#I do believe that aziraphale will end up being able to pull whatever Good he can out of a essentially Bad situation

[honeybeejohn]

personally i believe a theme of S3 is going to be about absolutely schooling aziraphale.

i love that angel sm but as much as crowley has his things to learn he knows what’s Up, literally. aziraphale will be schooled every episode and it will hurt him (and us) but he will grow and there will inevitably have an ending where both of them were just enough right about things to come together and make Things right

[nickyknacks]

GO2 SPOILERS AFTER THE CUT Y’ALL CUZ I GOT SOME SHIT TO SAY

Okay okay okay okay. Goddamn. Holy shit. Okay. Fuck.

So here’s the thing. Do you see that look on Aziraphale’s face, when Crowley pulls away?

That man 👆 is devastated, he looks like he’s choking back a sob. The first time I watched it, I was fucking gutted. The second time I watched it, immediately after because I’m a sociopath who apparently loves pain, I…was fucking gutted. But this time, I saw it not just from Crowley’s perspective, but Aziraphale’s.

Aziraphale loves Crowley, like romance with a capital R, Jane Goddamn Austen and Cotillion Balls and getting caught in the rain Loves him. We know this. So why reject the kiss? Because of some bullshit ‘your side my side’ stuff, that he hasn’t managed to grow past in two seasons? I argue, no. There’s more going on here.

Don’t get me wrong, Aziraphale is still wrestling with some bullheaded moral superiority and arrogance, and still hiding behind the great Heavenly tautology of “I’m an Angel, so as long as I’m doing what Heaven expects of me, I’m doing the right thing.” No hard choices or uncomfortable questions or gray areas need apply. (Though he is learning to live with them. He’s started to absorb that good people can do bad things to accomplish good things, even with bad motives—and Vice versa.)

And he still has some growing to do to get past that, and with some of the chatter we’ve heard from Neil himself I truly believe we’re going to get to see it happen. BUT.

“Aziraphale is still religiously brainwashed” doesn’t satisfactorily explain his behavior, his words, or the EXPRESSIONS on his face ((my God, just. Fucking kill me already)) when Crowley kisses him. I don’t think we’re seeing Aziraphale still not understand or believe that he loves Crowley. I think Aziraphale knows that he loves Crowley—but thinks he knows that Crowley doesn’t really love him that way back.

Hear me out.

This whole season has been a montage of obvious, unsubtle lovesick expressions from Aziraphale to Crowley.

And knowing what we now know about the ending, we know those aren’t just subtext in our heads, it’s all there and intended. Okay. So why reject a declaration of love when he finally gets it? Just because Crowley won’t get with the program and go back to Heaven? I don’t think that’s all there is to it.

The last thing Crowley does before kissing him is put his glasses back on.

Look at him. Look at the sadness and frustration peeking through there. Aziraphale has seen this many many times before. He knows that whatever he’s about to see or hear is going to be coming from a place of defensiveness, posturing, or even performance. He knows that Crowley wants to be able to see without being seen, still feels like he can’t say whatever he needs to say without that advantage, and that’s got to be so hard. And it’s easy to say, “you just broke his heart! He’s visibly tearing up, of course he wants the protection of his glasses, and to save a bit of dignity!” Or even to take it as proof that Crowley means what he’s saying, if it’s so raw he can’t even do it while making eye contact. But that would be like looking around for where the furniture isn’t. Aziraphale can’t truly know Crowley’s motives here, because Crowley himself just made sure of it.

The last thing Crowley says before kissing him is “You Idiot, we *could have* been us.” Not “We still can be”. With heart armor glasses back on, tears in his eyes, and anger and accusation in his voice, Crowley grabs Aziraphale for a crushing, desperate, *angry* kiss. ((Still Swoony for us, I know, but hold that thought. Is that what Aziraphale would find swoony? Is that what he thinks love should look like, and how he wants to be loved? Is that what he’s shown us so far? No. It isn’t.))

And Aziraphale battles with it, he really does.

It’s gut wrenching to watch. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, he hesitates and touches his back and takes them back off again, and when they pull apart he looks like he’s just been gutted. Why? Why look that *pained* if it was just an unwelcome advance from a flawed friend you don’t think you can love?

I think it’s precisely because he DOES know and accept that he loves Crowley, and he thinks Crowley’s kiss is something that *looks very much* like what he’s desperately wanted from him for a long, long time—-but isn’t, actually. I think the pain of being taunted with a shallow facsimile of the love he wants to give and receive from Crowley is what we’re seeing on his face. Because I think Aziraphale thinks that Crowley is really just making one final desperate play to maintain the status quo, by giving Aziraphale what he’s guessed he might want, but doesn’t truly feel, or understand yet. I think Aziraphale receives that kiss as an ultimatum, or a compromise, or even a naked temptation or manipulation—anything to keep Aziraphale on Earth and just the way things are. And shit, guys, Heaven bullshit aside, I think he might be partially right.

Remember, Crowley was not on board the “I’m in love and we should admit it” train even five minutes ago, when he was confronted by the resident Disaster Gays who’ve had their shit figured out for all of five minutes themselves. He doesn’t seem to get it. Maybe he’s been reflexively posturing and denying the nature of their relationship out of self protective habit, or…. Maybe he really hadn’t understood that what he feels for Aziraphale is love. When Crowley chooses to forge ahead and confess his feelings after Aziraphale drops the “I’m going back to Heaven” bomb, maybe Aziraphale receives it as nothing more than a panicked Hail Mary to keep him around. Maybe it’s because that’s exactly what it’s become.

Don’t forget that, for all Aziraphale’s lack of understanding, he does seem to want to go back because he thinks he can fix things, and make Heaven what it really ought to have always been. And up until the last minute, Az seems like he might truly change his mind, until he realizes that there are still big plans that need thwarting, and no one else around to thwart them. Maybe it’s Crowley who really doesn’t understand that, because remember—Crowley is still just asking Aziraphale to run away from everything together. Same as the bandstand, just this time it’s less obviously on fire. He’s still trying to give up on Creation, wash his hands of it, and fuck off with his boyfriend. And his boyfriend won’t let him.

So no, I don’t think Aziraphale is rejecting Demon Crowley and his love because he’s choosing Heaven’s acceptance instead. I think he’s rejecting Crowley’s complacency, and lack of vulnerability, and his putting their own safety above all else. And I think he’s particularly crushed that in this moment, Crowley’s trying to use Aziraphale’s love as a lever or a crowbar to keep him out of Heaven, where he’s not willing to follow.

Now, again, there’s a lot that Aziraphale’s not seeing here ((“you’re the bad guys”, FUCK my dude)), but I don’t think you can feasibly claim that Aziraphale’s anguish is coming from a place of delusion or denial. They’re still not fully seeing each other. For Crowley to think that Aziraphale would choose to stay and leave Creation to any of the malevolent bastards who want to run it straight into another Apocalypse, there’s a lot that he’s not getting about Aziraphale as well. For Aziraphale to think that Crowley would be delighted to get to be an angel again, he’s still not understanding so, so much.

But what’s clear to me is that they both are still a rebound mess. They don’t truly see each other yet. But I think they will. because if they don’t I will gnaw through these bars and go straight to the asylum so help me God, who do I gotta yowl at to get a S3

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens - A Corpse, Cake, and a Cuppa (Rated NC17)

Summary: Aziraphale is Death and Crowley is the serial killer who keeps murdering to catch a glimpse of the ethereal being he fell in love with. (1714 words)

Notes: Written for the above Halloween prompt from @new-endings/M.A.D.#8943. Human Crowley au. It’s kind of gory, I’m not going to lie.

Read on AO3.

“Jesus Christmas!" Aziraphale yelps, tiptoeing through the thick pool of red coagulating on the concrete. Threads of it cling to the soles of his shoes when he lifts his feet as if trying to drag him down. Aziraphale has seen a great deal of blood in his time. None of it has been pretty. But this is especially gruesome.

He wonders if that’s for his benefit.

"Look at... look at this! Look at all the… !” Aziraphale takes a pause and breathes in deep, pressing the thumb and forefinger of his right hand to his forehead. Tension causes a vein to distend and throb - quite the feat since, as a non-human entity, he shouldn't be able to experience this kind of pain. Or so he thought. In the thousands of years he's roamed earth reaping souls, he's finally found the one mortal who can give him what humans call a migraine. And he doesn't like it. Not one bit. “Could you please just… stop already?"

Crowley grins, thrilled giddy by the arrival of his intended audience. “No,” he replies, shoving the slicked head of his filthy ax deeper into the severed spine of the fresh corpse at his feet.

Aziraphale grimaces as the blade lands with a resounding slap. 

That ax of Crowley's gets on every one of Aziraphale's nerves. It's effective for its purpose but positively unsanitary. It makes his skin crawl every time he sees it.

Crowley lifts it slowly, eyes Aziraphale menacingly.

Eyes his nice, clean coat, Aziraphale realizes.

“Crowley!” he warns, putting both hands up in defense. “Don't you dare... !”

But Crowley doesn't let him finish, hoisting his ax higher with part of the dead man's torso attached. He doesn't need to do anything after that. The torso falls from the blade and splashes down in the pool, accomplishing what Crowley set out to do.

“Holy... GAH!” Aziraphale leaps back to avoid the spray. He frowns at his clothes when he sees he wasn't quick enough. "Look what you've done! You’ve made a mess of my coat!”

“Improved it, I’d say,” Crowley snarks. “Given it a pop of color.”

“I've had this coat for ages and hadn't collected a single stain! Not one! And look at your shoes! Ruined!" He gazes down at Crowley's feet in despair. "I actually liked that pair.”

“Really?" Crowley tilts his head, batting his eyes innocently. "You didn't tell me that.”

“Yes, well... " Aziraphale busies himself fishing a handkerchief out of his pocket. Praying he’s swift enough to save the fabric, he pats at the specks on his sleeve "... it’s not my place to tell a homicidal maniac that he looks fetching in snakeskin, is it?”

Crowley pouts, his lower lip jutting out, making him look comically childish despite the streaks of blood running down his cheeks. 

Aziraphale’s brows pull together. He glances around, trying to work out what's wrong. "What? What is it?"

"You're being mean."

"How am I being mean?"

"You're calling me names."

"Accurate ones, yes."

"You sound disappointed."

"You think so!?"

“B-but... but why? I took your advice!" Crowley argues. "I changed me m.o.!”

“I didn’t give you advice! I said you should stop killing innocent people!”

“I did! This guy?" Crowley plants the heel of his sopping shoe into the dead man's crooked neck for emphasis. "He weren’t innocent! He was a serial killer, too! He just happened to be shite at it!”

"I can see that." Aziraphale peers into the vacant eyes of the man on the ground, spirit buzzing beneath his skin, waiting to be reaped. But Aziraphale is in no rush. In the choice between filling out paperwork and shooting the shite with Crowley, surprisingly, he chooses Crowley. 

Or maybe not so surprising, Aziraphale muses, biting his lower lip and indulging in a private chuckle. He rolls his eyes in disgust at himself right after. What are you doing? Stop that!

"Besides, I'm doin' you a solid!" 

Aziraphale scoffs, snapping back to his senses. "How do you figure?"

"You're Death, ain't ya? I'm keeping you in business!"

"I don't know if you've read the papers lately, dear boy, but humans are dropping like flies thanks to their own stubbornness and stupidity. You're slap in the middle of one of the worst pandemics in history, but instead of doing what you can to stay safe, you lot spend your time arguing over petty b.s.! I won't wear a mask! It's against my rights! I'm not taking the vaccine! It'll make me sterile! There is no disease! It's all a big conspiracy! Meanwhile, in the states, some orange lunatic has everyone drinking bleach! Believe me, I hardly need your help doing my job!" 

“Oi! Don’t lump me in with those prats!”

“Why not? You’re not wearing a mask, I see.”

“Don’t have to. I got my shot. And I keep me distance.”

“But you’re covered in blood! Did that man you dismembered have the virus!? You don’t know!” Aziraphale cringes at words that sound far more like concern than scolding. Which he should be doing. Scolding and ridiculing, and possibly calling the police.

But he won’t.

If Crowley were thrown in prison, it would be harder for Aziraphale to find an excuse to see him. Aziraphale has yet to decide if that’s something he wants, but either way, he’d prefer it not be at the expense of another life.

"Fine. Whatever. If that's the way you feel about it... " Crowley grumbles, letting what remains of that statement die as embarrassment rises to his cheeks, settling beneath the red already there. He crosses his arms over his chest and turns his face away. 

Just like a child, Aziraphale thinks. 

And as with a child, Aziraphale should have nipped this in the bud much, much earlier - like when Crowley realized that he could summon Aziraphale whenever he wanted by upping the frequency of his murderous antics. 

This, to date, is his twenty-seventh kill.

Aziraphale doesn't know how Crowley spotted him. He's pretty adept at avoiding human detection. But after victim number eight, Aziraphale turned around, scythe in hand, and there he stood: tall, gangly, bizarrely besotted, dressed in black and wearing sunglasses at one in the morning. Aziraphale thought Crowley was a run-of-the-mill psychopath looking for attention, seeing Aziraphale as a hapless dolt to play cat-and-mouse with, not knowing for one second who he was dealing with.

Not only did Crowley know exactly who Aziraphale was, but he had taken a considerable shine to him.

Aziraphale humored the man when their paths crossed so he could get on with his work, never for one minute considering the consequences. Thinking back on their past interactions, Aziraphale can pick out the hints Crowley had been dropping.

Aziraphale played right into them, and he could kick himself over it.

"We have to stop meeting like this," Aziraphale quipped dryly after Crowley had beheaded some poor, down-on-his-luck fool. "I'm going to start thinking that you have a thing for me."

"Finally!" Crowley tossed his arms in the air. "At this rate, I was going to have to murder half of London and spell out the words ’Will you go out with me?’ with their bodies. Do you know how time-consuming that would have been?"

Aziraphale had written that comment off as a morbid attempt at humor. 

Now he feels like an imbecile.

He’s going to get an earful from Gabriel if he ever gets wind of this. Aziraphale has been able to cover up the increase in London deaths by blaming the pandemic. But once people get their acts together and things calm down, he’ll have to come clean.

There’s a serial killer roaming the streets that has a serious crush on him.

Aziraphale lets out a heavy sigh as he comes to a decision.

A bad decision.

He's going to regret this. He knows he's going to regret this. 

But will he really though?

Aziraphale looks Crowley over, still moping with his nose in the air. He examines him at depth - his sharp features, his debonair style (hiding beneath a litre of blood), his devil-may-care attitude, his rowdy sense of humor. If he were another angel, or even a demon, Aziraphale would have asked him out already, body count or no. 

So what is he waiting for?

It’s not entirely unheard of, an angel dating outside their dominion. And as for the moral issues of dating a murderer, well, Aziraphale is an angel. He has a responsibility to bring sinners to the light, help them see the truth. That can be done anywhere, not just in church - on a street corner, in a diner…

Back at his flat.

Besides, he and Crowley have a lot more in common than Aziraphale did with his last paramour, an angel he had dallied with solely for the fact that he was guardian of comestibles.

It seemed like a match made in Heaven, so to speak.

Far from it.

“Look - if I let you take me out for coffee, will you stop the gratuitous bloodshed?”

Crowley all but gasps when that question leaves Aziraphale’s mouth, the grin growing on his face transforming, becoming less maniacal and more… normal if that makes any sense. "One cup of coffee. That's all I ask."

"Then come along. Here… “ Aziraphale snaps his fingers, cleaning Crowley thoroughly before he takes his arm. “If you're good, I'll let you buy me a slice of cake.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

“I’m glad you think so. I’m a very slow eater. And I figure the longer I stay with you, the more I can keep an eye on you."

“Deal. But, you know," Crowley starts, his tone so filled with teasing he’s on the verge of giggles, "if you, say, spent the night at my flat, you could keep an eye on me for hours. Think of all the people I wouldn’t be able to kill.”

Aziraphale smirks, amused that they both had a semblance of the same idea. “You don’t say?”

“I do.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“More so than you bartering human lives against a cuppa and cake?”

Aziraphale shrugs, but he doesn't relinquish Crowley's arm. He does, however, relieve him of his ax so he doesn’t get any ideas along the way. “Fair point.”

[krakensdottir]

Someone’s Soft fanart got my headcanons brewing and I feel like randomly sharing, so here are the Aziraphale and Crowley nice-touch headcanons nobody asked for!

Now, both of them have some messed-up experiences with touch, but they differ. Aziraphale’s used to positive reinforcement of the passive-aggressive variety, where there’s almost always a hidden barb, not to mention a ton of heavy expectation placed on him to KEEP pleasing others. It’s never comfortable. He can’t relax under it. But he can’t step back or say ‘please don’t do that’ with other angels, either. That would be... not acceptable.

Crowley has no experience with positive reinforcement at all, barring what Aziraphale offers him occasionally. And maybe, you know, he’s had some nice experiences with friendly humans now and then (though given his line of work, probably rarely if so). But for the most part, no. He doesn’t know how to take a compliment unless it’s a demon-appropriate comment. And as far as other demons go, he doesn’t have a positive relationship with his coworkers, so he’s not familiar even with the demonic version of friendliness (as exemplified by Hastur and Ligur) - it’s all just straight-up negative. (Except maybe with Satan but that’s entirely in the realm of headcanon and I have Whole Other Thoughts about that)

So, in terms of human analogies for the psychological damage they’ve both got: Crowley is an unloved, rejected child. Aziraphale is a child who was loved the wrong way. Not unconditional, not considerate of his personhood, and not actually kind.

There’s a reason that, close as they are, they hardly ever seem to lay hands on one another. And it’s certainly not that they don’t want to - they give off every other romantic vibe possible, the actors certainly wouldn’t have been opposed, and I absolutely do not think Neil or Doug or anyone forbade touching scenes because they were trying to Hide The Gay. No. It’s partly because they’ve had to keep their whole thing secret, but with that out of the way, when they’re finally able to, I think they’ll find it very awkward. Not only because of long habit, but because neither of them quite knows how Good Touching is supposed to work.

When Aziraphale is touched kindly - a hand on his shoulder, a hug even - he freezes. He doesn’t pull away, even if an involuntary flinch makes it clear he wants to. He just freezes. Because he’s waiting, you see. Not consciously, where Crowley’s concerned - it’s not about actually believing Crowley will hurt him. It’s just that’s how it always goes. Kindness masks Other Things and it carries all these hidden sharp bits and heavy weights in it, and what is he supposed to do if those aren’t there?

Crowley flinches. He doesn’t mean to. Certainly doesn’t want to pull away from Aziraphale. But his first reaction, initially, is to twitch or stiffen if not outright recoil. It embarrasses him. It frustrates him. It’s a protective reflex that’s served him well for a long time. (I want to do a post about Crowley’s physical reactions to danger, there’s at least three scenes that illustrate it beautifully, but I can’t seem to get gifs to work, dammit-)

Anyway, so we’ve got these two, they’re not human but they’re close enough, they want contact, they want to reach out. But Aziraphale can’t stop freezing, breathless, going numb as he expects the hollow kindness to wash over him and leave him colder than before. And Crowley can’t stop twitching and tensing up like he’s waiting for nails to dig in or worse.

It’s a lot to work through. But they will. They’re determined. And gradually...

Aziraphale starts to lean in. Tries to relax. Tight holds help. Angels don’t show that kind of open affection, and Aziraphale (who is functionally autistic) takes great comfort in being squeezed, as his choice in clothing has indicated for a long time now. So those help. Tight holds, those are great. Squeeze him until he starts to loosen up, muscle by muscle. Until the numbness subsides and he can feel the warmth, this time of actual unconditional love, seeping into his starved soul. And then suddenly he can’t get enough of it. Crowley can hold him for hours. Tell him nice sincere things that make him tear up and want to protest at first but slowly, slowly, he’ll start to believe them.

Crowley does things the hard way. He forces himself to accept it. It’s not pleasant at first. He tells Aziraphale to keep at it anyway. Never without permission or warning, of course, but yes. If you stop every time I flinch we’ll be like this forever. Keep your hand there. Let me work through it. Let it sink in that this is safe.

(Of course neither of them is great at open communication, so it’s hard to get all of this expressed, especially from Crowley’s end. But again, they’re determined. They’ll manage.)

It turns out that if you’re really, really not used to it, kindness actually hurts. It hurts like exercising an atrophied muscle, like eating a full meal when you’re used to starving, like the burn you get when you’re coming back from the brink of hypothermia. It’s not metaphysical, it’s not that demons are allergic to love or whatever - his mind and body just have no idea what to do with it.

So when the ‘I’m safe’ does sink in, it’s usually followed by tears. Which is also embarrassing. And frustrating. But really, what did he expect? And Az is not about to shame him for it.

So for a while they both cry whenever they experience physical kindness from the other. It hurts. It’s scary. But it’s so, so good. And given enough time, it’ll become normal. Expected. Never, ever taken for granted - they couldn’t possibly - but it won’t be a surprise every time they’re reminded that, holy shit, you love me.

[sammininoofthelord]

Fifth chapter of the 5+1 "5 times Aziraphale shielded Crowley from the rain, and one time he didn't."! Only the +1 left!

Collab with @zeckarin-blaise

Time for a bus ride!

You can read it on Ao3 by Zeckarin or bellow

**

Aziraphale stepped onto the bus, held out a note to the driver, and looked around while waiting for his ticket.

No one on this floor. Crowley probably waited for him on the top of the bus, like usual.

He offered the driver a smile, sent a discreet miracle his way (the poor man seemed exhausted and could use a little blessing to brighten his week), and took the stairs to join his friend.

Here was Crowley, arms folded, looking out the window with a scowl.

Oh, dear, thought Aziraphale. He had expected this. The weather had chilled considerably in the last few days, and the cold, unrelenting rain that had been falling all week long had forced nanny Ashtoreth and her charge to stay inside.

Warlock was a very lively child, and needed to exert himself a lot, usually by yelling and running around the grounds for the better part of the day, activities he would gladly engage in inside the house if obligated.

Thaddeus and Harriet Dowling had a lot to say to that, and trying to get Warlock to engage in more quiet activities was no easy task, and ended more often than not in impressive bouts of tantrums.

Did Aziraphale feel a little guilty at having stayed inside the small cottage allowed to the gardener on the far side of the grounds for the last five days? Yes, he did. But one could hardly expect him to work outside in such terrible weather, after all*.

Plus, the gardener wasn’t supposed to wander inside the ambassador’s house, with the exception of the staff’s kitchen for meals, so he couldn’t have helped Crowley watch after the child even if had wanted to**.

*And he had a lot of catching up to do on his readings.

** If being the key word.

 

“Hello, Crowley,” he said with a smile as he took the seat right behind the demon.

Crowley only grumbled something unintelligible (which was probably for the best).

Aziraphale grimaced, but decided to bravely go on. They were meeting to update each other on their mutual progress, after all. 

“How are things with the… ah… mission ?”

Very slowly, Crowley turned his head to meet his eyes over his sunglasses. The yellow, dilated pupils were a frightful sight.

Oh dear , repeated the angel inwardly, Warlock must have surpassed himself this time.

“There’s no way,” snapped the demon, “that you can succeed in turning this little beast towards the light.”

Aziraphale tutted. “Come now, dear boy, you are exaggerating. The boy is a little, ah, lively at times, but he is a sweet child overall.”

“Lively?” hissed Crowley through gritted teeth. “Lively? He stole a bucket full of soapy water while Sybil was mopping the second floor, and he put it on top of his bedroom’s door and called out for me. I got drenched . With dirty water.”

Aziraphale let out a small gasp of dismay.

“Oh, no! Someone could have been hurt!”

His friend answered with a glare. “I beg your fucking pardon? I’ve been hurt! I just told you so!”

The angel patted his arm in apology. “So sorry, Crowley. I did not mean to disregard your suffering. What did you do?”

Crowley huffed. “What do you want me to do? Couldn’t punish him for it, could I? I’m supposed to be the bad influence here!”

“You did not congratulate him, I hope?” asked Aziraphale with a slight frown.

Crowley shrugged. “Probably should have, but I don’t like getting wet, especially when I’m wearing a bodice and petticoats. That little trick ruined them.”

“Now, now, dear, it isn’t that bad. You always miracle your clothes anyway.”

Crowley scowled, but didn’t answer. The angel, after all, had a point.

He wasn’t done complaining, though. The beginning of winter was the worst time of the year, his inner snake rebelling against the arrival of the cold, and in his view, if he was in a foul mood, then everyone else should share it, starting with the smug angel right behind him who had probably spent the best part of last week drinking cocoa in front of a fire*.

*He had.

 

“Why are we meeting here anyway?” he growled, puckering his lips at a dry piece of gum plastered to the back of the seat facing him. “We could have taken my car. Thiss…” he waved around “is dissgusssting!”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Must we have this discussion every time? We need to stay inconspicuous, Crowley, and the Bentley is way too recognizable.”

“Neither of our sides would be able to tell the difference between her and a stagecoach , angel. They know nothing about humanity! And how inconspicuous are we here? Anyone could hear us!”

Aziraphale withheld a fond smile. Crowley obviously had had a very challenging week, and the weather was not helping. The poor dear needed a warm fire and a thick rug to sprawl onto and nap in his serpentine form, as well as some good wine and a compassionate ear to listen to his woes.

Thankfully, Aziraphale knew just the place. “Come on, dear, let us walk a little, I am sure it will do us good.”

The demon stopped in the middle of his rant and squinted his eyes at him. “Walk? In this weather?”

“Yes. I am afraid I feel rather restless after spending so much time sitting down lately.”

Crowley gaped. “Gh--h--wh--you’ve got to be kidding me!” he growled, standing up to follow him down the stairs, “ I was the one running everywhere all day long and having to wrestle the kid to sleep every night, and you had a hard time sitting down ?”

“It was dreadfully boring, I’ll have you know,” said Aziraphale haughtily, stepping out of the bus and unfolding his umbrella to cover them both.

Crowley huffed. “You never get bored, angel. I once saw you stand under a tree for two days without batting an eye just because you were thinking about dates you just ate.”

“They were very good dates!” protested his friend, before looking into the distance with a wistful smile.

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “You’re thinking about it again, aren’t you?”

The angel blinked, then blushed slightly. “Of course not!” he cried in a way-too-high voice.

“I can’t believe it. Here I am, living the worst day of my existence, and instead of commiserating with me, which, I have to add, would be the angelic thing to do, you’re thinking about fruits you ate seventeen centuries ago!”

“I am certain your day is not that dire, my dear,” only said the angel, turning at a corner to head towards Soho.

Crowley only grumbled, shoving the tip of his fingers into his pockets and squaring his shoulders against the cold. “I have no idea how it could get any worse.”

“Oh! Look at this!” exclaimed Aziraphale, pointing to a shop’s window excitedly.

Crowley frowned and turned, searching for whatever had caught his friend’s eyes.

“I don’t see any--” he started, looking back to the angel, only to see him walking away.

“Oi! What the fuck are you doing, Aziraphale? I’m getting wet here!” he shouted, catching up.

Aziraphale stopped and waited for him, eyes twinkling. “See? You could be getting wet. Again.”

He snapped his fingers to dry the few drops that had dared to land on the demon.

“Not that we can have that . Not after that awful prank young Warlock pulled out on you. Come now, dearest, the bookshop is not so far, let us warm up there.”

Mollified both by the endearment and the prospect of spending his off day napping in the backroom, Crowley followed, looking to the other side of the street where a man was running after his hat. The demon wiggled his fingers, and the headgear ended in a large, dirty puddle on the pavement, right before a passing car ran over it, it’s owner shouting at it angrily.

A smirk finally found its way on Crowley’s face.

The day didn’t look so bad anymore.

[contraststudies]

Aziraphale found Crowley gazing out the window. These days, he rarely wore his sunglasses in the bookshop – it was easy to see that his eyes were glazed over.

“What are you thinking about, my dear?”

Startled, Crowley glanced at Aziraphale. “Oh. Nothing, really. Just contracts, I guess.”

“That is a rather broad topic for discussion.”

“Two kinds of contracts,” Crowley mused, apropos of nothing. “Nominate, when it has a specific designation in law. Innominate, when it doesn’t.”

Aziraphale waited. He’d learned that when Crowley was turning something over in his mind, he tended to meander through several topics before he finally arrived at his point.

“Innominate contracts cover everything that isn’t specifically named in the law. So everything that isn’t sale, or lease, or agency… and all that.”

“Correct.”

“So the Arrangement’s an innominate contract. Facio ut facias.”

I do that you may do. A reciprocal obligation. “You could say that, yes.” Aziraphale still couldn’t quite see where Crowley was going with this.

“Yeah. And contracts always have at least two parties. In this case, you and me.” Crowley was staring out the window again, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere in the distance. “The Arrangement was perfected the moment we agreed on its terms. It binds both of us.”

“That’s right.” Might as well help the dear boy along, Aziraphale thought. “You’ve got two of the five characteristics, autonomy and consensuality. What are the other three?”

Crowley laughed as he turned to look at Aziraphale, and it was a sound that still caught Aziraphale off-balance sometimes – these days, it bubbled out of Crowley at the most unexpected of moments.

“Well, if you want me to keep going. The Arrangement, as a contract, has the force of law between us. 'Law', in a manner of speaking, of course," Crowley said, waving a hand. “We’re bound not only to fulfill its terms, but also to deal with its consequences in keeping with good faith.” He cocked his head, thinking. “And only we are bound by it. Third parties can’t interfere unless they’re directly affected.”

“Obligatoriness and relativity.” Aziraphale nodded. “One more.”

“The fulfillment of a contract relies on both parties and can’t be left to the will of one of them. Same goes with its… extinguishment.” The golden eyes flicked up to Aziraphale’s for a second before he turned back to the window.

Ah. Aziraphale’s mouth grew quite dry at this pronouncement. “That’s right.”

Crowley shrugged and put his hands in his pockets, his shoulders pulled in close to his ears. “So, for the purposes of this example,” he finally said, “the Arrangement couldn’t have ended because mutual assent is required to abandon a contract. One party can’t renounce the contract without the consent of the other.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth and closed it again. He had no idea what to say. They’d never spoken of the bandstand, nor of Crowley’s final desperate plea for them to leave for Alpha Centauri.

“You see, the validity of a contract can’t be left to the will of one party.” Crowley’s gaze was intent on Aziraphale's face, and he stalked towards Aziraphale, whose heart was pounding against his ribs. “So I believe that I am entitled to damages, angel.”

“Quite right,” Aziraphale murmured. Crowley stood right in front of him now, his golden eyes pinning Aziraphale firmly in place. He knew he had to choose his next words with the utmost care. “Only there isn’t any contract to speak of at all, is there?”

Crowley’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Tell me, Crowley. What is a merger of rights?”

“Merger of rights, or confusion,” Crowley said automatically, though his head was tilted like he didn’t quite understand. “The obligation is extinguished because the qualities of creditor and debtor meet.”

Aziraphale swallowed and hesitantly held out his hand to Crowley. “Yes. Quite a  similar situation to this. To us. We’re on our own side, as you phrased it,” he said softly. “No creditors, no debtors… in fact, I daresay this stopped being transactional a very long time ago.”

Crowley blinked twice. He was startled, Aziraphale saw – Crowley rarely blinked. For a long moment, neither of them spoke, Aziraphale’s hand hovering in the space between the two of them. Then Crowley slowly lifted his hand and clasped Aziraphale’s fingers gently, almost timidly, nothing like the firm grip when they had switched corporations. He looked up through his lashes at Aziraphale, every line of his body preternaturally still but for the visible rise and fall of his chest.

“That being said… I would be more than happy to pay whatever damages you intend to collect on. You know that.” Aziraphale squeezed his hand lightly. “You only have to ask.”

To his surprise, Crowley shook his head. He took another step closer. His serpent’s eyes were molten gold, not a trace of sclera left. “No.”

“No?” Aziraphale was bewildered. “Why not?”

“Non-transactional now. You and me.” Crowley took a deep breath, laced his fingers between Aziraphale’s. “No contracts. No obligations.”

“No extinguishments. No conditions.” Aziraphale smiled at him, barely able to breathe around the happiness that was filling him – overflowing, overwhelming joy. “I think that can be arranged.”

--

Read the other ficlets: novation / knowledge of acceptance /  vices of consent /  contracts classified by cause / elements of an actionable conduct

Read them on AO3 here! 

[dolphin-bouillabaisse]

Beards of a feather flock together

(I only wanted to write a short, jokey thing about lockdown beards for the Ineffable Husbands. Why did it turn into an actual fic-long jokey thing?!)

Crowley is using the lockdown efficiently, he thinks, to experiment with facial hair, like all the humans seem to be doing.

He knows he doesn’t technically need the excuse of ‘nobody will see me for a while, so I can let my beard grow out and play around with it’. He knows that he is using miracles for it anyway, and could do it any day and have it disappear and reappear instantaneously.

He knows that. He’s still using the lockdown as an excuse. He’s absolutely not above lying to himself, or making up explanations that sound far more plausible than “I was being extremely bored and had told Aziraphale I was going to sleep so I couldn’t even bother him without exposing that as a blatant lie to avoid being honest about wanting to come over to his place”. There's only so many times you can scream at plants and clean the entire flat top to bottom before you end up at this level of boredom, which was usually interrupted by a particularly wine-laden dinner or a quick run-in at a park, both out of the question now as well.

And so, Crowley is experimenting with facial hair this afternoon. He’s not done it a lot before, to be honest. Oh sure, he’s changed his hairstyle almost as often as his gender, if not even more, and he’s had the rare moustache when human fashion called for it, but he’s never kept any kind of beard for longer than absolutely necessary. He wonders why.

Seeing himself in the mirror, he realises why.

He’s decided to re-visit some old styles at first, but brushing along the small tuft of hair on his chin, all he can think about is the reactions he’d last gotten for it. Some drunkard in a tavern had compared it to a goat, he remembered, and Aziraphale next to him had giggled. Giggled. It had not felt good.

An angry snap of fingers later, and an equally troublesome moustache is staring at him in the mirror. He wonders if it had maybe been the glasses that had put this particular ensemble together decades ago, or the shirt, but he knows neither of it had been able to save him back then, and nothing was able to save him from it right now. At least this time around there is no angel to tell him that it seems less reminiscent of some movie stars and more of a dead member of his beloved rat army.

Snap after snap after snap, the dark red patches across his face change from bad to horrid to absolutely unmentionable, and his patience grows thinner than it has ever been before, and it's been pretty much at the level of a piece of rice paper for several centuries.

One last snap leaves him with just a regular, run-of-the-mill full beard, slightly darker than his normal hair, but styled just as meticulously. He runs his fingers through it, feeling the soft rasp along his hand.

“That's not half bad.” He reasons to his reflection. Not something he's going to go outside with any time soon (he's not going out anyway, but, just as a general point), but not so bad he'd have to fear more unwanted comments or giggles from certain blonde, one-style-fits-all-centuries angel.

The phone rings. He swirls around and almost races towards the throne room office, but remembers quickly enough that he's supposed to be asleep and not ready to answer the phone after the first ring.

He's allowed to pick it up before it goes to the answering machine, though, right?

“What.” He grumbles, hoping it sound sufficiently drowsy and just-woke-up-ish.

“Oh, my dear, I'm terribly sorry. Am I bothering you?”

“Told you I was gonna sleep.”

“Yes, I know. I only wanted to check. I thought I would get that horrid machine, anyway.”

“Why d'you need to check, then?”

“Well.” Quiet rummaging, shuffling. Crowley can see Aziraphale adjusting his waistcoat before his inner eye. “It's recommended.”

“What is?”

“Checking in on-” A soft pause. “Friends and family. Keeping in touch. You know.”

“Ah.” Is all he can manage to answer, which is not exactly anything, so the line stays quiet for a while.

Quite a while.

“Well, I shouldn't be keeping you from your sleep-” is said at the exact same second as his “How's your baking going?”

They pause again after that verbal collision, to gather themselves and their wits back up. Crowley clears his throat, but Aziraphale manages to break through first.

“Oh, my baking is going splendid. I'd say I've mastered the European styles by now. I've been experimenting with some Middle Eastern breads and desserts, and some things I remember from back when we were, um, stationed in the area. But it is awfully hard to find the proper spices and ingredients for it in the shops at the moment. Essentials, you know?”

Crowley doesn't know. Crowley hasn't set foot in a supermarket for years, but the idea of Aziraphale with a shopping trolley and a bag for life and a little list of items on a torn piece of paper makes him want to spend several hours at Waitrose's looking for whatever extinct herb Aziraphale needs.

“Sounds like you need something else to pass the time.” That is not meant to sound as obvious as it does, so a quick addendum is needed. “Reread all your books by now?”

“Well, yes, actually.” Aziraphale sighs. “Ah, I decided to look around on that interweb you set up for me a while back, as well, you remember?” Crowley remembers staring down the ancient desktop pc in the bookshop and telling it to better rear up a good browser and immaculate virus protection or so help it... so a quick hum is the only reply before Aziraphale rattles on.

“And, well, there are quite a lot of people talking about things to do during the lockdown, you know. A lot of people are baking, just like me! And they’re making all kinds of very entertaining videos, and jokes, although I don’t understand all of them. I think they are very popular media related, I’m afraid.”

“You're planning to become a youtube star now? An influencer?”

“Heavens, no!” He can hear the soft smile in that, and it's almost annoying that he can despite not seeing it. He had no idea how badly he wants to see it. Well, maybe he had, but he hadn't admitted it yet. “I'm only saying, humans are coming up with the most random things to entertain themselves during this horrid time. It's quite heartwarming.”

“I suppose.”

“And everyone seems to be using this unwanted time off to try new things! They're being so creative and courageous. The young lady down the street, with the flyers, you remember? I saw her at the grocer's, and she's shaved off half her hair! It does look marvellous, I have to say.”

Well, it's not exactly surprising for Crowley to hear, he thinks, because if he'd had to peg anyone on Aziraphale's street to go straight for some queer quarantine hairstyling, it would've been her. But he doesn't get much time to think about that before Aziraphale's voice pulls him back into the very one-sided conversation.

“It's all very inspiring. And I figured, well, why not? Nobody is going to come into the shop for a while, and I'm not going out, and I've always wondered-”

“Angel.” Crowley cuts through the babbling with almost a bit of dread in his voice. “Did you shave your head? Is that what you're trying to say?”

“Oh gosh, no, nothing that extreme! Really, would you actually believe me to do that? I know you like your hair changed every few years or so, but I-”

“What did you do, then? What did Holly and her shaved head inspire you to do?”

Another round of silence on both ends of the line. Crowley prepares himself for the worst, though he has no idea what that would be.

“I've grown a beard.” Aziraphale almost whispers.

“You what?”

“I've grown a beard!” He repeats, a tad louder. “I've always wondered – there's barely any angels with facial hair, and you used to have those- I just had no idea what I might look like with one, and I thought, if not now-”

“And?”

“And what?” Aziraphale huffs.

“What do you look like?” Crowley's grin is mischievous, and his voice really shouldn't sound like this, but he can't help the teasing as he rubs across his own beard, still not vanished away by miracle. He hears a soft scratching on the other end of the line.

“It's not- it's not bad, if that's what you're expecting to hear. Although it seems a bit patchy, the colour, at least.”

“Patchy.”

“Yes, there's this bit – in the front – my chin, you see. It seems an awful lot lighter than the rest.”

“Angel, you have to expect some white hairs after six thousand years.”

“You are mocking me.” Aziraphale tuts down the line.

“I swear I'm not. It's just hard to imagine you with a beard. Never seen anything on your face, even when it was the style for humans.”

“Well you certainly won't be seeing it anyway. I'll make sure to be presentable once the lockdown is lifted.”

“What?!” Crowley interjects a bit too shocked, maybe. “You can't do that to me, angel! You can't dangle this little morsel of information in front of my face and then never let me have it!”

“I'm not going to go outside or greet customers like this only so you can have a quick laugh, old serpent.”

“You leave me no choice, then.”

“What do you mean?”

“I need to see this beard of yours, angel. Even if it means coming over before regulations are changed.”

“Well.” Aziraphale says, and Crowley is sure he can hear a smile again, but definitely not a soft one. That bastard. “I simply can't keep you from breaking the rules, can I? You are a demon, after all. Not all your wiles can be thwarted, I guess.”

Probably not, Crowley thinks as he realises he's been had, but you're definitely an A-class tempter.

(the story actually goes further here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24402841

because nobody seems to reblog the second, longer version :( )

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Dream A Little Dream - 6

The final @bingokisses prompt for this fic is “Cheekbone Kiss/The Look from Across the Room.” May we finally get some resolution for our dear pining Ineffable Boys.

Also available on AO3!

Or read the entire fic here!

Chapter 6: 2019 - Dream Until Your Dreams Come True

For the first few weeks after the Apocalypse failed, they simply reveled in being normal. Going for walks. Eating dinner. Talking about nothing and everything.

Not that they spent every day together. Aziraphale took three days to re-catalog every book in his shop, or at least that’s what he claimed; Crowley couldn’t discern any organizational strategy, just piles of dusty books moved from one table to the next.

Crowley had taken some time for himself, too. A long drive, an even longer nap. Nearly a full week, sprawled in bed with the softest sheets and duvet humanity could devise.

No dreams of Aziraphale, though, not a single one in seventy-eight years. It wasn’t so unusual – he’d gone the odd century without them, over the millennia – but he did miss it. And it was strange, that the final dream had been the one where he’d somehow come on too strong and frightened Aziraphale off.

Well. He wasn’t one to psychoanalyze. They’d come back when they came back.

Tonight, though, the very real Aziraphale was in his kitchen. Crowley had wowed him with a gourmet meal containing a dozen of his favorite dishes; further wowed him by somehow setting the sticky toffee pudding on fire; and confessed to having had the actual dinner courses delivered from several high-end Mayfair restaurants, all while Aziraphale laughed so hard his eyes filled with tears.

Then he’d looked up and smiled, eyes that were more than a little warm meeting Crowley’s from across the room and--

Well, Crowley could only consider the night a raging success.

At last they stood on the balcony, sipping wine, and gazing out across the city – the world – that hadn’t been destroyed. At least, Aziraphale was looking at the world; Crowley’s eyes remained much closer to home, and he wasn’t sure his glasses could hide that.

“I uh…” Crowley cleared his throat. “I have…stuff…to say.” Brilliant.

“As do I.”

Crowley’s heart leapt – then crashed into his stomach at the worried look on Aziraphale’s face – then rose again as he remembered that Aziraphale always looked that way when he had something big to discuss, good or bad – then dropped to his feet when he recalled how rarely Aziraphale had something good to share.

Twenty seconds in and he already had vertigo. This was going to go great.

“Ah. Good. Um. Ngk. So. Uh. Should – should I go first? Or…euh…”

“I believe I should begin. Though I…I don’t know quite how…”

“Oh. Um. Yeah.” Crowley carefully set his glass of wine on the metal railing, which might have been too thin to support it, but the glass wouldn’t dare wobble. He thought about reaching for Aziraphale’s hand, but decided against it when he saw how the fingers nervously twisted against each other. Better not to intrude. He stepped back, shuffling his feet, trying to give the angel his space. “Would it…hngh…would it help if I said…I think I know what you’re going to say?”

“No.” A quick flash of blue eyes, pained and lost. “No, I – I don’t think it’s what you expect at all.”

Crowley sucked in a breath and nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets. Right. Of course not.

Every instinct screamed for him to run, get away, wait for…whatever it was to blow over. If he ducked into the bedroom, Aziraphale wouldn’t dare follow, even if he slept for a month.

But he couldn’t run away, not from Aziraphale, not anymore. If they were going to make this – make Our Side work – well, they were going to have to communicate.

He’d much rather face off against Satan again.

As for what Aziraphale was probably going to say – he’d rather face the whole of Armageddon…

No. Our Side. They could do this. Just take the hit and find a way forward.

“Alright. Go ahead.”

“I…” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “I suppose…well, it started five thousand years ago when I – I had something I very much needed to say, and I somehow – entirely by accident mind, though, really, the intrusion is, is simply unforgivable—” he gasped a little over the word. “I somehow touched your mind while you slept and…and pulled you into my thoughts…”

Aziraphale had been right about one thing. What followed was, to put it mildly, not what he expected at all.

--

Aziraphale laid out all the facts as quickly as he could, trying to explain what he thought had happened. He glanced at Crowley a few times – the demon’s jaw was completely slack, a look of complete dumbfounderment.

Good lord. Shocked into silence, not even one of his trademark subvocal grunts. Aziraphale couldn’t even remember the last time that had happened.

“So, well. As near as I can discern…” He tugged on his waistcoat so hard he thought it would tear. “The, er, the first few…encounters…required us to be quite close, and – and, ah, desiring the same thing of each other.” Was it hot out here on the balcony? Oh dear. “But, ah, eventually, as you…you…” Just say it. “…you fell in love with…with that version of me, I was able to – to pull you in, I think, whenever I…wished to, er, to see you, regardless of the…the reason for…for my…yes.”

He stumbled to a halt. For an eternity, the silence hung over them, so complete even the street below seemed to disappear.

“You wot?” Crowley finally demanded.

“Oh, ah, please don’t make me repeat all that.”

Crowley’s head bobbled, nodding and shaking at the same time, his jaw so tight Aziraphale worried his teeth would crack. Then the demon sprang into motion, crossing nearly to the sliding door back into the kitchen before spinning around again. “You saw – you saw all of my dreams of you?”

“I believe so. Or rather, you – you saw mine. We could, er, compare, if you wish.” Oh, no, the idea of dissecting every one of his – his foolish fantasies…

“Ngk.” Crowley reeled. “No. Just.” His fingers ran through his hair, creating a mess of red spikes. “All of them? Even the – the one on the Greek island…”

“Oh, yes.” Aziraphale closed his eyes, feeling sick. “Yes, I’d been, ah, doing a tour of the Aegean and…well…there was this lovely beach, and I couldn’t stop imagining…” A rather vivid memory of a hot sun on pebbled beach, long arms and limbs twined all around him, as Crowley licked the saltwater and sweat from his collarbone… He swallowed. “I – I – I’m terribly sorry if I caused you any, um, discomfort.”

“Ha!” Though there wasn’t much humor behind the laugh, just incredulity. “Don’t think I’d call that uncomfortable.” He ran his hands down his face, pulling at the skin of his cheeks. “What about…what about…”

Aziraphale could see his eyes going wide with panic, even behind the black sunglasses. “Please, don’t…”

“And all the – the things I said! In Rome…Venice…Munich…New York…Vienna…Edinburgh.” He seemed to lose his balance for a second. “Edinburgh!”

Ah yes. Sitting on the cliffs at the edge of the city, Crowley’s head in his lap, composing poetry for each other. Crowley’s had been quite marvelously romantic, and Aziraphale had rewarded him with a kiss each time.

“I…I don’t know how I…”

“Paris. The Bastille!” No teasing smile this time, Crowley looked as mortified as Aziraphale felt. “The whole bloody month—”

Aziraphale buried his face in his hands. “I – I didn’t mean – I’m so—”

“No wonder you hate me!”

What?

Slowly, Aziraphale lowered his fingers, peeking at Crowley’s stricken face. “Why…why would I…?”

But Crowley shook his head. “I always told myself I’d – I’d give you space. Let you…decide for yourself…what you wanted, but.” He turned away. “There I was, the whole time, forcing my thoughts on you.”

“No…” he tugged his coat straight. “That wasn’t – I’m the one who dragged you…” Perhaps he hadn’t been clear after all. Aziraphale glanced out over the city, took a breath, and tried again. “I’ve…I’ve thought it through quite…quite thoroughly. I can remember them all. And…and every fantasy came from something I’d been thinking, I’d experienced. Something I desired.” He closed his eyes, feeling a tear run down his face. How undignified. “You’ll, ah, you’ll see it too. Once you know…know what to look for. The – the moments of connection are…fairly obvious.”

“But you said…” The sound of footsteps as Crowley paced. “You said your – your – your…whatever you want to call it, everything went off as soon as I arrived!”

“Well…I suppose but…it wasn’t…everything was perfectly in line with…with…what I wanted.”

Another interminable silence. He waited for Crowley to walk away. Surely any second…

“Yeah. Me too.”

He glanced to the side and – oh, dear. Crowley hadn’t been pacing, he’d been walking closer. “What…what do you mean?”

“Just.” He looked down at his feet. “Y’know. The things I said. I…I do wish…I could…in real life.” Shook his head. “Been trying to for days.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale thought about the things Crowley said in the dreams. “Oh.” Another pull on his waistcoat, straighten the tie, try to think. “I assumed you…you only…that your feelings were…were for that…that version of myself.”

“Isn’t…” Crowley rocked where he stood, hands in his pockets. “Isn’t that…are you…is ‘dream you’ different from ‘real you’?”

“Well.” He’d run out of articles of clothing to adjust. Perhaps Aziraphale should start wearing a watch? “I suppose…I’m more…more bold than I would be in reality. More certain of myself. More open. But…no, that’s…not fundamentally different, no.” He tugged at his sleeves, just in case they were somehow wrong. “I think...I’m just...more how I...I wish I could be.”

“Nh.” One more sway, and Crowley stepped forward, almost close enough for their toes to touch. “I always…know what to say. In the dreams. But. Um.” He glanced up, and Aziraphale saw a flash of golden eyes above black lenses. “I did…write all that poetry…weeks before the dream.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale tapped his fingers against his legs. “Wait.” He looked up, indignation replacing embarrassment. “You said you were – were making it up as you went! You lied to me!”

“It was a dream! I thought I was!” He scowled, but somehow that made Aziraphale feel worlds better. “You can’t just – just pop a sonnet off the top of your head!”

“I certainly did!”

“You certainly tried.”

“Well! See if I compose any verses for you again!” But, strangely, for the first time since the conversation started, Aziraphale felt ready to smile.

He took a deep breath. One thing he had to know for sure.

“Crowley…If you only thought you were composing those…well, did you perhaps…only think you wanted to…go along.”

“No.” Another step closer.

“How can you be sure?”

“Well…” Crowley rolled out the word, tipping his head back. “How many times did you think about teaching me that bloody dance?”

“Quite a few,” Aziraphale confessed.

“Mnh. Well. I wanted to know where you were…I wanted to know you were…you know…alright. So I let you teach me but…I never wanted to try again. And I didn’t.” He looked down again, watching his toe move across the ground. “And, um, did you ever dream of me teaching you to disco?”

“Certainly not!”

“So, I wasn’t influencing you either.” His fingers emerged from his pockets, dangling close to Aziraphale’s. “But um. The…Bastille. I always woke up right when it, ah, when it was getting…interesting.” He ducked his chin but looked up. “I…did want to know how the dream ended.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale’s face burned. “It…quite…quite well, thank you for inquiring.”

“Grrrgh!” Crowley spun away suddenly, raking his hands through his hair. “Why is this so hard? I’ve already – we’ve already—” He glanced back. “Look, Aziraphale. Yes. Everything we did…I’d like to say, and, and do…or at least try, right? I just…”

“I…also…don’t know…quite how to proceed.” But he forced himself to look up, to meet Crowley’s gaze across the landing, to acknowledge that endless array of emotions neither of them could quite put into words and - at last, at last, he smiled. “I…would very much like to, though. With you.”

Crowley turned a rather brilliant shade of red red, turned away - but when he turned back, the glasses were clutched in his hand. And the softness in his eyes made Azirapahle’s heart turn over in his chest. “Pity we can’t just…continue this in a dream.”

“Can’t we?” With his eyes bared to the world, the look of shock was raw, exaggerated, and in Aziraphale’s opinion quite satisfactory. “I…believe I’ve taught myself to control it now. Which also means…I could start one. On command, as it were.”

“Oh?” Crowley crossed quickly to where his wine glass still sat on the railing, drained it in one gulp. “That’s um…”

“Not the Bastille, of course,” Aziraphale rushed. “I think that’s…something…perhaps not. But…I have an idea where we can...start.”

“Nkh. Nfrd.” Crowley tried to gesture with the wineglass and launched it off the balcony entirely. “Akgh.”

“Is…is that a yes?”

“Mmh.” He took a breath, grabbing the railing for support. “How…would it work? Will I know it’s a dream?”

“Most likely not. I’ve taught myself to...to be more lucid, more aware, and I could teach you. It will take some time, but...even so, I don’t know if I’ll be able to, um, maintain perspective when I’m, ah, in the thick of it. But I can… stick to fantasies where…where we simply talk and…and enjoy each other’s company. Nothing…physical. At least.” He placed his hand on the railing, next to Crowley’s. “At least until we’re sure of our…our sense of control.”

“Nh. Sounds good. And.” He cleared his throat, glancing nervously. “I think…I want to try…things…in reality, first.”

“I…yes. As well.” Aziraphale wanted to move his hand those last few centimeters. Wanted that more than anything. “When shall we…?”

“Tonight?” Crowley caught his gaze, held it, and Aziraphale drank in the mix of fear and hope, knowing his own eyes looked the same. “I’d like…before I lose my nerve. Yeah.”

“I would…” he swallowed, reached his fingers ever so slightly closer. Almost. “Yes. I as well.”

--

Aziraphale walked down the wooded path; just ahead stood the tiny stone cottage, unchanged since he’d first seen it, nestled in a perfect glade over eleven hundred years ago. Golden sunbeams landed on the grass, the flowers, reflected up from the pond in the back. When the wind came from the south, it carried the sharp tang of sea salt.

At the corner of the cottage, Crowley looked up from the blackberry bush, and his eyes gleamed, for all the world like captured sunbeams. “Angel! Look, they’re perfectly ripe.” He turned, scoop of his tunic filled with the tiny fruits, almost to the point of spilling out.

“Sounds like we got here just in time.” Aziraphale came closer, and all of his worries, his anxieties, everything that had held him back melted away. Why had he ever doubted himself? This was Crowley, his Crowley, his dearest friend, his heart, his soul.

“You mean you got here in time, I’ve been waiting for ages.” Crowley’s fingers - stained purple-black from the berry juice - plucked out one, a cluster of little bumps tipped by tiny hairs. “Here, saved it for you.”

Aziraphale parted his lips, accepting the offering - tasting the tart, almost gritty berry, feeling the rush of juice pour across his tongue and hit the back of his throat - so much more real than any fantasy. Crowley’s thumb caught a bit of juice at the corner of Aziraphale’s lips, wiped it clear.

“Darling, that’s mine!” Catching Crowley’s hand, he drew it back, kissing the droplet off the pad of his thumb, letting Crowley cup his palm around the curve of Azirpahale’s cheek. Warm, slightly rough with callouses Aziraphale would never have expected. “I do believe I missed you.”

“Hmmm. Me, too.” Crowley leaned close, brushed his lips across Aziraphale’s cheekbone in a slow, lingering kiss. “Dunno where you were but...don’t go away again.”

“I won’t.” Aziraphale turned his head until his nose brushed along the length of Crowley’s, felt the little shivers up his spine. “I’ll never leave you again.”

He wanted to kiss Crowley, so very badly. Let the blackberries tumble down to be crushed under their feet as he pushed his demon back against the wall--

No, he’d promised. Nothing physical. They would do that in reality, and it would be so much better than he could imagine.

So, instead, Aziraphale tugged on the hem of Crowley’s tunic. “Come on, let’s get these inside. I think we’re going to have a lovely pie for dinner, and then perhaps a nice walk to the shore. I can’t remember the last time we went down.”

Crowley caught his hand, and together they walked into their home, their little cottage in the South Downs, their shared dream that, one day soon, they would make a reality.

--

Thanks to everyone who read, liked and shared! Thus concludes my 10k dream fic!  Final shout out to Elf-on-the-Shelf and @angel-and-serpent (Sosser86 on AO3) for their help!! This fic is partially your fault. ;)

[thechekhov]

Good Omens Fic Recs

First of all, I’m gonna say that these are probably not ALL the fics I’d recommend, there are more, but I’m trying to keep it comprehensive. 

Fics listed here are non-explicit in nature, though they might contain sexual-ish elements or allusions to sex being had. 

All fics under the cut contain explicit sexual content.

Pre-Apocalypse:

it’s the light (it’s the obstacle that casts it) (5783/Complete)

It's like having a curtain pulled back on something he wasn't expecting to see. A surprise punch-and-judy at an up-scale restaurant, a lobster thermidor when he's ordered an ale.

Crowley's gleefully trying to wrap his head around the fact that Aziraphale is speaking Polari. Because of course he is.

Or: The Patron Saint of London's LGBT Community is real, and he lives in Soho.

two slow dancers last ones out (1658/Complete)

“Do you even know how to waltz?” “No. But you could teach it to me.”

and, so on (8938/Complete) 

Crowley doesn’t remember heaven, but Aziraphale remembers him. 

notes on a theme (4501/Complete)

After six-thousand odd years playing human, Crowley is beginning to suspect they've both gone a bit native.

Nanny Knows Best (series) (32,800/Kinda Complete?)

Being a nanny, that should be simple. Simple. Easy as pie. Crowley wished that were true. (*Warning: this fic contains various depictions of sexual harassment Nanny Ashtoreth has to deal with.)

Wings and How to Hide Them (10134/Complete)

Crowley's been annoyingly in love for six thousand years. What's another lifetime between friends? (*Warning: this fic contains a mild sex scene but it’s not overly explicit, so I’m letting it split through)

When in Rome (series) (3938/Complete)

"And have you?" Aziraphale asked. "Anywhere to be, that is?"

"I don't suppose I do," Crowley said. "Would you like to go to dinner?"

"With a demon?" Aziraphale replied, tipping his head a little, his smile still hiding in his eyes. "I probably shouldn't."

names in history (23468/Complete)

Maybe he’d shown Crowley how to perform a few miracles, but that Crowley had taken to them so well was surely a sign that he wasn’t all bad. And maybe Aziraphale had let himself be called upon to perform a few temptations, but that was just testing the will of the faithful if you looked at it from a different angle.

dream to me (7342/Complete)

“You know, angel. Sometimes I think we’ve been bearing witness to a very great love affair, and we didn’t even notice.”

or: an angel and a demon fall in love. but a bookshop and a bentley do it first.

Linked (15665/WIP)

Crowley allows himself to get caught in a ‘demon trap’. He is now trapped. Oh no. Whatever shall he do.

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

Post Apocalypse:

Love’s Such An Old-Fashioned Word (2,384/Complete)

There has to be, Crowley thinks, a better word than love.

all i need, darling, is a life in your shape (14,243/Complete)

After everything, Aziraphale and Crowley, by unspoken agreement, begin sharing their lives.

Rip It Up and Start Again (9128/WIP)

After the Apocalypse is averted, an Angel and a Demon go on holiday, which turns into something a bit like retirement... or it would, if there weren't so much unfinished business following them around...

Gourd Omens (11504/Complete)

“Neave is a name I believe and certainly rings a bell but I will have to look up what a cucurbita is - it sounds rather latin.”

“Pumpkin.”

“Yes, dear?”

“Wh-NO not you!”

Aziraphale and Crowley move into their new cottage in South Downs after Armageddidn’t blows over. But of course hellish interference is never far away, and it looks like its target is the local flower show. Can the pair prevent Asparageddon, befriend their neighbours, grow the largest vegetables and win the cup for division B?

A Sky Full of Stars (2575/Complete)

Aziraphale takes Crowley as close to Heaven as they can get, these days.

Salinity (And Other Measurements of Brackish Water) (3455/Complete)

It's an odd thing, getting on after the End of the World. Crowley takes to sea-watching.

dawn on the gates of eden (1262/Complete)

It’s the first day, but it’s an old story.

Slow (9371/Complete)

It started like this: A boy with the ability to warp reality met an angel and a demon and he made assumptions. Aziraphale and Crowley find themselves somehow married. Crowley fears going too fast. Aziraphale forges ahead. Neither know how to ask questions of each other.

it’s a new craze (5541/Complete)

CROWLEY: I try not to make a habit of gratitude, but I must give our appreciation to everyone out there who’s been listening and subscribing to The Ineffable Plan. AZIRAPHALE: Ooh, yes, we’ve become quite popular, haven’t we? CROWLEY: Yeah, just hit number eight on the advice charts … No advertising at all. AZIRAPHALE: Mm. How … miraculous. CROWLEY: … Aziraphale. You did not.

Warning: the rest of these recs contain explicitly mature themes. I’ve tried to tag them to the best of my ability. 

Long Is The Way, And Hard (27081/Complete)

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

#through the ages #gets explicit at the end #soft and emotional sex 

small infinities and all that (13208/Complete)

And there it is, isn’t it? Something they’ve known for a long time, but haven’t named it. Have been too scared to name it. Something that speaks in their bones, in the space between them.

#Crowley and Aziraphale are turned human #gets explicit at the end #soft and emotional sex

The Pleasures of the World/Sleight of Hand (35480/Complete)

Aziraphale's fingers brushed [Crowley's] cheek, then turned his head slowly.

"I'm asking you to think it over," he said, so quietly that Crowley almost couldn't hear him. "That's all."

Crowley's stomach clenched harder. Somehow his hand had gotten ideas again and migrated in the direction of Aziraphale's waist, blindly creeping its way around, forcing the angel to lean slightly forward. This was the sort of thing reckless human teenagers did, or in the very least reckless human adults who hadn't gotten out much and were just beginning to notice how entrancing their bridge partners were.

"Won't take much," Crowley said, and leaned over to kiss him.

#slow burn #buildup of various sexual encounters #Aziraphale and his Hedonism are out for a joyride

The 21st Century, In Which They Finally Work It Out (22379/Complete)

This is light speed in comparison to the last few centuries of their relationship, but Crowley is barely holding on to his patience.

#gets explicit in the end #soft and emotional sex

You, Soft and Only (9400/Complete)

He hadn’t expected a sudden lapful of angel.

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

#Aziraphale and Crowley have various sexual encounters through history #get you horny first and break your heart halfway through the story #fem!Aziraphale #fem!Crowley #all sorts of genital configurations and all of it is thoroughly entertaining 

The Better Part of Valour (6204/Complete)

“...the apocalypse has Not Happened and they’ve fallen into queerplatonic (or so they think) bedsharing and Crowley thinks he’s alone in being driven slowly to distraction by it, so he says nothing. Then one night he wakes when it’s still dark, and at first he doesn’t know why, until he hears Aziraphale’s breathing a little raspier than usual, and feels the very slight trembling of the bed.”

#bedsharing #Aziraphale has a Vulva #masturbation #fingerfucking #this one gave me about 5 heart attacks from how hot it was

for let thy efforts be (9337/Complete)

The first time Crowley made the Effort, he was reclining on a very comfortable couch in the dimly-lit confines of a cozy little restaurant in Rome, with his head pillowed upon the breast of an Angel.

#alcohol #nonhuman genitalia #fingering

Surrender (series) (78,828/Complete)

Aziraphale felt the explosion of dark power all the way in London, but had no idea Crowley was involved. When he realizes the demon is missing, Aziraphale goes looking. What he finds is not the lively, wily adversary but a dying snake that barely feels of demonic power at all. The angel can perform miracles, but he can’t heal a demon. Aziraphale has to do everything he can to save Crowley, because an eternity alone on this Earth is as unthinkable as the end of the world was.

#Hurt and Comfort #Near Death Experience #Crowley is a VERY pushy sub #marking/possessiveness #piercings and tattoos done with holy water/blessed objects

[sushiandstarlight]

Kintsugi

Read this story on AO3

Inspired by the Japanese art of Kintsugi: " repairing broken pottery by mending the areas of breakage with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum, a method similar to the maki-e technique.As a philosophy, it treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise.” and the fact that Aziraphale seems to limp when he's temporarily discorporated and sent back to heaven.

Crowley had written it off as a figment of his imagination the few times he thought he had noticed it: the slight limp in Aziraphale’s walk.  Angels didn’t really get hurt and, if they did, they could heal themselves.  If it was bad enough, they could go to one another for healing.  No, there was no reason for Aziraphale to have a limp.  And, every time Crowley thought he saw it in the next blink it would be gone.

In the days leading up to (what was to be) the failed end of the world, he thought he saw the limp with increasing frequency.  Maybe it was stress on his own part: the ever-present worry that they wouldn’t be able to save the world, that they would be parted, that one of them (maybe both of them) would be destroyed... Really, there were a lot of stressors.  Maybe he wanted to see something he could actually put his hands on as a problem.  Or... maybe the strain was living in Aziraphale and he was having more difficulty hiding his physical ailment.  Crowley couldn’t decide because, again, as soon as he would be sure there was something amiss he would take a breath to address it and then the evidence would be gone.  They would be off chasing the doomed apocalypse or arguing over the merits of running away from it.

As they walked back to his flat after dining at the Ritz he noticed the limp again.  Aziraphale was a couple steps ahead of him, talking about his favorite part of the meal and there it was: a slight lopsidedness to his gait.  Crowley could kick himself.  He was inside that corporation just hours ago.  He could have checked for himself.  But, he had been too busy trying to save Aziraphale’s whole self.  It hadn’t occurred to him to give the angel a physical once-over.  And, really, wouldn’t that be an invasion of privacy?

He caught up quickly enough, taking in the angel’s face and finding no distress there.  He couldn’t just ask, could he?  “Hey I’ve known you 6,000 years and I’m just now noticing that you limp on one leg... what’s that about, eh?”  There was no decent way to ask.  It might be something that Aziraphale didn’t want to discuss.

Only now they were at his door and he hadn’t heard much of anything Aziraphale had said the whole way here.  He hardly remembered putting one foot in front of the other.  He had just followed Aziraphale like a puppy, worrying and fretting and trying desperately to figure out how to bring this up.  He wanted to know that Aziraphale was okay, that was all.

Yet, somehow, his mouth was running.  Which, wasn’t really a good thing, since he wasn’t in complete control of it.  It was meandering on about something.  Ducks, it seemed, and methods to make them less buoyant.  How had they gone from talking about dinner to discussing the buoyancy of water fowl?

Aziraphale was giving him the most peculiar look: head tilted and a soft smile on his face.  It was only interrupted by the occasional glance at the door beside them.  The door that was still closed.  Because Crowley couldn’t stop talking about ducks while he thought about asking him why he limped.

And then Aziraphale’s warm, soft hand was on his cheek and his lips- somehow even warmer and more soft were on his own.  Whatever Crowley had been about to add to the duck discussion (for the curious: he was about to propose the idea of finding something equally as buoyant as a duck and strapping the duck to the thing to see if the duck would spin perpetually in the pond) died on a gasp.

“Could we go inside?”  Aziraphale’s face was still close to his, the soft smile from before tugging harder at the side of his mouth.  Crowley nodded dumbly and snapped the lock open.  “There we are.”  Aziraphale had hooked his elbow in Crowley’s and was leading him inside.

Brain still stalled out completely from the kiss, Crowley stood in his own entryway while watching Aziraphale venture further into his flat.  The sounds of a kettle being put on (did he even own a kettle?) and mugs being set out on the counter drifted his way from the kitchen.

Aziraphale had kissed him.

Aziraphale had kissed him as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Aziraphale had kissed him while he’d been having a serious thought.  But, that thought was gone now.  All that existed in Crowley’s head was the feel of Aziraphale’s lips on his own.  The gentle breath that tripped over his chin as the angel had pulled away and smiled at him.

And Crowley hadn’t had a chance to respond to that kiss.  He wandered into his own kitchen in a daze.

“I hope you don’t mind... I miracled over my own kettle and mugs.  You really have nothing in here, Crowley,” Aziraphale tutted, “I figure... well, I figure I won’t be getting any more memos about frivolous miracles from upstairs.  Not for a while, anyway.”

Crowley found himself standing directly behind Aziraphale now, close enough that he could feel the heat of him.  When the angel turned he startled.

“Crowley!” a hand went to his chest, “I’m glad I wasn’t holding the mugs... what a mess!  Really, though, if you’re going to have a kitchen you should at least make an attempt to stock it- mph!”

He hadn’t really given it a lot of thought.  Really, no fretting at all had occurred.  Aziraphale had kissed him in the hallway which meant that it was okay for Crowley to kiss him in the kitchen.  a + b = b + a

Aziraphale’s hands wasted no time finding the waistband of Crowley’s too-tight jeans and untucking his shirt.  Those hands that had been on his face mere minutes ago traced over his belly and then his sides on their way to his back where they clawed him closer with always-well-manicured, blunt nails.  Crowley pressed him harder into the counter top, sucking his lower lip into his mouth and scraping his teeth over it.  The angel made a sound deep in his chest, one of his hands dipping beneath Crowley’s waistband to grab a handful of Crowley’s ass.

Crowley broke the kiss off abruptly, leaning his forehead against Aziraphale’s and sucking in some deep breaths even as he rutted against him.

Suddenly, the kettle went off on the stove beside them, causing them to spring apart and spin wildly, looking for whatever danger had found them.  They both looked from the still-whistling kettle to one another at the same time and laughed as the tension in the air eased.  Aziraphale took the kettle off the heat and turned off the stove.

“Maybe we can have tea later.”

“Something you’d rather be doing right now, Angel?”  Crowley would argue that his voice never “purred,” but he was perfectly aware that it just had.  He took a step toward his bedroom and then looked back at Aziraphale in invitation.

“Tempting me, serpent?”  Aziraphale reached out a hand and Crowley took it.

“As I recall, you kissed me first.”  Crowley pulled him down the hall and into the bedroom, tugging him closer once they got there.

“Well, you would not stop talking and I’m afraid I p... I pani... cked.” 

Crowley had leaned into his space, trailing his nose along the angel’s jaw in an almost nuzzle as he breathed him in.

“Perfectly good way to shut me up, Aziraphale, bravo.”  And then Aziraphale was left with cold air in the space in front of him as Crowley knelt at his feet.  “May I?” Crowley paused, hands over Aziraphale’s trouser fastenings.

Aziraphale nodded and was about to say more, but now his trousers were in a pile on the floor at his feet.  Crowley suddenly remember what he had been pondering before they got to the door of his flat.

He found himself face to kneecaps with Aziraphale and got a partial answer: the knee to his right looked like any ordinary human knee.  The one to the left, however gleamed a bright gold.  The gold spread in patterns almost like spiderwebs- or sealed cracks- up into his thigh, disappearing under his pants, and down into his shin, leading to his sock. Crowley reached out a hand to touch, but thought better of it and glanced upwards for permission.  Aziraphale didn’t so much look embarrassed or upset as he looked caught out and vaguely concerned.

“You can touch.  You won’t hurt me, darling.”

Crowley looked back at the patterns before him, tracing the cool metal replacement kneecap downwards to where it mixed with warm flesh then back up again, following the same lines up Aziraphale’s thigh until his fingers stopped just under his pants.  He felt Aziraphale shiver.

“I wanted to ask.”

“You knew?”

“Angel, there’s little about you that’s escaped me in 6,000 years,”  Crowley leaned forward and kissed his golden knee, “I just wasn’t sure you’d want me to know.”

“I want you to know everything about me... but this, well...”

“Wouldn’t they heal it for you?”  Crowley was proud of himself that his voice remained level.  The idea that heaven would let Aziraphale suffer, even after what he’d seen of them when he wore Aziraphale’s body as a disguise... It made his blood boil.  He could feel the yellow expanding in his eyes as he vied for some kind of control.

Aziraphale sat heavily on the bed behind him and Crowley immediately filled the space between his knees again, stroking his fingers along the newfound lines.

“I was afraid to ask them to.  Afraid they would think less of me or cast me out for my weakness.  It was all about casting out then, you know.”

“Yeah, I know... So you healed it yourself.”

“As best I could.”

“But it still hurts.”

“Aches sometimes.  If I’ve been on my feet too long or if I’ve been back to Heaven.  It’s so very cold there.  It seeps in and lingers.”  Seemingly without thought, Aziraphale flexed his leg under Crowley’s hands.  “Not to mention they don’t seem to believe in chairs.  What marvelous inventions, chairs.”

“You hid it from me.  Why?”

“My dear serpent,” Aziraphale reached down and caressed the side of Crowley’s face, tilting it upwards so he could meet his eyes, “I didn’t want you to worry.  You worry enough.  There was nothing you could do.”

Crowley gazed up at him, rubbing his hand up and down Aziraphale’s shin and knee.

“I suppose not.”

“And I don’t want you worrying yourself about it now, either.”

“Okay.”

“No, I mean it.  I’m not made of glass.  You’re not going to hurt me.”

“I hear you.”  Crowley walked his fingers around the back of his knee and found flesh there, making Aziraphale jerk and laugh. “Hmm, been hiding a ticklish spot, too, I see?”  Crowley tickled the spot again and Aziraphale tried to pull away, but the demon had his ankle in a strong grip.  He sprawled backwards, pulling at the bedspread trying to get away from the merciless fingers.

“Foul fiend!”

Crowley took the moment of distraction to divest him of his socks and shoes and finally completely remove his trousers.  Then he released the angel’s ankle and climbed up the bed to face him.  Aziraphale was doing the best he could between deep breaths to look put out, but the crinkles around his eyes gave away the smile he was hiding.

“I suppose I only have one more question, then,” Crowley drawled as he traced the edge of Aziraphale’s pants with his fingers, watching in satisfaction as shivers raced up the angel’s body.

“Only one?  You?  Surely not.”

Crowley traced him through his pants, just a barely-there touch.

“You got anything else that’s gilded?”

“I’ll gild you in a second if you don’t touch me properly!”

[meli-productions]

Biblically Known

Despite the name, there is no smut...though things do get heated. Day Four of #ineffablehusbandsauweek for @ineffablehusbandsweek​

As always, it can be read on AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26620054

The soft clicking of heels from behind brought Aziraphale’s attention away from the exhibit and towards the intruder. At the sight of the approaching woman, a smile split his face.

“Antoniette! How lovely to see you again,” he said, meeting her in the middle of the room. “What brings you around this time? Biblical or modern?”

The woman, tall and looming over him with her stilettos, smiled and pulled off her glasses, “Um, I think that this time it’s Biblical - something about a garden?”

Aziraphale hesitated, taking a moment to study the  woman’s gold eyes that shifted under his scrutiny, then his faltered smile returned to full power, “Of course, darling. Was it the Garden of Eden or the Hanging Gardens?”

She snapped, “That’s the one. Hanging Gardens, sounds like fun - I have a garden too so it seemed like a good report to do.”

“Then come along,” said Aziraphale, holding out his arm for her to take. “I have just the resources you need.”

The two spoke amicably as they wandered the halls of the museum - a sight to behold: the plump curator that dressed like a character off The Mummy movies and the femme fatale of a Bond film. They had met one evening when Antoniette Crowley had arrived at the museum with a notebook in hand and bumped into the curator - Aziraphale Fell - in a very literal sense. 

Aziraphale had fussed over the woman, making sure she was okay before asking if there was anything she needed - that he would love to help her as the new curator of the museum. And for her part, Antoniette had blinked up at him for a few minutes, blushed, and asked if he knew anything about the Dead Sea Scrolls. 

When Aziraphale beamed and dragged her down the halls, a new friendship was struck - and a promise of continuing friendship stemmed from their conversation and jaunt through history. So when he sees Antoniette in the museum, Aziraphale knows that he’s in for a good time and a wonderful conversation about history.

“So these Hanging Gardens - they were destroyed, too, huh?” asked Antoniette, looking at the mock up that had been prepared in its little corner of the museum. “Just like the tower, just like Eden itself.”

“Unfortunately,” Aziraphale responded with a sigh. “Pity. One of the wonders they said. It’s a shame to lose something so vivid. Was there anything specific you needed to know about it?”

Antoniette perched her elbow on Aziraphale’s shoulder, “Anything you’ve got for me, angel. I’ll pick and choose the information.”

With the go-ahead of a full professorial lecture, Aziraphale launched into a story head tilted up towards the honey-gold eyes that were watching him with rapt attention.

“How’d the lie go today?”

Antoniette looked down and met the smirk of her partner, Beatrice, with a sharp smile of her own.

“It went perfectly fine, thanks for asking. He doesn’t suspect a thing and I got to hear him mourn the Hanging Gardens of Babylon for almost an hour…we had lunch afterwards.”

Beatrice snickered, “Then got off on those little sounds of his?”

“Shut it, Bea.”

But they continued, “He’s gonna find out one of these days - gonna slip or he’s gonna say something historically inaccurate and you won’t be able to help yourself. One way or another, Toni, your anthropologist smartass will show.” 

She just shook her head, curls flying wild, “Absolutely not. He’s too smart to say something wrong. Besides, I’m not hurting anyone. I just - I just want to get to know him and if he knew who I really was - ”

“He’d fall harder for you?” asked Bea, eyebrow raised questioningly.

“No, he’d get weird - weird academic boner like that hothead Lucius,” said Antoniette. “I don’t want this to end. And I’ll tell him the truth.”

Bea laughed again, “After you two get married? Or when the director finally spots you and calls your bluff - that you’ve been acting like an ignoramus around your own fucking exhibit.”

Antoniette’s face turned as red as her hair, “We have very insightful conversations, Bea. I don’t act like I’m stupid - just not like Professor Crowley, that’s for sure.”

A roll of bright blue eyes met her own, “Whatever, Toni. But if you don’t tell him soon, it’s gonna come out somehow. You’ll see.”

She sighed, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

A steaming mug of tea thumped down at Aziraphale’s side bringing his head up towards the hand attached to the handle. 

“Ana,” he said, slipping off the glasses hanging on the edge of his nose. “Thank you, dear. It’s just what I needed.”

“What you needed was a break from that book. I know your job is to appraise and reconstruct, but you’ve been on that for three hours.”

“Has it really been that long?”

Ana - Anathema - huffed, “Yes, you workaholic. Honestly, when Toni swings by those are the best days because it gets you away from those damned books.”

He tisked, “There’s no need to offend them - they’ve done nothing wrong. And yes, I do agree - it is a delight when Antoniette is around.”

Aziraphale took a sip and noticed the red-lipped smirk that his youngest coworker wore from over the rim of the mug. He raised an eyebrow in question which set her off in giggles.

“Are you ever gonna tell her that you know she’s acting dumb?”

Another tisk, “She’s not acting dumb, Anathema. Her conversations are very insightful, it’s just that she’s not sharing just how smart she is with me. And no. That’s for her to tell me when the time is right. After all, there must be a reason.”

Anathema scoffed, “Yeah, the reason is that she likes you and thinks that if you can’t help her you won’t be interested in being around her. You know what would encourage her to tell the truth,” she paused for him to question her, “ask her out on a date. An actual date, not those ‘well, since we’re at it we might as well have lunch’ dates. Ask her to dinner, buy her expensive wine, take her home and - ”

“Anathema,” said Aziraphale, blush dusting his cheeks. “Antoniette is a lady, I will not do anything untoward.”

She smirked, “Never said to do anything untoward. And besides, if anyone’s gonna make a move like that it’s gonna be her - not you. She is sin incarnate, isn’t she?”

He sighed, and rubbed his temples when she started laughing, “I regret ever telling you that. Now, are you going to join me for tea or just laugh at my misfortune? Come, tell me about your latest project.”

Wednesday night was always a quiet one at the museum - just a few stragglers that would lazily wander up and down the exhibits and when Aziraphale found himself more often than not alone in the ancient artifacts room.

And usually that’s where Antoniette would find him.

This time, though, she was not in her tight pencil skirt and stilettos, but in baggy sweats that disguised her - even her sunglasses were a cheaper pair she’d picked up from a tourist booth on the way in and yet he still recognised her.

“My dearest, are you alright?” he asked, reaching out for her then stopping a breath away from her elbow. “Is there anything you need?”

She was quiet for a moment, and he wished she would fee; comfortable taking off her glasses, but they remained on, “Just - a distraction, angel. Anything you’ve got.”

Aziraphale frowned at the deadened tone, but he gave her a little smile nonetheless, “I think I’ve got just the thing,” he held his arm out, “It’s okay if you don’t want to - ”

Antoniette grabbed onto it like it was a lifeline, “Let’s see what you have, love.”

He kept a quiet drone about the latest visitors to the museum and the field trip of primary grade students that ran amok in the dinosaur exhibit and though she laughed at the right moment and agreed when she needed to, Aziraphale could tell that she was still distracted. 

“Here we go, dearest,” he said and sat her at his desk. “My newest acquisition: the ‘Bugger Alle’ Bible.”

She gave a little gasp and reached out with long fingers before folding her fingers and glancing up at him, “Gloves?”

With a smile, he handed over his pair and though he knew they’d be too short, they would be enough for her to touch the book. Antoniette stroked the spine with a delicate touch and cracked it open with the care of a mother to her child, Aziraphale shivering at her gentleness. 

“This is in top condition,” she said, breathless. “Did you do the restoration?”

“One of my specialties,” answered Aziraphale, leaning in close and using her fingers to follow the stitching. “Took a few hours - three if my coworker is to be believed - but it’s almost in perfect condition to be displayed.”

Antoniette looked up at him again, glasses slipped down enough for her gold eyes to be seen, “Amazing. This is - stunning work. Delicate - strong - I- ”

Aziraphale cupped her face in his hand, “You don’t have to tell me anything, but I have a feeling that you haven’t eaten - I can order some takeout?”

She leaned into the heat now on her cheek, lips brushing his thumb, “Sounds like a plan - Thai?”

“Whatever you want, dear,” he answered, breathless.

A couple of hours later the two of them had made their way out of the chair and sat on the floor of Aziraphale’s office, leaning against his desk as they passed a bottle of wine between them.

“And ‘s not fair,” said Antoniette, pouting. “That just ‘cus he’s a man he gets my project - top n’m. ‘S like I d’nt even exist.”

“Absolutely,” Aziraphale agreed, “Y’re smart and w’rkd hard f’r that - that project - wanker sh’dnt get an’thin.”

Antoniette shot him a wine-drowsy smile, “Y’re not a wanker though - y’re an - an angel. Pretty, s’ft, smart, gorgeous angel. B’t you d’nt want me - y’like books more.”

He huffed and wobbled closer, hand brushing her cheeks, “My books d’nt look like you, th’r not smart and beautif’l and sweet n’ let me talk th’r ear off. Not like you, Antoniette. My dear, m’ so glad you came into my life - best day ‘f m’ life.”

A whimper escaped wine-red lips as Antoniette turned to his hand, eyes closed, and whispered, “I really want to kiss you r’now.”

Aziraphale chuckled using his finger to sweep over her lips, “Me too, but now while we’re drunk.”

Another whimper from Antoniette as he continued his ministrations down to her chin and then to her throat, the warm press of his calloused thumb bringing goosebumps on her skin. Then he pulled away and she met his half-lidded eyes. They both felt a little more sober, a little more sharper.

“If you want - we can have dinner tomorrow - real dinner,” he said. “And we’ll see how it goes.”

She pouted once again, but nodded, “‘S a date.”

Anathema fussed over Aziraphale, fixing his bowtie and coat and running her fingers through his hair before he pulled her hands away and held them tight against his chest.

“Anathema, dear,” he said, eyes crinkled in mirth. “It’ll be fine. I’ve dressed like this every time we’ve been together - mess or not, she doesn’t seem to mind.”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t a date, Zira,” she said, almost bouncing with joy. “I’m so proud of you, viejito, you’ve got a date with a hot, smart woman and you did that all on your own. Get your woman, mi vida.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but the smile did not waver, “Thank you, Ana, I guess you can say I’m finally an adult.”

A voice clearing behind them made them turn around and were greeted by the sight of a gorgeous, black dress clad Antoniette, red curls pinned to the side. Her smile was tight as her eyes flickered from Anathema to Aziraphale.

“Antoniette, darling,” Aziraphale said, his smile spreading. “Are you ready?”

She nodded, “Of course.”

Anathema pulled out of his grip, “Nice to finally meet you, Antoniette. I’m Anathema, co-worker and babysitter of this old man here.”

The two women shook hands, Antoniette’s smile still tight against her cheeks, before Aziraphale held out his arm for her to take. They bid Anathema their goodbyes and headed out.

“She seems nice,” said Antoniette, fingers tapping against the scratchy fabric of his coat. “Young. Smart.”

“And annoying as nothing else,” Aziraphale said, soothing her fingers with his free hand. “Her Americanisms can be hard to deal with - and her boyfriend has his own hands full with her.”

Antoniette’s fingers stopped as his hand wrapped around them, “Oh. She’s - she’s- ”

“An archeologist, and occultist if you can believe,” he said. “And no one for you to worry about, trust me dearest, you outshine everyone I’ve ever met before.”

She blushed and squeezed his arm, “And you truly are an angel.”

He chuckled in return, “I certainly hope not for long.”

Dinner was a slow-moving affair, Aziraphale savoring every bite and Antoniette enjoying every sound he made, tugging the hem of her dress down her dress as she grew hotter. After dessert and coffee - tea for the curator - Aziraphale offered to move the night to his flat and Antoniette took the offer with an almost embarrassing quickness.

“It’s not much,” he said, opening the door to his flat and ushering her in. 

Books were scattered around, stacked in every corner and packed into bookshelves. There was a cozy messiness about the room that was perfect for him and she smiled at him.

“It’s wonderful, perfect for you,” said Antoniette, curling into the couch. “And the books make so much sense.”

Aziraphale blushed and scratched his neck, “Would you like some wine? I have a nice Burgundy that I’ve been dying to share with the right person.”

“And would that mean me?”

“I think it is.”

“Then pop it open and come join me.”

When he returned with the bottle and glasses, he found Antoniette, glasses off and flipping through the pages of a book. She looked up at him with wide eyes as he handed her a glass and she refused it.

“What’s wrong?”

She closed the book and handed it over, “Interesting choice - have you - did you - ”

The book was a detailed introspection on the Garden of Eden, a book written by Antoniette Crowley, and his eyes crinkled with mirth, “I suspected. I was just honored that you think that I was worth talking to and - you were just as beautiful as you were smart.”

Tossing the book to a side, Antoniette lunged towards him, wrapping her arms around his neck and licking her way into her mouth as he returned the kiss she laid on him. His hands came around her and hoisted her closer, and she moaned against him.

When they pulled apart for air, she laughed as she took in his lipstick covered mouth and he joined her soon after.

“Is it too soon to say that I love you?” she asked, gripping his hair as he began pressing kisses along her neck.

He hummed against her throat, “Only if it’s too soon for me to say that I love you as well.”

Antoniette gave a tug, “I think you brought that wine out too soon,” another moan, “I think I found something tastier.”

“The wine’s waited this long, it can wait longer. Let us indulge in this dessert before turning to the drink.”

She let herself be settled onto his lap as he took a seat, “Sounds tasty.”

[ellenripleysbelieveitornot]

Crowley took to writing when the moments without Aziraphale seemed to stretch into infinity. There was something about the repetitive scratch of the quill against the parchment that seemed to calm him; maybe it was just the way it seemed to drown out the part of him that had (unforgivably) learned to miss someone.

At first, he was just writing down his thoughts, not bothering with any sort of organization. It was just a way to silence the part of his mind that always managed to drift to the angel.

But then he discovered poetry. It wasn't the art itself that drew him to the craft, but rather the way Aziraphale had smiled when he had shown off his latest acquisition. And, oh, his voice, the way it seemed to flow with the words when he read a sample to him aloud. It reminded him of the way the universe had sang when it was born.

He thought, maybe, if he could imagine Aziraphale's voice caressing his own thoughts in such a way, it might alleviate the ache in his soul, just a bit.

My love is the horizon, Where blue sky meets the Earth. Forever in my sight, But never mine to hold.

It was simple, and it didn't rhyme, but it said more with four lines than Crowley would ever be able to express out loud, and wasn't that the point?

So, he kept at it. Whenever that certain piece of his heart felt the loss of Aziraphale's presence, whenever visions of a bright smile and the sweetest eyes became too much, he'd write down a couple lines, and it brought him a brief sense of peace.

And things were fine that way, until they weren't.

It happened when they were at lunch. Crowley was rearranging the meal on his plate into complicated patterns and shapes, (moving it around and around so it seemed that he was doing something with it, so it seemed that food were the reason he were here, it was an act and one he played well) when Aziraphale pulled out a thin little book, that its cover claimed was a collection of poetry 'lost to time and memory' whatever that meant.

"Crowley, dear, listen to this," Aziraphale said. Then he cleared his throat and began to read.

"By your presence, I am come undone. By your absence, I am torn asunder.

Free me or keep me, What difference could it make?"

Crowley stopped listening. The words. He knew the words. He had written the words. But how?

Someone must have found one of his poems and, presuming the author to be long dead, had it published.

Crowley came back to himself just to realize that Aziraphale was expecting some kind of response from him. "Oh, yeah," he muttered at his plate. "Very nice."

Aziraphale looked affronted. "Nice?!" he echoed. "It's terrible!"

Crowley cringed. He knew he was an amateur, but 'terrible' seemed a little harsh. "Oh, yeah," he agreed anyway. "It's rubbish."

Now Aziraphale looked offended for some reason. What did he want from him? "It's beautiful!" the angel declared.

Crowley blinked. "But you said-"

"It's heartbreaking! The writer loves this person so much it's consumed them entirely. It's- It's- Don't you know how that feels?"

And Aziraphale was looking at him now, a hopeless desperation in those beautiful eyes. But how could Crowley possibly answer that question?

The truth was, he didn't know how it felt, not the way it was written in the poem. It had always been one of his biggest shortcomings, he thought. Try as he might, no matter what words he used, no matter the grandiosity of the metaphors, it was never enough. His feelings could never quite be put to paper. Not in any way that mattered.

"Erm..." he said instead, and Aziraphale's face fell.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have put you on the spot like that. I don't know what came over me."

"'S fine," Crowley mumbled, because his mind was still reeling, and the conversation drifted back to whatever they had been discussing before.

From then on, Crowley was utterly lost. He had written the poems imagining them being read by Aziraphale, but now that he had actually witnessed it, had an actual taste, he became like a man possessed.

Poem after poem poured out of him. Knowing that Aziraphale could read his words, could be moved by them, was intoxicating. If he could just get the pages to match what he felt, then maybe, maybe he had a chance.

I walked the halls of heaven So very long ago I stood within the Presence I lived with grace bestowed

And though it’s true I fell Into darkness from the bright On this loss I do not dwell For you keep my soul alight

And there isn’t any question Believe me, yes it’s true All the glory that is heaven Is nothing next to you

He started gifting his poems to Aziraphale. Not in person, of course, but he'd slide them through his mail slot, he'd tuck them between two books on the shelves in Aziraphale's shop, he left them anywhere the angel might find them and hoped that he'd know they were for him.

I bend my knees in worship. I lift my hands in prayer. I cry out before your altar, But you never seem to hear.

He didn't even know if Aziraphale found them all. But this was all he could do.

My true love is an angel, So perfectly divine I spend my days in worship, Kneeling before his shrine

My true love is an angel Wrapped in heaven’s sweet embrace I'd give my all to serve him And be worthy of his grace

My true is an angel And for this blasphemy I crawl Yet I surely cannot conceive of Any sweeter way to fall.

And then he was handed the Antichrist. And what good were words when faced with the end?

He stopped writing and focused entirely on just keeping Aziraphale by his side. He could live with Aziraphale never knowing of his feelings so long as things could remain as they were.

So, when they did the impossible, when they stopped the apocalypse, he decided to be thankful for what he had, and shoved all those feelings deep, deep down, resigned to never wanting more. He could spend more time with Aziraphale, now, without either of them having to check over their shoulder, and wasn't that enough?

Wasn't it?

No.

But if lied to himself enough, maybe he could start to believe it was true.

Until Aziraphale, with that same determined look on his face that he had gotten when he decided he was going to learn close-up magic, sat him down on the couch in the back of the bookshop and stood before him, wringing his hands nervously.

"Crowley, I need to read you something, and you have to promise not to laugh."

Crowley blinked. "Okay?"

"You have to promise!"

"Okay, I promise!"

"And- And could you take off your sunglasses?"

"What?"

"Please, Crowley, I really need-"

"Okay, okay!" Crowley did. "Better?"

"Yes." Aziraphale frowned. "Actually, no, it's much worse, now I can see what you're thinking, put them back on."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Angel!"

"Alright, alright!" With shaking hands, Aziraphale reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his reading glasses, which they both knew he didn't actually need, but Crowley decided to let that fact go for now. After he had situated them on the end of his nose, he reached into his waistcoat and procured a worn sheet of paper. His fingers trembled as he unfolded it and began to read:

"I fear the way I love you, It's too much for me to bear.

I fear the way I love you, It hurts how much I care.

I fear the way I love you, Your presence is all I crave.

I fear the way I love you, But, now I'm ready to be brave."

Crowley wasn't sure what to say. It had been a while since Aziraphale had shared his favorite poems with him, and he couldn't quite remember how this was supposed to work.

"It's lovely," he said.

"You think so?" Aziraphale asked hopefully, suddenly looking a little less terrified. "It's not as good as yours, of course, but I thought I did pretty well."

Crowley's mind blanked. "Mine?" His voice may have squeaked, but he couldn't be sure over the pounding in his ears.

"Well, yes. They were yours, weren't they?"

Should he deny it? No. He was done hiding. "Yes."

Aziraphale looked... relieved. And that was when Crowley's mind caught up to the second thing Aziraphale had said. "You wrote that poem?"

Aziraphale nodded.

"For me?"

Aziraphale nodded again. "Like I said, it's not much, compar- you promised you wouldn't laugh!"

But Crowley couldn't help himself. The joy and love bubbled out of him in such a way that had to be given form, and laughter seemed to be it. Aziraphale didn't seem to mind, though, once Crowley swept him into his arms and pressed their lips together.

And this? This was poetry.

---

AN: Remember that AU I talked about? I decided to finally put my money where my mouth is. I feel like I should apologize for the awful poetry, so, uh.... sorry.

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens - I Was Given Four Rules to Follow ... I Broke Every One: Chapter 3/3 (Rated PG13)

Summary: When Warlock Dowling is summoned to the old South Downs cottage of Aziraphale and Crowley to help clean out their attic, presumably after their deaths, he is given four rules to follow.

... He breaks every single one.

Read on AO3.

January 15th –

He opened his eyes!

He opened his eyes and looked at me!

After hours of waiting in the dark and in the cold, despairing every second and wishing I was dead myself, he opened his eyes.

But it came close to being all for naught because I almost died myself right then and there.

It was good to see him with his eyes wide open, but the golden eyes I loved so much are gone. 

These new eyes are white on white, the pupils infinitely dark, the irises torn. They stare without blinking. They look into me, into my soul, it seems. They connect to the love that runs deep within me, to every touch he has ever left on my skin, to every promise we both made. 

But they do not recognize me. 

Am I, at all, familiar to him?

I don’t want to reject him, whether he knows me or not. But those eyes unnerve me.

There’s so much about them that’s innocent and frightened.

So much about them that’s desolate and dead.

We literally spent the morning just looking at one another.

I would give anything to know what’s going on in his mind. 

What does he see when he looks at me? 

I want to reach out and touch him, but I’m afraid. I know it won’t be the same. He won’t be warm, won't be comforting. What could be worse than a dead copy of a once alive and loving creature? I don’t know. 

But whatever this is, it might be. 

He won’t smell like Crowley. He won’t have his cheek, won't have his soothing voice. It’s almost as if I adopted some wild animal and decided to make it my husband.

What have I done?

***

January 16th –

All day long, he tried to move, grunting with the effort of struggling to stand up and get out of bed. He didn’t speak words; he just groaned. I wanted to help him. I wanted to pretend that he was simply convalescing after a horrible illness. I wanted to bathe him and dress him. I wanted to sit him down in front of the television, prop up his feet, and feed him brandy and ice-cream. I wanted to put this chapter behind us and get on with our lives.

I wanted to make believe him dying had never happened.

But I’m not that good an actor.

He behaves exactly the way the old woman warned me he would. He reminds me of a child.

I never wanted children.

This is the ‘in sickness and in health’ part of the marriage package, which I agreed to without hesitation.

Never mind the ‘till death do us part’ portion.

This comes with my vows, and I will honor them.

My love will help him. I know it will.

…

Can I really do this, or am I fooling myself?

***

January 17th –

I’m trying my best to take the bad with the good.

I managed to get him to the living room sofa. His legs were stiff, and he couldn’t seem to bend his knees.

He had been declared dead-on-arrival because of the injury to his neck. But I wonder if anything else is broken. I wasn’t really paying attention to the doctor when he went over the extent of Crowley’s injuries. After I heard the word dead, I tuned out.

I should get a copy of Crowley’s hospital records.

But if his legs are broken, how will I deal with that? Will the potion magically fix everything? It brought him back to life. Could fixing broken legs be more difficult than reanimating a corpse? What is the extent of the potion's effects? Do I need a secondary potion of some kind to repair internal injuries?

Maybe I should call the shopkeeper back and ask.

We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

He stumbled numerous times and fell on me. I did my best not to cringe at his touch or accidentally drop him. But those eyes, so close to mine, were like looking into a nightmare. I could see through them to the veins and arteries behind, the blood inside them black and unhealthy.

The fourth time he stumbled, though, I got the feeling that maybe he was falling on purpose so that I would be forced to catch him.

I even thought I saw the shadow of a smile cross his lips.

I watched him as he sat in front of the TV and renewed his passion for The Golden Girls. That show had been one of his favorites since he was a small boy.

He sat so still. 

He didn’t swallow. 

He didn’t appear to breathe.

The only time he moved was when he looked over to where I sat, I think, to make sure I was still there.

He sat for hours and watched TV. 

There was nothing else for him to do.

I fed him salad for dinner, let him stay in front of the television instead of making him go to the dining room table. I didn’t see any reason to move him. He leaned down and sniffed the cold lettuce leaves, but he did not eat.

Neither did I.

***

January 19th –

After a full day of limping him around the house, Crowley is surprisingly steady on his feet. He can make it from the bedroom to the living room sofa by himself. It takes him a while, but he can do it.

His body is still in rigor, but he seems to be getting more comfortable with it.

I should be jumping for joy at his progress. The more mobile he becomes, the less dependent he will be on me. Every day that he improves, even a little, he is closer to becoming the man he was.

But I don’t know how comfortable I am with that anymore.

***

January 21st -

He doesn’t sleep. And now that he doesn’t rely on me to get around the house, neither do I. I know he sees me as a parent-figure, so he won’t hurt me. But he’s such an alien creature. Not like the old Crowley at all.

It’s strange having this version of him around the house.

When Crowley was

Before the accident, Crowley was so independent. He didn’t need me, didn’t need my help with anything.

But now, he needs to be near me all the time.

I understood there would be a change in our dynamic, but it’s such a striking change that it’s difficult to get used to.

I took a shower for the first time in days. I left him in the living room watching TV, but when I finished and opened the curtain, there he was, standing there … staring.

I fell asleep for about an hour afterward, and when I woke up, he was kneeling beside me, again staring at me.

He’s always staring.

What does he think about doing when he stares at me?

***

January 22nd –

I finally broke down and gave Crowley a shower. He didn’t stink, but there was something about him, something that smelled … well, I can't seem to find the words to describe it. 

I just wanted it gone.

I’ve seen the injuries to his chest numerous times, but I haven't paid much attention to his back.

When I saw them, I almost threw up.

And he noticed. 

He heard me gag. 

I gasped, held in my urge to be sick.

He turned to face me, and for the first time, he had an expression on his face different from his blank one … but also different from that smile I thought I saw when I was helping him walk around the house.

He looked hurt.

***

January 27th -

Each day that he improves, I debate telling our friends that he's here. I know they miss us terribly. But in the end, it would be too cruel. He’s not himself anymore. He never will be. Most days, I curse myself for doing this to him. My motives were selfish. I wasn’t thinking of anyone but myself when I made the decision to bring him back. 

I wasn’t even thinking of him.

Our lives are unrecognizable. We’ll never travel the world like we'd planned. Who knows if I’ll make it back to my bookshop? Should probably shut it down and have my books transported here. The way things look, the rest of our days will be spent in this cottage. 

I have to be okay with that.

But what about Crowley?

If you asked rational me if I think he wants to live this half-life, with no potential to be anything other than a human puppet, who only barely resembles the man that was Anthony J Crowley, I would have to say no. Absolutely not.

But I can’t turn back now.

What am I expected to do? Poison his tea? Smother him in his sleep?

Would attempting to kill him even work?

And what about his soul? 

If there is a Heaven, I surely pulled him out of it with my cock-eyed plan. What if there is no going back for him? 

I can only hope that my love for him is enough to keep him from hating me when he’s able to comprehend what I’ve done to him.

***

February 1st –

I’ve finally gotten him to eat – bits and pieces mostly, bites of vegetables and corners of bread. It doesn’t seem like he likes it, but he eats it, and that’s good. He eats because I tell him to. It shows that he trusts me.

He’s more self-sufficient now. 

He showers and brushes his teeth on his own. He picks out his pajamas and dresses himself. Sometimes he tries his hand at making the bed. He is attempting to be more vocal, but he has yet to say a single thing that isn’t a grunt or a moan.

I’ve been looking up the subject of speech delay on the Internet, trying to find ways to help him learn. I came across one website in particular with fun, creative ideas. I started making flashcards of consonant blends and one-syllable words. I felt so accomplished, so hopeful, like I was actually doing something positive toward the goal of moving us forward. I felt confident that after a little work with them, everything would be all right. I was so excited to show them to him, but then I realized …

… I have no idea if he can read.

***

February 3rd –

I tried calling the old woman at the antique shop in Soho to ask about the effects of the potion, but the phone has been disconnected.

I guess they went out of business after all.

It doesn’t matter. Nothing appears to be broken. Or maybe it’s that he doesn’t feel pain.

I was teaching him how to cook, hoping it would bring a bit of the old Crowley back. We used to cook together all the time. Honestly, we weren't all that good at it, but that didn't stop us from trying. We had just gotten the hang of a decent souffle before ...

Anyway ...

I started him small. 

I had him grating cheese. 

Seemed simple enough. The grater stands on its own, so not much to juggle. But he pressed too hard, ran the grater over the backs of his fingers, scraped off skin. He didn’t so much as flinch. I think it bothered me more than it bothered him. I bandaged it up and, without thinking, I kissed the wound. I looked at him in utter shock …

… and he smiled.

My heart leapt.

It’s so nice to see him smile again. 

I never thought I would.

***

February 4th –

I took off Crowley’s bandage, and his wound from the cheese grater is gone! There’s not a trace of it left!

I guess that answers that question.

I should be relieved, but it bothers me, and I don’t know why.

***

February 21st –

Today was the most unexpectedly intense, depressing, and wonderful day all at once.

It started when Crowley woke this morning. He got up before me and tried to make me crepes. I had no idea why. He hadn't tried to cook by himself before, didn't even show an interest in cooking without me. He burned them, himself, and the stove all in one go. The fire alarm woke me, blaring in my ears. I managed to get to the extinguisher in time, but poor Crowley looked heartbroken over his ruined pan of blackened food.

Then, before lunch, he wanted to go outside. I think he was trying to sneak out, but I caught him jiggling the front doorknob (he has yet to master the bolt - thank God). When I caught him, he slammed his hand on the door in frustration and sprinted for the back one. I followed him, knowing it was locked and that he wouldn’t be able to open it. When I reached him, he was trying to wedge his way out of the old cat flap. (Note to self - board up the cat flaps! I don’t know why we kept them. We’ve never owned a cat.) 

I patted him gently on the shoulder and asked him what he needed. He stood up and groaned, moving his mouth and wiggling his tongue, making nonsensical sounds. When he couldn’t say what he needed to, he pointed out the window to the garden. I assumed he wanted to check on his dahlias. I’m a disaster with flowers, and, unfortunately, I haven’t been able to keep them up the way he could. 

Of course, it's one degree outside. The poor things are frozen solid. They're not even flowers any longer, I don't think, but the frigid remains of what they once were.

But he’d had yet to show any interest in them, either, before today. 

I shrugged, repeated that I didn’t understand. He pointed more forcefully, jabbing at the window with his index finger.

“I don’t know what you're trying to tell me, my dear,” I said. “Do you want to go for a walk?” 

I've taken him walking around Soho a few times. I've been trying to tie up loose ends, decide if selling the bookshop is the road to take. I wrapped him up in a full-length coat and scarf with just his eyes peeking out. I guess he enjoyed it, but he’d never asked to go outside. He shook his head and pointed again, this time at the dying rose bushes that I hadn’t had time to deadhead. I didn’t get it. I shook my head, and he stormed off to the bedroom.

I followed him there, but he blocked the door.

I could hear him inside, moaning. It was horrible. It sounded like pain and embarrassment and frustration, all rolled together. And I couldn’t help him.

He wouldn’t let me.

I tried to lure him out several times, but he didn’t come out till dinner time.

And when he did, he was dressed in a black Bergdorf suit.

Crowley has dozens of expensive black suits, and he looks stunning in all of them.

But this suit.

This suit in particular.

This suit had been hanging front and center in his closet.

Because it was the suit I had planned on burying him in.

It threw me for a loop, dragging me kicking and screaming back to that day I found out he had died, before I’d decided to try bringing him back, before I knew that I could. I took out the suit to air it. I guess I hadn’t put it back with the others because there it was, standing before me with the living corpse of my husband inside.

The sight took all the air out of my lungs.

“Take it off,” I said quietly, trying not to alarm him, but how was I supposed to explain to my somewhat dead husband that I didn’t want to see him dressed in the suit I had planned on putting him in the ground in?

He looked confused and shook his head, opening his mouth and groaning.

“Please, Crowley,” I begged, hoping he would hear my anguish and understand, “take it off.”

He stomped his foot and shook his head, the way a petulant child would. It should have been cute, but I couldn’t handle it. I've had issues getting used to his looks lo these many weeks, but for the first time since he came back to me, he looked dead.

“Take it off!” I screamed. I ran at him, grabbed the lapels, trying to tear it off his body. He held me, pinned my arms, and I could feel his renewed strength. I hadn’t really let him touch me before, but now I knew that if he wanted to, he could probably hurt me.

I stared up at him, realizing that he was hovering above me, and I was lying on my back on the floor. My heart stopped. He had never looked menacing before. Even in death, he seemed so innocent. But now, he looked like a monster. He had a piece of paper balled in his grasp, and he tried to make me look at it, but I couldn’t take my eyes away from his face – pale and cold and lifeless, regardless of the fact that he was my Crowley.

He stared at me, trying to speak.

It hit me like a pile of bricks.

Speak.

That’s exactly what he was doing. 

His lips were moving in exaggerated, grotesque ways that shouldn’t be able to turn sound into words, but they were.

“A … Az … Azi …”

Crowley blinked and shook his head.

“Azir …”

“Aziraphale?” I asked in awe that he was trying to say my name.

Crowley laughed. It was a glorious, hollow, frankly frightening sound, but I couldn’t help smiling when I heard it. He put his fingers to my lips. 

I guess he didn’t want me to steal his thunder.

“Azzzir-uh-phale,” he said, smacking his lips. “I … lo … I lov …” Crowley swallowed again, closing his eyes, trying to make the words in his head match the movement of his lips. “I … love … you … Azzzir-uh-phale.”

Crowley tapped again at the paper on the floor. This time I did what he wanted and looked. He had torn off the current page from the calendar and was poking at a box circled shakily in red. I peered down at it.

I could have cried.

“Our ... our anniversary?” I asked, looking into his broken eyes. He sighed, nodding.

It was our anniversary.

He’d wanted to make me breakfast in bed … for our anniversary.

He’d wanted to get me roses … for our anniversary.

My husband had wanted to do something nice for me … for our anniversary.

My husband had spent all day teaching himself how to say, “I love you, Aziraphale,” because there was nothing else he could do for me.

My husband remembered our anniversary ...

... even when I had not.

***

June 4th -

Five months-ish later…

I can’t believe it! 

I cannot believe it!

Five months later and we’ve made it! Despite the odds. Despite the difficulties and the heartaches. Despite every time I thought about giving up, here we are.

Happy.

Together.

We spend our days wrapped in each other’s arms. We watch TV. I read books out loud - he sits and listens. Crowley is re-learning how to drive, and I’m on the hunt for a new Bentley. Our lives might not be what they were before, but they’re perfect for us.

We’ve managed to go to the city more, spent a few glorious nights at our flat in Mayfair. We've even interacted with one or two of our old friends. It's a wonder what some foundation and blusher can accomplish! I told them it was a medical miracle, and they believed me.

Because that's what Crowley is.

A miracle!

Okay, maybe I am tempting fate. But maybe fate needs to be tempted from time to time! 

His vocabulary has expanded immensely, and a hint of his old suave confidence has come back, along with the muddy accent I so often teased him about.

I am finally at a point where I am optimistic about the future.

Because I’m beginning to think that there might actually be one for us.

***

August 13th –

I woke this morning to a strange squealing noise. At first, I thought it might be the smoke alarm again - odd since we got the cooking situation sorted, I thought. The longer I listened to it, the more I realized it wasn’t the smoke alarm. It didn’t sound familiar at all, so I didn’t worry too much about it. As long as an errant sheep didn’t get hit by a car, there was really no reason to jump out of bed and investigate. After a few minutes of listening to the goings-on outside, I determined that wasn’t the case, so I considered going back to sleep.

But then I noticed that Crowley wasn’t laying beside me in bed.

That isn’t too unusual. He’s normally the first one up on any given day. I just curl back into a ball holding his pillow to my chest until he returns.

He always returns.

The squealing wasn’t really that weird. I’ve thought for the last few months that we might have rats. Or squirrels. Or possums. I’ve heard that same squealing a few times before. But seeing as I can’t find any evidence of rodent-caused destruction anywhere in the house, I haven’t been too aggressive about hunting it down.

My stomach began to growl. I guessed I had been asleep for longer than I thought. Instead of returning to bed, I decided to make some waffles for breakfast. So I got up and went out into the kitchen.

That’s where I found Crowley.

He was crouching on the floor …

… covered in blood …

… biting into the spine of what used to be a raggedy old Maine coon …

I looked at him.

He looked at me.

He grinned his old, sly grin, licked his bloody lips, and said, "Hello, Aziraphale. Can I get you a cuppa tea? I know just how you like it."

He winked at me, and my heart stuttered.

…

I may have a problem.

***

Those are the last words on the page.

A page where the ink is smeared from tears, and the edges crusted in blood.

I haven’t seen Aziraphale or Crowley in decades. They used to send the occasional letter, but those stopped a while ago, and they never call. But something tells me neither of them ever left this house alive.

I’m afraid my time, too, has run out. I came to this house alone. But huddled in the darkest corner of the attic, I hear footsteps coming closer, a sour voice on the wind calling my name …

Ka-thunk …

“Warlock …”

…

Ka-thunk …

“Warlock …”

…

Ka-thunk …

“Warlock …”

…

KA-THUNK!!

***

“Warlock Dowling!” Crowley calls, barging into the attic, footsteps heavy on the worn floorboards. “Are you recording another one of those Clip-Clop thingies again?”

“It’s TikTok, Nanny,” Warlock replies, rolling his eyes, “and no. I’m reading a story for my YouTube channel.”

“Well … you done getting a costume together or wot?” Crowley asks, changing the subject, saving face that he actually understands anything Warlock just said. “Adam and his hooligans are gonna be here in a minute. Aziraphale is gonna have kittens if you’re not ready to go Tricks or Treats!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Warlock says, gathering up his camera. He loves Halloween with a passion, but he’d been eyeing this one journal in Aziraphale’s bookshop for some time now. This video he’s been putting together promises to be epic - the crowning achievement of his burgeoning story channel. Most horror story channels get their material from the Creepypasta Reddit, but he has a unique source of original material … when he can get out to Soho, that is. “I’m coming.” He pulls the lapels of the leather jacket he’s borrowing for the evening together in front to tighten it up. 

It’s slim fit as it used to be Crowley’s from back in the day, but thirteen-year-old Warlock still swims in it. 

Warlock marches to the door under Crowley’s watchful eye. Before he can make his way through, Crowley stops him, slipping a hand underneath the jacket and rescuing an extraneous prop - an antique journal.

“Have you been snoopin’ through Angel’s old manuscripts again?” Crowley asks, wiping the cover clean. “You know how he feels bout that.”

“I know,” Warlock admits sheepishly, “but my audience loves them! I get thousands of hits off his stories! Besides, I put my own twist on them, freshen them up a bit.”

“Do you now?” Crowley asks with an unamused eyebrow notched.

“Why didn't he get them published?” Warlock shifts gears before the lecturing can start. “He’s an amazing writer!”

“He had his reasons,” Crowley mumbles, flipping through the pages. After skimming a passage or two, he puts it down on a pile of similar journals, a shiver sliding down his snakey spine. “Oof! Those things’ll give you nightmares.”

“They should terrify you. He’s murdered you in every single one!”

“Ah, but he does it with love.” Crowley grins wide enough to swallow his whole face. “It’s an honor.” 

[new-endings]

it’s a gray day; have a whumpy wip.

(reverse omens; raphael is an archangel, living under the guise of crowley, a lower tier angel; azira is the poor demon that raphael lied to for 6 millennia and got his heart broken upon learning the truth) 

takes place at the bus stop after armageddon: 

---

Azira flinches when Raphael— appearing this time as Crowley— approaches.

Raphael opens his mouth, trying to get a word in, but Azira won't let him.

"You shouldn't be here."

Crowley— no...Raphael pauses. It's the same words he greets the demon whenever he shows a little too much enthusiasm at spending time with the angel. 

"They'll come for you, if they knew your involvement. You may be an archangel, but you'll be outnumbered."

"I don't give a damn about that!" Raphael automatically retorts.

For the first time since his arrival, the demon turns to look at him. "Since when?" Azira asks evenly.

This time, it’s Raphael that flinches. He always used that excuse to avoid getting closer to the demon, the excuse to stave off those feelings that have been brewing since the beginning of humanity.

What will my superiors say when they find one of their own fraternising with a demon?

Words he threw out so carelessly before, but Azira had always been undeterred, always saying that he'll be sure to be careful.

(he never was, hence why Raphael had to lie and say he was only manipulating the demon for Heaven’s benefit)

He’ll make it up to him. He will. "Since now," Raphael says, sitting next to him on the bench.

His heart aches when Azira stills before inching away from him. "There's no need. What's done is done. They don't need to punish both of us."

"I won't let you suffer alone— "

"You don't need to be here, Raphael." 

That word, that name, doesn’t sound right coming from Azira's mouth. It was always Crowley. He was always Azira's Crowley.

But Azira's not done. "You have what you want and I have what I want. Perhaps it's time to end this little arrangement—"

"What," Raphael grabs him by the arm, heart splintering when Azira looks at him with fright. "What do you mean—"

"The hellfire. It's yours. And I—" Azira swallows. "I have my earth. I may not have long to enjoy it but—"

"Then come with me,” Raphael pleads. "I'll protect you, I've always—"

"No," Azira gasps. "No, I don't— I'll be fine on my own."

"Azira, no, we both know—"

"Yes, yes, I know, I've always depended on you to keep me safe, isn't that right? Well, it's a damn good thing I'll no longer be your burden to bear!"

"Burden?" Raphael breathes out. Where is this coming from? 

"It's a fine thing you did, hiding your name, hiding your power, hiding your intentions all this time. I know I wouldn't have the patience to pull it off."

"My intentions—"

"Were to manipulate a demon, isn't that right? Gather intel for Heaven?"

The realization sinks in. His demon overheard him and misunderstood. "Azira, wait—"

"I'm no longer of any use to you. When they bring me back, it will be to my execution." He turns to Raphael, the warm, firebright glow that always used to shine when the demon looked at him, dulled to dying embers. "I don't have much time. Please, let me go."

"You're mad if you think I intend on letting you go—I'm telling you, I can protect you! I won't let them hurt you, you know that—"

"By what? hiding me away? Do you have a cozy little prison waiting for me in Heaven where Gabriel can torture me for more information with the bloody Sound of Music—"

Raphael's growing frustrated; time's running out and—he's never had Azira deny him before. Not like this. Not even with the hellfire. "Do you honestly think I’d do that to you!?" Raphael's grip on Azira's arm is beginning to hurt and the demon whimpers under the force. "How long have you known me, Azira? I would never—"

"I don't," Azira gasps, prying his arm from Raphael's grip and scrambling away from him in a panic. "I don't know who you are."

Raphael's heart breaks. "It's me. Yes, I lied about my name and my position in Heaven but that's all—Azira, I swear to you! I lied to the others so they wouldn't suspect a thing when they saw us together—"

"So you lied about being worried that your superiors might catch you?!"

"Azira!" Raphael knows he should be apologizing, begging for forgiveness, but he can't stand that look of contempt on his demon's face, not when that face had only ever shown him warmth and happiness when they were together.

"I loved him, did you know that?" Azira breathes out, eyes wet.

Something ugly twisted in Raphael's chest at the admission. "Who?"

Who is he? who stole your heart after all this time? After I thought you had only wanted mine?

"Crowley," Azira says, tears streaking down his face.

Raphael’s heart stops. "Azira..." A delirious warmth spread throughout his chest. Raphael wants to gather the demon in his arms, kiss him until the tears stopped and kiss him more after that. "I'm here, Azira, please— I lo—"

"But he was a lie too, wasn't he?"

that’s all i have so far. 

the idea i had in my head was a reverse!omens with a demon aziraphale and an archangel raphael who lives on earth under the alias of crowley

the gist of the whumps is that azira fell and fell hard for crowley and crowley....cared about him (this is really a reversal) and only learned to love him much later on—

only for aziraphale to realize that the person he fell in love with is a lie.

crowley never existed. only an archangel who lied to him for millennia

it's the reverse of Good Omens too in that azira is very open in his adoration and (giant) crush on crowley, but crowley always played it off, at first believing that— well azira's a demon so that's a no-go, but also later on when he does start admitting to himself that he cares for the demon a lot more, he ALSO puts the barrier up because... he knows now that he's putting the demon he genuinely cares about in danger by being with him

later on, when they have an argument over hellfire (crowley wants it as insurance; he may be powerful, but so are the other archangels), crowley calls their tentative whatever it is "fraternising" and it honestly breaks azira's heart 

like poor azira, he genuinely thinks that maybe there's a chance that he could be more than just good company to have, someone the angel can converse with over wine about topics that he can't with other humans—

but it's there that azira gets this feeling that crowley...might just be using him. 

it. hurts.

but azira's in love and has been in love for so long, and against himself, he gives crowley the hellfire anyways. he leaves it there, warming the cold, barren hearth of crowley's apartment

in the attempts at botching the Armageddon, azira misplaced the antichrist. crowley's furious, not really at the demon, no, but azira's right there and a target of the archangel's panic and ire

azira recommends that they run off together and crowley scoffs at the idea

in crowley's mind, he knows that he won't be able to protect them both this time. he won't be able to fend off the other archangels who not only want his blood, but his demon's as well

crowley needs a plan and needs it fast. and— he can't have azira flubbing it this time

((raphael, obviously stronger than azira, has spent maaany millennia saving the demon. weird, it's almost the spoilt thing wants to be rescued))

he tells azira to leave and go home; he already made a mess of things as it is and that he'll call azira if he needs something

((further cementing the feeling azira has that crowley is only using him))

heartbroken, azira leaves but not before finding the book of prophecy the witch-girl left after crowley, in his panic-stricken mind, actually ran over (she was okay; azira made sure she survived) he goes through it, poring over it and understanding the prophecies and goes to crowley to show him what he's found out— show him that he's not just a burden—

only to sense the powerful presence of several archangels

azira panics— what if they found out what crowley was up to? what if they take him, or worse, punish him for trying to avert armageddon?

he hides his presence (a neat little trick he picked up; very useful when following the trail of the angel you love) and listens in on the conversation and nearly has a heart attack when crowley drops the façade and shows his form, his true form, the archangel raphael

heartbreak 1: crowley lied to him. in fact, worse: crowley was the lie himself. the being that azira loved and cherished never existed

heartbreak 2: the archangels are talking to Raphael about the demon that he was supposedly 'manipulating' in order to gain intel (a lie Raphael came up with so that they wouldn't be suspicious about why he was hanging around a demon so much); of course, azira believes them and understands, truly, that he was just being toyed with from the start

heartbreak 3: Raphael sounds like he's all for war (he's not; he's playing the role the archangels expect him to) ready to eradicate the legions of hell and bring an end to this miserable world (the world azira loves, the world where he feels he belongs, the world where he fell in love and almost believed himself to have a chance at being loved in return)

azira leaves and vows to fix things

he doesn't need crowley, raphael, whoever— he is

he'll stop armageddon himself if he needs to

azira goes to track down the boy himself using the prophecies from the witch's book meanwhile, raphael is panicking; the plans are underway and even speaking to the metatron doesn't give him access to speak to God— his last-ditch effort

he thinks back to azira's stupid suggestion—that they run off together—and a part of him is desperate enough to believe that even prolonging their demise would be enough.

he can't—won't fight azira in the battlefields. and he'll slay his own kin if they so much as raise a sword to his demon

he's calling azira's bookshop but there's no answer. he goes there himself and finds it engulfed in flames

hell has found his demon and raphael gives up all hope

it’s azira that finds Adam and is the one to single-handedly convince him to stop armageddon, that he doesn't need to be a slave to this supposed destiny of his

meanwhile, crowley watches on, stunned—that his demon is alive and—actually competent?

raphael wants to be there, wants to stand by azira's side so badly

he knows he has a lot to explain, a lot to apologize for, over 6,000 years of lies and deceit but it's that look in azira's eyes from across the tadfield air base that stops raphael in his tracks.

fear

azira is afraid…of him

armageddon is averted all thanks to a demon that loved this world more than anything and no thanks to an archangel who would have committed treason to save the demon he loved

[crvwly]

after the body swap, crowley starts to feel aziraphale's love for him

Things are different.

Rather, everything is exactly the same as it was before Armageddon’t and Crowley and Aziraphale’s metaphoric declarations of independence from Heaven and Hell, but the moment Crowley steps back into his own body from Aziraphale’s he feels like he’s walked into a room in which all the furniture has been shifted just far enough to the left that you run your shins into every corner of every table and chair.

So, the same, but wildly disorienting.

Maybe it’s one of the effects of the Earth being essentially rebooted by the young Antichrist-who-was. Maybe the Ritz isn’t all it’s cracked up to be and he got food poisoning from that ridiculously indulgent Ceviche of Scallop Aziraphale insisted he order. Maybe this is the culmination of all of Crowley’s worst fears and, in switching bodies with Aziraphale, something angelic has seeped into him (and the worst consequence of that possibility, the true cause of Crowley’s fears—something demonic has seeped into Aziraphale).

Whatever it is, Crowley has no name for it. He felt it for the first time when they swapped back; a warmth, fuzzy and soft and nearly unnoticeable at first. He’d figured, at first, that it was a weird combination of the usual insufferable butterflies that come along with touching Az and the sensation of his soul-thingy transferring physical vessels. 

The feeling stuck around for awhile, but once he got back to his flat and had a good shout at his plants the feeling disappeared, so he shrugged it off and drank himself to sleep, exhausted from the truly ridiculous series of events and finally free to crash for a few days.

He wakes up three days later and texts Aziraphale to meet up for lunch at the rustic little bakery on the end of Kendal Street because… well, because there's no reason not to anymore.

It's a terrifyingly freeing thought—the tiptoeing around, the risk of being caught and/or killed by some of the Powers That Be, it's over. 

It's also dangerous. Now Crowley has no reason to stay away. 

Az agrees, of course, because Crowley chose his favorite (local) bakery. They decide to meet at noon and Crowley takes an extraordinarily long shower and primps and preens himself like a lovesick peacock up until the last possible minute. 

That feeling starts creeping back in as Crowley slinks up to the bakery. It's low and deep in his core, a subtle vibration that grows in intensity as he walks inside. Aziraphale is in one of the comfy armchairs facing the windows, already sipping on cocoa. Crowley smiles and runs a hand through his hair, pseudo-heart already skipping a beat at the sight of the back of Aziraphale's head.

Before the door is even shut, Aziraphale jumps in his seat like he's been bit on the arse by a bug and whips his head around.

"Oh!" he gasps, hand flying to his chest like he's having trouble breathing. "Crowley, you're here."

"Angel," Crowley greets with a quirked brow. He goes to say something clever and banter-y but before he can get anything out he's overwhelmed by that feeling, so intense that it steals his breath and fills his torso with a fluttering warmth that's suffocating. 

He's dizzy with it—giddy with it, he realizes, unable to stop himself from smiling and letting out an extremely embarrassing giggle. He covers his mouth, cheeks pinkening, and leans against the wall for support. 

Crowley doesn't feel giddiness. He feels pain, and need, and unrepentant pining for something he'll never have despite it being literally just across the room from him, practically within reach. In this moment, though, he's full to bursting with—well, with whatever the hell this is, and it hits him in waves that grow with each crest. 

The object of his every desire, by coincidence, is staring at Crowley with his mouth agape, still grasping at his own lapels like if he lets go he'll fall to bits. 

"Crowley," Aziraphale breathes, flushing brightly, "is that—my Lord, is that all coming from you?"

 "I—I have absolutely no idea what—ha!—no idea what's going on," Crowley gasps.

The clerk behind the bakery counter, who's been watching in extreme confusion since Crowley walked in like a swaggering idiot, finally speaks up. "Sir, are you okay?"

"He's fine," Aziraphale answers quickly, rising from his seat. "I'm his… I know him." 

He strides over to Crowley and goes to reach for him, then hesitates, like he's afraid to touch him. "Crowley, let's step outside."

The all-encompassing fluttering is distracting enough that Crowley doesn't even argue—he turns and fumbles for the door knob, but his hands are shaking and he can barely get ahold of it.

Aziraphale reaches for the knob and Crowley pulls his hand away, but not soon enough to avoid brushing his fingers against Az's palm. 

The feeling multiplies and Crowley's chest constricts; tears sting the corners of his eyes. He can hear Aziraphale gasp beside him as he shoves the door open.

Crowley stumbles through the doorway and leans against the wall outside, pressing a hand to the base of his throat where his pulse—which by all means he shouldn't even have—is fluttering faster than the beat of a hummingbird's wings. He can't stop smiling, and something deep inside him feels… whole.

"Az," he rasps, a laugh bubbling out, "oh my God."

"Crowley," Aziraphale whispers, awed and a bit short of breath, "you—I—oh, Lord above, I can't believe I never realized—"

"Angel, please," Crowley begs, "what the hell is going on?"

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale says. Crowley can see tears in his eyes, too. "It's love."

Crowley barks out a laugh. "Love? I don't feel love. I've never felt love."

Aziraphale takes a shaky breath and wipes at the corners of his eyes. "You know, during Armageddon I kept—well, I kept feeling those flashes, those flashes of love, and I never could place where they were coming from," he babbles. "Oh, dear boy. I had thought… well, I had hoped it had been you, but it was so infrequent and spotty I couldn't be sure."

"It wasssn't," Crowley attempts to growl; it comes out as more of a pathetic hiss. 

"Crowley, darling," Aziraphale says, "I think that, perhaps, when we borrowed each other's bodies it might have changed something. To put it delicately, I think that you may be able to—to feel my love."

The fluttering in Crowley's chest speeds up and rises into his throat, a ball of nervous energy, and he shakes his head. "No—I know what celestial 'love' feels like, this isn't it," he huffs, scrubbing his hand over his mouth to force away his smile.

Aziraphale titters nervously. "Crowley, that's not what I mean."

Crowley swallows hard, rubbing at his throat. "I can't focus like this. God, do you have to deal with this all the time?"

"No, this is different," Aziraphale says wearily. "I admit it's… very distracting."

"What do you mean this is different?" Crowley asks, furrowing his brow.

Aziraphale hesitates, then reaches out and gently takes Crowley's glasses from his face. "I've been trying to explain," he says, folding the glasses and depositing them in Crowley's jacket pocket. 

Crowley blinks against the light and looks at Aziraphale, the fluttering lowering in volume to background noise for a moment in time. Aziraphale wants to see his eyes—this is important.

"The thing is, Crowley," Aziraphale says, his voice pitching higher with nerves, "I can feel your love—your romantic love, that is—for me right now."

Crowley's stomach bottoms out and his mouth goes dry. No. "I don't know what you mean," he rasps, looking away.

"It's okay, dear," Aziraphale says sweetly. He takes Crowley's chin in his hand tenderly, sending waves of warmth buzzing down his neck. "I think what you're feeling is my romantic love."

Crowley stares at Aziraphale, slack-jawed.

"Gosh, I haven't rendered you speechless since the eighties," Aziraphale laughs, looking far too innocent for someone who just said something so groundshaking. His eyes are still watery and Crowley can feel his fingers trembling against his face. "I didn't think—I didn't even consider that you would ever be able to feel love in the same capacity that angels do because. Well, you know."

"Hard to forget, yeah," Crowley mumbles.

"Sorry, dear," Aziraphale says, smiling softly. "I really was going to tell you soon. I realized that after all of this—after surviving the end of the world and the threat of our employers with you, there was no real base left to any of my fears about… this."

"This?"

"Us," Aziraphale says. 

"Oh," Crowley exhales. "So—just to clarify, because I've been a bit off-kilter since I walked into the bakery—what you're saying is…"

Aziraphale smiles and brushes his thumb over Crowley's cheek, taking a step closer. "What I'm saying is, I love you."

If there were any room for doubt in Crowley's mind, it would have been washed away by the once again intensified waves of fluttering and warmth seeping into him through Aziraphale's hand. He reaches up and rests his hand over the angel's and takes a shuddering breath.

"I love you, too," Crowley whispers. He wraps his other arm around Aziraphale's back and pulls him in. "And please, please tell me I can—"

Aziraphale beats him to the chase, tipping Crowley's chin up and kissing him sweetly. Crowley fails to hold back a pathetically needy whimper and kisses back, gripping the back of Aziraphale's jacket and holding him close with no intent of letting go.

[mostfacinorous]

GO Whumptober Day 31: Today’s Special- Torture [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9][10][11][12][13][14][15][16][17][18][19][20][21][22][23][24][25][26][27][28][29][30]

“You know,” Crowley heard, as he slowly woke. “Every hunter worth their salt has a tracking device they keep on their person. And his led me straight to you. So tell me the truth: where is Mathias?” 

Crowley opened his eyes to find himself in a mostly dark room, tied to a chair, plastic spread out on the floor around him, and floodlights hitting him right in the eyes. 

There was a woman standing in front of him, arms crossed and looking both unimpressed and threatening. 

“I mean-- I ate him.” Crowley answered, feeling a mite groggy, like he may have been drugged. The pounding in his skull backed up that theory. 

“Oh, a jokester. Funny. Mathias is my brother, so I hope for your sake he’s around here somewhere.” 

Crowley groaned.

“Mathias sent a child after me by lying to her about the source of her ma’s illness, and then he attacked when I turned up to help them, so I turned into a snake and ate him.” Crowley told her. “I’m not joking, and I’m awful sorry for your loss, though he was a bit of a prick.” 

The woman looked less than pleased with that answer, and paced back and forth a bit. 

“You wanna talk me through what you’re thinking, or would you rather wear a hole in that tarp?” He finally asked. 

“Well, your eyes say demon, so that makes your story a little more plausible. I don’t want to believe my brother’s dead, because if I come home without him, my father will be furious.” 

Crowley listened, nodding. 

“So I suppose,” she continued, “My options are to take you back to my father and let you tell him your story, and hope I get let off the hook while he kills you slowly, a little bit at a time, or, I do it myself, here and now, save myself the trouble of the roadtrip with you, and know I’ll probably kill you off faster than he would, so it’s really sort of a favor, on account of how you’re right, and my brother was a prick.” 

“Sounds like either way is pretty shit, as far as options go on my end.” Crowley quipped, and she huffed a little laugh. 

“Shame about you eating him,” she responded. “I feel like we really coulda grown to like one another.” 

---

Crowley swam in and out of consciousness for the next several hours, as this incredibly disturbed human woman made a game of removing bits of him and putting them in labelled mason jars. 

It really was like some kind of parody of a decor show, the way she tied little ribbons around each one, and labelled them with what they were and the time when she removed them from him. 

He had no idea where they were or how they’d got there, but she’d done a damn good job of making sure she wouldn’t be interrupted. 

He’d yelled and cried and screamed as loud as he could, but it seemed like there were no neighbors around to hear, or care, or help. 

And he had no idea where Aziraphale was. He wished he could call to him, though, reach him, ask for some kind of way out of here. 

“So it occurs to me,” Amber said, for that was her name, and Crowley hated that she’d bothered telling him about her, because he sympathized now, a little. 

“I haven’t had much opportunity to learn about demons, and how they react to things. For example:” She held up a bottle of salt. “I can make a circle with this, and you can’t leave it, yeah? But what happens if I just…”

She upended the bottle over his chest, slashed open and bleeding sluggishly as it was. 

He screamed again as the salt began to dissolve in his blood and sting at the open skin. 

She watched, dispassionately, and when he voice broke and his screams turned to little whimpers, she hummed to herself. 

“I’d say that was about on par with a human, actually.” She noted. “Which is a real pity, I expected more… fireworks, or the like.” 

Crowley twisted his wrist back and forth, trying again to work his hand free, but she laughed. 

His fingers were broken; she’d done that first thing, so even if he could get free, the act of summoning a miracle would be even more painful. 

“How about the old folklore fixes, eh? Silver? Iron? Garlic?” 

“Werewolves, fairies, and vampires. Not me.” He answered her, voice rough from screaming and ruining his attempt at sounding cool. 

“And how about holy water? Does that do anything?” 

He croaked out a little laugh.

“Tingles a bit. Demons use it as hot sauce.” 

He had loosened the duck tape around his wrist enough to be able to move his hand a bit, and he smashed it against the chair, forcing his broken bones back into some semblance of being hand shaped.

“Hm. Hot sauce, you say?” She asked, and he didn’t like that at all. He wiggled his fingers, braced himself, and summoned a miracle.

“Maybe I should go get you some, then. After all, you are being punished for having eaten my brother-- maybe keeping your mouth on a constant holy water drip will make the punishment fit the crime a little better.” 

Crowley sucked in air, in too much pain to try and figure out how to talk his way out of that one. 

“Did I hear,” A new voice said in the darkness, and Crowley felt his eyes filling with tears of relief, “That you are in the market for some holy water?” 

Aziraphale stepped forward, looking prim and proper as ever, and he’d even pulled out his halo and wings for the occasion. 

Amber looked up at him in awe.

“You’re an angel aren’t you?” She asked, and Aziraphale smiled. 

“I am. And it seems you’ve captured my own personal adversary.” He flicked his eyes towards Crowley, and Crowley whined at the cold expression in them. 

Oh, Aziraphale was pissed. And worse, he was righteous. 

“Oh, did you want to get in on this? It turns out he ate my brother, so…” 

“Were you aware,” Aziraphale asked, voice still light and sweet and casual, “That your brother had made a deal with devils? That your brother kidnapped me, and sold me to hell?” 

Amber took a step back as Aziraphale turned to look at her again. 

“What? No, I mean, Mathias was an arse, but…” 

“Your brother.” Aziraphale said, advancing on her, “Was a monster. And so are you.” 

Crowley could not actually see what happened, but he did see that Aziraphale did not so much as lift a finger. 

Amber screamed and fell to her knees, her eyes bleeding, her mouth wide open and her tongue suddenly missing. 

“Crowley, darling, I think you had better close your eyes.” Aziraphale warned him, and, when he’d obeyed, he could see the bright holy light that suddenly shone throughout the room even through his closed eyelids. It stabbed into him and set his head off again, and he whimpered. 

Just as fast as it began, it ended, and then Aziraphale was there. 

“Alright, here we are, I am so sorry. Come on, let’s get you out of here, get you healed up.” 

“What-- what did you do with her?” Crowley asked. “She was just-- her and Mathias both, their dad…” 

“Oh, I know.” Aziraphale told him. “I sent her body back to her father, covered in writing that tells the entire story of their awful line. No further children will be born to them. The old man will see his daughter, read my letter, and then never see again. And whatever monster he is running from will finally be able to catch up.”

Aziraphale’s voice echoed with a sort of certainty, a knowledge beyond what they knew, and Crowley realized he was tapping into the weapons available to angels in the most extreme of circumstances. The sorts of weapons he’d have been given back in the beginning, back when it was a very real war, and he’d been set out to kill demons like Crowley. 

Instead, now, he was using those powers in defense of a demon. 

“I don’t think heaven’s gonna like this too much.” Crowley told him, head lolling as they moved, and suddenly Crowley realized he was being carried. 

“I don’t give two fucks what heaven does and doesn’t like!” Aziraphale said hotly, but sounding more like himself. “I won’t let anyone take you from me again!” 

Crowley smiled at that, even though, as they crossed out of the darkness and into the sunlight, his headache flared up, and all the moving was jostling the salt in his chest wounds. 

He was woozy and in and out of it, and Aziraphale got him laid out on the grass by a roadside, the day crisp and bright and lovely, and Crowley felt cold and vague. 

“That crazy bint killed me, didn’t she?” He asked, and Aziraphale’s eyes flashed, brighter even than the noonday sun. 

“Not if I’ve anything to say about it.” He answered. “I am so very sorry,” He added, softer and sweet. 

Crowley sighed, trying not to tense even though he knew what was coming next. 

Or, he thought he knew. Aziraphale had done some laying of hands on him before, once or twice, and it was terrible for them both each time. They both suffered when they went about helping one another that intimately. So he tried to prepare for more pain. 

What he felt instead, though, was Aziraphale’s hand on the side of his face, and then his lips on his, and he was kissing him back to life. 

And somehow, it didn’t hurt. 

It was like being dunked suddenly into a cold pool, a shock to the system, unpleasant, but bracing. He felt alert again, like he’d just woken, and he felt the pain in his chest going away, the throbbing in his fingers ceasing as everything straightened out and reknitted itself, pieces regrowing and reattaching and healing. 

And Aziraphale was kissing him. 

When he was done, Crowley chased after his retreating lips, panting and confused. 

“That didn’t-- it didn’t hurt me at all. Did it-- are you alright?” He demanded, sitting up and reaching for Aziraphale to catch him in case he fainted from the efforts.

But Aziraphale just smiled. 

“When God said she wanted us to be closer,” He said, sounding, finally like himself, “I suspect this is more what she had in mind.” 

“You mean I could have been kissing you since winter?” 

Aziraphale laughed and helped Crowley to his feet. 

“If we weren’t so scared, I would say we could have been kissing for much longer than that. But, yes. I don’t think we’ll have any problems with healing one another any longer.” 

Crowley felt tears coming to his eyes again, and he grabbed hold of Aziraphale and held onto him tightly. 

“Let’s go find somewhere that’s quiet.” He requested. “Somewhere out of the city. You bring your books, I’ll bring my plants… and with any luck neither of us will have to heal the other ever again.” 

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale said on a sigh, “That sounds delightful. How do you feel about the south downs?”

“If you’re there?” Crowley told him, as he reached to pull him into another kiss. “Better than heaven could ever be.”