#Because then Aziraphale isn’t at fault and he doesn’t need to think too hard about the cult he works for

[ivyontheholodeck]

You know what I haven’t seen nearly enough of in fanfic? Aziraphale witnessing Crowley’s Fall, at the very beginning.

We know Aziraphale knew Crowley before and after, but imagine the horror of watching as your comrade is cast down from your home. Imagine flinching at his impact against the earth below, the crunch of bone and the smell of burning feathers.

After all, S1E6 demonstrated that both Heaven and Hell are fans of public execution.

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

So as part of my push to fill the world with soft fluff while we all need it, @sparkkeyper requested Aziraphale warming up a cold Crowley. And, well, things got a little out of hand with this bit of hurt/comfort. Also fills the @bingokisses prompt for “Brush of Lips, Almost-There Kiss/Bridal Carry” so that’s exciting!

Not clearly established, but this fic is just-barely-pre Arrangement.

“If that’s the way you feel,” Aziraphale said, hand on the door to his one-room hut, “then I suggest you leave, and find some other angel to bother with your nonsense.

“Good! Maybe I can find one who isn’t a self-righteous prick.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” the apology dripped with sarcasm, “that I choose not to blindly trust a devious…manipulative…snake.”

The words hit like a physical blow. Crowley sucked in a breath, tasting a hint of frost in the late-autumn air. “Fine,” he growled, turning away. He’d have to walk through the night to get back to London, but at just that moment he felt angry enough to march all the way to China and back. “Good riddance,” he snapped from the gate around the little garden, but Aziraphale had already shut the door.

--

“Call me a snake,” Crowley grumbled, pulling the thick black pelt more tightly over his shoulders. He’d thought the wilderness look – loose hair, black fur wrap, boiled leather jerkin belted over his tunic like armor – would make him look intimidating and cool. But as the temperatures dropped with the sunset, he really just wished for a good wool cloak.

“I’m not the one who’s manipulative and…whatever else he said.” The wind shifted, slapping across his face, sending his hair spinning behind him. “Cold-blooded. I’m not cold-blooded.”

He snapped his fingers, summoning a cloak, but the wind immediately ripped it out of his hands. It got caught on a tree branch, just out of reach. “Ah, never mind. Just slow me down anyway.”

Stuffing his hands into his armpits, Crowley marched deeper into the woods. Just follow the path west to the little creek, follow that out of the forest, main road was on the other side. Quickest route to London.

As the last light faded from the sky, the snowflakes began to fall.

--

“Coordinate our activities – of course we can’t coordinate, you fool, we’re doing opposite tasks.”

Aziraphale waved his fingers at the fire, making it burn just a touch brighter, and continued angrily chopping vegetables to drop into the pot of water. “And I certainly can’t just – just tell you what Heaven’s plans are for the north, or for the Holy Roman Empire, or for…for…blast!”

He glowered at the deep cut on his thumb and quickly healed it, an almost blinding burst of holy power. Well, that was probably enough for soup, anyway.

“All I’m trying to say, you foolish creature,” he grumbled, lifting the pot to nestle against the hot stones that circled his hearth, “is that we can’t talk…business when we meet. Is that so hard? Can you not get that one idea in your head?”

The shutters rattled in the wind, one breaking open to crack angrily against the wall. Aziraphale hurried over to push it shut, pausing to look across the dark fields to the woods beyond. Already a mix of snow and freezing rain had turned everything to a muddy slush.

Crowley would be fine. Crowley always found a way to be fine, and more often than not that way involved finagling himself into some comfortable circle where dozens of humans happily did his bidding. And when he couldn’t find that, he came to Aziraphale.

Well. Aziraphale would not – would not be duped into doing Crowley’s work for him.

“Enjoy getting yourself out of this mess,” Aziraphale said, pushing the shutter closed.

--

Bracing himself against a tree, Crowley tried to pull the back of his tunic up to protect his neck. Tiny spears of ice had assaulted it for hours, and he could feel the cold drops worming their way down his spine, soaking into his undertunic. His boots were drenched through, squishing a little with every step.

“Bloody creek,” he grumbled, searching desperately through the ceaseless fall of ice and snow. He should have passed it ages ago. He should be nearly out of the woods, and instead here he was, surrounded by mounds of wet, icy snow as deep as his ankles.

Everything looked strange. Everything looked different. Every rock transformed into something unfamiliar, every tree a shapeless mass of white. He was…

Crowley was lost.

“It’s fine,” he said as the wind shifted and the tree dropped another freezing glob of ice into his hair to ooze down his neck. “It’s bloody fine.” He pushed away from the tree and snapped his fingers, trying to summon a fire.

Nothing.

“Oh, for Sssatan’s sssake!” He pictured a cloak again. Nothing. A windbreak. A pile of blankets. A lantern.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

With each failed miracle, Crowley felt the panic rise further, which was stupid. The only reason he couldn’t perform them was because he was panicking, so the thing to do was to stop panicking.

Useless, Aziraphale had called him. I don’t know what’s worse, that you come to me to help you with every little thing, or that you do everything in your power to get out of even thinking about working.

No, wait. Aziraphale hadn’t said that, not out loud. But the look in his eyes…it was obvious how he felt. Why wouldn’t he? It was true enough.

“Stop that, stop that!” He marched on through the forest. West. Just keep going west, London had to be somewhere around here. “It’s not my fault. Pointless assignments, impossible tasks, and you, you running around undoing everything I do – it’s not my fault I can’t get anything done!”

Useless. Failure. Worthless snake.

Had that been Aziraphale? Or Hastur? Or one of the other demons? They all thought the same, didn’t they? They were all right, weren’t they?

“No!” He waved his arms, visualizing a clear path through the slush.

Instead, he slipped on an icy patch and fell, chin cracking against the ground, one arm shoving into a particularly deep mound, filling his sleeve with snow.

“Fuck, fuck.” He scrambled to get purchase, to push himself up, wriggling around on his stomach like—

Like a snake.

“I’m not,” he whispered, but without conviction. “I’m not.”

--

Aziraphale tried to keep himself busy. Cooking, preparing herbs, copying pages out of texts, bits of wisdom that would be carefully left on the right desk at the right time, according to Heaven’s guidance.

He never quite knew when he’d be called to take care of something, never quite knew when Gabriel would announce he was coming down for an inspection. So Aziraphale always had to be ready, always had to look busy. Always had to be sure he was where he was supposed to be.

Maybe Crowley didn’t have to worry about that. Maybe Crowley didn’t have superiors checking in at random intervals, making sure he really had traveled to York, or Venice, or Kiev, or wherever else a bit of Holy assistance was needed. Maybe Crowley’s superiors actually trusted him to get the work done without…(Aziraphale pressed his eyes shut, carefully removing any accusations of micromanagement to the deepest depths of his subconscious)…without their careful direction and helpful input, but that wasn’t the case with Aziraphale.

He sighed and put the manuscript pages back on the bench. It was far too dark for a human to be doing copy work, and rather too dark for an angel. Perhaps he could take a break, just for a few minutes.

It’s always another excuse with you, Crowley had shouted. Well. Not shouted, but the words had hit him just the same.

But they weren’t excuses, they were – a thousand perfectly valid reasons why he couldn’t…couldn’t let Crowley interfere with his work, and yes perhaps some of them contradicted each other, but that wasn’t Aziraphale’s fault and…

“No, stop that.” He rose to his feet. Needed to keep busy. “A bit more water from the well. Better to be prepared.” The villagers often came up, looking for medicines, for advice, for a bit of food more varied than their usual diet (Aziraphale could miracle up fresh spices and vegetables any time of year, and that wasn’t…entirely cheating). Bad weather usually kept them away, but likely it would all clear up by morning.

He opened the door.

The wind that blasted Aziraphale’s face sent him staggering back. A fistful of mixed snow and rain hit him in the face, somehow colder than ice. By now, he ground was covered almost knee-deep in some places, and he could barely see the fence from where he stood, never mind the well.

“Oh…”

But, surely, Crowley had made it back to London by now.

Surely.

--

He had to keep moving.

Crowley huddled below a tree, knees pulled up to his chest, fingers wrapped around the back of his neck, trying to shield himself from the weather.

He shivered so hard his teeth nearly cracked, his ribs ached, and he felt sick to his stomach. Stupid mammal bodies, weren’t they supposed to retain heat?

He couldn’t feel his toes. The boots were packed with snow from trying to push through drifts. He couldn’t feel his fingers. He moved them back inside the pelt wrap again, pressing them into his already-wet tunic. The boiled leather jerkin clung to him like…well, like only leather could, getting stiff where he needed it to flex, getting soft where he needed it to stay rigid. Bloody useless.

Clenching his eyes tight, Crowley braced against another blast of wind, cutting through his layers like a dagger. What was the point of all this clothing if it didn’t help?

Some part of his mind kept reminding him to move. Not time to burrow yet, not time to conserve energy. Movement would create heat, warm him up.

No it won’t, argued the part of his mind that would never not be a snake. Moving uses heat. Stay. Conserve. Burrow down and wait for the sun.

“D-d-d-doesn’t matter,” Crowley groaned. “N-n-nowhere to go.”

His joints locked up, skin trying to pull itself away from the damp clothing pressed against it. He was tired. Mammal and serpent, both so tired.

No. He had to keep moving.

Crowley wasn’t sure how he managed to get his feet under him, managed to take the first shuffling, stumbling steps.

West. He was supposed to go west. Whichever way west was.

He picked a likely direction and started moving.

--

Was that hail pounding on the thatch? Or was the rain that strong?

Aziraphale waved the fire stronger, almost enough to over-boil the pots of soup arranged around the outside.

He didn’t really need that much soup. It just. Kept him busy.

--

The sun rose just as Crowley reached the edge of the woods.

It hurt to lift his head, to shift the muscles that had been hunched and braced against the cold for so long. The brightness of the sky hurt his eyes.

At some point, it had stopped snowing. He didn’t know when, his skin was completely numb. Wasn’t even shivering anymore. It was nice, in a way. Just the comforting darkness all around.

Now even that was gone, but he could look around the endless ocean of…snow was too strong a word, it was really slush…under the blood-red of the sunrise.

He wasn’t lost anymore. The hill, there to the right, the hut on top of it –

That was Aziraphale. He’d gone in a bloody circle.

I suggest you leave, and find some other angel to bother with your nonsense.

Fuck.

Aziraphale wouldn’t want to hear it. He’d wonder why Crowley hadn’t just miracled himself to safety, and he didn’t have the strength to explain that he didn’t have the strength. He knew his miracles had failed in the night – that he hadn’t been able to focus. Couldn’t remember exactly why.

Couldn’t really focus now.

Aziraphale wouldn’t want to help. He’d still be angry over the things Crowley said. Still be stuck in his holier-than-though me-versus-you mindset. Probably want to send Crowley away.

But Crowley would never make it to London now. Might not even make it up the hill.

He pushed himself forward.

I can do this, Crowley grumbled at himself. Just need a plan.

Aziraphale would let him in. He just needed a really clever argument to convince the angel first. Tempt him, trick him. Make him think helping Crowley would somehow help himself? No, that wouldn’t work. Maybe threaten to cause trouble in the village? Though he could hardly look capable of it in this state.

He stumbled through the gate – half-open, and held in place by a mound of ice that crunched under his feet. Just a few more steps to the door.

Well. Looked like Crowley would be going with his favorite plan: winging it.

He tried to knock on the door, but his arms had stopped obeying him, his hands wouldn’t budge from where he’d tucked them in his armpits. He tried kicking the door, but the snow and slush piled in a drift almost up to his knees, so he only succeeded in making a wet crunching sound.

The wind shifted again, another volley of ice, and the last of his heat was stripped away.

He was going to discorporate here, literal inches from safety. He was going to wake up in Hell and spend the next decade trying to convince his superiors to give him another body after he’d been so careless with this one. Worthless, stupid snake…

“Aziraphale,” he tried to call, throat too raw to make a sound, his jaw irrevocably clenched. He surged his whole body forward, smashing his shoulder against the door. “Angel! C’n see…smoke…lemme in…”

The door vanished in front of him so quickly, Crowley nearly tumbled through it. Barely managed to wedge his shoulder against the door frame to keep himself upright.

“Oh, my word!”

Blinking the ice out of his eyes, Crowley could see the look of shock and horror on Aziraphale’s face. Knew he wouldn’t want me here.

“G-g-got caught,” he managed, struggling to unclench his jaw. “Sssssstorm.” It was more a puff of steam wrapped around a vowel than a word.

“But – you – that was hours ago!”

“Nrf.” Something was spilling out the door, like a wave of…the opposite of pressure. As if the air was somehow lighter, easier to move in. So close. Just had to convince Aziraphale. “Look. ‘Ngel.”

“Enough. I don’t want to hear it.”

“B…” He shook his head, long, slow, dizzy loops as he tried to clear his mind. “Jus’lissen. Yer side…I mean, my side…”

“Don’t start on that now.” There was that stubborn edge to his voice. No point in arguing.

“Fffffine.” Another white puff filled the air between them and he tried to turn, one shuffling step at a time. He was still upright, that had to be good, maybe he could make it to the village before—

“No, you ridiculous—! Get in.”

“Wah…?”

Aziraphale grabbed the back of his fur wrap and hauled him through the door, kicking it shut behind him.

Something prickled across Crowley’s skin. It must be the heat, but he couldn’t feel it. Not really. The blinding light of the morning sun reflecting off the white landscape had been replaced with the cozy darkness of a shuttered hut, fire burning low in the hearth at the center. Oil lamps burnt here and there, giving a cheerful glow that reflected off the brass cookware, the earthenware pots tucked close to the fire, then bench covered in parchment, the neat white linen of the bed.

Then Crowley did feel something: the ice trapped in layers of clothing melting, sliding down, soaking further into his tunic. He bit back a groan.

“Come along, move faster.” One hand still clutching his furs, the other pressed into the small of Crowley’s back, propelling him forward.

“I c’n walk,” Crowley griped, but before he could even finish forming the words, he was in front of the fire, being pushed firmly down to sit on the floor.

“Yes, I’m sure you can, you always make such a display of it.” Aziraphale crouched beside him, brow furrowed. “Look at you. Look at your hair.”

“S’wrong wi’m’hair?” Aziraphale reached behind Crowley’s ear and pulled out an almost fist-sized lump of snow. “Oh. Nice trick.”

“Don’t be…Crowley, this is serious!” He grabbed Crowley’s chin in both his hands, ran thumbs across his cheeks, then pressed a palm to his forehead. “You’re too cold.” Cupped his hands around Crowley’s ears. “Not frozen, at least, but…couldn’t you at least wear a hood?”

“Nah. M’hair’s too good.” He tried to toss his head, despite Aziraphale’s grip, and he heard the splat of more snow working loose. “Lost it. Cloak. Wind.”

“And you didn’t just – just miracle yourself to safety?”

“Nrrrrrrgh.” Crowley bent his head, ready for the recriminations. He could stand them. Probably. Long as he didn’t have to meet Aziraphale’s eyes.

Aziraphale ran his hands across the thick pelt, scraping through melting snow, which still clung thick enough to turn it white. “My dear fellow,” he said, voice strangely soft. “If you were in trouble, you should have…have come back.”

Crowley’s head jerked up, searching for Aziraphale’s face. It was hard to focus but, yes, his eyes, not angry. Something else.

“Didn’think…y’wanted me…”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale shut his eyes for a moment, but his fingers sprang into action, twisting the furs free to drop in a pile behind the demon.

“Wha…Angel, what’re you…”

“Isn’t it obvious? Trying to warm you up.” He grabbed the heavy pelt with one hand and tossed it aside, as easily as if it were made of cotton. “It’s hard enough to heal a demon with holy power in the best of times, but if you’re too numb to even tell me if it hurts…”

“M’not.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” His hand rested on Crowley’s elbow, tracing it up to where one hand tucked into his armpit. Aziraphale tugged, but the hand didn’t come loose. “Crowley, please. We don’t have time for you to be petty.”

“S’nice coming from you,” he grumbled, and tried to shift his arms. “Can’t. Too cold.”

Aziraphale tugged at Crowley’s arms, rocking him in place, and made a noise of dismay. “Your clothes are soaked through! Of course, all that walking.” He turned to Crowley’s boots, started tugging them off. “You’ll be lucky if you still have feet under here.”

“M’fine. M’a snake. Don’ need feet.”

“You’re delirious.” Aziraphale jerked the first boot off Crowley’s foot, water and ice pouring out of it. He tugged off the wool wrapped around Crowley’s foot and ankle and inspected his toes. “Not black, at least. I think you’ll be fine. Can you feel this?” He breathed out heavily.

“Nnnnh.” Was that a little curl of warmth across the back of his foot? Or was he just imagining it? “Not delirious,” he added. “You called me snake. Las’time. Other thing, too. Untrustworthy.”

“Did I?” He started on the other boot. “Well, you can hardly blame me, Crowley, an agent of Hell repeatedly asking me to – to neglect my duties. What am I supposed to think?”

Crowley groaned. He didn’t want to argue. Couldn’t argue. Some of the feeling was returning to him, along the side closest to the fire, but that just made him feel colder. More miserable.

“Look, I know you’re tempting me, Crowley. I don’t know what your goal is, but I’m aware of what’s going on.” The second boot came off, and Aziraphale began unwrapping his foot. “I…I may have been…harsh. Defensive. But I’m just…trying to be cautious. You’re very good at what you do.”

“You think I’m g-good?” Odd, he couldn’t actually feel the grin on his face, but he could hear it in his voice.

“Hmmm, no. Obviously not. Demon and all that. But you are very clever.” He stretched Crowley’s feet out towards the fire, stopping them just shy of the ring of stones. The flames, Crowley noticed, didn’t feel very hot. “There. Let those warm for a moment.”

“You…” Crowley shook his head. Wished he could focus. “C-called me w-w-worthless. Ffffailure.”

“I most certainly did not!” He rested his hands on Crowley’s arms again, but they still wouldn’t relax. “I never said anything of the kind. Why would you even think such a thing?”

“Fine. You th-thought it.” Was he shivering again? Or were his lungs just seizing up?

“No. I didn’t. Truly, Crowley, I have never thought that of you.” He moved behind Crowley, crouching down, wrapping fingers around his narrow waist, tugging him slowly back. Away from the fire. “I have the utmost respect for what you do, even if I disagree with all of it, both your methods and your goals. I cannot deny that you are effective, that you get results even when you hardly do any work at all. I do not think you’re a failure. Or worthless. Nothing could be farther from the truth.”

Crowley stared ahead at the fire, which kept flaring up, brighter, redder. Tried to wriggle his toes. One of them stirred a little.

“How is that? Too hot?”

“Nah.” The shivers seemed to have faded, leaving him just tense. Hard to breathe. And move. “Not hot’a’tall. Some’n wrong wi’ your fire.”

Before he knew what was happening, Aziraphale’s arms wrapped fully around Crowley, and pulled the demon back into his lap. He gasped out a protest, even as soft arms crossed over Crowley’s and large hands rubbed at his biceps.

“Just what I was afraid of,” Aziraphale murmured, voice close to his ear. “You’re very, very cold. So cold you don’t realize it.”

“Aziraphale—! I don’t need you to…to…”

“Come, my dear fellow. You know you do. You wouldn’t have come to me otherwise.”

Long, slow movements of Aziraphale’s hands up and down his arms. He could feel the heat of them, of the chest pressed into his back. Better than fire. “M-m-maybe I’m t-tempting you.”

“No.” His grip slid once more to Crowley’s wrists and with a little pressure his hands popped free of his armpits, feeling damp and oddly distant. Aziraphale took one, then the other, giving them a few slow rubs each. “No, I know when someone is…truly in pain. You can’t fake that.” He hooked his chin over Crowley’s shoulder, bringing his fingers closer to blow on them, one hand, then the other. “And as you well know, I won’t turn away anyone in pain.”

“Do I know that?” He was feeling strangely tired. Well. Not strange, all that walking all morning, but it wasn’t the normal exhaustion. It tugged from somewhere deeper.

“Why else would you come here, even though you were angry at me?”

“N-n-nowhere else to g-go.” He leaned back a little, soaking in the warmth. “’Sides. M’not angry. C-can’t stay m-mad’t’you.” The movement of Aziraphale’s hands against Crowley’s slowed, briefly. “Y’r mad’t’me.”

“Am I?”

“Called m-me sssssnake.”

“I…But I always call you…serpent. Foul fiend. All sorts of things.”

“S’different.” He didn’t know how to explain it. How serpent was clever, chaotic Crowley, slithering around, outsmarting his opponents; but snake was stupid, useless Crawly, begging for his life, cowering in fear, hiding from every failure. Aziraphale couldn’t understand. He didn’t have two selves – a true one he tried to project, a wrong one that everyone saw anyway.

But even still. It hurt.

“I see.” One of Aziraphale’s hands dropped to rest against his stomach. “But you aren’t angry? That I sent you away like that?”

“Naaaah. Yer’n’angel. Gotta ssssay th-th-things like that.” Aziraphale still held one hand, thumb rubbing circles on his palm. Crowley wiggled the fingers of the other, and smiled to see them move. “Just…wish you’d trust me.”

“Why?”

“Cuz I trust you.” He tried to squeeze Aziraphale’s hand, but his fingers still moved stiffly, like twigs on a frost-covered tree. “I like you.”

Now both of Aziraphale’s hands were at his waist, pressing him back. It was nice. “Do you mean that, Crowley? Do you trust me?”

“Course.” Crowley turned his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder and found the angel’s face alarmingly close. His eyes were right there. His lips. Right there. “N-nerrer trusted anyone b’fore. N-not a lotta trust in Hell. Erryone’ll b-b-betray you.” He smiled, or at least he thought about smiling. No telling what expression his face wore. “You, too. You’ll b-betray me. S’fine. Don’ mind. J-j-just hope I see it comin.”

“Crowley…”

They were right there. Crowley thought of leaning forward just a little. See if that heat was in Aziraphale’s lips, too. Drink it in. Warm him from the inside.

“But even so. Yeah. I trust you.”

Aziraphale took a deep, shuddering breath. “Good.” His hands grabbed at Crowley’s belt and began to unbuckle it, loosening the leather jerkin. “You need to take your clothes off. Now.”

“Oh. Oh.” He dropped a hand to pat Azirphale’s…something…missed entirely, anyway, and landed in the dirt. “Angel’s g-gonna tempt me.”

“Stop that, you ridiculous…” He huffed out his annoyance. “Crowley, your clothing is soaked through and it’s making you colder. Let me help you out of it and into the bed.”

“You g-gonna j-j-join me?” He’d only said it to make Aziraphale uncomfortable, indignant. He really liked those little huffs. Instead, he was only met with silence. “Aziraphale?”

“Crowley…you’re always a little cold. Barely produce enough heat even when you aren’t…” He’d unwrapped the soaking leather, and one hand clutched at the hem of Crowley’s tunic. “No, I won’t. Not if it will make you uncomfortable. You can keep your clothes on, too, if you prefer. There are other ways to warm you up.”

“Oh.” He wished he could see Aziraphale’s face. “D-don’t mind. Ssssaid I trust you. Meant it.”

“You…ah…”

“Gonna haf’ta c-c-carry me tho. M’feet’re…” He tried wriggling his toes again, succeeded in flexing his whole foot together. “Do what you gotta. Trust you.”

He hadn’t realized how awful the tunic felt, clinging to his ribs and back, until Aziraphale peeled it off over his head, ran his hands quickly over damp skin. The rest followed soon after, and Crowley felt…not warmer. Lighter. As if some burden had been removed.

Aziraphale slipped on arm under his knees, the other around Crowley’s back, and lifted him easily, carrying him across the little hut to lay him on the bleached-white linens of the bed.

“S’nice,” Crowley murmured, as Aziraphale found more blankets to pile on him. Miracled up? Possibly. Lucky bastard.

“Oh. Ah. Glad it’s comfortable. Don’t really use it myself. Only have it because visitors expect it. Like the chamber pot.” He gave the blankets one more tug, then brushed his fingers across Crowley’s hair. “Is this better?”

“Mmmmh. Sleep?”

“One moment.” A rustle of fabric, and then the bed shifted and another body slid in beside him, tugging him against the soft, warm chest. “Is this better?”

“N-now’m warm.” He ran his fingers across Aziraphale’s back, feeling the way his skin dipped under the pressure, as if Crowley could truly sink into him. “Y-y-you’re n-nice.”

Aziraphale clicked his tongue, but his hand didn’t stop rubbing a slow circle across Crowley’s back. “That really is enough of that.”

“No. I m-mean you’re n-nice.” If he wiggled a little, he could rest his head on Aziraphale’s arm. Hmmm, that was good. “Y-you d-didn’t need t-to help me. M’a demon.”

“I told you. I will help anyone. Even you.” A hesitation, and Crowley could swear he felt something brush across his forehead. Maybe his hair. Everything still tingled a little. “Especially you,” Aziraphale said, voice even softer.

“Won’ help me wi’my work,” Crowley grumbled.

“That’s…I can’t…it’s different.” Another hesitation, and now he could feel Aziraphale’s other hand, still running evenly up and down his bicep. “What…did you want me to help you with? I…suppose I…wasn’t really listening.”

“Nrf.” Oh, he could feel himself shivering now, in a distant sort of way. “J-J-Jus’wanna know f’you’re…gonna…cancel out m’next j-job. S’along way t’walk for n-n-nothing.”

“And if I am?”

“I sssstay’n London. Ssssay you th-thwarted me. Sss’all g-good.”

Crowley could hear the rhythm of Aziraphale’s breaths, of his heartbeat, of the hands on his skin. It was all nearly enough to lull him to sleep, even without that glorious heat that surrounded him, reflected back from the blankets. It was the closest he’d ever come, in this body, to that luxurious feeling of basking, gathering the sunlight on his scales.

“You know, Crowley…perhaps we should talk. When you’re better.” His forehead pressed against Crowley’s, and he continued in a quiet voice. “I’m sorry I threw you out. I’m sorry I called you a snake.”

“Ssssss.” They weren’t supposed to say those words. “Can’t ssssay m’sorry for wha’I said,” Crowley muttered. “Umm. Cuz. Fffforgot what it was.” He remembered being hurt. Angry. But the words themselves escaped him. “I was jus’…jus’…”

“I understand.” Another of those funny brushes by his hairline. “Sleep now. I have you.”

--

Aziraphale’s lips still tingled where they’d brushed Crowley’s forehead.

For a moment, back by the fire, Crowley had been too cold. Too still. Aziraphale had come very close to losing him, and that frightened him more than anything. He couldn’t say way. It was just discorporation, and yet…

I trust you.

One last brush of lips, so gentle it could hardly be called contact. Even still, Crowley sighed in his sleep, pulled a little closer. He was shivering now. That was a good sign.

“I think I’ll trust you, too,” Aziraphale whispered. “I’ve…never trusted anyone before, either. We’ll have to learn together.”

[inkwell1013]

Paint the Streets With Rainbows - Good Omens

Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley, Aziraphale & OC, Crowley & OC

Genre: Fluff, Angst, Oneshot

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: Homophobia, disownment

Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale accidentally end up at a pride parade after a rather nice dinner date, and meet a cheerful boy named Jordan. A week later, something terrible happens, and they step in to help out their new acquaintance.

- - - - - 

Crowley and Aziraphale had chanced upon the parade quite by accident, taking a wrong turn on the way back to Aziraphale’s bookshop after spending the morning at a nearby café. Aziraphale would have assumed it was a mere coincidence, but his more fanciful belief in fate and the divine plan belayed this assumption. The way Aziraphale saw it, nothing happened without reason. Them arriving there when they did was fate, nothing more and nothing less.

There were rainbows everywhere. That was the first thing Aziraphale noticed. There were so many rainbows: hung from trees, worn on t-shirts, draped over shoulders like capes, waved from flagpoles, and even fashioned from balloons. He noticed that there were other flags too mixed in with all the rainbows, like flowers growing in a garden, all bright and beautiful and unique.

He wasn’t quite sure what was going on, but he assumed it was good as everyone seemed delightfully happy. And there were so many people, more than he could possibly count. He had never seen such an impossibly huge crowd before.

Glancing toward Crowley, he saw a content smile playing across his partner’s lips. “What is this?” asked Aziraphale, gesturing towards the raucous procession.

“It’s a pride parade. Have you never seen one before?”

“No, I haven’t.”

Crowley chuckled. “Wow. You don’t get out much, do you?”

Aziraphale huffed - secretly a little grumpy – mostly because he knew it was true. His significant aversion to socializing meant that he spent most of his time alone when he wasn’t with Crowley. Some might call that lifestyle sad, but Aziraphale preferred his quiet life to the alternative.

“Basically,” continued Crowley. “A pride parade is a celebration of the many differences of humanity – from sexual orientation to gender – as well as a way to protest inequality.”

“Well, that’s rather nifty, isn’t it?” said Aziraphale, adjusting his bowtie.

Crowley stifled a laugh. “I suppose it is.”

“Rather a lot of rainbows, don’t you think?” quirked Aziraphale. “I always liked rainbows. They’re a symbol of hope, and it never hurts to have a little hope these days.”

“I agree.”

It was at that moment that a boy pattered up to them. He was young – perhaps sixteen by Aziraphale’s best estimate, though he had never been good at guessing ages – and was tall for his age. He reminded Aziraphale rather a lot of a golden retriever, with his long, floppy blond hair and cheerful smile, which he leveled at them both, joy painted clearly on his features.

“Are you too here for the parade?” he beamed, cocking his head.

Crowley smiled back at him. “We are. Why do you ask?”

“That’s so cool!” exclaimed the boy. “I saw you and your boyfriend—”

“Husband,” interjected Crowley.

“Sorry, husband. And I just got super excited. You guys seem so happy together, and its nice, you know? Knowing its possible. That there’s a future for me, I guess. You know, you see all the sad stuff in the news, and it gets to you. It feels like there’s no hope left, but there’s always hope. I’m probably rambling. I’m sorry for bothering you two.” The boy turned to leave, but Crowley stopped him.

“Wait. Are you here with your parents?” he asked. “We could help you find them.”

“My Dad doesn’t know I’m here,” mumbled the boy. “He isn’t exactly cool with all this stuff, and I’m too scared to tell him. And my Mum… Well, she’s in heaven now.”

Crowley frowned rather instinctually, and the kid immediately backtracked. “It’s fine though. He’s not so bad. It could be worse.”

In a spur of the moment decision, Aziraphale pulled a newly miracled business card that hadn’t existed seconds ago from his jacket pocket and pushed it into the boy’s hands.

“What your name?” asked Aziraphale.

The boy gave him a quizzical look. “Jordan. Jordan Stewart.”

“It’s been nice to meet you Jordan,” beamed Aziraphale. “If you ever need help, call the number on this card.”

“Okay.”

“Good lad,” said Crowley. “Now go have fun. You’re at a pride parade after all.”

Jordan smiled, tucking the business card into his jacket pocket before sprinting away, throwing his arms around a boy with dark, curly hair. The boy stumbled back, only just catching his balance before he tumbled over.

“Ash! You made it,” exclaimed Jordan.

Ash laughed. “You thought I was going to miss your first pride? I’m not that bad of a friend,” he smirked. “Seriously though, how did you get away? I thought your dad was giving you trouble.”

Jordan shrugged. “I told him I was hanging out with some friends at the park.”

“And he bought that?”

“Yeah. I’m surprised too, to be honest. If he asks, tell him we were hanging out at the park with the others.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve got it.”

Crowley and Aziraphale watched the boy leave with his friend, firmly believing that would be their last encounter. They were both equally surprised when they received a phone call from Jordan just one week later.

Aziraphale was doing a little late-night reading before bed, and Crowley had wrapped himself around his husband, rather like he was trying to constrict him. Neither of them expected the phone to ring.

Crowley had whined and grumbled but Aziraphale insisted on fetching the phone just in case it was something important – a call from a supplier or customer, perhaps.

Aziraphale answered the call and Crowley buried his face in his pillow, still grumpy that Aziraphale had pushed him off. He immediately shot up when he heard Jordan’s voice on the other end.

“I didn’t think you’d pick up,” mumbled the boy. His voice was cracking and coarse, and Crowley knew that he had been crying. “I’m really sorry to bother you so late. I just didn’t know who else to call.”

“Is everything okay?” asked Aziraphale. “You sound upset.”

“My father found out about everything, and he kicked me out. He said that he’d rather have no son than… than me. I can’t believe this happened,” choked out Jordan. “I never did anything wrong.”

Aziraphale cast a helpless look at Crowley who hastily took the phone from him. “Jordan, can you tell me where you are?” asked Crowley.

“The McDonald’s on Main Street. I didn’t know where else to go.”

“That’s okay,” said Crowley, scrambling out of bed and throwing on the first pair of trousers he could find, an effort that was made difficult by the fact that he only had one free hand to do it. “Stay right there. We’ll pick you up.”

“Thank you.”

Crowley’s trusty Bentley got them there quickly, and Aziraphale suspected that Crowley used some of his demonic influence to turn all the traffic lights on the way there green. He wasn’t complaining though. Anything that got them there faster was worth it, regardless of the possible consequences.

Jordan slipped silently into the car, eyes still puffy and red from crying. There was a short silence, before Jordan spoke. “Why doesn’t he love me?” he asked. “What did I do wrong?”

“This wasn’t your fault kid,” said Crowley. “It was never your fault. Some people are just trapped in the past. I understand how you feel. I do. Being disowned by the people who are meant to love you is shitty. It was shitty when it happened to me, and it’s still shitty now. There will always be shitty people in the world, but they’re becoming less common these days.”

“I agree,” said Aziraphale. “Barring the excessive swearing. Let’s try and limit the swear words in front of the young one, shall we dear?”

There was just the barest hint of a smile showing on Jordan’s face, and Aziraphale smiled a little to himself in turn.

“Do you have somewhere to stay?” asked Aziraphale.

Jordan shuffled in his seat. “Not really. Ash always said I could stay with him if something happened, but his parents are super strict, so I dunno if they’d be too pleased about that. I wouldn’t want to make things hard for him.”

“You can crash with us if you’d like,” said Crowley. “We have a spare room, don’t we Angel?” Crowley cast Aziraphale an expectant look, almost asking – begging – for permission.

Aziraphale hastily conjured an extra room in his bookshop, complete with fresh sheets and a newly vacuumed carpet, before nodding in agreement. They did now.

“Are you sure I won’t be an imposition?” asked Jordan.

“We’re certain,” said Aziraphale.

“Thank you, it means a lot.”

“It’s really no bother at all.”

They arrived at Aziraphale’s bookshop a little while later and Crowley and Aziraphale lead Jordan to the spare room. The moment he walked into the room, Jordan crumpled, tears streaming down his face.

“Are you alright?” asked Aziraphale. “Do you not like it?”

“No. Its perfect,” whispered Jordan, blinking through tears as he looked around his surroundings. The room was small but neat, with a single bed on one corner, adorned with bright blue sheets. There was a wardrobe in the other corner and a small bedside table as well.

But the thing that Jordan couldn’t stop staring at was the rainbow flag hung up on the wall.

He was safe here. For the first time in years, he knew he was safe.

[nicnacsnonsense]

Okay so this is going to be part Good Omens meta, part head canon, all ramble, but I promise I have a point. Well, technically it’s a question, but I am going somewhere with this; there’s just going to be a lot of pit stops and detours along the way.

We’re starting with Crowley. I know Aziraphale’s the soft one, but Crowley’s pretty soft for a demon. He’s not a total cuddly marshmallow like I see him portrayed as sometimes – he does seem to genuinely enjoy the “annoying people” parts of his job. Though even then he doesn’t seem to enjoy the annoyance for its own sake as much as the fact that it represents he has been successful; what he really seems to enjoy is the cleverness and artistry of it – the way he describes knocking out the telephone systems in the book is like a beautiful symphony of irritation. (Actually it’s weird to me that Hastur and Ligur’s method of chipping away at one soul at a time for years is called craftmanship while Crowley’s method is presented as a matter of efficiency. Like H&L are over here making artisanal meals with only the finest ingredients while Crowley is slinging out fast food burgers. Because to me Crowley’s method seems the one that takes more consideration and skill and is, taken for what it is, a thing of beauty, whereas H&L thing just seems like blunt-force trauma. I’m sorry you sat on this guy’s shoulder whispering in his ear for ten years in order to win his soul over? Unless he’s literally Job or Jesus Christ, I’m not impressed.) Crowley isn’t a total marshmallow, but he is soft. He’s not cruel or sadistic and he doesn’t like seeing people get genuinely hurt or killed. Now when other demons are sadistic, he doesn’t like it, but he seems to largely accept it as the way things are. When Heaven does terrible things, he seems kind of disgusted but not terribly surprised. But when it’s the humans or God doing terrible things, that’s what hits him hard. For slightly different reasons in each case, but ultimately it boils down to “I thought you were better than this,” and he cannot emotionally handle it when they prove they aren’t.

Moving on to Aziraphale (I promise we’ll come back to our soft demon boi in a minute). There’s a lot of different takes out there about how book Aziraphale differs from show Aziraphale, but the most compelling one I’ve ever seen argues that it’s not so much that Aziraphale is inherently different as it is Heaven is different in the two versions, which in turn impacts how Aziraphale behaves. In the book Heaven shows up on three occasions: when Aziraphale calls Heaven and speaks with the Metatron, when Aziraphale accidentally gets himself beamed up to Heaven (which could be considered a continuation of the same event), and at the airbase to try to restart the Apocalypse. In all of these cases either Aziraphale reached out to Heaven first or his presence was incidental to Heaven showing up. The general implication is that no one is checking in on him really; he has his own personal loyalty and sense of duty to Heaven urging him to do what they expect of him, but unless he’s really blatant about it, no one’s going to know if he breaks the rules here and there. Book Aziraphale’s life is basically one long “who you are in the dark” test, with the plot twist at the end where he flicks on the lights switch and flips everyone off while he does the thing he wasn’t supposed to because it turns out that was the right thing to do all along.

By contrast in the show Heaven is showing up all the time. Aziraphale is dragged up there multiple times for reports, archangels are constantly popping down to Earth to talk with him, and they actually proactively uncover Aziraphale’s involvement with Crowley. Granted, we can assume this is a higher than normal rate of involvement because of the fast-approaching Apocalypse, but the point remains that show Aziraphale is dealing with a lot more oversight. If he breaks the rules, there is a good chance he will be caught, and even if he just does something perfectly allowed but considered to be unbefitting an angel, he will be met with scorn and disapproval. That’s why show Aziraphale is more anxious, less likely to break any rules, and more cautious if he does so.

An extension of this difference in how Heaven behaves that I haven’t seen mentioned before, is it impacts how Aziraphale perceives Hell to be. Aziraphale doesn’t have any real firsthand experience of Hell, so he has to make inferences as far as what they’re like to work for. His main two sources of information are going to be what Heaven tells him – likely to be sparse and often inaccurate – and what Crowley tells him – honestly also likely to be sparse and often inaccurate. Obviously, Crowley knows what working for Hell is like, and there are probably some areas that he’s willing to be fairly open and straight-forward about. But when it comes to things like punishments for failure or disobedience, Crowley’s going to spend most of the time evading and downplaying with occasional bits of shocking honesty to make a point and blatant overexaggerations for dramatic effect. With limited information to go on, Aziraphale is forced to use what Heaven’s like and extrapolate from there. And since the book and show versions have two such different starting points, even if book Aziraphale concludes Hell is more overbearing than book Heaven and show Aziraphale concludes Hell is less thorough on following up than show Heaven, they are still going to come to very different conclusions as to how present and aware of what Crowley is up to Hell is. Which is relevant because not only is show Aziraphale dealing with a Heaven that is more like to catch misbehavior, he also perceives Hell as being more aware and therefore Crowley more likely to be caught and punished than book Aziraphale does.

Circling back to Crowley and his emotional upset at the cruelties of the world. The reason we had to talk about Aziraphale is because how he behaves has an impact on how Crowley copes. Now with the book we don’t have our “a love 6000 years in the making” backstory, and Crowley and Aziraphale are just generally less prominent than they are in the show, which means we have less to go on. The only real reference we get is Crowley’s reaction to the Spanish Inquisition. He gets a commendation for it without having done anything, goes to take a look, and then gets drunk for a week. This would imply that drinking is how he handles these sorts of things, but I don’t think we’re getting the full story here. I say think because this is the most head canon-y part of all this; I don’t have any real evidence other than if you assume this is true then it does explain some things I’ll get to in a minute. The book tells us that after looking in on the Inquisition Crowley “had come back and got drunk for a week.” But back to where? The implication is back to the cantinas in the nicer parts of Spain where he had been before going for his look, but I think he went back to Aziraphale (who may very well have already been in the cantinas with him anyway). Because honestly, an actual literal demon with actual literal snake eyes getting shitfaced drunk in the middle of the Spanish Inquisition, knowing full well he’ll melt into a puddle of goo and die if anyone even sprinkles any holy water on him, is pretty fucking stupid. But if that demon had an actual literal angel watching over him… Aziraphale is by nature a guardian/protector, and in the book he isn’t constantly concerned about their relationship being discovered. I think over time Crowley has learned that if he needs to fall apart or be vulnerable for a while, he can go to Aziraphale and rely on Aziraphale watching over him and supporting him until he’s ready to pull himself back together again.

Show Aziraphale does not have the same freedom as his book counterpart, and so cannot always reliably be there for Crowley in the same way. Which is not a dig on Aziraphale at all; he’s in a different situation where he has to be focused on keeping them safe from their superiors, so he simply does not have the additional emotional capacity sometimes, and that’s not his fault. Despite that, Crowley does still get the emotional support he needs from Aziraphale, it just has to function in a different way.

Our episode 3 cold open lets us watch this develop quite well. Our first two scenes (aside from the one with God asking about the sword, obviously) are Noah’s Ark and the crucifixion, where we see Crowley approach Aziraphale to essentially needle him about what’s going on. At this point Aziraphale isn’t so much support as someone he can redirect his anger toward – I assume this is how Book Omens started too, and we’ll get to the divergence in a second. Crowley is willing to drop the anger with Aziraphale much faster in the crucifixion scene, suggesting they have grown closer over the intervening 3000 years, and Crowley no longer finds as much emotional catharsis in being angry at Aziraphale, but he continues to approach Aziraphale that way out of habit.

Then we get to Rome, where Crowley has, according to the script book, come to town to tempt Caligula only to be shocked and upset when he learns how very much Caligula doesn’t need tempting. Crowley goes to a bar where Aziraphale happens to be – whether he knew Aziraphale was there or not before he arrived is irrelevant, but I am assuming he was aware of Aziraphale’s presence by the time he walked in the door. And here is where book and show diverge. Because Crowley has approached Aziraphale about things he’s been upset about in the past, but it’s one thing to needle an angel about things Heaven is responsible for; it’s quite another to walk up to your crush and just start complaining about some jerk who’s put you in a bad mood. Book Crowley, who has been dealing with a slightly more relaxed Aziraphale, says fuck it, goes and sits down across from him and says, “You would not believe the day I’ve had.” And from there we develop into the dynamic mentioned previously for Book Omens.

As mentioned, show Aziraphale is more anxious about their relationship, resulting in show Crowley falling on the other side of this choice and not approaching Aziraphale. This leaves it to Aziraphale to approach Crowley this time. Now as much as we may tease, Aziraphale’s not actually an idiot. He can tell Crowley is upset about something, and he’s picked up on the pattern where when Crowley is upset, he likes to be able rant a bit about Heaven. Obviously Aziraphale can sometimes find those conversations uncomfortable, but he’s feeling good today, so he’s happy to engage in some banter, especially if it’ll cheer his friend up. But Crowley’s the one who usually starts the conversation, so Aziraphale wracks his brain for something he can say about the nature of good and evil and ineffability and comes up with “Still a demon, then?” Shockingly, this doesn’t work. Still he keeps the conversation going and tries again with “Oh well, let me tempt you to... Oh, no, that's, that's your job, isn't it?” This still doesn’t work the way he’s expecting it to, but they do have a very nice meal and a good conversation that’s not really about Heaven and Hell at all, after which Crowley seems to be in much better spirits. Which leads him to the conclusion that it’s not the specifics that are important, just the fact of having the conversation and giving something Crowley to distract himself with.

Skipping ahead to the Globe, two quick things to point out. This is the first time we see Crowley do his little circle of Aziraphale, proving that by this point they established the dynamic where Crowley protects Aziraphale. The second is this is also the first time Aziraphale really intentionally uses his puppy dog eyes on Crowley, meaning their acts of service dynamic is established as well. Knowing these have been established helps inform the decisions Aziraphale makes in the Bastille scene.

Bastille scene. We can assume everything about this incident is something Aziraphale has staged, from actually getting arrested to his claims that he can’t rescue himself because he was reprimanded for too many frivolous miracles. I will say I don’t think that last one is a complete fabrication; I think either that it is something that has happened, but a good while ago such that he’s not worried about it anymore, or it did just happen, but Aziraphale actually had been using an unusually large amount of miracles recently – possibly as part of getting his bookshop set up – and has since dialed it back enough that he can use one or two at the Bastille, be it to free himself or just to change his clothing, without getting in trouble. However, while I do think it was staged, I don’t think the primary propose was to indulge in Aziraphale’s damsel in distress fantasies; that was just an unexpected bonus. Aziraphale’s main objective was helping Crowley.

Aziraphale knew about the French Revolution, knew Crowley was in the area, and knew Crowley was liable to find the whole situation upsetting. His response was to put on his prettiest outfit, and get himself locked up. He’s broadcasting to Crowley, don’t worry about the humans, just focus on me, don’t think about what they’re doing, just look at the silly angel all chained over here in need of rescue. Of course this isn’t completely divorced from the current situation, but in a way that’s actually better, because it takes that situation and lowers the stakes – Aziraphale isn’t going to die, worse case scenario he’ll just get discorporated – and puts Crowley back in control of the situation – he can’t stop the Revolution, even if he’s capable he’d be risking too much trouble with Hell if he tried, but he can save Aziraphale and fly under Hell’s radar while doing it. Basically, we’ve taken the “Crowley needs a distraction” conclusion Aziraphale came to back in Rome and refined it in the intervening 1750 years.

Even Aziraphale’s suspicions that Crowley is behind the whole revolution can be seen as an extension of the indirect comfort he’s offering. He knows that Crowley is going to have to tell Hell that he is behind all this stuff that’s upsetting him, so when Aziraphale accuses him of the very same, it gives Crowley an opportunity and a safe place to assert that, no, he is not responsible. And not just to say it, but to say it and have someone believe him, that it isn’t his fault and he would never do anything really terrible like this.

This gives us the final form of how Show Omens dynamic works. Instead of offering Crowley a safe haven, Aziraphale emotionally supports Crowley by offering him opportunities to be the savior.

What’s especially interesting about this is if we take these two different dynamics, where in Book Omens Aziraphale serves as Crowley’s safe haven and in Show Omens Crowley is Aziraphale’s savior, that actually explains four of the big differences between the book and show: Crowley’s reaction to being called nice, Crowley crossing the M25 with optimism vs imagination, the whole run away with me subplot, and Crowley’s post bookshop fire reaction.

A demon being called nice is a pretty risky thing for the demon in question. As Crowley points out during his and Aziraphale’s conversation in Eden, a demon can get in a lot of trouble for doing the right thing, and I can’t imagine being accused of being nice would work out much better for him. But book Crowley is used to being vulnerable like that around Aziraphale. He still snaps at Aziraphale when he says it, because Crowley is stressed out and right now is not the time for that, but it is ultimately an established part of their relationship dynamic so it really only annoys him. By contrast, in the show a lot of Crowley and Aziraphale’s relationship is built around avoiding saying those things for their own safety. Given that, it’s no wonder his negative reaction would be more extreme.

There’s a whole long meta out there about how both Crowley’s are optimists, but in different ways (and if someone knows where to find it, please let me know so I can link it). Book Crowley is a more passive sort of optimism; he just generally believes that eventually things will work out for him. This is consistent with the way he handles it when he’s upset about things; he just goes to hang out with Aziraphale, lets himself be upset for a while, eventually it passes, and he’s good to go again. Whereas show Crowley has a more active sort of optimism, believing things can and will work out fine, as long as he steps up to make it happen. Again, this ties into how he deals with being upset; he goes out and does something about it. Granted, he’s not usually fixing the actual problem itself, but he’s being active related to what’s upsetting him, e.g. he can’t stop WWII, but he can go save Aziraphale from some Nazi spies. So when book Crowley drives through the M25 he has his optimism that things are going to work out as sort of a default mental state in his head, and it turns out The Secret really does work for demons so he gets through. Meanwhile show Crowley is actively applying himself to believing the car is fine, and that’s what pulls him through.

This passive/active difference also explains the addition of the “we could go off together” subplot in the show. Despite being more passive, book Crowley is not complacent; when they realize Warlock is not the antichrist, he and Aziraphale make efforts to find the real one. But when their initial search runs dry and they both agree the best thing to do is to have each of their “networks of human agents” look for the boy, Crowley is willing to step back and wait. Either one of their agents will find the kid or something else will turn up; somehow it’ll all work out. Show Crowley can’t do that. He can be optimistic that things will somehow work out, but not if he’s not doing something to fix it. Except there’s nothing else he can do to solve this problem, and when he can’t solve a problem his default is to instead save Aziraphale. The world is going to go up in flames, so Alpha Centauri it is then.

And now the one everyone loves to talk about: the bookshop fire. “Aha!” you said twenty minutes ago and then patiently waited for my rambling to get back to this point. “Aha! There is a flaw in your logic; after the bookshop fire it is book Crowley that copes by getting up and saving things, whereas show Crowley gets drunk and has an emotional breakdown.” But what you didn’t realize, gentle reader, is I already solved that problem weeks ago (this meta took a lot longer to write up than I was expecting). In fact, it’s not a problem at all, but further proof of these dynamics. Because after the bookshop fire, Aziraphale is gone. Aziraphale is gone, which means Crowley’s normal coping strategies don’t work. Book Crowley can’t have a breakdown about Aziraphale being gone precisely because Aziraphale is gone; he’s lost his safe space. So instead he just has to keep pushing forward and he’ll figure out how to deal with the rest of it later. Meanwhile show Crowley can’t save Aziraphale if Aziraphale is dead, and lacking that distraction, he has a breakdown.

Now that I’ve gone on for an obscenely long time about the different dynamics of book Crowley the protected vs. show Crowley the protector, I’m going to say that the specifics of how they are different aren’t ultimately that important. At least not in comparison to the way in which they’re the same. Despite how very different Heavens (and in theory a very different Hells could have a similar sort of impact) changed the details of their relationship dynamics, in both the book and the show, Crowley leans on Aziraphale for emotional support to deal with trauma. (As a side note, I don’t want to imply that this is a one-way relationship. Aziraphale also receives emotional support from Crowley; I’m just not touching on that now because I have to draw the line somewhere.) And that emotional support is a key factor in what makes Crowley different from other demons.

Obviously, we can see how being stuck in Hell would have made Crowley a worse person – though I use the word worse lightly here, as I think it’s very likely that rather than getting meaner for being stuck in Hell, Crowley would develop a learned helplessness. But even if Crowley was on Earth, being on Earth without that emotional support would have eventually had a huge negative impact on him and his attitudes and behavior. Because seeing humans being cruel to each other hurts him, and with no way to process that hurt, it would keep building up until eventually he would have to retreat into apathy to protect himself. But where the apathy of a Hell-residing Crowley would be underpinned by a sense of hopelessness because cruelty from demons is just what he expects, the apathy of an Earth-residing Crowley would have underneath it a lot of anger and betrayal. He did expect better of them, and they let him down time and time again until he stopped seeing the good in them. This betrayal-fueled apathy is the recipe for getting a Crowley that presents as a stereotypical demon, selfish and cruel.

And now finally we reach the point. All of this, all 3767 words of it (well, most of it) was all just context building up to this question: what the fuck did Heaven and Hell do to Crowley and Aziraphale in the 1992 script version?

[women-of-good-omens]

I think it's kind of interesting the GOmens fandom at large seems to be pretty keen on picking up that Heaven and Hell are allegories for and literally are abusive and abusive relationships (in recognizing that Aziraphale and Crowley are abuse victims that react in different ways) but very few people extend this to its logical conclusion and hc that GOmens God is also abusive and still think of him/her as benevolent. People go out of their way to pin bad things like the Flood on Gabriel or whatever to avoid thinking God could actually be cruel. No offense but I think this might be because a lot of GOmens fans are Christians and don't WANT to think that God might not be benevolent. But if you take a straight look at the canon, GOmens God is negligent at best.

I don't think that making God a woman but changing literally nothing else is really as progressive as Neilman thinks because the God of the Christian Bible, and the way that God was ported into GOmens, is abusive and his/her Heaven is abusive. Guys don't you remember that scene where Crowley was crying about getting thrown into Hell for asking questions? Who do you think did that? Or at the very least allowed it? It's definitely possible to reconcile a hc that God is actually benevolent somehow but I'm shocked at how hard people try to put the blame literally anywhere else.

"You can't kill kids," said Crowley, an actual demon, before God does exactly that off-screen one scene later.

"Maybe Gabriel did that and God didn't approve." I'm honestly surprised at how often I see this. If God is really powerful and knowing (doesn't even have to be ALL powerful and ALL knowing) all of Heaven is God's subordinates and allowing them to do anything is tacit approval of their actions. God has the power to stop things He/She doesn't approve of but doesn't. If Gabriel somehow did the Flood without God's knowledge or approval, God is either too stupid to realize she gave an absolute psychopath the ability to commit genocide or passively approved it by not intervening. Like, if you see a dog about to maul a toddler isn't it your fault for NOT intervening? Wouldn't everybody blame you and go "Why didn't you do something, you knew what was going to happen?" if the child gets hurt. Because you were the only one who could have stopped it but did nothing.

I'm not trying to start a theological argument here. But the way I see it y'all need to be angrier at God. I'm not calling anyone an abuse apologist or anything but if you're instinct is to bend yourself into pretzels to blame bad things in the GOmens universe on anyone other than God maybe ask yourself why. Aziraphale not questioning God because "it's ineffable" wasn't supposed to be a road map for you to follow.

Edit: I got mixed up with the casting in the TV series, God is a woman but never specified to be black, I probably got God and Eve's actresses mixed up. I admit I've only seen the TV series once through lol sorry about that

[whatawriterwields]

Am I Wrong?

The bookshop’s window looks out onto the street. Aziraphale stands there, feet planted firmly on the dusty wood of the floor, shoulders back, head erect. Hands clasped behind his back. A soldier at attention, though he can’t stop his hands from fidgeting, hard as he tries. He stares out at the cars and the pedestrians passing, one after the other, back and forth, back and forth. He watches the pattern repeat until he can hardly stand it, until he wants to scream. His eyes burn, but it’s not enough to produce real tears.

He’s used to this feeling, this twisting, swirling sensation in his gut. He’s been known to stand this way for hours, days even, before finally breaking down and crying, and then trying to forget about it. As his hands tremble now, and he fights to keep them still, he hopes this one will pass more quickly.

But this time he’s interrupted. Though he’s turned his bookshop’s sign to CLOSED - though he’s had the wild thought, as he always does in these episodes, that he should close the damn thing down and leave London for good - the door swings open around noon, and a familiar voice calls out to him above the bell.

“Angel?”

His heart leaps, faintly, at the sight of Crowley’s red hair making its way toward him through the shelves. For a moment he thinks about moving away from the window, opening a bottle of wine with the demon, and whiling away the afternoon and the evening with pleasant conversation. Laughing about customers and hearing horror stories about Crowley’s plants. But then the thought crumples. Aziraphale deflates, and turns back toward the window, eyes burning a little stronger. That’s just like him, to think of distracting himself with pleasure. How stupid of him. How selfish. 

Read on Ao3

Crowley appears by his side. “What are you doing here? I fancied a lunch date.” 

Aziraphale forces a little smile. “That sounds fine, dear.”

“Fine?” Crowley raises an eyebrow. 

His lips twist into a half-grimace, and he focuses his eyes on the people passing by on their side of the sidewalk. It’s not many people - the day is overcast, and it’s a weekday, and most people are at home or at work - but it’s enough. Enough to remind Aziraphale why he should be at work too.

“Something’s bothering you,” says Crowley. “Tell me.”

Oh, that would be easy, wouldn’t it? To confide in Crowley, to heave all his inner turmoil on the demon’s shoulders, to let him carry the weight Aziraphale was made for. That would be convenient enough. Aziraphale swallows, tasting salt on his tongue, and stares away. “It’s nothing.” 

“Don’t be daft. I’ve never heard you that unenthusiastic about food.” 

And that comment, though it’s said in a lighthearted tone, a gentle tone, even - though Aziraphale knows Crowley is only teasing, and that Crowley loves him, and that Crowley doesn’t mind going out to restaurants and watching Aziraphale eat everything on the menu - because of those things, in fact, that comment makes Aziraphale’s shoulders sag, and he covers his face with his hands as they begin to shake.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley is taken aback. “Hey, hey -” he puts an arm around Aziraphale, using the other hand to draw Aziraphale’s damp fingers from his eyes, to brush the brimming tears away - “what did I say?” 

“N-nothing.” Aziraphale pulls away from Crowley’s arms. He doesn’t deserve comfort. “I’m…”

“What? You’re what?”

“I’m all wrong.” He gestures helplessly out the window, too overwhelmed to try disguising the catch in his voice. “Do you see the people out there? The people who walk by my bookshop every day, and have for hundreds of years, and did before I came here and started this ridiculous business?” He locks his eyes on a man with his head bowed against the wind, and points. “That man just lost his job. He’s trying to care for his son, but he’s barely making ends meet, and he’s been praying every night for a miracle to change his fate.” 

Crowley’s eyes widen. “How do you know that?”

Oh, Crowley doesn’t know, of course he doesn’t. Aziraphale has never told him what the world is like for a principality. That’s one secret he’s never confided. “I know them all, Crowley. I can know every human’s suffering if I want to.” 

“What?” 

“See that woman?” He motions, somewhat wildly, to an elderly woman several paces behind the man. “She hasn’t talked to any of her family members since her brother died. She tries to work up the courage every day, but she just can’t stop thinking about which one of them is next, and maybe it’s her but even worse, maybe it isn’t, and she’s terrified of letting herself cry about this first loss when she’s got to keep herself strong for so many more.” Aziraphale dashes more tears from his eyes. 

Crowley’s mouth is hanging open. He seems utterly lost for words, but that’s just fine - Aziraphale isn’t done, he isn’t close to done. 

“I’ve been in this shop since the eighteenth century,” he says, “and I’ve seen every kind of suffering under the sun. I’ve seen people break down and cry in the middle of the street. I’ve seen arguments end decades-old relationships. I’ve seen people dying, out there in the cold during the worst winters, and no one caring enough to help them.” He clutches his head, running his fingers through his hair, his breaths shaky, uneven. “But most often I just see the pain in their minds. And it doesn’t show up on their faces. And I can read exactly what’s happening to them - I can see how badly they need the world to just stop being so unfair, and for some great cosmic order to right their lives, and for things to start making sense.” 

Aziraphale lets his arms fall. “All while I’m here, in my bookshop, wealthy as can be, able to go out to lunch whenever I like, never needing to worry about money or dying or how I’ll keep warm when winter comes.” He wants to let his legs give out under him. He wants to fall apart. “All while I’m reading books and eating crepes.” 

There’s a moment of silence. Aziraphale doesn’t look up at Crowley; instead, he turns and leans his forehead against the window. He can still see people passing. He sees the ones in their cars, too, and it takes him no time at all to pick out the ones hurting. To see their stories unfurling out from behind them like so much shredded ribbon. 

“You...” says Crowley at last, “what are you saying?”

“I’m saying I’m a bad angel, Crowley,” Aziraphale snaps. “I’m saying I was supposed to be a warrior against the forces of evil and injustice, and I don’t know how. I’m no good at fighting. I’m saying -” his hands are still clenching and unclenching, feeling, Aziraphale knows, for the flaming sword he still senses like a phantom limb - “I’m saying that I’m frivolous, and shallow, and selfish.” 

“Oh, come on.” Crowley reaches out for Aziraphale again, hands going to his shoulders, comforting - and once more Aziraphale sidesteps them. Why is being kind so easy for Crowley? Why does comforting come so natural to a demon? Why can’t Aziraphale reach out to the person driving that car out there, who’s fallen off the wagon for the third time, and give him some of that healing warmth that flows from Crowley without a thought? 

“I care so much about books,” Aziraphale whimpers. “I read them over and over, and I collect them, and sometimes I just sit in the middle of them and stare at them and feel so happy I can’t even explain it. And I want to care that much about all these people. I want to - really, I do. But it’s so exhausting.” He can feel another sob building in the back of his throat. “It never ends, their pain. And when they come in here I don’t know what to say to them. I don’t know how to help. I’m useless.” He has that wild thought again, that reckless, wits’-end thought, that maybe it’d have been better if his bookshop stayed burned. “All I can think about are these stupid books.” 

And he sobs again, and again, and leans against the window like it’s a lifeboat keeping him above a flood. Like it’s another little raft that keeps him from harm when the humans around him are drowning. 

“I don’t know how to help,” he sobs. “I’ve been here six thousand years and I don’t know how to help them.” 

And he feels so weak, so pale and fragile here in this place that’s supposed to bring him joy, that he barely notices when Crowley touches him once more. When Crowley’s fingers press to his cheek again, turning his face, slowly, tenderly toward him. 

“Aziraphale,” he says, quiet. “Look at me.” 

Reluctantly Aziraphale raises his eyes. Crowley’s sunglasses are off. His golden serpent’s eyes are on full display, spread without whites around them. They’re filled with something Aziraphale can’t quite name. 

“You’re not a bad angel,” Crowley says. “No one should be forced to carry the whole world’s suffering. That’s too heavy a weight for anyone.”

“I could be doing it better,” Aziraphale mutters. “I could be - I don’t know - I could be rescuing people from war zones. I could be going out distributing food to the hungry. I could be miracling jobs for every underemployed family. I could be out shouting down bigoted preachers - in fact I could have been doing that for hundreds of years, as they don’t seem to be getting any less bigoted as time goes by. I could have used some divine miracle to stop the Inquisition, if I’d caught it in time, if I’d been more vigilant. I could have stopped the Terror.” 

“You can’t possibly blame yourself for every terrible thing humans have done to each other.”

“What else can I think? They commend you. They ought to have punished me.”

“Come on.” Crowley tilts Aziraphale’s chin up. “We both knew they were idiots for thinking I started the Terror and the Inquisition. We both knew it wasn’t possible for a single demon to do that much damage. How can anyone have expected a single angel to stop it?” 

“So many people died.”

“People die, Aziraphale. It’s what they do.” Crowley moves his hand to the back of Aziraphale’s neck, still gentle. “It’s not your fault.” 

Tears are running more freely, now, from Aziraphale’s eyes. “But it’s my mission -”

“Was your mission.” Crowley’s thumb runs over Aziraphale’s damp cheek. “It was a terrible mission, given to you by angels who didn’t care about you. It was a mission that just set you up to be a disappointment. But you’re free now.” 

“And what am I supposed to do?” Aziraphale wants to pull away, but he doesn’t have the strength anymore. He needs Crowley’s hands. He needs his breath. He needs his comfort, pathetic creature that he is. “I want to help. I want to be good. I don’t want to spend another six thousand years here not making a difference to anyone.”

And Crowley smiles, a smile so slow and so easy and so tender it’s like watching the dawn break in the sky. 

“Angel,” he says. “You’re an idiot.” 

Aziraphale blinks. 

“You know I’m a demon, right?” Crowley nods down at himself. “You know not a single person in six thousand years has ever been kind to me, except for you?” 

Aziraphale glances away, cheeks going red. Crowley’s exaggerating. Though his earnest expression, the way he ducks his head to make eye contact again, belies any sort of teasing intent. 

“You gave me hope in goodness again,” Crowley said. “When you gave away your sword. That’s not nothing, is it?”

“I…”

“You think you haven’t mattered? Angel, you’ve mattered to me for all six thousand years you’ve been on this planet. You’ve mattered more than the sun. You’ve mattered so much you convinced me to stop Armageddon, and it’s not because you were some grand warrior out fighting injustice. I met enough of those types in Heaven.” Crowley jerks his head, as if to dismiss the legions of God’s army in a single gesture. “It was because you loved.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Loved, not the way they talked about in Heaven - not the way they meant it when they said God’s made of love.” Crowley takes Aziraphale’s face in both hands and holds it steady. “Listen to me. You loved because things brought you joy. Because you were happy, in this world, and that was incredible to me.” 

Aziraphale hiccups. It’s hard for him to keep his mind on the gaping chasm in his gut when Crowley is looking at him like that. When Crowley is holding him so near, and still smiling that close, loving smile. 

“You’re an idiot,” Crowley murmurs. “You’re so good, angel, and you’re a light in this world without even trying to be one. You have no idea how much happiness you can bring just by loving books. It’s not wrong to be the way you are.” 

“Oh, Crowley -”

“Shh.” Crowley draws Aziraphale in, wrapping his arms around him and fitting his head against the crook of his neck. “Hey. It’s all right to cry. Get it out.” 

And Aziraphale cries; he stops trying to maintain his soldier’s stance and leans fully into Crowley, letting Crowley support him. Crowley pets his hair. The feeling is so nice, so wonderfully soothing; he shouldn’t enjoy it, he shouldn’t be thinking about Crowley when he’s supposed to be thinking about the world, but somehow he can’t help it. 

Maybe Crowley’s right. Maybe he doesn’t have to.

“The world needs people like you,” says Crowley. “So you aren’t a warrior. Who needs another force for violence anyway? Humanity’s better off with you watching over them than anyone else.” 

“You really think so?”

Crowley pulls back, and his lips meet Aziraphale’s, softly, so softly. Aziraphale can’t help the smile that blooms in his mouth at Crowley’s touch. 

“I know so,” he says. 

For a long moment they stand in silence, Aziraphale taking slow, steadying breaths, Crowley with his arms still around him, rubbing soothing circles into his back. For a long moment Aziraphale works to let go of the shame he let overcome him.

Then the bookshop’s doors jingle again, and the two of them break apart.

Aziraphale’s eyes widen. Someone else has entered the shop, someone he doesn’t recognize - a young girl, a teenager, with short dyed hair and large earrings. She looks a little small for her clothes, like she’s shrinking into herself, like she’s lost. It takes her a moment to turn her head in their direction.

When she does, her gaze drops immediately to their joined hands, before she looks up at their faces. Aziraphale catches the trace of a smile in hers.

“Hello,” he says, voice still wobbling slightly. “My apologies. I was just - ah - well, I’d been having a hard morning, and my -” 

He looks over at Crowley, who gives him an encouraging look.

His eyes move back to the girl, and he reads the lost look in her shoulders with hardly any need for a miracle - came out to her parents, they’re not pleased, she left the house to clear her head, but she doesn’t know what’ll be waiting for her when she comes home. 

“My partner,” he says, voice a little stronger, “was giving me some good advice.”

The girl’s smile widens into something more substantial. “Uh. No problem.” 

“Would you like to - er - look at a book?”

“He doesn’t like it when you buy them,” Crowley stage-whispers to her. “Just look and put them back, though, and you’ll be fine. And don’t get any smudges on the covers.”

The girl lets out a tentative laugh. “That’d be great. I’m just… looking for some light reading, you know.” 

Suddenly the spark of an idea enters Aziraphale’s head. With a little bounce in his step, suddenly, he disentangles himself from Crowley and moves toward a particular shelf, beckoning the girl to follow him.

“How do you feel about classical poetry?” he asks. 

She shrugs. “I don’t know much about it.” 

“Well, there’s a delightful poet from ancient Greece I think you might like. I’ve got a book of her work around here somewhere…” 

Crowley watches from the window as Aziraphale rummages happily through the volumes. The girl is starting to relax, peering over Aziraphale’s shoulder to see what he’s looking for. Aziraphale can feel the bright grin growing on his cheeks, but he can’t stop it. And he doesn’t want to. It’s been a long time since he’s had the chance to talk about Sappho. 

Tonight, when the shop closes again, Aziraphale resolves, he’s going to take Crowley out for dinner. 

[infinitevariety]

Fireworks

Whizz... BANG!

Aziraphale looks up from his book to see Crowley, previously napping contentedly, sit bolt upright on the sofa.

“Wassat?” Crowley groggily asks.

“A firework, I think,” answers Aziraphale. “It certainly came from outside.”

Crowley rubs at his eyes, waking up more fully, before looking at his watch.

“It’s only four in the afternoon,” he says. “Who’s setting off f—”

Whizz. Whizz. BANG BANG BANG BANG!

“—uuuuuucking hell, fireworks at four o’clock in August? It’s sunny as anything out there, you won’t even be able to see them!”

“Youths, probably.” Aziraphale fills the word ‘youths’ with an air of condescension he doesn’t quite mean to. “Down on the village green or out in the fields.”

“You’re probably right,” says Crowley. “Found some old fireworks in their parents garage and thought they’d set them off. So rebellious and grown up—lighting matches and making loud noises.” He sighs. “I can’t fault their motivations, but can’t they find a quieter way of making themselves feel important?”

“Dare I ask what suggestions you’d give them, my dear?”

“The usual, you know. Hanging around in large groups to intimidate passers by, underage smoking and drinking, a bit of shoplifting. More harmless stuff.”

Aziraphale huffs, looks back down at his book, and mumbles, “Harmless?” under his breath.

Crowley definitely doesn’t hear him, because a further series of whizzes and bangs sound from outside. This is followed by a volley of swearing from Crowley.

As Crowley jumps up from the sofa, Aziraphale angles his head down at his book, but keeps his eyes on Crowley as he begins pacing the room. It is mere seconds until Crowley begins ranting.

“Who invented fireworks, anyway? Crack bastard.”

“Wasn’t it you? Back at the end of the 10th century in the Song dynasty?” asks Aziraphale, thought he already knows the answer. Of course, Crowley isn’t actually listening to him.

“What were they even thinking? Flash, bang, make a bloody nuisance?”

“I’m fairly certain that’s what you told Hell at the time, but when you spoke to me about it you said there had got to be a better use for gunpowder than just killing. And really, I think that was rather lovely of you, dear.”

Still not hearing Aziraphale, Crowley continues his tirade. “No consideration for folk with anxiety and trauma!”

“You couldn’t’ve taken that into account at the time. The concept of mental health was not at all what it is now.”

“And the animals!” Crowley suddenly stops his pacing and whips around to face the window. He looks distraught as he gazes out onto the cottage’s front garden. “They’ll be terrified.”

“Crowley—” Aziraphale closes his book and places it on the table beside his chair.

Before Aziraphale can get another word out there is another loud whizz and bang from outside. He can see the moment Crowley snaps. Wide eyes become narrow and calculated. Crowley takes a step towards the door as his lips form a hard thin line. He takes another step.

“Crowley—” Aziraphale tries again.

“I can be terrifying, too.” His voice is low and full of demonic intent. “Village green, you reckon?” Crowley turns towards Aziraphale as he asks, and he can see his eyes have gone full snake.

“Please, Crow—” This time Aziraphale doesn’t even get Crowley’s full name out.

Crowley throws open the front door and drops across the threshold into his serpent form. Aziraphale can just see him slithering across their front garden and into the undergrowth towards the village.

Aziraphale considers going after him, but Crowley is so fast as a snake—he’ll never catch him up. And really, who does set off fireworks during daylight hours? And in that number? It’s just unnecessary.

It’s obvious Crowley has a lot of pent up guilt he feels he needs to atone for… who is Aziraphale to prevent that? He won’t do more than put the fear of Crowley into the youths, and that’s done wonders for their garden, so Aziraphale can’t really fault his methods.

With a nod to himself, Aziraphale picks his book up from the table. A snap of his fingers has the front door closing as he settles back down in his seat. He hopes Crowley won’t be long—he promised he’d make paella for dinner.

————————————————–

Written for the Summer Omens challenge that @thetunewillcome was hosting back in August. IDK. This is not what I had planned when I started writing, but I just really hate fireworks.

————————————————–

(Series on AO3) (Sand) (Ice Cream) (Burn) (Camp) (Grass) (Pride) (Bloom) (Sunset) (Freckles) (Sweat) (Festival) (Snooze) (Lavender) (Lightning) (Relax) (Garden) (Road Trip) (Berries) (Independence) (Solstice) (Trail) (Melting) (Firefly) (Petrichor) (Ice) (Dandelion) (Marshmallow) (Swim)

[roseskiesandbutterflies]

Wait For You (Good Omens One-Shot)

Summary: An angsty songfic for these ineffable bastards. I’m bad at summaries but it’s much better than it sounds.

Word Count: 1.8k+

Taglist: @bhmay @briarrose26

Ask to be on my taglist! Let me know if it’s for a specific fandom(s) or not. All of my fandoms are in my bio.

Warning(s): general angst, swearing (I think)

Inspirations: Wait For You by Tom Walker, the fact that Good Omens is my new obsession and is promptly taking over ever waking moment of my life, Great Omens (The Big One) by falsepremise on AO3, A Lot Of Love And A Little Bit Dumb by LollipopCop on AO3, Only A Bad Dream by Bookwormgal on AO3, This Fanart by @whiteleyfoster

A/N: Yeah so I write for Good Omens now, what are you going to do about it? I have nothing else to say other than enjoy and please let me know what you thought because every single comment makes my day and that is not an exaggeration in the slightest.

“Angel, I-” Crowley’s voice broke before he could even think of what he was going to say, but there was something in the way the pearly eyes of the angel in question shot up to look at him, something that understood everything that Crowley himself didn’t.

Aziraphale had known that this was going to happen at some point, but that didn’t make him any more prepared for the conversation he knew they were about to have. He nodded deeply, taking great care to not show any hint of annoyance or irritation, knowing that consciously or not, Crowley was looking for any sign that told him his feelings weren’t valid and that he should shut up right there and then. He moved so that he was sitting opposite Crowley instead of straddling him, pulling him into a hug that almost glowed from the love he poured graciously into it. He took it gratefully, throwing his arms around Aziraphale’s neck and burying his face into the crook of his neck. He held onto him for dear life as he sobbed, trying to be as quiet as possible from instinct. The angel cradled the back of his head as he did so, the painful break in his heart deepening with each second that passed; he wasn’t sure if it was from the tiny sobs that escaped his mouth or the fact that they were barely audible. He didn’t even want to think about why he felt the need to stay silent.

Once he’d started, he just couldn’t stop, no matter how hard he tried. Every time he thought he had his emotions buried down, they would resurface when he was reminded of how soft Aziraphale was, and he meant that both figuratively and literally. He couldn’t silence the voice in his head that screamed at him that he didn’t deserve this he didn’t deserve this he didn’t deserve this, repeating over and over again like some morbid mantra.

Despite everything that he was, there was something inside of him, something fuzzy and warm and alien, something he hadn’t felt any remnant of since before the Fall. It terrified him because deep down he knew what it was. It was the sensation of butterflies in your stomach, and your heart racing at a greyhound’s speed, and the sinking realisation that hit you like a ton of bricks that you only got when it was far too late and you were in too deep. It was quite possibly the only thing that united each and every human on God’s green earth.

Love.

Or the closest thing a demon could experience. And that was exactly what terrified Crowley so much, demons couldn’t love, shouldn’t love. He knew that, Aziraphale knew that, everyone knew that. It was one of the only things both Heaven and Hell agreed on, and they were few and far between. For millennia, it had been cruelly drilled into his head, and everyone else’s heads for that matter. So how the Heaven could Aziraphale be so blind? His angel was oblivious at the best of times, but he wasn’t an idiot. Was he just playing dumb for the sake of a love that couldn’t happen? Or was this all some sick game, carefully fabricated to mess with the demon’s head?

But Crowley held on tighter to his angel and the squeeze he got in return destroyed all of those fears in an instant. How could he ever imagine Aziraphale being that cruel? Sweet Aziraphale who never questioned, just acted as he saw best. No, this wasn’t his fault.

“Crowley,” he murmured, voice soft as the nonchalant clouds above them but still managing to make Crowley flinch slightly. Aziraphale must have felt it for his next words were even gentler, even slower, “Darling, you need to talk to me so I can help you.”

Crowley swallowed thickly as he felt the tears begin to subside slightly, “What if you can’t help me, angel?”

Aziraphale pulled away so he could look him in the eyes, any remainders of his heart shattering when he was met with a despair so intense, he struggled to maintain eye contact. However, he persisted; he wasn’t going to give up on him that easily, “Don’t be silly,” he carefully stroked the side of his face, brushing his hair out of the way, “Of course I can help you. I might not be able to fix everything, but it’s worth a try, isn’t it?”

“It’s not your problem to deal with, that wouldn’t be fair on you,” he cast his eyes down as he smiled sadly.

“It became my problem when I realised how much this was hurting you,” he said as firmly as he could without startling Crowley, “I can’t guarantee that I’ll understand, but we can figure this out together. You don’t have to be on your own.”

Even though he didn’t need it, he took a deep breath and, after a moment or two, he said, “This terrifies me, whatever this even is. We’re an angel and a demon, how is this ever going to work? I don’t want to put you in danger because I’m too selfish to stop this before it starts. Because if it does, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”

“Who says this needs to be stopped?” he suggested.

“Heaven! Hell! I don’t know what they’ll do to you if they find out. For your sake, I can’t risk it.”

The angel shook his head at his defeated tone, “I don’t understand how you can call yourself selfish when you’re putting yourself through all this just to protect me,” he sighed, “You do realise that it scares me too, right?”

Crowley looked up at him in confusion, “You’re scared?”

“Of course I’m scared, darling,” he said sympathetically, “But that doesn’t mean I want to give this up,” he paused for a moment, “If you think about it, everything happens for a reason. The Almighty wouldn’t have let us bump into each other over and over again for millennia, and She wouldn’t have let us get to where we are now, if She didn’t want this to happen.”

“So, are you saying we were meant to be?” he raised an eyebrow sceptically, looking as though saying those words caused him a great deal of discomfort.

“Perhaps,” he shrugged, infinitely relieved that Crowley was starting to revert back to his usual self, “But there’s something else, isn’t there? I know you better than you know yourself sometimes. Something else is worrying you, what is it?”

Crowley found himself almost cursing Aziraphale’s intuition, but deep down he knew that he’d much rather do it this way than having to bring it up himself. “You’re right. Of course, you’re right, you almost always are.”

He let a small smile appear but quickly wiped it away, “What is it, darling? And take your time, I’m not going anywhere,” he added when he saw the hesitancy on Crowley’s face.

“I don’t deserve you,” he admitted quietly, “Whatever you’re trying to do for me, I’m not worth it.”

“Whoever told you that? Who’s made you feel like you’re not worthy of being loved…” he trailed off as the realisation sunk in. Maybe no one had ever outright told him he didn’t deserve good things, but the prejudice that Aziraphale himself had carried all these years, every little comment or snide remark; that amounted to a great deal. “Oh, Crowley, I’m so sorry-”

“No, no, no, no, no,” he rushed to assure him, pushing his own pain aside, “Angel, don’t apologise, it’s okay, you were right.”

“But I wasn’t right, Crowley,” he cried, “I’ve never been more wrong! Especially after everything you’ve been through, you deserve all the love in the world,” he paused for a moment before whispering, “I’m sorry that I ever made you feel like you were unworthy of being loved.”

“Angel…” he murmured as he felt the stinging tears well up in his golden eyes again, desperately trying to brush them away.

Aziraphale clasped his hand around Crowley’s wrist gently, bringing his hand away from his face and kissing it lightly, “That prejudice I carried, I promise that it was never really aimed at you. You’ve always been different, deep down I’ve known that since Eden. Something’s always been different about you. I haven’t quite been able to put my finger on it for a long time, but I know what it is now. What separates you from everyone I’ve ever met.”

“What is it?” he asked softly, listening intently to everything his angel had to say.

“Love, my dear. The love I sense from you isn’t quite like anything I’ve ever felt before, but it’s familiar somehow. Homely might be a better word for it,” he mused, more to himself than to anybody else.

His brows furrowed in confusion, “But I’m a demon,” he countered, stressing on the last word as if that explained everything perfectly, “Demons can’t love, I thought that was the whole point of – well, you know…” he said, leaving Aziraphale to fill in the blanks; the last thing he needed right now was to be reminded of The Fall.

“Yes, well, your aura says otherwise. I’ve no idea if it’s just you or not, but I think the important part is that it is you. You’ve had love in your soul for six thousand years, you’ve shown it every time you’ve stopped me from getting discorporated or just stopped by for lunch. I think that makes you deserving of being loved in return, don’t you?”

Crowley looked at him blankly for a second before coming to his senses, “You’re just saying that to try and make me feel better.”

“Am I? Well how about this,” he contemplated what he was about to impart for a second, “What if I was to tell you that I too have had that love for six thousand years? What would you say then?”

“You deserve the world, angel,” he said immediately.

“Has it ever occurred to you that I would feel the same way about you?”

Crowley didn’t say anything to that, his mind had completely given up on trying to conjure up a response or at least rationalising everything that he’d just heard. His head was at a loss but his heart? His heart was swelling with each passing second with love for the angel sat opposite him, so he did the only thing that made any sense at the time: he kissed him. It lacked the passion and the drive from earlier that evening, but adoration and a strange kind of relief stood in its place, towering above any other feeling he’d ever felt. It sealed the deal between the two of them, surrounding them with a love that shone brighter than Aziraphale’s own halo, that burned harder than the fire behind Crowley’s eyes, that beat louder than their hearts would if they had them, synchronised and perfectly in time with one another. It was the bond that had kept their souls intertwined since that first conversation in the Garden of Eden. It was an all-encompassing love that almost made anything in its near vicinity bask in its glow, warm and welcoming and oh-so-familiar.

It was the overwhelming realisation of yes, this is where I’m meant to be, this is what I’ve been searching for.

It was home.

[shipaholic]

Omens Universe, Chapter 19

2 chapters to go -!!

Link to next part at the end.

(From the beginning)

(last part)

(chrono)

---

Chapter 19

A smoking pile lay on the ground. Crowley looked down at it, still processing what he’d just seen. A sword, a crown, and a set of scales. Smoke rose from them in wisps. Crowley knew one thing for certain; he was blessed if he was going to touch them.

“Why… why did they disappear?” Aziraphale said, half to nobody.

War, Famine and Pollution. One moment they’d been gung-ho about Adam using his terrifying powers, the next - vanished. Nothing left of them except a heap of unsettling artifacts.

Crowley looked to the tall figure remaining. Death’s eye sockets looked back at him, pinpoints of bright blue in their centres.

“Where did they go?” he said.

Death’s head tilted towards him.

THEY HAVE GONE. THEY EXISTED BECAUSE HUMANITY DREAMT OF THEM. HUMANITY DREAMS NO MORE. HUMANITY THINKS NO MORE. HUMANITY IS NO MORE.

In a small voice, Aziraphale said, “But… you’re still here.”

Death grinned.

YES. I AM STILL HERE.

Crowley shivered. So. No more humans. Nothing but the washed-out things standing about the house. Adam got them all.

“We’re the only ones left,” Aziraphale murmured.

“You had to point that out, didn’t you?” Crowley muttered.

Adam stared around the garden. He seemed to take in that he was now one of five sentient creatures left on Earth. He looked from Aziraphale and Crowley, to Death, to Spacedog at his feet. The little dog had shrunk into an unhappy ball. Even his helmet looked smaller than usual.

“All right.” Aziraphale sounded a little like his old self. He raised his chin and spoke briskly. “Why did you spare Crowley and myself?”

Adam’s gaze wandered back to the two of them. Crowley tried not to flinch.

“We’re in the eye of the storm,” he said, dramatically.

There was a pause.

Crowley wrinkled his nose. “Come off it.”

Adam grinned. Only with one corner of his mouth, and for half a second, but still.

“Yeah, it sounds cool when people on TV say that. Actually, I want to see Zadkiel.”

Crowley moved protectively towards Aziraphale. Aziraphale did the same towards him. They bumped into each other a bit, but Crowley felt he managed to play it off.

He glared at Adam. “No.”

“Why?” Aziraphale said.

Adam shrugged. “I just thought he was cool. He saved my life. You two were pretty useless - no offence. He was much better.”

“He’s not a party trick,” said Crowley.

“Don’t you want to be him? I thought you wanted to spend the rest of your lives together.”

“Yeah, well, I hoped the rest of my life would take a bit longer,” Crowley snapped.

“I’m not killing you. Why don’t you understand? You’ll be fine. Better than fine. You’ll never feel anything bad again.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, quietly.

Crowley turned to him. A tiny flutter of hope whispered to him that perhaps Aziraphale was going to say something brilliant and save the day.

Aziraphale slipped his hand into Crowley’s. Crowley felt their fingers intertwine, and for a moment cared about nothing else.

“I think we’ve lost,” Aziraphale said, softly.

Crowley felt coldness squeeze his insides. Then, a hollow sense of loss.

“Yeah. I know,” he mumbled.

Aziraphale gave a sad smile. Crowley wondered if there was anything they could have thought of. Probably not. The only thing they could have done that would have made a damn bit of difference was to fall in love sooner. Been braver. Dared Heaven and Hell to destroy them. They would have - of course they would have. But oblivion was coming either way. They could have died on their own terms.

He supposed they still could.

“Do you want to?” he asked Aziraphale.

Aziraphale’s eyes were very bright and very sad. “Be him again? One last time?”

He paused in thought, his hand still laced with Crowley’s.

“I don’t think I want to do that to him,” he said at last. “And I rather want you to be the last thing I see.”

A lump in Crowley’s throat made it suddenly hard to breathe.

“Yeah. Same.”

He faced Aziraphale.

“We’re ready. Do your worst.”

Adam sounded bored. “So you’re not fusing then? Fine. Bye.”

Crowley braced himself.

Nothing happened.

He looked back up. Adam was frozen in thought.

“Hang on. Can a fusion have more than two people in it?”

Crowley blinked. He’d never thought about it before. The idea of fusing with anyone else had never occurred to him.

“Er… I don’t know?”

A disturbing light came into Adam’s eyes. Crowley wanted to shrink back from it.

“Wow. I bet you can. How cool would that be? A massive fusion that just gets bigger and bigger. You could keep on adding to it ‘til it’s got dozens of eyes and wings and arms and it’s bigger than a house - no, bigger than a planet. Big enough to eat the solar system.”

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand so tightly they’d both lose circulation if they had blood. Crowley’s heart was a jackhammer in his chest. He wanted to run away, but his legs had frozen to the lawn.

“That’d be brilliant. That’s way better than turning everyone into a stupid puppet. I want to be a fusion.”

Adam locked eyes with them.

Crowley felt his brain turn inside out, and his eyeballs begin to scream.

Adam crooked a finger. Crowley felt it hook into his brain and jerk him forward.

He and Aziraphale took halting, marionette footsteps across the grass. Their joined hands anchored Crowley to reality. His body was no longer his. It forced him to stagger forwards, a robot operated by an indifferent user.

Adam’s cherubic eleven-year-old smile was all he could see, getting bigger and bigger until it made up the whole world.

Crowley felt his gem flare. The light was all wrong.

The three of them dissolved together, and Crowley no longer existed.

~*~

He was a colossus, straddling the sky.

He was tiny and overwhelmed in an ocean of someone else’s thoughts.

He didn’t know what this was. This was hell.

He was a fusion. He knew that much. Forced together like jigsaw pieces that didn’t match, crammed together by an impatient child until they broke.

He wanted to recoil. He stopped him. One of him stopped the other two.

The one that was powerful held the two that were not so they could not escape. But they were all him, and his mind was splintering. He was cringing in a corner and he was the entire room.

He was ghastly. He was shameful. He shouldn’t exist.

A word rang inside him.

Abomination.

All three of them felt that.

He felt…

He didn’t know how to describe it. It was something big and complicated. The closest, simplest word was… sad.

The two tiny parts of him struggled towards each other and became one slightly less tiny part, swimming within a much larger one. It made little difference - they were still insignificant within the whole.

All the same.

Adam, let’s talk

Adam was not his name.

I know, but humour us

I don’t want to.

Well. Can’t argue with that, I suppose. Except arguing is at least seventy percent of all I’m good for. The rest is hair

He flicked his head from side to side. Wind roared in his ears. He must be miles off the ground.

Trying to push me out? Am I a flea in your ear?

Yes.

It’s your fault I’m in here, you know

He tried to wash the voice out with a rich wave of drowning static.

I wouldn’t aim that power at your own mind, if I were you. Which I am

Don’t tell me what to do.

Yes. Who gets to tell who what to do? That’s what this is about, isn’t it? You’ve put the whole world just as you want it. No will except for yours. Nobody in opposition means you always get exactly what you want. Ideal world

At least now I’m in control, I can put things right. You’re acting like anyone around me had free will before. They didn’t. Your people - the demons - scooped out my mum and dad’s minds long before I got the chance to. And the demons didn’t have free will either. They were all following some big plan because they’d get tortured if they didn’t. No-one was doing what they actually wanted. Most of ’em didn’t even really know why they were doing it. And I didn’t know anything. I just thought my life made no sense. I’ve made it make sense now. That’s all I wanted.

You’re trying to make the world simpler, so you can understand it?

Maybe.

Has it worked?

Yeah. It’s worked brilliantly.

Do you feel better?

…

Adam

…

I’m sorry

Why?

I could have helped you understand why your life made no sense, and I didn’t even try. I was thinking about myself. I do that a lot

It doesn’t matter.

It does. I came back for the humans. I wanted to save them. You’re human, too. I want to save you

I’m not human. I’m a monster with a scary rock in my head.

So’s Crowley, and he’s all right

That’s not -

Can I tell you about Crowley?

…

Hang on a mo

There was a bwip inside his mind, and the small annoying part separated into two even smaller parts.

Gosh, this is strange. We appear to be communicating within the fusion. We’ve never done that before. I suspect it’s only working because this fusion is not very stable. We’d have fallen apart by now without Adam holding us together with his immense influence over the state of reality

Yes, Aziraphale, we all got there five pages ago. You were going to say nice things about me, get on with it

So I was. No need to take that tone, my dear. Adam

Yes.

Oh good, you’re still there. Now. The thing about Crowley is that before I met him, I was terribly lonely and I didn’t even know. There were many years before She even made the Earth, when I felt like a cog in a machine that no-one actually wanted to be there. I convinced myself I must be happy as long as I was fulfilling my duty to the Great Plan. But really, I had nothing in common with the rest of my side. I always stood out. And standing out can make a person very detached. If nobody understands you, why should you understand them? It was a revelation, becoming friends with a demon. Someone I should have had nothing in common with. It made me better. The thing that Crowley has given me is… patience, and tolerance, and time. I just want others to have what I have now. That’s a gift. Love is a gift

I don’t love anyone.

I know. That’s a tragedy. Everyone has let you down terribly, to provide you with nothing in your life worth loving

I dunno. Maybe I just can’t do it.

I don’t think that’s it at all. Really, I don’t. I know that was Hell’s plan, to surround you with Satanic influences. But please understand, I’ve seen first-hand that the very best among us can come from Hell

Angel

Yes, Crowley?

That’s. That’s. Thank you

Any time

Uh. OK. I think it’s my turn now. Adam? First of all, I’m more responsible for the raised-by-demons thing, so sorry about that. And second… I was shoved off a cloud and took a million mile freefall dive into boiling sulphur. So I know something about cock-ups. Sometimes you mess something up so badly there’s no way back. You can’t ever be what you were before. You’re changed. And you’ll never be forgiven. It’s hard, but the only way through it is to carry on. Your life will be different, but it can be good. In some ways, it’ll be better. But you have to make it a life, not burn everything down because the world burned you first

The fusion felt something. It rose from the pit of his stomach. He recoiled from it, even as the smaller parts leaned into it.

That’s good. Stay with that feeling

No, I don’t want it.

It’s good. It means you’re human

Leave me alone. I want to go home -

He stopped. This wasn’t an alien planet. There was no home to return to. Everything had followed him here.

Adam, you’re not broken. Stay with this

He tried to kick them out. The voices in his head. He controlled reality, he could destabilise this fusion, easy -

It wasn’t working. The voices were tiny, but they held the three of them together, whispering encouragement all the while.

You think either of us is good at this? It only comes with practice. If you’re unforgivable, then forgive yourself

How? How can I be good? Or normal? I’m Satan’s son, he’s in my head, he’s in my head right now -

No. He’s gone. He’s not in here. It’s just you. You don’t have to be him. You can choose what you are

He felt tears dripping down his face. He looked down - a long way down - and saw them splash on the ground in puddles like lakes.

I can make myself human.

Yes

OK.

He reached in and accessed a power.

~*~

Their world blurred.

The past eleven years spooled backwards on three separate tape-reels.

If freezing time was stopping a bullet in mid-flight, this was catching the bullet and being yanked back into the muzzle of the gun.

Crowley’s gnawing despair as Armageddon approached lessened as the boy he was overseeing shrunk from a child to a toddler to a baby in his arms.

Aziraphale, watching the angels prepare their battle armour and muskets, experienced his heart receding from his gullet and back to its proper position. The paperwork on his desk grew back to mountainous.

Adam, tiny on the grass, undestroyed the world. The white wave he unleashed on the planet receded back into his body. Humans regained their minds and resumed shopping and sipping coffee and figuring out how to spend their Saturday. And then the rest of it, his entire life all whipping like a roll of film in the wind, rewinding. He got smaller and smaller, until he could fit in a basket, and the basket passed from Harriet back to the nuns, back to Crowley’s back seat, back to a graveyard, back to Hell -

Adam grabbed at the fabric of reality with a tiny fist and tore.

His gem winked out of existence.

Time made a noise like a record-scratch.

Then it rocketed forward again.

He was back in the basket, on to the hospital, to Sister Mary, to the wrong delivery room, to a man in a very silly cardigan, to -

“You know, Deirdre, I think he looks like an Adam…”

---

(Link to next part)

[dogboy-willgraham]

ooh here's a prompt idea if u feel like it: some kind of fairy tale au, like sleeping beauty, red riding hood, etc ( bonus if it at some point includes or mentions a duck)

(I AM FINALLY WRITING THIS I APOLOGIZE FOR MY BITCHY ASS TAKING SO LONG I COULDN’T GET INSPIRATION AND I DON’T EVEN KNOW HOW I’M DOING MENTALLY ANYMORE SO FORGIVE ME AND MY SCREAMING)

Sleeping Beauty AU, FOOLS

*The original Disney animated version because I am not doing the OG version with the 100 years sleep and the rape (Look it up, or don’t), or the Maleficent storyline because that’s not the point here, thank you for coming to my Ted Talk*

Once upon a certain place in time, there was a Queen, no one ever really knew Her name. She had a son, and while there was rumors of a horrid affair, for She ruled alone, none of them where true. She in fact did have a son by her husband, Lucifer, but when She found him sleeping with Her brother from a neighboring kingdom, She took a few shoots of water hemlock from Her own garden, and mixed him a wonderful drink the next morning. A week later She found Herself carrying a child. 

No one ever did find out the king had died. 

 Anyhow, when Her son was born, She held a ceremony and invited three angels. Michael, Uriel, and Ananiel. They each bestowed a blessing on the child. 

Beauty.

Kindness. 

And when Ananiel began faer blessing of safety, and draft flooded into the hall. And a wicked baritone laugh erupted.

“Such a grand party, my queen, and yet I receive no invitation?” A man shaped being with dark violet eyes emerged from the crowd, a pure white duck waddling beside him. 

“Gabriel,” She hissed. “You are not welcome here,” 

“Oh, but why not my queen? I’m no different from them,” Gabriel turned his gaze upon the three angels guarding the cradle where the prince slept. “I’m an angel, and just like them, I’ve come to give my blessing upon the young one,” 

“You are no more angel than a demon,” She hissed. 

“Leave, Gabriel,” Ananiel warned. “You are not to touch him while I watch over him, you’re ‘blessing’ is not welcome,” 

Gabriel chuckled darkly and waved his hand, sending the three across the room. 

The queen stood, arm poised just behind Her throne where her longsword sat.

Gabriel looked over and with another flick of his wrist She was forced into her seat. 

Finally, he walked to the cradle, and looked down at the golden haired boy. The boy roused from his sleep, due to Gabriel’s presence and began to fuss. 

Gabriel laughed lowly, and placed a hand over the boys chest, making the prince fuss more. 

“Oh, darling prince of Her majesty,” Gabriel began. “Do not fuss, I have come to bring you a blessing,” He took a deep breath and smirked deeply as he began speaking once more. “For your mother’s offenses, you will pay,” Gabriel began to address his entire audience. “The prince will live for sixteen years, happily and beautifully, as my dear friends have blessed, but on his sixteenth birthday, no sooner will the sun set as the prince will be pricked by the thorn of a rose, and fall into a sleep-like death, never to wake,” He finished and a bolt of thunder cracked outside, then it fell silent. 

Gabriel walked away from the cradle and down to the edge of the crowd. “That, is my blessing, my lord,” He smiled wickedly and began walking again. 

“That is no blessing Gabriel!” Michael shouted. “That is a curse!” 

“Oh, it’s no such thing, dear sister, it is a blessing, the prince will not be hurt when he falls into slumber,” Gabriel disappeared into the crowd after that. 

Uriel quickly began removing the crowd when they could move again, while Ananiel ran to the cradle and brought faer wings to cover the boy from any danger. Michael approached the queen, head hung low. 

“My lord, forgive me-” 

She cut off Michael. “Don’t,” She looked to Her son, guarded by sleek brown wings. “It isn’t your fault,” 

“I could’ve-”

“I could’ve done many things too,” She interrupted. “But ‘what-ifs’ will not help us now, we must do what we can,” 

When the crowds were gone Uriel returned to Ananiel and began speaking in a hushed voice to fae. 

“Is there anything we can do about the curse?” She asked Michael, not yet noticing the conversation happening by the cradle. 

“No, if one of us casted it, or someone like us, we could do something but, Gabriel’s magic is not the same as ours anymore,” Michael looked down sadly. “It’s impossible to even try,”

“Not impossible, my lord,” Ananiel cut in. “Well, at least it is to break it, but we can change it, at least a little,” 

“Go on,” She said. 

“Well, Gabriel didn’t say how it could be broken, so we can fill it in ourselves, or Michael can,” Uriel finished. 

“Is this true?” She asked Michael. 

“Yes,” Michael answered. 

“Then do it,” 

Michael approached the cradle and Ananiel hesitantly folded faer wings back. 

Michael set a hand on the child’s chest, calming him. 

“The curse can be broken, but only if the fair prince receives a kiss, from his true love,” Michael finished, and another crack of lighting rang out. 

“Really, Michael? True love?” Uriel hissed. 

“I’m stressed,” Michael deadpanned. “And it’s not impossible,”

“It will be fine,” She said. “But I don’t want him near here, roses grow like wildfires in my kingdom, I want a failsafe in case Michael’s change doesn’t work,” 

“Where can he go?” Ananiel asked. 

“I want you to take him deep into the forest, on the other side of the river, he will be safe from the roses,” She said. “And, if you can, if you will, raise him, I cannot abdicate my throne, he will have nothing to come back to if I do,” 

Michael looked to Uriel and Ananiel, and all exchanged nods. 

“We’ll do it,” Michael said. 

“Thank you,” She stood and walked to Her son. “I love you, and while it’s hurts, I must say farewell my dear Aziraphale,”

-

The trio of angels took Aziraphale into the forest that night, finding a small cottage miraculously abandoned. And, as the queen asked, they raised him. 

Well, Michael and Ananiel raised him, mostly. Uriel had the least maternal personality out of the three, and besides that, Uriel was less than interested in getting involved with whatever was happening between her their sister and their friend. Uriel was more than happy though to take care of the materiel aspects of Aziraphale’s life. 

And for sixteen years, minus one day, Aziraphale grew up happy and beautiful. Unburdened by the existence of his biological mother, or the curse that loomed over

-

The day he was suddenly burdened by his life outside of the cocoon of the forest, was his birthday. But, of course, he didn’t just wake up when all Hell broke loose, but, the beginning of the day is a fine place to start. 

-

“We have to tell him,” Uriel said, out of the blue. 

“Not yet,” Ananiel returned. “ And anyway, we already agreed that we were going to tell him after his birthday,” 

“No, we didn’t,” Uriel set the shirt they were repairing down. “We need to tell him, he needs to time to understand, we’re going to be taking him to Her as soon as the sun finishes setting, and what do you think he’s going to feel like if we just toss that on him and then throw him back at Her?” 

“After, Uriel,” Ananiel insisted. 

“Michael, be the voice of reason, we need to tell him,” Uriel all but pleaded. 

Michael set her book down. “We’re not throwing him back at Her, and we need to make sure this works, we'll tell him after,”

“Oh, for someone’s sake you two!” Uriel groaned. “You’re acting like this is all going to go smoothly! It isn’t!”

“We are aware it’s not going to go smoothly,” Michael gently retorted. 

“Really? Then why are you waiting?”

Michael and Ananiel exchanged a glance, both knowing why they were stalling, but neither willing to admit. 

“I need some air,”  Uriel grumbled and walked out, past Aziraphale who had just arrived at the door. 

“Is Uriel okay?” Aziraphale asked timidly, stepping in. 

“Uriel’s okay, love, just needed to stretch their legs,” Ananiel smiled, and opened faer arms, which Aziraphale let wrap around him happily. 

“They seemed upset,” Aziraphale whispered into the crook of Ananiel’s neck. 

“They were just excited, it’s your birthday after all,” Ananiel felt faer throat tighten with the lie. Fae exchanged a sad glance with Michael. 

“Hey, Azzie,” Michael began smiling. “Could you go get some of those water lilies you love? We need them for tonight,” 

“I was just outside?” Aziraphale asked in a small voice. 

“I know, dear, but I forgot, and I promise there’ll be cake in it for you,” Michael smiled. 

“Okay,” Aziraphale grinned and removed himself from Ananiel. 

“Be home before sundown,” Michael said seriously. 

“Alright, mum,” Aziraphale hugs Michael before going back outside. 

Ananiel and Michael share a look, understanding, and hesitation to have their perfect illusion of life shatter. 

-

Aziraphale hummed happily as he collected the pale pink flowers off their green beds, daydreaming as usual. It was hard not to, he’d never been outside the forest, and never met anyone else either. But he had his books, and he could imagine as best he could meeting a tall dark stranger, or a kind friend. 

But the dark stranger was preferred most times. 

As he plucked another flower he heard a thud from a nearby clearing, and muffled grunts. 

Aziraphale stood up and cautiously walked towards it, leaving his flowers in a pile. 

When he pulled back the thick of bushes he had to bite his tongue to keep from bursting into giggles. 

A young red-haired man, no older than Aziraphale it seemed, was sprawled out on the forest floor as if he had fallen off his horse, who was now sitting on top of him. 

“For somebody’s bloody sake Bentley! Get off!” The strangely dressed person pushed at the black horse, who just huffed and shifted farther onto it’s rider. 

Aziraphale let out a small snort, still mesmerized by the newcomer. 

The redhead looked over to Aziraphale and sighed in relief. 

“Oi, blondie, mind helping me out?” The redhead asked. 

Aziraphale nodded and went over to try and gentle the horse off the ginger, which was successful. 

“Thank you,” The ginger smiled, getting up and brushing the dirt off his pitch-black clothes. “I would’ve been there for hours if you hadn’t come along,”

“No need,” Aziraphale smiled as well, a little blush creeping up his neck. Now that he was able to see the redhead better, he found him incredibly handsome. His very own tall dark stranger. 

The redhead, Crowley was his name, blushed too as he gazed at the cherubic blonde in front of him. He shook his head though, as if it would help clear his head. “What's your name, kind angel?” 

Aziraphale flushed fully, quite surprised by the name, but not unwelcoming of it. 

“A-Aziraphale,” Aziraphale coughed out, his throat felt dry. “My name is Aziraphale,” 

“Crowley,” Crowley smiled, brushing a bit more dust off his gold accented jacket. “Aziraphale, you really are an angel,” 

Aziraphale wanted to both get away from Crowley and his wonderful words to collect himself and more of those words. 

“Are you from around here?” Crowley asked, interrupting Aziraphale’s frenzied thoughts. 

“Yes, from the clearing Eastward from here,” Aziraphale answered. 

“Ah, well, why don’t I give you a lift back? Repay you for saving my arse?” 

Aziraphale smiled sheepishly. “You don’t have to,” 

“Rubbish, hop on. Make sure to hold on though, Bentley is not peaceful,” 

-

Aziraphale forgot about his flowers as he clutched Crowley’s chest while the horse sped off. 

Crowley smelled very nice, a faint fiery smell with cinnamon, and Aziraphale couldn’t get enough. 

They arrived at Aziraphale’s home just before the sun had set. Crowley helped him off the horse and knelt to kiss his knuckles lightly. 

“Thank you for the company, angel,” Crowley smiled. 

Aziraphale blushed and looked away. 

”I hate that I must part ways with you now, but I will return as soon as I can,” Crowley frowned slightly, before digging into his leather bag and pulling out a white rose. 

“For you,” Crowley tucked the flower into Aziraphale’s hair, a stray thorn nicking Aziraphale’s skin. 

And as soon as Crowley was watching a blushing cherub he had an armful of sleeping cherub. 

Three women emerged from the house suddenly as well, and took a moment to take in the scene. 

“You have no idea the shit you’ve just started,” The red-haired one growled. 

-

To sum up the end, Crowley fought a giant duck, and then kissed Aziraphale, and they somehow fell in love, there was also a whole ordeal with Aziraphale’s birthmother, but he chose his family in the end. 

[caffeinechic]

Good Omens Fic Recs 1/?

I went to fix a link in this post and managed to delete the entire thing like an absolute fool. 

But my complete annoyance with myself won’t be bested with my determination to post this lot. So here I go again. I am so sorry if this has shown on your dash a million times. And sorry for the double links / tagging as I honestly went half mad over even the basics. This is where I am with life.

I have about 300 Good Omens fics bookmarked at this point to trying to pull out my absolute favourites sent me down a re-read (and in many cases a re-re-re-re-read) rabbit hole, which was an absolute joy so no complaints here!

These are just some of the ones that have just really stuck with me for one reason or another so I’ve gathered them up under the cut

4 Authors I just need to do like a HUGE rec for as they’re life ruiners. How dare they be this good. HOW DARE THEY.

@princip1914 @princip1914

Yeah I started pulling out the bookmarks I had for @princip1914 and realised it was...everything they’d written. All of it. Just...all of it.

But my particular favourite out of an outstanding batch is the following - which I have read approximately 70 squillion times. It stuck with me for so long in a way that I don’t think many fics have, ever. I actually can’t recommend this enough:

Doubt Thou The Stars Are Fire

“But how,” Aziraphale gasped, agonized and close to tears. “How can you be sure. Crowley, dear, you got thrown out of heaven for questioning everything. How can you be sure about this?”

Crowley loves and Aziraphale doubts. God intercedes. A groundhog day kind of situation ensues wherein Aziraphale has to fall in love with Crowley over and over again as a human until he gets the point. Highlights include: delivering medical care in rural Louisiana, stargazing in Vegas, strangers on a train, and teaching middle school.

@bestoftheseekwill @bestoftheseekwill

Same “problem” with @bestoftheseekwill - READ EVERYTHING. Oh my god, the human AUs, THE HUMAN AUS.

Special shout out to Acts of Service which was the first Human AU I’d read and got me completely hooked and now whenever seekwill posts I immediately read.

Acts of Service

"You seem very familiar to me. I can’t say why that is." As Aziraphale spoke, Crowley turned away from the fire, and Aziraphale was momentarily concerned that the spell had been broken, that he had crossed some invisible line. But Crowley smiled and brought his beer to his lips.

"Maybe we met in a past life. Does your lot believe in that?"

"Past lives?"

"Yeah."

Aziraphale smiled into his wine. He was sure Crowley was poking fun, ever so slightly, but he liked it. "Not strictly speaking. No."

Crowley shrugged, taking another long sip of his beer. “A mystery then."

After receiving direct instruction from God, village reverend Aziraphale leaves his countryside congregation to serve the underserved and in-need at an urban church in London, a transition made all the more complicated by the mysterious and handsome Crowley, who always seems to appear when Aziraphale least expects him.

OH!! but also

That this could be the kingdom

- this one sat with me for a while. Stunning

I have lived my whole life with a wrecked heart. Fr. Aziraphale Fell’s present mirrors his past, as long ago roommate, classmate, and former friend Anthony Crowley reappears in his life in an unexpected and disarming way, challenging Aziraphale’s choices, and bringing him back to the breaking point, when he made a decision he couldn’t take back. It isn’t temptation, it’s revelation.

@mygalfriday @mygalfriday

Ah here, listen - I went to get my bookmark list for @mygalfriday and just ended up re-reading all 12 fics this week.

i can't say the words, so i wrote you into my verse

Aziraphale blinks as it slowly dawns on him exactly what he’s looking at. Crowley has a tattoo. Well, another one anyway. Unlike the small serpent curled just beneath his temple, this one takes up far more space.

And listen if you don’t read the blind date au series then I don’t know how to help you!

I couldn’t find Rend_Herring  Found @rendherring @rendherring on Tumblr but I had to put my phone and my head down after I read both of these.

The Lightness of You

God should not have built them with such discrepancy, made them need for love, and long for wholeness, then left them to their own devices.

This Soul Outstreaming

“Why did you come here?” Aziraphale interrupts. “Why do you keep doing this?” All the saving, he means, all the chasing after Aziraphale he does. It can’t only be that he’s not keen to endure a replacement. That can’t be it, not anymore. He’s going to get himself in trouble, and then it’ll be Aziraphale’s fault.

Crowley’s mouth shuts with a click. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, reaches for the handle of the fork and taps his fingertips against it before setting his hands in his lap.

When he speaks, it’s very soft. “Don’t you know?” he asks.

Aziraphale, unaccustomed to his heart refusing to translate why it throbs with such haste, shakes his head.

Fics that, to me, are just stunners. I love them so much.

Slow Show - @mia-ugly @mia-ugly Honestly if you’re seeing a rec list WITHOUT slow show...I’d be legit surprised In which temptations are accomplished, grand romantic gestures are made, and two ineffable co-stars only take four seasons of an award-winning television program to realize they’re on their own side (at last, at last.)

Barriers, and the breaking thereof - @cardinaldaughter @cardinaldaughter Ezra Fell has long been comfortable in his loneliness. He’s content to simply run the Soho Public Library and otherwise keep to himself. However, when a handsome stranger bursts in one evening with a baby, frantic and in need of help, Ezra finds those carefully constructed barriers he’s long maintained begin to crack.

Perhaps it’s time to let them fall.

Anthophilia - @fortinbrasftw @fortinbrasftw Anthony J. Crowley's life seems like it's finally falling into place: his floral shop has begun to gain an undercurrent of appreciation in the design elite of London, and he might have even finally found a boyfriend who looks just right lounging on his Tenreiro sofa. Things seem almost perfect, until one day the empty shop across the street is leased to frumpy fellow Oxford alumni, who doesn't seem to remember Crowley nearly as well as he remembers him, which really shouldn't bother him as much as it does - it was ten years ago after all, and it wasn't even that good of a kiss.

The road to rapture has a lot of pit stops - @emmagrant01 @emmagrant01 Five times they kissed over four thousand years, and one time they actually meant it.

Demon and Angel Professors - Ghostinthehouse - not 100% sure that this is also their tumblr handle so if anyone can confirm that would be great! They're professors. They're married. Their students don't realise. Cue shenanigans.

Multiple short arcs with one-shots (and often pauses) between them. Characters continue from one arc to the next. It's marked as complete, because each short arc is complete in itself, but there will be more arcs and one-shots in the future.

The Grinch Who Sold Christmas - @forineffablereasons @forineffablereasons Anthony J. Crowley, a big-time attorney from London, is sent to small-town Tadfield to close a deal before Christmas that would sell out half of high street to a fancy developer and put him up for partner at his firm. The deal will run the local businesses out and change the landscape of the town forever, but that’s none of Crowley’s business; he’s just doing a job.

But as the town invites him to share in their lives and their hopes and their holiday celebrations, and as the enigmatic Aziraphale invites him to share in something more, Crowley starts to wonder: if everything has its price, is he still willing to pay what this deal will cost?

Slow - write_away It started like this: A boy with the ability to warp reality met an angel and a demon and he made assumptions.

You might say it started like this: An angel and a demon found a marriage contract hung on the wall of the angel's bookshop. They didn't question it.

It also could have started like this: Once upon a time, the angel told the demon he went too fast. The demon took it to heart.

Aziraphale and Crowley find themselves somehow married. Crowley fears going too fast. Aziraphale forges ahead. Neither know how to ask questions of each other.

You, soft and only - @thehoyden He hadn’t expected a sudden lapful of angel.

“Very sorry about this,” Aziraphale said, and kissed him.

A Bushel and a Peck- @thehoyden  Sometimes, a family is a demonic nanny, an angelic cook, and a kid who isn't actually the Antichrist.Or: Crowley helps Aziraphale secure a different position at the Dowling Estate.

Long is the way, and hard - Kate_Lear The first time Crawley meets the angel, the celestial being is twisting its shining white robe in its fingers and looking wretched. It hardly spares him a glance as he shifts from snake to human, and Crawley is a touch put-out. It’s taken some practice to be able to do it so fluidly.

A story of Crowley's thoughts about Aziraphale, from the Beginning to the present day.

And also of temptation, and want, and whether - for a Fallen Angel - redemption is possible after all.

the 21st century, in which they finally work it out - @fieldbears @fieldbears This is light speed in comparison to the last few centuries of their relationship, but Crowley is barely holding on to his patience.

A Few More Rescues - @poetic----nonsense @poetic----nonsense 5+1 Times Crowley Rescued Aziraphale According to the Romantic Tropes of the Era, and One Time Aziraphale Turned It Around on Him (plus Prologue)

The Cottage, the Husbands (series) - Dragonsquill A demon and an angel fall in love and decide to take on the monumental task of living together in a cottage by the sea.

[elphenfan]

Walking in the Air

This is going up literally as I’ve finished writing it. It’s not beta’ed or anything.

For @tlou15 who replied to my request for prompts with: “I would like to see Aziraphale and Crowley going to the country side to have night flying dates”. Took me an embarrassing second to realise it wasn’t anything to do with fruits.

And yes, it’s titled after the song. Do listen to it while reading this, if you like.

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

The car that had pulled up on the other side of the road from the bookshop was quite the familiar sight in the area and so was its owner. So was the owner’s reaction if you touched or even made mention of anything the car did and consequently, no one made a peep of comment about the fact that the car was idling and had been for at least half an hour.

Of course, it should’ve been fine, seeing as the engine had never seen a drop of petrol since it had been bought – the petrol bought in the sixties by its owner had been given to some youth who was protesting something or other, it was hard to keep track of them all at the time.

Somehow, though, despite the fact that it drove purely because its owner expected it to rather than having any combustion happening in its engine, it also put out quite the cloud of exhaust, whether it was idling or not, because its owner expected it to.

Right now, it put out even more than it usually did, and one might wonder if it was in response to said owner and his mood.

The owner who sat inside, in the driver’s seat, a bundle of energy that could only be called nervous.

Why would he be nervous, it might be asked and rightly so, perhaps. After all, he’d walked the earth for actual millennia, seen just about every permutation of evil, and good, that humanity could muster, and been instrumental in causing a few of them, on both sides. He’d been friends with his hereditary enemy for roughly as long and he’d gone up against Heaven and Hell themselves with said enemy in a bid to avert Armageddon.

Which they’d accomplished, too, somehow, though he had a pretty clear idea that without the presence of such a clever, sensible and entirely human Antichrist, all due to a previous cock-up, they would’ve been, well, buggered, screwed, fucked. Take your pick, or they might’ve gone for them all.

The point was that considering all of that, it was very strange that he was nervous about this. Not that he’d been precisely calm through the averted apocalypse, especially not when this very same car had burst into flame and he’d had to struggle to keep it together, both metaphorically and quite literally. But the point remained even so.

When you looked at him, there could be no other words for it, at least if you knew what to look for, knowing better than to confuse the small, suppressed gestures for impatience or annoyance, and especially if you knew the reason he was letting his car idle outside a particular Soho bookshop.

He was going on a date. They were going on a date, Aziraphale and him. Together. The two of them.

Just the two of them. On a date.

They’d been to dinner before, of course. Lunches, too, even a few breakfasts. Gone to the theatre, been to more than a few concerts as well as a few operas.

So what if Crowley happened to like operas?

The point was that they’d done quite a lot of things that could be considered dates already and he’d got through them easily enough.

Relatively easily, at least, but, well…

So, why was he so nervous about this one? It wasn’t even the first time after they’d averted the end of the world and things had changed. All in all, things should just be as they always were.

There was no denying he was nervous, though. Of course, that didn’t mean he was going to admit it out loud or even acknowledge it to himself.

If he did, the culprit might be that he had called it a date, when he’d asked Aziraphale a week or two ago. Not left it open to interpretation as such or alluded more or less obliquely to it that way.

No, he’d come right out and asked, one day after much consideration, at least that was what he called it, and had caused Aziraphale to pause in his work.

“Date?” he’d asked as he’d started up working again, and though he was hardly the one to keep current, to say the least, he had understood it had nothing to do with the fruit mostly eaten around Christmas, for whatever reason, and everything to do with two people going out.

“Yeah. Date. You and me,” Crowley had clarified, just be sure, casual as anything. He’d even leant against a bookshelf as he’d said it. “I was thinking a drive out into the countryside, just take in the scenic route. Maybe have a picnic.”

He’d dropped the reference in there, wondering whether Aziraphale would pick up on it or not. Expecting that he wouldn’t, hoping that he would.

Judging from the way that the angel had almost dropped a book he’d been putting back on the shelf, it seemed likely that he had.

A, a picnic,” he’d echoed. He’d stared into the shelf for a moment that was very long, or felt it, and Crowley had wondered whether he’d outright decline or just ignore that something had been said at all.

Then he’d turned around, a smile on his face that was bright and delighted, with just a hint, the demon had thought, of nervousness in there.

“A picnic sounds utterly delightful, my dear, I would love to,” he’d said and that had been that.

Well, no, not quite that. There’d been the practicalities of when and where and such, of course, as well as convincing Aziraphale that he wouldn’t be in charge of catering.

The angel seemed to have taken that to mean they were buying a hamper from a place somewhere, possibly local, to take out into a field or something similar.

They…weren’t.

Crowley glanced at the hamper stashed underneath the backseat, tucked away so that hopefully, Aziraphale wouldn’t spot it when he entered the car. He’d spent the last week sourcing everything good he could think of to take.

Then he’d spent some time sifting through those to actually make it fit into a hamper. Of course, there were miracles to sort such things out – bigger on the inside, hah, what would you need with bigger when you could have infinite? – and it wasn’t as though he didn’t want to spoil the angel…

But that was just it, wasn’t it? To spoil him properly, and to show that this was a date rather than merely one of their usual meetings, he needed something else. Something more. Something picked among the best of the best.

Something to show the angel just how much he meant to Crowley.

Not that he hadn’t shown him before, of course, in his own way. But now that he wasn’t merely not prevented from doing it but actively allowed to, as much as he liked, almost, he wasn’t going to pass up any opportunity he was given.

Of course, there was something else about this meeting in particular, apart from it being their officially labelled ‘date’, but, well…that was –

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the passenger door opening. For a moment, he stiffened, worried about the hamper being discovered. Then his brain kicked in to inform him that what he’d heard was the front passenger door, not the back.

“Hello, dear,” an oh, so familiar and achingly beloved chimed as the car dipped with the weight when he got in.

“Aziraphale,” he acknowledged, his expression not changing an iota.

Then he glanced down, thinking he saw something, and sure enough, there was a small…not exactly hamper but certainly a basket in the other’s lap.

“Thought I said you weren’t in charge of the food,” he said, turning his attention back to face ahead. The car began to move, without him ever doing something as silly as pushing the pedals. He’d never thought he’d need them and therefore, he didn’t.

Oh, this isn’t – this is just a little something extra that I found,” Aziraphale said, somewhat…well, not exactly shiftily but slightly evasively, at least. “Thought it would be perfect for a picnic. I will say, though, that I’ve never had a dinner picnic rather than a lunch one before.”

Something new, then,” Crowley said as he turned out into traffic, metaphorically almost flooring the accelerator.

Aziraphale let out a gasp at that, sharp and high, and shot out a hand to try and grab onto something, anything for a steadying grip. He found it and his knuckles turned just a little whiter.

“Crowley!” he protested, loudly.

“What?” the demon asked, feigning innocence as he took a corner fast enough that he would’ve done a handbrake turn without a handbrake if he hadn’t been in control of the car.

“You don’t have to go this fast!”

“Aw, come on, angel, it’s no fun if you’re only going at the speed limit.” He accelerated just a tad more, to underline the point.

Speeding is one thing, endangering the pedestrians is – Crowley!”

“What?”

“You hit that cyclist!”

“I didn’t. I missed him by three quarters of an inch. That he went tumbling anyway, that’s not my fault, is it?”

It – “Aziraphale looked over to him, then stopped speaking and sighed, heavily. “Oh, it doesn’t matter what I say, does it? Or you might make it worse, just to spite me.”

“Never to spite you. Just…wind you up a little, maybe.”

“Really,” Aziraphale said, and the word really felt orphaned without the disapproving cluck afterwards that should’ve been there. Probably was in the expression, though, if Crowley turned to look.

He didn’t.

They made it out of inner London without any issue and really, in rather record time, to boot. So what if Crowley scared the life out of four cops, a criminal in the process of being arrested, a banker and two telephone salespersons on their way to work.

“You haven’t told me where we’re going,” Aziraphale commented after they’d made it out of the city altogether. He was looking out the window as he spoke, as though trying to guess just by what they passed.

Crowley hadn’t and there was a good reason for that. Well, perhaps not a good one, but a reason, anyway.

“You’ll see,” was all he said out loud about it.

He’d thought that as they left London, his nerves would calm at least a bit and he’d relax back into their normal chat and to be fair, it had. But the moment that the blond had asked, it had spiked right up again.

Was it too much? Too little? It would be too little, wouldn’t it? Or just plain stupid. Definitely plain stupid and Aziraphale would think so. He might even outright refuse to do it.

Not the picnic. The day Aziraphale outright refused food like that…that day Crowley would be sure the world had indeed ended – or someone else was trying to impersonate Aziraphale, and doing a really bad job it, too.

A hand landed gently on his knee. Just on his knee, well within the area that could be considered perfectly acceptable, even respectable.

They still didn’t touch a great deal, at least not by Crowley’s standards – or perhaps those were just fervent wishes – and when they did, it was not uncommon for it to stay at that perfectly respectable stage.

But the important point was that they did touch now, freely if not frequently, and there was a sense that said touching was allowed.

They could if they wanted to and do it as much as they wanted to, as well. The question might then be – why didn’t they?

To be fair to them, it hadn’t been that long since That Saturday, relatively speaking. Half a year, a bit more. Just about the time where the south of England was getting to be fairly warm again, by the standards of old Blighty, anyway, and might reasonably be expected to have a relatively lovely, if not exactly warm, night out like this.

To have gone from not touching at all, even actively avoiding it so as to be sure not to go anywhere they shouldn’t, over six millennia to this rather comfortable touching, infrequent or not, within a span of a little over six months was…quite an achievement, Crowley would say.

Not that he wouldn’t be thrilled with me, and practically melted whenever they ended up in a cuddle session, often because Crowley was an octopus rather than a snake when he was in a bed, sleeping or not, and Aziraphale was sitting, or sometimes even lying, beside him.

That wasn’t to say the angel was an unwilling or passive participant in the sessions, far from it. He just did it in his own way.

Such as touching his hand to a knee.

It helped that he left it there, too. Obviously.

“My dear, it is getting rather late for…well, if we’re to call in somewhere and buy something to eat, they’d be…well, it would be rather rude to expect them to keep their kitchens open for us.”

“As if you haven’t done that several times over the years, angel, and that’s putting it kindly,” Crowley countered, looking over at the other.

Glancing at him out of the corner of his eye didn’t work with the blinkers, for lack of a better term, that he had on his current set of sunglasses, as the most he saw there were disjointed colours through a metal mesh. If he turned his head a little, it seemed to give him the same effect, though, as well as being able to see the other.

“Well, I...” Aziraphale said, not quite spluttering but achieving something to that effect. “I may have, once or twice over the years, but I…that is…well, you’re allowed to mend a bad habit, aren’t you?”

“‘Course. Just find it interesting that the time you decide to mend it is the time when it’s not you who’s in charge of the food, for once.”

Again, he wasn’t looking fully at the other’s face as he spoke, but he still managed to clock the way Aziraphale’s face fell. Not completely but quite a bit, showing that he understood what Crowley was saying and what he was implying as well.

“I didn’t – oh, good grief, I’ve put my foot in it, haven’t I?”

“Just a bit.”

“That wasn’t what I meant, dear, and I apologise.”

He didn’t say anything more but then, what really was there to add? Further words wouldn’t change anything or make it more sincere. The sincerity was more than evident in the angel’s almost always very expressive voice.

Nor was Crowley about to say that it was okay because it wasn’t. It was only a minor thing, that was true, but it still mattered. That said, he wasn’t going to ignore it, either.

“Accepted,” he said instead, quietly, and felt the hand on his knee squeeze slightly in understanding and thankfulness.

He laid his own hand over it, covering it completely. He still thrilled in his heart at being able to do this, and he also had to admit that his nerves had quietened some more.

They sped along into the afternoon that was turning into early evening, and quite a bright one with a clear sky that could be appreciated better without obstructions, if that was your cup of tea, along narrower roads and increasingly more picturesque landscapes, heading for the destination that Crowley had in mind.

It wasn’t Lower Tadfield.

Even though there might certainly be reasons to go to Lower Tadfield, such as the general feel of love that Aziraphale still claimed or the people they’d met that still lived there, it wasn’t his intention to go there.

For what he wanted to do, he needed somewhere a little more…out of the way. Or at least, seeing as the south of England wasn’t exactly sparsely populated, as a rule, he needed somewhere where there was no Antichrist about that might show up to ask what they were doing.

He wanted a bit of privacy. That wasn’t too much to ask, was it?

 ........................................................................................

It was that special time of evening just before the sun decided it was done for the day. They had only just pulled in somewhere, where the nearest town was a mile or two away all around, there were no nearby farms or obstructing woods. Just pleasant landscape all around the vantage point that Crowley had picked.

Aziraphale, sitting in the passenger seat, looked around him, clearly not finding what he was expecting to see.

“Crowley – “he began, sounding just a little bit…concerned, perhaps, but the demon interrupted him before he could get further.

“I said I’d take care of the food, Aziraphale,” he said as the car shut off, “and I have, so don’t worry about it.”

With that, seeing as it was obviously on his mind and he’d need to bring it, instead of getting out of the car, he reached behind him and down. With a flexibility that ought to have been difficult, at the very least, grabbed hold of the hamper and pulled it around, holding it up at the same time.

If he was a little bit pointed about it, so what?

“Oh.” Aziraphale looked more than a little embarrassed. He looked down at his lap, his fingers twiddling on the handle of the basket he’d brought. “It seems that I might not be able to eat the food, seeing as I keep putting my foot in my mouth.”

It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, it’s – Crowley!”

Aziraphale called out his name because the demon had got out of the car with his usual speed and dexterity, despite being hampered by a lidded wicker basket.

Come on,” he called just before the door shut behind him, sauntering his way towards a lovely looking spot that would give them quite the perfect view, around and, not unimportantly, up.

He heard the passenger shut and presumed the other was about to join him. While he would’ve liked to walk up there with Aziraphale’s hand in his, he also wanted to find the perfect spot himself, without being interrupted.

That and get his suddenly galloping nerves reined back in a little, of course, if he could.

As he spread the blanket – more of a duvet style of thing, with a few extra things added on, because just because you’d decided to dine outside on the ground didn’t mean you had to be uncomfortable, did it? – out on the ground, he picked up that Aziraphale had stopped moving.

He straightened back up and turned to look, a part of him just a little bit worried about why.

What he found was Aziraphale stopped, basket in hand, looking out over the area which, Crowley had to admit, they had a very good view of from up here. Both of the landscape and the sun setting over it, not a cloud in the sky to obstruct it.

“Strikes you, doesn’t it?” he said as Crowley sauntered up close to him, hands in his pockets. “Even though you’ve seen it unimaginably many times before, it can still be as beautiful as that very first time it happened.”

“Every time since, really,” Crowley commented. “Either none are beautiful, or they all are.”

“True,” Aziraphale agreed, voice and smile soft.

They stood for a few moments, just watching it, taking it in. Enjoying it and each other.

Then the ginger walked back towards the blanket, which now quite mysteriously was packed with just about everything he’d brought. Equally strangely, there was still room for the two of them to sit on it, though not with their legs, despite the spread that could only be described as ‘abundant’.

He sat down, his heart in his throat, hoping he’d got it at least somewhat right.

Which really was stupid. This, at least, he knew he’d got right. Not only had he possibly got every type of picnic-appropriate thing put out on the blanket, and then some, but he knew his angel well at this point and knew that something of quality, food or not, that was made for him was bound to be approved of.

Had he thought about it, he would’ve likely realised that it was almost certainly the nerves from what he had planned for after their ‘light’ dinner that were bleeding over into this.

Aziraphale joined him, sitting himself down opposite, where Crowley had made room for him. Just like they always did. Well, almost always. At least, there was space between them wherever they sat. It had got to be less in the last half a year but well, with everything else, he didn’t want to overdo it.

It was probably, no, unquestionably being overly cautious but at the time, he didn’t see it as such.

Only this time, while the blond did sit where he’d been given a space, it seemed that it was somehow much closer to the ginger than what he’d intended, what he’d made room for, while the spread remained unaltered.

Crowley wasn’t about to complain, he just...he’d thought that with this being so different from what they’d done before, with no concert or play to distract them and not a drop of alcohol drunk between them yet, on an actual date, Aziraphale might find it one thing too many, one step too close to also be sitting as close as they’d done on many occasions now.

Apparently not, though, if not just the fact that he’d sat himself down where he had but the ease with which he’d done it, no hesitation, as well as the smile still on his face.

One might think that the smile was because of the food but as blue eyes were meeting yellow through tinted glasses, it seemed unlikely.

For a long moment, he sat there, immobile. Then he reached across and again placed his hand on top of Crowley’s.

“Thank you,” he said, and there was more packed into that small sentence than the ginger had expected. It felt like he was being thanked for more than just the spread or even the picnic.

“You’re welcome,” he managed to reply, smiling in turn. He was purely smiling, though, not colouring. Not in the slightest. “Go on, then. Eat some. It’s not show food.”

It does look absolutely scrumptious I have to say,” Aziraphale enthused as he looked it over. He put one or two things carefully on the plate beside him, then picked up a jar of something to examine it. “I didn’t know there was anywhere that sold a hamper like this.”

“There isn’t.”

The angel looked up from the jar, realisation dawning.

“My dear…” he said softly, and it really shouldn’t be allowed to pack that much into just two words. Especially not when it wasn’t clear just what exactly was meant.

Oh, the understanding and the gratefulness were both clear enough but as for the rest of it…

The poor demon had to swallow and had to remind himself not to wet his lips.

“Eat,” Crowley said, glad of his glasses that hid his eyes looking just about anywhere else because he couldn’t right now.

He reached out and grabbed something without looking and brought it to his lips. Due to sheer luck, it was something that could be eaten as was and he bit into the scotch egg without relish. Or any other type of condiment, really.

Aziraphale looked at him for an achingly long moment, then smiled and began to fill his plate.

So did Crowley after he’d finished off the scotch egg. Though they as supernatural beings didn’t get hungry and eating was more of Aziraphale’s indulgence than his, he found himself piling more on the plate than he normally would – that he didn’t eat as much as the angel didn’t mean he didn’t eat at all – and what was more, digging into at least most of it.

That seemed to delight Aziraphale for some reason and he placed the occasional morsel from his own plate over on Crowley’s, who in turn made sure to pick up the offered treat as the next thing he ate.

By and by, the food Crowley had brought was eaten, between comments, big and small and completely irrelevant, and discussions, laughter and the occasional touch that was no less meaningful or appreciated for not being constant.

As they ate and talked, they also watched the sun disappear completely beneath the horizon, gradually calling back its tendrils of colour, who darkened as they ran, and the bolder ones even changed colours altogether.

Behind them came night, this time rolling in slowly and majestically rather than jumping and skipping along or racing as if it had got out of bed too late and was in a hurry to reach its destination.

They were even lucky enough to have a few stars come out as night-time came.

As they became visible, Crowley shifted where he sat, feeling a sense of unease creep up on him, but not for the reason that Aziraphale evidently thought, judging by the way he clutched the hand wrapped around his and tried to gently run his thumb back and forth over the patch of skin it touched.

It would be a guess but given what they were looking at, it didn’t seem that big an assumption to make; that Aziraphale was worried he was uneasy being ‘confronted’, as it were, by evidence of his life Before.

Crowley wasn’t going to deny that he did think about it at times or that he wasn’t affected by them, both positively and negatively, much as he didn’t want it to.

At the same time, not only hadn’t he been the sole builder of stars – the paperwork alone on managing all that would’ve caused anyone to Fall, he felt – and consequently weren’t necessarily responsible for what he could see on any given night, he’d watched the night sky so many times over the millennia that…

Well, it hadn’t stopped hurting, but it had dulled, in a way, and become at the very least something he could look at and even contemplate without feeling small and lost, let alone outright pained.

That said, he appreciated both the consideration and the gesture on the angel’s part.

No, the unease, the nerves, were to do with the realisation that they were nearing the end of the meal and therefore also nearing the next step in the plan. The plan which he still wasn’t sure how the other would react to.

Could he just put it off a little bit longer?

Well, yes, of course. He could put it off for eternity, if that’s what he wanted. If he was honest with himself, however, and stripped away the fear and nerves that were doing at least part of the thinking for him, then he knew that he didn’t want to. It hadn’t been a sudden impulse or idea, after all, but something he had wanted for a long, long time.

Putting it off for just a little bit longer wasn’t going to change anything, either. Not the issue and not how he felt about it. If anything, it was in all likelihood only going to exacerbate the matter.

Procrastination was the thief of time, yes, but it didn’t even have the decency to leave a solution or a better feeling about it all behind.

It might be shot down and not happen but if he chickened out like this, it wasn’t going to happen anyway.

With all of that in mind, he took a deep, unnecessary breath and, not entirely intentionally, squeezed the hand in his.

He could do this. More importantly, he was going to do it.

Aziraphale looked at him, puzzled but evidently willing to wait for an explanation, even as he then stood up, keeping hold of the hand in his.

The ginger, after taking another breath, then tugged at the hand in question. Aziraphale followed his request and stood up as well, a little less fluidly than the noodle that was the demon but with a surprising amount of grace, nevertheless.

Once they were both upright, Crowley tugged again and led the other a little way away from the blanket.

The question in blue eyes grew larger still.

Crowley?” he asked, evidently hoping for an explanation.

I…ehm…”

No. No hesitation, no more second guessing. The worst that could happen was that Aziraphale said no and even if he did, he would do it kindly and with understanding rather than judgment.

It was Aziraphale, after all.

For all that he could be a bit of a bastard, Crowley not only loved him the more for it, he was never a bastard around such things.

“I wasn’t only planning to go all the way out here for a picnic,” he said, speaking calmly and at a normal pace, both of which was a bit of a surprise.

He might’ve expected the blond to make a comment but all he got was a patient, yet expectant expression and a small smile.

“I was actually planning, well, hoping that we could…could maybe, if you’re…”

Bless it, when did his tongue become a knot? Or rather, a positive jumble knot. Spit it out already.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to go flying. Together.”

The angel didn’t seem to react to that and for a split second, Crowley was unsure of whether he’d heard him. But he must’ve done, as he then noticed the blue eyes slowly but surely widening, possibly as realisation dawned.

It was on the tip of the forked tongue to take it back, to somehow annul it. He stopped himself, however. If he was going to do it, then he was going to go the whole way. Even if he ended up being the only one up in the sky.

The possibility that Aziraphale didn’t know what he meant was remote. There really weren’t many, if any, other ways you could interpret those words, were there?

Another deep breath and he made a further decision; he was going to go up there, whether the angel was going to join him or not.

You might not be able to claim that half a year was a long time since they’d last been ‘let out’, not in the context of their lives, but even so, he’d felt an itch in his shoulders ever since that day on the airbase tarmac.

And it would be good, not just to stretch them on the ground but flex the muscles of them, too, let them do they were intended to do for once.

He closed his eyes and let out a long, drawn-out breath of relief as he let go of something inside of him and felt the wings unfurl behind and around him with a silent roar.

It occurred to him, then, somewhat and perhaps unwisely belatedly, that maybe Aziraphale’s reaction had something to do with a fear, residual or not, that they would be spotted. Not by humans, that could be fixed. By upstairs or downstairs.

That conclusion seemed born out by the fact that the blue eyes had somehow only grown wider as they looked at him.

If they were going to strike them down, though, they would’ve done so already, surely? Quite apart from what they had already put them through, what with the trials and everything, they’d had plenty of opportunities in the last half a year.

Going for a flight wasn’t going to piss them off more than the rest of what they’d done so far, or so he’d thought when he’d contemplated it himself.

“Crowley…”

There was quite the evident amount of concern and apprehension in that one syllable, or so the demon would’ve said.

He sighed, heavily. There was convincing and then there was coercion or simply pushing someone into doing something they really didn’t want to do. He had no intention of doing either, not when it came to Aziraphale and their time together, much as it was sending small cracks through his heart.

They would mend, though. It was fine.

It was fine.

He let go of the hand in his, reluctantly but nevertheless, he did it. If he was going to do this on his own, he wasn’t going to drag the other with him, not even a little.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to, angel, or if you don’t feel safe going up. I can go up myself, it’d probably be safer – “

Before he could get any further, he was interrupted by the angel unfolding his own wings with an equally inaudible clamour.

There were certain benefits to being a demon. One of them was excellent night vision and so he could easily see the angel standing before him, wings spread out on either side before they came to rest, much like his own.

Without the threat of impending doom and obliteration, for the entire planet as well as them, looming over him, over them both, he had the opportunity to take in the shape of his friend and partner, with his wings, and the sight took his breath away.

Oh, to see those wings beat as they brought the angel up into the air properly and then stretch out as he glided across the night sky, occasionally pushing down with force yet still with grace to stay up.

If ever he’d been in doubt that he’d had a fantasy about seeing that, it evaporated at that moment. Not that that meant anything, really, at least in this particular context.

“I don’t believe I ever said I didn’t want to,” Aziraphale said. “Nor imply it, either.”

“Your silence was pretty telling,” Crowley countered, with just the merest hint of sharpness to his voice.

“Perhaps so, but that doesn’t mean it was indicative of the thing you assumed,” Aziraphale returned, with an equal hint of sharpness.

Then he paused, swallowed, and his voice softened when he spoke again.

“With that said, I do see how it wouldn’t necessarily come across as it formed in my brain, and that a silence can leave some very unfortunate implications in its wake that mere words very often, and for that, I honestly do apologise.”

He grabbed hold of the hand that had only just left his, gripping it even firmer than before.

Crowley expected him to say something more. Perhaps explain his reasoning for not feeling like he could go up there. Which wouldn’t gel with him having let his wings out but perhaps his had been itching same as the ginger’s and this had, if nothing else seemed a good opportunity.

What he did not expect was what he got; Aziraphale not saying a word as he took a step backwards, then another while still trying to keep hold of Crowley’s hand.

As the demon didn’t move, however, since he didn’t feel like he ought to, given what the other was trying to do, that proved impossible, even when they both stretched.

Crowley frowned, puzzled but hopeful. Was that – did that mean that –?

When Aziraphale closed his eyes and drew a deep, but quick breath, it seemed more likely and when air slammed into him and flowed around him as the large wings pushed it down with force and the distance wasn’t quite great enough, Crowley could no longer be in any doubt.

He watched, something constricting his throat, as Aziraphale rose into the air, born aloft by his wings that a certain subset of humans would unquestionably point out were entirely impossible; that with their size and construction they shouldn’t be able to carry something the rough shape and weight of a fully grown human.

Impossible included other such small titbits as being immortal and performing actual, honest-to-opposition miracles, whether benign or malignant, too, and they managed both of those well enough, didn’t they?

To be perfectly fair, it was probably at least a little more graceful to Crowley’s biased gaze than reality would record, but that hardly mattered.

What mattered was that it was happening and for that, he could have swayed like a kite that refused to pick up wind as it was run along to make it fly and Crowley would still have found it beautiful.

That wasn’t to say it was inelegant, regardless of the body shape of the angel. Just a, a little rusty, perhaps. Like something that you once excelled at but haven’t touched in long enough that not just your brain, but your body needs a moment or two to tap into what the dickens this was all about again.

Once that seemed to come back to him, he visibly relaxed. How exactly that was visible, given, well, everything, was something best left to someone with demonic night vision and very intimate, though not sexual, knowledge of the body in question.

Then, another thing happened that Crowley hadn’t expected and certainly wasn’t prepared for. Rather than hold his hand out for the ginger to take as he rose himself, Aziraphale instead grabbed the hand he’d been trying to hold onto earlier.

He didn’t pull or anything like it that would make the demon destabilise or otherwise risk staggering and stumbling, though, just held on as he waited, his wings beating a slow but steady rhythm, keeping him afloat in the air.

Crowley should’ve been up there to join him immediately, he knew. He wanted to, too, without a question, and he would’ve done, as well, if not…

If not for the tiny little issue that his body seemed to have shut down for its holidays and the front desk wasn’t taking any calls at the time.

This was not…

He had been so bloody nervous about all of this ever since he had first formulated it in his mind and suggested going on a date; he’d gone from being hopeful and sometimes even confident back to being a nervous wreck to then thinking in entirely defeatist terms about it and then swung back around to hopeful and start it all over again. Sometimes it’d switch up the order, of course, but otherwise, it had stayed.

All of that, over and over in his mind since Aziraphale had said yes to the date, and this was the result?

It wasn’t that he was…no, that wasn’t right. He was complaining, he just didn’t have any right to complain. Not when things had turned out more or less just like he’d hoped for, and he was more than fine with avoiding drama.

Drama when it was someone else could be interesting, might even fuel a tarnishing of a soul somewhere – he was a demon, he’d had a job to do – but drama when he himself was involved? No, thank you. He’d had more than enough of that in his life, he was going to avoid any further instances.

He guessed there was just the slightest sense of…anti-climax to things panning out like this.

Or perhaps anti-climax was the wrong word. Maybe it was more accurate to say that it felt like it was going too well and that it would come crashing down on him, if not right now then in not very long.

Or…oh, he didn’t know. It was too much, all too much to contemplate at once. It wouldn’t change anything, either, but that wasn’t the same as easily being able to push it out of his mind.

The hand that wasn’t already gripping his was extended towards him.

He looked at it, followed the line of the arm all the way until his eyes met those of Aziraphale. The ones that were smiling so softly, so warmly.

So lovingly.

There was no other word for it.

That broke through not just the thoughts thronging in his mind and making the start of an absolute racket, but his momentary stupor.

Right.

Pushing aside the small thought that it ought to have been him who’d asked Aziraphale like this, not the other way around, as petty and irrelevant in the circumstances, he grabbed the proffered hand without further hesitation.

Thankfully, pushing his wings down wasn’t something that required a whole lot of thought. Not none at all, mind, and he ran the risk of wobbling as much or even more than the angel in front of him. But he would gladly take that if it meant that he got to experience this.

He was in the air before he knew it, the hands in his gripping firmly. It certainly wasn’t him that was holding on tightly to the hands of the angel. Most definitely not.

Aziraphale didn’t say anything, not even when Crowley accidentally pulled a little higher than he’d intended in one go.

Only when the demon felt like he had it all under control – and he wasn’t as foolish as to let go before he was sure he had it under his control – did he let go…of one hand.

The whole reason he’d wanted this wasn’t for him to faff about on his own, now was it? One might argue ‘tricks’ but if that was what Crowley was after, he had plenty of things he could show off to his angel – and they were things that only he could do, too.

Hardly a competition, was it?

He changed the grip on the hand in his, just enough that it was much more secure. That and, well, interlacing your fingers always felt very comforting and, well, romantic.

It was a good thing that angels didn’t have excellent night vision as well, because it spared him from having his slightly reddened cheeks exposed. What light might be left from the disappeared sun was not enough to illuminate the demon’s face, thankfully.

His hand was squeezed gently and Aziraphale’s smile only broadened.

Shall we, then?” the angel asked, and Crowley nodded, ignoring the moisture in his eyes.

Despite it being Aziraphale who had got off the ground first, as it were, he let it be Crowley who took the lead on moving forward, beating his wings once, twice as he looked across the expanse of fields, trees and a small smattering of houses that constituted the nearest village, which included both a post office and a pub, and beyond.

All stretched out below them and around them, ready to be seen.

Not because he never had, though it had been a while since he’d last been on any flight, on his own or assisted by machines. That wasn’t the point.

The point was that he was going to see them with Aziraphale.

That made the difference. All the difference in the world, really.

He thought he saw something glow in the far distance and figured that that would be a good thing to start heading for. Not the final destination, of course, just the pointer to head for right now.

Taking a deep breath, he then set off, his grip on Aziraphale’s hand very firm, warm, a little sweaty and just about perfect.

There was the slightest of tugs in their clasped hands at that, but the angel kept pace with him almost immediately and despite the fact that they should’ve crashed right into each other, flying so close and on a line, nothing happened.

For a little while, they just sailed across the sky, floating in the air, in silence that was only theirs.

Crowley closed his eyes without meaning to, unable to help exhilarating in the sheer excitement and utter joy of being up here, letting his wings out to stretch and flex their muscles. The wind in his face, the sting in his lungs, the rushing through his feathers, the power underneath his wings as they rose a little.

Apart from those small noises right beside him, the almost deafening silence of everything around him, the everyday humdrum noises of an evening that hadn’t realised it had become night far too small to be heard up where they were.

All of it coming together to form something that was altogether so much more than the sum of its parts.

Something that was magical.

But it was only so because it was focused through the spectacular, unique prism that was his angel. Without Aziraphale, none of this would’ve meant even a fraction as much, if anything at all.

Speaking of that, he thought that maybe, if he concentrated on the right muscles and such, he could change the angle and maybe just –

Aziraphale, caught up in his own enjoyment, it seemed, must’ve felt the hand in his loosen. But even so, he let out an inaudible but visible gasp as he watched the demon suddenly fly beneath him, keeping perfect pace with him as they sailed on through the gathering night, his wings beating steadily.

Blue eyes slid across the entirety of the body beneath him and Crowley couldn’t help but spread out his arms as well, grinning just a little cockily.

Alright, so perhaps showing off wasn’t purely for when there were serpentine tricks to perform. Sue him.

Actually, that…nah. He’d got better things to do. Especially now.

Such as flying up above the other and circling all the around him, ending up right back where he’d started, but with a bigger grin than he’d had before.

Aziraphale’s mouth clearly said ‘show-off’, judging by the careful, somewhat exaggerated movements of lips, but despite the distance and despite the darkness around them, Crowley had no trouble seeing the warmth shining in the eyes that he knew so well.

He rose again but only so much that he was in front of Aziraphale, hovering high above the ground.

Luckily, the angel must’ve expected something like that to happen, as he slowed immediately before stopping completely, and thereby avoided crashing straight into the other.

Crowley flew in close and grabbed hold of both plump hands. He brought him up a little and then tugged, moving as he did so. The grin that now threatened to take over his face had nothing to do with cockiness and everything to with unadulterated joy and delight.

Aziraphale followed him, a smiling frown on his features as he didn’t quite understand what the ginger was getting at.

That soon became a laugh of delight as he caught on and moved with the demon, faster and faster as they spun round and round, like a celestial round-about, with the added benefit that they weren’t going to fall off and if they became dizzy from it all, it was easily fixable.

They were both laughing like idiots the entire time.

When they finally stopped, Crowley felt just the slightest bit dizzy, but he also felt outright giddy and joyous and the fact that his feelings were reflected on his most beloved face in the whole world. The entire universe, really.

Part of him wondered whether they ought to call it a night. Whether Aziraphale would want to call it a night, after everything.

Did Crowley want to call it a night? No, not at all. Not ever.

…And still have begged for more…

He had no idea where that had come from. No, actually, he did, with music accompanying it and everything. He just didn’t want to acknowledge it, that wasn’t the same thing.

Despite that, he couldn’t deny that he shared the sentiment, even as he tried to bury the wretched song deep where it might never resurface.

He did want it to go on all night, at the very least, if not longer. It wasn’t as though they were exactly hindered by the limits of other creatures with the ability to fly, was it?

On the other hand, though, he did recognise that a large part of the magic lay in it being such a limited time.

To extend it beyond the night would not only mean that they’d have to perform quite hefty miracles not to be spotted by anyone – as it was now, even with the clear sky they were flying in, they would, if they were spotted at all, be seen as weird birds or possible odd hang-gliders…oh, weren’t humans simply wonderful? – it would take away from the night.

From their date.

Which wasn’t what he wanted at all.

So, instead he could make the most of what he had, make it as memorable an experience as possible.

That did not mean that all it could be was showing off for Aziraphale.

He flew a little closer, with the intention of asking whether the angel wanted to make a swooping dive with him.

Before he got the chance to more than open his mouth, however, he was in for a shock that almost sent him crashing out of the sky; Aziraphale closed what distance remained between them and kissed him.

It wasn’t a short kiss nor a chaste one, either of which he would’ve expected from Aziraphale, if he’d expected anything at all. Which he hadn’t, mainly because he hadn’t dared to entertain even the glimmerings of such a thought. To do more was to only set himself up for unneeded disappointment, or so he’d thought.

This now…

This told an entirely different story, though, didn’t it? As well as saying that maybe he’d got it wrong. Possibly not entirely but quite significantly wrong, even so.

Quickly, he pressed back, as enthusiastically as he could without risking the other toppling over. His hands let go of the other’s as their tongues met, but though he’d intended to wrap the hands around the back of Aziraphale’s neck, only one managed that.

The other settled itself under and over the angel’s jaw, cupping it and allowing his thumb to brush across the entirety of the cheek, paying special attention to the cheekbone and the corner of an eye where it seemed as though some moisture had gathered.

It was him that pulled back after a small eternity, his eyes opening slowly…which was entirely lost on the other, seeing as he’d retained his sunglasses for the trip into the air.

“Well, that…”

“Shush,” Aziraphale said, without opening his own eyes. He placed a finger on Crowley’s lips for emphasis, even though they were definitely close enough to hear each other now. “Don’t go ruining it. Not yet.”

The demon let out a sharply indignant noise at that and pulled back a little further.

Ruining it! The bloody nerve of it – as though he would!

Then the angel did open his eyes and there was nothing but warmth and love in them, no anger or annoyance at all.

Well, to say that it was all that was in them was perhaps not quite true…

“You bastard,” Crowley murmured when he cottoned on, the downward pull of his lips transforming into a broad grin in an instant. “You – “

“At your service, my dear, always and ever,” Aziraphale smiled back. After a moment, he asked, “Shall we head back, then?”

Crowley was about to say ‘yes’ – because just because they were headed back didn’t mean they had to take the straight route – when he spotted something flashing through the night.

“Not yet,” he said, his grin a positive beam now. “Come on, I want to try something!”

And what’s that?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley didn’t answer, just grabbed the other’s hand and headed down.

That was to say, he dove down, in a swoop that was a bit too vertical for any kind of comfort. Nevertheless, Aziraphale followed him, keeping hold of his hand throughout and staying right beside him.

Down they flew, down and down and forward as well, until they were right above what Crowley had spotted; a train, though sadly not a steam train, moving through the night with a speed that was quite seductive and almost lent it a sort of grace as it sped across the rails.

They kept pace with it for a while, just because they could.

Once or twice, Crowley dropped down to look in on the passengers, which rather startled at least a few. There was one who merely waved to him, but as that was a child, with a sibling beside it who just frowned and stared, he had no compunction with waving right back to them before shooting back upwards, with perhaps more speed than he rightly needed.

When he emerged back up above the train, he looked around.

His heart seized when he at first saw absolutely nothing, not even a hint of angel as he looked.

Just as he was about to call out for him, however, strangled and, admittedly, desperate, his eyes caught on a mass of white. A familiar and incredibly welcome mass of white.

He dropped a foot or two out of sheer relief before he flew over to where Aziraphale was. Where he had sat himself down.

On top of the moving train. He was cross-legged but somehow managed to look as prim and proper as he always did when he had something more…chair-like with a seat to perch on instead.

Crowley alighted on the roof himself.

“What the heaven’s possessed you to sit yourself down on top of a moving train?” he asked once he had.

Aziraphale looked entirely innocent. “You were the one who wanted to follow it along like a couple of gulls trailing a ship.”

Gull? Gull? He wasn’t a bleeding gull!

What he said out loud was something else, though. “And you went along with me, which you didn’t have to if you didn’t want to.”

“Of course, I had to, don’t be silly,” the angel said, but his sniffy attitude was rather undermined by the way he reached across to grab Crowley’s hand again. The ginger definitely felt like he could get used to that happening far more often.

“What’s more and much more important, I wanted to,” Aziraphale added, a smile creeping back into his expression. “I just felt that while you flitted about scaring the life out of innocent passengers, I might as well get a bit of rest out of it.”

“As though you get tired – and isn’t it your job to stop me from doing things like that, anyway?”

The flight had lessened some tension between them, which had been more needed than Crowley had been aware of beforehand, and it was nice to just bicker back and forth a little.

That and the kiss had helped significantly in that regard, obviously.

“Scaring passengers is not very nice at all and even a bit juvenile but it hardly counts as evil, my dear, and certainly not something that needs thwarting.” The smile turned just the slightest bit mischievous. “Besides, I thought that we had retired. I believe you were rather adamant on that score.”

“Me? It was your idea.” Crowley wasn’t going to be goaded by something like ‘juvenile’.

“No, I am entirely certain it was yours, dearest, and you won’t persuade me otherwise.”

Crowley opened his mouth to argue, got as far as the first half of a syllable before he gave it up in mild disgust, turning it into a mocking grimace.

It only made the angel smile broader.

They stayed on the train for a few more miles, just taking in the scenery. As the first, faint but distinguishable glow of predawn began to suffuse the darkness around them, they looked to the landscape around them.

Then they looked at each other.

With a deep breath, their wings pushed down in unison as they set off, with surprisingly little issue for either of them, their timing meaning that they only just missed the tunnel the train was about to hurtle through at top speed.

They flew quietly but happily through the countryside, going past a town that might’ve qualified as a city, a few towns, quite a few villages and a whole lot of landscape, none of which looked remotely familiar to Crowley, who excused himself with the fact that it had been dark when they’d set out, completely ignoring the night vision, and besides, didn’t it all look the same?

He wasn’t worried, though. Not in the slightest. After all, he’d left his car in loads of places over the years and he’d always been able to find it.

It had always been in fine condition, too – and if he returned now and found that it wasn’t, for whatever reason, then he would make the little punks who’d so much as thought to damage it or even take it regret the day they had ever been conceived.

And if Aziraphale made any comment, he would ask, innocently, about if someone hurt his books.

He squeezed the hand in his, unable to fight the beaming smile of utter joy on his face as they flew back towards the car, the angel taking the lead this time.

For a first date, it had been almost, definitely entirely perfect. Every other date from now on certainly had a lot to live up.

…Well, then. He liked a challenge.

 .............................................................

The car turned out to be fine.

When they finally located it about a mile or two away from where their picnic blanket still lay, undisturbed. Mostly fine, at least.

Aziraphale never asked where Crowley went one afternoon about a week later, which he had spent polishing and pampering his car despite the fact that he could and had fixed it completely with one single glare at the dents and scratches, and the demon never volunteered the information.

It was better and easier for both parties that way, and there was no need to spoil the mood.

Not when they had had such a beautiful trip out of it.

Aziraphale was already planning for another ‘date’, one which he hoped could do the first one proper justice.

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

Hope you like and it even remotely lives up to what you hoped it’d be.

[kumeko]

Title: deck the halls

A/N: For @miraworos for the Good Omens exchange run by @not-a-fucking-pogo-stick! I didn’t get to put much Newt in here, but I hope you like the rest of it. I really like writing Crowley’s voice.

…

…

…

…

There were many things that Crowley expected to do on Christmas: tempt a few souls to the dark side, vandalize some displays, drink wine while looking down his nose at all the children squealing about a man breaking into their house. Hell, maybe, if he was feeling festive enough, he could dress up as that hulking behemoth and cause a little trouble.

 Anything, really, to help a few kiddies get on the naughty list.

 What he did not expect to do was stand on the staircase of a common suburban house, wrapping the rail in ribbon. Crowley frowned, staring at the red lace in his hand, and then down to the bottom of the staircase where Aziraphale was humming some inane Christmas song as he added pinecones to every flat surface he could find.

 Even the tops of smoke detectors were not safe.

“Hey, angel, doesn’t this feel, oh, I don’t know, a little odd to you?” Crowley asked, fiddling with the edges of the ribbon. Maybe he should have brought this up earlier. Like the second they had entered the house and were handed a box of decorations and very detailed instructions on what to do. Or before that, when Aziraphale had brought up the suggestion. Well, no, considering how pleased Aziraphale had been when Crowley had agreed, there was no way he could have dashed his spirits then.

 Aziraphale stopped humming, placing one last silver pinecone on a corner shelf. Wiping his hands in a satisfied manner, he went to the bottom of the stairs and looked up at Crowley, a bemused expression on his face. “What is?”

 “This? All of it?” Crowley gestured at the entire front foyer. A front foyer that they had decorated—the walls were covered in bows and bells, streamers were strung at the entrance way, and stars and mistletoe hung at random intervals. To be honest, this was probably why one shouldn’t have both an angel and a demon decorate together—Aziraphale had always had a tacky taste in fashion and Crowley didn’t know if his own refined palette could fix the issue.

 Probably not. At least it was a charming fault to have.

 “What, you don’t like the decorations?” Aziraphale asked, his brow knitted. He scratched his cheek as he stared at the bows sadly. “I did want to make those bigger but the ribbons…they just weren’t the right size.”

 “Of course I don’t like the decorations, but that’s besides the point.” Crowley crossed his arms, tapping his foot on the ground. “It’s Christmas.”

 “Yes, that’s why we’re here,” Aziraphale replied, not quite following.

 “Doesn’t it seem just a little…wrong to you? A demon, celebrating Christmas? Or for either of us to be putting up decorations?” Crowley gestured vaguely above him. “Like, I don’t know if anyone up there likes what happened to this whole ‘son of god’s birthday’ thing, but down there—actually, wait, that we might be the reason this happened in the first place.” He narrowed his eyes, trying to remember, but the centuries were long, packed full of mischief, and he had never really participated in any of North America’s issues.

 And North America was undoubtedly where this had to have started. Otherwise Crowley would have had a hand on this commercialization, it was such a big project they couldn’t have ignored him.

 “No, not really,” Aziraphale replied brightly. “I mean, we’re not exactly proper demons or angels, are we? Besides, it’s good to catch up with everyone.”

 “Ok, but see, that’s another issue with this.” Crowley walked down the stairs and wrapped an arm around Aziraphale. Leaning close, he continued, “We were invited to this party, right?”

 “Right,” Aziraphale nodded, his expression serious.

 “This is the witch’s house. We’re her guests.” When it was clear Aziraphale didn’t get it, Crowley sighed and spelled it out clearly for him. “Why are we decorating the house for her?”

 Aziraphale sharply turned and stared him, like he was the idiot. “Because she’s busy cooking and setting up and we’re being helpful.”

 “Again, demon. I’m not supposed to be helpful,” Crowley replied, rolling his eyes. Maybe he should go to the kitchen instead and steal some food. Do some actual demon duties for once.

 “Oh, come on, Crowley. Just help out a little, it’ll be fun.” Aziraphale smiled brightly, leaning closer and pecking him on the cheek. “Besides, you were a nanny for years, I’m sure you’ve done this before.”

 Crowley coughed, trying to hide the growing blush on his cheeks. Sometimes, this body was so inconvenient like that. He missed being cold-blooded. “Then why aren’t you outside fixing the garden instead of letting that witch hunter do it? You were a gardener.””

 “Well, I wasn’t very good at it.” Aziraphale sheepishly rubbed his neck, his skin turning a delectable shade of pink. “It took a few, ahem, miracles to let me keep the job.”

 “You used miracles? For something like that?” And here Crowley thought he’d been wasteful. He’d been right all along, Aziraphale really ought to come over to the demon side. For neglect, if nothing else.

 Whatever shoddy defense Aziraphale was going to come up with was cut off as Anathema poked her head into the foyer. “All done?” Without even waiting for a reply, she scanned the area and stopped at the bannister. “You didn’t finish the railing.”

 “I am not going to,” Crowley replied with a shrug.

 “Right.” She bit her lip as she studied him. Her brow furrowed and she turned to Aziraphale with a bright smile. “But you’ll do it, right?”

 “I would be honoured,” Aziraphale beamed, already bouncing toward the stairs and the dangling ribbon. “How’s the kitchen? All done?”

 “…kinda.” Anathema sighed wearily, her shoulders drooping. “I haven’t really had much of a chance to, well, cook something this big you know. I never needed to. Adam’s been lovely, helping me as much as he could—he and his friends brought recipes from their mums. Full credit to him but well, we’ll see how it all ends up.” She paused, glancing from one to the other. “You guys do eat, right?��

 “We don’t have to but I do quite enjoy eating.” Aziraphale threaded the ribbon in and out of the rails, before taping it to the bottom. “It has evolved so much over the years.”

 “Tell me about it.” Crowley grimaced, remembering some of the earlier ‘delicacies’. Calling them food was an affront to food. “You can’t just toss things on a fire and consider it done. I spent three decades ignoring it—you mastered alcohol far quicker than food.”

 “Right.” Anathema pursed her lips, a strained smile on her face. “That’s…interesting, I guess.”

 “What is?” Adam popped out behind her. One arm was wrapped around a bowl with bits of brown batter in it, the other held a spoon that he slowly licked.

 “They’re—wait, did you finish making the cookies before you ate that?” Anathema frowned. “And I’m not sure if you should eat that, isn’t there a raw egg in it? Is that safe?”

 “Safe enough.” Adam shrugged. “Oh, and I think something’s burning.”

 Anathema paled. Now that Adam had mentioned it, Crowley could see a faint plume of black escaping the kitchen. She turned on her heel and dashed back to the kitchen, fast enough to give even an Olympic sprinter competition. “SHIT!”

 “You couldn’t have stopped that?” Crowley asked, turning back to Adam. His ex-charge? His boss’s ex-son? While it was great that they’d changed reality and all that, it really made it hard to keep track of relationships.

 “It was brussel sprouts.” Adam scowled, looking extremely disgusted. “I did us a favour.”

 “Did you?” Aziraphale twiddled his fingers, looking a little put down. “I like brussel sprouts.”

 “That’s cause you’re an angel. Only reason,” Adam snorted derisively. He scooped up another spoonful of batter but stopped short of eating it. “Oh, that reminds me—so, you know how Christmas is Jesus’s birthday?”

 “Yeah, yeah,” Crowley gestured for him to continue, tired of the subject.

 “Well, I was the son of Satan. How come my birthday’s not a holiday?” Adam asked grumpily.

 “Well…” Aziraphale swallowed, running a hand through his curly mop of hair. “That’s…uh, well you see, your birthday would have caused the end of the world, and there can’t really be holidays after that, and you’re no longer his son…and…well…”

 Adam continued to stare at him, slowly eating his batter. “And?”

 Aziraphale turned to Crowley. “And?” he asked desperately.

 Crowley walked over, wrapped an arm around Adam’s shoulders, and smiled. “And that is a marvelous idea.”

 Aziraphale realized his mistake too late. “No.”

 “We should go pitch it, make a real go at it. Satan’s son’s birthday—we need a catchy name, something to compete with this whole Christmas thing,” Crowley continued, ignoring Aziraphale’s protests.

 “Oh.” Adam lit up. “I like the sound of that.”

[thisbitchinthecorner]

998 AD- Day 20 Reindeer

Reindeer prompt! For @drawlight

Reindeer Prompt

998 AD

In an old Norse village, at the top of the world, an angel has been sent to make certain that Christianity takes root in this pagan territory. As it happens, a demon has been sent to spur the people to their old gods and to go out and explore the world outside.

“Why shouldn’t you find new lands to conquer and explore? Who is to say what is out there, beyond the sea?” The demon purred to a strapping young man with a lust for adventure.

“What will I find out there? Will I come back?” The man questioned.

“If you are hard of heart and strong of will.” The demon whispered back.

Better you than me. I have no desire to go to that wretched land mass. Crowley mused to himself as he watched the man stride confidently away.

“Hello Crowley!” A familiar voice rang out.

“Aziraphale, what the devil are you doing here!”

“You mean besides freezing!” The angel joked. “I’m meant to be spreading the word of our Lord. Well, my Lord as it were.”

“And how is that working for you?” Crowley said snidely.

“They are rather fond of violence, and blood and spirits.”

“How is that different from your Christian ways? Seems like God is awfully fond of death and bloodshed.”

“That’s blasphemy, Crowley!” Aziraphale said as he fidgeted his fingers.

“Is it now?” The demon laughed. “Well, can’t fault me for questioning God, now can you?”

“Oh come now!” Aziraphale frowned as he rubbed his arms in attempt to warm. “And why in God’s name is it so damn dark all the time? Honestly, I can’t tell if it’s morning or night. I hate being so cold, it’s just miserable!”

“How do you think I’m fairing?” The former serpent seethed.

“Fancy a drink?” Aziraphale smiled in spite himself. “The last time we met, I believe it was your treat. This time, it’s mine.” The angel miracled a handful of coins in his hand.

“Lead the way.” Crowley said with amusement.

The village was indeed small and isolated, there was also a distinct lack of inns and bars for them to partake in, thus causing them to make do with what they could find.

“This is just dreadful.” The demon grumbled. “No decent place to drink, no where warm to sit.”

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and before them, two thick fur blankets and modest shelter to keep out the wind. The angel raised his eyebrow as he shrugged his shoulders.

Well, I can play this game too. Crowley performed a minor miracle of his own; creating several jugs of wine, the kind they had enjoyed together the last time they were in Rome. He then created a roaring fire, contained within the hut, giving off a pleasant warmth. The demon smirked at the angel who simply rolled his eyes.

They sat down on the furs, comfortably settling down beside the fire. “Pity there’s nothing decent to eat in these parts. I enjoy fish, but not when it’s rotten. It’s ghastly!” The angel sighed.

“Tisk! Pity they don’t have any of those fancy oysters of which you’re so fond.” Crowley teased.

“Pity.” Aziraphale pouted; his lips pursed as he batted his eyes. “I would be terribly grateful for anything remotely edible.”

Crowley snarled as he snapped his fingers creating a tray of figs, almonds, honey, unleavened bread and grapes.

“Oh! Thank you!” Aziraphale grinned. “Care for another glass of wine?”

“Wine not.” Crowley laughed at his own pun, while Aziraphale was less amused.

They drank and drank and drank some more, the fire continued to glow while their cheeks became increasingly red.

Without warning, a dazzling display of lights filled the sky; flashes of green and blue danced before them.

“Are you doing this?” Aziraphale asked softly, clearly admiring the unfolding spectacle.

“It’s not me.” Crowley murmured as he removed the glass coverings from his face. “It’s beautiful.” The cascade of light reflected in the glow of his eyes.

“Beautiful.” The angel whispered as he stole a glance at the being beside him.

“The earth has many wondrous sights.” Crowley smiled as he continued to watch the lights as they danced across the sky. “Shame to think all of this will come to an end one day.”

“It is a shame.” The angel admitted.

“Funny thing for an angel to agree with a demon.” Crowley laughed aloud as he poured them both another glass of wine.

“Just because I believe this world is lovely, that doesn’t mean I agree with you.” Aziraphale shook his head as he took a swig from his glass, spilling more than consuming.

“See those creatures over there?” Crowley pointed towards a herd of reindeer making their way through the ice and snow. “Such animals spend their entire lives looking to eat, sleep and fuc...”

“Language!” Aziraphale chided as he playfully slapped the demon on the arm.

“Fine, fornicate.” Crowley tried to stand but stumbled back onto the ground. “Anyway, they don’t care about anything besides what is directly in front of them. They’re God’s obedient creatures, well, more so than humans are.”

“Humans can be obedient.” Aziraphale attempted to argue.

“Oh can they? Let me ask you, this lot you’re meant to convert; are they really interested in learning about your God or would they rather keep believing what they believe to be real?”

“They will embrace Christianity, eventually.”

“Why didn’t God just make them Christians to begin with? Why give them a choice?” Crowley asked pointedly. “Why the need to make them convert in the first place?”

“Because...um...what I mean to say...” Aziraphale fumbled for words. “Oh I don’t know. Seems I’m out of wine again!”

“I don’t have any answers either, and I’ve run out of wine.” Crowley lamented as he drained the last of the liquor from the jug.

“Well, consider this your lucky day!” Aziraphale chuckled as produced another jug of wine from behind his back.

“You’re worse than I!” Crowley threw his head back in delight.

“Is that so?” Aziraphale said coyly. “Who’s to say this isn’t blessed and meant to cleanse you of your demonic ways?”

“Shut it and pour the damn wine.”

They remain in their modest shelter for the remainder of the night, the sky here was dark for the sunlight did not come during these long winter months. The wine was finished, and both demon and angel were more than a little intoxicated.

“I haven’t been this drunk in well...I can’t remember.” Aziraphale tried to settle his eyes on the demon.

“I...ugh.” Crowley tasted a foul taste in his mouth. “Alright, I’ve had enough of this. Sober up?”

“Yes, I think that’s a fine idea.”

They both forced the liquor from their bodies, as unpleasant as the task was, they knew what awaited them in the morning if they did not.

“Crowley,” the angel began. “This was, well, an enjoyable way to pass the time.”

“Better than freezing my ass off.”

As they passed through the little fishing village, they found themselves in front of an old woman selling her wares.

“Care for a talisman, good sirs?” She asked. “They’re meant to ward off evil spirits.”

“Evil spirits, you say?” Aziraphale laughed as he nudged the demon in the side. “I’ll take two please.”

“Two?” Crowley said skeptically.

“One for me, and one for you.” The angel smiled as he placed the clay pendant upon a leather cord in the demon’s hand.

Crowley looked down at the simple necklace with a crude drawing etched into its surface. Such a small token, but given freely and without expectation. Such a kindness he had not known before, not even before his fall from grace.

“Farewell Crowley, until we meet again.” Aziraphale gave a smile before vanishing.

“Goodbye, angel.” Crowley looked over the pendant once more and felt his heart beat quicken. He slipped it around his neck before disappearing into the darkness.

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens - Addiction (Rated NC17)

Summary: Aziraphale is addicted to affection. Addicted to touch. But being an addict, he can't seem to manage to find a healthy relationship, nor make any relationship last. After his latest break up, he decides to forgo the emotion and go straight for physical satisfaction.

... He just wants to find someone who needs his body. He's not particularly picky as to who - or what - that entails. (5792 words)

Notes: A major re-working of another piece I wrote. If you guys like this one, I will complete the scene that should come after it ;) Let me know. Vampire Crowley. Warnings for mention of blood and blood sucking. Sexual content.

Read on AO3.

Aziraphale walks slowly around the perimeter of his bed, eyeballing the outfits he’d laid out earlier, scathingly critical of every item he chose even though, had you asked him two hours ago, he would have claimed each as tied for favorite. He’s 90% dressed already - cream colored trousers and a matching long-sleeved button down, a pale blue waistcoat (one he’s been told matches his eyes perfectly), tartan socks, and his best cocoa brown Derbys. All he needs now is a bowtie.

Does he need a bowtie? He doesn’t know exactly what the protocol is regarding neckwear where he’s going. He definitely prefers to wear a bowtie. Would not wearing one send some sort of message? Aziraphale assumes forgoing a bowtie might make him appear more casual. At ease. But in the context of the place he’s headed, might it also mean that he’s easy?

He sighs. He’s thinking too hard about this. This place he’s going - he’s paying to be there! What the Hell does the possible hidden innuendo of wearing or not wearing a bowtie matter under those circumstances? He hasn’t left the house without a bowtie on in over four decades!

He’s wearing the bowtie.

His gaze slides over his bed, the ties in the running lined up side by side on his comforter. He reaches for one, fingers hovering just above before he changes his mind and goes for the one beside it, picking it up between pinched fingers and holding it to his neck. He turns to his full length mirror and takes a peek.

“This one?” he asks no one, appraising the plain, gray fabric. “No. No, that won’t do.” He tosses it back on the bed and grabs another one - a tartan tie that matches his socks.

Heaven’s Dress Tartan. His family’s tartan. It’s pretty much the tie he wears for every occasion.

Naively, it makes him feel protected.

“This one?” he muses, already nodding his head. “Yes, this one.” Aziraphale slips the narrow strip of fabric about his neck and ties it. He looks himself over in the mirror, chest puffed with pride, but it doesn’t last long.

What is he doing?

He’s too old for this.

Maybe he should pack it in, wrap up his libido and call it quits. He’s had a good run, hasn’t he? He doesn’t need the physical. No more hugs, no more kisses, no more sex - that wouldn’t be the end of the world.

Aziraphale’s eyes drop from his smart outfit to his feet.

Except it would.

It would for Aziraphale.

He can’t give up touch. He’s never done well without some speck of it in his life.

Deep down inside, he knows he can’t survive without it.

It’s not as simple as feeling lonely or unfulfilled. His need for affection goes beyond that. And it’s stronger - so much stronger - than him.

Being an addict is no small burden. Aziraphale knows that firsthand. He’s seen what addiction can do to people. He’s seen how it can devastate families.

He sat around for years and watched, powerless, as it destroyed his own.

Addiction tore his father apart – his need for money, a lust for more, more, more that he valued over his wife and child, turning him from parental figure into perfect stranger well before Aziraphale’s formative years, then into an enemy when Aziraphale decided against going into medicine, law, or business (the big three that would ensure the family fortune would multiply and thrive long after his father was gone) and instead majored in linguistics and literature.

His father’s addiction led to his mother’s. She’d hit the bottle to numb the pain of watching her husband, the man she’d loved since secondary school, drift away, drinking herself stupid until she couldn’t remember what day it was, where she lived … or that she had a son.

But addiction isn’t only cause and effect. It can be hereditary. It spread through the Fell family like wildfire, jumping from generation to generation. It started with Aziraphale’s great-great-great-great-grandfather on his father’s side and trickled down. Since Aziraphale is the last living Fell, his family’s vices have caught up to him, pooled around his ankles with nowhere else to flow to.

Threatening to drag him under.

Aziraphale has an addiction, too. Anyone who talks to him for about five minutes would say that his drug of choice is books, and indeed there are a good many reasons to believe that. Aziraphale loves books. He’s amassed such a collection that he even became an antique book dealer, but mostly as an excuse to find a place big enough to house his vast collection.

No, Aziraphale gets addicted to people. To affection. To whatever feels like love at the time. And he can’t live without it. He’ll take it from anyone willing to give even a smidgen of it, usually finding himself in relationships that dry up before they fully blossom with people who weren’t worth his time to begin with. Not that these relationships would have gone anywhere if given the chance. That’s part of the problem. Aziraphale tries so hard to find the tenderness stolen from him at too early an age, he doesn’t necessarily look for substance. He plants the seeds of his affection in ground long wrung out, spots where rain won’t ever find them, away from the sun’s nurturing rays.

Tonight, walking alone through the city streets at a truly ill-advised hour, he’s suffering the aftershocks of one such break-up. But this time, Aziraphale was prepared … somewhat. Which is to say he saw the signs. He knew the end was coming, even if he couldn’t stop it. But instead of doing the adult thing and cutting ties painlessly, he let it play itself out, sucking from it every drop he could. And afterwards, when he’d brought home his obligatory box of random stuff from his ex’s apartment – toothbrush, shaving cream, CDs, a few shirts, underwear, the possessions that he’d used to stake his claim - he knew where he would go.

He arrives at the obscure establishment before ten o’clock, having fooled himself that he’s ready to move on even before his ex’s side of the bed is cold. He’s doing right by himself. No more leaping into empty relationships just to have his mind messed with and his heart broken.

He’s skipping straight to the physical.

This is the way to go.

But there is also the chance that he’s being phenomenally stupid.

Aziraphale has paid money for questionable things before, things that he’s looked back on and regretted, shoving them as far behind him as he could so as not to think about them ever again.

But paying to feed his addiction - he’s never done that.

The place he’s gone to, with its ornate wooden door set into the face of an everyday brick wall, looks like a day spa if anything – a rather foreboding day spa. In a way, Aziraphale had expected it to look that way. That or a bar. Where else did these kinds of transactions take place? A bordello, perhaps? He’d heard about one that operates out of a hotel downtown, but this one got far better reviews from people in the know.

Let it never be said that Aziraphale didn’t do his research.

From what he’d heard, this place isn’t only the most exclusive of its kind in London, it’s the most discreet.

Silent as the grave, he’d been told.

There is no buzzer, no knocker, not even a door knob. No indication at all that anyone is allowed in but Aziraphale knows better. He sends a text to a number he paid a hefty sum for, along with a selfie that takes longer than he’d care to admit to take, but that’s not entirely his fault. There are strict requirements for this photograph - angle, background, head tilt, etc. The phone number is one-time use. After he hits send, he won’t be able to follow up with another message, so his picture needs to be up to spec.

Each selfie he takes, he despises immediately. The first one … well, the first one always bites, doesn’t it? In the second one, his face is too fat. Chubby chipmunk cheeks and puckered lips? He looks like a frickin’ cherub! The third one … ugh! Where was he even looking? The fourth one - definite serial killer with that awkward, thin-lipped grin.

He can’t keep doing this. He has to pick one! He’s running out of time! Ten o’clock sharp the message had said! If he’s going to do this, he can’t afford to be even a minute late!

He decides that his next picture will be his absolute last. Whatever comes out of this shot, he can’t take another one. He holds his phone up at the pre-determined angle, holds his breath, plasters on his most sincere smile … and prays to God.

Just then, the unthinkable happens.

He fumbles his phone.

He’d been holding so hard to it and his smile that his fingers had begun to sweat. He loses traction, the traitorous thing sliding out of his grasp. The shutter clicks, the flash fires, and his phone makes a lyrical trill of affirmation.

Aziraphale’s stomach drops like a lead balloon straight to his feet.

That noise - that skipping of high-pitched notes that he chose at random because they reminded him of Rites of Spring - indicates that the picture sent without Aziraphale having a chance to double check it first.

“Oh … Hell!” he curses. He should have taken the damned thing at home! The glow from his reading lantern would have given his skin a soft, golden cast; made him look younger; mysterious; but he forgot that a picture would be required. In every photo he’s taken in this doorway, illuminated only by a chemical bulb above his head, he looks anemic, harsh shadows thrown by the overly bright flash elongating his nose, hollowing his cheeks, sinking his eyes into their sockets. But this one, snapped off while his phone was negotiating gravity, is likely to be the worst one yet! Instead of a solid face, he’ll look like a blur.

A middle-aged blur with absolutely no relationship prospects. Not even a cat.

Aziraphale scrolls frantically through his gallery to try and find the picture, see what disaster he’s unleashed, but he can’t locate it.

“Where are you, you little …?” he mumbles, heart thrumming so hard it’s beginning to make him nauseous. The picture isn’t in his saved file. Not on his SD card. It’s not in his sent messages. So where the frick is it!? Aziraphale has to see it, has to know what he’s done, has to know if he’s failed. Has to know if it’s worth waiting out here, or if he should turn tail and head for his bookshop. Somewhere in between bribing his phone and threatening to smash the screen to bits, the door pops open with a click.

Aziraphale’s blood runs cold, his head shooting up like a prairie dog’s on its guard.

The door.

The door is open.

He mustn’t have sent a horrifying photograph after all!

But it may not stay open for long so he’d better move his arse!

He pushes the door further and steps inside. It closes behind him the moment he’s through. He turns quickly to see who shut it since he didn’t notice a doorman when he entered.

But there’s no one.

He’s in the foyer of this large, imposing place completely alone.

As far as he can tell.

He has the distinct feeling he’s being watched.

Of course he’s being watched! he scolds himself. They probably have security cameras everywhere in a place like this! There’s nothing sinister about that! Why, he went to a thrift store not too long ago that had a security camera installed over every aisle, and the most notable item they had for sale was a velvet painting of Margaret Thatcher! Pull yourself together, Aziraphale, for Heaven’s sake!

Now that he’s inside, the place reminds him more of a bank than a spa: long stretches of empty hallway decorated in shows of old school wealth - leather chairs, ornate mirrors, glossy wood drawing tables, a long Persian runner leading him to his destination with chandeliers marking the path every ten feet or so. There’s been more money invested in this one hall than Aziraphale’s father could afford to put into their entire house, even with his lofty inheritance.

He can’t help thinking it would make the old man pea green with envy if he were alive to see it.

Little does Aziraphale know that there are two other hallways ahead of him just like this one.

Aziraphale walks through a total of three locked doors to get to what could be deemed ‘the main lobby’. He’s not escorted, but he does need to be buzzed through, the same melancholy voice asking him to repeat his name through an intercom at every checkpoint. Aziraphale marvels at the embassy-level security but he can’t help but wonder: is this a common practice at these places? No one mentioned anything about this.

What sort of trouble are they trying to prevent?

Aziraphale imagines most people might turn around at this point, go back the way they came and forget all about this place, but not him. As he approaches the final door there is no going back for him now. Not when he’s so close to what he wants.

He goes through the procedure one last time – name and then buzz. But this door is heavier, takes a bit more strength to push open. Black lighting overhead engulfs the room, creates a void that makes everything within indefinable. A few feet in, a wraparound counter fluoresces purple. Aziraphale sees only a single occupant in this room - a man sitting behind the counter who looks, from the outset, like a regular human being.

Of course, Aziraphale has never met a vampire before. He has no idea what one should look like.

He walks up to the counter, the door behind him swinging close and shutting with the same poignant click as the rest. But once this door seals, it takes the light with it, plunging Aziraphale momentarily into near complete black.

The man doesn’t look up at Aziraphale’s arrival. Aziraphale clears his throat to get his attention.

“E-excuse me?” he says nervously, his stomach flipping somersaults from his pelvis up to his neck. His voice sounds thin and disappointing to his own ears. Then again, he barely speaks to anyone from day to day. Maybe it sounds exactly the way it should.

The man sitting behind the counter – dark-skinned but with an ashy paler - blatantly ignores Aziraphale, who’d be standing practically on top of him if not for the counter between them. He flips exaggeratedly through the pages of his magazine (Aziraphale can’t tell which one in the unhelpful light), but doesn’t acknowledge him.

“Excuse me?” Aziraphale repeats, louder but still weak.

The man sniffs the air. He shifts only his eyes to address Aziraphale, looks him over, then returns to his magazine. “Wot do you want?”

“I … uh … I have an appointment. F-for a session.” Session. Is that the right word for it? No one Aziraphale talked to about this gave him the in on the lingo. “With a man by the name of Crowley.”

The disinterested man flips another page. “An appointment, huh?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale’s eyes dart around, looking for anyone else who might be willing to help him. For as popular as this place sounded, it’s surprisingly deserted. Aziraphale can’t see a single other soul anywhere. Of course, aside from the glowing furniture, it’s so dark in there – a darkness his eyes refuse to get accustomed to – someone could be standing right beside him and he might not know it. “I’m … uh … sort of new at this.” His statement is met with a silence as thick as a brick wall. He chuckles, anxiety starting to get the better of him.

He feels vaguely like he might be in danger.

If he backed out now, walked out the door, would the man behind the counter even notice?

Then Aziraphale realizes fuck! He’d probably need to be buzzed out the same way he was buzzed in. And the man behind the counter might have to be the one to do it. He has the same dry, unenthusiastic tone in his voice as the one that greeted Aziraphale at every door.

The man glances Aziraphale’s way, then blows out a breath, obviously annoyed he’s still there. “I’ll tell him you’re here Mr. …”

“Fell. Aziraphale Fell.”

“Aziraphale Fell,” the man repeats but doesn’t reach for a phone or make a move to inform anyone that Aziraphale has arrived. He gives the air another disdainful sniff and scrunches his nose, raising his magazine to cover it. “Did you have sushi for lunch, Mr. Fell?”

“Uh …” Aziraphale clamps his lips together tight, self-conscious of what he must smell like to a creature with super-sensitive olfactory organs. He did have sushi, but that was days ago. There’s no way he could still smell like it, especially with the amount of Listermint he uses daily.

“Was it refrigerated properly? Or do you buy your food from the day-old section of your local market?”

Aziraphale’s hackles rise. He disregards the feeling that he’s in danger in defense of his favorite restaurant. “I really don’t think that Hot Stone would stoop to selling day-old sushi!”

“Did you even remember where you were going when you left your house today?” the man scolds without listening to him. “I mean, have some respect, for Satan’s sake!”

“That’s enough, Ligur.” A new voice, amused but stern, says from the shadows. “If you don’t stop badgering the customers, we won’t have any, and then how will you afford your flat? Hmm?”

“Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir,” Ligur replies, barely bringing himself to care.

Inconceivably quick, their new guest goes from standing in the light to standing before Aziraphale. Ligur snickers at the move, like he’s seen it too many times before, but Aziraphale doesn’t pay him any mind. Ligur might not be impressed, but Aziraphale can’t. stop. staring.

Aziraphale has never seen such a man.

He’s never imagined a man like him could exist. He’s sure he could spend his entire life trying to think him up and still never come up with him. He captivates Aziraphale in a matter of seconds, mystifies him without lifting a finger. He’s tall, slim, and fair. He reminds Aziraphale of a prince from an old world fairy tale. In fact, Aziraphale knows just the book he’d find it in. He intends on searching for it the moment he returns to his shop (he thinks hopefully). The man’s eyes, even in the absence of light, are piercing, simmering in their depths with a light all their own.

The man doesn’t walk up to Aziraphale. He stalks. And the way he carries himself leads Aziraphale to believe he can take anything he wants with a snap of his fingers. At the moment, he’s stolen Aziraphale’s voice, his breath, practically every thought in his head.

Aziraphale’s entire focus becomes this man.

The man moves a step forward. Aziraphale takes a subconscious step back.

“I believe that you are my ten o’clock,” the man says.

Aziraphale nods, not sure if he’s expected to speak ... or if he’s allowed. “Are … are you … Mr. Crowley?”

“In the flesh. And you must be Aziraphale.” Crowley’s tongue curls around his words, the hint of an accent making an appearance. Several accents, actually. At his root, the man sounds English, but not born. But his accent is acquired, not practiced, bred from immersion. There are other touches here and there - a dash of Birmingham, a little cockney perhaps, an Irish brogue, peppered upon a foundation that sounds firmly Scottish. Lilts and rolls add flavor to Aziraphale’s name so that he feels he’s hearing it spoken out loud for the first time. Even lost in that dialect soup, Aziraphale doesn’t think it’ll ever sound more perfect than it does rolling off Crowley’s tongue. It tickles his eardrums, silently begs Crowley to say it again.

“I am,” Aziraphale says. “Aziraphale Fell. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“It will be soon.” Crowley winks. “Follow me, Mr. Fell.” He smiles, teeth impeccably straight and disarmingly white. It could be a trick of the black lights, but those teeth … that smile … make him look predatory, and Aziraphale considers again if coming here was the smartest idea, especially since he did so impulsively, took no precautions. He was so distracted by his break-up, so wrapped up in shoulds and shouldn’ts, what people would think of him if they ever found out, that he didn’t tell anyone where he was going.

What if he simply disappears?

No one in his life would dream of looking for him here, and he left absolutely no clues to point them in this direction.

Regardless of the warning bells tolling in his head, new ones firing off with each pound of his heart, Aziraphale follows Crowley down several vacant hallways. The place was dark to begin with, but this section is nearly pitch black with the exception of a red light bulb here, a green light bulb there, their faint illuminations doing nothing more than throwing shadows on the walls – shadows deep enough to disappear in. Crowley walks swiftly. Aziraphale almost loses him twice, but he slows in a hall lined on both sides with doors. Aziraphale hears moans come from behind several of the doors and his heart speeds in his chest.

It slams to a stop when he hears a man scream – strained and blood curdling.

Aziraphale can’t tell if the man is screaming in pleasure or in pain.

Aziraphale points to the door. “Um … is he going to be alri---?”

“Right this way, Mr. Fell,” Crowley interrupts, opening the last door on the left. “This is my private office. No one will dare disturb us in here.” Aziraphale hesitates but decides to go inside, not because he feels any more comfortable with this than he did a moment ago, but because if he doesn’t, he might run the other way. Crowley waits patiently till Aziraphale steps in, then shuts, and locks, the door. “Now … what can I help you with today?”

Aziraphale paces the room, examining its violet walls with their black-and-white photographs mounted in minimalist glass frames. It isn’t much brighter in here than in the lobby, but it’s more inviting - the sort of space created specifically for people to spend time in together, get to know one another. A round, wooden table in the center of the room holds a pair of crystal flutes and a bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket of ice. Candles cover every level surface - some thick white pillars, some long white tapers, in holders of brushed gold, and scent the air with the sweet fragrance of vanilla. Their dancing flames reflect off the glass, the constant flickering making the room appear to sway. It’s disorienting. It gets Aziraphale’s adrenaline pumping and his heart racing, which Aziraphale assumes is the desired effect.

He’d heard that a speeding human heart can be a powerful aphrodisiac for a vampire.

They apparently get off on it.

Against a far wall sits a plush, red sofa, and against another, a four-poster bed.

Aziraphale bypasses the bed (it isn’t his gut decision, just the safest seeming one) and heads for the sofa. “I … I have a problem. An addiction.”

“Go on.” Crowley strolls over to join him, each step he takes deliberate, noiseless, as if his feet don’t make contact with the ground at all, gliding on the air right above. Aziraphale watches Crowley settle onto the far end of the sofa, sitting catty-corner to keep his amber eyes on him. That predatory expression he wears moves from his smile to his eyes, which track Aziraphale’s movements with unnerving precision. “Well, I … I’m addicted to affection, a-and everything that comes with it - touching, holding, kissing, sex, from anyone who wants me, really. And I fall irrationally in love with the wrong people over and over because of it.”

“A-ha.” Crowley crosses his legs. He draws it out, diverting Aziraphale’s attention purposefully to them. “So tell me why you think I can help you.”

Aziraphale swallows hard, mesmerized by the way Crowley moves, the fluidity of limbs that would look spindly on a human but not on him. Not in the slightest. “Because even though I need companionship, nobody seems to need me. But from the things I hear, you gentlemen … do.”

“We’re not desperate, Mr. Fell,” Crowley groans, rolling his head back on his neck, his eyes following along.

“Oh, no! No, no, no! That’s not what I …!”

“We service a distinguished clientele. We have certain expectations.”

“I understand that.”

Crowley gives Aziraphale a thorough once over with eyes that burn through him, every move Aziraphale makes telling Crowley more than his words.

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Fell?” Something about the way Crowley repeatedly calls Aziraphale ‘Mr. Fell’ shoots right to his stomach and lower, twisting everything up inside him, making him feel compliant, confused ...

“I’m an antique book dealer,” Aziraphale replies.

Crowley chuckles. “Ah. So you hawk old, worn-out romance novels to elderly women wanting a tingle in their lady gardens?”

“Uh … no,” Aziraphale says with a chuckle himself because, he has to admit, he’s gotten one or two of those in his lifetime. “Mostly literature, first editions, rare texts, misprinted Bibles, that sort of thing.”

“And you make a living from that?”

“I do,” Aziraphale says, a tad uncomfortable with this line of questioning. “Not that I need to. I live mainly off the interest of a generous inheritance. I get to do whatever I want mostly.”

“I see.” Crowley’s tone shifts, as if Aziraphale passed some sort of test. “And where do you currently live?” With a flick of Crowley’s eyes, Aziraphale’s hand crawls up his own shirt, reaching for his bowtie. He grabs a tail and pulls it, unties it, then goes after the top button. He toys with it, undoes it, feeling constricted, uncomfortable while it’s fastened.

“I live over my store front in Soho.”

Crowley slides an inch closer. “With a roommate or …?”

“A-alone.” Aziraphale moves on to the second button. “I live … I live alone.”

“Impressive. And your blood type is AB negative?”

“As far as I know.”

“Interesting.” Crowley moves another inch closer. “Alright. Let’s give you a shot.”

“A-and how do you do that … exactly?”

“Give me your arm so I can take a taste. Then I’ll know if we can use you.”

Crowley holds out his hand, long fingers with black painted nails motioning for Aziraphale’s, but Aziraphale doesn’t take it. He has a second of doubt, of Are you nuts!? that stays him. But it’s been so long since Aziraphale has felt truly wanted. And this man … or this creature … wants what he has to offer. Aziraphale can see it in his eyes. It’s cut and dry. No muss, no fuss, no emotions involved. Giving in should be easy. This is what he came for.

“If you’re nervous, I could always …” Crowley makes a gesture toward Aziraphale’s neck and smiles an alluring, toothy grin – charismatic, hard to resist. But Aziraphale might not be ready for what Crowley’s proposing. It seems a little too intimate.

“O-oh no.” Aziraphale rolls up his sleeve. “It’s not that. I was just … uh … thinking.”

“Oh.” That single syllable sounds tragically disappointed. “Whatever you’re comfortable with, of course. But just so you know, it’s always an option.”

Aziraphale gets a sudden image in his head of Crowley lying on top of him, licking down his neck, his fingers undoing the rest of his buttons and reaching beneath his shirt, nails scratching lightly down his skin. He envisions Crowley removing his clothes one piece at a time, marking his flesh with kisses, with bites, taking small sips as he paves a trail to his trousers. Sharp fangs slice through the threads that keep the button sewn on and he pulls down the zip with his teeth. There’s a mouth on Aziraphale’s cock, sucking, hands massaging his chest, the gentle brush of silky hair against his thighs, the occasional sting of a cut opening, a tongue collecting, and Aziraphale writhing with the sweet agony of it. He doesn’t picture himself cumming quickly, but sees himself sliding along the beveled edge, getting to that point, hanging from the crest of it, just to be sent back to the beginning, to start the process over again.

It feels planted, a suggestion. Aziraphale isn’t sure how. He’s not savvy to the abilities of vampires beside the blood sucking thing. It’s not real. Aziraphale knows he’s still dressed, can feel the fabric of his shirt sleeve balled in his fist, but he starts to sweat at the thought of it. His cock aches because of it. That’s what he wants – the give and the take.  

It changes his mind, stops him rolling up his sleeve.

“You know,” Aziraphale says, gaze fixed to Crowley’s seductive eyes, “that does sound like it could be … nice.”

Crowley grins. It’s almost too easy. “Oh, it will be,” he purrs. “I promise.”

Aziraphale scoots closer until they’re sitting beside one another, knees touching. Crowley wastes no time kissing Aziraphale’s neck, cool lips pressing against hot, sensitive skin. Aziraphale moans. God, it’s been so long. And whatever Crowley is doing with his tongue, circling the same spot, nibbling with just enough pressure to make it tingle, feels so intense, it overshadows the hand on Aziraphale’s thigh, creeping up steadily to his crotch, squeezing along the way as the excitement of kissing builds.

As Aziraphale’s heart beats faster and faster, until individual thumps are no longer distinguishable from the whole.

Crowley wraps an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder, fangs lengthening as he searches for a place to sink in and drink. He finds the perfect spot and bites. Aziraphale’s eyes go wide.

“Oh … God.” He becomes rigid as the sensation of smooth and sharp assails his skin, but he succumbs to the sublime numbness and melts into Crowley’s arms. “Oh … oh God …”

Crowley retracts his fangs, licking them clean. “This isn’t really the place to be praying,” he says, inhaling Aziraphale’s scent – fresh, rich, healthy, untainted blood. The blood all vampires crave - not from unconscious drunks in the alley behind a night club or filled with preservatives like the bagged gunge they have the option to buy down at NHS Blood and Transport. But whole, pure, and willingly given.

Oh, yes – Aziraphale is an exquisite delight. A rare treat. He’ll make Crowley rich … if he can bear to share him.

Crowley might just decide to keep Aziraphale to himself.

It’s not just Aziraphale’s blood that tempts him. There’s something else, something sizzling beneath his skin that Crowley suspects Aziraphale doesn’t even know about himself. But it sends sparks through Crowley’s skin with every touch, a white light that nearly burns too hot to hold but fuck it all! The second Crowley moves his hand away and it’s gone, it makes Crowley want him more.

“I’m … I’m sorry,” Aziraphale mumbles, following Crowley’s mouth, whining like a kicked puppy when it seems he won’t be returning to the task of biting his neck. But it’s not that. Crowley has every intention of taking his time with Aziraphale. Savoring him. He wants to hear Aziraphale beg for it, beg for Crowley’s teeth buried deep into his neck, beg for the euphoria that comes with being fed upon.

“Do you like that, angel?” Crowley murmurs into Aziraphale’s skin. He punctuates his question with a nip around Aziraphale’s jugular, carefully so as not to prick it.

“Yes,” Aziraphale whimpers, his shaking hand grabbing Crowley’s knee and squeezing. “Yes, please.”

Crowley hums, lips pressed to Aziraphale’s neck so the vibrations travel down his skin. He licks over the pinprick marks, exploring with his tongue for a spot to take another bite. “You know, I think we might be able to help each other out.”

“You … you do?” Aziraphale rises from the sofa in a trance, following Crowley when he moves their soiree to the bed, preparing to make Aziraphale his own private nightcap.

“Oh yes.” Crowley lays Aziraphale out on the mattress and crawls over him, like in the vision. His fingertips creep up Aziraphale’s neck, up his cheeks, the pads coming to rest against his temples. A blue spark, an arc of static electricity, and Aziraphale’s brain fills with images that cloud his vision over so that Crowley’s eyes disappear, replaced by what promises to be a long night in this room, and all the methods of pleasure Crowley plans on using to distract him while he feeds. Skin against skin, Crowley’s hands covering his as Crowley enters him, his body possessing his. Aziraphale can already feel how hard Crowley would claim him, how sore he would be after, and Aziraphale wants it. Wants it more than life itself.

And he’s willing to pay with every drop to have it.

The vision rolls on. With every fantasized thrust of Crowley’s hips, it monopolizes all five of Aziraphale’s senses - his own moans in his ears with Crowley’s voice dripping honey underneath, the pungent smell of sweat and sex around them, the coppery taste of Crowley’s mouth, the slide of a flesh against his so smooth it feels like marble, and Crowley’s eyes - those snake-like eyes with pupils razor blade thin - watching unblinkingly as Aziraphale comes apart beneath him.

Trapped beneath Crowley’s body on the bed with Crowley’s fingertips rubbing circles against his skin, Aziraphale watches this fantasy in awe - open-mouthed and without an inch of fear. He shudders when he sees himself coming, the memory of similar sensations igniting every nerve in his body, turning fantasy into reality. Crowley absorbs every tremor, the way Aziraphale thrums beneath him, his hips bucking up in search of friction. Crowley smiles, reaches between them to start unbuttoning his own uncomfortable trousers.

And let the feasting begin.

“Oh yes,” he whispers, nose nuzzling against Aziraphale’s neck, following the pounding rhythm of his heart for a place to tuck in. “I could become very addicted to you, Aziraphale Fell. Very addicted.”

[atreefullofmonkiesonnitrous]

Thou Little Tiny Child

Day 12  -  Caroling

*Note that this story includes PTSD and a historical incident of mass murder against children

"This kind of torment is what comes of defying Hell to be with an angel," Crowley bemoans his fate.  Granted the torment in question would generally have been considered mild by hell's standards.  He is currently carrying enough packages that he has to use a minor miracle to keep them balanced.  He's following Aziraphale through the "Angel's Christmas Market" in Hyde Park.   The name isn't a coincidence, Aziraphale had helped get the thing started and absolutely adored it.   Given that it was less than a 10 minute walk from the flat, Crowley couldn't really beg off.  (Not so)  Secretly he's enjoying watching his angel enjoy himself, he always loves seeing Aziraphale happy.  

Still he is about to lose control of the pile of purchases, and the flat was not far away.

"Angel, I think I'm going to nip back home and drop these off.  Won't be a tick."

Aziraphale has caught sight of a stall selling churros, which are still not often to be found in London, and makes a distracted sound of agreement.  Crowley chuckles and heades off in good spirits.  The workings or mortal minds and hearts are strange enough, how much more so those of eternal beings, who have lived through all the lives of mankind.  The mind can be full of tripwires and sinkholes that catch you, even when you think you feel fine, when you are happy even.  Even the triggers can be shifting and changing.  Something as simple as an old, old carol, heard thousands of times before, can suddenly pull the world out from under unsuspecting feet.

Maybe it is all the news on the telly.  No huge prophesy needed to make humans act beastly to each other, after all.  Kids in cages all over the world, in the old places where the only change is who is on which side of the fence, Palestine and China, and places like America that seem determined to make up for the late start.  It is so hard to hear, over and over, they just never learn.  As he walks through the happy market, people celebrating obliviously or defiantly (it looks the same from the outside), he passes several groups of carolers without hearing them at all.  Somehow this song winds through the air, into his mind, and back into memories that have the dull cast of nightmare. Herod the king, in his raging,

Chargèd he hath this day

His men of might in his own sight

All young children to slay.

The bright night market fades into another long ago daytime one.  His bundles fall from nerveless hands and knees go out from under him. He hits the ground hard and there is shouting around him.  (The people shouting and running, parents clutching their children.)  There is chaos around him and he can hear running feet.  (The clatter of armor and nail studded sandals on the stone.)   He needs to get up, needs to move, there is an angelic presence nearby, hands grasp on to him.  (There is an Archangel manifest nearby, if he is caught here he might be destroyed, but he has to do something.)  He fights the grip on him, filled with terror and purpose.  He gathers himself to slid into scales and slither away.  The hands are arms now, encircling him and pinning him.  His terror is rising, there is a voice in his ear, but words have deserted him.  There is a sound like a small snap of fingers, like a crack of lighting and everything goes still.  

"...here, everything is alright.  Crowley, it's just me.  I've got you. I'm here, everything is alright. Crowley, it's just me…"  The words filter slowly into his consciousness.   Aziraphale.  Aziraphale is holding him, fingers carding through his hair, and talking to him.  He opens his eyes slowly.  They are on the bed in the flat, packages scattered around them.  He tries to remember how they got here.  They had been at the market.  Slowly memory trickles back and he groans in embarrassment.  Aziraphale's litany stops.  

"None of that, now, love," the angel admonishes.  "Whatever happened, it wasn't your fault.  You didn't do anything wrong.  You didn't hurt me or anyone else.  Can you tell me what happened?"

Crowley starts to shake his head, but he's never really been able to deny Aziraphale anything.  "I honestly don't know if I can.  I'll try.  It was just a song.  I've heard it thousands of times.  I've sung it.  But this time…"  He shakes his head.  "It just threw me back.  Happens sometimes.  I've been there for a lot of terrible things, we both have."

"And it was a carol that brought this one back?"

"Remember you told me to get out, after He was born.  Whole place was going to be crawling with angels."

"I do remember," Aziraphale says softly.  Crowley nods and licks his lips.

"I was about to leave when Hastur showed up.  Said something was up,  whole lot of killing about to happen, but hell wasn't happy about it.  Mostly kids.  Hell doesn't like killing kids, they're still innocent, go straight up."  He gestures upwards and makes a shhwwwoooP sound.  "They thought maybe Heaven was moving up their timetable, skipping all the miracles and teaching bits and going straight for the sacrifice.  Wanted me to take a look.  Didn't get very close though, Gabriel was already there, getting them out.  But that was it.  Just them snuck out, no help for any of the rest of the people.  Got a kid the same age?  Too bad for you.  It's fine though, going to heaven right?  So no matter if they don't get a life."  He scoffs and Aziraphale winces, it's an accurate representation of heaven's attitude.

"Found a cave under an abandoned house.  Managed to get a few families down there.  Not enough, not nearly enough.  But the streets were full of soldiers by then.  Couldn't risk moving anyone else.  Got them hidden deep inside then just lay in the sun across the doorway.  Nobody in there!  Clearly the lair of a bloody great snake.  Should probably do something about that later.  Not safe around the kids (at least the ones we don't kill today).  The streets were full of people running, screaming, dying.  It's amazing that such little bodies can hold so much blood.  And all I could do was lay there and watch and listen.  Protect the few I had grabbed."

Aziraphale's arms are still around him, holding him tightly.  "You did more good for those people than Heaven.  Because you see them as people, not as assets waiting to be divided.  I think you are the only other one that does, heaven certainly doesn't.  I love you so much, my dear."  

"Hell doesn't either, but leastways Heaven leaves them be, once they get there.  Maybe they are right.  Maybe if Hell ended up with them, I didn't do those kids any favors after all."

Aziraphale shakes his head.  "Not to harp on free will, but they have to make their own choices.  Isn't that why She set this up in the first place?  I know how you feel about ineffability, and I'm not saying it's a choice that anyone ever ought to have to make, but you gave them a chance. What they did with it was their choice."  

"Still.  What good is saving them now, if they only suffer so much more later?"

"The good  is doing what you can, my dear, and giving them the world, while they have it.  The rest is, well, for tonight let us say the rest is a problem for later.  You are too tired for it now, and nothing is changing while you rest."

He frees one arm to pull back the covers on the bed and manovers them both under them without letting go.  Once they are under the covers a miracle rids them of their clothing till they are pressed warm skin to chilled, and soft fingers in his hair and loving words in his ears lull Crowley to rest, his angel set to guard his dreams.    

for @drawlight‘s 31 Days of Ineffables, day 12 Caroling

thanks to @waywren for the beta