#BECAUSE IF YOU THINK THAT IS ANYTHING OTHER THAN AZIRAPHALE TALKING ABOUT BEING IMMORTAL WITH CROWLEY

[charizardstolemynickname]

"Aziraphale would have confessed his feelings first if Metatron didn't give him a job offer"

OKAY BUT YOU ARE NOT UNDERSTANDING ME, CORRECT, EXCEPT HE DID CONFESS

Aziraphale is an angel who more than anything loves God/Heaven and Crowley. He loves more things (his bookshop, human food, books, classical music, etc) but the things he loves more than life itself is heaven and Crowley

And so, often, those 2 loves would contradict each other. His bond to Heaven told him that all Demons were evil and wrong, that demons shouldn't be trusted. And his bond to Crowley told him everything Heaven said was wrong, or in some capacity was wrong. It took years (literally hundreds if not thousands) for Aziraphale to find a rhythm that worked best

Aziraphale KNEW Crowley wouldn't want heaven back, and he also knew heaven wouldn't want Crowley back. He respected both of those wishes and cared deeply for both still. He knew what Heaven did to Crowley was unfair, and knew heaven was sometimes wrong (season 1) but to him, that doesn't make Heaven as a whole wrong, only flawed

He also knew Crowley had done some not very nice things as a demon, that he didn't agree with. Again, that doesn't mean Crowley was wrong, just that he had some flaws

And so when given the opportunity, to fix Heaven's flaws, in the way that is proper, why would Aziraphale not take it? For 6000 years he had the 2 sides of his heart fighting over what is right, (and who/what is right, Crowley or Heaven). But NOW? He can fix Heaven, none of those Angels in charge before knew anything, they hadn't been to earth, they hadn't felt human emotions, they didn't understand TRUE good and bad, didn't understand what the colour grey meant.

This was proven by Gabriel CHANGING AS A CHARACTER COMPLETELY once he fell in love with Beelzebub. Gabriel in season 1 was for the war, was actively going against everything Aziraphale stood for. Gabriel wouldn't listen to Aziraphale, no matter how much he spoke about how the war is wrong. But then he did listen, because he felt love, and the love made Gabriel realise the fight was ridiculous, and unnecessary

So YES Aziraphale saw that since Gabriel left, there is only 1 Angel left who understands the complexity of right and wrong with humans. And even then, Aziraphale knows he doesn't FULLY understand it, he couldn't on his own. Because the reason he did understand it was because of Crowley

Never once did Aziraphale try to get Heaven to bring Crowley's angel status back, and never once did he try convincing Crowley to go back to Heaven (before all this anyway) because he KNEW Crowley would say no

Of course Crowley would say no to Heaven (run by Gabriel), why would he not, it was incredibly flawed and they casted Crowley out for no reason

But now? Heaven could be better. Could be fixed. By Aziraphale, and Crowley

And Aziraphale KNOWS Crowley didn't really "fall" or "become evil", and so to Aziraphale, Crowley becoming an angel again isn't a crazy idea

Especially not when Crowley is exactly what Aziraphale pictures when he thinks of what an Angel should be. Crowley cares, Crowley trusts, Crowley does things for no other reason than to be kind. Crowley is the perfect angel to Aziraphale

SO, Aziraphale saying to Crowley "Come to heaven, come recreated heaven with me" IS a love confession. It's him saying "You are my everything, you are everything right in the world. I would never dare suggest you should forgive heaven, but heaven was wrong, we both know that, but you and I both know you were the perfect angel and still are. Heaven created by you will be the true heaven"

It's Aziraphale saying "I have loved you and Heaven for thousands of years, and never once asked either of you to change. Today, I want Heaven to change as it is wrong, I want it to change, and I want it to change to become perfect for you. I want it to realise that punishing you was wrong. I want Heaven to be completely different because I love you, and you deserve so much better than to be treated as you have been for these 6000 years. I have seen what Hell does, and I have seen what Heaven does. And I have the opportunity to fix one, and you are what inspires me to do so. You helped me see the flaws, loving you is the reason heaven gets to be better"

AND I KNOW CROWLEY DOESN'T UNDERSTAND THIS, AND IT HURTS, BUT STOP SAYING AZIRAPHALE DIDN'T CONFESS FIRST BECAUSE ALTHOUGH HE DIDN'T SAY I LOVE YOU, HE MAY FUCKING HAVE

thank you for coming to my tedtalk

[kay-jaye]

bit on the side?

bit on the side?

crowley doesn’t know what the fuck that even means. ok, yes, he’s familiar with the deluge of terms humans have concocted to define the complexity of their relations to each other.

side piece. sneaky link. friends with benefits. fuck buddies. situationship.

crowley knows what it means. he does. but when nina speaks the phrase to him, crowley can’t seem to recognize a single language, alive or otherwise dead, in which the words she says make sense. he briefly wonders if this is his version of aziraphale’s french.

because she’s talking about aziraphale.

aziraphale, the angel. the angel who likes his tea without sugar, but his wine with company. the angel who claims to have a distaste for “bebop,” yet crowley has caught him mouthing the words to queen’s “good old-fashioned lover boy” more than once in the bentley. the angel (bastard) who enjoys subjecting crowley to his magic act antics that under no circumstances would crowley ever admit to finding amusing or, satan forbid, endearing. the angel who popped into paris during the reign of terror because he got peckish for crepes, and even the threat of guillotine in that damp bastille cell could not deter him from baked goods in the end. the angel who still insists on dragging crowley to see productions of shakespeare, despite both being present for the original opening nights of almost every play the man wrote. the angel who is what heaven is supposed to be incarnate—pure and kind and too good for his own good, really.

and crowley is a demon.

he doesn’t think any of the typical labels apply. they’re not human, after all; it couldn’t be that simple. crowley can’t pinpoint exactly when it started or when it changed. 6,000 years is a long history to comb through. it was more than the acquiescence of two immortal beings to the familiarity of each other in a world full of temporary creations. it was more than a bloody arrangement at this point. crowley doesn’t know how it can be more than whatever it means to inhabit the other’s body and walk right into fatal danger, but they are. he’s inclined to cut his losses and say he knew—because deep down, he did know—he’s been fucked since eden and the damn wall and the damn rain he can’t help but associate with revelation.

other people’s love lives, nina had said. love lives. she’s projecting, crowley knows that. whatever’s going on with her and…lydia? linda? they say love makes you blind, but crowley would argue you see plenty of things. every passing glance between sips of champagne; every smile at the crisp sarcasm rolling off a forked tongue; every brush of fingers over the exchange of a briefcase full of books, the shaky grip on a tartan thermos, the drunken grab for another glass of wine across the table. silly things. things that aren’t there. for all the times aziraphale has implored him to read more, crowley swallows the urge to say he already reads into things more than he should.

he’s imagined it before; what it would be like to have more. a fair share of people have made assumptions about them in the past, though he’s not sure whether aziraphale has picked up on it, but that’s not why crowley suddenly feels as though armageddon is upon them once again. never has someone alluded to anything as…intimate as “hooking up.” crowley can brush away the implication that they’re together, but something screeches to a burning halt the moment nina insinuates what crowley’s only ever allowed himself to think about when he’s laudanum-level drunk and lonely because he has a greater chance of not remembering in the morning.

he remembers though. that’s usually when the guilt kicks in, when he’s hungover because he forgot to miracle the alcohol out of his system before passing out, and the headache pulses with the constant reminder that aziraphale is pure, pure, PURE. nothing he imagines on those nights is pure.

what gave him away? and if nina can see it, can aziraphale?

[ineffable-romantics]

Some thoughts on why and how I believe Crowley and Aziraphale's relationship would incorporate sex/why I do not read them as wholly asexual:

This is something I've seen the most discourse about in this fandom, and I've had a few thoughts of my own that I really wanted to expand upon in a full meta/character analysis post. I do understand that this can be a contentious topic, so first, let me clarify a few things:

First of all, this is going to be long. Tbh it probably won't be that organized either. I ramble and I'm not very good at editing, so just... you know. Be warned. (*Hi, it's me from 2 days after writing this; I'm really not kidding, it's LONG)

These are all my own thoughts. They might not be hot takes, because recently I've seen more than a few people come to the same conclusions on a lot of these points as I have. But I've also had these notes in my drafts for about a week and a half now, and have been continuously adding to it as things have occurred to me. This post is essentially just somewhere for me to collect the separate but related meta I've been kicking around in my head.

I fully respect anyone who does see and prefer an asexual reading of this relationship. These are my own thoughts and interpretations as someone who is not asexual. I am in the LGBT+ community, so while I do know a few things about the asexuality spectrum, I am by no means an expert.

This is NOT something I expect, need, or even necessarily want the show (or, God forbid, Neil's tumblr ask box) to address. Tonally, it's just not that kind of show. Newt and Anathema's sex scene was very much played for laughs, and it worked for that reason. If the show found a way to address it in a way that was both appropriate for the tone of the show and ultimately satisfying, then great! But there is so much more to this relationship than sex, and I didn't need a kiss to confirm their love, so I certainly don't need a sex scene. As immortal beings (as I assume they'll stay) there is so much of the rest of their lives we'll never get to see. You can headcanon them as asexual and potentially be right. I can headcanon them as not and be equally potentially right. Again, these are just a collection of my own thoughts, because I think the question of sexuality (or lack thereof) is just as interesting a facet of these characters as any other.

Note: Tbh I've been second-guessing this whole post and debated deleting the whole thing several times for being silly or unnecessary, bc I don't want anyone to think that this is the only thing I care about when it comes to this story/characters. But if nothing else, it's inspired me to write in a way that nothing has in a very long time, so I've decided it's worth continuing, if for no other reason than that.

This is going to be a mixed bag of textual reading, subtextual reading, and a full-on reach or two. It's been a while since I've been in an English class, but if my teachers expected me to find a deeper meaning behind blue curtains, you can expect me to read too deeply into the symbolism of a loaded rifle or an ox rib. (This is probably not what my professors had in mind when grading my literary analysis papers but oh well) My point is, if it feels like a reach, I'm as aware of it as you are. I am in no way saying that all (or even any) of my points made were deliberate on the part of Neil or the actors or the writers or the directors. I am no longer the delulu Apple Tree Yard child of my youth, I promise.

If anything said here is in any way offensive or hurtful to anyone in the asexual community, please do not hesitate to message me or comment and let me know exactly what it was. I promise you it is not my intention to do so, and am happy to clarify or outright edit anything that reads that way.

With all that being said, let's talk about why I think Crowley and Aziraphale would absolutely fuck nasty incorporate sex into their relationship.

Note: I am out of practice with essay writing, so I think I'll just go down the bullet points of notes I have been making, and expand on each as best I can

Food

Where better to start than with Aziraphale's introduction to Pleasures Of The Flesh? (Just a heads up, this entire post may feel very Aziraphale-heavy, and with good reason).

This might be the least hot take here. We've all seen the Job minisode. We've all seen That Scene.

Whether this was intentional or not, the symbolism here is off the charts. Eve was tempted by an apple. So why not go a similar route and tempt Aziraphale with another fruit, or cheese, or bread, or literally anything else for his first experience with food? Instead, we go with a huge, glistening slab of fresh meat that he proceeds to absolutely go feral upon, moaning and gasping into his meal while Crowley watches with what definitely doesn't look to be disgust or even satisfaction with a good temptation. There's surprise at the ferocity of Aziraphale's appetite, certainly. But ultimately he looks to be intensely fascinated by it, while the thunder crashes, the music crescendos, and the earth literally shakes around them.

(It's also interesting to note how very little it takes for Crowley to tempt him with the ox rib. One murmured suggestion, a bit of unwavering eye contact, and vavoom Aziraphale immediately meets him in the middle.)

Cut to Aziraphale devouring the rest of the meat with Crowley splayed back on a makeshift bed, drinking wine and continuing to watch him indulge through half-lidded eyes. Outside a thunderstorm rages while they're learning secrets about each other in warm flickering firelight. It's cosy, it's intimate, and if they'd thrown in a bearskin throw blanket, it might as well be a post-coital scene straight out of Game of Thrones.

The next time (chronologically) we see them discuss food is when Aziraphale "tempts" Crowley with oysters in Rome. So Crowley first tempts Aziraphale with meat and then Aziraphale tempts Crowley with what is widely regarded to be an aphrodisiac. Interesting.

And then chronologically after that, the Arrangement begins to form, which has always reeked of a friends with benefits situation. Just to throw that in there.

It's What Humans Do

In the very first episode, we're shown Gabriel's obvious disgust and bewilderment towards Aziraphale eating sushi, calling it "gross matter" and being proud of the fact that he does not sully his body with it. Aziraphale initially tries to defend his own enjoyment in it, before passing it off as something that humans do, as something he simply has to do in order to blend in (which we know very well is not the case).

He does this again in season 2, passing off Nina and Maggie being in love as "something humans do". But it isn't, is it? Angels are beings of love, and can sense it, and understand very well what it is... up to a point. Even romantic love is obviously within their wheelhouse, given what we now know happened between Gabriel and Beelzebub (we'll come back to them).

What the "humans do" that angels wouldn't understand is messy, physical forms of love.

But here's the thing: Aziraphale and Crowley love doing what the humans do. They love drinking, they (or at least Aziraphale) love eating. They love music. Crowley loves driving and sleeping and watching rom-coms and sitcoms. Aziraphale loves reading and doing magic and earning little licenses and certificates for achievement in his various hobbies. They love to playact at being human so much that they've stopped playacting and started building a genuinely human lifestyle for themselves and with each other.

Once together in an unambiguously romantic sense, why do we think they wouldn't also want to explore one of the most prominent, intimate, powerful human expressions of love and desire with each other?

Angels, Demons, & Asexuality

Here's where I really want to clarify that in no way do I mean that sex is necessary for a healthy, fulfilling, and loving romantic relationship, or that the lack of desire for sex makes you any less human. Asexuality is a sexuality as valid and human as any. What I would say is that it is definitely in the human minority compared to allosexuality.

Angels and demons, on the other hand, are predominately asexual. Sexless/genderless unless Making An Effort. (Which, btw, is a concept introduced as early as the original book; why even bring it up as a possibility? Why not keep angels/demons being sexless/asexual as a hard and fast rule, if not to open up the potential for later use? Chekhov's Effort, if you will. And isn't that something that Aziraphale in particular is shown to do time and time again? He makes an effort in French and driving and magic, doesn't he?)

And this is why I don't believe Aziraphale and Crowley necessarily need to be asexual, narratively. There is already a huge amount of ace rep within the angels and demons (and no, not just the horrible ones. Muriel also doesn't "drink the tea" and has no reason or desire thus far to Make An Effort, and there are certainly other angels and demons who aren't horrible like the archangels seem to be who likely wouldn't Make An Effort either).

The central conflict for Aziraphale and Crowley is that they are on their own side, the ones who went native, the ones who are so different in so many ways from their respective hives. It would make sense for them to also break away from traditional angel/demon asexuality.

I say "traditional angel/demon asexuality", because I would also like to note that I would absolutely not rule out demisexuality for either of them. This post is being written to as a response to people who specifically believe that they (like the rest of the angels/demons seem to be) would be sex-averse in a relationship, and that it wouldn't be a factor in their relationship. I could easily read them as demisexual, but I do think there would be no real way of verifying this, because they've never been able to form as close an emotional relationship with anyone else but each other. Certainly not in heaven, and I can't imagine they would be able to form that kind of attachment with any of the humans, who they love and emulate but ultimately regard as the separate species they are. So yes, they could either be allosexual or demisexual, in my opinion.

Then again, now that I think about it, Making An Effort itself could be a great metaphor for demisexuality, since they would be entirely sexless/asexual until they have enough of an emotional connection with someone to consciously manifest otherwise. Since the other angels and demons don't generally form those types of emotional connections with anyone, there hasn't been a precedent for it.

Except...

Brielzebub

We do have a precedent for it now, don't we? Gabriel and Beelzebub fell in love. They are a direct foil for Crowley and Aziraphale's relationship, speedrunning right through their courtship and finding their happily ever after on the other side of things.

For being such a 1 to 1 comparison, it feels deliberate that they did not kiss. They held hands, they were gooey with each other, but they did not kiss. That feels like such a deliberate thing to omit when you know what's to come at the end of the episode between Crowley and Aziraphale.

And going back to the food = sex metaphor for a moment, let's notice how even as they fell in love over the years, even when pints and crisps were there on the table in front of them, they never felt the desire to reach out for them. They didn't need to. It's a date (love story) even if you aren't eating dinner (sleeping together).

Yes, I know Jim liked hot chocolate. No, I am not counting it because I don't consider Jim and Gabriel to be the same person with the same proclivities, and Jim was highly suggestible at the time anyway.

Gabriel and Brielzebub's big happily ever after moment (as of now) was one between two asexual supernatural beings. They did not need to kiss to drive the point home. They showed what Crowley and Aziraphale could have, if they would only acknowledge it.

Crowley & Aziraphale's Dissatisfaction

But they do have that already, don't they? If you really think about it, what do Gabriel and Beelzebub do with each other that Crowley and Aziraphale don't already? They hold hands, they spend time together, they create little rituals, they give gifts, they're visibly and verbally affectionate with each other, etc. They are more or less already in a romantic asexual marriage relationship with each other, aren't they?

And it doesn't seem to be enough for either of them.

At the beginning of the season, Crowley is immediately shown to be unsatisfied with the way things are. Obviously part of it comes from living in his car, but it seems to be more than that (especially since Aziraphale makes it clear that the bookshop is just as much Crowley's as his, implying that he could have been living there the whole time and is choosing not to, for some reason?). You could argue he's feeling unmoored without Hell telling him what to do, but isn't that what he wanted? Isn't that what he still wants, by the end of the season? All season long, he's never indicated the desire for a new job, or a new project. He stopped the apocalypse because he wanted the freedom to openly spend time with Aziraphale, to spend his time on Earth however he sees fit. Until Gabriel arrives, he has exactly that (minus a flat).

So where does the dissatisfaction come from? And if it represents anything to do with his relationship, what does he want out of it that he isn't getting already?

I think Crowley only really comes to the realisation of what he's missing when Nina names it for him, not only putting them in the category of romantic, but physical (outright asking if they are sleeping together). These two posts [1], [2] go into more detail about what I mean, but I think it really pushes him into acknowledging that their relationship is more human than either of them have stopped to consider, and what that might mean as far as everything a human relationship can entail.

After all, Nina and Maggie only advised that he should talk to Aziraphale, make clear his feelings. The decision to kiss him, to tip them over the edge from nonphysical to physical, that was all him. And no, kissing isn't sex, but I wonder how taboo even that might be in the kind of all-encompassing asexuality most angels seem to identify with. (If they're disgusted by food and drink, I can only imagine what they think of snogging, much less sex.)

Aziraphale doesn't have this moment of someone observing their relationship from the outside. He loves Crowley, and as of 1941 probably even knows he's in love with him in a way that Crowley doesn't understand yet. Which makes sense, since love is technically his job, he'd be more likely to recognise it for what it is.

However, Aziraphale's reference for romance and relationships is Jane Austen. It's chaste. It's dancing and dinner and doing sweet things for each other and roses and candles and handholding. He contextualises his love for Crowley in that soft fantasy sort of way, where it's there, it's obviously there, but it's neat and easy and unspoken. Not to quote Glee in this, the year of our lord 2023, but it's all very "the touch of the fingertips is as sexy as it gets".

Someone should tell that to Aziraphale's face, then.

I'm not going to pretend I know what Michael Sheen's script notes were, but there were definitely some Choices™ made. Because yes, there were plenty of moments in both seasons with Aziraphale looking at Crowley in a sweet, loving, smitten way. And then there were moments that were yearning.

But yearning for what, exactly? All of those sappy Jane Austen tropes already apply to the two of them. So why are there moments where Aziraphale is looking Crowley up and down like the last eclair in the window and licking his lips and visibly exhaling like he's trying to get in control of himself (see: Bastille scene + Crowley telling Muriel to ask him if they have any other questions about love)? Why is Aziraphale not only unconcerned when Crowley shoves him bodily up against a wall in s1, but staring at his lips and a beat too late in noticing Sister Mary's arrival? Why are some of his lines so suggestive? I'm sorry, but the car ride after the church explosion might as well have been the beginning of a Pizza Man porn with a really weird Blitz theme. If even my mother picked up on that vibe, I can't imagine it wasn't intentional on part of both the dialogue and the delivery.

(This section may feel like more of a reach/joke, but I'm really only 20% joking. These are writers and actors who are EXTREMELY good at their jobs; they know what they were doing here.)

More importantly, I don't think Aziraphale is even aware that there is more to what he wants. He lives in the Jane Austen fantasy and it never even occurs to him that he might be interested in anything further. It never even occurs to him that, as an angel, there is anything further to be interested in in the first place. Until Crowley forces it to occur to him. Just like I believe Nina forced Crowley to confront the idea that romantic love is what he's been feeling all along, I believe Crowley forced Aziraphale to confront the idea that physical intimacy is something he's been wanting, without even realising.

Aziraphale's Hedonism

Expanding on Aziraphale for a moment. We talked about his relationship with food, but we all know that Aziraphale is defined by his love of things that Feel Good.

It isn't just that he and Crowley love human things. Aziraphale loves the best of the best, or at least his version of it. He doesn't just love food, he loves going to fancy restaurants. He doesn't just love clothes, he loves soft, cosy, warm, plush clothes, or shiny, flashy, bougie fashion. He loves the warmth of tea and cocoa, loves getting drunk, and sitting in a comfy chair in the sunlight. He doesn't just experience, he indulges.

Given the emphasis put on things that Aziraphale loves just because they Feel Good, it feels narratively strange to assume that he wouldn't enjoy the feeling of being touched, or that he wouldn't be willing to try it, at least once, with someone he cared very deeply for. And just like the ox rib, I think that once he gets the first taste of things, he would absolutely tip over into complete and utter self-indulgence.

Dancing

I also think that dancing could be construed as a huge metaphor here. After all, we're told flat-out that angels don't Dance. Except one.

I would argue that Aziraphale, in fact, Made An Effort to learn how to Dance. He threw himself into the gavotte with delight (at a Victorian gay club; noted) and worked hard to be good at it. He's chomping at the bit to Dance with Crowley, working up the nerve to ask him with undeniably romantic intent and eagerness. So, angels don't Dance... unless they Make An Effort to do so.

We are told that demons, on the other hand, do Dance, but not well. Makes sense, since they're the ones who would want to encourage a deadly sin like lust, but have as little understanding of human love and physical intimacy as the angels. Crowley, however, is shown to be an excellent dancer at the ball, especially in his compatibility with Aziraphale.

(But Aziraphale WandaVisioned the ball so everyone knew how to dance! Yes, he did. However, the rest of the brainwashing doesn't seem to affect Crowley in any way, and they did actually live through the time period where this sort of dancing was a social norm; I'd be surprised if he never needed to learn. After all, the demons can't spell either, and Crowley is at least functionally literate, as far as we know.)

As of today, it's also been confirmed that when Aziraphale asked Crowley to dance, Crowley replied with "you don't dance." Not "WE don't dance". So going along with the metaphor, Crowley is just now discovering that Dancing is something Aziraphale is interested in at all, much less with him, and not denying that he himself is interested in Dancing. In his defense, I believe he was asleep for a few years while Aziraphale was learning the gavotte, so he wasn't exactly aware of Aziraphale's hot girl summer.

Love Languages

I want to expand on that; Crowley and Aziraphale's compatibility. Specifically in regards to their individual love languages.

We all know Crowley's love language is Acts of Service. I don't think there's any debate there. He loves it, Aziraphale loves it, they're both aware of it, we're all aware of it, God and Satan are aware of it, no surprise there.

You may disagree with me, but I believe Aziraphale's love language is Physical Touch, for a number of reasons. One of which being his aforementioned hedonism. Aziraphale likes things that Feel Good, remember? He likes soft clothes, and well-worn books. Neil himself has said that they like holding hands. And any time he is taken by surprise (Brielzebub getting together, the wave of love in Tadfield, etc.) what is the first thing he does? Reaches out for Crowley. He stops him with a hand to the chest in the pub. He leads him by the hand to the dance floor. He guides him by the waist in the graveyard. He reaches out during the entire Brielzebub scene, whether he can reach Crowley or not. Despite his own turmoil, he grasps at Crowley's back during the kiss.

The one time Crowley reaches out for him (not counting the kiss yet; we'll get there), he is aggressively pushed against a wall (by someone he loves and trusts) with a complete and utter lack of concern (and perhaps some interest, depending on how you read it).

And when he isn't reaching out for anyone, or there isn't anyone to reach out to? Well, he's wringing his own hands together, squeezing his own fingers, as if to find that physical comfort in himself.

So. With that theory in mind, we have Aziraphale (Physical Touch) + Crowley (Acts of Service). Throw in 6000+ years of deep love, cherished companionship, and forcibly repressed longing, and there is a very real potential of this combination resulting in fierce sexual compatibility. Where Aziraphale would want to touch and be touched, to indulge in physical pleasure with someone he adores, in the same the way he indulges in every other fine thing in his life. And where Crowley would want to indulge him in return, to give him everything he wants, and to take pleasure in Aziraphale's pleasure, in the same way he enjoys watching him take joy in food everything else.

So Aziraphale is an angel who is insecure about his own less-than-holy desires, who would want to treat Crowley like a luxury to be touched and cherished and adored. And Crowley is a demon who has, over the millennia, been unhappy about how they've been forced to deny even their friendship with each other, who would want Aziraphale to feel comfortable and safe and encouraged to indulge in earthly delights. That sounds like a stunning recipe for sexual compatibility to me.

"You said 'trust me'" / "And you did"

Just like the Job minisode, the Blitz is RIFE with symbolism (intentional or otherwise). This one will be quick, but I did want to touch on it because I thought it was interesting. Maybe I'm reaching at this point, but I'm assuming you read the tin.

First of all, Crowley not wanting to admit to never firing a gun before; comes off as someone who very much does not want to admit to their crush that they're a virgin ("You must have done this lots of times!" / "Umm.... yyyyyeah.")

(You could make the argument that Aziraphale having a firearms license and a Derringer in a hollowed-out book is symbolic of him not being a virgin while Crowley is. I disagree, for reasons I'll go into later, but it's a valid reading. However, I see it more like keeping a condom in your wallet; it's there in case you need it, but the opportunity has not yet risen no pun intended.)

More importantly, the theme of this entire minisode is trust. We already know they trust each other with their lives against the rest of Heaven, Hell, and the world. But specifically, this is about the importance of having complete trust in your partner in a charged, physically vulnerable, intimate moment, where the only danger is between the two of you.

Aziraphale needs to believe Crowley would never hurt him if he can help it. Crowley needs to trust Aziraphale's unwavering blind faith in him. Frankly, it all feels very symbolic of two people deeply in love losing their respective virginities with each other.

The trick is a success, and they share an intimate candlelit dinner in which they reaffirm their faith in each other. Aziraphale also begins to voice his agreement with Crowley, that maybe Heaven's rules shouldn't have to be as black and white as they are, and that there are benefits to... blurring the lines, shades of grey, wink wink (at which point even my mom was like, whoa guys, this is a family show).

Btw also: Can we all agree how much it looked like Crowley was getting ready to get a lapdance in that one scene? You know the one.

Also also: "Aim for my mouth"? Come on.

The Birds & The Bees

Now that I think of it, there's also something to be said for the fact that Crowley and Aziraphale are both obviously familiar with where babies come from (how they're made and how they're born) while the other angels aren't.

Something something Aziraphale and Crowley fundamentally understand sex and reproduction in a way the other angels (and probably demons) very much do not, nor have any desire to.

Probably not important. Just thought it was worth mentioning.

The Kiss™ & Religious Trauma

The Kiss. Where to even begin?

This has definitely been the hardest one to start, because there is so much going on here that I definitely won't be able to cover it all, and will certainly miss a few things here and there.

Aziraphale's reaction to the kiss afterwards is the most interesting to me. And I don't mean directly after, I don't mean the "I forgive you" part. I mean the way he touches his lips when Crowley is no longer in the room and he no longer needs to save face, when he is completely alone. Had it been directly after the kiss, it would have been rightfully read as horror, or disgust, a shield to discourage further action.

It's not. It isn't just a touch, it's a press. As desperate and angry and unexpected and imperfect as the kiss had been, Aziraphale is pressing it into himself, recreating the feeling as best he can. Beneath all the poor timing and shock and hurt from their fight and fallout, I think it's fair to say that it was something he enjoyed. Something he doesn't think he should enjoy, something that Feels Good that he only allows himself to indulge in when completely alone.

Remember, Aziraphale's idea of love is Jane Austen and gentleness and courtship and fantasy. If he'd ever even considered kissing an option, it might have been gentle pecks, cheek kisses, forehead kiss, hand kisses. Soft, safe, chaste affection.

Crowley's kiss turns all of that on its head. He introduces physical intimacy in a very real, very messy, very human way that I don't think Aziraphale ever even considered could apply to them. Considering what other angels are like and what they look down on, even Aziraphale's Jane Austen fantasies probably would have been considered taboo.

So for their first kiss to be rough and desperate and passionate in the way it was, of course he was confused and in shock. It was deeply physical, and as overwhelming and awful as it was in the moment, it Felt Good. Enough that he grasped at Crowley and kissed back, if only just for a moment, before stopping himself. Enough that he actively pressed it into his lips afterwards, in private, to remember.

I adore how Neil has decided to evolve these characters past the first book/season. More so in this season, Aziraphale and Crowley have both become such interesting allegories for queer people on either side of the spectrum of toxic religion. Aziraphale in particular obviously, because he is the side that so desperately wants to believe, to make a difference, and to unlearn all of the propaganda he's been fed over such a long time. Just like so much of organised religion, there is so much that he is told, time and time again, that he should not want, that he is silly or stupid or outright wrong for wanting. It reminds me so much of the severe Catholic guilt one might feel for wanting/engaging in sex for the first time, and the stigma of being queer layered on top of that.

What is so critical to Aziraphale's character is that he goes on wanting, and more than that, actively pursues. He was convinced to go up against Heaven and Hell and stop all of Armageddon because he wanted to go on listening to music and eating lunch and reading books and enjoying the simple company of the person he cares most deeply for, even if that person is supposed to be the enemy.

All this to say that if angels are as generally asexual/sex-averse as I believe them to be, narratively speaking, it would make sense for Aziraphale to be singular in that regard as well. Mirroring his first experience with food, it would make sense for Crowley to be the one to first introduce this new messy, physical, human dynamic between them, for Aziraphale to hesitate (obviously we are at the Hesitation phase at the moment), and then (eventually) for him to dive in wholeheartedly, to absolutely glut himself on this new thing that Feels Good. It would make sense for his character development to show him overcoming his metaphorical Catholic guilt and pursuing the sexual intimacy most (if not all) of the other angels would scorn.

(I can't help but remember that plot idea Neil described from the unwritten sequel, with Aziraphale in a hotel room trying to watch a full porno by way of the free 2-minute teaser clips so he wasn't technically sinning by paying for it. I so hope this is used in season 3, because gosh, I wonder why Aziraphale would suddenly be so interested in observing human physical intimacy after 6,000 years. Lonely and doing a little surreptitious research there, angel?)

Crowley, on the other hand, is the queer person who has broken free from his toxic religion. He prides himself on being his own person, on their his own side. He doesn't have the hang-ups Aziraphale does. He doesn't worry that he's going to be judged or cast aside for wanting things he's not supposed to. So it only makes sense for him to be the first one to suggest/initiate physical intimacy. It makes sense for him to be the one who "goes too fast" (another fantastic example of this dynamic beginning as early as s1; what is that conversation in the car meant to represent, if not Aziraphale being overwhelmed by the intensity of their relationship, and his fear of succumbing to it when he believes he shouldn't? It's also interesting that this is the first conversation to take place in Soho, just after watching Aziraphale realise he's caught feelings for a demon, with the red glow of lust serving as the backdrop).

Do I think the kiss in and of itself was sexual? No. I think it was a passionate and devastating last-ditch effort on Crowley's part to convey the way he feels for Aziraphale. Not just that he loves him, but that he loves him in the most human way possible. But I do think that the kiss represents how they can move forward from here, and what they might want to explore with each other once they feel free enough to do so.

In Conclusion

I am sure, deep in my bones (unless we are explicitly told otherwise), that this was both of their first kisses no, I'm not counting the gavotte, and that neither of them have ever thought to do anything else physical with the humans while they have been on Earth. Like I said before, they adore the human race and lifestyle in general, but ultimately view them as a separate species altogether, and they seem mostly happy to keep to themselves and each other, unless otherwise necessary. I just can't see either of them being drawn enough to a human to pursue anything close to sex. If Crowley in particular has had anything to do with sex in the context of temptations, I'm positive he would be inciting lust amongst the humans themselves, not involving himself directly. At least not that directly.

So, like every other human experience they've had on Earth, sex is something new that they could explore together, just the two of them, on their own side. A deeply intimate, tangible declaration of their love and everything they've gone through to earn it. A visceral finger to give both Heaven and Hell. A renewed appreciation for their corporations and for each other's. A enjoyable method for immortal beings to simply pass the time in each other's company. A new and exciting way to Feel Good, and all the variations that come with it.

You might agree with this post, or you might not. Whether this is something that is ever addressed or not, it doesn't matter to me. This is a brilliant love story either way, and I genuinely feel so privileged to witness it.

But I just can't find it in myself to imagine, given everything we know about these two characters, that sex isn't an experience they would both consume with wholehearted enthusiasm, curiosity, and profound, ineffable adoration.

___________________________________

Bonus feature: the very silly notes I made to myself that inspired this post

[avocado-writing]

hello i wanted to ask if you could do crowley x reader.Reader and Crowley first met in the aziraphale library, at first Crowley didn't really like the reader because he was human but slowly both Crowley and Reader developed feelings for each other but the two dance around their mutual feelings for ThatAziraphale has cornered Crowley in the bookstore,but Crowley, tells the angel he's a demon, is there's no way someone like Y/n could ever love me someone like him, Crowley also says I could never endanger Reader like that heaven and hell could leave us alone, Aziraphale, but don't think for a second they would hesitate to hurt the people we love to punish us. Aziraphale sighed but before he could say any more, Crowley exited the shop and drove off in the Bentley. The reader meanwhile had gone to see Azi but without wanting to hear Azi and Crowley's talk, she was really torn, because she was in love with Crowley, when she sees that he was about to leave, she decides to go and hide in Bentley's hiding place.When Reader hears that Crowley stopped by, he decided to come out of hiding and talk to Crowley, he was very surprised to see you at first.Reader , tells him they need to talk , tells him he listened to the whole conversation with Azi , Crowley denies everything at first , but finally gives up he has feelings for her

crowley x reader (good omens)

put my own spin on this one!

if you like what I do, here’s my ko-fi!

“Now, don’t scream, Cro-”

With something he would vehemently deny was later was, in fact, a very shrill scream, Crowley slams the brakes on the Bentley and spins round to look at you. You wince as a Mazda speeds past, leaning heavily on the horn and missing you by a hair’s breadth. 

“What the hell are you doing back there?!” he snaps, snatching off his glasses to be able to look at you properly. You can see he’s angry at being surprised but more genuinely baffled by your appearance. 

“I just - oh god look, don’t you have hazards to put on?” you ask as another angry road user narrowly avoids the sudden obstacle. 

“This car was made in the twenties, so no. It wasn’t high up the list of priorities a century ago. So you’d better get explaining quickly before we get rear ended, because it doesn’t have air bags either.” 

“Right. I… I heard what you were saying at the bookshop.”

Ah. Crowley’s heart - if he had one, obviously - would be in his stomach. 

“How much did you hear?” he asks, eventually, after several moments of you worriedly looking at the oncoming traffic. 

“Well, erm. All of it. I think. I meant to step out and talk but I sort of ended up just hiding behind one of the bookshelves. I’m quite good at that, it turns out.” You wave around to indicate your current predicament. 

You heard all of it. So the bit where Crowley was lamenting you being around so much. The bit where Aziraphale told him he was so obviously in love with you it was getting ridiculous that he was the only one who couldn’t see it. The bit where Crowley had said he couldn’t possibly allow himself to feel that way because hell would crack down on that instantly, because what better way is there to torture an immortal than by hurting the very breakable human they love? He couldn’t possibly do that to you. 

And you heard it all. You see him piecing this together in his head. 

“I’m sorry, the Bentley was unlocked -” it definitely wasn’t and he’d be having words with it later “- and I was going to wait for you so we could talk but then you got in and started driving and, I just didn’t know when I should say anything but then twenty minutes went by and it was getting really awkward…”

“Alright, alright,” Crowley sighs, rubbing the meat of his palms into his eyes, as if that might make the situation seem a bit clearer. It doesn’t. As cars whizz by outside you scuff the toe of one shoe against the heel of the other. 

“So… was it true? That you have feelings for me?”

Seems pointless to lie now, doesn’t it?

“Yes. Of course,” he sighs, because it’s the most obvious thing in the world. You’re you. How couldn’t he fall in love?

“Oh. Well,” you’re flustered, shy suddenly, “I, erm. I feel those feelings as well. So I just wanted to tell you that. And so I hid in your car.”

Crowley’s head snaps up. 

“What? You do?”

“Yes Crowley, I thought it was a bit hard to miss.”

He considers all the late night talks you’ve had, both of you loath to leave the bookshop and each other’s company. 

“I’m a fool, aren’t I?”

“Maybe,” you agree, that lovely smile creeping onto your face, “but a fool I’d like to take out for coffee.”

His own smile settling now, Crowley finally parks the Bentley. 

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Hey I would like to request a good omens Crowley x reader angsty sad fic where they are pining over him but he loves aziraphale and they don’t want to interfere. Kind of Laufey’s song Let You Break My Heart Again vibes. Thx!!❤️

"Why couldn't I have what THEY had, [y/n]?! Maybe it's...it's all part of God's great ineffable plan! As if fallin' weren't enough...y'know? Why not allow him to walk outta my life and crawl back to the other angelss, too? Keep fuckin' me over, I suppose. This must be karma, I swear.."

"Crowley.." You began, only to stop as the demon on the other end of the line continued his drunken sorrowful ramblings.

He was still clearly hurting, and you were his only company left.

The only one who knew about him and Aziraphale and everything they've done together for the past 6,000 years.

You've been around for a thousand or so, not aligned with Heaven nor Hell, but living as a simple immortal being.

However, only very recently have you learned that they've in fact known each other since the very dawn of Creation.

So their history goes way back.

It's no secret that Crowley's been pining after the angel all these years, forced to pretend he hates him just because he was on the "opposite side".

But he was sick of doing all of that, and finally got the courage to tell him how he really felt. He begged him to stay, to stop taking sides, and to think about just them for once.

In the end, Aziraphale still chose the side that shunned him for conspiring with a demon, halting Armageddon, and hiding Gabriel on Earth...all because he was offered a higher position of power and couldn't so easily let go of Heaven.

Not as easily as Crowley could. He couldn't understand that, or why Gabriel and Beelzebub could go off together and they couldn't.

Now you were here, having to comfort the very same demon that you've fallen in love with yourself.

It felt like such a selfish desire, knowing that you haven't lived nearly as long as either of them. You weren't there at the beginning of Everything. You weren't there at the Garden of Eden.

You could never fully understand their deep-rooted bond.

There's no way he would ever see you in a remotely similar light.

Even still, the heart wants what it wants..even if it's unobtainable.

"Listen, Crowley.." You tried speaking again. "I'm next in line, do you want anything?"

Perhaps that was rather poorly worded, as you heard a sniffle and what sounded like him holding back a sob. "I just want him to come back.." His voice broke.

There was that feeling again, constricting your human heart with pain.

It was such a fickle organ, you often thought. It kept people alive, yet when put through emotional toil..it felt like it was killing them, and they wanted nothing more than to rip it out of their chest to be rid of the pain.

But right in this moment, you felt like that because deep down...you wish he instead said that he wanted-

"W-Wait..you're..at that café 'cross the bookshop, right?" You heard Crowley mumble. "I'll get the usual..assuming she remembers. Actually...don't bother-"

"It's fine, Crow. It'll be my treat. I'm getting something, too...not that we actually need it. But we both enjoy it, right?"

"...right." He chuckled depressingly. "Fine. I'll be outside."

That was a surprise, although when you briefly glanced outside the window of Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death, you noticed the Bentley parked next to the sidewalk. You sighed, hanging up the phone before you stepped up to the register, smiling at Nina.

"Hello, Nina. I'll have my usual..and Mr. Crowley's, too. Six espresso shots, was it? And one of those [favorite flavor] pies, pretty please." You pointed to the menu.

"On it." She nodded, already getting to work on your order. "You know, I haven't seen that chap around in a while. How's he holding up? I heard he took it pretty hard."

"Yeah." You muttered, recalling how you've talked to her about your own feelings for Crowley.

You weren't expecting a human to solve the relationship woes of immortal beings when she herself was going through her own issues.

She worried that her and Maggie's little "intervention" caused the demon and angel to split up, but you didn't blame her. And neither did Crowley, although he was torn between wishing he didn't kiss Aziraphale and wondering if he'd regret not doing that at all.

He hasn't been back at the coffee shop since.

"Well, do you plan to tell him anytime soon?"

You nearly choked on your own spit. "N-Nina...I..I can't just do that. He clearly doesn't see me that way. He talks about him every day and night. I've stayed up past midnight consoling him, letting him stay with me the moment I learned he's sleeping outta his car. But...it's him he loves, not me. And I can't interfere with that..it would be wrong."

"Then...what's your plan from here?" She asked with a raised eyebrow.

"..I'm not sure anymore. I guess hope that one day..I'll stop falling in love with him. Maybe his angel will come back and everything will be as it was."

"Sounds like wishful thinking at this point, but I'm sure things will work out. Maybe he'll move on."

"I doubt it, but time will tell."

"Right." After finishing the drinks, she set them down into a cupholder, before giving you the pie as well. You paid and bid her farewell before heading out of the café and to the Bentley.

Inside, you saw Crowley sulking, lost in thought until you knocked on the passenger's window. He sat up with a start, fixing his glasses when he realized it was you. "S-Sorry."

The door opened, and you slid inside, passing him the tall cup with tons of espresso shots. "It's okay. So..where did you wanna go today?"

"I was thinkin'..St. James Park. Feel like I've been neglecting the ducks for far too long."

You blinked. 'Wasn't that..his and Aziraphale's thing-?'

"Yeah, I know..it...was our thing." He responded as though he read your mind. "'s just..been so lonely without him to chatter to. I hate siting all alone on that bench. But it's not like I can just walk Upstairs and tell him to screw all of them, right?"

"Sadly..no." Shaking your head, you glanced over your shoulder at the plants he's shoved into his backseat. Closest to you was a venus fly trap that had spots and other flaws, looking rather frail and wilted and sad.

Not too different from how its owner felt.

You smiled sadly and stroked the top of its head with your thumb, feeling it cease its trembles. Its mouth closed as it seemed to...purr?

How cute.

"Well would ya look at that...ya even treat the bloody things the same as he did.."

You tensed, looking back to Crowley and frowning upon seeing the tears sliding down his cheeks. But he was quick to wipe them away once you noticed them, yet a sniffle still managed to escape him.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to keep doing stuff that reminds you of him.." You set a hand on his back. "Do you...want me to drive?"

"No, it's fine.." He shook his head, sniffling loudly one last time before he managed to pull himself together. "Let's just..go."

You nodded, taking a sip of your coffee and a small bite of your pie, before you reached for the radio-

However, you forgot that the Bentley was sentient, instead turning it on for you and playing a song that nearly made you choke once again.

"--All I've had is coffee and leftover pie. It's no wonder why. Ooooh, still you take up all my mind. I don't even think that you care like I do. I should stop, Heaven knows I've tried..."

Even Crowley froze as he listened to the lyrics.

And not because it wasn't a Queen song.

"One day, I will stop falling in love with you."

Neither of you spoke a word, instead staring at the dashboard with looks of sadness upon your faces. You thought he would've changed the song by now, but...when you looked over, you could see his glasses now resting on the bridge of his nose.

His golden irises have almost completely taken over the whites of his eyes.

What little you saw of them..

Were growing redder and glossier.

"Some day, someone will like me like I like you."

You felt your own eyes start to sting, too, so you looked away and opted to pet the venus fly trap that was nuzzling your hand, clearly asking for more much-needed affection.

Sentient plants were easy to comfort.

If only your demon friend could be the same way..

If only you could show him that you wished to be more than just friends..but this simply wasn't your place to tell him that.

Not here, not now...and possibly not ever. For as long as you lived on this mortal plane.

All you could hope was that one day, the feeling will pass.

If Aziraphale came back, things might be better. You wished the idiot would at least check in with you both once in a while so you knew he was alive.

If that's the last time you hear from him, well....you weren't sure if Crowley would ever want to try loving again after what he's suffered through. He poured his heart out, only for it to get broken and stomped on before being left all alone on Earth.

He couldn't go through that again.

And you didn't wanna say anything about how you felt for the centuries you've known him. He could very well perceive that as you trying to replace him and ruin this friendship.

The wounds in his heart are still clearly fresh..and they likely will be for a long, long time.

For now, you'll just be by his side and be mindful. Perhaps he'll eventually realize how you felt about him...but you doubt it.

"Until then, I'll drink my coffee, eat my pie. Pretend we are more than friends. Then of course, I'll let you break my heart again-"

Crowley's hand suddenly shot towards the button, the car filling with an abrupt silence as he shut off the music. Then he switched between several Queen songs, eyebrows furrowed as none of them seemed to suit his current mood.

If Queen didn't make him happy anymore...he was seriously in emotional distraught.

But eventually he settled for "Somebody to Love", and you smiled, wiping your eyes as you leaned back in the seat. "Good choice."

He nodded absentmindedly, before finally driving off to the park after adjusting his glasses.

No further words were exchanged. You didn't even scold him for speeding down the tightly-knitted roads of London. That's the last thing he needed right now.

Especially since you picked up that habit from Aziraphale.

But even as Freddie's voice reverberated through the Bentley, you two couldn't stop thinking about the lyrics of Laufey's song and what it meant to both of you.

Yet the people it reminded you of...were completely different.

[im-the-j-in-anthony-j-crowley]

Good Omens 30 Day Challenge!

Link here

Day 29: What you love most about Good Omens

Everything

That's the full answer, but if you want more details, maybe they're down there

First of all, the obvious: It's a story of friendship, romance, understanding, acceptance, learning. All that between Aziraphale and Crowley.

Aziraphale and Crowley are basically the story itself, there's a lot of stuff going on around them, including THE END OF THE WORLD, but as you're walking through the story (and I think it's something that happens to a lot of us) the place you can't take your eyes off of is them. Everything is happening, and they're not exactly the center of the world. They're not causing anything extremely relevant, they are not extremely helpful in fixing things either, but it's where you want to look because all the simple things going on in their relationship feel much more interesting and important than the fact that the world is ending

Their relationship is not the center of the story, it's not the center of the world. Oh but damn, how I wish I could manipulate the narrative to make it so. They are not the center, BUT THEY SHOULD

You can always get lost in the idea of these two immortal beings who have been trying to love each other without letting it show for thousands of years, and that's… just magnificent.

Then you have my second favorite couple, Gabriel and Beelzebub, where on their own I don't see too much to be interested in, but together you can get a million things out of them. They have immense potential together, you can think too much about them. And they are in some ways, similar to Aziraphale and Crowley, but when you think about it in depth, the only major similarity is that they are an angel and a demon, and they love each other. Because when you go to the rest of the details, they're completely different. And that gives so much to consider

I must confess that when it comes to characters beyond Crowley and Aziraphale, I don't usually go there. Gabriel and Beelzebub is already quite a bit further than I would like. I just want to look at those two for all eternity.

Despite that, if I'm forced to look, there's the political/moral part that I've talked about that I definitely love, there are characters I quite like (Adam, Anathema, Muriel, Shax, Eric, Furfur, etc) but I think the most relevant stuff I've already covered

[roxannepolice]

I guess brainrot over the idea of an ineffable husbands style tensimm kiss won't let me sleep so.

I think, leaving aside the general collective unconscious and David Tennant in a telepathic mode of transport, the main reason the dynamic hit as so similar is this kind of. Absolute versus relational morality? I mean, this is what's on the deepest level, because the most apparent aspect is the idea that one of these semi immortal entities believes the other can be kind of restored to the state of goodness? And not just this person specifically, I think Aziraphale in general and the Doctor mainly as Twelve tbh just have this worldview where good is somehow definite and in a way natural for the universe? Oh yes, Twelve will be making speeches about whether he's a good man but the very asking of such a question implies "good man" is something definite, something that one can be. And oh yes there may be villains and monsters but you know if we all just sat down and talked then sure everything could be figured out. And this is more obvious than ever in his attitude towards Missy, where y'know. She just never heard the music. Whatever that metaphor means. Just as Aziraphale assumes Crowley can just be restored to the angelic status, because sure it was just a misunderstanding right he means he's not actually evil right? In a sense, pre-time angelicness and childhood are parallel in that they both assume a mind that hasn't developed individuality yet and I guess this is why Moffat is obsessed with throwing children at the audience 24/7.

And I find it fascinating that where everyone sees Aziraphale is wrong (or, indeed just needs to figure out Heaven is evil), Twelve's clockwork orange vault is generally hailed as reaching out to the truth behind the Master that Missy got closer to than any regeneration we've seen. For some reason, because sure as hell not because of anything that happened in EOT. And that's writing for you: if it's intelligent enough you'll look at something fundamentally similar and see completely different things.

Now, Crowley and the Master have more relational relational ethics - and relational is not the same as relative. And sure as hell don't think the universe or any individual will "naturally" veer towards good. In fact, they're both pretty cynical about, at least human, nature. Difference is Crowley needs to get drunk from Spanish inquisition, while the Master thoroughly enjoys letting future humans go murder their ancestors for fun. I mean, Missy even calls the Doctor out for his absolute and sentimental idea of good, except that's framed as her being in the wrong. And then there's the whole "Paradise. You've destroyed paradise! - They were lazy. I made them hungry" exchange between War and Saxon Masters in Masterful. Serpent in Eden, anyone?

And I think that this is why tensimm give off those vibes that they were closer to understanding each other than ever before. Obviously, the moral divide is still there, as it has to be, but I think Ten, especially in EOT, is more aware of how easily one can slip into a vengeful god, and all this to SAVE someone, than ever before. So while the moral divide is arguably widest it's ever been, the perceptual differences between the Doctor and the Master are almost gone in those episodes. And I suppose the metaphor of the Doctor hearing the drums is pretty pertinent here.

Now, before there's any accusation of moral nihilism on my part - no, there isn't. I specifically wrote of moral relationality not relativism. An action or attitude can be good or evil, the thing is that every individual exists in a net of their relations to others that they can't get out of through spontaneous epiphany. And at the same time the idea of absolute good is necessary, precisely because the general momentum is towards... the opposite. At the same time, there is nothing vile that hasn't been done in the name of higher good. Again, dialectics.

Which is why I say the Master (the Simm!Master, reduced as he was) fell where he stood no less that the Doctor in season 10. Like, this absolutely wasn't the intended point and I still say the mutual suicide was peak contrivance, but. work's intent. And all of this goes back to platonists vs. sophists, you know.

So anyway, it's still Ten that desperately grabs Saxon's lapels and kisses him in hopes of making him stay where they can be happy together.

[azuremist]

I've noticed you've been posting Ineffable Partners lately! (Which I love, so please don't stop or anything like that, sorry if pointing it out made you feel bad.) I was wondering what some of your favorite things about them were? Like their relationship, why you like their relationship, why you ship them, any headcanons, etc. Sorry if this is invasive or anything!

It’s not invasive AT ALL!! I love questions like these

It’s just. I dunno like, not to get sappy, but for so long it’s felt like queer media like Good Omens is impossible. I talked about it in my diary, how I think the feeling is similar to OFMD, but different. Like OFMD meets Bridget Guilty Gear. Cuz both Bridget and Ineffable Husbands, I was there for the start of their story, saw the subtext and the themes, but I wasn’t sure. Was told I was crazy for it. Then to have it confirmed, it’s such a cathartic feeling. One that you get so rarely with queer coding, queer media.

And… I dunno. It means so much that they’re these ancient beings. Literally since before the beginning of time. Played by older actors too.

It’s like… Oh. We have a future. And we have time.

And it’s just, like, this grand story of love. They’re best friends, they’re at opposite sides of a war, they get on each other’s nerves and can’t live without each other. Their love for each other is so great that trying to do the tiniest miracle imaginable is hugely powerful, because they did it together.

Crowley’s hand shakes when he aims a gun at Aziraphale, even though he knows Aziraphale will only have to fill out paperwork. Aziraphale puts himself in danger, because he knows that Crowley will save him and that he loves to do so. Crowley introduced Aziraphale to eating. Aziraphale is the co-owner of Crowley’s Bentley, one of the closest things to him. They have a silly little apology dance they do for each other, they roleplay jokingly; they’re so comfortable with each other.

Their unending need to protect the other is the only thing that can manage to drive them apart.

They’re soulmates, they’re ineffable, they’re everything and have lived longer than any of us could ever understand, but still they remain with each other. That sort of fucking… Immortal love, the love that only beings like them can have. And it’s queer, and it’s forbidden, but they’re both willing to meet in shades of gray if it means that they can spend a day doing nothing at all, together.

Ughghgh I have tears in my eyes just from typing this, they just. They’re just. They mean so fucking much, dude.

[one-with-the-floor]

“Hold still.”

Aziraphale huffed and shifted on his knees.

“Hold.  Still.”

“Dear, I really don’t see the point—”

“Do you want me to stab you in the eye?”

The angel looked up to stare at him incredulously.  “Do I want you to—”

“No?  Great!  Then stop.  Moving.”

Aziraphale grumbled and rolled his eyes, but he sat back on his heels and let Crowley lean in to continue lining his eyelids.  “You know, angel,” Crowley said carefully, nudging Aziraphale’s face to the side where the light was better.  “You could’ve leaned into this whole immortal look when you got here, if you wanted.  It, ah.  Suits you.”  Aziraphale opened his mouth to speak, but Crowley poked him sharply in the shoulder.  “If you start talking now you will end up with kohl in your hair, I swear to Heaven, Aziraphale, this is a very delicate process.”

“I just—”

Crowley waved the brush towards his face in a clear threat.  Aziraphale stopped talking.

He worked in silence for a bit.  This was the tricky bit, the wing, where the liner swung out past the eye in a decorative sweep.  It took concentration even when he did it on himself, and he’d had decades of practice at that.  Aziraphale’s skin was a new challenge, different in its give and smoothness, different in the way the brush pulled or glided or tugged.  It didn’t help that he was so close; how was he supposed to think straight when he could smell Aziraphale’s soap, and feel his breath on his hands?

The brush nearly slipped, and he cursed under his breath.  The kohl was such a sharp contrast to Aziraphale’s pale skin, one little wobbly line would show clear as day.  Refocusing, he drew over it again.  There.  Even, smooth, perfect.  Worthy of the face it adorned, now.

Crowley sat back to see the full effect, and had to stop himself from gasping aloud.  Aziraphale looked breathtaking.  The blue of his skirt brought out the warm pink of his skin, and the gold jewelry Crowley had (gently) bullied him into just drew attention to his wrists, his hips, his beautiful soft collarbones.  He was absolutely stunning, and Crowley let himself stare, mouth slightly agape and eyes wide.  He could sit and look at this vision for centuries.

After a moment, Aziraphale’s forehead creased, his mouth drooped into a little pout, and he cracked one eye open.  When he saw Crowley had moved away from his face, he gave up pretending to be still.  “My dear?”

“Ngk!”  Crowley quickly forced his expression to cooperate already and shifted to turn away.  If he looked at Aziraphale much longer he just might start burning.

“Is it done, then?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley glanced over just in time to grab his hand away from his face.

“Hell’s sake, angel, I just finished that, don’t touch it!”

“I just wanted to see—”

“You’re gonna see it by smudging it all over your face?”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic, it can’t be that bad.”

“You wanna test that?  ‘Cause really, angel, be my guest, but—erk—”  It was right then that Crowley realized he was still holding Aziraphale’s wrist, and he dropped it like his hand was burning as badly as his face.  “Ah… er, any—anyway.”  He turned away more fully this time, desperate to get the flames in his cheeks to shove off and leave him alone.  “I’ll just, um.  Here, yeah, just hold on a moment, I’ll do mine and then we can… uh, yeah, just a sec, won’t take long I can—”

A soft hand landed on his arm, and he froze in his tracks.  “Let me.”

“...what?”

With gentle fingers, Aziraphale turned him back around.  “Let me do it.”

Heaven, his eyes were lovely, he couldn’t so much as breathe in the glow of those eyes, how the hell was he supposed to string words together?  “Ngk, that’s—er, I mean—I don’t—”

Suddenly there was a kohl brush very close to his face.  “Hold still.”

“What—ANGEL!”  He smacked the brush away.  “Do you even know how to do it?”

Aziraphale shrugged, being frighteningly careless about where the brush was and coming very close to spilling the pot in his other hand.  “I’ve seen you do Moses’s how many times now?  It’ll be fine, my de—”

“You’re gonna get kohl all over me!  This is a new skirt, and I just washed my hair, I’m not having you—”

“Dearest.”  Aziraphale had no right sounding as amused as he did.  “I promise I will not get kohl on your skirt.  Or in your hair.”

“You… but you don’t…”

“I let you do mine.  Let me do yours.”

Crowley protested, and then grumbled, and may have whined a little in between, but after enough eye rolling and scoffing to last most humans a decade, he settled down and let Aziraphale start to paint his eyelids.

The kohl was cool against his skin, but Aziraphale’s hand cupping his jaw was warm even through the heat of his blush.  He was so gentle, smoothing the creases beside his eye with his thumb and tucking his fingertips just behind Crowley’s ear.  If Crowley hadn’t been so tense, he might have melted right where he sat.

And then he couldn’t stop himself from melting, because Aziraphale lifted his face to the sun and brushed his hair out of the way, and then he didn’t stop, just kept carding fingers through his hair with one hand while the other dragged kohl along his lashline.  It was still so new, the touching each other thing, and it nearly stopped Crowley’s heart every time.

Aziraphale’s thumb skated over his cheekbone, and Crowley revelled in the fact that he could feel the softness of his hand against the edge of his smile.  He did it again, and then he whispered.

“Oh, you beautiful thing.”

Crowley’s eyes fluttered open before he could remember they were supposed to stay closed.  Aziraphale was sitting back a little, the brush still in his hand as he gazed at Crowley with such solid intensity the demon really and truly thought this might be what the humans who went to heaven felt when they got there.

But then Aziraphale shook himself, and took a breath, and the intensity was gone.  “Sorry, darling,” he said, leaning back in.  “Nearly done, just close your eyes for me again.”  And Crowley was left to desperately hope he wasn’t close enough to hear his heart trying to hammer all the way through his chest to reach him.

“...angel?” Crowley eventually said, when he thought he’d be able to speak without his voice cracking.  He still couldn’t, as it turned out.

“Hmm?” Aziraphale responded, paying special attention to the corner of his left eye.

“I, um.  I meant it.  Earlier, when I said… when I said the, ah, that the immortal look suits you.  It does, it, um, ngk.  You—angel, you look really really good.”

Aziraphale hummed in response, and Crowley was so relieved he hadn’t burst into flame saying those words that it took him a moment to realize the angel sounded… unconvinced.  Aziraphale’s hand ran over his hair again.  “You’re too sweet, dear.”  He tilted his chin again, angling his face to the side, and Crowley went willingly even as he raced to catch up with what Aziraphale meant.  “But you’re the one who was meant for this, with your hair and your beautiful long legs and your cheekbones…  You’re perfect as a deity, Crowley, much more so than I could ever be.”

Crowley’s eyes flew open.  “Wait, angel—”

“There we are, all done.”  And Aziraphale was pulling away, scrambling back and leaving Crowley behind.  “I hope I didn’t… mess it up too badly.”

“Aziraphale—”

“Here, you should check it.”  Aziraphale thrust a copper mirror into his hands.  “Don’t worry if you want to fix it, I know I don’t really know what I’m doing, I won’t be offended.”  Crowley wanted to throw the mirror back into the void and take Aziraphale’s hands instead, get them to stop twitching and yanking at his skirt and make him look up from the ground and understand how absolutely serious Crowley was.  He almost did it, too, had the mirror in one hand ready to fling away, but then the sunlight caught and flashed on the metal and he glanced down, instinctively, and saw—

Oh.  Oh, wow.

What the fuck made Aziraphale think he wasn’t good at this?

The kohl around Crowley’s eyes was flawless, all smooth lines and a perfect, slim wing at the corner.  But that wasn’t even the half of it, Aziraphale had—heaven, Crowley never even did eyeshadow for himself, but Aziraphale had painted his eyelids a warm, pale green, fading lighter as it got closer to his nose.  Green was never a color Crowley would have picked, for anything, but it—he liked it.  Without even thinking, he knew he liked it.  The shade made his eyes look warmer.  Despite himself, despite everything, Crowley almost thought his eyes looked pretty like this.

“Aziraphale…” he said, not even trying to keep the awe out of his voice.  “The, it’s, ngk.  You—you gave me eyeshadow.”

“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry, I got—a bit carried away, you can take it off, I just thought, with your hair—it looks so pretty in the sun, darling—”  Aziraphale’s hands were locked on the fabric of his skirt, and he was looking anywhere but at Crowley.  ”—and you, well, you picked a skirt that’s, that’s not black, for once, and I love the color, dear, that dark red looks absolutely lovely on you, so I just thought a little more color to tie it in with your eyes, because I really adore your eyes, so—”

“Aziraphale.”  Crowley jumped forward, putting himself at Aziraphale’s side so he could reach out and turn his face to look at him.  “Aziraphale, no, angel, that’s not what I meant.  I love it.”

Aziraphale’s eyes went wide, the kohl outlines making them even bigger.  “I… really?”

“Yes.  Yes, angel.  Thank you.”  He let his hand slide down Aziraphale’s cheek, careful not to smudge the eyeliner.  “And I meant what I said earlier.  You look…”  His voice caught on the word as his hand caught on Aziraphale’s jaw.  “Angel, you’re bloody gorgeous.”

Aziraphale blushed, and heaven above, that just made his curls glow brighter.  “Oh, my dear, I don’t know—”

“Oi!  Let me finish.”  That made him smile, at least, even if it was directed at the ground.  “Aziraphale, you were made for this.  Are—I mean you gotta be kidding me, angel, with your hair?  Your hair looks like a halo most days, if that’s not ethereal I dunno what is.  And fuck, you think my legs are good?  Fucksake, angel, my legs are sticks.  Your legs—heaven, Aziraphale, first time I saw your thighs I genuinely thought I was gonna discorporate.  You’re absolutely beautiful.”

Aziraphale looked up, finally, and his smile, even if it was small, was enough to light up the whole of the earth.  “...thank you,” he whispered, his hands no longer clutching his skirt but resting gently between his legs.  “My dear, thank you.  You’re so very lovely to me.”

Crowley leaned across the short distance to press a gentle kiss to Aziraphale’s cheek.  The angel turned away, but he was really smiling now, a little secret smirk meant just for them.  Crowley let his arm drop down to wrap around his shoulder.  “I mean it, angel.”

He saw Aziraphale peer back at him over his other shoulder and felt a soft grin on his own face.  “I mean it too, dear.  I really do.”

This is my submission for @whiteleyfoster‘s dtiys, which I did as a fic!  I adore Prince of Omens, so it was really fun to do something in that world!  [AO3 link]

[nicnacsnonsense]

I think most of the Good Omens fandom has heard by now that in the Bible the angels guarding Eden were Cherubim, in contrast with Aziraphale being identified as a Principality. I went to read Genesis 3, the passage where this is referenced, to see if I could come up with any further thoughts on this discrepancy. I don’t have anything on that, but oh boy did I uncover some other wild stuff. Starting with the general Bible thoughts, then I’ll circle back to GO specific stuff:

There is no implication here that the serpent is the devil or a demon or anything other than an ordinary animal. Snakes are just assholes apparently.

God doesn’t just omnisciently know that the humans have eaten from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. They find out because Adam hid in the bushes when he heard God coming because he was embarrassed to have Them see him naked. When he tells Them this, Their response is “Who told you you were naked? Did you eat from the Tree of Knowledge when I specifically told you not to?”

Sensing he’s about to be in Big Trouble with Dad, Adam immediately says “Eve made me do it,” and then Eve says, “the snake made me do it.” There is zero sibling solidarity in this family, and God is Very Disappointed in all of them.

God did however give Adam and Eve some real clothes before kicking them out.

There are actually two important trees in the garden: the Tree of Knowledge and the Tree of Life. Having eaten from the Tree of Knowledge, the humans are now forbidden from eating from the Tree of Life, which grants immortality. Eden is the prologue level of a video game and humans chose knowledge as our starter rather than immortality.

Now moving on to the Good Omens stuff, first let me quote you the relevant line, Genesis 3:24

After he drove the man out, he placed on the east side of the Garden of Eden cherubim and a flaming sword flashing back and forth to guard the way to the tree of life.

Now there are a handful of little things we can pick out here, but the most important takeaway is that, despite general assumption in the fandom, Aziraphale had not been posted on the wall of the garden prior to Adam and Eve getting kicked out guarding it from whatever. No, God came to Aziraphale and said, “Hey, I’ve told Adam and Eve they aren’t allowed in the garden anymore. Make sure they leave, and here take this flaming sword to stop them from getting back in.” Aziraphale is given the flaming sword specifically to ward of the humans and less than five minutes later he’s handing it over to them. What an icon.

Further this means when Aziraphale says he “was technically on apple tree duty,” he’s not talking about the Tree of Knowledge, he’s talking about the Tree of Life. So when he’s gearing up to tell the long story leading up to the Apocalypse, he’s not starting with the Fall of Man which is coincidentally also when he and Crowley met. No, he is skipping straight past Man’s Fall to very explicitly start with his and Crowley’s first meeting. He is literally saying “Well, it all started when I was out on a work assignment and this charming fellow slithered up to me...” I repeat, what an icon.

[justkeeptrekkin]

Wrote a little Good Omens/Star Trek crossover

.... for the awesome @comicgeekery​. Thanks for the inspo!

5th April, 2063

“--historic day for humankind. For this is truly the first time that we have been able to refer to ourselves as such with the certainty that there is, in fact, life elsewhere in the perceivable universe.”

It’s a balmy, spring afternoon in London when Crowley rolls out of bed and turns on the television. Honestly, he’s fairly used to ignoring the news; it’s only on because he’d left it on channel one last night for a nature documentary that he and Aziraphale have been watching about whales. That’s why he pays very little attention to the picture on his projector screen.

“-- quite extraordinary. It seems as if this was all triggered by Zefram Cochrane's attempt at warp-speed flight, and er-- just coming in now, these beings call themselves Vulcans, Jane, and-- aha-- well, they’re not quite saying that they come in peace, but if our translators are correct, they’re offering us a long and prosperous life--”

Crowley slams his mug on the counter. He’s run out of coffee. He could very easily conjure up some more now, right here, but miracle-coffee is never as good as the nice Costa Rican stuff he buys. Or, more accurately, that Aziraphale buys for him, because he’s just that much of a kept man, apparently.

A knocking at the door. A light rapping that Crowley recognises immediately, and it would usually make him humiliatingly happy except for the fact that he’s just woken up from a--

He checks the time on the TV screen.

 -- from a two week nap, he hasn’t got any coffee, and the TV is blabbering on far too loudly. Waving a hand at said TV until it is muted, Crowley slides over to the door, dressing gown belt flapping about against his leg, and opens it with a flourish.

 Aziraphale has that bright-eyed, bushy-tailed look about him: never a good sign. “Crowley--”

Crowley plants a brief kiss on his cheek, then immediately retreats back into the kitchen, shoulders heavy with sleep. “I’m going back to sleep, angel. World’s too loud still.”

”Crowley--” the sound of the door slamming, very purposefully, Crowley thinks, as Azriaphale continues: “I have been trying to call you all morning. I thought you left your phone on vibrate for such things.”

 “I did. Didn’t I?” Crowley scratches his head. He’s sure he’d changed the ring tone for Aziraphale’s phone number specifically so he’d wake up when only he called. “Apparently not, sorry Angel-- any news?”

He sees the way Aziraphale is rolling his eyes and flapping about when he turns back around from the kitchen with two mugs of tea. His hands are fiddling with each other in that excitable way that they do, a happy nervous way that he’s come to adore. Crowley hands him a cup. Aziraphale takes it with a pointed raise of his brow.

“Any -- any news? Really. You could not have asked a more absurd--”

At that point, apparently, he’s lost for words. More frustrated than Crowley realised, and so he begins to take Aziraphale’s bright eyes and bushy tail a little more seriously. Particularly when Aziraphale puts down the cup of tea of all things, and gestures to the television, one arm outstretched and gaze still fixed on Crowley.

The screen remains muted. However, Crowley gathers what Aziraphale is gesturing at fairly quickly. He’s so used to letting the news blend into the background, tired of feeling depressed by the human race -- especially with this World War III nonsense -- that he’d completely missed that something, actually, rather important has been happening.

It looks like the research base in San Francisco. Crowley knows only a little about this; as the angel who created a fair few of the stars in the sky, he takes interest when humans start pointing their big magnifying glasses at them. Zefram Cochrane, the inventor of warp-speed engines, and a few other important looking men (who may well be important, what does Crowley know? He hasn’t been paying attention) welcomes three people. People, except they’re not human. Humanoid, perhaps, but human? No. Crowley can spot an alien a mile off.

“Crikey,” he mutters, hovering in his sparse living room with his dressing gown open and tea steaming.

Aziraphale nods fervently.

“Which ones are these?”

“These are the Vulcans,” Aziraphale explains. “Do you remember? Our colleagues -- oh, I forget their names -- a few of our colleagues helped set up. Erm.” Aziraphale purses his lips. “Well, their version of Eden.”

“Something like Sha Ka Ray, if I remember,” Crowley mutters, unblinking as he watches one of the Vulcans raise their hand in a v-shape, the humans mimicking.

“That was it! Sha Ka Ree.”

They’re wearing long, heavy cloaks. Even expressions, but glints in their eyes, as if they are taking some professional enjoyment out of this. The humans, barely containing their own excitement -- and probably a good dose of apprehension. Human beings, finally meeting an alien species who could take them down a notch, teach the buggers a couple of things. Crowley and Aziraphale certainly never managed to, much as they’ve tried. Far too stubborn.

After a while of sitting and watching the proceedings-- the beginnings of a new, enterprising delegation-- Crowley gives a long exhale.

“Those bowl cuts are questionable.”

Stardate: 53459 (17th July 2269)

“What? Just give them a quick ring? Give the flagship of Starfleet’s exploratory expedition a cheeky call, just to check in? ‘Hello Enterprise, nice to meet you’?”

“Yes. Why, do you not think that they’d appreciate it?”

“It’s less that they won’t appreciate it and more that it might blow their tiny minds, Angel.”

“They’ve met plenty of extraordinary species by this point -- extraordinary by their standards, anyway. A call from us will be -- how do they put it -- ‘a walk in the park’--?”

“Not the point. That’s -- that’s actually the bit that I’m struggling with, here. What is the point, exactly? What are you aiming to achieve? You looking to freak them out or…?”

“Well, I thought perhaps we could… ah. Tell them who we are.”

Aziraphale looks at Crowley. Red hair tied up, ringlets around his face; silver eye-shadow; a black jumpsuit in the style of the Terran fashion that really leaves very little to the imagination, with cut-outs here and there all over his body. Legs crossed, foot bouncing impatiently, arms sprawled across the back of Aziraphale’s sofa. In his old bookshop, Crowley always sticks out like a sore thumb, and he’s always loved that about him.

He tilts his head. “Really,” he drawls, vaguely amused.

“Yes. Don’t you think it’s about time?”

“IIIII dunno…” Crowley sucks air through his teeth contemplatively. “Never ends very well. Tell humans that angels and demons roam their planet and they get all agitated. Don’t need to tell you that, you remember how much it traumatised dear old Hieronymous. Couldn’t stop painting us, the poor bastard.”

Aziraphale sighs. “Yes, well, that was different. That was almost a millennia ago, now.”

The bookshop is still just as dusty as it has ever been. Crowley has been urging him to at least install a proper computer -- one that will answer to him, rather than sitting there stupidly, looking like a brick. But he is quite happy with it as it is, especially when he has Crowley here, lounging about as he’s always done, draped across the furniture like he’s still wrapped around that apple tree. And drinking more wine than is good for them.

“Right so -- let’s just role-play this--” Crowley’s glass makes a decisive clink against the table, “-- we patch into their network. Right? I find their frequency and just, try and call from my PADD.”

“Yes,” he confirms, not liking his partner’s tone of voice.

“So then they answer, all, military-like and ready for some sort of diplomatic… situation.”

“Mm…”

Crowley’s leaning forward in his seat, gesticulating a enthusiastically. “They see us, they’re all, ‘oi, how did you get this number?’ and we’re all, ‘sorry, just thought we’d pop in and introduce ourselves, we’re your new neighbours,’” he wrinkles his nose mockingly, “‘Cept we’re not new at all, not really, we’ve been here since the dawn of time, but don’t worry too much about that’.”

“Well--”

“So they’re all, ‘ah, immortal beings from outer space!’ and we have to explain that, actually, we’re not really from space at all, we’re the ones who made space, and no, sorry, we’d love to patch you through to God, except She’s been a little busy for the past six thousand odd years, no can do, just got us boring old sods’.”

“Crowley, really. Don’t you think you’re being a little reductionist?”

“No.” Suddenly serious. “I don’t. They’re humans. They’re brilliant, but they’re also humans, which means they’re also thick as shit.”

Aziraphale purses his lips, electing to ignore the love of his life for this moment. Sitting up properly, linking his hands in his lap. “I think it’s time.”

“And what do you think they’ll do?”

“Perhaps it will bring about some new, interesting philosophy. About the nature of the universe, of the overlap between science and faith.”

Crowley’s brow quirks, yellow eyes staring, wide and disbelieving. “Some ‘new and interesting philosophy’? Books. You’re talking about books. You think you’ll get some nice literature out of this.”

Aziraphale flounders. “Well, that’s not exactly how I’d put it--”

Crowley scowls. But then, he’s taking out his PADD from his purse, making aggravated noises as his fingers fly across the screen.

“You’re doing it?” Aziraphale asks hopefully.

“Yes, yes. You got all happy as soon as you started talking about it and-- I was never really going to say no, was I? You know how pathetic I am by this point, surely.”

He’s not looking at him, but Aziraphale is gazing with those big, angel-eyes that Crowley’s told him he uses sometimes. They drive him insane, but he can’t help it, not when Crowley’s being so unintentionally romantic. “Oh, Crowley.”

“Shhhht. Stop. I’m not doing anything nice, I’m--”

“Not nice, I know.”

Aziraphale smiles serenely. Crowley’s scowl deepens, just as the PADD begins to ring.

The screen is propped up against a wine bottle, just in time for the image to reveal a man. A man in green and gold, sand-blonde hair swept back and a look of cautious curiosity in his hazel eyes. Behind his chair, a woman in red is leaning over the controls. The captain’s head is angled slightly, tilted as he seems to consider his situation -- consider the two strangers who have called their starship.

“Greetings, this is Captain Kirk of the Starship: Enterprise. To whom am I speaking?”

“Oh, how exciting,” Aziraphale whispers, nudging Crowley a little. Then, more loudly, “Greetings, Captain Kirk! My name is Aziraphale, and this is Crowley.”

Crowley sighs, seeming very put upon.

Aziraphale nudges him again. “Well! Don’t be rude, Crowley.”

“Yes, hello, how very nice to meet you,” he simpers accordingly.

“This is a secure line, gentlemen. How did you access our co-ordinates?”

“Ah, yep, sorry, my fault,” Crowley waves a hand. “I’m -- well, we’re, er… we can do stuff. Lots of stuff. He’ll explain later.”

He shoots Aziraphale a glare, which seems to be a warning that this could go horribly wrong. Aziraphale, ever the opportunist, elects to ignore this.

“That I shall,” Aziraphale adds, pointedly.

Kirk thinks. He thinks, sitting so still as he leans towards the monitor, that for a moment, Azirpahale thinks the screen has frozen. Then, turning his head to his right, he notes that he is talking to someone. A certain someone who then appears on screen, a royal blue shirt and hands clasped behind his back. A Vulcan. The two converse with a silent look.

Ah. Aziraphale knows that look very well. 

“Be that as it may,” Kirk continues, turning back to them, “it is technically a federal crime to trace Starfleet co-ordinates and to contact a ship without first organising an official meeting. That is, unless it is an emergency.”

“Oh, yes, I have heard of your ship’s adventures, captain,” Aziraphale rushes. He puts down his glass of wine. “You’ve done an awful lot of good, helping those in need.”

“We… do our best,” he says with a slow nod.

“Sorry. For the, er… illegal call,” Crowley says.

Another moment where both men share a glance. And then, the Vulcan in blue tilts an inquisitive chin.

“Sir, may I enquire as to the colour of your eyes? They do not appear to be contact lenses.”

It takes a moment for Crowley to realise that he’s the one being addressed. Then, “Ah! Bollocks. Forgot the sunglasses-- see Aziraphale, this is why we don’t call Starfleet when we’ve had two bottles of Rioja.”

“Awfully sorry, dear--”

The captain looks up at his colleague with a wry smile and a raised brow. “Spock, don’t you think it’s a little rude to as a stranger questions about their appearance?”

“A stranger who has made contact with Starfleet’s flagship outside of legal parameters.”

“Still, politeness can go a long way,” he adds with a smirk, and a look in his eyes that’s, quite frankly, obscene.

Crowley clears his throat. “To answer your question-- although, seems like they’re more interested in each other,” he says to Aziraphale as an aside, “- to answer your question, yeah, they’re real. Snake eyes. Unfortunate accident involving a bastard called Lucifer.”

A pause. The man named Spock tilts his head. Kirk leans forward in his seat.

“Lucifer, you say?”

At that, Crowley gives a wicked smile. Aziraphale sighs. This wasn’t exactly how he’d imagined this conversation starting.

Stardate: 51650 (9th May 2271)

“My point is -- my point is -- tribbles. Tribbles, now -- whose idea were those, then? Who thought they were a good idea? They’ve -- they’ve not got faces, they’ve not got hands or feet or paws or anything, just, little balls of fluff that just poof! Reproduce, until you’re up to your tits in furballs.”

“Now, tha’s what ah been tryna tell yeh, captain. And you mind what he’s saying, too, Lieutenant Uhura! I know you thought they’s adorable, but they’re terrors.”

“Pointless, they’re pointless. Don’t know what they were thinking of when they made tribbles, whoever they were.”

“Aye! See, straight from the mouth of an angel!”

“Er, former angel.”

”Them wee bastards’ve been cloggin’ up my ship’s engine, would ye believe?”

 “Our ship, Scotty.”

 “Oh. Well, o’course, captain… I didnae mean no disrespect, captain--”

 “In Russia--”

“I swear, if you’re about to say that Russia invented tribbles, Chekov, I’ll kick you out of this here bar faster than you can say Alabama Slammer.”

“Alright, now, Bones, it’s shore leave. He can say what he wants. We’re all here to relax. Isn’t that right, Spock?”

“Yeah, he sure looks relaxed there, Jim.”

“I am not accustomed to frequenting such establishments.”

“I would like to state, for the wecord, sir, that I was not going to say that Russia inwented tribbles.”

“I -- ah -- actually, I have a bit of a confession to make in that respect…”

“Angel. Please. Please don’t tell me that you’re… Christ, you didn’t…”

“You are the angel responsible for creating the tribble species?”

“You have a lot to answer for, Aziraphale.”

“It wasn’t intentional! Or, rather, the intention was to simply create a creature so lovely and adorable that no one could quite resist it. And, I suppose, what with evolution and how that may have changed their, erm, reproduction process…”

“You bastard.”

“Crowley -- for Heaven’s sake, it was simply an accident! You can hardly say that it’s worse than some of your creations.”

“I invented Luton airport. You invented the universe’s most irritating pest. Honestly, I figured some lower ranking demon had been the one to come up with it, but now I feel, sort of… betrayed.”

“Don’t say that! May I remind you that you are the one who came up with the M25? Which nearly destroyed the universe as we know it!”

“I beg your pardon? Would you care to rewind and just, explain that last bit, Aziraphale?”

“Oh -- er, it’s a long story.”

“A very long story that would mean another round. Angel, you are definitely bloody-well buying.”

Stardate: 43897 (24th November 2366)

“You know, when you said that you wanted to check-in with Picard and the team, this isn’t what I imagined.”

Their call isn’t immediately picked up. However, when it is, the first thing they see is a large barbershop quartet. They’re all wearing pink, candy-stripe suits and wicker hats. The bridge of the Enterprise looks much the same as it did under captain Kirk, if not for this barbershop quartet, and perhaps a few technological tweaks. And, of course, the current captain who sits in his chair, face in his hand.

“Er.” Crowley looks at Aziraphale, who looks back at Crowley. “This doesn’t look like a good time.”

“No, by all means,” Picard gestures to the screen, other hand still covering his face. “If you have any advice to offer, then I will happily take it.”

“What…” Aziraphale trails off, purses his lips. The, trying to affect something light and airy, “What seems to be the problem, captain?”

Picard looks over the edge of his hand. “Are you aware of the being that calls itself ‘Q’?”

He’s about to say that he isn’t -- perhaps Crowley knows this Q?-- but before they even have a moment to deliberate, the tallest of the barbershop quartet members steps forward from the throng and hops down the steps to Picard’s side. Dark eyes that have seen too much, brightened by mischief. And for a moment, there is the faintest flicker of recognition as he doffs his hat to the screen, leaning against Picard’s captain chair.

“Good day to you, gentlemen. Did you like my song?”

“No,” Picard says quite firmly. “Now, would you please leave and take your pestering elsewhere!”

Q tuts, rolls his eyes. Pokes his thumb in Picard’s direction. “He’s just grumpy because he hasn’t had his morning cup of Earl Grey.”

“You…”

It’s Crowley that says this. Leaning forward on Aziraphale’s sofa, snake pupils narrowing. And it’s then that Aziraphale realises that this is absolutely someone they know. He just can’t put his finger on it, whilst Crowley clearly has.

“You know him?” Picard says, with the smallest flicker of hope.

“Wait. Wait a second now,” Q points his finger at Crowley, frown deepening. He miracles his hat away, cradles his chin. “Now, we worked together a long time ago, didn’t we?”

That makes Aziraphale stare back at Crowley.

There’s some hesitance. “Oh. Sure, probably. Long time ago, now, wasn’t it? Who knows. Worked with lots of people.”

“No, no, no -- we did a lot of creating with each other. Some fun messing around you know?”

“Er. Not sure. Might have a different person in mind--”

And then those eyes widen. A wicked grin on his face, and Aziraphale can only imagine that this Q must be a demon.

That’s when Aziraphale finds himself standing on the bridge of the Enterprise. Jean-Luc Picard looking up at them despairingly, whilst the rest of his crew work as diligently as they can with a quartet serenading them. Data, notably, is working with the utmost focus, whilst Wharf looks like he’s two seconds away from ripping something in half bare-handed. Riker looks no more patient.

“Oh,” Aziraphale remarks. “You’ve -- you miracled us here!”

No use, Q is far too preoccupied by Crowley. Pointing a finger in recognition. “You’re Crawly! I remember you! Oh, we got up to some good stuff together, huh? It’s been a long time since I’ve seen any of the guys from the Milky Way neighbourhood. You guys really like to keep to yourselves, I never understood it. Totally obsessed with your ‘Eden’ as if the rest of us don’t exist.”

“You o know him,” Picard says with some accusation.

Crowley looks, to put it lightly, a little embarrassed. Hands sliding in his pockets and averting his snake-eyed gaze, “Yup. Long time ago. Hung out with a different crowd, then, you got to understand…”

“Qasphiel.” The name bubbles up on Aziraphale’s tongue from nowhere; memories of a gaggle of angels who called themselves the Q Continuum, who were cast out for blasphemy. Creating your own little gang was never something that The Almighty did like. “You’re Qasphiel. You know, I do remember you, now that I think about it.”

Q looks Aziraphale up and down once. “I don’t remember you. Were you one of the more straight-laced types? Yeah, we wouldn’t have hung out, much.”

“Excuse me? I… I’ll have you know, that since then I’ve become quite the rebel--”

“What’re you doing here, Qasphiel?” Crowley interrupts with some exhaustion. “Coming in here and getting on everyone’s nerves -- believe me, I get that it’s fun for a while, but, come on. You must be a bit knackered of it now, no matter what the others are getting you to do.”

“Ah, but I don’t work on anyone’s terms any more. Not even the Continuum’s,” Q smiles smugly.

“That’s awfully nice, but the alternative is buggering off, so the rest of us can get on with our lives.”

He narrows his eyes at Crowley. “What’s in it for me?”

A weary sigh. And Aziraphale considers just how kind Crowley has always been, even if he doesn’t always see it. “Listen. How about -- what about a catch-up. Grab a drink on some planet in the Omicron Delta quadrant. Talk about old times? Big Bang and all that?”

“Ah yes,” Q sighs. Then, apparently distracted, “You know, I don’t recall the yellow eyes,” he gestures to his own. “The demonic thing. Did you fall with Lucy and the others, Crawly? Bad luck.”

“That’s a story that needs telling over a drink.”

There’s a long moment -- too long a moment -- where Q considers this offer. Picard is leaning back in his seat and watching the interaction over steepled fingers. Even Data has stopped to listen, head tilted in interest.

Then, Q shrugs.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

And with that, Picard’s bridge is once again empty of divine or immortal beings. Or barbershop quartets. It is extraordinarily quiet.

Picard lets out a long exhale. “Never a dull day.”

 Stardate: unknown

Three suns set upon the horizon of Alpha Centauri. Palm trees wave in the breeze; planted there a few decades ago when this planet first became populated by humanoid species. The air tastes like salt and smells like ozone. A burning orange sky, a deep purple scattering of stars directly above them. Small, clay houses, their shutters closed in the late afternoon heat. Mountain ranges in the distance, seeming so small from their little balcony.

“Total tourist trap,” Crowley mutters into his glass of Romulan ale.

Aziraphale stifles a burp. “Sorry?”

“Look at it. Tourist trap.” Crowley crosses his legs on the railing of the balcony. “All of it. Built like a Terran city, as well. Palm trees and all that bollocks. Shops and restaurants, Christ, it couldn’t get more human if you tried. When will they stop colonising and just learn to appreciate?”

“Mmm.”

“Remember when we could come here and not be harassed by people selling sunglasses? When it was just a big, ol’ expanse?”

“Empty,” Aziraphale remarks. Then, wide eyed, “Hot.”

They watch the first sun dip behind the mountain ranges. The Romulan ale burns Crowley’s throat nicely.

“D’you ever wonder what it would’ve been like?”

Aziraphale takes a slow, indulgent breath. And Crowley knows that he understands what he’s asking. “Sometimes. But I think it’s better that we didn’t run away. We did save the universe, after all.”

“I know, obviously. But do you ever wonder what would have happened if we hadn’t?”

Of course he does. They both have. Images of a war-torn universe, of all of this: gone.

Crowley drops his hand, finds Aziraphale’s. Their fingers link, and they absorb the light of three, alien stars.

[sushiandstarlight]

Clearing the Air

Read this story on AO3

It had been two weeks since the world appeared to be at it’s end- and then, wasn’t.  Two weeks after they had shared a terrified bus ride, hands clasped on the seat between them.  Scared that this was the end of all things, that it was the end of them and all that they had shared.  Scared, perhaps even more so, that it may be the very beginning of all things for the two of them.  Uncertain, to put it mildly, that tomorrow may put an end to this tiny sprout of a thing.  Or, might create a world where they had to live with the consequences of the thing.  Six thousand years they had run: from their sides yes, but ultimately from this thing between them.

And then... the world didn’t end.

They had chosen this world as the place they would stand their ground and they had chosen one another- their side, their world.  They had worn each other’s skin to protect what they had- both, in the quiet tension before detainment, having thoughts that only a short time ago they’d held this hand.  That they knew the shape of it, the warmth, the rough spots, and the softness.  Feeling that connection to the other side.

There wasn’t time to discuss it and, really, that wasn’t something they did.  Drunken nights discussing flailing Kraken or dolphins [the fate thereof] or trying to figure out if ducks had ears in the park as the sun crested the trees.  Afternoons with the angel’s nose in a book and the demon gleefully stirring up trouble on his mobile.

There had been numerous times in the years spent on this world that they had gone long bouts without contact.  Early on, their meetings were purely accidental.  Or, at the very least, not planned on their own parts.  Thwarting and miracles and stirring up trouble- it was just the job.  They didn’t get a choice on where they were sent or when.  And, even afterwards, when they found they enjoyed the company they moved like chess pieces: trying to keep the air of random chance when really it was anything but.  In those times, they could go months or years without a sighting of one another.

There had always been plenty of time.  Being immortal meant time slipped along like a quiet stream.  You could take a dip and enjoy the moment, but the steady movement was really irrelevant in the long run.  The sun shining down, the same way.  It was still the same stream or light, all things considered.  Things changed, but they also stayed very much the same.

But, being reminded that that immortality was actually only at the will of some higher power or in the hands of a capricious ruling body in Her stead?  It made every handful of water, every face full of warm sunshine, feel more precious than before.  One could focus on a moment of skin on skin and fixate.  Moments could become worlds all their own.

That didn't mean it was easy to acknowledge them.  Far from it, in fact.  Because what if a moment meant more to you than it did to someone else?  A moment of connection shared in a dark, stressful time might be only that: a brief need for comfort, taken when it was needed and never sought after again.  Or, it could be more.  Something longed and hoped for- an impossibility made real, somehow.  Something forbidden and rebuked, but impossible to shake.  A slow-burning ember, just waiting to be coaxed into a roaring flame.

It had been two weeks and neither of them knew which it was to the other, only what it meant in their own heart.

Aziraphale was, he thought, a patient enough being.  He was usually content to be alone with his books: a millennia of human stories.  The stream of time could ebb and flow outside his cocoon of a bookshop and there was very little to mark it.  The thwarted apocalypse had marked it, surely, even if only because his safe place had been threatened, destroyed even, though, thankfully, he had missed the sight of it.  Even that he would eventually compartmentalize, given enough time and distance from the event.

But, that bus ride.  That moment of connection.  That hope that blew hard on the ember that had, for so long, clung to life despite his efforts to ignore it.  In another millennia, he would not forget it, regardless of whether it meant as much to both of them or not.  Only, one option would hurt more.  Who else did he have save Crowley?  Who else would he ever find?  There were no other matches- only two beings on their side.  A fact  recently acknowledged, but that was how it had always been.  He had been truly deluded to ever think otherwise.  The companionship in heaven had never warmed him the way that just sitting, side-by-side, on a park bench with Crowley had.

The slip of paper he found wedged under his shop door came as a welcome surprise.  It was clearly the demon's scrawl.  Even his penmanship, or the lack thereof, was enough to make the angel's heart flutter.  Crowley hadn't disappeared; he wasn't done with him.  Their friendship had meant more than a means to an end.  Yes, it said all of that to Aziraphale, but in context.  Context had been most of their communication over the years.  All of it, really.  Rarely had they ever spoken of the things that truly mattered in plain terms.

“The park, 11am, Tuesday. -C” was all it actually said.  What Crowley would hate to know was what Aziraphale easily detected: this was the last of several attempts to write a note.  The impressions of all the previous words left hills and valleys all over the paper.  He couldn't read them, of course, but he knew what they meant.  They meant that Crowley had been nervous about contacting him.  This wasn't an assignment.  It wasn't to discuss world-ending business.  It couldn't, at all, be written off as work-related.  Crowley wanted to see him just... because.  At the very least, he missed Aziraphale.  At the most... Well.  Aziraphale tried not to dwell too hard on the possibilities.

Crowley had missed their time together.  If that's all it was- that he got to see the demon.... That they stuck to discussing squid communication strategies over actually talking about what they were- that was okay, right?  They had fought for and won the time again.  They could ignore the stream and sit in the shade together.  The world could go on around them and things could stay the same as they had always been.  But, it was hard to shake, this feeling of mortality that shivered down his spine.  He had been ended.  His life that should have marched on into eternity had been over.  Yes, he had returned, obviously.  But, the movement of time, the way it ticked by relentlessly, that was difficult to leave behind.

The days until they were to meet seemed to stretch and ache with the wait of it.  Why did Crowley need so much notice, he groused to himself.  What pressing things did he have to do that meant putting Aziraphale off?  But, really, he just missed the demon.  A few more days shouldn't be any worse than the prior two weeks.  Oh, but time was cupped in his hands now.  He held it and then it slipped away.  He held the next and watched it go.

Before he knew it, despite counting the moments, it was Tuesday.  Absurdly, he found himself in front of his bedroom mirror, every bowtie he owned strewn across the rarely-used bed behind him.  It was nearly 10:30 now, but none of them seemed right.  He wasn't sure why he was worried about which bowtie to wear to see Crowley.  Crowley didn't seem to actually like any of them.  Still, it would, perhaps, give the demon something to comment on.  Something to break the two and a half weeks of confusing silence.  But, none of them seemed to be the right one and he had no time to get another.  He could miracle one, of course.  But that wouldn't be the same.  Too much detectable effort for something that should be trivial.  Crowley would know.  It could spook him.

Aziraphale gave it up as a loss, going without.  It felt a little scandalous: having his shirt undone at the top and exposing a little bit more of his throat.  There was precedent for that, though.  There had been ages before bowties existed.  Terrible times.  Okay times.  Now was better, surely.  Not just because of bowties, but they certainly helped.  None of this forethought stopped him when he reached the gate of the park and paused to straighten the absent bowtie.  His hands fluttered at his neck for a moment before he clasped them, resolutely, behind his back.

It wasn't nearly as hard to find Crowley as he'd thought, considering the lack of direction in the note.  A demonic miracle floated on the breeze, he could smell it.  Somehow, the light smell of char settled him.  It was familiar, as was the prickling that went down his spine and ruffled his tucked-away feathers.  That's what it felt like to be around Crowley and it was a greater relief than even he thought it would be.

He followed the sensations down a winding side-path that he was certain had not existed the last time he had been to the park.  It was dotted along the sides with salvias in full bloom- red and blues mixed together.  He was vaguely familiar with the flower from one of Crowley's many long one-sided, often drunken,  discussions on plants.  It occurred to him that they might be meaningful, but if Crowley had mentioned a meaning for them, he couldn't remember it.

The path abruptly ended and opened into a perfectly circular clearing.  And there, in the center, sat Crowley.  Under him was a blue and red checkered blanket strewn with the contents of a picnic basket which sat by his right hip.  There was no way all the treats had fit inside that basket without a miracle- the finger sandwiches and pastries, coffee and mugs, wine in a bucket of ice with it's own glasses that perched upright on the blanket against their will.

The most arresting bit of all, though, was Crowley himself.  His wings were out and spread in great arcs over the picnic.  The feathers caught the sunlight as it streamed down on him, bouncing it off his black feathers in shimmers of blues and greens and even gold.  And, speaking of gold, Aziraphale paused  at the head of the trail when he noticed that Crowley's glasses were nowhere to be seen.  When Aziraphale dared to meet the demon's golden eyes, Crowley swallowed hard, but held his gaze.  The very trees in the clearing seemed to bend their leaves around he demon with a very peculiar, but not entirely uncomfortable, tension.

Here he had thought a miracled bowtie would be too much of a give-away and Crowley had miracled a secluded alcove in the park, a picnic of everything portable that he enjoyed, and he was barring himself in near public as he had never dared to do since the beginning.

Aziraphale approached slowly, hands now fidgeting in front of him, unable to tear his eyes from Crowley's.  His heart hammered all the harder the closer he got, no matter how sternly he told it that the pounding was unnecessary.  Finally, after just a few moments that felt like something more, he was at the edge of the blanket.  He knelt across from Crowley and took in his friend, smiling genuinely if a bit nervously.  This all definitely looked like... something.  But, there was always, always room for misinterpretation. 

“No bowtie?” Crowley was smirking and it did wonders to settle the angel's flip-flopping stomach.  This was Crowley.  He was safe, no matter what the context.

“No glasses?”  Banter.  Banter they could do.

“I thought,” and Crowley broke the eye contact they had thus far maintained, but then seemed to shake himself and resume it with purpose, “I thought we could meet here, with- without pretense.”

“No pretense?”  Aziraphale settled down further onto the blanket and if his knee was nearly brushing Crowley's, well, that was okay now, right?

“Open, honest, without walls,” a ripple went through Crowley's wings and it seemed he might put them away, “I thought we could be... us.  Just us.”

“Just us?” Aziraphale shook out his own wings and watched with no small amount of pleasure as Crowley's eyes traveled over them, his face going slack before smiling a beautifully genuine smile.  When was the last time he'd seen the demon smile?  Not a smirk, not a grimace, but a smile?  It made Aziraphale want to dare the world- to leave his wings out for the rest of eternity- just to ensure that he could go on pleasing the demon, “I think that sounds lovely, my dear.”

“Ngk,” at the use of the endearment, Crowley's eyes snapped away and then, resolutely back to his, “it's not like we have excuses now, anyway.”

“Excuses, what for?”

“Don't be a complete bastard, Angel.”

Aziraphale smirked at him and cocked his head in question.  His confidence was rising by the moment that his was exactly what he thought it was.  Still, he wanted it confirmed.

“I missed you, okay?”  Crowley bumped his knee with his own and then... left it there, the two of them pressed together.  Aziraphale pressed back and watched, in wonder, as Crowley relaxed.  His wings stopped shifting.  He seemed to somehow melt back down into himself.

“You could have just dropped by the shop,” Aziraphale trailed off as he watched the demons eyes dart away again, “or called?”

“I'm not sure I can... I wondered if...,” Crowley cursed and took a deep breath, “Openness: I may need time getting over seeing our home in flames, Aziraphale.  Knowing... knowing that you were gone.  That I was alone.  And, I don't- I don't just mean against the end of the world, you know?  I mean, if I won?  What would I really gain if you were still gone?”

“You would have gone on, darling, yes?” Aziraphale only noticed after he had done it that his hand was now resting on the demon's other knee.  He left it there.

“... yeah, but it wouldn't have been the same...”

“Why not?”

Crowley gave him an incredulous look even as Aziraphale squeezed his knee in encouragement.  Aziraphale was leaning closer to him now, even as Crowley sat still, starring grumpily at him.

“Obviously, you have gone to a lot of trouble here for me, Crowley.  No walls, no pretenses.  Whatever it is you're trying to tell me you know you can just say it, right?”

There was a long pause where Aziraphale watched the demon struggle with himself, his eyes darting down and then up, as if looking for help somewhere, anywhere.  He swallowed and then shuddered, his mouth opening and then shutting again.  Finally, the angel took some pity on him.  He offered his hand to Crowley and the demon took it.  Then he pulled it towards him slowly, pressing a soft kiss to the palm.

“It's just us, Crowley, no walls.  You invited me here because you want me here and I am glad for it.  I came at your summons as I always will, darling, because I wish to be with you.  There's nothing you could tell me or ask me that would send me away save the direct instruction to do so.  Even then, I would try to dissuade you of the notion before taking my leave.”

“I've half a mind,” Crowley chuckled damply, “to test that, Aziraphale.  All the times you've sent me away.  No, let me finish.  I know why you did it.  Really, I understand.  I pushed you too hard because I was scared.  I wanted you on my side- our side- I thought I was running out of time.”

“You were,” Aziraphale squeezed the hand he now held captive in his lap, “you- we- were running out of time.”

“It worked out though.”

“Yes.”

“And we're on our side now.”

“Yes, dear.”

“That's what matters,” Crowley nodded resolutely, “All of this... I wanted to celebrate that.”

Aziraphale took in the spread of food and drink again before responding.

“That's all?”

“You're going to make me say it, aren't you?”

Aziraphale stared up at him through his eyelashes, but the look was ruined when he laughed.

“I love you, you bastard.”  Crowley tried to tug his hand back, but Aziraphale held it steadily in his lap, smirking as the demon struggled.  Then, without warning, he stopped fighting and allowed himself to be pulled forward with all of Crowley's force.  Crowley tumbled backwards, his wings stretching out to either side of him as he fell- there was no way they could catch him.  Still clutching his hand, Aziraphale landed, sprawled on top of him.

“What?” Crowley blinked up at him in shock, both his hands- one just freed- hanging in the air on either side of the angel smirking down at him.

“Oh, my silly serpent,” Aziraphale pressed his forehead to Crowley's and met his eyes without mercy, “I love you, too.”

What happened from one moment to the next was unclear.  He had missed a burble in the stream of time and lost it.  All he knew was that Crowley's lips were on his and his hands were in his hair.  When the stream resumed, he kissed him back with fervor.  He worked his hands under the demon's shoulders and pulled him over as they rolled, knocking over the ice bucket and the glasses- though neither cared.  He reached behind the demon, over his shoulder blades, and into the delicate feathers that connected them to his wings.  Crowley whimpered and arched into him, finally breaking the kiss.

“Why, Angel, is that a hardback novel in your pocket or are you just really happy to see me?”

“Crowley... I am always more than happy to see you.”  And then to ensure no more interruptions, he kissed him again.

A breeze rustled through the clearing, combing through feathers entangled: ebony and ivory.  It traveled upwards and away from them, carrying a relieved sigh through the leaves of the trees.

[goodomensblog]

Such Great Heights

This is based on an ask:  “ Imagine Crowley having found a book that contained Gustavedore’s artwork and he was looking at the depictions of angels and he casually says to Azirphale, none of them are as beautiful as you ~~~”

So I of course, had to hammer out a nearly 2 thousand word fic in which Crowley is jealous, Aziraphale is oblivious, and (probably excessively) dramatic confessions are made.

Such Great Heights

On a Tuesday in October, Aziraphale found himself in rare possession of a most quintessentially perfect afternoon.

Outside, trees, swathed in resplendent oranges and reds, shivered in delight at the autumnal breeze tickling their leaves. On his desk, steam rose from a freshly brewed cup of tea. And a new book waited, open and ready for his most ardent perusal.

Peaceful. Aziraphale reflected, lifting the steaming cup to his lips. It was peaceful.

Quiet too.

Aziraphale froze, cool ceramic pressing against his lips.

Entirely too quiet.

If Aziraphale were alone, the silence would have been acceptable - welcomed even. But the problem was this: he was not alone.

A few hours ago, Crowley had breezed in, colorful leaves swirling around him, moaning about boredom. He’d then proceeded to prowl around the shop, getting underfoot as Aziraphale read - er, worked - and being the general sort of nuisance that only a demon suffering from excessive boredom can be.

The last time Aziraphale had heard from him was half an hour ago.

As Aziraphale sorted some of his newer books, he’d heard Crowley somewhere near the back of the shop, doing what sounded like a frightful amount of rummaging. Aziraphale had resolved to put a stop to it - only to re-discover a book he’d been meaning to read, tucked, forgotten beneath a pile of texts.

Readying the book, Aziraphale had promptly hurried to brew a cup of tea.

Now, a few pages in, silence hung over the bookshop like a curse.

A loud, bored demon might a nuisance, but a silent, bored demon was dangerous.

Aziraphale frowned, sitting up. Setting the cup aside, he turned a wary glance over the shop.

“Crowley?” he called

No response.

Not good.

Aziraphale rose, swiftly marking his page. Straightening his vest with a determined tug, he marched toward the rear of the store - the last known location of Crowley’s mischief.

“Crowley?” he called again. “What have you gotten up to?”

Again, no response.

Sighing, Aziraphale circled the rear bookshelves, turning wary glances around each corner as he went.

It was between the Modern Art and the Art History shelves that he found him.

Crowley sat, gangly legs awkwardly crossed beneath him and an open book in his lap. He was surrounded by texts stacked haphazardly about, but this one had clearly caught and held his attention. His glasses were hooked in the collar of his shirt and he peered down, yellow gaze tracing the page.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale tried again. This time, reaching out to touch his shoulder.

Crowley startled, knee knocking a precarious pile of books over as his head jerked up.

Aziraphale jumped as well, surprised at Crowley’s surprise. Crowley so rarely let others sneak up upon him. Aziraphale rather thought Crowley enjoyed being the one doing the sneaking.

“Oh, er, hey Aziraphale.” Crowley spread his lips in a poor attempt at a smile. “What’re you doing back here?”

“I was looking for you,” Aziraphale said and frowned, leaning in to peer over Crowley’s shoulder. “What on earth are you - oh.”

Occupying an entire glossy page was a painting. Etched in shades of black, an angel stood. Head held high and sword, cruel and gleaming in hand, the angel watched, removed, as the weeping couple were expelled from Eden.

Crowley looked up, something like guilt crossing his expression as Aziraphale studied the art.

“Knew him, didn’t you? Doré.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale murmured and knelt beside him, reaching out to run a finger over the cool page.

“Angel, there’s, uh,” Crowley said, starting slow, “a bit of a resemblance. In some of the others too.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale sighed, and said, “I suppose there is.”

Crowley’s look turned sharp, and if Aziraphale didn’t know any better - accusing.

“You didn’t?”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, incredulous, “Didn’t what?”

“You know. Talk to him - about, er, angel stuff. About that day,” Crowley said, waving vaguely at the picture.

Aziraphale gaped at Crowley, shocked - and, if he was honest, more than a little hurt at the accusation.

“If you’re asking if I casually revealed my angelic nature to a random human and then told some good old angel stories for the fun of it, then the answer is no, Crowley.”

Aziraphale pressed on, distractedly tracing the image, “If you must know, while Gustave and I did discuss divinity and the immortal soul - it was purely scholarly in nature. Obviously if he knew anything about me as an angel he wouldn’t have painted me like-,” Aziraphale hesitated, frowning tightly as he looked upon the painted angel’s impassive face. “Well, I certainly hope he wouldn’t have painted me like that.”

There was a soft touch to his arm and Aziraphale drew his hand back from the page.

Crowley, looking distinctly uncomfortable, closed his eyes. Fingers tentatively brushing Aziraphale’s wrist, he cleared his throat and said, “I - I’m sorry angel. I shouldn’t have - I mean, forgive me. I let one of my own damn temptation tricks get the better of me.”

“Temptation tricks?” Aziraphale muttered.

“I don’t much like the taste of jealousy, angel. Prefer to inspire it in others.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale, said feeling lighter. “Oh. You thought-” and here, he hesitated, thinking of all of Gustave’s drawings of half clothed angels.

Well. That certainly might give someone the wrong idea.

Crowley slapped the book closed. “You know what, doesn’t matter what I thought.”

Aziraphale pulled it from his hands. “You thought Gustave and I - you thought we were,” and here Aziraphale meaningfully raised his brows.

Crowley made a face. “Oh come on, what is that even supposed to-”

“You know.”

“I absolutely do not-”

“You thought Gustave and I were in a sexual relationship!” Aziraphale crowed.

Crowley jerked back, upsetting another stack of books. “I did not think that,” he yelped - then immediately frowned, “Wait, were you?”

“Of course not, I just told you-” Aziraphale cut himself off with a waved hand. “Then what did you think we were?”

Twisting his lips, Crowley shrugged and shook his head.

“Oh come on-”

“Nothing.”

“Crowley-”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about-”

“Will you just-”

“No-”

“- please tell-”

“Ughh - I thought you were in love, alright?”

The confession burst from Crowley, and going red, he ducked his head to look down at the book in Aziraphale’s hands.

“I thought he loved you, and you loved him back. And so you’d told him about, well, everything.”

Aziraphale looked at him, uncomprehending. “No. I did not love him. And Crowley, I’m pretty sure the only person in existence who knows even close to everything is-”

He stopped.

Crowley sat there, golden red hair ruffled and glasses dangling haphazardly from his collar - uncharacteristically exposed.

Looking at him, Aziraphale finished softly, “-you.”

With a bitter shake of his head, Crowley turned away. Facing the darkened space between shelves, he muttered. “Never been much good at sharing, angel.”

In Aziraphale’s stomach a complicated, giddy feeling brewed - as if he stood, peering down from atop a great height. Reaching for Crowley felt a lot like curling his toes over the edge.

A soft touch was all it took to turn Crowley’s head.

“Crowley.” He said his name like a question.

Crowley reached, fumbling for his glasses.

Aziraphale stopped him with another soft touch. This time, atop his shaking hand.

“You don’t need those. Not here,” Aziraphale said, then frowned. “Unless you do?”

He released his hand, unwilling to deny Crowley this comfort, however-much he desired to see the truth in his gaze.

Crowley’s hand brushed over the glasses, then dropped, limp in his lap.

With a deep sigh, he spoke. “He must have thought of you often, angel. The likeness is uncanny. But the thing is-” When he looked up, his face was open, vulnerable, excruciatingly expressive. “-the art falls so painfully short.”

“Oh,” was all Aziraphale managed.

Crowley swallowed. “It’s missed your smile, for a start.”

“Oh,” was his next inelegant reply.

“The color in your cheeks.”

“Oh.”

“The kindness in your eyes.”

“Oh.” Then, “Crowley.”

“Angel?”

Aziraphale stared at him, wonder blossoming beneath his skin. “How long?”

“Far longer than Doré dared.”

Aziraphale opened and closed his mouth, vainly seeking words that wouldn’t come. It was only when Crowley moved to rise that they leapt up, tripping over each other to rush out of Aziraphale’s stuttering mouth.

“You mean to say - that is,” he winced, and stepped off the ledge, “you’ve loved me through all the years I spent falling in love with you?”

And Crowley was there - of course he was, catching him even before his stomach had finished it’s first flip.

Knees bumping Aziraphale’s, he knelt before him, hands cradling his face.

“Angel,” he whispered, bright gaze tracing Aziraphale’s face. “Were I an artist, I’d paint you better than he did. Better than any of the fools who thought they loved you.”

“Just exactly how many artists do you think have-”

“Oh angel, more than you know,” Crowley said, and shook himself. “Doesn’t matter though.”

“And why’s that?” Aziraphale asked, looking from Crowley’s curving brows to his determinedly set lips.

“Because I -” he hesitated, then with a dip of his head, steeled himself. “I loved you before them, angel. And I’ll still be loving you, long after the last artist has used you as their muse. I’m yours, angel,” he said, and swallowed. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Angel. I do,” Crowley said. And between musty bookshelves, Crowley leaned in, and brushed a painfully tender kiss against his lips.

Aziraphale, feeling distinctly like they both might be falling in a wondrous, thrilling fashion, whispered against his lips, “I want you. Until time slows and stops. And then throughout whatever comes after.”

“There is no after time, angel.”

“If there is-”

“You’ll have me.”

“And when the lights go out in the universe?”

“You’ll still have me.”

“Well what about space,” Aziraphale said, smiling at this new game, “when the universe shrinks-”

Crowley silenced him with a kiss, then swore softly against his lips. “Always, angel. It took me six thousand bloody years to get to this point. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I guess we really have Gustave to thank for that - getting us here.”

Crowley groaned, and quieted him with another kiss.

“Don’t think-” Aziraphale said, laughing and gasping between kisses, “that you can - use this to shut - me up - whenever you want - now.”

“I can bloody well try,” Crowley said, and kissed him again.

Eventually Aziraphale pulled back, feeling glow-y and quite warm. “You know what? I think I’ll close the shop early today.”

“Oh?”

“I’ll miracle us up some cheese and crackers and a nice bottle of Chateau Mouton, and we can,” he stalled, looking at Crowley and thinking of all that was no longer forbidden, “start making up for lost time.”

Crowley’s mouth fell open.

“I’ll close the shop. You clean up those,” Aziraphale said, nodding to the toppled books.

He’d barely taken a step when the air cracked with twin snaps - followed immediately by a third.

He turned to see the aisle miraculously clear of books, and with a quick glance over his shoulder, confirmed that the “open” sign was now turned to “closed” and the doors were locked.

“Done and done,” Crowley said. Holding out an arm, he grinned positively devilishly, and said, “Shall we, angel? I’ve already miracled the wine.”

“Oh, if you insist,” Aziraphale said, and took his arm with a smile.

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

Bonus:

“Wait,” Aziraphale said, “Earlier, you said ‘if I were an artist.’ Crowley, have you ever tried to draw me?”

“I mean, yeah? Maybe? One or twice,” Crowley shrugged.

Aziraphale is understandably shocked when, years later, he finally convinces Crowley to show him the art - and Crowley takes him to a goddamn warehouse.

[avocado-writing]

i absolutely ADORE the little universe you've made for the light the dark and the spaces in between and i don't really have any specific requests, all i'm requesting is whatever work in that universe that you've already come up with or if you do get an idea for something for my favourite throuple this is an excuse to post it hihi

Notes: first of all, fav throuple? 🥹 I’m asking for your hand in marriage. Second of all I got an ask about reader being nonbinary in this series but this fic explicitly discusses them being AFAB (but GNC, could be read as trans or not). set in TLTDATSIB verse, ish, the time period is a bit wonky (14thC ish) — consider this an au where reader follows aziraphale to France after their initial meeting, finds Crowley there too and everyone is pointing at each other like that Spider-Man meme going !! Immortal!!!

words: 2k

rating: T (sex references, mild peril)

pairing: crowley x reader x aziraphale

tags: TLTDATSIB, polyamory, Fem/Masc!Crowley, Fem/Masc!Aziraphale, GNC!Reader, historical, jousting

“Are you sure? It’s terribly dangerous.”

“Aziraphale,” you sigh, “I don’t do it because it’s safe.”

“Well why do it at all?” she whines, grabbing onto your hand beseechingly. Crowley looks up from where she’s been admiring her reflection in your armour. You turn to her for support, instead she shrugs. 

“I don’t know. For glory? For honour? To prove that I can?”

Aziraphale glares at Crowley to join in but is met with the same reaction. It seems that Crowley is determined to stay neutral in this scenario. How annoying. Just like a demon to find the most awkward solution for both parties.

You tie the linens around your chest a little tighter. Under your full plate it should be difficult to tell the shape of your body but you don’t want to take any chances. Aziraphale pouts and you sigh, turning back to her to take her hand in earnest.

“My darling, I’m not like either of you. When they look at me, they will only ever see one thing. I can’t change my body around and be whoever I want to be. I have to take these measures to be viewed as anything other than what I was when I came squawling from my mother.”

You cup her cheek and she nuzzles into your touch. 

“Besides,” you add, wickedly, “am I not good at wielding a lance?”

You grin, thinking back to the three of you laying together last night. Aziraphale harrumphs and Crowley laughs at her.

“They’ll be fine, angel,” she finally pipes up. Aziraphale doesn’t seem certain but finally relents, letting Crowley adjust her surcoat and take her hand.

“Good luck,” Crowley says, but the smile on her face suggests she doesn’t think you’ll need it. You give her a wink.

“With my two ladies cheering from the crowd, how could I lose?”

You give them both a kiss goodbye before Crowley finally wrestles the angel away, likely to get her a drink and a pep-talk before the tourney starts. As they leave, your squire begins to enter, his face turning beet red as Crowley ruffles his hair.

“Hello, Oliver. Make sure our good knight doesn’t fall from his horse, will you?” she says as she goes. Oliver tries to form a sentence, fails, and winces as Crowley sways away. 

A tiny slip of a lad, you took on Oliver not only for his immense courage despite his small stature, but because you both shared a secret - one which you uncovered when accidentally walking in on him changing. You’d recognise a bound chest anywhere. You thought no less of him for it, and told him he needed not beg for your silence: you’d keep it gladly.

“Sire, I’m here to help you finish dressing,” he states, when he finally manages to get a handle over his own tongue. 

“Well timed, Oliver. Help me with this breastplate.”

He heaves and helps with the leather straps, buckling you in place. You’re swelteringly hot. Ah well, time for that to get even worse when you ride out into the sun. You take a moment to check yourself over, only noticing Oliver’s quietness when he fails to point out one of your pauldrons is loose. You furrow your brow and turn to him.

“What’s on your mind, lad?”

“Might… Might I ask a question, sire?”

“Me saying no has never stopped you before,” you jest, but when you see him scuff his foot against the floor, you drop down to be able to look him in the eye. “What’s the matter, Oliver?”

“Your ladies… you’ll fight for them both, yes? For their honour as one?”

“Yes, I will.” You don’t go into great detail about your relationship but you trust Oliver with the truth. He sees Aziraphale and Crowley clucking around you like hens before a joust all the time anyway, and the boy isn’t a fool. He can do the arithmetic of it.  

“And they’re happy with that arrangement?”

You laugh a little, but put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Those two love each other as much as they love me. My life would not be a happy one without them both in it, and they feel the same.”

Sacrilege, but really, little in this room would be considered holy by the church. And besides, you have an angel as one of the willing participants of your relationship. You think it’s probably fine.

Oliver nods. He seems to understand, but still appears like something else is weighing on his mind. You really do smother your smile this time.

“Oliver,” you tell him, gently, “I also think that you might be a bit young for Lady Crowley.”

He blushes.

🗡️

You can barely see with your helmet on, so you keep it under your arm for the time being. You cut the figure of a man well enough anyway so for the moment there’s no need to worry about your face being on show. In fact, you’ve gained a reputation for being quite handsome.

Handsome but very spoken for. Apparently there was a lady discussing giving you her favour to joust, and Crowley spilt wine all over her skirts. Then again, she did the same when a knight rode up to ask to fight for Aziraphale’s honour, and suddenly found that his helmet crest had inexplicably burst into flames. 

Crowley knows how to mark her territory.

You run a hand over your horse’s nose, humming a soothing little note as she nickers and whinnies.

“I know it’s hot, girl. Let’s give them a show and then we’ll both get out of this damned armour.”

You saddle up, letting Oliver pass you your helmet and your shield. You ride as a freelancer so neither of them are burdened with some noble’s crest; instead you ride under your own: a pair of wings, one white, one black. A little nod to the two who matter the most to you.

You ride onto the field as horns herald the start of the joust. You know a few of the knights competing, and are well aware of your first opponent - Kenelm the agile, a man you’ve faced several times over and are at equals wins against. He nods at you from his steed, hailing the crowd as he’s announced. You look across the seating, and see Aziraphale and Crowley in the front row. Where they always are, whenever you compete. With an ineffable inevitability.

“And, riding under his own banner, Sir Kerkylas of Andros!”

Even with her glasses on you know Crowley is rolling her eyes at your chosen pseudonym. You ride up to the pair of them, grinning.

“Be careful,” Aziraphale begs for the umpteenth time. She passes you her favour: a little ring, golden, set with a pair of wings on it. 

“I will be,” you say, kissing her hand, then quieter: “You do remember that I can’t die?”

“Yes, but we don’t know if dismembering will do you any good!”

Crowley reaches over to present you her token, a pin embellished with a silver snake. You stow both in your saddlebag. 

“I’ll buy you a drink if you take the helmet clean off his head,” she whispers. 

“You’re on,” you agree. Crowley reaches out to caress your face, then stops and retreats abruptly.

“Better not lay that on too heavily. I think I might kill your squire.”

A glance over your shoulder reveals that Oliver looks like he might combust. Taking mercy on the poor boy, you nod your goodbyes to the two of them and ride up to greet Kenelm.

“Ken! Didn’t think I’d see you back in the saddle so soon after that humiliating defeat in Dover.”

Kenelm rolls his eyes but holds his tongue.

“Ah, Kerk. Sorry, didn’t see it was you. I was blinded by the pomp of your armour. I forget that you need to compensate for something.”

Ha, if only he knew. 

Despite the ribbing the two of you exchange a smile.

“Good luck, Ken. And remember, aim the lance at me. Poor Cynisca was dreadfully irritable after last time, when it seemed you were trying to skewer her flank.”

He grimaces at being reminded of the faux pas before putting his helmet on and readying himself. You trot to your side of the tilt where Oliver is heaving up your lance. 

“You’ll win,” he says confidently, “Kenelm always rides worse the earlier it is in the day. If you can get a solid enough hit in, it’s over, one round.”

“I hope that your faith in me isn’t misplaced, Oliver.”

You helmet up, resigning yourself to see what little of the world you can through the frog-lip, and clutch your lance. It’s heavy but you’re used to it by now. 

An expectant silence settles over the crowd. Aziraphale buries her face in Crowley’s shoulder.

“Oh, I can’t look–!”

The flag is waved, and you charge.

🗡️

You reflect on how Crowley never bought you that drink. She insisted that knocking a man clean off his horse didn’t count as taking his helmet off. A technicality, flimsy at best - but Aziraphale was too relieved at your victory to argue either side. You went on to place second at that particular tourney, the fire of it inciting you to ride to victory in your next. 

You stopped for a while after that. It was doing Aziraphale in a little, and you loved him too much to keep his nerves that frayed.

But, nowadays, reenactments are becoming somewhat of a fad. Usually you find them a little gauche, and it’s more than a bit uncomfortable to relive some aspects of your past, but you never truly lost your love for jousting. So you allow yourself a little vice in it. Your heart aches whenever you’re reminded of Oliver, but you kept tabs on his family, and his descendants are doing quite well. One of them lives in London and works for a charity helping LGBT youth. It seems fitting. 

Plus, Aziraphale is a lot calmer about you jousting this way. 

“Are you alright?” you ask the man you just took off his horse. He looks a little winded and gladly takes your help getting up.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Think it’s just my pride that’s bruised. You’re really good at this!”

You beam.

“I’ve had practice.”

You exchange socials so that he can follow up with any questions he might have, then turn to take your horse back to the tent the organisers have set up for you. Aziraphale and Crowley are waiting. Your angel has an ice-cream for you, which he passes over before tucking into his own.

“Who was he?” Crowley sniffs, peering over your shoulder. You roll your eyes.

“Just some kid interested in the sport. Stop being jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” he says, jealously.

“You did marvellously, my love,” Aziraphale interjects. You smile at him.

“Thank you, darling. I can be a fiend with a lance when I want to be. Even if I am a little out of practice.”

“Hmm, not out of practice as of last night,” Crowley says and Aziraphale chokes on his soft-serve. It’s good to know that even after seven hundred years, your sense of humour hasn’t changed a jot.

“Oh, and,” you say, reaching into your bag, “your favours. Returned to you after they brought me luck.”

Aziraphale slips his ring back on, Crowley affixes the pin to his jacket. Your hands linger on each other’s, as they usually do.

“Let’s go get a drink.”

“You didn’t remove his helmet, so I’m not buying.”

“Oh, you utter bastard.”

-

taglist: @angiestopit@dazed-soul@smile-eywa@staygoldsquatchling02@underratedboogeyman@specter-soltare@candlewitch-cryptic@cool-ontherun-world@emilynissangtr@willbedecided@cool-iguana@bdffkierenwalker @ilyatan @civil-groupie@foolishprincipalitee

[thegoodomensdumpster]

Hello! I wanted to ask if maybe you have some opinions on the book fragment that always confuses me - when Satan is about to appear, Aziraphale and Crowley have this exchange: "What a day that was, and no mistake. Good old days." "Not really," said Crowley. The noise was growing. "People knew the difference between right and wrong in those days," said Aziraphale dreamily. "Well, yes. Think about it." "Ah. Yes. Too much messin' about?" "Yes." What do you think they’re referring to? (1/2)

I’ve always read that as Aziraphale feeling nostalgic about the “simpler“ times and Crowley remarking how he and Aziraphale had a hand in making being human harder by all their “messing about“. But isn’t Azraphale kinda referring to the original sin? Which would make Crowley seem like he’s rethinking if he did the bad thing after all? And why does Crowley say "Not really“ in the first place? Idk I just can’t make up my mind so I’d love to hear your opinion bc this fragment has me lost. (2/2)OK so I’m putting screencaps of that part of the book for more context:

( I couldn’t resist including the part where they get to hold hands even though it was technically not needed for this particular discussion.)

Hm. First of all, I think it’s worth mentionning that the whole scene on the airfield was… a bit confusing to me, especially when it came to understanding where everyone was and what they were doing and when. Maybe it’s a professionnal deformation from being a storyboard artist, but when I can’t visualize correctly how things go my brain kinda gets blocked and doesn’t treat informations well. So I was very eager to see how that scene was going to be done in the TV series because in retrospect it helped me make more sense of the scene in the book. But I’m still confused a bit.

So, with that in mind, this is a part of the book that left me with the same interrogations but I didn’t dwell too much on it.

I think the part before that actual bit quoted by the anon is interesting to take into account, because it’s the point where Crowley and Aziraphale take responsibility for all the effects they had on humanity by finally stepping up and protecting them. Before that, it was always the excuse “we’re just doing our jobs”. With them accepting to fight for humanity, on behalf of what they’ve done and on behalf of humanity, they claim that they actually belong to humanity and Earth more than they belong to Heaven, Hell, or any other arbitrary demarcation between mortals and immortals. (And one interesting thing is that Aziraphale compares his and Crowley’s actions to those of other people - humans - who were also just doing their jobs. There is no difference between demons, angels, and humans. )

They chose their side.

And once they have chosen their side, Aziraphale picks his weapon, the one he first gave to humanity (so it comes full circle, which is narratively and symbolicly pretty neat) and that’s when they talk about “what a day that was, good old days.” “Not really.” “Too much messin about?” “Yes.” I think … it wouldn’t surprise me if there was voluntarily enough vagueness in these sentences to be interpreted in different ways. 

What day is Aziraphale referring to? The day he gave his sword to Adam and Eve. The day they got kicked out of Eden. The day they might have eaten the apple and learned the difference between good and bad. The day his relationship with Crowley possibly started. The day he did one genuinely altruistic thing out of instinct, but also the day Crowley told him that maybe it was the bad thing to do. The day nothing could ever be entirely black or entirely white anymore. 

Could this be more about himself that Aziraphale is talking about, about him and Crowley, or about humanity in general? Ultimately, it doesn’t matter, because as I said earlier: they are all the same.

Is the nostalgia about before everything became grey, or before they knew what humanity was capable of, or before they started meddling … I don’t know. Maybe it’s not that clear in Aziraphale’s mind either. 

When Aziraphale says “good old days”, I can’t really say what exactly he’s referring to. But when Crowley replies “not really”, the way I see it, he is telling Aziraphale “things have always been this complicated, you just weren’t able to see it back then”. 

The following part puzzles me a little, because I think GO makes it exceedingly clear that, first temptation aside, humanity would have grown to be exactly the same without Crowley and Aziraphale’s influence. Maybe they punctually brought more good / evil around them, in limited areas every now and then, but their influence was very limited. And it keeps being pointed out that the best and the worst things, humans do entirely on their own, and often one single human can do both terrible and very good things. Humanity is only shades of grey.

It’s hard for me to conceptualize that because Adam and Eve were the first ones to be handled the knowledge of wrong and right (wtf are ethics anyway, they keep changing through time and space, that doesn’t mean anything to begin with) they necessarily saw what was the line between good and evil. Why should it be clear to them and not to their descendants? Why should humanity’s ethics degrade over time (I mean, there seems to be a point of reference that is more or less catholicism, so that is extraordinarily up to debate in itself) ??? It doesn’t make sense to me. Maybe that’s just my atheist ass preventing me from getting a religious understanding, but I give up on that particular bit of dialogue.

The only thing I can make out of it is, as I said, that this is about Crowley and Aziraphale taking responsibility for the consequences of 6000 years spent with humanity and interacting with them. 

If anyone has things - possibly better thought out- to say about this bit of the book, please feel free to add onto this post. 

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Claimed

This fic is a response to this gorgeous yet painful image by @whiteleyfoster. It’s also available on AO3 (I’ll reblog with the link once AO3 stops being down).

CW: Whump. Violence like you might expect in a PG-13 movie, possibly clean enough to sneak a PG, but the IMPLIED violence is worse. Torture, non-graphic. Hitting. Branding. Despite the opening paragraphs, this is not going to go well.

--

“So. Can’t get decent crepes outside of Paris, eh?”

Crowley lifted the nearly-empty bollée to his lips, hiding a smile as Aziraphale polished off his second order of crepes (third, technically, since he’d also claimed Crowley’s).

“Obviously not.” Aziraphale waved a hand, and a server rushed over with another plate – these crepes stuffed with eggs and ham – as well as a fresh pitcher of the crisp cider that was already making Crowley’s head buzz most pleasantly.

“Only, I seem to recall,” Crowley swirled the last of the cider and finished it off, placing the large cup on the table beside him, “the last time we were in France, you said the best crepes came from Bretagne.”

“Yes. Well.” Aziraphale was currently very occupied with his mouthful of stuffed buckwheat cake.

“And I seem to recall that, just at the moment, Brittany is one of the safest places for an Englishman to be. Especially one with such,” he glanced under the table, “fascinating taste in footwear.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said sternly, taking a drink from his own large, bowl-shaped cup and trying to frown seriously. “You know perfectly well that tastes and styles change. Brittany may have been the place to go for crepes in the twelfth century, but these are modern times. You absolutely must get them from a Parisian creperie or what’s even the point?”

“Is that so?” The demon folded his hands and leaned forward, smiling in a way that showed all his teeth. He peered over the tops of his glasses. “So tell me, why did we spend twenty minutes walking past at least a dozen restaurants until we found one run by a Breton?”

Aziraphale swallowed, very visibly. “Well. I suppose…” He pushed the crepes around his plate with his fork, studying them as if he’d never seen them before. “I suppose…”

“Yess?”

“Oh, I missed you, if you must know.” His eyes darted over and then back again, but there was something in them Crowley had only seen a few times in six thousand years: complete honesty. “You’ve been over here for nearly four years now, and I…I haven’t had a decent conversation in all that time. There are plenty of lovely humans in London, but they’re all…you know…human.”

“So you decided to come down to Paris and get yourself nearly decapitated in hope of a bit of a chat? That’s barely better than doing it for the crepes.”

“That wasn’t the plan! I just…” he glanced around and moved his chair closer, much closer, close enough for the fabric of his trousers to brush Crowley’s knee. “I really did want to talk to you. Get your, I don’t know. Perspective. Things have been a bit…strained…between my superiors and I lately.”

“Gabriel’s strongly worded note?”

From the frown that crossed Aziraphale’s face, Crowley suspected the Archangel had been more than a little rude. “He doesn’t like my plan to set up a permanent base in London, though I did get Michael and Uriel to approve, which is enough. So he had me…audited.” He shuddered. “They didn’t find anything worth recalling me over, but my powers are rationed until further notice.”

“He doesn’t like that you went around him, so he tries to cut off your access to miracles? Petty wanker.”

“Crowley! You shouldn’t say such things.” Aziraphale’s protest had noticeably less conviction than usual.

Crowley shifted his hand across the table, across the distance between them, until it met Aziraphale’s right hand. It came to rest by the pitcher of cider, the longest fingers of their hands just barely touching. The angel didn’t pull away. “You wouldn’t have come all the way to Paris if you didn’t want someone to say it.”

Aziraphale bit his lip. His left hand reached up, tipped Crowley’s glasses just a bit further down. “No. I wouldn’t have.”

“Nhk. So.” Crowley tried to keep his voice steady. “A dashing rescue. Spot of lunch. Insulting your boss. Anything else you need from me this time?”

The angel’s right hand, still resting on the table, crept forward, fingers lacing between Crowley’s without quite touching them. “Do you…Crowley, do you have a place to stay in Paris?”

“Yes,” he whispered, almost regretfully.

“Because I don’t.”

The silence that can exist between two immortals is absolute. Not a breath. Not a heartbeat.

Crowley’s shaking hand rose to push his glasses back in place. “What…exactly…are you saying?”

A very disapproving look. “Not that, Crowley. Get your mind out of the gutter, please. But…well, I very much don’t want to be alone right now. Can we…talk?” His left hand fell to Crowley’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “There’s something…I don’t quite know how to say it, but…”

“There’s…” Crowley gently lifted Aziraphale’s hand from his shoulder, taking it in both of his, circling his thumb across the back of it. “Yeah, there’s something I’ve been wanting to say, too.”

Aziraphale sucked in a sharp breath. Nodded. “Shall we…shall we go?”

At that moment, that glorious moment he had awaited so long, Crowley sensed…something. Another being. Not human. Not of Earth at all.

“Aziraphale.” The angel tilted his head, puzzled by the change in tone. “Were you followed?”

“No, why would I…” His eyes went wide as he sat up very, very straight, jerking his hand back, pushing his chair away as if to pretend he didn’t even know his tablemate. “I don’t sense anyone.”

“One…no, two, I think.” Crowley concentrated, closing his eyes to help focus. “I can’t tell where, but very close. Can you teleport?”

“No. Gabriel’s still tracking me.” His eyes darted from the front door to the back. “But he wouldn’t…no. Michael. She seemed suspicious last time we spoke, but I swear I thought I’d convinced her…”

“Doesn’t matter, Angel.” Crowley stood up, circling behind Aziraphale’s chair. He couldn’t cover both exits. They might already be trapped.

“Get out,” Aziraphale said, almost like a command. “I’m already in trouble just for being here, but they’ll certainly buy my crepe craving story. Just teleport away.”

“Don’t be stupid. I froze time already today, you think I can –” He rested a hand on the back of Aziraphale’s chair, trying to calm down. “Besides. I wouldn’t leave you even if I could.”

“You idiot.” Aziraphale stood next to him, hands folded behind his back. “Fine. That leaves two choices. We either have a big dramatic fight and try to fool them, or we split up and try to sneak out.”

“Sneak,” Crowley decided. “But we should stick together.”

“Too risky. There’s a tailor’s shop five blocks from here. That’s where we meet, but only if it’s safe.”

“Nh.” One more glance at the doors. “Fine. I’ll take the front.”

Aziraphale nodded, and leaned close to whisper an address into his ear. Then, before he pulled away, he pressed his lips to Crowley’s cheek.

Crowley had been kissed before. Among humans, as a casual form of greeting, it had gone in and out of style for about three thousand years. He thought he knew what to expect: pressure, warmth, maybe some wetness.

What he felt was like the brilliant, shining burst of a newborn star, painfully bright, almost unendurably sweet. His ears rang with the music of the spheres, a single perfect chord too high for human perception. For just a moment, he forgot everything but the sensation of being wrapped in a warm blanket, held close by someone who cared for him, which wasn’t something he’d ever experienced but now he knew, he knew precisely what it would feel like, and every cell in his body gloried in it.

It was like Heaven before the Fall.

“Stay safe, my dear.”

Before Crowley could even think of responding – could even find the pieces of his heart, shattered from shock and joy, and pull them back into himself – Aziraphale had slipped away.

Front door. Right.

He pushed it open and leaned out, sniffing the wind. No angelic scent, just the usual filth and mud that permeated the air of Paris these days. Sanitation should really be a higher priority of the revolutionary government.

He crept out, keeping to the shadows. The street was abandoned, empty apart from a dog wandering from alley to alley. That wasn’t good.

Crowley knew two ways of hiding from non-human eyes. He could turn into a snake and try to slide into the cracks of a wall, but it was hard to make the transition without sending off enough psychic energy to alert every angel, demon, witch and medium in the entire continent. Harder still when exhausted, and he hadn’t yet recovered from stopping time.

The other choice was to blend into a crowd, try to dissipate his demonic essence. He closed his eyes, trying to sense the noise of humanity, the rumble of feet and voices. There – two blocks east, a major street. It should be enough.

He pushed away from the building, dashing across the first alleyway.

A hand grabbed his ponytail, jerking him back. Dirt-smeared fingers fell on Crowley’s shoulder, pinching him, keeping him from escaping.

“Hullo, Crawly,” growled Ligur in his ear. “Where’s the angel?”

How much did he know? Enough to be lurking outside the right creperie.

Shit shit shit fuck

“What do I look like, his travel agent?” Crowley pulled himself free, brushing at his collar. Trying to look unphased. “I’m trying to find the bastard, same as you.”

Ligur leaned close, narrowing his eyes, and took a big, disgusting sniff. The hat on his head shifted, chameleon head poking out from under it. One of the strange eyes stayed fixed on Crowley while the other scanned the area around them.

“Well, don’t look at me,” Crowley said, stepping back. “I haven’t got him in my pocket. You try that way,” he gestured vaguely westward, “and I’ll keep heading –”

In a flash, Ligur had him by the collar, pulling him close for another sniff. “Oh, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

A pale figure appeared at the other end of the alleyway, by the back of the creperie. Crowley very nearly called out, until he recognized the grubby form of Hastur.

“Find him?” Ligur asked, chameleon eye still fixed on Crowley.

Hastur spat, rubbing at his jaw. “Wasn’t expecting the little twit to fight. Covered his trail, too. Might be able to find him with a Hellhound but…what have you got there?”

Crowley’s heart swelled at the news. Good job, Angel. Now he just had to talk his way past the idiots.

“That’s just perfect. I spent months setting up a trap for him, and you two…” Something wasn’t right. The way Hastur circled, staring at Crowley like he’d never seen anything like him.

“How’d he know we were coming?” Ligur asked.

“He could probably sense you,” Crowley snapped. “That particular angel is a lot more clever than you are. He could probably sense your auras even with them suppressed. I know I can.”

“Hm. And no power in Hell can hide a demon’s aura.” Ligur was smiling. It was never good when he smiled.

“Well. Yeah.” Crowley glanced from one Duke to the other. “Everyone knows that.”

“So why can’t I sense yours?” demanded Hastur.

He didn’t have any answer for that.

Ligur grabbed Crowley’s jaw, one finger tracing across his face where the glow of Aziraphale’s lips still lingered.

“There. A blessing.”

And he slammed Crowley head-first into the stone wall of the creperie. The world shattered and went dark.

--

Hot lines of pain sliced through his skull, turning his thoughts into a strange, sliding jumble. He was being carried. A rotten stench. He fell unconscious again.

A slap of something wet, putrid, slightly burning splashed across Crowley’s face.

He jerked up, trying to stand, but his legs just scraped helplessly. He was tied to a chair, arms behind his back, and something kept the wood from even budging as he struggled. The air was hot, stuffy, rancid. Nearby, a fire flared from red coals to brilliant yellow-orange flames, pain searing across his retinas. He shut his eyes, hissing.

“Uh-uh.” Ligur slapped his face. “No sleeping now. You like to talk? It’s time to talk.”

Crowley shook his head. It only made the pain in his skull worse, but at least he managed to open his eyes again. The fire was back down to something only vaguely uncomfortable.

He wondered where Hastur had gone off to, but really, one Duke of Hell was enough to deal with.

“You wan’ a story? Right. There was this girl. An’ she wore a cape. Red cape. With a hood. S’why they call her Goldilocks.”

“Where’s the angel?”

“Told you,” Crowley snapped, or tried to. His voice was still sluggish, mind still seemed to be missing pieces after being so thoroughly shattered. “Dunno.”

“You’re lying.” Grubby fingers pinched Crowley’s ear, twisted it, pulled it. Ligur could rip it clear off. He’d done so before. Crowley clenched his teeth and focused on not making any sound as the Duke leaned closer. “You smell like angel.”

He punched Crowley in the mouth.

Fire lanced across Crowley’s jaw, tongue suddenly swimming in a lake of copper-tasting blood. There was a tooth. Wasn’t sure where that had come from. Molar?

Crowley spit, trying to clear his mouth. “I mean,” he grinned as best he could, “if we’re talking ‘bout stench, I think you got me beat.”

He didn’t see Ligur pick up the club. Just felt it crash into his already-shattered skull, the explosion of pain almost more than he could endure.

Then another, another – shoulder, ribs, stomach. Something in his leg cracked. Something in his gut tore.

He must have screamed at some point. His throat felt ragged. He couldn’t remember.

Then, just as suddenly, it was over. Ligur still stood over him, Hastur’s voice coming from somewhere beyond: “We need him to answer the questions first.”

Crowley blinked at the fire, finally saw Hastur standing behind it, holding something in the flames. “Lord Beelzebub sent us to check on you. Instead, we find a fancy little angel wandering the city. Lost him outside the prison. Tracked him to the restaurant. And then out comes you. Shiny new blessing. No aura.”

Shit shit shit. They knew everything. He didn’t have a story to explain it. Didn’t have a clear enough head to think of one. Could barely keep his face blank, keep the despair from showing.

“Well?” Ligur demanded.

“You…didn’t ask a question.”

Kick to the chest knocked him over, onto his back, onto his arms, crushed under the weight of his body.

Ligur’s foot landed on his chest, stepping down, forcing the breath out of him. “You think you can get away from us that easy? You gave our Dark Lord your soul when you Fell. It’s no longer yours to try and barter your way back into Heaven with.”

“Wha’?” Crowley couldn’t keep up. “I don’t…what you talking about?”

“The blessing,” Hastur said from beyond the fire. “It’s how angels mark what’s theirs. You let some fluffy winged bastard try to claim you as his own.”

His own. The two words pierced through the fear and pain, struck him in the heart. He closed his eyes, tried not to think about the look in Aziraphale’s eyes as they’d sat in the creperie together. “Don’ be sstupid,” he hissed. “Don’ wanna go to Heaven.”

But he remembered how that kiss had felt. A tiny piece of Paradise. He would give anything to live in that moment, forever, with Aziraphale.

“Good,” Ligur said. “Wouldn’t work anyway. Heaven doesn’t want you anymore.” He ground his heel in, pressing down on an already-cracked rib. Crowley bit his lip, couldn’t hold in the whimper. “Soon as that angel has what he wants, he’ll toss you aside. Right back in the pit. Where you belong.”

“You’re wrong.” Crowley realized his mistake after the words were already out. “I mean. ‘M not…Don’t know why he blessed me. Didn’t ask for it.”

“Oh, we’ll help you figure it out,” Hastur said, pulling something long and dark out of the fire. “You’re going to tell us about every moment you’ve ever spent in that angel’s company.”

“And if we don’t like your answers,” Ligur grinned, “I get to have more fun.” He grabbed the front of Crowley’s shirt. Crowley cowered, but all Ligur did was pull him upright, chair and all, tearing the black fabric in the process.

“I tol’ you. I don’ know! I…” but his mind was a cold blank. Oh, Someone, Anyone, he had to think of a story. “I don’ even want this blessing,” he lied.

Then Hastur lifted up the ling piece of metal he’d pulled from the flames.

A brand.

The end of the iron glowed white-hot, twisted into a Leviathan Cross. The symbol of Sulfur. Of Brimstone. Of Hell.

“Good. Then you’ll like what comes next.”

Ligur pulled at the torn fabric of Crowley’s shirt, exposing his throat, his shoulder, his collarbone.

“Nooo…” Crowley moaned. “No, you don’ hafta…I’ll talk. Whatever you wanna know, I’ll tell you.”

“Yeah,” Hastur nodded. “You will.”

And the brand pressed into his flesh, into his muscle, into his soul, hot as the birth of a universe.

Crowley howled until he blacked out.

--

Crowley lay face-up in a London alley, among the garbage and the rats. Where he belonged.

Somewhere above, stars shone down, blessing on all God’s creatures. All except Crowley. He might have helped to hang them, set them in their courses, but Heaven had seen his defects, his weaknesses, and thrown him down here to die, inch by inch, for six thousand years.

He tried to see the stars, but it was all a watery blur. Even when he blinked the tears away, there was always more, more, more…

He hadn’t told Hastur everything. He’d told enough. What would the Duke do with that information? Would it get back to Heaven? Would they use it against Aziraphale?

Would they break him, like they’d broken Crowley?

A voice, muffled, distant. Go away. Leave me to rot.

“Oh, my Lord – Crowley!”

A heavy thump as a figure fell to its knees beside him. His eyes tracked over. The face was closer than the stars, but no clearer. “…Angel?”

“Oh, my – I’ve been looking for you for – where have you – what did they do to you?”

“Sorry, Angel. Didn’ wanna talk.” He closed his eyes. “Didn’ wanna.  But…”

“No, of course, don’t even try. Let me.” Soft hand brushed his forehead. A trickle of that lovely, welcoming warmth…

And then fire, burning sulfur, blazing through his shoulder, his chest, his limbs, his soul. Crowley arched his back and screamed.

The hand jerked away. “What – how –” The paid faded, and now Crowley could see Aziraphale’s flustered face, pinched with pain. “Oh, my dear, I swear, I only meant to heal you, I don’t –”

“’M not yours.” He tried to raise a hand to clutch at his fresh brand, still sizzling and aching, but his arms refused to move. “Never be yours.”

“I understand,” said Aziraphale, but he couldn’t. How could he? Crowley didn’t even understand. How such a tiny wound could forever cut his soul off from the one place it longed to be. “Let’s get you inside.”

Warm arms, behind his shoulder, below his knees. Lifting him. Carrying him. Like a child. He curled into it, burying his face in the softness of Aziraphale’s chest. Trying to recapture that safety, that belonging he’d felt, just for a second, in a restaurant in Paris.

He couldn’t remember how Aziraphale got him inside. But soon he was settled on the bed, black down pillows under his head, thick red quilt tucked around him. Hiding his wounds, his mangled body.

“There.  Is…what do you need, Crowley?”

“Rest,” he sighed. “Just rest. ‘M a demon. I can heal. Just…”

“Of course.” He turned to leave. “I…I’m sure you’ll know where to find me when you’ve recovered.”

“Angel.” Blue eyes turned back to him. He had to know. Had to be sure. “You…blessed me.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale sank down to sit on the side of the bed, hand resting close to Crowley’s face. The angel kept his eyes turned away, as if something urgent lurked nearby. “You noticed. I…I really shouldn’t have presumed. It’s not…there really isn’t an etiquette for it, I suppose, but I suppose asking first was the least I could do. I truly am sorry if I caused offense. I had hoped, if it was Michael, you might be able to slip past her.”

“Demons…”

“I know. As I said I truly am –”

“Ligur saw it.” Aziraphale faced him, eyes wide, mouth open. “Sstupid lizard eyes.” Crowley swallowed, tried to rally his brain and his tongue enough for full sentences. “They…they took me to Hell. Wanted to know why an angel claimed me. And…when I couldn’t answer…”

“Crowley!” One hand hovered over the demon’s forehead, not quite touching. “No, oh, Lord, no…It’s…That means it’s my fault…”

Pain on his angel’s face again, tears in his eyes. Who hurt Aziraphale? Crowley would kill them –

Ah. Right.

“Shuddap,” he managed. “Just. Do it again.”

“What?”

One hand fought free of the quilt. It seemed to have the right number of fingers, but Crowley was having trouble counting past three. He held it out, trying to find Aziraphale’s. “Angel. Bless me. Again.”

Aziraphale’s fingers gently surrounded his, lifting the hand to his face. Lips lowered to brush against it –

Again, pain lanced out from his brand, boiling across his skin, through his muscle, his everything. The scream was as much rage as pain this time.

When his mind cleared, Aziraphale was gone. No, not gone. Across the room, pressed against the wall. “’S it that bad?”

“What did they do to you?”

“You claimed me. They claimed me back.”

He couldn’t stand the look of horror on Aziraphale’s face. Crowley huddled down under the quilt, trying not to sob again.

“Crowley,” the voice came softly, from a distance. “I…there aren’t any words…what could I ever do to make up for this?”

“Stay,” he whispered.

A long pause, filled with silence as could only exist between two immortals.

“What?”

“Stay. Here. Until I’m asleep.” A shudder crept through him. It would be a long sleep, full of dreams he didn’t want to face. “Please. Don’t want to be alone.”

This time, the pause was long enough that Crowley feared the angel had simply teleported away.

Then the quilt shifted, and another body, warm and soft and so very solid, settled next to him. “Is…is this what you mean?”

He didn’t have any words left. He just sank into those arms, let them wrap around him. Everything hurt, more than he’d ever thought possible, but he was here, wrapped in a warm blanket, held close by someone who cared for him, and it was better than he could have imagined.

Perhaps this was enough. Even with his soul claimed by Hell for eternity, perhaps he could have this one tiny piece of Heaven.

It was the only piece he wanted, anyway.

He knew that Hell would try to take even this from him. But maybe, together, with the right weapon, they could fight for it.

His mind drifted away, born aloft by the pure angelic smell, mixed with some sweet, floral perfume. This time, when sleep took him, he didn’t find darkness, just warm golden light, a stone cottage surrounded by flowers, and a smiling face framed by silver curls…

--

Slow, easy breathing told Aziraphale that Crowley had finally fallen asleep. He’d given the demon’s mind the tiniest nudge, to ensure good dreams while he healed. Aziraphale had worried it would be too much like a blessing, trigger whatever had happened the last two times, but this seemed small enough to pass.

Crowley was asleep now. There was no reason to stay.

He waited a moment longer, anyway, arms around the broken body of his friend.

Friend. As if he could call it that, after what he’d put Crowley through. He couldn’t tell – not for certain – if Crowley hated him for it, but why wouldn’t he? It was probably only the pain, the fear of being alone, that had kept him from throwing Aziraphale out already.

For now, though, Crowley lay in his arms, and if he ignored the wounds, it was very nearly everything he’d ever imagined. He traced a finger down Crowley’s cheek, drinking it all in, not sure he’d ever be allowed another chance.

He pressed his lips to Crowley’s forehead. Not a blessing this time, just a kiss. “I swear to you. Even if you hate me, even if you never speak to me again.” Another kiss, gently, on his eye. Then his cheek. “I swear, I will never, ever let any harm come to you. Never again.” One last kiss, lingering on his brow. The last Aziraphale would ever give. And a whisper, soft as a sigh: “I love you.”

--

Thank you for reading! AO3 link will be up soon.