The warmth from Aziraphale’s plush body rolls off in waves and it feels like Crowley is standing just beyond the reaches of a flaming blaze, just on the edges of a celestial sunbeam before it begins to burn. This warmth would never burn.

“Can I kiss you, angel?” Crowley asks softly, allowing for a serious moment and pushing down the gooey feeling in his chest. Crowley saw what Heaven was like. Empty and cold. In Hell, everyone was always pushing and shoving and touching each other. Crowley knew well what it was like to fight a crowd, everyone constantly brushing arms and shoulders, stumbling along like zombies. Certainly in no way romantic, but the touch was there. He had that. Aziraphale may want to catch up, but Heaven was in no way like Hell and that meant Crowley wasn’t going to push beyond what sensations Aziraphale could process. He had all the patience in the world for his angel.

Aziraphale’s cheeks grew pink and there was a new sort of look in his eyes. A kind of yearning Crowley had seen many times, but without this intensity. Did Aziraphale always look at him with this much love? This much reverence and kindness?

“I would like that very much,” And with that permission given, Crowley has to stop himself from moving faster than he’s ever moved in his entire life, all six thousand and some odd years of it. But he’s slow. A gentle press of their lips is all Crowley allows himself, pecking Aziraphale squarely on the lips and then in the corners. Honoring and venerating. Fond and amorous.

“Really, my dear, I can actually go faster.” Aziraphale’s words buzz against his lips and then Aziraphale is pressing a soft kiss to his lips that quickly grows in strength until he’s taking charge and pressing his chest to Crowley’s, their lips locked fiercely together. Crowley stumbles backward a step with the force of it. 

Just as he’s getting the hang of it, the slide of Aziraphale’s lips against his, the press, embracing the tingle that spreads throughout his limbs, Aziraphale is moving his mouth to cover different patches of skin all over Crowley’s face, worshiping. His cheeks, his forehead, his jaw.

“Aziraphale…” Crowley sings his name like an psalm as Aziraphale pecks him on the side of his nose, feeling each bump with his pulp lips as if he was performing an ancient, forgotten ritual or memorizing to map out later. A sweet sort of ache accompanies the whole process before Aziraphale eventually rests head on Crowley’s shoulder, soft puffs of air caressing the side of his neck. 

“My dear, you’re going to be covered in freckles by morning,” he hums into Crowley’s neck and leans forward to press another kiss to the hollow of Crowley’s throat. Crowley, whining under the angel’s infinite study and ardor, tilts his head to rest atop Aziraphale’s, his nose nestled in the pile of white curls there.

“Freckles?”

“Mm. Haven’t you heard the old saying? Freckles are the remnants of an angel’s kisses.”

“Ahh, well. In that case, I don’t suppose I mind.” Crowley ends the sentence with a kiss of his own left to wander among Aziraphale’s curls.

They stand there for a few moments longer, soaking up the warmth of one another before they can both admit it’s a rather chilly night and Crowley still hasn’t got any shoes on. So they head down the dock, over the rocks (for most of which Aziraphale actually carries Crowley seeing as how torn up Crowley’s feet are. Aziraphale is absolutely horrified by the whole of it meanwhile Crowley convinces Aziraphale’s shoes not to develop any holes), and up the beach to the steps of their cottage. The plants in the window tremble and the hundreds of wildflowers swarming the front steps as Crowley instills enough fear in all of them to ensure that they don’t take mark of this moment as possible weakness. 

“Don’t think this is reason for you to start drooping or you’ll all end up in the paper shredder,” he says with a particularly menacing glare, all the while he has his legs wrapped around Aziraphale’s waist and his arms over the angel’s shoulders.

The lights in the front room were left on and the tartan settee in the center of it is illuminated by the light of a fire burning brightly in the fireplace. Neither of them are quite sure who was the one to light it, not that it matters.[2]

[2] The floorboards still creek the same as they did when they first moved in. Crowley would’ve miracled them silent, but Aziraphale said it gave the cottage “character and personality” so he left them alone.

Soon enough, they find themselves relaxing on the sofa and soaking up the heat of the fire. Aziraphale uses the light to read while Crowley rests his head in Aziraphale’s lap with his face buried in his angel’s tummy. There’s a rather well-crafted afghan thrown over top of him and he’s drawn it all the way up to his chin. One of Aziraphale’s hands balances his book and the other has tangled itself into Crowley’s wind-swept hair.

“I do want this, you know,” Crowley says under the crackle of the fire. The rumble of it travels up Aziraphale’s body. He hums contentedly at the feeling.

“I want to be here. With you.” He doesn’t actually know if Aziraphale has any idea what he’s saying, but maybe that’s why it feels so much easier. His angel was so open with him, so sympathetic and considerate and caring. It feels like he deserves to hear all the lovely, very undemonic thoughts Crowley has been holding onto.

“I want to wake up to you every morning in our bed. I never want to wake up alone. I don’t want you to read on the sofa. Not ever again. Not since I realized what I was missing out on. Knowing you’re there next to me, without even touching, I can sleep easy.

 “I want you to help me when I bollocks up a meal. You’re so good at helping me, angel. I want to see that look on your face when I yell at my plants by the window seat and the sun room and out in the garden with the poppies and daisies and your basil. I take it easy on the basil just because it’s yours.” Crowley whispers the last part like it’s a secret that Aziraphale didn’t already know.

“You go all cool, pinched mouth, disapproving ‘round the eyes. Couldn’t miss it for a mile. And don’t even get me started on your smile, angel. I could go on for millennia about your bloody smile. Lights up the whole room, it does.” It all just rolls off his tongue so easy, once he’s started. It’s like a confession, a prayer to the one person he knows will listen. The only person he wants to hear him.

“And whatever’s here that’s left of me, if you want, they’re yours, sweetheart. All the broken bits and the good bits — whatever good bits you can find — you can have them. I’d give you the moon and the sky if I could. I’d give you all my stars.” It feels like he’s bleeding out again, a constant, steady stream trickling from his lips, but it doesn’t burn with the prickle of salt or splinters.

“All of that is complete rubbish compared to having you, darling.” Aziraphale reassures him. At some point, must’ve put down his book because while one hand combs reassuringly through his hair, the other is cupping the side of Crowley’s face that’s flush against Aziraphale’s belly, forcing Crowley to look up at him. Crowley shivers. Whether from the rapture of being the angel’s sole focus or the scrape of Aziraphale’s primly manicured nails against his scalp he doesn’t know. Perhaps both.

“I love you,” he says, with all the subtlety and grace of a new-born fawn. The demon nearly chokes on the words. Aziraphale smiles slyly.

“Again.”

“You absolute bastard.”

“Oh hush, love.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

In the South Downs, if you stop and stare over the top of a hill high enough to overlook the village, you’ll see, hear, and feel many of the same things you’d hear in similar places around the world — the bees, clear skies, soft grass, the sea breeze dragging its wispy fingers through your hair — but there are also a great many things that you’ll never experience anywhere else. 

There is something about the honey produced by the bees that leaves much to be desired despite the beauty of the flowers the pollen is gathered from. Fear chokes the sweetness right out and replaces it a metallic, acrid taste that lingers in the back of your throat. That sort of fear can only be accomplished through a great deal of terror and trauma, something one peculiar resident is rather proud of.

Unfortunately, only so much can be said for the weather any English village, but once in a while, it seems like the patter of rain lasts longer in one part of the village than the other. A bustling garden needs lots of water, after all.

The grass is always soft during the summer months. It grows long enough to brush the cuffs of rolled up jeans and the ripening, golden wheat curls around your fingers. Although, one should always watch carefully rustling in weeds and listen for a hissing among the flowering flax. Neighbors in the area often report seeing a large black snake with striking yellow eyes. Get too close and you’ll find yourself spinning around, walking back in the opposite direction. Only a moment before you reach out your hand, you’ll find yourself at home sitting in that comfortable chair in the sitting room watching telly with little idea of how you got there.

The wind carries more than the scent of the oceans and the taste of salt. Hushed voices and whispered confessions of love travel alongside loose feathers and leaves. The feather is not one you’ve seen on any sort of bird in the area and leaves spread rumors they have no business spreading.

 If you close your eyes, if you just close your eyes and allow yourself to be held by the warmth of the sun. 

The chill of the breeze.

The phantom feeling of fingers on your shoulder blades, coaxing you to stand taller and fly higher. 

The love from some ineffable, ethereal, occult heart.

If you close your eyes at just the precise time on that hill in the South Downs, its secrets will be revealed to you if you take the time to listen.

[get-your-fics]

i love you

Summary: Inspired by the Billie Eilish song, Aziraphale and Crowley unexpectedly run into each other in another era, except this time is unlike any other.

Pairing: Aziraphale x Crowley

Warnings: Lots of fluff, and a little bit of angst for good measure

The air smelled like sweat and perfume and liquor and cologne. The gas lights hanging above cast a warm yellow glow down on the dance floor of crowded bodies, obscuring their faces until they all looked indistinguishable from one another. Some of the girls’ dresses caught the light and reflected it with every twist and spin. The sound of laughter and glasses clinking against one another and the live jazz music up on stage filled the air. The atmosphere was so carefree and jovial, it was hard to see any of it ever coming to an end.

It was hard to see everything ever coming to an end.

The year was 1928, and Aziraphale sat at a black, metal table at the back of the cramped speakeasy, slightly dizzy from the cocktail in his hand. He had to admit, he didn’t think he would enjoy spending time in barrooms like this one, but he found himself indulging in the convivial environment. However, he had his limits. In the past, some people had approached him and asked to buy him a drink or to dance, but he had turned them down. He liked to keep his distance and always observed the activity from afar.

Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he spotted movement at the door to the establishment. He turned his head, and sure enough, he saw it: a tall, lean shadow lurking at the back of the speakeasy and slinking along the walls. It dodged any light that intercepted its path and maneuvered around anyone that came close to it. But Aziraphale knew that was no shadow, but a certain demon he happened to be rather fond of. What was he doing here?

He observed the shadow until it drew close enough to him so it was within earshot. “Crowley!” he shouted over the loud music.

Sure enough, the shadow’s head snapped towards him. There was a moment of hesitation before it stepped into the little pool of light surroundings Aziraphale’s table, revealing itself to be the demon Crowley. His dark red hair was slightly shorter than when he had last seen him, and he had finally gotten rid of those God awful sideburns. He wore an all black, three piece suit and a fedora on top of his head. Even though it was dark inside the barroom, he had his signature sunglasses on to conceal his yellow snake eyes.

“Aziraphale.” There was a tinge of shock to Crowley’s voice, and he looked the angel up and down. “Still the same as always.”

If it weren’t for the dark interior, Crowley would’ve seen the hint of blush that made its way to Aziraphale’s cheeks. He was wearing the same coat he had worn for centuries. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m on an assignment, so I thought I should come and check out the scene.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers and looked around. “The Americans have had it good for too long. Their time must come to and end.” He focused back on Aziraphale. “What about you?” His eyebrows raised. “You’re not responsible for this, are you?”

“What, me? Oh, no.” He put a hand to his chest and laughed. “My people hate this sort of thing.”

Crowley tilted his head to the side. “Then why are you here?”

“Well, I have to say I do delight in some of the fun. It really is intriguing, the things humans choose to spend their time on.” He folded his hands in his lap.

“Shouldn’t you despise all of this?” He gestured around him to the dance floor. “Isn’t it supposed to be sinful?”

“Oh, my type couldn’t care less about prohibition.” He dismissed his statement with a wave of his hand. “I’m not going to be around for much longer anyway. There’s a man named Alexander Fleming whose about to make a miraculous discovery overseas.” He pursed his lips. “But are you sure it has to end so soon?”

Crowley leaned his shoulder against the brick wall and crossed his arms over his chest. “Believe me, if it was up to me, this would continue for eternity, but orders are orders.” He crossed his ankles. “Don’t worry. I’ll probably just cause a little stock market crash, high unemployment rates for a couple of years. They’ll bounce back in no time.”

Aziraphale nodded his head, swallowing roughly. He didn’t really like the sound of that, but at the same time, there was nothing he could do. “Could I offer you a drink? This place has some of the best moonshine on the black market.”

He shook his head. “You know I don’t like to drink.” He pushed himself off of the wall. “I wouldn’t mind a dance, though.”

His eyes widened. “Need I remind you, angels don’t dance, Crowley.”

“Most angels don’t dance.” He smirked and extended a hand out to him. “But you’re not like most angels, now are you?”

Aziraphale’s gaze flickered down to Crowley’s hand. It looked unassuming, like any other hand made of flesh and bone and muscles and sinews and tendons and veins pumping blood. But he wondered what would happen if he did take his hand. Would he be consumed by hellfire then and there? He reached out his own, his palm hovering above Crowley’s, before finally making contact. He waited to burst into flames, but nothing ever came. The only spark that ignited was the one coming from his skin against his.

“Oh, all right.” Aziraphale smiled. “Just one dance.”

The demon grinned back at him and pulled him to his feet. He dragged him into the middle of the dance floor, dancing bodies surrounding them on all sides. There was no escape, but as Crowley started to move in time to the blaring jazz music, Aziraphale found himself not longing to flee. He started to dance, much more elegantly than his counterpart, though watching Crowley try to match the beat and rhythm of the music with his body put a smile on Aziraphale’s face.

He quirked a brow at him. “Are you laughing at me, angel?”

Despite the obvious laughter falling from his lips, he answered, “No, not at all,” his tone dripping with sarcasm.

They continued, periodically taking turns to twirl each other under the other’s arm. It must have been something, back in those days, to see two men dancing so closely with one another, but it was so dark and crowded in the room, it was impossible to tell who was who. Everyone was faceless, and their attire blended together in a blur of color. Aziraphale found it freeing. This close to Crowley, he could smell the scent of cigarette smoke and burnt wood that followed him everywhere he went and feel the unexpected amount of strength contained within his lanky limbs.

The song came to an end as the band stopped playing. Aziraphale and Crowley separated from each other and ceased dancing, opting instead to stare at one another. Aziraphale felt lightheaded, maybe from all of the spinning and the cocktails earlier. Crowley raked over his form. He anticipated his needs before Aziraphale could even say anything.

“Want some fresh air?” he asked.

They headed out of the barroom together, going unnoticed by the other patrons. This particular speakeasy was located in the heart of New York City in the back of a diner in a subterranean level of the building. It required a password to enter. Aziraphale and Crowley walked down the bustling streets shoulder to shoulder, listening to the consistent honking of car horns and catching snippets of conversations as people passed them. No one ever even knew there was a demon and an angel amongst their midst, let alone walking side by side.

They came across Central Park. It was the end of summer, so the towering trees and dry grass were already starting to wilt. The leaves shriveled up and turned brown, some already snapping off of branches and floating through the air where they eventually came to rest on the ground. It was a peculiarly chilly night, and Aziraphale was grateful that his coat shielded him from the cold bite of the night air. The wind weaved its way through the park and blew past them, ruffling the white hair on his head until it stuck up in soft tufts. Crowley chuckled when he noticed it. Aziraphale blushed and smoothed his hair back down with his hands.

“Fancy a walk?” the demon asked.

They strolled through the park in silence, listening to the chirping of the cicadas in the untamed bushes and the breeze whistling through the trees, causing them to sway this way and that. The deeper into the park they went, the further the neon lights got until they faded into the background. The only light illuminating their path was from the moon and the stars and the occasional streetlamp. Aziraphale nervously chewed on his bottom lip, the unsaid question lingering between them eating him up inside.

“Have you heard anything about,” he lowered his voice to a whisper even though he knew there was no one around to hear them for miles, “the end of the world?”

The pleasant smile on Crowley’s face vanished the second he finished his sentence. “No, I haven’t.”

Aziraphale faced forward. “Maybe that’s a good thing.” He tried to save face.

Crowley hummed in response. The topic seemed to loom over their heads more recently than it ever had before. Aziraphale could tell it was coming close. It could be days or even decades from now, but he could feel it, like a buzzing in the air, and it nagged him.

They came across a wrought iron bench looking over a little pond on the gravel path. Crowley sat down first, and Aziraphale took the seat next to him soon after. The light of the moon glinted on the dark water and highlighted the ripples on the surface as it pulled the tide in and out. Aziraphale listened to the slight splash of water and watched as a few ducks glided across the pond.

“Do you reckon there’s a way to stop it from happening?” Aziraphale broke the comfortable silence that had settled over them after a while. The clear quality to his voice like the ring of a golden bell sliced through it like a knife.

Crowley didn’t turn to face him. "Stop what from happening?”

“The end of the world,” he clarified.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. “I doubt it.” He looked out over the pond. The emotion in his eyes was indeterminable due to the sunglasses. “If heaven and hell want a war, they’ll get their war.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. “But there must be something we can do!”

The demon whipped his head to gape at him. “We?” His face contorted with frustration. “There’s nothing we can do. We’re as subject to the Great Plan as anyone else.”

Aziraphale bit the inside of his cheek. He knew it was true. Angels and demons were supposed to be the fate makers, changing the path of history through temptation or salvation, but even they had things they couldn’t do. In this circumstance, they were as helpless as any unassuming human.

“I’ll find something to do,” he muttered, mainly to himself even though he knew Crowley could hear him. “There must be a way. I won’t stop until I find it.”

The demon beside him chuckled lowly. “I know you won’t.” Then, he said in the softest and most gentle tone Aziraphale had ever heard him use, “That’s why I love you, angel.”

Aziraphale felt like time stopped around him. It was his turn to stare at him out of bewilderment. From the look on his face, Crowley seemed to be taken aback by his own words himself. His complexion had turned a shade paler, and his lips formed into a small, round ‘o’ shape.

Aziraphale’s lips twisted into a frown. “That’s not funny, Crowley.”

There was a moment before he replied, “I’m not lying.” He scanned Crowley’s face for any hint that he was joking, but it was strangely blank. His lips were pressed into a thin, straight line, and his forehead was creased

Aziraphale clung to the bench like he might fall off the edge of the Earth if he didn’t. Was he hearing things? It couldn’t have been a slip up. He was the one who had been drinking, not Crowley. He knew he should’ve felt repulsed, maybe even disgusted, but all Aziraphale felt like was that the end of the world had come early and without warning.

“You can’t possibly feel that way for me, Crowley.” He wrinkled his brow.

“I know I’m not supposed to.” His voice sounded like it was on the verge of cracking. His chin wobbled, and that’s when Aziraphale noticed the streak of tears leaking out from each eye underneath his sunglasses.

He was crying? Ethereal beings weren’t supposed to cry, weren’t supposed to feel anything close to any sort of human emotion that could make them cry. Had they been on this Earth for so long they had forgotten who they were? They were an angel and a demon. They were sworn enemies, opposite sides of the same coin. They were supposed to be inherently different, but as Aziraphale gazed at Crowley, he wondered if the only difference between them was that one of them had fallen and the other hadn’t.

He tentatively reached forward and pinched the frames of Crowley’s sunglasses. His jaw went slack, and Crowley raised a hand to stop him. But it landed limp on his wrist, like he wasn’t really resisting. Slowly, Aziraphale slid his sunglasses off of him. He folded them and held them tightly in his hand. Crowley’s eyes were closed, but eventually he opened them. There they were, the same shocking yellow with a black slit down the middle. They were always so cold and hard and unfeeling, but now they had a certain softness to them, like one more word and he would break. Tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes and stained his slim cheeks.

Crowley looked down, and Aziraphale put a finger under his chin. He lifted his face so he was staring directly at him. He felt himself lean forward until there were only inches between their faces. His body seemed to know what he was doing, even if his mind didn’t.

“I just want to see what it feels like,” he whispered as his gaze flickered down to Crowley’s lips.

Aziraphale closed the distance between them, and his lips made contact with Crowley’s. He was sure he was on fire now. The burning sensation spread from his lips throughout his body, running along his nerves until it reached his fingertips. He wondered if, when he pulled away, he would see smoke. Crowley froze at first, but eventually relaxed into the kiss, moving his lips against Aziraphale’s. He could taste the salt from Crowley’s tears mix with the gin he had been drinking on his own tongue, but it was sweet.

He felt kind of silly and ridiculous, kissing Crowley like they were two humans in love. Surely, angels and demons were above such things. What were they, and who were they pretending to be anymore? But for some reason, Aziraphale felt warmth spread through his limbs at the simple act of affection.

He pulled away and opened his eyes to meet Crowley’s snakelike ones. He moved his hand that was under his chin to cup his cheek. He brushed away a stray tear that had fallen with his thumb. His skin was surprisingly soft and smooth to the touch.

“We could run away, you know.” Crowley’s usually commanding voice was small and vulnerable. “The universe is billions of light-years wide. The Earth seems like a dust speck in comparison.”

Aziraphale laughed slightly. He would always wonder why God chose this planet out of all the others to meddle with. “I love you, Crowley,” the demon’s face lit up at his words, “but you know I can’t abandon this world. I can’t give up on it, on the people. Not yet.”

He thought that Crowley would be angry and retaliate as he usually did when Aziraphale spoke fondly of humans, but instead, he smiled. It was a painful smile, and Aziraphale could tell he mustered all of his strength to force the corners of his lips upwards, but he still did it. “That’s my angel.”

Aziraphale smiled back. He rested his head on Crowley’s chest, and Crowley wrapped his arms around him, holding him close. He felt safe and warm and protected in Crowley’s arms, though he knew he ought to feel the opposite. He wondered when everything became so complicated. He and Crowley had only seen each other a handful of times over the centuries, very briefly when they had, but at some point between the garden and now they had fallen in love with each other. They held onto each other like they were falling apart, and even though doom was impending and the apocalypse was on the horizon and they didn’t know when they would see each other again, for a short, beautiful moment, everything was fine, and they were just in love, and they had each other forever, like it or not.

It wasn't the end of the world, but something had ended that night.

[writingfanfic-andbored]

Safe beneath his wings

When Crowley said his sort didn't go in for rude notes, he really meant it. Aziraphale figured that out the hard way. He figured it out when he met Crowley at his apartment, when he was bleeding. The feathers from his wings were smeared with blood and stained the white interior of the usually perfectly neat rooms. He figured it out when the broken being lay bent in front of him, begging for relief of the torment, begging for death and discorporation.

Aziraphale hadn’t seen Crowley in nearly four months and before the Apocalypse-that-never-was, that wouldn’t have been out of place. But after that faithful day, (plus that faithful week, plus those 11 years they had worked together) things had changed and he had rather hoped they would continue their routine of daily check ins, dinners, drinks and walks in the park. Crowley was constantly on his mind, while at the same time being swatted from his mind. He simply didn’t believe the demon would just up and leave without saying goodbye or at least asking to run away with him.

And then he felt a cry of pain shoot out across London - it didn't matter that the cry came from a demon, it was his duty to offer comfort. He found the root of the cry at Crowley’s apartment. He was terrified and had to keep lying to himself to set one foot in front of the other. Surely the demon was inflicting pain, not on the receiving end of it. When he entered the apartment however it was as if someone had scraped along the furniture and thrown the already minimalist interior into disarray.

'Holy water.' Crowley managed, but little else came from those dry and cracked lips. He ran to him.

'I can't, Crowley. I can't.' Aziraphale pleaded, 'Anything else, my dear boy. Anything, tell me.' But Crowley could not say anything else, he could think of nothing else but an escape from the terror that had come from below and would haunt him until he drew his last breath - or the equivalent of whatever demons seemed to do instead of breathing.

Aziraphale held him, trying to think of what could help or sooth Crowley's blistering wounds. Every slice of flesh that hung loose, Aziraphale reattached and healed. Every broken bone, he mended. He did all the healing he could, but the mental part - the psychological horror that hell was so well known for - he could not heal.

The Angel thought and prayed, no creature was meant to be in that much pain. Wasn't the Serpent one of God's creatures? Couldn't she show mercy in his hour of need?

But no mercy came and Crowley's stuttering words of agony grew steadily weaker. But Aziraphale couldn't do what he asked. He couldn't let the man he had known and loved for so long perish. For a moment, he could think only of his own selfish needs. He couldn't let Crowley die because then he would be alone. He couldn't be alone, he couldn't be without Crowley - his smile, his hair, his scent… He needed him.

He did the only thing he could think of then. The Angel had only ever done it once before - to a man called Job who was in so much agony that he too prayed for it to end and yet his suffering did not. Aziraphale wrapped his wings around Crowley - not to shield him from what was coming, but rather to contain what power he was about to unleash. He laid his hands on the demon, feeling scars on his flesh where he had just healed wounds that were so severe it would forever leave a mark even on his immortal body.

Aziraphale hushed his fallen friend, 'Don't be afraid, Crowley. It will be over soon.' The demon closed his eyes and began to shiver.

From within him, the Angel released what can only be described as a divine light. It was brighter than any fire and a great deal more impressive. His wings and body trembled and breathed out life itself. It was not meant to heal. It was only meant to take away pain.

The light soothed Crowley's agony - not removing it completely but lightening the heavy and painful load. It was transferred unto Aziraphale, who saw flashes of the torture the Demon had endured while he was down there. It was horrendous, but he could not look away. He had to take it in to take it away from his friend. While he was experiencing a worse fate than death, his human ears heard Crowley take a deep breath of relief.

It was working.

Crowley was able to open his eyes and saw what his Angelic friend was doing for him. He had wished that Aziraphale had killed him, rather than have to go through what he was going through. But the Angel took it in his stride and fought back. His grace and divinity were stronger than anything Hell could throw at him. He tried focus on the reason why he was doing it all - Crowley, his wily adversary, his foul fiend, his lifelong friend, the greatest love he had ever known. And he arose victorious.

His wings stopped buzzing and the blinding light subsided. Leaving the lovers in a comforting embrace.

'Why did you do that, Aziraphale? It could have killed you.' Crowley hoarsely whispered.

'Well, dear. Sometimes one has to make sacrifices for the ones one loves.' he said looking away, although it was hardly the time to be coy.

Crowley smiled, hurt still but also immensely relieved that after everything he could still count on the Angel. Because if he was being honest with himself, that was the only reason he had zapped himself back to Earth in those dying moments. If he had to be discorporated, he had rather do it in the arms of the one he loved and not in some administrators office with the Sound of Music playing in the background.

'You know, I'm glad to be back.' Crowley said, Aziraphale smiled (about as bright as his heavenly light had shone before).

'Good to have you back, dear friend.' They hugged and when they let go something in the air seemed different. Aziraphale's suit was a darker shade of white, almost grey and Crowley's suit seemed to have become less black and more a dark blue. They were both unsure how that could possibly have happened, but they thought it suited them and didn't bother to change it back.

They stood up, breathed deeply and held each other’s hand tightly. Crowley was glad to have such a dastardly bastard on his side and Aziraphale was glad to have such a good man on his.

[sungmee]

my first foray into good omens fic~ crowley/aziraphale, G [read on ao3]

i. sun

There is an afternoon that Aziraphale turns a corner and finds Crowley asleep. This isn’t in itself out of the ordinary, as Aziraphale has found Crowley asleep plenty of times and in plenty of places before. But before, he wouldn’t usually sleep away time they spent together, careful and limited as it was. But before, he hadn’t ever looked quite so at ease, even nestled among a familiar place like Aziraphale’s shelves. But before, there hadn’t been freedom from opposing sides, no longer a carefully-stepped dance between them, and Aziraphale would never have let himself so openly look.

Crowley is draped over a chair by one of the bookshop’s windows, long limbs in a sprawl that still manages to look dignified. His glasses are on a stack of books nearby, and his jacket is tossed over the back of the chair, shed in the wake of the sunlight currently pouring in from the window.

The light warms the air and gives it an orange-tinted kind of glow, something almost hazy and romantic about the way it fills the space. Aziraphale watches the dust particles float in the air for a moment, before, like a compass drawn north, his eyes are drawn to Crowley. The sunlight dips over him like liquid, pooling in the angles of his face and lighting up all his edges, making soft where he’s normally sharp. It spills into his hair, turns it to fire, to gold, and Aziraphale finds his breath leaving him in a rush.

Aziraphale knows love. He’s an angel and that’s just a part of what they are, how they were created. He’s been on earth long enough to have felt all the different ways people feel love; for other people, of course, lovers and families and friends, but also for things, for places, for concepts and memories and dreams.

Aziraphale knows love. He loves humanity and food and books and peaceful days. He loves widely with his whole being and lets it hum like background noise, settles it around him for all the millennia he has been alive. But to be in love is something else entirely. It is deep and overwhelming, terrifying and beautiful, like standing on a mountaintop while a thunderstorm is rolling in. Aziraphale knows love and he knows being in love, and the distinction has never really been more clear than when he’s standing in the doorway watching Crowley sleep in his bookshop like it is the safest place in the world.

There are markers of a shared existence all over - his shop, his living space, Crowley’s flat - if he looks. Little things: mugs and clothing and spaces cleared for the other, plants beside first editions and books in the flat. Their lives overlap now more than ever, and Aziraphale finds he is no longer surprised when Crowley is beside him while he’s in the kitchen, or at his own comfort among the stark walls at Crowley’s place. Sunlight curves around them both now, a moment of stillness in this strange new thing they’ve built between them, and Aziraphale manages to catch his breath.

Aziraphale knows love, and it is all the little ways Crowley has slotted himself into Aziraphale’s life like he’s belonged there since the beginning.

ii. moon

There is a night that Crowley finds himself wandering into the park alone. He meanders lazily down a familiar path, letting his legs take him where they want while his mind drifts. He’s feeling restless, enough to go walking in the middle of the night, head too full of thoughts that won’t settle. Part of him wants to go find Aziraphale, to wrap himself in the comforting familiarity of the angel’s presence and let himself forget about the rest of the world. But another part can’t sit still, especially since the angel in question is to blame for his mood.

Crowley passes the bench they had shared just the day prior, and makes it maybe four steps past before he turns back. He stares at the unassuming structure, simple and worn and utterly unremarkable, except for the fact that Aziraphale had been sat there when he had abruptly tilted Crowley’s world on its axis.

‘You know, my dear,’ he had said casually, peering up at the sky, ‘I rather think we might be like the sun and moon.’

Crowley had only eyed him skeptically, huffing, ‘How poetic. And of course you’re the sun, angel-’

‘Oh no,’ Aziraphale had murmured primly, ‘no, I rather think you’re the sun.’

Crowley had gaped, flustered and a little lost over whatever Aziraphale was trying to say, but the angel hadn’t elaborated, smiling and changing the subject, and Crowley had been too thrown to pursue it.

So now he stood in that same spot, still turning Aziraphale’s words over in his head and not finding any more sense in them than he had before. Crowley had no idea where Aziraphale was coming from, claiming him as the sun between the two of them. Crowley was a demon, he was evil and darkness and hellfire, he was Fallen. Aziraphale was light and goodness, so bright it almost hurt to look at. How the angel could think Crowley was the sun was beyond him.

With an aggravated sigh, Crowley dropped onto the bench and tilted his head back to stare at the moon, which, of course, was the moment Crowley heard footsteps approaching. Suppressing a groan, he tilted his head to see who was invading his quiet moment, and promptly sat up straight.

Aziraphale was walking towards him, his usual coat making him stand out sharply in the moonlit night. Crowley could only watch as Aziraphale approached, a hundred questions running through his mind. ‘how did he find me what is he doing here I didn’t tell him where I was-’, all of which quieted when Aziraphale finally stood before him, and none of which he actually voiced. He only stared, astonished.

‘Crowley,’ Aziraphale begins, soft and fond and so very gentle that Crowley feels something twisting in his chest. ‘Crowley.’ Aziraphale says again, a little firmer, like there’s intent behind every syllable, and stops there.

Crowley can only keep staring, tracing the outline of Aziraphale with his eyes. The light of the full moon shines off the white and cream and tan of his clothes, blurring him at the edges, and giving him a soft sort of glow. His hair too, is bright in the moon’s light,  and there’s almost something of a halo around him, and its like all his ethereal presence is leaking out of him, too much for a mere human body to contain. Aziraphale always radiates light, lets it come tumbling from his hands, his heart, his smile, like he doesn’t know the sublimity of it, how overwhelming it can be.  Crowley can only stand before it and hope he doesn’t crumble.

Aziraphale takes a seat beside him, and despite his conflicted thoughts of earlier, it’s easy to be here, next to Aziraphale. It is, Crowley assumes, the result of six thousand years, of knowing the other in ways no other being did, in the comfort of a single constant, of reliability. Of ineffability really, because a demon and angel should have been enemies but instead became friends, and no one really knows why, least of all them. All of human history stretches out behind them, but in front of them now as well, because they looked the end of the world in the face and watched as it was thwarted by an eleven year old, and the future was suddenly something they could have.  

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hands between both of his, grounds him to the moment with the contact, reminds him that that future has so much to offer, if only he takes a chance. The world seems to still, a pivotal choice looming, and maybe he’s wrong, but he really doesn’t think he is. Crowley takes a deep breath and makes a leap of faith.

‘You said I was the sun.’

Crowley’s words break the quiet between them, almost intrusive, but Aziraphale’s eyes jump to meet his, open and inviting, and Crowley forges on.

‘You said I was the sun.’ Crowley repeats, ‘I don’t-, what did you mean?’

Aziraphale watches him for a moment, something piercing in his gaze that seems to cut right through Crowley’s defenses.

‘What I meant,’ Aziraphale says at last, ‘is that I would be lost in the dark without you, my dear.’

He says it with so much sincerity, with conviction, like he’s stating a fact as sure as gravity, and Crowley feels like he’s breaking open. He took a leap of faith and Aziraphale caught him.

Moonlight catches in Aziraphale’s eyes, turns the blue nearly silver, and makes them shine even brighter. Aziraphale is something vast and ancient and powerful, wrapped in tartan and tea. Aziraphale is soft and quiet, a candlelit dinner, low music drifting from the distance. He is a gentle touch in the darkness, reassurance and a steady presence, dappled moonlight in the park, and Crowley blazes all the more brightly in return.

iii. stars

Crowley had hung the stars once, dusted his hands in galaxies and traced the orbits of planets. Dragged his hand through empty space and left gleaming trails of color, nebulas blooming beneath his palm.

Crowley still loved the stars, stared up at the sky sometimes with something like wistfulness on his face. Occasionally, Aziraphale or him would find reason for both of them to venture outside the city, where light pollution vanished and the presence of human life thinned. The world opened wide above them, and Crowley drank it in like the finest of wines.

Aziraphale knew this, just like he knew that there was very little Crowley remembered from before he fell, and how much he still ached several thousand years later. Aziraphale also knew Crowely clung to the stars because it was something beautiful he had helped create, and that mattered to him.

There were nights they lay in bed together, Aziraphale tucked against Crowley’s chest, head under his chin, and Crowley would trace his fingers over Aziraphale’s back. His touch was gentle, but sure, marking points and lines across Aziraphale’s shoulders, down his spine. He would quietly whisper the names of constellations into Aziraphale’s hair, and Aziraphale would stare into the darkness of the room, wondering about the sky, the earth; about falling. He would think about Alpha Centauri.

Crowley draws a star map onto his back with nothing more than his memory and his touch, but the soft, careful way he does it is like fire trailing from his fingertips. He presses feather-light kisses on Aziraphale’s skin; collarbone, jawline, temple. His lips feel like burning, like Crowley is dropping new stars from his tongue with each point of contact, and Aziraphale is a blank canvas, empty sky for Crowley to fill however he pleases.

Aziraphale wants to say something, something affirming or sentimental, wants to tell Crowley he would have run away with him, really, but he had had to try. He wants to say 'you're the center of my universe and I'm caught in your orbit'. He wants to say 'everything in my life up until now has been worth it just for this'. He wants to say 'I love you, have always loved you, will love you until the end of everything and planets collide and stars collapse', but Crowley kisses at his pulse point and steals the words before they can form.

Aziraphale has thought before about falling, about what might send him tumbling from grace. He has wondered in the deep recesses of his mind, if he might be damned already, with how he's let himself get so tangled up in Crowley, they can't possibly break away. He wondered, some small part of him, if he would regret it, falling for the sin of loving a demon, and terrifying himself with not knowing the answer. But love surely couldn't be wrong and he hasn't fallen yet, and anyway, it was all irrelevant now. They were their own side, and the realization of what that meant had sent them spinning headlong into something beyond heaven and hell.

Here, nestled in darkness like its a universe still being born, they make their own sky. Crowley, Aziraphale, and the burning bright newness of this tender intimacy between them. The sun, the moon, the stars. Crowley looks like fire, all red hair and gold eyes in the dim light of the room, and Aziraphale wants to be consumed. There is no falling when they're here, together, suspended in time and space. Like the vast span of the universe, like infinity is all spun down into the breaths between them, everything could fall away and the two of them would remain.

[prepare4trouble]

Good Omens fanfic - Damage, part 3

Previous 1 | 2

Crowley hurt. His head throbbed so violently that it made him want to vomit. The light stung his eyes, and the room somehow refused to stand still. It spun and tilted viciously, as though determined to keep him where he was, laying on the ground where he had collapsed the moment the floor of his flat had spat him out like some indigestible morsel of food.

He closed one eye against the double vision, then the other in the hopes that darkness would soothe the pain in his head, then opened them again when he found that the sensation of the room spinning was worse when he couldn’t see it. It was like being drunk and hungover at the same time, only worse, because being drunk or hungover didn’t usually involve cracked ribs, open wounds, broken bones and a very probable concussion.

All he wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep for a century or so, until the injuries from the beating he had received in Hell had healed and the room had stopped spinning. Unfortunately, whoever it was that had returned him to Earth had chosen for him to burrow through the floor of his office, not his bedroom. Moving from one to the other felt like it would be an impossible task.

He needed a miracle, but not one of his own. Healing one’s own body was difficult, and Crowley didn't want to risk doing it wrong. He needed a miracle from somebody else, and of course the only being he knew that might be both willing and able to do it for him was…

He froze, still sprawled on the floor, as cold dread washed over him. He didn’t know where Aziraphale was. The angel had been taken at the same time that he had. As he had been dragged down into Hell, he had seen a group of angels snatch Aziraphale and pull him up into Heaven to face whatever judgement they might have in mind for him.

And Crowley knew all too well how Heaven dealt with angels that refused to toe the company line.

He needed to get to him. Even if it meant he needed to go back to Hell, he needed to find him.

He rolled over onto his side and tried to get to his feet, but he was stopped by a searing flash of agony from his left leg. He remembered the grin on Hastur’s face as the demon had brought his heel down hard on the shin, and the sound as he had heard the bone break.

He hissed in pain. He was going to have to at least try to heal that if he had any hope of getting off the floor. He concentrated as much of his energy as he could muster on knitting the fracture, but performing any miracle at all was difficult when the room refused to stay still. At least three of his fingers were broken, which made clicking them an impossibility. Not that a finger click was necessary for a miracle of course, but he found that it helped focus his concentration, and right now he could have used some focus.

The pain eased slightly. It was an imperfect mend; he could still feel a dull, aching pain from the break, but it faded into the background in comparison to the other injuries. He tried to wiggle his toes, and they obeyed his command. Tentatively, he tried to put some weight on the limb, then began to drag his aching, protesting body to its feet.

The room lurched violently to the left and he staggered and almost toppled back to the ground. He righted himself by grabbing hold of the throne-like chair he had placed in the office, and closed his eyes against the wave of nausea that washed over him. He realised that his ears were ringing; a high-pitched whining, louder and a slightly higher pitch in one than the other.

He reached over the desk and picked up the phone. Maybe, just maybe, Aziraphale was okay. Maybe he hadn’t Fallen after all. Maybe all the angels had wanted was to have a polite chat with him before they delivered him safe and sound back to the bookshop. Or maybe he had Fallen, but had landed on Earth rather than in Hell. Or maybe the angels had taken a leaf out of Hell’s book and simply beaten him senseless and deposited him at home.

No, not that. He couldn’t imagine angels doing that. They had more imagination than the average demon.

But Crowley had an imagination of his own, and he knew how to put it to use. The phone on the other end of the line began to ring, and he wondered whether maybe, if he imagined hard enough, he would be able to make Aziraphale be there and pick up. His imagination had come through for him before, after all.

But not this time. There was no reply, nothing but the continuous ringing at the other end of the line. The angel didn’t even have voicemail, or an answering machine. Crowley couldn’t even shout a message, something to let Aziraphale know, if he did happen to be there, that he was trying to reach him.

Aziraphale was going to make a terrible demon. Not only that, but he was going to hate it, and not in the ‘no job satisfaction’ way that most demons hated it. It would be deeper than that. The loss would be a wound that would never heal, leaving him feeling empty and alone, and Crowley feared that it would break the angel so badly that he would never recover. Many hadn’t.

He leaned heavily against both the desk and the chair as he continued to listen to the ringing of the telephone at the other end of the line. With every ring, he grew more and more certain that the angel wasn’t there; that he was in fact, in Hell, trying to find his way out of a pool of molten sulphur.

He needed to get there; to the bookshop. If Aziraphale was on Earth, he would make his way there, and if he wasn’t there, Crowley would at least know that he needed to start looking elsewhere. He didn’t relish the thought, but he would march back into Hell if he needed to.

Although, unless he could find the strength to miracle himself better, it was probably going to be more of a limp into Hell, possibly with a few falls along the way and the distinct possibility of discorporation from his injuries.

He had never been more happy to see the Bentley than when he staggered out of the door of his building onto the street. He had known it was there, of course. He had seen it the day before, recreated, without a scratch on it, looking almost exactly as it had on the day that he had bought it. Still, the way his luck had gone since yesterday, he had half expected that Adam might have recreated the car with the key in the ignition and that some opportunistic thief had driven it away while he had been busy receiving a beating.

Thankfully, he had been returned in the middle of the night and not the middle of rush hour, and the streets were almost deserted. He made it to the bookshop in record time, swerved the car violently across the road and mounted the curb facing in the wrong direction. The Bentley’s brakes screeched in a way that, on any other day, Crowley might have worried about. Today, he had more important things on his mind. He opened the door and fell out onto the pavement. It was at that point that he remembered he wasn’t wearing his sunglasses; they had been taken from him and presumably destroyed by one of the demons that had delivered his beating.

From his position, laying ground outside the bookshop with the damp of a recent rain shower soaking through the fabric of his jeans, Crowley weighed the pros and cons of getting back in the car in the hopes that Adam had also recreated the contents of his glove compartment. The cons won, and he pushed closed the car door with his foot, then climbed to his feet, and almost fell again as he staggered into the shop.

“Aziraphale?” he called. His voice didn’t exactly echo around the building — there was too much clutter and too many books for the sound waves to get a good bounce going — but it did seem to disappear into nothing in a way that he didn’t think it did normally.

Although, that might have had something to do with the ringing in his ears.

He closed his eyes in anticipation of the glare when he switched on the lights in the shop, but found himself hissing in pain anyway as the sudden burst of artificial light sound even though his eyelids. The pain was accompanied by another wave of nausea and he wished, briefly, that he had decided to check the Bentley for spare sunglasses. It was too late to go back now, so he gave himself a second or two to recover, then opened one eye just a crack.

His head throbbed even harder than before, and he was certain that if he didn’t sit — or better yet lie — down soon, his body would decide to take matters into its own hands and he would pass out.

He might even discorporate, and land back in hell minus his corporation for the beating to commence all over again. In fact, he wouldn’t put that kind of a plan past someone like Hastur, though it wasn’t Beelzebub’s usual style. The Prince of Hell hadn’t been directly involved in the beating though, so perhaps ze had left the specifics up to the demons that were.

The nausea wasn’t getting better, and as a demon he could see in the dark anyway. He reached for the light switch again, meaning to plunge the shop back into darkness, when he noticed, in the corner of the room, a figure sitting with his back against the wall, knees pulled up to his chest, hunched in on himself.

Crowley squinted, trying to decide whether it was real, or some kind of hallucination. The figure was dressed in Aziraphale’s usual white and beige ensemble, and on second, and on third look, still very much resembled the angel. He tried opening his other eye, but that only resulted in there being two angels sitting on the floor of the bookshop, and that made even less sense than there being one.

Because there definitely was one.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley exclaimed. He rushed over to the figure, concussion and aching body forgotten for one brief moment.

Aziraphale tensed, but didn’t move. He angled his face downward, not looking up at him. “Crowley?” he asked the floor between his feet.

“Yes it’s me, you idiot. Who else would it be?” Crowley reached down and tried to pull the angel to his feet, but some combination of Aziraphale’s reluctance to stand, coupled with Crowley’s own weakness from the beating, somehow ended up with him on the floor, right next to him.

“I…” Aziraphale moved just slightly, head raising, then dropping again almost instantly. “It’s not a good time, Crowley,” he said. “Give me a few days to get myself used…” the words disappeared, as though his throat had constricted, choking away his voice. “Used to things,” he finished.

Crowley hesitated, unsure how to proceed. “I, uh… what thi…” he began, then stopped. It didn’t matter. “I’ll help you with it… with them,” he said. “The things.” Whatever they might be.

He should be able to sense it if there was anything demonic about the angel, but he was getting nothing. Of course, that might not mean anything. Right now, he doubted he would be able to sense anything from Satan himself; all he could feel was his own pain, nausea, and the sensation of the room spinning.

He realised he had closed his eyes again. Relief at finding the angel — if that was still what he was — alive and intact had given him a momentary boost, but his injuries were reasserting themselves and his headache growing worse again. He cracked open one eye again and looked at Aziraphale, assessing him for damage.

That he was in the bookshop and not currently trying to do the front crawl out of a pool of molten sulphur was an encouraging sign. In fact, other than the fact that he was currently sitting on the floor, nothing much appeared to be amiss. There was no whiff of brimstone about him. He had no horns, or claws. He still appeared to be very much Aziraphale-shaped, with no scales, fur or fangs and, most importantly, no creature atop his head.

He was still able to form coherent words too, although he wasn’t speaking as much as he usually did. The first thing most new demons had done, following their descent into Hell, had been to scream, or to sob inconsolably. Crowley could still hear the sound of it sometimes, echoing around the caverns of Hell, and around the recesses of his own memory.

Falling wasn’t simply changing from one state of being to another. It was a loss so deep and profound that some never recovered. Falling ripped out an angel’s divinity, permanently severed their connection to the Almighty and took away their ability to sense love. It took from them everything that made them angels, and left behind little more than a shell filled with pain, betrayal, and anger. It took time to come back from something like that. The kind of time that lasted entire human lifespans, and those that did come back were never the same beings that they had been as angels.

If Aziraphale had Fallen, his was the gentlest landing that Crowley had ever seen.


Although, if not that, something was definitely very wrong. Aziraphale didn’t sit on the floor. Well, not unless you count sitting on a blanket in the park while they had a picnic, but Crowley didn’t count that. It wasn’t exactly the same thing as sitting on the floor of the bookshop a few steps away from a chair.

It occurred to him that he hadn’t seen Aziraphale’s eyes yet. The angel had been deliberately directing his gaze away from him. Not all demons showed their demonic nature in their eyes, but most did, in one form or another. It was likely that if he had Fallen, there would be some difference there. He reached out and touched the angel on the arm. “Aziraphale,” he said. “Look at me.”

Aziraphale responded with a sound. A strangled sound caught halfway between a bitter laugh and a sob. He did not move. His eyes remained closed and his face turned downward.

“Aziraphale, please,” Crowley tried. “It’s okay. Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No,” he said. “It’s not.”

His voice trembled in a way that Crowley had never heard from him before, not once over the course of their entire friendship. Not when he had realised that giving away a flaming sword to a couple of humans might get him into the Almighty’s bad books, nor any one of the times over the course of human history when he had been convinced that he was about to be discorporated. Not even when Satan himself had been rising through the earth toward Tadfield and they had mere seconds to come up with a plan.

A knot of frustration began to form in Crowley’s chest. He couldn’t help if Aziraphale wouldn’t tell him what was wrong. “What did they do?” he tried. “Did they hurt you?” He didn’t look hurt. Not like Crowley was, at least.

The angel appeared to hesitate, then nodded. “But it only hurt for a moment,” he said.

“That’s… good?” Crowley tried. Riddles and hints were getting him nowhere. He didn’t think Aziraphale was being deliberately evasive, but he was doing a good job of it nonetheless. “I wish I could say the same. But what doesn’t hurt? What did they…”

“You’re hurt?” Aziraphale interrupted. He looked up at that briefly. Head moving to face in Crowley’s direction, to assess him for damage. Briefly, his eyes slipped open, but closed again immediately, before Crowley had the chance to see them, to check them for signs of anything demonic. He reached out with a hand, searching for Crowley’s arm and gripping it tightly when he found it.

If the angel would just open his eyes and look at him, he would have been able to see that he was hurt. Crowley winced as Aziraphale’s hand accidentally pressed into a bruise hidden underneath the tattered wreck of his shirt. At least the room wasn’t spinning quite so much now that he was sitting on the floor, and at least he didn’t feel quite so sick now that he knew the angel hadn’t been sent down into Hell.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale prompted. “You’re hurt?”

“Just a concussion,” he said. “A few broken bones.” He adjusted his position on the floor and winced. “Maybe a bit of internal bleeding.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale admonished. He shook his head as though in disbelief. “Why on Earth didn’t you say?”

The hand gripping Crowley’s arm moved down without breaking physical contact, until he was holding his hand instead. Aziraphale’s hand was warm to the touch. It lingered there for a second, as though somehow assessing the damage through heavenly means. Then, with no warning, no finger click or hand motion, the pain was ripped away.

For a moment, the sudden absence of pain hurt as badly as the pain itself. If left behind a vacuum of sorts, and for a moment, he could feel nothing at all. Crowley gasped at the sudden absence. Sensation filtered back slowly over several seconds until he could feel again. “Warn me before you do something like that!” he said.

The corners of Aziraphale’s lips quirked into the tiniest of smiles. “I can undo it, if you would prefer,” he suggested.

He wasn’t serious. Or, was he? For a moment, Crowley couldn’t tell. “Uh, no,” he said, just in case. “That’s okay.” He blinked, then turned his head slowly from left to right, enjoying the lack of pain and absence of nausea, and particularly enjoying the way the room stayed still rather than turning and tilting. The ringing in his ears was gone, as well as the double vision. He felt like himself again.

He turned his gaze to Aziraphale, sitting next to him on the floor with his back to the wall. Through the clarity that no longer being in pain brought him, he knew instinctively that the angel had not Fallen. He could sense nothing of Hell in him. He allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief. Whatever was wrong — and he was just as certain now as he had been before that something was wrong — whatever was wrong, at least it was not that.

“Right,” he said. “What’s going on? What did that arsehole do to you?” Crowley was getting a Very Bad Feeling. Being a demon, he was used to bad feelings, and there were times when he quite enjoyed them. This was not one of those times. This one was particularly uncomfortable. It started as a prickling sensation on the back of his neck and moved around and down his body until it settled in the pit of his stomach as a hard lump. “Why won’t you look at me?”

Aziraphale flinched, then appeared to steel himself. He drew in a deep breath, chest expanding as his lungs filled with air, then exhaled slowly as he opened both of his eyes. Even still facing down to the ground, Crowley noticed the flicker of disappointment that clouded his expression, as though he had been hoping for something to happen and it had let him down. He smoothed it away before he turned his face toward Crowley and smiled sadly.

Crowley looked at him, staring into the angel’s eyes, searching for any final clue as to what had happened to him, but they looked exactly the same as the last time he had seen them. He hadn’t really expected to see anything demonic there, not now that he was healed and he could sense it again, but it was still a relief to see further evidence that he was right.

“You bastard,” he said with a smile to let Aziraphale know that he was, at least partly, joking. “They’re fine. Why were you hiding them? I thought you’d Fallen and you didn’t want me to know.”

Aziraphale blinked twice in rapid succession and allowed his gaze to drift downward, unfocussed. “As I understand it, Gabriel couldn’t get permission for a Fall,” he said. “So he had to resort to other methods.” He blinked again, like there was something in his eye that he was trying to clear.

“Other methods of what, exactly?” Crowley leaned forward, staring into Aziraphale’s eyes. Aziraphale didn’t react. The Very Bad Feeling expanded, becoming a cold certainly.

“Of punishing me, I suppose,” Aziraphale said.

Slowly, carefully, so as not to disturb the air around them, Crowley reached out a hand and passed it before Aziraphale’s eyes. The angel gave no reaction at all; his eyes didn’t move to follow the motion, he didn’t flinch back, he didn’t appear to notice at all.

He couldn’t see it.

Crowley opened his mouth to say something, but all that came out was a strangled sound that even he couldn’t recognise as words. He shook his head; a short, sharp movement as though he could shake loose the language centre of his mind, then tried again. “Wha… what did he… how…”

Aziraphale folded his arms and pulled his legs in a little closer to his chest, as though he was trying to make himself as small as possible. “He was so pleased with himself,” he said, in a small voice. “I think that’s the worst part.”

That was definitely not the worst part, but Crowley felt a burst of anger at the thought anyway. “I can fix this,” he said. There were very few things that a well-applied miracle couldn’t fix. He snapped his newly healed fingers, calling on demonic power straight from the centre of Hell. He concentrated on the angel’s eyes, on healing. On making him see.

Nothing happened.

No, it was worse than that. It was as though there was nothing to fix.

He scowled, then tried again, pulling even more power out of Hell. Power that had never been intended to heal, but that he could twist to any use he saw fit. He felt it rush through him, burning as it entered his body. It hurt, to hold onto that much raw energy, but the miracle would be worth it.

But again, nothing.

He tried again, and again. And ag…

“Crowley, stop it,” Aziraphale told him. “You can’t. He didn’t do anything to my physical body, he injured my true form. And he used hellfire to do it.”

Using that new piece of information, Crowley attempted to focus the healing miracle. He pulled more power than he had ever wielded before out of Hell. More, even, than he had in Tadfield when he had stopped time. Again, nothing happened. The demonic power, with nowhere to go, filtered away into the world, probably to cause all kinds of minor irritations in London and the surrounding area that morning, and Crowley let out a cry of frustration. He prepared to try again.

Both of Aziraphale’s hands closed around Crowley’s, stopping the finger click before it could happen. “You can’t,” the angel repeated. “You know that. Hellfire, Crowley. You’re just going to exhaust yourself.” His hands tightened a little around Crowley’s. “You’re already shaking.”

So was Aziraphale. Crowley could feel it through his touch. Crowley closed his eyes and offered up a silent prayer to anybody that happened to be listening. “I’m going to kill him,” he said. “I’m going to march up there into Heaven and I’m going to…” he broke off. “No, I’m going to make him fix this, then I’m going to kill him.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Gabriel can’t fix it any more than you can, Crowley.”

“One of the other ones then. Or we’ll take it higher. Archangels aren’t really in charge up there, are they? Not unless a lot’s changed since I was…” he stopped again. He didn’t talk about his time as an angel. He didn’t think about it, not if he could help it, but he knew for certain that back then, the Archangels hadn’t been in charge. There was a higher authority, not only God herself, but legions of angels ranked higher than Gabriel.

And if he had to take it to the Almighty herself, he would do it.

“Hellfire,” Aziraphale repeated, as if that said it all. And it did. Just as a demon could not recover from a wound inflicted by holy water, an angel was similarly susceptible to hellfire. Aziraphale was right; there was nothing that anybody could do.

With his free hand, he gripped Aziraphale’s and squeezed gently. “I’m going to kill him,” he repeated. It was a promise that he completely intended to follow through.

Aziraphale, who would ordinarily have admonished him for that kind of talk, even if it was about Gabriel, didn’t comment on the threat. Instead, he pulled his hand free of Crowley’s and climbed carefully to his feet. With one hand touching the wall, he reached out into the room with the other. His head turned as though searching the room, and finding nothing, he took a series of shuffling steps, barely moving his feet from the ground. When he was far enough from the wall that he could no longer maintain contact with it and keep moving forward, he hesitated, licked his lips, and swallowed slowly.

“Before you do,” he said, “Could you possibly help me to a chair and get me a cup of tea? I fully intend to learn how to do these things for myself, but for now I might need a little help.”

Crowley was on his own feet in an instant. He gripped Aziraphale by the hand and carefully led him across the room to the seat by his desk. As the angel sank gratefully into the chair, Crowley disappeared into the well-stocked kitchen.

Tea. At least that was something that he could do.