#Crowley panics under pressure sometimes

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

WIP Wednesday - “Three Little Words”

This week’s update for “Sawdust of Words” starts with Crowley (in 1849) attempting to take Aziraphale on a date and tell him how he feels and it all goes horribly wrong in the most depressing and least rom-com-compliant way you could imagine. (Ok, I suppose you could imagine someone dying and that would be worse, but still.)

I’m going to talk a little bit about planning their date, because (A) it shows my completely messed up writing process and (B) it also shows how Crowley thinks. Or you can just click the link below to go straight to the story!

You can read “Three Little Words” here!

Buy me a coffee! (This is new. Also, I don’t drink coffee; if I know me, you’re buying half a book.)

So I think we cal all agree that Mr. Anthony “J’Adore Aziraphale” Crowley is probably the most hopeless romantic out there, underneath a thin veneer of sarcasm and swagger. I like to think he exists in a strange sphere of the highest romance and the most sweeping gestures, such that little everyday things take him utterly by surprise; but this story is 1849, so obviously none of that has happened yet.

So, he decides to take Aziraphale out. There’s going to be some activity and also wine and the rest of the plot was already written, I just needed to fill in the details. So the first Victorian era activity that sprang to mind was opera.

This is an easy one; Crowley was obviously a Wagner fan. I didn’t even bother to go grab my copy of the book to see what classical composers he’s actually listed as enjoying: Wagner is big and loud and bombastic and complex and kind of morally dubious when you remember his antisemitic comments and later appropriation by the Nazi party and really all that just screams “Crowley” to me.

So I fill in all the bits about going to the opera with a note to expand when I reach draft two.

Then draft two arrives, and we start getting into trouble.

See, it has to be the perfect opera, right? So I research all of Wagner’s mid-century operas and decide on Tannhauser. If you’re not going to follow the link to read about this fascinating opera, I’ll tell you briefly that it’s about damnation, salvation, and love - while these are common themes for Wagner’s later operas, it just fit for Crowley and Aziraphale.

Except, on later research, I realized it didn’t come to London until 1895 which, obviously, was not going to be an option. (Also in 1876, still not an option, but also sung in Italian for some reason. That just ain’t right.) So they would have to go to the continent for it. There was a showing in Paris in 1861, except that there were only three performances and it didn’t go over well with the Parisian audience and, look I know that’s not the kind of detail anyone will know but I care about these things.

Fine, though, Tannhauser was performed many times in the 1850s, in a bunch of locations. I just needed to pick one that could be easily reached from London.

Except.

Except the 1850s was a terrible decade for French wines. And, again, no one really cares, but Crowley just would not buy a bottle of wine from that decade because Aziraphale wouldn’t like it. I know he could miracle a better vintage, or just buy wine from another country, or even just pay through the roof for wine from a vinyard that wasn’t affected by the mildew...

Or we could just move the action even earlier, before the vinyards started being effected.

So. 1840s. I now had two options: Dresden (1845 or 1847) or Weimar (1849). Neither of these are conveniently located anywhere near London. Now I had to figure out how they were going to get there. I googled 19th century Channel ferries. I googled rail maps of Germany and found that the earliest one is dated 1849, and construction was so rapid I just could not work out what had been in existence even two years before that. I spent over an hour measuring distances, googling train speeds, counting how many transfers would be needed, reading up on all the things that could go wrong with a train in 1849.

Ok, so now just imagine me surrounded by all this information and calculations, hair in disarray, looking at Crowley across the table and saying Ok, if absolutely nothing goes wrong, it’s just possible to pull this off in under 24 hours. It’ll probably take at least a dozen miracles.

In response, Crowley manifests some kind of hard alcohol, drains it in one gulp, slams the glass on the table and says, Let’s f***ing do this!

So once that baseline had been set - that they were taking a train to Dover, then a ferry to Belgium, then at least three separate trains across Germany, using miracles to ensure that every transfer happened with perfect timing, no delays, no mechanical issues, no weird customs things that would throw off the timing, in order to arrive at the Weimar Court Theater just in time to see a play about a man whose deeds cause him to be rejected by Christianity, but not by the one who loves him the most - once that was established, everything else just paled in comparison.

Wine? Candy? Chocolate? Pastries? Private train car? Buying a ton of extra spots on the ferry to ensure it wasn’t crowded? Awkward attempts to describe the sky poetically? Sunset love confessions? I no longer had any doubts about throwing in literally everything into this, because Crowley was in the biggest of GO BIG moods.

Except for that rose. That was totally overkill. ;)

All of this - all of it - despite knowing that the entire point of the story was that none of it would happen.

Honestly, it made the second half even more painful to write, and that was already super painful.

So. Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk about the story that I already wrote. If you haven’t already read it, please come see Crowley be emotionally tortured here. There’s really no comfort at the end of it - apart from reminding the readers that I’ve already written the story where they finally make their feelings known, and this is in continuity with that! - but I promise this Saturday’s will be about the Bentley, and less sad.

[twst-bs]

TWST Dorm Leaders and an Anxious MC

This is the first piece of written specifically for this blog!

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Riddle: Had they broken a rule?

Even if Riddle had improved by leaps and bounds in the anger management department, he still held his rules in high regard. And the way his brows furrowed when he looked at them from across the table, was he angry about something? He couldn’t exactly punish them - they had no magic to lock away, and they were a dorm leader in their own right, so he didn’t have any right to discipline them, but what if they had done something on a personal level? Offended him in some way? They had barely mastered social cues in their own world, what if they messed up in Twisted Wonderland? What if -

...Riddle had said something, and was clearly waiting for a reply. In their internal panic, they had missed whatever it was.

“I-I’m sorry, Riddle, I was kind of zoning out. What did you say?” Were there rules against zoning out? Probably, that seemed like something that would annoy him.

“I asked if you were alright.”

“...Huh?”

Riddle set down his tea cup - it was a pretty, delicate little thing, gilded gold along the edges and handle, with roses painted beneath the rim. His mother would be mortified if she knew he was drinking strawberry milk tea with an ungodly amount of sugar out of it, Riddle had once said with a small, almost sheepish smile. That same mouth was now downturned as he regarded them with concern in his wide gray eyes.

“You seemed to be under a lot of stress lately,” he spoke slowly, like they were a frightened animal. Maybe they were. “Is everything alright? Are you sleeping well?”

They weren’t, but that was more of a side effect of their stress than the cause of it. They idly tapped their fingers against their own tea cup, a matching one to Riddle’s. They had been drinking lavender tea in an effort to calm their nerves, but it clearly hadn’t worked.

“I’m fine, promise,” they grinned, hoping it looked convincing.

By the way Riddle’s face scrunched up, it did not.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “I know I’m not the best at handling emotions, but if I can help in any way…” Riddle trailed off, looking embarrassed.

They felt their stomach twist in horror. These little tea parties were the highlight of their week, a little moment of reprieve for the both of them to just relax and enjoy each other’s company. And they had gone and ruined it because they couldn’t figure out how to human properly.

“I’m sorry!” they burst out. “I’ve been so anxious lately, and I haven’t been able to sleep, and I’m worried about my grades slipping because I don’t know the first thing about magic and -”

They didn’t even notice they were starting to spiral until Riddle had reached across the table and grasped onto their hand. Their chest was heaving with barely-contained sobs, and they weren’t sure if the trembling they felt in their hands was theirs or Riddle’s.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he murmured. “Deep breaths, now.”

He was parroting what Trey would tell him to help him calm down, they knew, but it was good advice. They knew that he had talked Riddle down from many an anxiety attack before, but the fact that Riddle, someone who suffered from severe mental health problems, was the one calming them down made something sour begin climbing up their throat.

“I-I’m making everything worse…” they mumbled, squeezing Riddle’s hand tighter. “I should be able to handle this without freaking out, but…”

Riddle reached out and brushed away a tear they didn’t know had fallen away with the back of his knuckle. “I know better than anyone how it feels to be under pressure.” he sighed. “Please, don’t think you have to deal with all of this stress on your own.”

Leona: “Will you sit still for five minutes?”

They hadn’t thought they had been making that much noise. Certainly not enough to wake Leona up from his nap, that was damn near impossible. So either the floorboards in Ramshackle dorm were worse than they thought, or Leona hadn’t actually been sleeping.

“Sorry,” they mumbled, staring down at the worksheet in front of them. They had been trying to finish this homework for hours, and the incantations were starting to blur together. What language were these even written in? Were they in the demonic section or nature section?

Leona sat up from where he had unceremoniously plopped himself on their bed. “You’re fidgeting like a rabbit, herbivore.”

“So you weren’t sleeping after all.”

“Hard to sleep when I can practically smell your anxiety.”

“Then go sleep somewhere else.”

Leona clicked his tongue, sounding annoyed, but they both knew he secretly enjoyed it when they got snappy with him. Not a whole lot of people had the guts to give him sass, and he liked having someone to verbally spar with. “And miss watching you squirm?”

“I’m not squirming.” they bit back.

“So that chair squeaking was just the ghosts, then?”

“Maybe.”

They could practically hear Leona roll his eyes, but they still didn’t take their eyes off of their textbook.

“Staring a hole into the page isn’t going to solve the equation.”

“How do you know?”

“Shut up and get over here.”

That made them look up. Leona had stood up, motioning them over with a tilt of his head. “You’re taking a break.”

“But -”

“You’re. Taking. A. Break.” he punctuated his words by grabbing the back of their desk chair and pulling. Just enough to jolt them, they could tell by the way the chair stopped that he was purposely holding it steady. Even so, they couldn’t help the small noise of surprise they made.

“Leona, I have to finish this!”

“You’ve been staring at the same page since I got here, you aren’t finishing anything.”

Subconsciously, they knew that taking a break would probably be good for them. But the part of their brain that was panicking about failing was telling them that if they took a break they were essentially giving up. And giving up wasn’t an option.

“Herbivore.”

The soft growl in Leona’s voice snapped them out of their thoughts. Leona had gone back over to the bed, flopped onto his back with his arms splayed out. To anyone else, it looked like he was just lazing about, but they had been with him long enough to realize that this particular position was an invitation.

It was then that they realized just how sore their neck and back were from being hunched over their desk. And how badly their eyes were burning from staring at the miniscule writing in their textbook. And how their legs and arms were one wrong move away from cramping because of how tense they had been.

...Okay, yeah, maybe a cuddle break was in order.

Leona grunted when they plopped on top of him, face buried in the crook on his neck. “Shit, herbivore, that hurt.”

“Suck it up.” they muttered, internally melting a little when he brought his arms up to wrap around them.

“Tch,” again, he sounded annoyed, but they knew better. “Learn to take better care of yourself.”

Azul: There was so much stuff to do.

Even if Crowley made sure they didn’t have to worry about money, a lot of the responsibilities of dorm upkeep still fell on them. They had to buy groceries, clean the whole dorm, make sure the place didn’t fall apart, follow Grimm around and make sure he hadn’t scorched any curtains...and that was all after they had done the assigned homework.

All things considered, they did a pretty good job, but sometimes they laid awake at night thinking of all of the things that needed to be done. Which left them in a less-than-ideal state for class the next day.

Gr-gr-grmmble…

They winced, hoping no one heard that. They had slept soundly through their alarm this morning, to the point where Grimm had to slap them awake, and therefore didn’t have time to snag breakfast. And it was really hard to focus on Trein’s droning lecture when they were both hungry and sleep-deprived.

Ace looked at them out of the corner of his eye with a raised eyebrow, but thankfully didn’t say anything. It might have been because the last time they got busted talking in class the spiel from Trein had been worse than if Riddle had just collared them, but still.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Trein dismissed the class. They still had Alchemy before they could go grab lunch, and even though mixing potentially explosive potions in their current state seemed like a terrible idea, Grimm skipped class enough. They didn’t need to add to his track record. So, feeling distinctly zombie-like, they made their way through the halls towards the alchemy lab.

Maybe they could dash by Sam’s shop really quick and grab a protein bar just to hold them over? No, Trein had yammered on until the last possible second, and they only had a few minutes before their next class started. There was no time. Maybe -

“Oof!”

“Whoa!”

Well, that’s what they got for not watching where they were going. Their books clattered to the ground as they ran headfirst into someone.

“Ah, damn, I’m sorry,” they bent down to pick up their books. Now they really were going to be late.

“Are you alright?” they looked up to see Azul stooping down to help them. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, I’m fine!” they grinned sheepishly. “Just wasn’t paying attention, is all.”

Azul frowned, picking up their Alchemy textbook before straightening. “You look exhausted. Another rough night?”

“Is it that obvious?”

Pale blue eyes widened and Azul flushed red. “I-I didn’t mean it like that!” he stammered, “I just - I merely - “ he cleared his throat, quickly recomposing his gentlemanly demeanor. “I’m sorry, that came out wrong.”

“Relax, Azul,” they laughed, standing up from their crouched position. “I was just teasing you.”

“Must you do that in public?”

“Are you saying you like it when I tease you in private?”

“That is not what I said.”

They laughed again, reaching for their books, but Azul held them out of reach. “Hey, come on,” they pouted. “I’m going to be late.”

“Seriously, are you alright? You look kind of pale.”

They sighed. “I didn’t sleep very well last night, and then overslept this morning, so I haven’t eaten anything. Happy now?”

“Not really, no.” Azul frowned. “Come on, I’ll treat you to lunch at the lounge.”

“But I have class.”

Azul kept walking, and they had no choice but to follow considering he still had most of their books. “I’m sure Crewel will understand if you miss one class. You have an otherwise perfect track record.”

“How do you know that?” they asked. “We don’t have any classes together.”

“I have my ways.” Azul smiled cryptically at them.

“Which one of them was it?”

“Jade.”

“Knew it.”

Kalim: “...and then, there was this one time, the baby elephants broke out of their cages…”

They wanted to pay attention, they really did. Kalim was a great story-teller, even if he was a bit all over the place. And stories from a magical noble family, no matter how mundane to Kalim, were always fascinating. They could sit here and listen for hours.

Well, usually, anyway.

Nothing in particular was wrong, really. They had just woken up feeling off. It could have been anything. They could have had a weird dream, they could have forgotten something minor, the planets could be slightly unaligned, it didn’t matter. It was just an off day, and they were feeling it.

“...hello? You still in there?”

They nearly hit the ceiling when Kalim snapped his fingers in front of their face. Where they had been sitting there being anxious about trying to figure out what was making them anxious, Kalim had crawled across the floor where the two of them had been having lunch in his room. He had wanted to have a picnic on the flying carpet, but Jamil had put his foot down. Literally, he had stood on the carpet so Kalim couldn’t ride it.

“Sorry!” they yelped, almost knocking their tea over as they were forcibly brought back into the present.

“You looked kinda worried there,” Kalim frowned, quite an unusual look for him. “Everything alright?”

“I’m fine,” they looked down at their lap and bit their lip to stifle a gasp. While they had been worrying, they had subconsciously been picking at the skin around their fingernails. There were a couple tiny drops of blood beading up around their nail beds. Maybe Kalim wouldn’t notice?

“Hey, you’re bleeding!”

Damn.

Kalim’s expressive, ruby-red eyes went wide and he lunged forward to grab their hands. “When did that happen? How did that happen? Do you need to go to the infirmary?”

“Kalim, I’m fine, there's barely any blood.” they sighed, gently prying their hands away from him. “I do that a lot.”

“You just randomly start bleeding?!”

“No, Kalim,” they laughed softly, shaking their head. “I pick at my nails when I get anxious.”

Kalim pouted, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “You’re anxious? Why are you anxious? Did I do something wrong?”

“No, no, it isn’t you, I promise!” they idly swiped at their nails. The places they had picked open had already closed. “It’s just...it’s a thing. I just have anxiety in general, is all.”

Frowning, Kalim sat back down in his original spot. “Isn’t there a way to fix that?”

“There’s a few ways, but none of them are quick.” they shrugged. “I was doing better, but suddenly coming here brought back a lot of my old habits.”

“Hm…” Kalim stared at them intently before the apparent storm passed and he brightened up again. “Well, we’ll just have to get you new habits to replace the old ones!”

“I...don’t think that’s quite how that works…”

“Here!” Kalim reached down and took a bangle off of his wrist. It was gold, with an elephant charm hanging off of it. With a big, eye-closing grin, he handed it to them. “When I was little, I used to get scolded for squirming a lot, so my mom told me to play with a small toy instead of running around. I know it’s a bit different, but maybe, instead of picking at your fingers, you can play with the charm instead? Would that help?”

For a moment, they were quiet, just staring at the shiny gold bracelet in their hand. Then, a small smile split across their face. “Yeah, I think it’ll help.”

Vil: “You haven’t been sleeping.”

“Hello to you too, Vil.” they sighed, flopping unceremoniously onto the stone bench beside him. Usually they at least tried to hold themselves to a higher standard when they were with the Vil Schoenheit, but they just didn’t have the energy. “How could you tell I haven’t been sleeping?”

“Unless the undead look is a new fashion trend, but bags under your eyes are very telling.” he reached over to tuck their hair behind their ear, both in an affectionate gesture and to get it out of the way so he could assess them better. “You’re also breaking out. Are you stressed?”

“Isn’t everybody stressed?”

“Don’t get existential, just answer the question.”

They huffed, letting their head rest on the hand that was still at their ear. “Yes, okay, I’m stressed, happy?”

Students were watching the two of them on their way through the gardens, but Vil paid them no mind. He had plenty of practice at ignoring the masses. “We’ve discussed this, haven’t we? Mental health is just as important as physical health.”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry.” they closed their eyes, unable to look at him.

“I didn’t mean that to be scolding,” this time, Vil sighed. “Just a reminder that you need to take care of yourself. Maybe a spa day is in order.”

That did sound nice. “Can we do hair masks?”

“Of course, my dear.”

Idia: “Big Brother, you have a guest!”

Idia fought the urge to groan when Ortho popped his head into the room. Why did people always have to bother him on raid night?

Just as he was about to tell Ortho to send whoever it was away, a second head appeared.

“Hey, Idia.” the Ramshackle prefect sounded drained, enough to make him type a quick “AFK” into the chat and turn to them.

“Everything...alright?”

They stepped fully into the room, returning Ortho’s cheerful wave before closing the door and collapsing face-first onto Idia’s bed. “There’s too many people out there.”

“Mood.”

“And they all want me to do stuff for them.”

“Also mood.”

“So can I hide in here for a little? Please?” they turned their head to look at him with pleading eyes. “I’ll be quiet, I know it’s raid night.”

Idia turned to glance at the screen. The team he had gotten saddled with this time around was garbo - three tanks and no healer, honestly - so he was fairly confident they weren’t finishing the dungeon. Shaking his head, he clicked a few buttons and the screen returned to his desktop.

“Bunch of losers anyway,” he mumbled, getting up from his chair. “Wanna play something else?”

“Can we play Skull Girls?”

A few moments later, they were sitting side-by-side on the bed with the opening for the game playing on one of Idia’s monitors

This was what they needed. No people besides the two of them, no lazy Headmasters asking them to take care of problems way beyond their physical and emotional capacity, no chaotic cats threatening to light everything on fire. Just a nice little break.

Slowly, careful, so as not to startle him, they leaned over until their head was resting on his shoulder. He tensed, but his hair didn’t turn red, so they counted that as progress.

“Thanks, Idia.”

“N-N-No problem.”

Malleus: Okay, so this probably hadn’t been one of their better ideas.

Sleep just wasn’t happening tonight. All of the things they had to worry about kept running through their head, and every time they thought they were about to drop off, something else popped up. Eventually, they had given up and decided to take a walk.

Unfortunately, they had completely forgotten how cold it could get at night. Even with the jacket they had pulled on over their pajamas, they were shivering.

“You’re up late.”

The deep voice startled them, but they managed to compose themselves before turning around. “So are you, Tsunotarou.”

Malleus Draconia smiled softly at the nickname, looking absolutely ethereal with the small green lights flitting around him. “It’s dangerous to be out alone at night, Child of Man.”

“The gargoyles will protect me.” they said cheekily. Malleus chuckled.

“And what of me?” he asked. “Do I not get the honor of protecting you?”

“You can fight the gargoyles for the honor.”

Again, Malleus laughed, before noticing the subtle tremors that wracked the human’s body. “You’re cold.”

“This wasn’t my best-laid plan.” they sighed, tugging their jacket closer to their body. “I always forget how cold it is at night.”

Malleus hummed before opening his arms. “Come here, then. I’ll keep you warm.”

They hesitated for a moment before stepping into his embrace, sighing as his body heat seeped into their being. “Wow, you really are warm.”

“Dragons run hotter than humans,” he explained, tugging their head beneath his chin. “It’s why I have no trouble roaming around at night.”

“Lucky.”

“Well,” he murmured. “I’ll simply have to accompany you on your nighttime adventures to keep you warm.”

[forgedroyalseal]

3 times Will panicked and 1 time he didn’t (part 1)

Happy FanFiction Friday (or Saturday depending on where you are)

I know that I said that FanFiction Friday would always be one shots but tbh I ran out of time to finish this because I’m a terrible person. So part 2 will be posted for next weeks FanFiction Friday.

“Something is going on with Alyss!” Will said in lieu of a greeting when Halt opened his door.

Halt ushered Will in to his home and sat at the table. “What makes you says that?” Halt asks as he pours Will a mug of freshly brewed coffee.

“She has been sick for over a week. Every morning she throws up and she won’t let me bring her to the physician. She just brushes me off saying that it’s just a bug, she said something about a courier that she works with being sick, but I asked around and no one that she works with has felt so much as nauseous in the past few weeks. And she’s been sending letters back and forth to Evelyn. Whenever I ask her about them she just says it’s “personal”. We are married Halt! What could she possibly be saying that she doesn’t want me to know! And another thing-“

“Whoa, slow down Will. Take a breath.” Halt interrupts Will’s panicked rambling. He knows that Will would talk himself into the ground if Halt let him.

“Now, let’s take this one thing at a time,” Halt began, “Alyss is a responsible young woman, so if she thought something was truly wrong, there isn’t a doubt in my mind that she wouldn’t seek out help from a physician. Are you sure that she hasn’t seen one?”

“Well, I suppose she could have at some point, but why wouldn’t she tell me?”

“Perhaps it’s nothing and she didn’t feel like she needed too. Or perhaps it wasn’t something she was ready to share. There is no point in pondering over something we can’t know. And in regards to the letters, I am sure that two women as independent as Alyss and Cassandra have plenty to discuss that you don’t need to be privy to.”

“I guess.” Will mumbled into his mug.

“The best thing to do is to just let Alyss come to you. Give her some time and space and, if it’s anything of importance, she will tell you when she is ready.”

“You are right Halt. I should trust her enough to not keep anything from me that I should know about.”

“Exactly. Now, I didn’t just ask you here for coffee and a chat. Crowley sent over some documents for us to look over.”

Will couldn’t wait to see Alyss. When Crowley first gave him the assignment, he was anxious about leaving Alyss. Will was following Halt’s advice, giving her space, not pressuring her to tell him what’s wrong, but leaving Redmont for two weeks seemed reckless. If something was wrong then he should be here. When he voiced these concerns to Alyss however, she practically pushed him out the door.

“You can’t hover around me every time I’m a little under the weather. Go do your job and come back in one piece!”

So he did. And was able to carry out the assignment in ten days rather than the expected fourteen. Despite the urge to run into the cabin to check up on Alyss, Will made sure to take care of Tug. He rubbed the little horse down and gave him an extra apple.

“I know that was a long run. Thanks for getting me here so quickly old friend.” He said softly.

In response, Tug shook his mane and grunted, Go check on your wife and let me eat my apple in peace.

Will took his horse’s advice and went up to the cabin. Before he could open the door however, Alyss opened it for him.

“Will! Your home early!” Alyss through her arms around her husband and held him tightly.

“It’s good to be back.” He smiled.

“I have something I need to talk about with you. And I don’t want you to panic.” She stepped back from him and took a seat on the top step.

Will sat next to her, his heart in his throat. In his experience, anytime someone says “don’t panic” it is almost always followed by a reason to panic.

“Alright, I’m ready.”

Alyss smiled and took his hands in hers. “I’m sure that you’ve noticed that I haven’t exactly been myself recently.”

“I have, as a matter of fact.”

“There reason is,” she took a deep breath, “well, it’s because I’m pregnant.”

Will’s heart stopped beating. He’s sure of it. Honestly he’s shocked that it was ever able to start again. Pregnant. How could she be- well obviously he knew how, he just never truly expected this. They’d been married for over two years. At this point they just assumed that wasn’t a path they’d be able to travel. Until now. Now they apparently have made a sharp turn onto that path.

“Will? Are you alright?” Alyss was staring intently at him and Will realized that he had been silent for too long.

“Yes, no, I don’t know. Are you sure?” He ran his hands through his hair.

“Yes. I saw a physician when I first suspected, and Cassandra has been telling me about how she knew. Apparently I’m almost three months along.”

Three months. That meant that in only six they’d have a child.

“Why didn’t you say anything to me?” He asked quietly.

Alyss cupped a hand against his cheek, “I wanted to be sure. And then you got an assignment and I didn’t want you to be distracted. Are you sure you are okay? You are a white as a sheet.”

“I- I don’t-I can’t be father.” Will stuttered out.

“What do you mean? Will you are going to be a wonderful father.”

“No, I won’t be. I don’t know how to be. I never had one growing up. What if I’m terrible at it? What if I ruin this innocent child?”

“Will, you won’t be terrible. You won’t ruin this baby. I have known you for practically my whole life and there is not a doubt in my heart that you will be anything but an amazing father.”

“But-“

Alyss cut him off, “I never really knew my mother, does that mean you think I can’t be a good mother?”

“Of course I don’t think that! You are going to be the perfect mother. But it’s different with mothers, you’re more bonded.”

“Fine, what about Horace then? It he destined to be a terrible father to his little girl?”

“Horace is a great father. But it’s different for me.”

“No Will, it isn’t. You are kind and patient and generous and loyal. You work so hard to protect this kingdom and the people you love. Those are all pretty great qualities to have in a father if you ask me.”

When Will didn’t respond, Alyss said “And anyway, I don’t think it’s fair to say that you haven’t seen an excellent father in action.”

Will’s brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

Alyss sighed, sometimes Will can be so thick. “Halt. I’m talking about Halt. He’s been a father to you since you were fifteen. And he did a decent job of you ask me.” She grins and bumps her shoulder to his.

Will thought about it for a moment. Halt has been like a father to him. “Maybe you are right...”

“Of course I’m right, I’m your wife. We have plenty of time to prepare for this baby Will. And when it arrives, we are going to be awesome parents.”

Will laughs. “Yeah, I think we will be.”

[yan-twst]

( @crazyyanderefangirlfan (〃ω〃) here you go! since you didnt specificy any letters i did the whole thing! it is a long post so i'll put it under a read more!)

Affection: How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get?

Very strictly- Sebek has a rather particular form of showing love. Whenever he takes his darling out in public he will expect absolute perfect behaviour- no PDA, no speaking unless spoken to. However, he'll become more affectionate behind closed doors: he's still quite shy, so even just kissing or cuddling his darling is sometimes too much and he'll have to go cool off.

Blood: How messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling?

Not as much as one would expect. Even though he is definitely well trained and strong enough to stand his ground and his darling's, he is working for Lord Maleus- he can't have his actions sully his lord's name! However, if he accidentally snaps or gets out of hand, he might go beg Lilia for help, and the older fae will certainly make any trace of Sebek's violence disappear.

Cruelty: How would they treat their darling once abducted? Would they mock them?

He won't mock them, but he is so demanding and high-strung that he comes off as cruel. He expects his darling to serve Maleus too, but obey him at the same time- any time his darling fails at a task, or even worse, fail at something Maleus asked, they'll be subject to get yelled at for hours by Sebek.

Darling: Aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will?

He won't touch his darling for affection if they tell him not to- however, he will absolutely order them around without much remorse. His darling is living on a tight schedule set by him, and any rupture to this structured lifestyle might earn them a lecture or a slap if Sebek is at his absolute limit.

Exposed: How much of their heart do they bare to their darling? How vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling?

He is constantly trying to be the best guard for Maleus, always on guard and ready to pounce. Even though realistically Maleus doesn't expect that much from him, Sebek still feels pressured- he might cry into his darling's chest on particularly bad nights, asking for reassurance that he's doing a good job protecting Maleus and being their partner. If his darling doesn't comfort him, he won't punish them- however he'll be in an extremely bad mood all week, which is never good for anyone.

Fight: How would they feel if their darling fought back?

He's outraged at this behaviour! How dare his darling act out against him?! He's already too busy with school and guardinh Maleus- these actions will not be tolerated. As much as it hurts his heart, he might have to use some painful magic in order to teach his darling a lesson- although he'll definitely cry when he sees his darling in pain, it's something he must do.

Game: Is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape?

No, it's not. Sebek is quite serious about this relationship- he truly believes that all he does will help shape his darling into an ideal person, and that together they can protect Maleus. He won't tolerate any attempts to escape: after the very first one, he'll get Lilia to put any sort of ancient spell on his darling so they cannot escape. Hell, even Maleus might throw in a curse for Sebek's darling not to run away: the two ancient fae find Sebek's infatuation quite entertaining.

Hell: What would be their darling’s worst experience with them?

If his darling ever attempted to hurt Maleus, Sebek would have no mercy in punishing them. He would have tears in his eyes as he cast painful hexes on his darling, leaving them chained up in one of Diasomnia's towers for days on end to starve and suffer under the intense magic. It's bad enough that Lilia has to be the one to put a stop to it, before Sebek caused irreversible damage to his darling's body and mind.

Ideals: What kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling?

He only has one goal in life, and that is to protect Maleus. He expects his darling to do the same- after all, he believes he can train them into a guard almost as perfect as him! He doesn't have concrete plans for after graduation- he does expect to marry his darling, but it's likely he'll keep by Maleus' side, so his darling better enjoy their new job!

Jealousy: Do they get jealous? Do they lash out or find a way to cope?

It highly depends on who it is that interacts or talks with his darling. If it's people he trusts, like Lilia or Maleus (and even Silver, to an extent) he'll simply keep an eye on them while they're near his darling. Because he knows any bad action of him could bring disgrace to Maleus, he grits his teeth and bears it when he hears other students talk about his darling, although he might snap if he finds himself alone face-to-face with one of these people later.

Kisses: How do they act around or with their darling?

When it's just him and his darling, he's shokingly shy. Holding hands is enough tl send his heart into a frenzy and make his whole face red- a kiss could probably kill him. It's like that at first; he doesn't want to scare his darling, but as much as he's shy, he's also... Very, very eager. Expect makeout session when he gets random bursts of courage- although later he'll be so embarrassed he won't even look his darling in the eyes... Until he gets the urge to be close to them again...

Love letters: How would they go about courting or approaching their darling?

Before kidnapping them, he was both very obvious and yet ignorant to his own feelings. Everyone knew he liked his darling based on how much attention he'd pay to them (and by how much he'd scold them for "trying to distract him"). When he finally has his darling to himself- aka when Maleus asks the headmaster to transfer Sebek's darling to Diasomnia (and Crowley knows better than to refuse: Maleus is too powerful to risk angering) and Sebek keeps them with him at all times- he continues this behaviour, although he already accepted he's deeply in love.

Mask: Are their true colors drastically different from the way they act around everyone else?

He's much more tender than he lets on. Even though everyone knows how loud and competitive he is, nobody would guess how soft he is when he's with his beloved. Also, he's very physically needy but shy at the same time: he seeks his darling's affections but never dares vocalise what he wants. His darling better be good at reading his mood, because giving him love when he wants it is the best way to keep him a relatively tolerable partner.

Naughty: How would they punish their darling?

If it's a spur of the moment thing, he might slap them- however that's as much as he'd harm them in the bodily sense. He feels too bad when he physically hurts his darling, so when punishment is necessary he opts for isolation and magic. He'll read up on hexes and cursed that cause feelings of pain, but no actual bodily harm- he'll still feel incredible sad when he hears his darling scream and cry in pain wherever he locked them up, but he'll take some comfort knowing the pain they feel is "fake" and their body will be fine once the spell wears off

Oppression: How many rights would they take away from their darling?

If his darling wasn't in Diasomnia before, they are now- and they share a room with him. He'll still let his darling attend to classes; however, the second a class is over they must report back to him. There isn't even any chance for them to ask for help: Sebek will absolutely go the extra mile to find any curse or spell that will force his darling to not be able to talk about their current dilemma. Aside from classes, every waking moment of his darling's time is spent with Sebek.

Patience: How patient are they with their darling?

Not very. He's always high-strung and ready to reprimand someone for not adressing lord Maleus correctly: he has very little tolerance for mistakes or misbehaviours in his darling's part. Luckily he rarely truly "punishes" his darling: for the most part he loudly reprimands them for a couple hours.

Quit: If their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?

He would be devastated. Death, escape- whatever it was, it simply showed he failed as a lover. He'd definitely blame himself for not being careful enough- and he wouldn't be able to replace his darling, ever. He'll probably grow and marry whatever fae woman crosses his path just to get people to shut up about how he's "worryingly lonely", but he's definitely broken inside for the rest of his life.

Regret: Would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling? Would they ever let their darling go?

No? Why would he? He isn't doing anything wrong- at least that's what Lilia told him (in fact Lilia knows how messed up the whole ordeal is, but... Hey! Free entertainment for him!). Besides, he's definitely helping his darling improve by forcing them to stick to his strict schedule. They should be happy! Thanks to him they get the privileged job of watching over Maleus by his side.

Stigma: What brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc)?

He's been training his whole life to protect his lord. There simply wasn't any room for love before, and he'd never dealt with such strong emotions. His naturally intense attitude love advice coming from an equally inexperienced Maleus and definitely malicious love advice coming from Lilia who just wanted to see how far Sebek would take it, combined with how much he discovered he enjoyed affection and praise from his darling, ended up being a mix that sealed his darling's fate.

Tears: How do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves?

Confusion and guilt. Is this- is this his fault? He definitely panics: he's never had to comfort someone like this in his life. He'll force his darling into bed and tuck them in, trying to confort them how he best remembers babies are comforted- however, if his darling was crying because of him, he'll probably make it even worse with all his attempts to "help".

Unique: Would they do anything different from the classic yandere?

His darling isn't gone from the public's eye: everyone knows very well they are currently in Diasomnia and always by Sebek's side. He isn't trying to keep his darlin for himself only- he truly doesn't mind if they have to interact with teachers during class, or if they have to be seen by classmates. His darling never goes missing: they are just always, ALWAYS, by his side.

Vice: What weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape?

There's not much his darling can do to escape. Sure, his easy to fluster side would be almost too easy to exploit- if his darling took initiative and kissed him, and encouraged him to get handsy, he'd get so overwhelmed and flustered he'd have to excuse himself to "cool off" for a good while. However- because his darling is already hexed and cursed and under god knows how many tracking and entrapment spells, it's an useless endeavour.

Wit’s end: Would they ever hurt their darling?

Again, he'll never go further than a slap. He's very hesitant to hurt his darling with his hands- however he really won't hesitate to place any sort of spell to cause unbearable, writhing pain on his darling if he believes they deserve it.

Xoanon: How much would they revere or worship their darling? To what length would they go to win their darling over?

Praise him too much and let him get too much confidence and suddenly he's all over his darling. He'd never admit it, but he's a bit of a pervert- he'd probably spent hours staring at his darling before, and now he can't keep his hands off them. But once he regains composure he immediately scrambles off- no! He only serves Maleus!

Yearn: How long do they pine after their darling before they snap?

It really doesn't take long. He's never felt this way before, and his trusted seniors are telling him to just act on those dark impulses so... Why not?

Zenith: Would they ever break their darling?

It wouldn't be shoking. The tight schedule, the expectations, the mental torture of his punishments- his darling is bound to break eventually. Sebek would wonder why his darling's eyes are suddenly so lifeless, and why they speak so robotically- it's like they're just repeating the same words of praise to him without meaning it, barely even talking anymore. However, he doesn't mind: even though his darling isn't fit to be Maleus' guard anymore, they're still his darling- he might even feel less ashamed of affection with a darling so utterly broken!

[whifferdills]

Asclepius Good Omens TV, Aziraphale/Crowley, Gabriel is there. the Garden of Eden/aka Dr Who Cerulean AU. technically gen but also horny, u know how it is. ~1.8k words

read on the AO3

One of these days there would be words invented to describe this emotion, chief among them 'anxious', but for now Aziraphale settled on feeling slightly out of sorts. "It's an honor," Gabriel insisted. "I cannot stress enough how important of a job this is." "Job," Aziraphale repeated uncertainly. Uncertainty, how...unbefitting, for an Angel. He hoped it didn't show.

A window cracked open between them: the Garden, in miniature, verdant and lush. The sands outside. Gabriel gestured. "Take your time," he said, somewhat impatiently. "And when it's over?" Aziraphale tucked his wings close together. The flush of him knitted inexpertly down; a plain tunic as cover. "Easy-peasy." Gabriel grinned with at least five of his mouths, wheels spinning in cold precision. "Just make like a tree and leaf."

It's simple, ish. Certainly fewer moving parts than other forms. How difficult could it be, really, to be a tree. He settles into his roots and wraps himself in bark. Solid, unyielding. An appropriate amount of leaves shaken out and left to bask in the harsh sunlight. He makes shade in which things might grow; where fledgling humanity might take a nap, or stare blankly into space. He waits. Sometimes humanity sits, and sometimes humanity stands. Sometimes they walk in circles, or accidentally bump into each other. He basks in his love for them; he even finds things to admire about them. Their physicality, their simplicity, how they seem assured of the ground beneath their feet. The grace of them, pure and uncomplicated. The underbrush rustles, sometimes. He can't tell how far into the day it's been before he catches a glimpse of eyes, glowing reflective in the dark. Nor how long after that it is before the creature emerges, slithering languidly towards him. Black and red and almost imposing. Intelligent, possibly. The Serpent manages to look as bored as Aziraphale feels. Boredom, surely that's not right - this is a very important job, after all. He settles back into his roots and waits. Humanity isn't afraid, not yet. The Serpent wriggles past where they're sprawled carelessly on the moss, undulating over them and. On to him. Oh. Well. He's not bored anymore, at least. The thing is - the thing is. He's never been touched before, you see. Not knowingly, not with intent. The smoothness of the scales sliding over his trunk, the pressure of lean muscle curling around his branches - there is no breeze but his leaves shudder anyway, growing a touch greener, a hair broader. And the Serpent pauses, and looks up at him inquisitively. "You've forgotten the apple," it says. Oh. Oh! Of course. Aziraphale concentrates very hard, and stretches all of his Angelic energy throughout himself, from root-end to leaf-tip, and with a proverbial grunt produces a single, dismal crabapple. "You've got to be fucking kidding me," says the Serpent.

This will be known as "panic", later on - Aziraphale flicks the Serpent off (it bounces into the wilderness with a yelp) and slips first into ephemerality and then into his practiced Earthly form and then runs. Not particularly swiftly or gracefully, but with some urgency. He runs and he runs and then he stumbles, tilted headfirst until he hits the wall. The stone is hot and unforgiving against his palms, the air is too still, this body is too small - "Stay away," he calls out, voice unacceptably shaky. He turns, swallows, puffs his wings out and produces the Sword with a barely-earned flourish. The Serpent slips out of a thorn bush, unperturbed. "I have a sword," Aziraphale says. "I can see that," the Serpent responds. "Oh, for Hell's sake - " It rears up, and slips easily into personhood. Demonhood. Human-shaped, anyway, not that there's much to go on as of yet. "S'everthing alright?" Aziraphale does his best to look impressive. "Stand back, foul Demon." He has the temerity to laugh. "Oh, come off it. We're both here for the same reason. We're basically co-workers. You do the tree, I do the snake, the humans do the You Know, we go our separate ways. It's not that deep." "Not that -" Aziraphale huffs, but lowers his sword. Stage-whispering: "This is where it starts! This is God's Plan!"

"If that helps," says the demon.

"It's her Ineffable Plan and I am being Counted On and. And I'm not - I'm not doing a very good job of it, am I?" The demon, this creature - it is unfair how pretty a monster can be, he'll write a sternly-worded letter one of these days - this red and black and temptingly beautiful boy steps forward. Charming, tentative, tentatively charming and vice-versa. "Performance anxiety, happens to the best of us. I'm Crawley, by the way." "Aziraphale," says Aziraphale reluctantly, his own name sounding odd in these ears. He slips the Sword back into his pocket. He hadn't really meant to use it, anyway. How could he? Here, of all places, how could he? "Aziraphale," Crawley repeats, and it sounds even stranger - but that's a demon's voice for you. "Shall we try again? You can pop back whenever you're ready. Promise I won't look." Aziraphale glares, and Crawley dramatically covers his eyes with his hands, and they try again.

The humans are asleep, as they usually are, as there's nothing much else for them to do. Crawley sits on the ground, sifting thorns out of his coal-black feathers and burrs from his fire-red hair, gangly-legged and comfortable in Aziraphale's shade. "I can draw you a picture, if you like." Crawley adds a petal of something pink to the small pile of thorns. "You're looking for round, red, juicy - " Aziraphale is silent and settled back in his roots, but the thrum of exasperation is deliberate and hopefully clearly felt. "An Angel, inventing an Earthly pleasure from whole cloth, so a demon can tempt God's own creation into...what, exactly?" Another petal, this time white. "Are you sure your side knows what it's doing?" He waves his hand over the pile of petals and burrs and thorns and it sinks into the dirt. The roots of the Tree stretch beneath him in response. He puts his hand on the base of the trunk, the bark rough under his fingertips, and under that a clumsy, boundless love. White-hot and holy and like a sword being plunged through him. He clenches his fist and then shifts, the snake rising in his place. The humans stir, move together guilelessly. The smaller one is watching him. He slides up, wraps around the boughs. Bends the branches, curling closer to where green is budding, where fruit is swelling, ripening, reddening. She's still watching him. She's almost curious. Nearly, nearly. It won't happen now, but soon enough. He opens his mouth and sinks his fangs into an apple, listening to the leaves chatter above him.

"You're getting better at this, Angel." Aziraphale stifles a smile. It's not that he's proud, of course; it's not that he's weak to the flattery of a demon. "Oh. Thank you, I suppose. You're - quite wily. Very good at the evil... wiles." "Still needs work, though," Crawley continues blithely. "Something's missing. A certain je ne sais quoi. Can angels eat?"

"We don't need to, no." Aziraphale frowns, feeling wrong-footed and slightly ruffled in the feathers. Crawley slips to Serpent long enough to writhe up Aziraphale's calf, along his thigh and around his belly before dropping Back with a snap of the fingers and the whip of wings spreading wide. "It's not about need, Angel. Haven't you been paying attention? It's about want." He somehow manages to saunter backwards, the thicket parting for him. Aziraphale stands very still and watches him go. "Are you trying to tempt me?" "Is it working?" A pause, a consideration. Aziraphale follows wordlessly, the path closing behind them.

Paradise, down by the river. An angel tiptoes in a demon's footsteps, across the water and through the mud and the tangled vines. "Is it evil?" Aziraphale approaches cautiously, primly. "It's a blackberry bush," Crawley says. "Yes, I made it, so technically...Not everything is - nevermind. Just. Try?" "Are you teaching me how to be tempting? Or tempted? Or - " "Yes! No! Does it matter?" Crawley sighs, runs his hands through his unnecessarily luxurious hair. "One way or another we need to get through this, and I don't know about your side, but mine is getting just a smidge impatient." He plucks a berry from the bush and cups it gently, a strange and not particularly demonic energy buzzing around him. Aziraphale frowns, lips pursed. He reaches out gingerly, takes the offering from Crawley's outstretched hand. Their skin almost touches; Crawley almost flinches. He considers the fruit, and considers how it sits differently in his own hand, in the flushed rose-gold plumpness his form is aching towards. Might as well, he supposes. He shrugs, and grins, and pops the blackberry into his mouth. Takes the time to savor, to, well, enjoy. Bright, sweet, Earth-y, more-ish. He grins again, lips and teeth stained purple. "I do hope," Crawley says in a discomfitingly private voice, "that this time Upstairs has sent someone who understands that if humanity's Fall is to be chosen by them then the mechanism ought to be desirable." Flicking his gaze between the bush and the demon, Aziraphale opens his mouth to say something, he hasn't decided what yet, and then the sky catches fire.

Bye, Crawley thinks as he drops back into the undergrowth. Not worth it. Bye-bye.

"HOW'S IT GOING, CHAMP?" Gabriel screams from on high. His wheels are distinctly lilac in hue, his swords shimmering and sharpened for war. The window looks enormous from down here. Aziraphale starts, steps in front of his very first breakfast and an adorably teeny snake with what might be guilt, if guilt exists before it's been properly invented. "Um, ah, that is to say - " "WE WERE JUST HOPING TO MEET THE PROJECTIONS FOR THIS QUARTER, KINDA BANKIN' ON YOU SEALING THE DEAL HERE." "Yes, well - "

The wheels align and stop with a mighty, heavenly clang. "GREAT! WE'LL BE IN TOUCH! GOOD LUCK! BREAK A LEG! HA HA!" Gabriel stares down unblinking as the window crackles and drifts back into the aether.

Aziraphale settles into his roots and lets his branches grow, his boughs sway. God's love and her Word in the sunlight, in the shade beneath him. The human is watching, again. Earth on the verge. This is important, this is how it starts. Almost time, now, to leave the Garden. Crawley grins, pulling thorns from his hair, before he shifts. The Tree bends beneath him - he moves to where the green is budding, where the apple is growing, round and red. He sinks his teeth through the skin of it, into the flesh. Juice on his chin and leaves moving in the still air. "Knew you had it in you," he says. He leans in, pushes the apple low enough to pluck. He beckons; they wait. Humanity will come when she's ready. And after, well. They'll burn that bridge when they come to it.

[amuseoffyre]

Don’t mind me. Just being quietly delighted in Crowley’s character arc in my Hunger series :)

It’s stupid and soft, but Crowley can count every one of the times and hoards them up for the nights when Hell is sharp and hard and too painful to bear. Sometimes, he trails his thumb along the back of his hand, imagining it’s someone else’s. He knows why he can’t ask for it. Aziraphale has made it clear over and over and over again. Friends they may be, but he’ll never forget – or stop reminding Crowley – that they are an angel and a demon, two creatures who are meant to be enemies. Demons don’t get kindness and gentle touches and someone holding their hand with soft, warm fingers. That’s angelic stuff and he’s known it from the moment he Fell. That was the last time an angel had touched him with any intent, Gabriel’s hands burning on his skin as he was dragged from his hiding place on the Heavenly plains and cast out with the rest of the Hellish host. Bit embarrassing, truth be told. Gabriel, of all people. Smug git. Still, if their fingertips brush or Aziraphale grabs at his arm in panic when he floors the accelerator, he’ll take it. A little bit of something is better than nothing, isn’t it? And if he drives a bit faster than he has to any time Aziraphale’s in the car, who can really blame him? And he’s so… well, not good. S’a demon after all. But still, he keeps his thoughts – and his hands – to himself and it’s all fine. Really, it is, right up until the end of times and seeing his world burning in pieces of paper and suddenly, suddenly, he’s so fucking alone it hurts. - [Starved]

Compare to

Crowley tilts his head, those glorious golden eyes of his studying Aziraphale speculatively. He’s been growing more confident since they moved here, Aziraphale has noticed. More confident in his desires. More confident in giving them voice. Instead of approaching or saying anything, he reaches up and draws his braid over his shoulder. It’s long enough to reach his waist now and Aziraphale’s stomach does a pleasant little flip as Crowley pulls the band from the end, then slowly, tantaslisingly slowly, starts to unravel the braid, carding his finger through it ever few inches, as a rope becomes a wave of dark red curls. “Oh,” Aziraphale manages, forcing his eyes back to Crowley’s. “You’re in that kind of mood.” The demon’s lips twitch. “Mm.” He pushes his loose hair back over his shoulder, shaking his head to let it cascade down. Aziraphale’s tongue darts along his lower lip and Crowley’s mouth turns in a smirk. “You too, from the looks of it.” He shrugs out of his jacket, tossing it onto his desk, then flashes his teeth at Aziraphale. “But then it doesn’t take much with you, does it?” He raises an eyebrow. “Mind your book, angel.” Aziraphale looks down, startled. The solid leather binding is buckling under the pressure from his fingers. “Oh, damn it!” Crowley laughs, so freely now too. “C’mon, angel,” he says, smiling. He’s undoing the buttons of his shirt and as Aziraphale gets ups from the couch, he shrugs that off too, adding it to the jacket. And then – oh Lord have mercy – he gives a small shudder and black wings fill the space around him. “Oh…” Aziraphale breathes, stopping in his tracks. Crowley ducks his head with a smile that it almost bashful in its sweetness. He closes the space between them in three steps and reaches down to take Aziraphale’s hand. “C’mon, angel,” he says again. - [Epilogue]

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

True Forms in the Stars

Now on AO3! “True Forms in the Stars” - A @do-it-with-style-events Reverse Bang fic, written by me, based on art by @larkartwolf​ !

Months after the Apocalypse, Aziraphale and Crowley are slowly working their way towards their happy ending. But a series of nightmares remind them of pains long buried, which can no longer be ignored. If there is to be any hope for a better future, they must first confront the scars of their past.

Read it now on AO3! (includes full image of artwork)

(The full fic is about 12.5k; the first few scenes are below.)

==

Aziraphale took Crowley’s hands in his. “Are you ready?”

“No.”

His eyes darted up, trying to meet Crowley’s, but once again the demon had turned away, jaw tight, rocking back on his heels. “I thought—”

“No, just – just...hold on…”

Crowley pulled his hands free and shook them, rubbing at the back of his neck as he walked away, circling the entire bookshop in a few long, quick steps. Aziraphale could almost feel the nervous energy radiating off him.

“Would you be more comfortable sitting down? Or if we returned to your flat? Or—”

“I don’t think I’m going to be comfortable anywhere.” He raked long fingers through bright red hair, briefly piling it all onto his head before letting it tumble loose around his ears again. “What if it all goes wrong?”

The angel pressed his lips together, forcing down his own anxiety. Crowley needed him now, his strength, his support. Fortunately, Aziraphale had a lot of experience burying his doubts, presenting a confidence he didn’t feel.

“Of course it won’t,” Azirpahale chided gently, stepping up to Crowley, reaching for his hand. “I’ll be there, right beside you.” But Crowley just shook his head, turning further away. “Look at me, Crowley. Tell me what you’re afraid of. Tell me what you think might go wrong.”

“Everything!” Crowley stumbled back, pulling away, to stand in the center of the shop again. The panic was back in his eyes, wide and golden, irises expanding as if to devour the sclera. It wasn’t quite fear, nor pain, nor uncertainty that filled them, but some combination of the three, perhaps something greater, too. He’d be reaching for his glasses in a moment.

This time, Aziraphale moved more slowly, closing the distance, resting just a few fingers lightly by Crowley’s elbow. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have...we don’t have to do this tonight.”

Crowley lifted his head to stare through the glass dome of the shop at the stars: miraculously bright, shining like diamonds, like beacons in the black night. He ached, and Aziraphale’s heart ached to see it.

“I don’t…” Crowley cleared his throat. “I don’t think I can wait much longer.”

Aziraphale slid his hand down to meet Crowley’s, lacing their fingers together, and squeezed.

--

The dreams started shortly after the failed Apocalypse.

Just glimpses of the stars at first, a sense of drifting through them as he once had, so many eons ago that Crowley had all but forgotten.

But each night the dreams grew more vivid.

In his dreams he could see the stars, brilliant lights burning in the aether, inner fires swirling and pulsing like a storm. They sang to each other, they sang to their Starmaker, and Crowley’s heart sang back.

He dreamt of racing through them in his true form, a blazing streak of light lined with wings of fire, long body swirling in his wake like the tail of a comet, like fiery hair caught in the wind. Arcing around planets, setting their atmospheres to swirl and dance. Trailing his fingers through nebulae, creating columns a hundred light years long. Cupping the stars in his hands to breathe life into them, guiding them through their endless dance, their eternal journey.

“So...you’re remembering your time in Heaven.” Aziraphale sat back in his armchair, cup of tea still halfway to his lips. He hadn’t taken a sip in so long that Crowley was sure the angel had forgotten it was there; but the steam still curled past his face, like a veil, a gauzy curtain separating angel and demon.

Crowley looked away, frowning into his own cup of coffee, watching the cream create a bright spiral against the dark background.

He hadn’t wanted to say anything. For months, he’d kept it a secret.

Beautiful months, free of demands and pressure and fear. Days spent on long drives and longer walks, evenings filled with arguments and laughter, sipping wine and speaking of everything and nothing, awash with the simple joy of being together. Sometimes Aziraphale would slide onto the sofa beside him, and more than once Crowley had taken his hand, or rested an arm across his shoulders.

Nearly every night now, Crowley fell asleep on that sofa, drifting off to the sound of angelic humming from amongst the shelves, or the feel of soft fingers brushing through his hair.

Slowly, bit by bit, they broke down walls, building something better in their place.

But as the walls came down, things were revealed. Memories. Emotions. Thoughts perhaps better left unthought.

Crowley woke from his dream every morning distressed, panicked, sometimes crying out, or scrambling to grab at pillows, blankets, anything nearby. And Aziraphale hadn’t failed to notice.

“Not exactly,” Crowley finally conceded. “I’m not...building the stars in my dreams. It’s more like I’m...tending them.” He downed the entire cup of coffee in one gulp, feeling it burn down his throat. Considered miracling up another.

“I’m not sure I follow. Surely it’s the same thing.”

“Nnh. Not really, it’s…” It was something he’d never spoken of, had never even considered explaining to another; and now that he had to, Crowley found he didn’t know what to say. Some things could only be felt, not spoken. “I guess it’s two parts of the same thing, but different. During Creation we…made things, put elements together and…” he waved his arms vaguely. “We created, alright? That’s the job I had. But afterwards… Someone had to watch over the stars. Take care of them. Help them continue to grow.”

“Like a gardener.”

Nodding, Crowley refilled his cup, this time adding something stronger than cream and sugar to the coffee. “That’s what I dream about. The job I was supposed to have. After Creation. If I’d never Rebelled.”

“Tending the stars,” Aziraphale mused, finally setting his cup and saucer onto the desk. He leaned forward – stiffly, as he sometimes did when he’d sat still for too long – and rested his hands on his knees, carefully thinking over his next words.

They’d been circling the topic for weeks now, Aziraphale never quite asking a question, Crowley refusing to give any straight answers. A quiet, polite contest of wills that had ended abruptly when Crowley broke first. Since when was Aziraphale the patient one? When had he learned to keep his eyes so neutral? Every gesture made with such care, as if afraid to scare Crowley off.

Well, he had reason enough. Crowley’s whole body seemed to vibrate with energy, ready to run at any moment. Crowley didn’t know how telling Aziraphale was supposed to help, but if something didn’t change soon…

The angel tapped a finger against his own knee, thinking it all over. “The entire galaxy, you say. That’s...quite a large estate.”

“I guess.” Crowley squirmed in his seat.

“You must have been very important, to be granted such responsibility.”

“Who cares?” Crowley bit off the rest of his angry retort, sprawling back on the sofa, putting more space between them. His head rapped against the bookshelf behind him as he tilted it back, staring at the ceiling. “Didn’t count for shit, once I started asking questions.”

“They punished you.”

“Is that news?” snapped the Fallen. He could almost hear the voices, raised in argument. Feel the hands of Michael’s warriors, dragging him off to—

Fuck. There was a reason he never talked about this.

“They isolated me,” he went on, once his voice was under control. “From the other Starmakers. Pretty early on, long before there was any talk of...Exile or Rebellion. Said they didn’t want me giving the others ideas.” He closed his eyes, trying to remember the thin, clear music of the spheres. “They thought I’d be more obedient if they took away my stars. Just gave me more time to think, really.”

“I…see.” A long pause, silence broken only by the weight of a thousand books slowly settling onto their shelves. “Then...you’ve been alone for a very long time.” Crowley shrugged. In an even softer voice, Aziraphale asked: “Are you still alone in your dreams?”

“No.” His memories turned away from reality, and Crowley’s heart sped up in his chest. “No, I’m not…”

--

“Oh, my word!” Aziraphale’s voice reverberated across Crowley’s skin, sank deep into muscle, flitted around his mind like a cloud of fireflies. Crowley twisted, weaving his body between the stars of a binary system, letting the wings brush through solar flares, sending flashes of light swirling across the star system.

He smiled down at the Principality cupped in his hand, golden body glowing in a faint reflection of starlight.

The two wings Aziraphale wore down his back were shorter and broader than the ones he wore on Earth, more like feathered butterfly wings than those of a swan. More short wings stretched from wrist to elbow, and a feathery crown circled his brow in place of eyes and ears, marking him as a Principality. Two interlocking halos surrounded Aziraphale’s head, slowly turning, dozens of eyes in every shape and color gazing in wonder across Creation.

“Can you hear the music?” Crowley asked, twisting away through the immense void between one star and the next. “It’s everywhere, even all the way out here.”

The starsong wasn’t just something you heard, it was something you felt and saw, a symphony of heat and microwave radiation and stellar winds, things only the highest choirs of angels were able to perceive. So Crowley sang as he flew, shifting his colors, translating the song for Aziraphale.

“It sounds like something Bach would write,” the angel laughed, hands gripping Crowley’s thumb like the mast of a ship. “Sebastian, I mean, or possibly—”

Crowley bent his long head closer, singing more insistently, breath ruffling Aziraphale’s feathers. The Principality laughed again, resting a hand on Crowley’s cheek and trying to sing along. He could feel Aziraphale’s joy and wonder surging through his veins.

“There!” Crowley’s deep voice reverberated between the stars, even as his chest continued to hum in harmony with them. “It’s another of mine!” He pointed at the nebula, greens and yellows and reds stretching across a quarter of the sky. “Let me show you.”

He turned his wings, arching around the nearest star, dragging his fingers through the corona, gathering just a pinch of brilliant starfire.

“I can’t believe you made all this,” Aziraphale said breathlessly, trying to take in the scope of it all, the forest of clouds that could swallow entire systems.

“Well, I had a little help,” Crowley conceded, offering the starfire. Aziraphale accepted it in a flutter of wings, a miniature sun almost too big for him to carry, and cradled it against his chest.

Crowley pulled the Principality closer, cradling him in much the same way – feeling again the delicate touch of one hand wrapped around his finger – then tucked his many wings and dove, the glowing beauty of the galaxy shooting past on either side. When Aziraphale gasped, it sent a thrill of pleasure straight to Crowley’s heart.

Together they spun through the nebula, columns of gas and stellar nurseries on either side. They raced against comets, skimmed over gas giants, darted from one constellation to the next.

When the black hole at the center of it all loomed close, Crowley snapped open a pair of wings – and another – and another, catching the surge of radiation, riding it up, up, up in slow circles until the entire Milky Way was laid out below them, until the emptiness around them was lit by the glow of a thousand galaxies.

“Oh, Crowley,” sighed the angel, face illuminated by the ball of starfire like frosted glass over a candle. “It’s all so...beautiful.”

“Yeah.” He lifted Aziraphale so that his many eyes could take it all in, but Crowley’s own gaze never left his smile. “It’s all yours, Angel. Anywhere you want to go.”

--

“That sounds...lovely,” sighed Aziraphale from across the room.

“Shut up.” Crowley glared at a small potted plant next to the register, which sheepishly straightened its stem. “Sounds...cheesy. Stupid. Like something out of a romance movie, and not even one of the good ones with clever writing.”

“Well, yes. It does.” The sofa shifted under a new weight, and two soft hands enveloped Crowley’s right, drawing it to rest on Aziraphale’s knee. “It also sounds lovely.”

Crowley grunted. His eyes had made their way from the ceiling to the floor, and now he studied how the faded carpet contrasted with the rich brown boards.

The past few months, they’d been able to communicate openly, freely, like never before. They’d been able to be honest with each other, gently circling around the things they really wanted to say, finding the words a few at a time. There was no rush. They had eternity.

But being honest with Aziraphale opened Crowley to being honest with himself, in ways he’d never imagined, in ways he’d come to regret.

He was consumed by emotions.

Crowley always presented himself as superficial, a demon who liked things fast and fresh and cool, jumping from one fashion to the next. It was easier to survive if everyone assumed there was nothing below the surface, no hidden plans or desires that might cause trouble for his superiors. It was easier to live with himself if he pretended not to have hidden depths, that his future contained no hopes, that his past was free of scars.

But Crowley had always felt deeply. And he could no longer deny who he was.

He’d lost all control of them, the complex emotions that, finally released from their cages, threatened to swallow him whole. Fears that couldn’t be contained by words. Losses too deep for him to fully grasp. And a millennia-long desire that moved out of the realm of language entirely.

He wondered how much Aziraphale had suspected. He’d honestly expected the angel to say something first, months ago, release a torrent of emotions in a few carefully selected words. Had something held him back? Or had he just been unsure of Crowley’s feelings?

Well, he’d have a pretty good picture of things after hearing the dream. Crowley stared at the floor ahead of him, heat rising in his face, knowing it was coming, waiting for Aziraphale to ask, to question, to demand Crowley cram everything he felt into three little words that would never contain it all…

Instead, Aziraphale squeezed his hand again and gently prodded: “Tell me the rest.”

“What rest? I wake up.” Crowley’s legs had gone tense. He needed to pace, to shake off the feelings bubbling up inside, but he wasn’t willing to relinquish that warm grip just yet. “I snap back to reality. Dream over.” A quick glance to the side, enough to see Aziraphale wasn’t buying it. “That’s all. The end. Nothing to tell.”

“Please.” One hand held Crowley’s steadily while the other gently pressed his shoulder. “I’ve seen how upset you are when you wake.”

“Ngk. I just—” Panic started clawing its way up his throat. “Probably – don’t want to drink your lousy coffee, you think of that?”

“Crowley.”

“S’nothing! You just – that’s how people are when they wake up. Demons, too. It’s, it’s disorienting, is what it is. You should try it sometime instead of – whatever you do all night.”

“Crowley.”

“Mgrf. And especially if I fall off your bloody sofa, happens – all the time, right? Why don’t you get – get something comfortable if you want me here? Crack my head on the floor first thing, that’ll upset someone.”

“Crowley…”

“Stop, just stop!” He leapt to his feet and tried to stalk away, but the back room left nowhere to go. With a huff, Crowley spun around, arms wide. “Fine. You want the truth?”

Aziraphale still sat on the sofa, hands folded on his lap, endlessly patient. “That’s all I want.”

Read the rest on AO3!

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

One Hundred Days - Good Omens Fic

Another fic for @bingokisses - Part 1 fills the prompt “Back of the Head kiss/Knees Brushing under the Table.” For once, just some nice easy fluff, little bit of anxiety, and happy ending (in part 2). Also available on AO3!

Part 1: The First Fifty Days

The first night at the South Downs cottage, Aziraphale cooked dinner while Crowley finished setting things up on the upper floor. It had been ages since he’d cooked anything that wasn’t a pastry, but pasta was simple enough, and salad, and…well, rather more dinner rolls than two beings needed, but he’d had more time than expected.

They ate and talked for hours, neither quite believing that they had done it, that they were in their place. Their home. Sometimes, Aziraphale would hold Crowley’s eyes a little too long and need to look away, waiting for his heart to settle down again.

He kept glancing around, unable to shake the feeling that something was wrong. That they were exposed, that someone was watching, that something was about to happen, though he couldn’t say what. But no – only the long wooden table, the stone fireplace, the steps leading upstairs, dark carpet on pale wood.

He shivered anyway.

“Alright, Angel?”

Breathe, Aziraphale told himself and took another sip of wine. All night, his feet and his knees had brushed Crowley’s under the table. It was daring, and thrilling, and more than a little terrifying.

“Perfectly fine, Crowley.” The bread rolls had gone cool hours ago, but Aziraphale reached for one anyway, tugging at it with his fingers. “I was wondering what…what you…planned to do? Once we’re all unpacked and such?”

They should have discussed it more. Wasn’t that what humans did? Spend weeks and months talking about what sort of home they want, what sort of life, dreaming of what moving in together will be like. Making sure their dreams matched up, their expectations.

They didn’t buy cottages – in the middle of a forest, no less, half a mile from the nearest village – without considering questions of…of hobbies, and use of space and…and living arrangements. They certainly didn’t take such a step without…defining their relationships.

Three weeks. Six thousand years and then some of dancing around certain emotions, certain thoughts, and somehow Aziraphale had thought three weeks was enough time to plan such a drastic change?

“The garden.” Crowley nodded towards the window, but the sun had gone down and all either of them could see was his reflection. “Plenty needs to be cleared out. Maybe lay a new path. And the planting – not a lot of options for fall blooms, but some of the best spring flowers should be planted now.”

“Where would you start?”

Crowley tapped his fingers on the table. “Have to see what that garden shop in the village has. Tulip bulbs for certain, they need time to settle in before the cold. Daffodils or geraniums. Scilla, crocus, maybe fritillaria. Snowdrops, I think.”

“That all sounds…” Aziraphale glanced at the potted plants in the windows and the corners, the remnants of Crowley’s flat. All were tall, lush, and unvaryingly green. “Sounds very colourful.”

“Thinking of experimenting.” Crowley shrugged. “It’s a challenge. They need different soils, different amounts of sunlight, different watering schedules. And you always have to be thinking about the next season, and the next.”

“Seems like a great deal of work.”

“Only if the flowers try to be disobedient brats.” Crowley shifted his fork around his empty plate. “Might get some more trees, too. S’a good time to plant saplings.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale smiled just a little. “Apple trees?”

“Well…maybe,” Crowley grudgingly admitted, with that particular frown that was also a sort of smile. “Pears, too.”

“It would be nice to have some fresh fruit next fall.”

“Nah. Takes years for the trees to be ready, maybe a decade.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale glanced out the window now himself, trying to remember what the garden looked like. They really should have spent more time preparing, studying, learning the ins and outs of this cottage. A few days of feverishly sketched plans over bottles of wine. Hardly anything at all. “Well. I suppose I’ll be buying my fruit from the market, then. A few trees might be nice, eventually, though. If you’re willing to put in the work.”

“Nmmmh.” Crowley arched his back until it popped. “Speaking of hard manual labor, I think it’s bedtime.”

Aziraphale’s head whipped back around. “What? What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Crowley pushed to his feet, “I’ve been moving two-stone boxes of books all day and we’re not even half done. You want to order me around again tomorrow, I need some sleep first.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale’s stomach turned to ice. His eyes flicked to the stairs, remembering how he’d rushed down them to start on dinner that afternoon. “Oh, I – I – I, you know, I still have to – to clean all the dishes and – and pots and pans – there’s so much to do…”

The tall, dark form rounded the table quicker than he expected, and Aziraphale tensed – but Crowley merely stepped behind his chair and gently kissed the back of his head. “Take your time, Aziraphale.”

“I…” He shredded the bread roll in his hands. “I…think you…you’ll regret saying that.”

“Never. I mean it.” One more kiss, quick pressure on the back of his head. “Take all the time you need.” He squeezed Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Good night, Angel.”

The stairs creaked under his feet as he went up without another word.

On the second night, Aziraphale served mushroom risotto. It wasn’t the only thing he’d cooked that day – he’d been secluded in the kitchen since before Crowley rose, trying every challenging recipe he could think of. The bins were filled with burnt croissants and raw beef and a baked Alaska that had gone horribly wrong.

“You planning to cook that much every day?” was all Crowley asked, as they settled back in their seats after dinner. “You could probably feed the whole village with all that.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale glanced guiltily at the kitchen. “I suppose…I mean, it certainly fills the time, doesn’t it?”

Crowley tossed his head, the way he did when he was thinking, and his growing hair swirled around him in a red cloud. “I mean, yes, I suppose it does. But. Is that what you want? To fill time?”

“I’m not sure what else there is to do,” Aziraphale said. “Not much of a theater scene out here, no museums, no restaurants, no customers.”

“Do you miss the city?” He asked it a little too fast, and Aziraphale’s stomach clenched with even more guilt.

“No, dear, of course not. I just…well, I’ve been there so long…I’ve rather forgotten what there is to do out in the country. But I know I must keep myself busy.”

“Only if you like.” Crowley turned his plate. “We should be done with the big items tomorrow. I’ll be able to start the garden and…just, do whatever makes you happy, alright?”

They continued for hours. They seemed to have run out of the excitement of yesterday’s conversation, and now alternated between awkward chatter and pauses so long, Aziraphale feared they’d run out of things to talk about and would remain silent forever.

Finally, Crowley stood. “Better get some sleep,” he said, stretching.

“Oh! Is it – is it really that late?” Aziraphale glanced at the clock in a panic. “Oh, drat, there was, you know, so much more I meant to do today.” Crowley started walking around the table. “I – I – I mean, as you said, I wasted quite a good deal of food, a few miracles ought to put it all back into its original state and – and perhaps I can donate—”

Crowley paused behind his chair, and kissed the back of his head. Aziraphale closed his eyes, trying to memorise it, the feel of Crowley’s lips and breath stirring his hair. They hadn’t really decided if their new partnership would involve kissing, or hand holding, or…other things of that nature. They’d done a few anxious experiments, made rather more assumptions and…never really articulated anything.

But this…Aziraphale thought he might like this.

“Good night, Angel.” A quick shoulder squeeze, and Crowley headed up, stairs creaking under every step.

 On the fifth night, Aziraphale stopped making excuses. It was starting to feel silly, as Crowley never acknowledged them anyway. When Crowley rose from the table, he simply said, “Pleasant dreams, my dear.”

“Always.” A quick kiss to the back of the head. “Good night, Angel.”

 By the tenth night, nearly everything had been unpacked and put into some semblance of order.

They’d spent two hours rearranging Aziraphale’s armchairs, carrying them up and down the stairs as he decided which would go in the study, which in the living room. When Aziraphale was satisfied, Crowley had gone outside, leaving him to rearrange his books in peace.

Aziraphale soon discovered that, with the window open, he could hear the sound of footsteps in the garden, of spade into earth, of a grumbling, threatening lecture delivered to each sapling before it was lowered into its new permanent spot. It was a comfortable sort of background noise, and Aziraphale smiled as he worked.

There was a second door on the upper floor, across the hall from his study. Aziraphale did his best not to glance at it all throughout the day.

After supper, they moved into the sitting room, Crowley sprawling on the sofa, Aziraphale comfortable in his favorite armchair. They talked, glanced at each other, smiled. Crowley played with his mobile phone while Aziraphale flipped idly through a book.

“How was the village?” Aziraphale wondered, since Crowley had finally made it out to the plant shop.

“S’alright. They’ve got a bakery you’d like. And the market.”

“Mmmm.” They’d visited a thousand villages and towns together through the years, yet somehow the thought of walking together through this one in particular made Aziraphale feel cold.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

He wasn’t sure when that might be.

They sat in silence for a little while longer. At least Aziraphale no longer worried it would last forever.

When the demon abruptly stood up, Aziraphale’s fingers only twitched a little, curling around the pages of his book. “Well, that’s it for me tonight.”

“Of course.” He stared fixedly at the page. “Have a good rest.”

“I will.” A kiss on top of the head, almost absent in its familiarity. “Good night, Angel.”

 On the twenty-third night, Aziraphale waited for the Good night, Angel, then grabbed Crowley’s hand, a little too fast, perhaps. Studied it. Crowley had been in the garden all day, and the dirt was still there in the beds of his nails, his hair probably thick with sweat. Aziraphale rolled Crowley’s hand over, studying the lines, the shapes of his fingers, the length of his palm.

Finally, he gave it a squeeze. “Good night, Crowley.”

Perhaps there was something more he should do. Kiss the knuckles. Brush them against his cheek. Something.

But it all seemed so…much.

Every night, then, he simply gave Crowley’s hand a squeeze, and received a smile in return.

The thirty-second night, they returned to the cottage late. The weather had been just right for a walk through the woods, which had turned into a walk to the village, followed by dinner at the little restaurant, and ultimately Aziraphale trading recipes with the chef over a glass of wine.

Crowley had waited patiently, almost-smiling, and they’d finally started the walk back under the stars.

“Did you have fun?” Crowley asked, walking beside him, one hand in his pocket, the other dangling between them. “The walk? The village?”

“I suppose.” Aziraphale conceded. “I must try this squash au vin recipe soon. And it is…rather pleasant out here.”

“Yeah?”

Aziraphale was suddenly very aware of the forest, the brilliant stars, and his proximity to Crowley. “Hmmm. But I’d like to get back and finish reading, if you don’t mind. Rather a lot of lost...reading time.”

“Yeah.” Crowley tucked his loose hand into his pocket.

Aziraphale didn’t read, though, when they returned. He held a book on his lap as they sipped wine, talking about places they’d visited through the years. Then Crowley mentioned that time they’d run into each other at a performance by Mozart – one bottle of wine turned into three – and a great deal of reminiscing ensued.

When, more than a little after midnight, Crowley finally stood to head upstairs, he paused to give Aziraphale’s forehead a clumsy kiss. “Night, Angel.”

Aziraphale gave his hand an easy squeeze, and they smiled at each other without restraint. “Good night, dear.”

 On the forty-eighth night, Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand and didn’t let go.

He wasn’t sure why. They had a rhythm now, a pattern, something sustainable.

Almost sustainable.

Aziraphale still never went upstairs after dark, still never looked at the door across from his study.

On some level, he knew what he needed to do.

They both waited, countless seconds, for the other to speak. But Aziraphale had lost his voice, and Crowley’s expression was as masked behind the glasses as it had been for many centuries.

The cottage was utterly silent, except for the ticking of the clock.

“Yes. Well.” Aziraphale swallowed. “Good night, dear.”

“Good night, Angel,” Crowley said for the second time, and Aziraphale finally relinquished his hand, heart racing.

But on the fiftieth night, fingers wrapped tightly around Crowley’s, on the fiftieth night, Aziraphale stood up, on the fiftieth night he let Crowley lead him up the stairs. He trailed slightly behind, hand clutching the bannister as they ascended, noticing how much heavier the creaks were under his own feet.

At the top of the stairs, Crowley turned right, away from the study, and pushed open the other door, the one Aziraphale could never quite bring himself to walk through, and—

The bedroom was just as they’d arranged it, fifty days before. Heavy red curtains, cream area rug over dark wood, bed in the center of one wall, an end table on either side.

The tartan pillow still lay at a skewed angle, exactly where Aziraphale had dropped it when the sudden panic took him, the sudden realisation of what they were doing, and it was all too much, too fast, and good lord, here he was again, what was he thinking?

Crowley led him to the left side of the bed, the side nearest the door, with black pillowcases and the down duvet slightly rumpled. Pulled his glasses off, and at the first sight of golden eyes, Aziraphale pulled back, eyes slamming shut, hand clenching, seizing up. Crowley snapped his fingers—

Then, for a long time, nothing happened.

Aziraphale finally, cautiously opened his eyes, to find Crowley in black pyjamas, watching him.

When Aziraphale nearly met his gaze, Crowley half-smiled, leaned forward, and kissed his cheek. “Good night, Angel.”

Crowley dropped his hand and climbed under the duvet.

But Aziraphale stood stock still. Now that he was here what was he supposed to do? Fifty days and nights, he should have had a plan but here he was, still just as afraid as the day they’d arrived.

Crowley’s voice, a little rough, with that curious burr in it: “S’alright, Aziraphale. Take your time.”

“But…But it’s already been…” He looked around the room, the one room they’d discussed all night in his bookshop, all the papers they needed to buy their cottage piled on the desk between them. The room they’d breathlessly planned, whispers escaping uncertain lips and bright red faces.

It certainly looked as though it had been planned by two drunken fools with no idea what to do with a cottage, the most atrociously mismatched combination of colours and styles.

But it was all here. The little shelf to hold his favorite books, the electric kettle for if he wanted tea in the night. The overstuffed rocking chairs by the largest window, overlooking the corner of the garden with the little duck pond. The planters lining the rest of the windows, filled with sweet-smelling herbs. The record player, Crowley’s awful music already organised in the stand below it while Aziraphale’s awaited him in a box nearby.

It was a jumble, a mess, it was everything that represented their life together.

And he wanted this life. He truly did. But it had all come too quickly, too suddenly, he wasn’t ready—

“Aziraphale.” Their eyes finally met. “Don’t worry. Take all the time you need.”

He hung his head, burning with shame. “I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be.” He could feel Crowley watching him, but didn’t dare look up. “I…I mean, look. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

After several more breaths, Aziraphale gathered his courage, stepped forward, and pulled the duvet up to Crowley’s chin. Bent down, lips hovering just shy of Crowley’s forehead, his breath stirring crimson strands. “Good night, dear.” His courage broke, and he fled the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

“Good night, Angel,” muffled but still as gentle as ever.

--

Part 2 to be posted on Wednesday. If you enjoyed, please drop a comment on AO3!