#and maybe crowley can start to wear more colour too

[owlygem]

Manifesting this at the end 💛

[confusedkittensposts]

Adventures of Meowley (part 1)

POV Juliet

Juliet lept from roof to roof, keeping an eye on the old miner’s ghost that had caught her fancy. She let him think he could evade her, the hound was fond of playing with her food.

She doesn’t hunt ghosts often, you can’t make a mess of them like you can of humans with flesh and blood and bones…mmm yum

But ghosts can make a small snack, the secret is, the older the ghost, the better they taste. And this one was almost a century old

Still, she wasn’t here to chase ghosts. With a graceful dive, she landed on the pavement, the ghost between her teeth. Juliet took a minute to access the old miner’s taste, it was better than she had expected.

Maybe she could look for some more, the historic town was full of them and barely had street animals she usually entertained herself with.

A sharp, inhuman whistle pierced through the air, reminding the hellhound she wasn’t alone. her paws clacked on the cobbled streets, as she hurried towards Papa.

It was a ritual between them, going on walks around the globe. Papa has taken her to many wonderful places, he lets her explore them, meet new animals and even hunt if she wants; sometimes he lets her take him to new towns and cities she found on hunts. Sometimes they are joined by other hounds

Papa is always quiet on the walks, and they don’t talk unless Juliet has a question or Papa wants to discuss something with her.

Papa smiled as she joined him, pressing herself on his side, while he stroked her dark fur. “Enjoy your snack, darling?”

“Hmmm”, the hound melted as Crowley's hands reached her neck.

“We have a small stop to make, then we can leave.” huh, that would explain why they were in a quaint old american town. She nodded, nuzzling his hand before stepping back.

Juliet followed the king of Hell to a shabby, gray building that looked out of place among the closely packed colourful buildings in the town

She could feel powerful wards around the place, which meant they were likely meeting a collector

The king placed a hand on her side and took them inside, on the fifth floor, If her guess was correct.

The corridor was dark, and it smelled like dust, rot and magic. Every inch of the pine colored door in front of them was covered in wardings.

Juliet made a face, shaking off the feeling of something being wrong. But she wasn't the only one who felt that, Papa carefully ran his hand over the door frame, assessing it.

The door opened with a getal push, smell of too sweet lavender and days old storm laced with power wafted out, making Juliet bare her fangs.

The scent was soon followed by its owner. Rowena is wearing a navy gown that hugs her body, her flaming red hair tied in a messy tie.

“Well, hello Fergus”

Juliet growled, it seemed to amuse the witch.

Beside her, Papa sighed, “Mother”

“I have to say, I didn't expect to see you here. Come to pay your dear mother a visit?”

“You know I haven't. You didn't know I would be here, did you?”

“Of course not, I would have prepared tea.”

Rowena started to move back towards the room she had emerged from, “But now that you are here, I believe there is something you want.”

Juliet followed her behind Papa, “I do, but that’s hardly your concern.”

The hound cast a cursory look around the library they had entered. Shelves full of old tombs, glass bottles and scrolls. The impressive dark wood table against the wall opposite to the door was overflowing with knick knacks. Rowena walked around it, dropping in the chair behind it.

“No need to be rude, is there? why don’t I give you whatever you want and you can leave the rest for me to sort out.”

“Or you could leave before my hound here has her lunch”

Juliet grinned showing off her sharp fangs, oh how she would love to sink them into the witch.

Rowena’s face fell, an almost sad look taking over her magically maintained face, “We don’t always have to be enemies, you know.”

Papa ran a hand along Juliet’s side, before walking towards his mother, “I assure you, mother. We aren't enemies. I just would like to kill you.”

“Besides,” Papa continued, tracing a finger on carvings of a wooden box laying on the table, “Dear old Elijah had some interesting knowledge, I can’t leave with you.”

The hound saw the dagger rowena pulled from under the table, just as Papa did. He reached for the witch’s hand and Juliet took a step back ready to pounce as soon as Papa pushed her back. But before he could do that, Rowena smashed her hand against his chest.

Juliet watched as Papa was engulfed in purple light. A small storm took over the room, papers flew and bottles crashed, powerful magic pressed against her, making it impossible to move.

By the time everything calmed and Juliet could move again, Rowena had long made her exit.

The hound looked around, “Papa?”

Faint rustling answered her.

Juliet blinked, carefully moving around the table, where the noise had come from.

There half hidden beneath torn parchments was a fairly large black Cat, but she could see Papa’s demonic form crammed in the little body.

“Meow”

[astringofmadhousefloozies]

The Birthday Fic

Several months in the making. Started around Ruggie’s birthday (Which is why he’s the opener) completed long past my own birthday.

Content warning for coarse language, sexuality, mentions of illness and the medication needed for managing it, and getting wildly horny to a point that even I was impressed with myself.

As always, there’s more in my Twisted Wonderland Fanfiction tag, send me a message if you liked it! (I know what the birthday gifts were from most everyone, even if not mentioned in-fic.)

~*~*~*~

"I'm sorry dude, what did you say? You ears started going and I just tuned the fuck out."

"I said, 'when's it your turn to have the school-run birthday party?' It's got it be soon." Ruggie's intentionally twitching his damn ears, has to be, and you had to physically shield your eyes to be able to answer properly.

"I don't fucking know, man, I need to have a birthday for that."

"Everyone has a birthday."

"Yeah, but I don't know when mine is."

"Can't Crowley tell you? He's got all kind of magic."

You sighed. "He tried that, so I could remember my proper name. He can't even get a year fix."

"That fucking sucks, Yuu." Ruggie passed you a pop can before cracking open one himself. "You should get one of these, too."

"Ah, maybe Riddle will take pity and dedicate me a specific Unbirthday party." What was this, melon? Not bad.

"That's not the same because you won't get loot."

"Yeah, you wanna go through fifty boxes of chocolates to get rid of all the ones with potion-of-suck-your-dick? I'm good."

He scrunched his nose in disgust. "People still trying love spells on you?"

"Not as much, but I still get Mal to check them over for me. He's good about that."

"He just doesn't want to share."

"Shush."

"It's true!" He stopped for a moment. "Does he know you don't have a birthday?"

"He hasn't realized yet and you're not going to tell him."

~*~*~*~

"Yuu?"

"Trey?" You blinked up at him. You didn't talk as much as you'd like to, mostly because every time he showed up your mouth rapidly filled with whatever treat he'd just made.

"What do you like best for cake?"

"I will literally eat anything that you put in front of me if you make it, even if it's full of shit I hate."

He raised an eyebrow. "Okay, new angle. What don't you like?"

Oh boy, he better prepare himself. "Fondant tastes gross, modeling chocolate is white chocolate so I hate it, a cake should be cake and not mostly fucking icing and rice crispy treats, most icing's too heavy for me if it's not whipped cream- why are you writing this down."

He looked up from his notebook, blinking at you with his pleasing yellow eyes. "Because you always give thoughtful feedback to my baking and I want to make you something as a thank you."

"Oh. If that's it, I'd rather have cheesecake."

~*~*~*~

"Mon Trickster~"

"Rook, I'm trying to re-" You yelped as he squeezed your waist, and you swatted at him. "Fuck's gotten into you?"

"What, I cannot play with my sweet friend?" He'd dragged you from your seat in the library, and was now doing his damndest to twirl you around without ramming you through the tables.

"Not right now! I expect this shit from Floyd, not you." He's going to get you both kicked out of the library if he doesn't smarten up.

"Our dearest Malfeasant is playing with the Rose King right now. Besides, he lacks my talents." He stretched your arms out straight before twirling you around, your back pressed to his front.

"Is that getting away with being a shithead?" you ask as you pap the side of his face, too little force to be a slap but with a similar message of 'stop'.

"Amongst much else, my dear!" He managed to dip you low, bracing one of your legs in the air, and you wiggled out of his grasp with a thump to the floor.

"Ah, what an invitation, ma belle! But alas, I cannot. It could never be. I'll see you at lunch." And he left you there, baffled, on the floor.

You wound up getting kicked out of the library after you started shrieking in rage and kicking like a damned toddler. What the fuck was that about?

~*~*~*~

"People are being weird."

"Everyone's weird around you." If Idia's combo kept, this would be a perfect match. "You encourage it in people with your presence. It's a passive AOE. No fighting against it."

"More than normal."

"It's the curse of spring. If you aren't sneezing, you see pretty girls and get stupid." He got his perfect match, and went back to the lobby. "Even I'm not immune to simp fever and spring flowers."

"You sure? You only go outside so you don't die of Vitamin D deficiency."

He pouted at you. "Girlfriends are supposed to be nice to you, you know."

"If I stopped, you'd wonder what's wrong. Anyway, then you couldn't brag to your followers about a tsundere girlfriend."

"You're not even a tsundere! You genuinely like me even when you're mean." He leaned back and stared at the ceiling. "You're maybe sadodere."

"What's that one?"

"Sadistic yet affectionate."

You opened your mouth but genuinely couldn't argue. He was too fucking cute not to be mean to! What can you say? That pwease-no-buwwy aura he got when distressed was just too much.

"Yeah." He paused, a small smile creeping across his face. "Yuu."

"Yeah?"

"You really like stripes, don't you?"

You looked down, at his blue striped shirt you were wearing. It honestly fit you better than it did him. Further down was pinstriped socks, and if you remembered, the underwear had stripes too.

"What do you think."

~*~*~*~

"Mal?" "Yes?" "Why do you have all this even if you don't wear any of it?" "I do wear earrings now, thanks to you." He dropped another oversized ring onto your finger. "The rest, I simply don't bother with unless I must appear in an official capacity."

"So I'm a special occasion?"

He smiled at you, sweet and genuine. "Always."

"Then why am I your jewelry rack today?" So many necklaces. So many rings. There'd be a crown on your head, too, if the crowns for Draconias weren't essentially elabourate chains hanging off the horns.

"Perhaps I enjoy seeing you wearing my things. You wear Shroud's all the time." He was slowly going through a box of rings, trading them on and off your fingers after puzzling over them.

"Your clothes are tailored, and I'm too big around." You thought for a moment. "So, Mal."

"Yes?"

"Are you planning on something you aren't telling me?"

He blanched and immediately went shift eyed. "Of course not."

You took a breath. "I'm gonna say no."

"Yuu-"

"I'm pretty sure your grandmother would eat me alive if I said yes."

"No!" He made a shushing guesture. "I... am planning something. But not a proposal, my goodness, that would be too much pressure for you and would splinter the kingdom." He sighed. "Even if I would like it."

"I know you would. What are you planning."

"No."

"Yes, tell me."

"It's a surprise. You'll get it at some point in the future."

You thought back to some of the stranger events of the past few weeks. "... is it a birthday party, Malleus."

"Nnnnnnoooooooooooooo?" His face was a desperate, wide-eyed mask of please-believe-me.

"Yes it is."

"I didn't say that."

"You might as well have!"

"It's not." He wasn't even facing you anymore, knowing his face would betray him.

You took a deep breath. 

"I can keep pretending I don't know. I mean, if you want to throw a surprise party, I can't really stop you. And anyway," you added, "If I don't have a set birthday, there's no way I can know exactly when it's coming."

He relaxed, slightly.

"Don't get me a ring, though."

He chuckled. "That does have implications, doesn't it."

"Don't it, though?"

"I was checking what colours were most flattering for you." He finally turned around, all warm smiles. "I should have known. They all look lovely, because you're the one wearing them."

"Stop." You could feel you cheeks reddening. "If it helps, gold doesn't make my ears act up."

~*~*~*~

When you walked to your dorm one warm day, after school, you simply could not see the building for the brambles grown up since you left this morning.

"Yuu?"

"Grim?"

He squinted at you, unimpressed. "Your prince boyfriend has lost his fucking mind. Why'd he do this?"

"I think I know." You looked in amongst the branches, which held no roses, but something better. You plucked off a blackberry and held it to your little shoulder monster.

"Ew, no. I want tuna."

"Suit yourself." There was a path, and if you got on tiptoes, a tent half-hidden behind the briar. "You ready for a party, Grim?"

"What? What party?"

You shifted him from your shoulder to your hip as you walked along, careful of your sore arm. "They decided I needed a surprise party because I don't have an actual birthday. Figured it out like two... three? weeks ago."

"Why didn't you tell me?" He stopped, looked away, and bristled. "Why didn't they tell me?!?"

"Because you can't keep a fucking secret?"

He yelled and scrambled to the ground. "Hey assholes why didn't you tell me I better be getting presents too-" He's already out of sight, and you can't stop laughing at him. It's better like this, when he's himself.

~*~*~*~

Why is Everyone here. There's a huge stack of presents, there's a buffet table, there's chairs, there's - 

"Shrimpie's here!" And then everyone converged with enough words that it was just a wall of sound; mystery hands leading you to a chair, someone was trying to stick a hat on you -

"Wait!"

People only stepped off and quieted because your voice cracked. Idia, hiding in a corner, managed to raise sympathetic eyebrows before whispering something into Azul's ear.

"I gotta go inside for like, five minutes, I'll be right back." And off you went.

~*~*~*~

"You don't seem the type to do drugs."

You looked up and laughed. "Well, Vil, I gotta get through the day somehow." You shook out two pills and poured a glass of water.

"What are they for?" He leaned against the doorway, as though it wouldn't cover his clothes with splinters and dust.

"These," you said as you pointed to the two in your hands "are anti-nausea. They're new."

"How many of those do you take?" He nodded towards the other bottles on the counter. “I didn’t see them during training.”

"Well," you said, as you started to number them off on your fingers. "I started the first ones after Eliza, to help stabilize my organs, the second ones were immunity-boosting after my pneumonia, I started taking vitamins after that as well, I got sleeping pills for nightmares after Jamil blotted - they don't always work, but hey - and, well." You shook your current bottle. "Your curse vapours are pretty good, it turns out."

He blanched, and you backpedaled. "You weren't yourself, and I only have to take these before meals now. I had to get IVs in the morning for a few days, I couldn't keep... wait, wait, shit, no, I'm sorry, don't make that face -"

Vil crossed the distance, putting his face very close to yours. "You should have told me."

"Why make you feel even worse, man?"

"Because I could have formulated something better for the damage." He flicked your nose, more exasperation than malice. "Cures and poison go hand in hand. I can't fix what was done if I don't know."

"Taking care of my medical woes is not your job, Vil."

"You don't get to tell me what is and isn't my job." He squeezed you close with one arm. "You're just an exhausting little potato."

"I'm a delicious little sweet potato that you can't resist."

He sighed, exhausted. "Yes you are. Now take your pills and stop with secrets."

~*~*~*~

"What kept you?"

"Had to make sure there's room in the fridge for all your food, Trey." He hadn't chosen one cheesecake - he had at least two dozen varieties of bite sized miniatures, labeled by flavour and potential allergens. "You were busy."

"Well, I felt like experimenting. I hope you don't mind."

"You're the one doing me a favour." You looked around, everyone chatting idly with one another. "Where's Mal."

"..."

"I swear to fucking god if he didn't get an invitation to the party he helped organize-"

~*~*~*~

It turns out he'd left to fetch an obnoxiously large bouquet of flowers, the scent so overpowering you thought your chair might tip from the force of it.

"You do enjoy them?" Mal was so cute when unsure.

"Yes, dear." As long as people didn't crowd in again. Lately, you can only take so much sensation before your brain shorts out and you start yelling. "Set them on the table, I'll have to start on them later." Hairspray and an arid room would have those dried within the week.

"Which part of the celebration will we start with first?"

"I don't know. It's my party but you're the ones throwing it. Where's Grim?"

He pointed over to one of the set up tables, where Grim sat in a pile of wrapping paper, furiously kick-scratching at a wriggling toy fish as big as he was, while Cater filmed. "We realized a few days ago he'd be unhappy if he didn't get his own presents."

"Aww. Is there catnip in that?"

He leaned in conspiratorially. "We're not supposed to have any on campus because Kingscholar is susceptible to it."

You went right past normal laughter straight to wheezing.

~*~*~*~

So far, the highlights were: A mycological photobook from Jade big enough to crush someone's head with (that he cheerfully wrote as such on the inside flap), an enormous multipack of slipper socks from Ruggie (with a note saying it was a return on the doughnut-patterened ones you'd given him for his own birthday) and a parure set from Floyd, crafted from thousands of woven seed pearls with carved coral feature beads that was frankly obscene in the amount of money it must have cost. (He, of course, said it was worth it as long as you wore it for him, and simply laughed when you quipped that he meant with clothing right?)

The rest was fantastic, still - various books and movies, a pretty glass vase from Ace stuffed with wildflowers, fine silk dresses from Kalim and a simple belled bracelet tucked in, from Jamil. Currently, you were opening a basket from Vil.

"Oh, wow," you meant with sincerety as you pulled out a light, fragrant soap. "You make this yourself?"

"Yes. There's soaps, shampoo, conditioner, perfumes, lotions..."

You smiled at him sweetly. "You saying I stink, Shoenheit?"

He mirrored your smile right back at you. "Be sure to use them."

"... I'm going to kill you," you said, laughing, as you lobbed the wrapping paper at his face.

~*~*~*~

"Az?"

"Mm?" He was watching with amusement as you looked the jacket over, a lovingly tailored frock coat in periwinkle wool and shell toggles.

"Are you sure this'll fit?"

"Of course." He guestured down the table to Rook, who waved. "He checked your measurements."

"When did-" Ohhhhhh. Oh. Alright. "I'm surprised he couldn't tell by just looking."

"I could, mon ange! But that was more fun!"

~*~*~*~

Malleus barely hid his pout when sliding his box over to you, and it didn't take you long to guess why. "Floyd's jewels really show yours up, huh."

"Perhaps," he said, pointedly not looking at the boy currently playing with Grim.

"Yours are more special because they're from you." When unwrapped, the box was stunning; carved walnut with shell inlaid curlicues. "My god, how old is this?"

"Older than I am," he said with a smile.

"How old is that, Mal."

He just kept smiling, and you rolled your eyes and opened the box to reveal a piece far, far different than the frothy confection Floyd gave you. A single, sizable brooch of gilt and enamel, a tiny faerie woman staring up at you with imperious emerald eyes, she was so lovingly crafted you could see the tension of her muscles and the hair between her legs.

"This piece is only a hundred and fifty years old," he said mildly. "The artist lives in the Valley of Thorns, and created it in the image of her lover." His smile was fond, and sweet. "They're still together to this day. Even if we may not last so long, I hope that it can be as strong."

The sentiment was enough to make you tear up.

~*~*~*~

Several tissues and a bat-shaped blanket from Lilia later, Idia pulled out a large box. And another, and another.

"Uh, Idia."

He just turned red as he stacked another box.

"Dude, holy fuck. What did you do?"

"Looked at your wishlist on your shopping websites." He's flickering pink at the tips of his hair. "Couldn't decide."

"I told him to just get them all!" Ortho looked wildly proud of himself. "Some of them are from me."

You blinked several times. "I thought the sites broke." You started feeling faint. "Idia."

"Yes?" He finally brought out one last box, easily two thirds your height, and set it in front of you.

"Some of those dolls were... so much madol."

He was shifty-eyed. "Yeah."

"Some of the outfits were themselves more than some of the dolls on those wishlists."

Despite the redness, his face was still. "Yeah."

"Oh my god." You're already sitting down, but you need to lie down. "That's too much money."

"It's nothing, don't worry about it."

"Why do you have so much money one of those sites alone was at least a million madol's worth of-"

"Please just open the boxes," he said in a strained voice. "I don't want them all staring."

You take your shaking hands to start unwrapping, mentally trying to figure out which rooms in the building were sound enough to hold obscene amounts of porcelain, resin and plastic. By the time you were done, there were over forty of varying shapes and sizes with complete wardrobes for each; the last not even on any list - that was an art piece near as tall as you, a fine bone china girl with golden curls and knowing eyes from an artist whose work did not go for less than five million madol even firsthand. Your vision greyed at the sight of her, and when you came to your senses, everyone breathed a sigh of relief before spending the rest of the evening treating you as something at least as delicate and precious as her.

~*~*~*~

It's just past sunset, and guests are still milling about. You're not really looking at them, though - you're losing your little friend.

Grim's only himself in daylight, now. Once the night hits, he goes back to the strange, feral thing that laid your wrist open to eat a chunk of solid ink. He's gone twitchy, wordless, pacing with his now headless robot fish in his mouth, before finally tearing through the brambles to god-knows-where.

"... I don't know what to do about it. He doesn't come back at night anymore. What if he doesn't come back at all one night?"

"I won't let that happen." Idia was draped over the back of your chair, idly playing with the wrapping on your wrist. You couldn't see his face, but a curious tension was clear in his voice. "How many of those crystals has he eaten?"

"All of them, as far as I know." There may have been one on the camping trip that you were mercifully excluded from; thankfully your restraining order against Vargas meant that Grimm had been allowed to attend by himself. Good thing, too, your period had arrived weeks early. "Do you think it's like mercury poisoning? The effects get worse as more collects in his body?"

"Maybe. It's something to look into."

You snorted, lightly. "What do you know about it?"

"... Less than I'd like." Before you could ask, he leaned down to your ear to whisper, "I'd rather know you."

"What, now?" You looked around at the tables. "There's still people here-"

You barely stifled a cry when he nipped at your earlobe. "I put on something nice for you~" You could hear the smirk in his voice as he played every trick in his book to goad you. "Unwrap me and see~"

It took every ounce of self control in you to not throw him down on the table and take him right there, in front of God and every student in the school.

~*~*~*~

"I'm too late, I see."

"Close that damned door before everyone hears."

Malleus obediently shut the door to the balcony before setting his slotted pillow on the dresser. "They couldn't even if they had their ear to the door, I soundproofed all our rooms months ago."

"Aren't you clever. Did they buy the excuse?"

"I think that they would have believed that you were going to bed if you did not say it as soon as Shroud went inside looking very proud of himself."

You flopped back onto your pillows, eliciting a sleepy grunt from Idia. "Shit."

"And if you didn't trip on the stairs in your haste."

"Now you're making fun of me."

"Perhaps," he smiled, sitting at the foot of your bed and idly stroking your leg.

"So, why didn't you tail up after us?"

"I am, if I try very hard, capable of some discretion, even when it comes to you," he huffed. "And anyway, someone had to see everyone off, get everything put away, and bring the gifts inside."

Your face fell. "I'm sorry-"

He crept up to put a finger to your lips. "It was very simple. Now," he pressed himself against you and turned to look at Idia's drowsing form, "what is this?"

You snickered lightly to yourself. "I think he found my browsing history." All you'd left on him was a fine pair of silk stockings, with delicate stripes from thigh to toe. You'd never thought he'd even consider wearing something like that, but your pretty blue boy was so full of surprises.

Malleus hummed to himself as he reached out a hand, dragging a finger along one bruised hip. Idia only sighed and fluttered his lashes, and Mal let out a stuttering gasp.

"Do you think," he whispered, voice hoarse, "that if I took these off with my teeth, that he would still stay asleep?"

You felt faint at the thought. "I don't know, but let me watch you try."

~*~*~*~

You awoke, later, to Idia sitting with the blankets pooled around his waist, five of his blue screens open. You couldn't make much sense of them, too sleepy to make out the letters on their obnoxious brightness, so you reached out both hands to squeeze his waist.

He yelped and scowled at you. "Go to sleep."

"No, you." The screens weren't making any more sense, but there was, briefly, a picture of Grim. "What are you working on?"

"I'm almost done," he said, which was not an answer but you were too tired to notice, so you reached up his back to wind a few locks of hair around your hand - and pulled, which lead to another annoyed yelp as he quickly saved and closed his work. "Just say you're weak to light attacks instead of doing that."

"You know I am." When he finally laid back down beside you, you put your face to his chest, as much to block out the light from his hair as for warmth and comfort. No wonder he slept so poorly, he literally gave off blue light every hour of the day, that only dimmed once he was already asleep. "Tell me about it later, okay?"

"Later," he said, and you drifted off between your two boys, which was almost as nice as sleeping with Grim in your bed, but this would have to do until he got better.

[palimpsessed]

✨❄️✨ Carry On Countdown 2020 ✨❄️✨

Day 10: Crossover

@carryon-countdown

No fic chapter today, loves, because instead I give you the next pop culture sensation!

Coming this winter, if you love Queer Eye, good for you! Here’s another show that is absolutely not a complete ripoff!

Critics are raving:

“A gift!” - O. Henry

“Please, please, please, I beg you, whatever you do, do NOT take life advice from these people!” - R. Rowell

All episodes streaming Dec 24, only on Notflix!

Read more for season one highlights!

(Don’t get too excited. These are just the quotes that were my basis for casting the roles. All quotes by Rainbow Rowell, obvs.)

Agatha (grooming):

“She’s got her hair pulled back in a giant frizzy ponytail that would probably be nice and wavy if she’d put any product in it at all. Anything. Hand lotion. Shaving cream.”

“The sun is setting, and it’s making his grey skin look almost warm. I know it’s setting my hair on fire.”

“...she’s got the brightest eyes and rosiest cheeks of anyone I’ve ever met. Maybe it’s the beetroot.”

Baz (fashion):

“Aunt Fiona stomped out in her heavy black Doc Martens boots (clichéd)”

“Simon looks stunning in a grey suit.”

“(Simon Snow in America: jeans and a white T-shirt”

“Bunce tends to look a bit absurd, even at her freshest. She dresses like she’s still in Watford uniform, or wishes she was. Short, tartan skirts. Knee socks. Mary Janes or brogues. The only concession she’s made to civilian life is a series of oversized T-shirts. I wonder if she even realizes she still wears so much purple and green.”

“I buy myself a few more suits. Plus clothes for the drive. A few changes for Simon. I see a dress that would look lovely on Bunce, but they don’t carry her size. I buy it anyway. We can alter it with a spell.”

“Lamb is waiting in the lobby, wearing sunglasses and a three-piece suit. Tiffany blue. Which sounds vulgar, but very much isn’t. He looks trim and fresh.”

“Go ahead and shoot me. This isn’t my favourite shirt.”

Simon (Food and wine):

“I just can’t pass the scones up if they’re there. They’re soft and light and a little bit salty. Sometimes I dream about them.”

“I didn’t care if magic was real at that moment. Because roast beef and Yorkshire pudding are fucking real as rain.”

“I’d eat butter with a spoon if it were acceptable. (I did it anyway, my first year, whenever I was the first one down to breakfast.)”

“A Unicorn Frappuccino. It tastes like strawberry Dip Dab.”

“This menu’s staggering. There’s a whole page of taco salads. They’ve got macaroni and cheese, regular or fried. And every kind of chicken—look, orange chicken.”

“Crowley, this burger is gorgeous. It has hash browns on it.”

“It’s not French stuff. It’s just really sad pastries and bad tea. Oh and you missed Baz eating a squirrel.”

“I’ve found a way around the sandwich problem. Beef jerky! This place sells at least thirty different kinds.”

Penelope (design):

“I’m disappointed that we didn’t get to see more of his house—or even dig into the library. I went to the bathroom a few times, but it’s just down the hall, and it seems like a modern addition. (There’s a Japanese toilet in there with comforting music and a seat warmer.)”

“The vibe here is very, Let’s kill a virgin and write a great Led Zeppelin album. (Though the library is lovely, and Baz’s stepmum seems very nice.)”

“I step into their house. I love this house. I stayed in the spare bedroom when I came to see Micah two summers ago. All the rooms are huge, and only the bedrooms and bathrooms (there are four bathrooms) have doors. And everything—all the walls and furniture and the two dozen kitchen cabinets—is in peaceful shades of cream and tan. There are at least three tan leather sofas. There are two beige sitting rooms. There’s wall-to-wall carpeting exactly the shade of porridge. Ugh, it’s so comforting. My house is every colour, none of them planned. And our furniture is whatever colour it was when my father spotted it at a yard sale. Also, our house has stuff everywhere. Micah’s family must have stuff somewhere, but you never see it. The only things on the coffee tables (how many coffee tables are there? easily nine) are cream-coloured vases with cream-coloured flowers and tan, marble lamps.”

“(For a cheap hotel, this shower is massive.)”

Shepard (culture):

“You’re something new. Or maybe something old. I’m hoping you’ll tell me over a hot cup of coffee.”

“My strategy is simple: I tell the truth. I always use my real name (even though fairy tales tell you not to). I always say exactly what I want from a situation and exactly what I mean.”

“Brought you some good news. I liked this [book]. Kind of sad. Good jokes though. This one takes itself too seriously, but I know you’re a sucker for Westerns. I would have brought more, but I didn’t know I was coming. I did get this [radio], though, on the way. Waterproof.”

“Who else will listen? Who else wants to hear their stories? There are trolls who’ve spent the last two hundred years sitting alone under a bridge. If you can get past the bluster and the wooden clubs, if you bring them a little bone broth, they’re just grateful to have a sympathetic ear. If you tell them that you mean no harm, and then you never do any harm … They start to like you. They start to look forward to you coming around.”

“Well, I told you, he doesn’t carry a backpack. He’s got this pouch, and all that’s in it is a comb and a carving knife. I gave him my toothbrush, and he was pleased as punch with it. I need to get back up there, get him another toothbrush.…”

[nanoland]

new chapter (supernatural fic)

(Also on AO3.) 

Clean Hands, part 5

Crowley/Dean Winchester/Castiel 

Warning: SPACE GORE  

0    

“I understand you and Dean have fallen out,” said Castiel. “Again. But this is important. The Winchesters are in danger, Crowley. They badly need our help.”

Ten thick leashes in hand, Crowley walked on nothing, his Armani coat billowing in a non-existent breeze for stylistic purposes. Ordinarily, he was loathe to keep the hounds in check via such brutal methods – his clever, clever darlings were the best-behaved babies in the world, always attentive and alert, instantly responding to his every whistle and command. Leashes, he felt, insulted them.

But today, to his sorrow, it was necessary. Brilliant, gorgeous beasts that they were, they weren’t accustomed to hunting the damned in zero gravity. If he didn’t keep them tethered, they were inclined to float away.

“What’s in it for me?” Crowley asked, without deigning to glance in Castiel’s direction.

Unlike him, Castiel had left his meat suit on Earth. Crowley wasn’t sure why. Keeping them operational in the freezing vacuum of space took a bit of work, a bit of concentration, but should hardly tax an angel’s resources.

Maybe he’d just wanted an excuse to stretch his wings.

And oh, how they stretched.

‘Wings’ was a barely accurate description. They were to wings what the Carina Nebula was to a puff of cigarette smoke.

Crowley felt that if the lens through which he viewed angels hadn’t been hammered into shape by early modern European Christianity, he’d sooner have thought ‘frills’ – like Jurassic Park’s inaccurate take on a Dilophosaurus, the nasty bugger that had spat acid in the fat bloke’s eyes. Huge sheets of brightly coloured whatever-material-they-made-dinosaur-puppets-from exploding out of its neck, reminiscent of an opening umbrella. That was far closer to what Crowley could see of Castiel without getting a headache than ‘wings’.

Of course, in order for the comparison to be even remotely accurate, the puppet would need to have been a mile long and accidentally warping the space-time continuum with its very presence. A meteor innocently rolled by; when it came within twenty metres of Castiel’s trunk, it flickered in and out of existence, turned to ice, turned to magma, and then reappeared on the other side of Castiel, continuing on its way as if nothing had happened.

“Crowley,” Castiel huffed, “I don’t have time to banter or bargain with you. Not today. What’s ‘in it for you’ is Dean and Sam’s continued existence – and gratitude.”

Crowley laughed.

“And my gratitude,” Castiel amended. “I will be in your debt. Not that I believe that’s even necessary. I’m quite certain you’ve already made up your mind to help. But if it makes you feel better or appeases your vanity, you can pretend you’re doing it because it will give you leverage.”

“You think a favour from you counts as ‘leverage’, kitten? The last favour you did me ended with you ascending to godhood while I hid in a methhead’s trailer listening to Nancy Sinatra for three days. You, my fine feathered friend, are a celestial fucking monkey’s paw.”

They were now close enough to the wreckage that the hounds were beginning to whine with excitement. Crowley requested patience with a click of his tongue.

“You’re absorbing too much radiation,” Castiel muttered.

“Sort it out, then.”

If Castiel had been wearing Jimmy Novak, he’d doubtless have donned that delightful scowl – maybe even graced Crowley with a pout. As it was, he merely rearranged his wings so that Crowley was shielded from the worst of the cosmic poison.

Juliet misinterpreted the movement and started growling.

“Shh, shh, sweetheart,” Crowley cooed, stroking her scales. “Daddy’s not in any danger from silly old Uncle Castiel.”

Castiel growled back at her. Sound, of course, did not carry in space, for which reason they’d been communicating telepathically; if it had, he’d have blown eardrums back at the ISS. As it was, the only result was that the mangled spacecraft tumbling through Mars’ orbit a short distance away threw off sparks.

Whimpering, Juliet tried to hide behind Crowley’s legs.

“Stop bullying her, you arse. She’s a guard dog. She’s doing her job,” he snapped, untangling the leash.

“I don’t like your pets.”

“I don’t like yours, but you’re still here, asking me to stick my neck out for them. By the way, is there a reason they haven’t summoned me themselves?”

“I…”

“Do they even know about this? Ooh – Cas, are you being naughty? Mm? Sneaking around behind their backs, again?”

Castiel reared up, a thousand luminous antennae bristling, and boomed, “Demon, I have overseen a war in Heaven. I have lead divine squadrons into Hell. I am a veteran and a commander and I am not obliged to beg permission from Dean or Sam before approaching you or any of our other allies. I – why are you aroused? This is not arousing! Stop it!”

“Make me, big boy,” Crowley husked, rapidly reviewing the logistics of getting rage-fucked by an oil-tanker-sized pillar of light and strange matter.

Juliet gave her signature ‘target locked’ bark and Crowley was forced to return his attention to the task at hand.

A figure in an untethered spacesuit had drifted from the wreckage. Still alive, Crowley could smell that much, but panicking; probably only had a few minutes of oxygen left.

He wouldn’t be needing them. Crowley snapped his fingers and let go of the leashes.

“And that,” he said, smugly, watching Juliet crack open the helmet with one bite, “is what happens to people who don’t hold up their end of the bargain.”

In zero gravity, guts didn’t so much spill from a man’s ruptured stomach as they did soar. It was really rather beautiful to watch.

“Untrue. I didn’t hold up my end of our bargain and I never faced any such consequences,” observed Castiel.

“Yes, you did. I’ve ruined you, Cassie. Haven’t you noticed? Over a hundred times now I’ve had you in my bed, arse up or legs wrapped around my shoulders, befouling that sparkling grace of yours. Dirtying you up. All day long, I catch other demons sniffing the air in my presence and I know what they’re sniffing for are the traces you leave on me. All Hell knows what we get up to, every monster and magistrate. So that’s your reputation gone as well, I’m afraid. Consequences, ducky.”

Castiel said nothing until the hounds had finished their meal and what remained of Hell’s wayward client were but a few red droplets dancing through the total blackness.

Then, slowly, in his older-than-hydrogen voice, he said, “You are… you are actually trying to tell me that all the times you’ve pleasured me – all the times I’ve pleasured you – all the times you’ve spent hours reverently touching my penis and buttocks – all the times I’ve made you orgasm so hard you start speaking Gaelic – all that was just part of your cunning plan to take revenge by corrupting me? That’s your claim? That’s the best ruse you can come up with? Ah-hah. Hah. Hah! Hahahahahahaha-…”

Angels shimmered when they laughed. Crowley suspected he was one of the only non-angels in existence who knew that. Even Dean probably didn’t.

“Piss off,” Crowley grumbled, adamantly refusing to allow his meat suit’s cheeks to redden. He clicked his tongue again and the hounds returned to his side, happy and sated.

“When you offer the Winchesters your aid, please don’t tell them I spoke to you first,” said Castiel after he’d calmed down. “It would… complicate things. Say you heard about their dilemma from some other source.”

“Oh, good. So now I can look forward to Dean getting up on his high horse and accusing me of spying on them. Thanks.”

“Crowley, you do spy on them. We both do. Constantly. The only people we spy on more frequently are one another. It – hmm. Your dog is urinating on my thorax.”

“Juliet! Naughty girl.” 

[ineffable-snowman]

Fic: For Want of Snow

Hi @smeltster, this is your gift for the GO Events gift exchange @good-snowmens. Happy Good Snowmens to you!

Thank you very much to @artemis for beta-reading!

***

For Want of Snow

“You don’t have snow anymore in London,” Aziraphale had said wistfully one day while they were strolling through St. James’s Park, Crowley with a black umbrella and Aziraphale with a tartan one to protect themselves against the steady drizzle.

Personally, Crowley could do without the snow. The usual London weather in December – grey, cold, rainy – was bad enough. Nevertheless, he had filed that information away for later, and when he came across a snow globe in a shop (as you do), he bought one for Aziraphale.

“Oh, how delightful,” Aziraphale said happily as Crowley presented him with the snow globe and removed a stack of books from the coffee table to place the snow globe there. Crowley, in turn, removed the books from the floor and squeezed them onto the shelves.

“Need to keep things tidy,” he offered as a mumbled explanation at Aziraphale’s questioning glance, all the while trying to forget how, just a few months ago, all the books and sheets of paper on the floor had so quickly caught fire. Then he flopped down on his sofa, half listening to Aziraphale prattle on about some theatre production he wanted to see, but mostly glaring at the blessed fireplace to make it very clear that it was never meant to host a fire again.

“Are you quite alright?” Aziraphale’s voice jolted him out of his glaring.

“Yeah, sure. Just cold.” Nothing unusual about snakes disliking the cold, right?

Aziraphale immediately got up to fuss, offered him a woollen tartan blanket (which he naturally refused), and a cup of tea (which he allowed).

“I could light a fire,” Aziraphale suggested.

“No! No, not necessary, I’m already much warmer, this-” Crowley sloshed some tea over his trousers and suppressed a hiss “-works wonders. What were you saying about that musical play?”

The distraction worked – for now. It did nothing to make the images of the bookshop on fire in Crowley’s mind disappear, though. 

Crowley’s gaze kept drifting to the snow globe where the snowflakes floated dreamily down onto the little house between pine trees. The brightly lit windows looked cosy, and an idea started to form in Crowley’s head.

***

Hell used to hold Crowley up as an example for efficient evil deeds organisation. What he was planning now was not exactly evil but it warranted the same kind of attention to detail (maybe even more).  

He started subtly, making the Bentley play White Christmas whenever he drove Aziraphale somewhere. Then he placed adverts at the places Aziraphale frequented: picturesque images of snowy villages and woods, vacation homes, cottages to rent, property for sale.

“You know, it would be nice to have a White Christmas again,” Aziraphale said when they were sitting, once again wet from the London rain, in the Bentley and the song Winter Wonderland began to play.

Crowley hummed his agreement. “Makes it really Christmassy, snow. Very festive.”

“It’s a shame neither of us took weather management courses, back in Heaven.”

“Yeah, would’ve been more helpful than choir practice.”

“Oh, don’t remind me!”

Any other day Crowley gladly would have taken this chance to bitch about Heaven with Aziraphale but now he needed to focus on his mission. The car in front of them stopped without knowing why, right next to a travel agency with a big poster in their shop window that showed a cottage in a winter landscape.

“You know,” Crowley said offhandedly, “there are places where you could have a White Christmas.”

“Yes, in Lappland or Siberia. I’m sure it would be wonderful to go there but you know how I love the English Christmas traditions.”

“There are English places where you could have a White Christmas.”

“Oh? Where would that be?”

“Tadfield. For example.”

“Really? How do you know?”

“Uh.” From very thorough research about which part of the UK had the highest probability of a White Christmas. “Had a chat with the Antichrist’s father. Not Satan, obviously, still not on speaking terms since you know. His human father. Anyway, they’ve had White Christmases for several years now, he said.”

“How lovely. Tadfield is not very far, maybe we could go there on Christmas Day for a walk in the snow.”

Crowley shrugged. “Could rent a cottage for Christmas.”

Aziraphale turned to him, a worried look on his face, and shit, shit, shit, too fast. The song changed midway (I’m dreaming of ice in the sunshine) and the snowy cottage on the poster turned into a tropical island. Crowley wanted to hit himself for being such an idiot. Why couldn’t he leave things be? Things were fine now, why couldn’t he just be satisfied with what he had?

“I meant only so we could have a place to warm up,” he said quickly and honked at the car in front of him to finally get moving, for Heaven’s sake! “You know, after a walk in the snow, you need a warm place where you can have a hot drink and I don’t think they have cafés in Tadfield, so.”

“Oh. Yes.” Aziraphale hesitated. “Good.” He cleared his throat. “We could do that.”

***

It took careful planning. First of all he needed to rent a cottage. Not just any cottage, the perfect cottage in the perfect location. A cottage that was also potentially for sale.

Then he kidnapped the holiday decorator at Harrods (but paid him generously, so it wasn’t really kidnapping) to hang up Christmas lights, holly, garlands, and of course to put up and decorate a huge Christmas tree. Crowley visited the cottage himself to make sure the decorations were appropriate, paying special attention to the angel ornaments because they must not resemble certain archangels. While he was there, he also gave the Christmas tree a very strong talking to not to shed a single needle.

Then he brought everything you needed for a perfect Christmas, which was mostly food and drinks. There was some minor blackmail involved when he bullied the waitress at Aziraphale’s favourite café to give away their hot chocolate recipe. He needed three days of practice and several cartons of milk until he got it right without any miracles. (It was the first and hopefully last time his kitchen ever experienced any real cooking.)

On the morning of the 25th, Crowley was thoroughly exhausted but positive that his demonic plan was flawless. What could go wrong? Still he hovered in front of the bookshop’s door, wondering if he should ring the bell, if Aziraphale had forgotten their plan, if all of this was a phenomenally bad idea, if –

Aziraphale opened the door and smiled at him. “Ah, good morning.” He was wrapped in a thick coat and a fluffy woollen scarf. “Merry Christmas!” He handed Crowley a present.

“Ah.” Crowley’s hands moved of their own accord and took it. So that was a thing now. They gave each other Christmas presents now. “Thanks.” Why had no one informed him? He did not have anything for Aziraphale. (Did a cottage count?)

“Open it. You’re going to need it today.”

Crowley carefully opened the golden wrapping paper. He was not prepared for this, the idea that Aziraphale had chosen something for him and then wrapped it and put a bow on it. It was not even midday and things were already getting out of his control.

Inside the box were a thick red scarf and a pair of earmuffs. Crowley would have complained about the fluffiness of the earmuffs but at least they were black and it was his first ever Christmas present from Aziraphale, meaning he would kill anyone who tried to take the earmuffs away from him.

“Ah-hm, guess they could be useful,” he said and Aziraphale’s face erupted into a happy smile.

“Oh, I hoped you would like the colour. You never wear proper winter clothing. It’s no wonder you’re always cold…”

Crowley drove them out of the city while Aziraphale prattled on about bearskins and muffs. Crowley would occasionally comment with a hum but was mostly wondering what it meant that Aziraphale had decided to give him a Christmas present and worried about him staying warm and had gone to the trouble of choosing colours which Crowley liked.

“Oh dear, is the tape deck not working again?”

“Hm?” Crowley startled. The Bentley was playing Crazy Little Thing Called Love. As it had when they had driven off, thirty minutes ago. Crazy Little Thing Called Love was not a thirty-minute-long song, was it?

“I thought Adam had repaired it,” Aziraphale said.

“No, it should-” Crowley thumped against the disc compartment until it played Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture “-definitely be working.”

“Bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

The music that was dramatic enough for this day had not been composed yet but Crowley let Aziraphale choose another CD and resolved to pay more attention to the music from now on.

Fortunately, the drive was not that long and they soon arrived at the outskirts of Tadfield where the cottage was located. The village was in walking distance but far enough away so they had their privacy.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said softly.

Crowley suppressed a flinch. Did the cottage look too similar to the house in the snow globe? Was it too obvious? “You don’t like it?”

“No, I mean, yes, I like it, it is absolutely wonderful. What a lovely place you have found!”

Crowley let out the breath he had been holding. Aziraphale liked it. He thought the place Crowley had found absolutely wonderful. His plan was working.

“Right! Let’s have a look inside?” Crowley got out of the car and winced when he stepped into the snow. He had forgotten to miracle his shoes waterproof. He would fix them later. For now he opened the front door for Aziraphale, proud to show him the festively decorated interior.

“Oh, look at that, how gorgeous! But who decorated the place like this?”

Oh no. Too much? “Er, it was just…a Christmas…special…deal. To get the house like this. Didn’t know it would be so bright and festive.” Crowley made sure to make a properly disgusted face.

“It is marvellous. Makes you want to stay inside all day. But we are here for the snow, of course. But we must sit down here and have a drink later and really appreciate the decorations.”

Good, Aziraphale liked the interior and wanted to stay, just like he was supposed to. Crowley ticked it off his mental list.

Now to the unpleasant part: snow.

At least Crowley had his new scarf and earmuffs. That did not keep his fingers warm or stop his nose from running, though. Also, walking in the snow was a nuisance. It was exhausting, his shoes and trousers got wet and he stumbled or slipped every few meters. But Aziraphale had flushed cheeks and commented happily on this and that, and it was really annoying and ridiculous what Crowley was willing to do to make that bastard smile.

Aziraphale, naturally, walked on the snow, almost gliding over it as if it was nothing, just leaving the faintest of footprints whereas Crowley trudged a few feet behind, wheezing and sometimes blessing at the bloody snow. Crowley knew that, technically, he should be able to do the same, what with angels and demons being of the same stock. But he also knew that he really needed to know that fact for it to work, and his brain refused to cooperate. Stupid brain, stupid snow.

“It has been some time, hasn’t it?” Aziraphale had stopped and was waiting for Crowley to catch up. He offered Crowley his arm, and Crowley was not against linking arms or holding hands, not at all, but this was humiliating and he wanted to be the one to extend a hand… but there was no way he was going to decline such an offer. Grumbling, he linked arms with Aziraphale and let the angel pull him up.

“There you go.” Aziraphale patted his arm and smiled at him and Crowley was glad he was wearing his sunglasses because getting such an open smile from up so close was shocking. (Also because the snow was blinding.) “You’ve done it before, so there’s no reason why it shouldn’t work now. You just have to believe in it.”

Crowley snorted. Believe in it, that was really the core of the problem. Demons weren’t supposed to – the fickle snow under his feet already gave in at the barest hint of that thought but Aziraphale tightened his hold just in time. An angelic miracle surged through Crowley’s body, making him shudder. It should work now, being supported by the angel’s powers. It did, he stayed on top of the snow even though his legs were a bit wobbly.

“Now, that’s better,” said Aziraphale. “See, it’s just like – what is the saying – riding a bicycle.”

“Never really liked those either. Not enough wheels.”

They discussed vehicles of transportation while they walked towards the forest. It was exhausting to make conversation and at the same time keep his senses tuned for any humans along their way who needed to be distracted. Not to mention the permanent miracle to keep his body temperature up and not succumb to the temptation of hibernation. Then there were the snow-covered branches that got into his face. Why had any human ever thought it a good idea to go for a walk through a snowy forest for fun?

When they had finally spent the scheduled amount of time in the forest, Crowley directed their steps towards the village and made sure to pass the bookshop in a side street with the FOR SALE sign in its window. (As the owner had not known she owned a bookshop 24 hours ago, she was all the more happy for that sign, not least of all because it would bring her unexpected money.)

“Oh, nice bookshop.” Crowley slowed down his steps in front of it. “Would be a shame if someone bought it who’d turn it into a mobile phone shop. Or an estate agency.”

Aziraphale looked pained at the mere idea. Good.

Next stop: the bakery, which for miraculous reasons was opened on Christmas Day.

“How about a little snack?” Crowley suggested.

“Oh, yes, it smells heavenly.”

Crowley harrumphed because the fact that Aziraphale’s favourite bakery had, at short notice, decided to open a branch in Tadfield had nothing at all to do with heavenly influences. He urged Aziraphale to try the ciabatta with roasted garlic and fennel because Aziraphale always insisted that he had never eaten better ciabatta.

“This is good,” Aziraphale said when he tried it. “Mm, I think it’s almost as good as Francesco’s.”

Almost as good?! Who in this bakery had screwed up? Did Crowley have to kidnap Francesco, too? Aziraphale kept on praising the bakery but Crowley was already drawing up new plans on how to insure there was the perfect ciabatta in Tadfield.

Back in the cottage, Crowley immediately went to the kitchen to make hot chocolate. This was the tricky part of the plan. The milk could not be trusted. And the cream could be a real bitch.

Right, he could do this. He had succeeded in his kitchen, so he could do it here as well. Saucepan, milk, cocoa powder, sugar, cream, chocolate chips, a pinch of vanilla, a pinch of cinnamon, miracle, pray, hope that it would not boil over. Well, he had nine more cartons of milk, just in case, and enough cocoa powder for at least a year, but he did not want to keep Aziraphale waiting for too long.

After a few minutes, he proudly poured the hot chocolate into a mug. Now for the garnish. Whipped cream, marshmallows, chopped chocolate, candy cane, flake, cinnamon stick – the mug was too small.

“Don’t you dare,” Crowley hissed at it but he refrained from using a miracle because Aziraphale was snobbish about miracled food.

His hands were sticky with a mix of hot chocolate, whipped cream and marshmallows (because naturally he had spilled something) when bringing Aziraphale the mug but Aziraphale’s delighted and grateful expression made up for it. Another successful stage of his plan!

“This is very good. Where did you learn how to make it?”

“Not that difficult, really.” Crowley dropped down on the sofa in exhaustion.

“Won’t you have some, too?”

Oh, right. That was a thing, drinking hot chocolate together after a walk in the snow. “Of course, just getting mine…”

So, back to the kitchen. Saucepan, milk, cocoa powder, miracle, candy cane, done.

Hot chocolate was not Crowley’s favourite drink (especially not with hurried demonic miracle flavour) but it warmed him up. That, and watching Aziraphale with his flushed cheeks and content smile savour his drink.

“So. This place isn’t half bad,” Crowley said.

“It is absolutely lovely. Maybe we could, I don’t know… return here next year for a day or two?”

Returning sounded good, a day or two not good enough. Time to fortify the temptation.

“We could stay for tonight. Go for another walk. Could go at night, snow in the moonlight – looks nice, doesn’t it? Or tomorrow we could go to – to – to the hill. It’ll be a nice view from there, all the snow and…trees!”

“That does sound rather nice. But we couldn’t just stay here, could we?”

“Why not?”

“Well, it must belong to a human.”

“Yeah, it does. But the owner said it’s free for the next few…” centuries, decades, years “…months.”

“I see. In that case...” Aziraphale gave him a questioning glance as if waiting for Crowley to say it.

“Yes?” Crowley leant forward, waiting for Aziraphale to say it.

“I mean, as it is already getting dark…”

“Yes, very dark.”

“I mean, we could stay for one more…day, I suppose. Go for another walk in the snow.”

“Great.” Crowley gulped down the rest of his hot chocolate (and offered Aziraphale the candy cane). Everything was going according to plan, he had reached his goal for today. He would initiate the next stage of the plan tomorrow. For now, he could relax for a bit, and he really needed the break from all the minor or major miracles of the last few days, and the bloody snow. He sagged down further into the cushions of the couch. Warmth started to crawl back into his body, from his hands, which had held the mug with the hot drink, to his core until finally his whole corporation felt pleasantly heavy. Aziraphale seemed perfectly content, nibbling on his candy cane, and so Crowley could be, too. His breathing slowed down and he closed his eyes for a bit. Everything was so warm and nice and safe and… wait, what was that? He did not remember getting under a blanket. But it was a nice blanket. Very soft and very warm. He slowly blinked his eyes open. Everything was brighter. Where were his – ah. His glasses had been placed on the coffee table, next to five empty mugs and a stack of books. Oh no, was he back in the bookshop? But no, the bookshop was more dusty and stuffy. He was still in the cottage. They were still in the cottage. Aziraphale was sitting in the chair opposite Crowley, entirely engrossed in the book in his lap. Sometimes the hint of a smile would tug at the corners of his lips.

This was what Crowley had imagined. Well, not completely, to be honest. For example, he had not envisioned being covered with a woollen tartan blanket but the damage was done, no need to throw it away now. Besides, he was so very comfy in his cocoon of warmth. He stretched sleepily and wrapped the blanket more firmly around himself.

Aziraphale looked up from his book and the hint of a smile turned into a full smile when he caught Crowley’s eye. “Oh, you’re awake.”

That was food for thought, that Crowley got a bigger smile than the books. Crowley was not prepared for this – this – this four-letter word, all of it directed at him so openly.

“How long have I been…?”

“A bit more than two weeks, I think. Ah, maybe three. I haven’t been keeping track of time very thoroughly.”

“Two or three-?” Crowley sat up and got tangled up in the blanket. “But…” All of his careful laid out plans and he had simply overslept!

“It’s fine. I contacted the owner of this cottage. She said she did not have any other bookings and that we could stay for as long as we wanted. In fact, she seemed to be under the impression that we were going to stay for a bit longer anyway.”

And now that woman had messed it up even more! What was Aziraphale thinking? “Ah. Humans. Don’t really have a grasp on time,” Crowley tried to play it down.

Aziraphale placed a bookmark into the book, closed it and put it on the table. “I’ve been thinking.”

Oh no. “We need to talk?” Crowley ventured, dread growing, because those words were just as ominous.

“Yes.” Aziraphale folded his hands in his lap and looked down at them. Then he looked back up at Crowley. “Do you want to stay here?”

Of course he had worked it all out. Clever bastard. Stupid of Crowley to think otherwise, stupid of him to fall asleep and let Aziraphale overthink it for two or three weeks instead of being distracted and tempted by hot chocolate, ciabatta and little bookshops for sale.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale prodded.

How could he get out of this situation with both of them keeping their dignity intact? “Er, mnk. It’s not that bad here? I guess I could see myself staying here. Just, nhm, sleeping for a bit, you know.”

“And…do you want us to stay here…together?” Aziraphale’s voice had gone almost inaudible on the last word.

Crowley gave a big, hopefully very casual shrug that was meant to communicate just how unaffected he was by all of this. “I wouldn’t mind. Only if you want to, of course. Do you? Want to?”

“No, Crowley, I asked you if you wanted to stay here together.” Aziraphale’s voice had grown louder again, almost resolute now.

There was no way out of this. No shrugs, no half-answers, not even falling asleep for another few weeks could get him out of this situation. Right, be brave now.

He looked at Aziraphale and Aziraphale looked calmly back at him. It suddenly did not seem so frightening anymore. It would be fine, whatever he said. Aziraphale would still shelter him from the rain or help him walk on snow; would never cast him away.

Crowley gave a jerky nod.

“Good.” Aziraphale smiled tentatively. “Then we will stay here.” He nodded, as if to confirm it to himself, then grabbed his book with trembling fingers.

“Your hands are shaking,” Crowley said.

“Indeed, they are.” Aziraphale watched his own fingers as they opened the book on the page he had marked. “It’s just a lot.”

“I get that.” Crowley really did. He knew that Aziraphale by now had probably worked out the details of his plan with the numerous miracles to get them here and it should be humiliating but somehow it was okay because Aziraphale was just as nervous and was willing to do this with Crowley. “We don’t have to right now, we could just come here on vacation once a year or-”

“No, I want to.”

Huh. That had been easier than expected. Several stages of the plan were suddenly redundant. “What about your bookshop?”

“I was under the impression that you had already purchased that little bookshop in town?”

“Not yet but…I could.”

“Right.”

Crowley noticed how tensely Aziraphale’s fingers held the book, almost crumpling its pages. He knew how much Aziraphale loved his bookshop, and although it was flattering to think that Aziraphale would give it up for him, he never wanted Aziraphale to give anything up. “Or you could keep your bookshop. London’s not that far. We could go there once a week so you can open it every Tuesday or so. Won’t make much of a difference for the customers.”

Aziraphale considered it for a moment but then he shook his head. “No. I want to live here, I really do. It is perfect. Thank you for bringing me here.”

Crowley was lost for words. They were here, together, and they were going to stay. What else was there for him to say or do? Perfect, yes.

“I hope you’re well rested?” Aziraphale asked. “Because I’m planning on taking you up on that promise of a moonlight walk in the snow.”

“There’s still snow?!” Hadn’t he slept long enough?

“Indeed there is, and it looks marvellous.”

“Guess I owe you.”

After being asleep for so long in the warmth of the cottage, the cold outside was a bit of a shock. Aziraphale offered his arm again to assist Crowley, who, after a few uncoordinated steps, got the hang of walking on snow much quicker this time.

“Still hate snow,” he grumbled but it wasn’t that bad really.  Yes, it was bloody cold but there were some upsides. Like the snow glistening in the moonlight and Aziraphale still holding him close, which wasn’t strictly necessary anymore and therefore even better.

They were on their own, not a sound to be heard but their breathing and the rustling of their coats. In the distance, the village laid asleep, no lights to be seen, just the smoke from the chimneys showed that humans lived there.

They walked towards the forest. The snow covering the ground was untouched but for some tracks that animals had left. The branches of the trees were hanging low with the weight of the snow. Everything felt a little unreal, it couldn’t be further from London’s hectic and loud atmosphere. It made Crowley all the more aware of everything, like how close they were pressed together. Aziraphale with his thick winter coat felt like a big comfy cushion against Crowley’s side.

They kept walking for hours like this, sometimes exchanging a few hushed words but mostly just enjoying the stillness of the world. Just walking and being here, no deeds to be done, no need to tempt or plan or work miracles. They kept walking until the break of dawn. Without discussing it, they directed their steps towards the village where one by one the lights in the houses went on.

“How do-ooaah!” Something hit Crowley right in the face and he staggered, lost his footing and landed on his bottom in the snow. “What was that?”

“I believe a-” Aziraphale ducked to avoid the next missile “-snowball. How rude.”

“Snowball.” The best thing about snow. Crowley was already sculpting his own snowballs and then started the counter attack. He liked sleeping, good food and moonlight walks well enough but he was still a demon, and using that annoying, squishy, cold stuff for snowball fights – brilliant idea. He was chasing the screaming kids around, bombarding them with his snowballs, ignoring Aziraphale’s complaints (“Crowley, you can’t use miracles against children!”).

“He’s the Antichrist, he can defend himself!” And his friends could just as well. Only when Crowley let snowballs the sizes of snowmen rain down on them, did they retreat.

“Was that really necessary?” Aziraphale admonished him while patting down the snow from Crowley’s coat, scarf and hair.

Crowley cackled. “That was fun.” He snapped his fingers for a new pair of sunglasses because the other one had been lost in the fight and was now probably buried somewhere in the snow.

“You look frozen. Let’s head back and warm you up. Maybe with some of that delicious hot chocolate you made. Are there still ingredients left or do we need to buy something?”

“I think we still have some,” Crowley said, thinking of the nine cartons of milk in the Bentley’s boot.

Back in the cottage, Crowley miracled his clothes dry and headed for the kitchen. Aziraphale followed him.

“How did you learn to make such scrumptious hot chocolate? Can you show me? What’s the secret?”

“Uh, possibly the milk.”

“What’s with the milk?”

“You heat it.”

“Yes?”

“It’s bloody difficult! Milk’s always trying to boil over and it makes a mess…”

“Yes, it sometimes does that.” Aziraphale stepped next to Crowley and examined the stove and the saucepan. “I think I can handle the milk.”

Aziraphale turned out to be a natural in heating milk. No boiling over, no stench, no flames, no ruined saucepan, not even spilled milk on the floor.

“You’re good at that,” Crowley said in surprise and added the cocoa powder.

“Oh, well, it’s not the first time I’ve made hot chocolate. Would you pass me the whisk, love?”

Crowley crashed into the countertop and spilled half of the sugar he had meant to add next. He stared at Aziraphale. Aziraphale smiled bashfully, his cheeks flushed red. He knew what he was doing, that bastard. He meant it.

“The whisk.” Crowley cleared his throat because his voice had come out very undemonic. “Right, yes, sure.” He passed it to Aziraphale and then got more sugar and the other ingredients.

Emboldened by Aziraphale’s bravery, he stepped a little closer so their shoulders brushed against each other. Aziraphale stopped breathing but he did not flinch away. He was still smiling when he whisked the milk and the cocoa powder. Crowley took his time adding the sugar and chocolate chips. And afterwards, he just stayed where he was and even dared to, very lightly, place a hand in the small of Aziraphale’s back. Aziraphale wriggled a little closer and suddenly it was very easy to place his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

Crowley could not tell how long they stayed like this, Aziraphale whisking the hot chocolate and Crowley staring almost transfixed into the saucepan, inhaling the chocolaty scent and the warmth and Aziraphale’s closeness. What did it matter, they were not in a hurry, and the milk behaved for once.

[infinitevariety]

May Your Days Be Merry

Having never been able to celebrate previously, Aziraphale and Crowley decide to embrace the festive season and make the most of their first December together since the world didn’t end.

Chapter Twenty Three: Love (AO3)

Secrets are revealed when Aziraphale pops by Crowley's flat unexpectedly.

Crowley is bored. It’s a few too many hours early to head to the bookshop. He and Aziraphale have spent time together every day this month, and with the visitors they had yesterday Crowley wants to give Aziraphale time to decompress and be alone with his books.

Which is why Crowley is lounging on the sofa in his flat, his second favourite Christmas film playing on the TV and music blaring from another room. He’s not paying attention to either of them, instead playing a festive edition of Candy Crush on his phone and absent-mindedly sipping on his drink.

Crowley’s eyes glance to the time and he curses internally. It’s still too early to leave. Of course it’s still too early. He only checked the time two minutes previously. He focuses even harder on the little candy canes, Christmas trees, baubles, and bells.

The noise of the TV, music, and game, along with Crowley’s determination to distract himself, in hindsight, is a mistake.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice is loud in an effort to be heard over the various devices, and Crowley suspects it’s not the first time Aziraphale has said his name.

As his eyes move from his phone screen to Aziraphale, Crowley jumps up from the sofa and immediately panics. He wasn’t expecting this. He snaps his fingers, lowering the volume on the TV, music player, and his phone to a more sedate level. Then he glances around the room, remembering the state of his entire flat.

“Crowley,” repeats Aziraphale.

“I can explain!”

“I don’t think you need to, my dear.” Aziraphale isn’t looking at Crowley. His eyes roam over the room as he continues to speak. “I suspected you might be giving me some time to myself, but I missed you. So thought I’d pop by. There was no answer when I knocked so I…”

“Barged in?” Crowley completes for him.

That, at least, draws Aziraphale’s attention. He turns to look at Crowley with soft eyes and a tilted head.

“There’s no need to get defensive, dear. I think this is lovely.”

Crowley physically cringes. “Of course you do.”

“Ah,” says Aziraphale. A look of understanding crossing his face. “The problem isn’t that I like it, it’s that I now know that you like it.”

Aziraphale draws closer to Crowley, smiling. Crowley avoids Aziraphale’s eye. Instead, he looks around at his flat.

At the Christmas tree set up in the corner, with glittery baubles and flashing coloured lights. At the Let it Snow banner hung across the doorway. At the red neon Hohoho sign on his coffee table. At the fairy lights around his television. At the TV screen where Mark is confessing is love to Juliet on a series of signs. At the rapidly cooling mug of hot chocolate sitting by his phone. At himself, wearing a black jumper with candy cane striped words on it declaring Crowley to be Festive AF.

They are silent for several long seconds as Rocking Around the Christmas Tree plays from the other room. Then Aziraphale reaches out to Crowley, grasping his hand and squeezing. Despite himself, Crowley feels reassured by the gesture.

“It’s stupid,” mumbles Crowley as he looks down at his woolly sock clad feet.

“If you think this is stupid you must have hated spending time at the bookshop with me all month.”

“No, angel—” Crowley quickly raises his head to look at Aziraphale, who’s smiling back at him.

“I know you haven’t, Crowley. I know you’ve been having a wonderful month doing festive things with me. I already know you like Christmas.”

Crowley shrugs, but doesn’t speak. He doesn’t count it as conceding the point, but he also knows Aziraphale doesn’t need him to.

“Now, what’s an angel got to do to get a mulled wine around here? I know you must have some on the go—I can smell it.”

“I’ll go fetch you one.” Crowley smiles. “Get comfy on the sofa, maybe we can watch a film?”

“What film is this?” asks Aziraphale, looking at the screen, where Judy is leaning in to kiss John. “It looks nice.”

“Oh, no, that’s just some nonsense rubbish, I wasn’t even really watching it. We’ll find something else,” says Crowley dismissively. Aziraphale might have realised Crowley is fond of Christmas but he can’t find out one of his favourite Christmas films is Love Actually.

He wanders to the kitchen, and by the time Crowley comes back with two steaming glasses of mulled wine, Aziraphale is curled up under one of the blankets unwrapping a chocolate coin. He also has his Santa hat on.

“Nice hat,” says Crowley as he hands Aziraphale his drink.

“Well, I had to match you, my dear.”

Crowley’s eyes widen as he absently reaches up to confirm that, yes, he put his reindeer antlers on this morning. Aziraphale, the beautiful bastard, just beams up at him and wiggles with joy.

“What do you fancy watching, angel?” Crowley scrolls through the Christmas selection on Netflix, hoping for inspiration or for something to catch Aziraphale’s eye.

And something does catch Aziraphale’s eye. Just nothing on the TV.

“Are those my presents?” asks Aziraphale innocently.

Crowley turns to look at what Aziraphale has seen. Off to the side and poorly hidden under a side table are several Christmas gift bags in various sizes. Crowley hasn’t bothered to hide them away properly, because Aziraphale wasn’t supposed to have come over.

“Whether they’re your gifts or not—” And really, who else’s are they going be, when they exchanged gifts with their friends yesterday? “—they aren’t being opened until the 25th.”

“Or tomorrow,” counters Aziraphale, “if we stay up until midnight.”

“Don’t open all your presents while I’m asleep!”

“Don’t go to sleep, then.”

“Or you could sleep with me.”

“I—” Aziraphale seems lost for words.

“I just meant—” Crowley fervently hopes they’re on the same page about this. “—sleep.”

“I—” Some tension seems to leave Aziraphale’s posture. “Yes. Perhaps we can try that.”

“Want to try one of these?” Keen to break the tension fully, Crowley holds out a tray of Ferrero Rocher.

Aziraphale squints at him suspiciously. “Absolutely not.”

Crowley laughs. “More for me, then.” He unwraps one of the perfectly normal chocolates and chomps delightedly on it.

“I’m going to get another mulled wine,” says Aziraphale as he stands up and wanders off to the kitchen.

While he’s gone, Crowley finally settles on a film (Trolls Holiday Special—Aziraphale is going to hate it), and works his way through three more Ferrero Rocher.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale calls from the back of the room.

“Hmm?” Crowley gets up and wanders over to him.

Aziraphale is standing at the card holder Crowley put up a week or so ago, after his windowsill got full. In his hands are a couple of cards that he’d pulled down to read. Crowley peers over his shoulder to see. One is from Roger, the young bloke in one of the lower flats, and the other is from Florence, the old lady who lives directly below Crowley’s. What both cards have in common, Crowley now realises, it that they include a message thanking Crowley for his card.

“Crowley,” repeats Aziraphale, “did you send all of your neighbours Christmas cards?”

“Ngk—yes,” admits Crowley.

Aziraphale turns and looks up at Crowley in wonder. Crowley knows the jig is up. It’s time to be honest.

“You were wrong, earlier,” he tells Aziraphale. “I don’t like Christmas.”

Aziraphale eyebrows draw together and he looks unaccountably sad for a moment. But only for a moment, because Crowley isn’t finished.

“I love Christmas. I told myself I was doing all this stuff for you—the decorating, the films, the traditions… and I was, at first. Making sure you’re so happy is my mission in life. Then, I don’t know exactly when, and I’m sure not even God knows why, but at some point, I just started enjoying it all myself, too. It’s gaudy and full of friendliness and I’ll never like tinsel, but… it’s actually a lot of fucking fun.” Crowley shrugs, not knowing how to follow up his admission.

“I love you.” Aziraphale says it urgently, like it’s been living inside of him just waiting for the right moment to make its escape. Maybe it has. “I love you for loving Christmas, and for so much more. For everything.”

Crowley smiles. If this is what happens when he admits how much he likes something, maybe he should declare his love for dumb shit more often.

“I love puppies and kittens, too.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes.

“Oh, and helping old ladies across the road.”

“Shut up,” says Aziraphale, before pulling Crowley into a hug.

[sardonic-courtney]

Crowley x Reader. We Met Before. P2/7

Summary: You end up living with Bobby after your parents die. You go to church and meet Priest Crowley and you end up getting along (if you know what i mean). A few years later when Bobby passes you move the the bunker with Sam and Dean and end up meeting Crowley again.

Part 1  Part 3  Part 4  Part 5  Part 6 Part 7

Warnings: Mention of loss, Spelling mistakes, Picture of gun (straight after keep reading), you go to church?

Around 1700 words.

Meeting:

(Around season 5 but not following story at all)

…the day before your 18th birthday. The day you can finally start training and helping on hunts. You fall asleep after the movie and wake up to your alarm reading 8.30am (Birthdate) Sunday. The day you had been waiting for. You could finally start training. Well after Sunday service, it was something your mother never failed to attend no matter what state she was hunting in and you kept that alive, even if you weren’t exactly sure how you felt about religion, but going helped you feel close to your mum again, and after hearing briefly about what the Winchesters had gone though it could be useful to learn a bit more. You got ready and headed to the kitchen where you met with Bobby.

“Happy Birthday kid” he said trying to sound as enthusiastic as possible, even though he had woken up kinda early on a weekend.

“Hey, I’m 18 now, no longer a kid.” You smiled at him.

He shook his head in response chuckling as he grabbed an envelope with a box attached to it. When you received it you could see your name written messily on the envelope in a blue ink, you opened it and to no surprise was a card with (Your fav animal) wearing a hat, just like every year. You smiled and read the inscription inside. Then headed for the black box with a gold ribbon loosely tied around, Bobby had never been the best at bows, but you love the effort. Untying and opening the box you see a silver gun with carvings on, and a wooden handle with a pentacle carved. (Like below but you can change to preference)

“I know it's not much, but it was your dad’s, the boys found it when they…” he trailed of for a second. “when they were searching the nest, I thought it was the best time to give it to you, seeing as you’re so god damned persistent on training.”

“I love it Bobby, thank you so much” You gently lay it on the table and encase him in a hug, which he allows for a few seconds”

“Alright” He said patting your back and stepping away, “just because you have a gun doesn’t mean you are ready to hunt though. Understood?”

“Yeah I know” you reply trying not to laugh at his stern expression.

“Right well there’s some (f/f) if your hungry” he said moving to reveal a plate behind him.

“Oh my gosh you didn’t have to” You say looking at the counter with a neatly plated breakfast. You grabbed it and sat down enjoying the change from the usual cereal or toast, and with a mouth half full asked. “When can I start?”

“Lunch time. We will start with some basics ways to hunt and defend yourself.”

You were about to speak when he interrupted guessing your thoughts.

“You won’t be going on any hunts anytime soon until you are 100% ready. You can help out with some of the research though”

You rolled your eyes, as if you didn’t already help with the research. You finished your food and said your goodbyes, Bobby probably heading back to bed for a nap, you left heading for church to see Priest Peter. He was a nice priest and you got to know him a bit with the visits you made.

You were stood outside the church on time at 9:30 when you friend Lena came up and you started heading in. Lena was lovely, you had met at your first church service and continues to go together ever since. You didn’t really see each other outside, but you grew close nonetheless. She was only a year older than you but sometimes it seemed like she was half her age. She like the rest of people outside your small family didn’t know it was your birthday, and you liked that.

“So (Y/N), did you hear Priest Peters gone away for a while?” she spoke grinning at you, unlike you she didn’t like Peter, said his voice made her want to sleep.

“What, how come? I didn’t hear anything” you replied completely confused.

“Yep, No one knows for sure, but I think it's something about a family member getting married in Australia.”

“So, do we have Marcus today then?” Marcus was as you called him jr Peter, he was still in training and followed Peter around like a lost dog.

“Must do” She replied smiling, she never said it but you could tell she liked Marus a lot more, you took your seats, you sat on the second row back always. It was good for the winter because it was next to a heater, and good for the summer because it was near an openable window. You and Lena sat and talked about pointless things until everyone had sat down and the service started.

The priest walked up, but it wasn’t Marcus or anyone you had ever seen before. It was a very attractive man. He had messy hair, and very short beard on his pale skin. He was slightly chubby and wearing the usual priest get up, but for some reason seemed slightly us of place. Your eyes were drawn to him, it was like you couldn’t look away.

“Good Morning. I am Father Crowley, and I will be covering for Peter whilst he is away at his sister’s wedding.” he spoke confirming Lenas rumor.

He had a beautiful English accent and managed to get everyone's attention without raising his voice. The service went on as usual, although you payed more attention to the man in front of you instead of his teachings of God. Before long, it was over, and you all got up to give blessings and mingle a bit before you were to go. After a while Lena had left having to go run an errand, and you were talking to an old woman you did the occasional job for who lived about 5 minutes away. Just as you finished your conversation and the women went out, your phone buzzed, and you pulled it out of your pocket. 10.45 am, and two new messages.

One from Sam “Morning (Y/N), Happy Birthday, hope you have a good day, me and Dean will try to visit soon, I found a book in the bunker library you will like.”

Another from Dean “Happy Birthday (N/N) good luck training today, have a good one. Me and Sammy will swing round in a couple weeks to check in and make sure Bobby’s not driving you too crazy. Be safe xx”

You smiled as you slid your phone away deciding to reply later. You had been close to the Winchesters after the accident, both becoming brothers to you, Dean was however much more protective of you then Sam was. You looked around and noticed you were the last to leave, as you turned towards the doors you noticed Father Crowley still stood there looking at you.

“Did you enjoy the service?” he asked casually walking over to you.

You hesitated a moment before replying with a simple “Yes”. You don’t know why but he made you feel slightly nervous, not in a bad way, but you couldn’t describe it. You noticed up close his eyes were a sort of green colour.

“Good, I’m new to holding services to be honest with you…”

“(Y/N)” you filled in the blank.

“(Y/N) what a lovely name. Do you always come to church (Y/N)?” He asked lingering on your name.

“Yes, Father every week” you replied composing yourself a little. “It seemed like you had done a thousand services before, I don’t think anyone noticed”

“Thank you, and please just call me Crowley, I’m not a big fan of the whole Father thing” he said smiling. “What were your thoughts on the passage read today?”

“I’m not sure. I think in some ways it………...but it seems a bit………” You gave your opinion and Crowley responded with a grin.

“I agree completely. Well I assume you will be here next week?”

“Yes, I will be, and you?”

“Peter will still be away so it will be me again for at least another 2 weeks. Would you perhaps like to meet up after service for coffee and discus some more of your views?”

“Sure, I would love to” you replied trying to hide your smile, “I better get going though, goodbye Crowley.”

“Until next time” he nodded as you left to go back home.

Meeting up next week? For coffee? You thought as you walked along the path. Okay (Y/N) don’t think to much into it, he just wants to talk about the service. Oh, why did I agree, I don’t want to sit and talk to a priest about the bible, although I do want to talk to this specific priest more. Why am I even worrying about it it’s not like it’s a date, can priests even date? I wouldn’t even want it to be, he seems nice and he is attractive, but if he can date he's probably already married he did seem a bit older. It's probably a group thing and he just invited me along to go with them, of course that makes sense.

You finally arrived though the front door and are greeted with the sound of yelling coming from in the house.

“…no, you idjit, you’re supposed to give them the second number if you want the FBI………. Just don’t mess up again your lucky I have common sense.” He put the phone down just as you walked in the room.

“What was that?” You asked sitting on a chair.

“The wheelers, giving out the wrong numbers again. Your back later than usual service run over?” He asked looking at his watch.

“No just stayed to chat a bit after, it was a new priest.”

“Ahh I see, well do you want to watch a film seeing as its your birthday we could go get some snacks and rent a movie?”

“No way, you’re not getting out of this one, you said we would train at noon, its 11:30. We can watch a film after.” You looked up at him and he frowned.

“I don’t know kid, maybe we should wait another year.”

“Nope no chance, I’m going to get changed and then we can start.” Bobby looked unimpressed so you added on a “Please.” Giving him puppy dog eyes.

“Fine all right, alright go change we can start today”

“Yay thank you” You yelled heading up the stairs to get changed.

 A/N I don’t really know what a service looks like because i haven't been to one for ages, so apologise about that. Sorry if your names Lena as well don't worry show wont be mentioned much. Thank you for reading hope you enjoyed it. :D

[roseskiesandbutterflies]

My Melancholy Blues (Good Omens One-Shot)

Summary: 1923. When Aziraphale bumps into a rather drunk Crowley for the first time after their fight at St James's Park, he's hellbent on helping the poor dear. Pun not intended. But maybe it isn't just Crowley who needs help. After all, what is it we say about coincidences?

Warning(s): alcohol, swearing, cigarettes, angst

Word Count: 2.1k+

A/N: I’m back! I’ll be quick because this is for the DTIYS from @whiteleyfoster and it needs to be up by the end of September to be considered and September in the UK ends in 2.5 hours. Classic me leaving this until the last minute. Anyway I hope you enjoy, sorry about the angst but it just kind of happened. Whoops. Also the title comes from My Melancholy Blues by Queen! The song isn't a perfect match to this fic but the vibe is similar enough for me to like it.

"Hey, 'ziraphale," Crowley slurred from the rooftop he was perched precariously on, waving like a lunatic, "Cooee!"

He watched as the small white blob that was hopefully the angel in question stopped dead in his tracks. Something not all that dissimilar to astonishment washed over his face, before looking up warily, almost scared of what he would find. Shock soon turned to concern when he saw that Crowley was, in fact, sitting on the roof of the Ritz with a ridiculously lopsided grin on his face. Honestly, he thought to himself, a little over sixty years and not a single word, and then I find him drunk in the middle of London. Typical. He shook off the thought with a hardly noticeable eye-roll before calling back, "Crowley? What on Earth are you doing up there?"

Crowley made a face at him, "What does it look like I'm doing?" He waved the bottle of wine he was holding in Aziraphale's vague direction before taking a swig of it.

"I can see that," he said, speaking a little more slowly when he started to realise just how drunk Crowley was, "What I meant was why are you drinking on the roof of the Ritz?"

"The view up here's great! You can see Buckingham Palace from up here!" he said, quite keen at defending his choice of location.

"Surely there's a nicer place to drink in, though? Perhaps somewhere warmer?" he suggested, really quite worried now that he could see how little Crowley was wearing.

"Nah, I was in this club in the East End but the music was a bit shit so I left," he shrugged.

"Right," he nodded unsurely, "And it never occurred to you to go to another bar?"

Crowley suddenly looked very offended, pouting like an extraordinarily petulant child, "Why are you so worried about where I drink? I thought you didn't care about me or something. 'S a bit suspicious if you ask me."

"No, no. Curious is all," Aziraphale said, blatantly avoiding the issue they hadn't got round to resolving yet. No matter how annoyed he was at Crowley, and how the latter must feel towards him, he didn't think he could bear to fight with him again. He'd much rather dance around the truth for a little while longer.

Crowley, even in his not quite sober state of mind, seemed to understand, though the tension was so thick it wasn't exactly difficult. He quickly changed the subject, "You should come up here, angel, you'd like it. Promise."

He looked so hopeful and even vulnerable, as if his whole world was about to come crashing down and Aziraphale sitting with him was the only thing that could stop it. If he'd refused then that would have made him very heartless indeed, and that simply wouldn't do. Though luckily for him, he didn't have the time to even briefly consider the proposal before he found himself sitting by Crowley's side, staring down at where he'd just been standing. He shifted himself so he opposite him, with his back leaning against the chimney post, feeling considerably steadier than he was before.

"Well," Crowley looked at him expectantly, "What do you think?"

Aziraphale blinked before murmuring, "I think you look lovely, my dear. The blue of your dress really compliments the colour of your hair-"

He was cut off by Crowley's undignified snort, "Well, thanks, angel, but I meant the view. Not my dress. Though I'm glad you like it," he reassured him quickly when he noticed his mortified expression.

Aziraphale's tense expression softened like melted butter when he finally looked at the breath-taking landscape surrounding the two of them, encompassing them in the odd security that comes with strangely empty cities. Crowley was right, you could see Buckingham Palace from the rooftop, as well as St James's Park and Berkeley Square and the rest of Piccadilly. Incandescent lights shone from the streets below, but they were nothing compared to the forget-me-not blue of midnight skies above them, dusted with millions of stars like icing sugar on a cake. "Oh," he sighed softly, wholly content and at peace with the world, "Oh, Crowley, it's beautiful. It's, well, I never realised London could be so..." he trailed off, left speechless from awe.

Crowley grinned up at him, "Just wait until the sun comes up. Won't be long now."

Aziraphale's smile faded ever so slightly, "You say that like you've been up here before," he said gently, trying hard not to come off as accusatory.

Crowley's face morphed into one a child might wear when caught with their hand in the cookie jar, but he quickly shrugged it off, leaving it for Aziraphale to mull over by himself. "Drink?" he offered, holding out the bottle of wine.

"Oh, a drink would be lovely, thank you," he smiled, taking it cautiously and sipping at it, letting the alcohol seep in and ease his aching mind.

"What are you doing out this time of night, anyway?" Crowley asked innocently as he took the bottle back from him.

"I-I fancied a walk. Been spending far too much time indoors recently. Needed some fresh air," Aziraphale stammered out, passing the bottle back even though he could have easily finished it off right there and then.

Crowley hummed in response, deciding not to question it even though his gut was screaming at him, screaming that he was lying, he needs help, he needs someone, anyone.

He needs you. Just as much as you need him.

He decided to ignore his intuition because ignorance was far easier than the truth. It slid down like honey and soothed your soul, however temporarily.

"So, the nineteen-twenties," Crowley mused, letting his eyes dance over his surroundings, "'S been an interesting decade so far, hasn't it? Great nightlife. And the fashion, ooh. I've really been enjoying this whole flapper thing. What d'you make of it all, angel?"

It took Aziraphale a moment to respond, "I-I can't say I'd noticed much," he murmured, eyes hellbent on avoiding Crowley's.

Don't look into my eyes. Don't look into them, my love, because if you do, you'll know everything. I'll have no more secrets left, none at all. And I don’t think I can handle that.

The alarm bells in Crowley's head were deafening by that point, even he couldn't ignore them any longer. "Noticed what?" he asked, cautiously placing the wine bottle behind him, deathly terrified of the answer.

"Any of it," he said, voice no louder than a whisper, "I haven't noticed any of it."

Crowley's eyes widened as he tried his best to push down this rising tide of dread inside of him, "Angel-"

"Don't, Crowley," he pleaded, voice breaking but desperately trying to hide it. It was when he finally dared to glance at him that Crowley could finally see the vulnerability and the fear and the anxiety and just about every other emotion that humans had a name for. "Please, don't make me explain, I can't-" he stopped midsentence, inhaling deeply, desperately attempting to pull himself together, "I don't want to talk about it."

Crowley momentarily looked like he was about to object, and Aziraphale’s heart would have skipped a beat if he had one, but he didn’t, opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish. He let himself wonder, for a fleeting second, if perhaps he hadn’t been alone in his weird and confusing feelings. For he had felt this strange sense of loneliness for decades after their fight back in 1867. He’d spent much longer than a few decades without his angel before, but that time had been different, had stung in a way that struck him to his very core. Maybe there was a chance that Aziraphale had felt much the same way. Maybe they were more alike than he thought. He brushed off these thoughts as quickly as they’d arrived; it was unwise to ponder these things while in the presence of others. Instead of making a comment that wasn’t likely to be welcomed with open arms per se, he nodded deeply, oozing with understanding.

Crowley would be a hypocrite if he said that he wouldn’t mind being interrogated like that if he was in Aziraphale’s position, and he was sure he’d already worked most of it out.

Aziraphale softened in relief, the unshed tears in his eyes glistening like gemstones in the glow of the sun that was just starting to rise, creeping slowly up his face as it peered over the London skyline. Crowley couldn’t help it if his eyes lingered on the angel’s face. The logical side of him knew that angels were ethereal by nature, but only now was he starting to understand why. He seemed to literally glow gold with the dawn, outshining the sun and putting it to shame. His ivory suit had been dyed champagne by the sun’s rays, champagne, the colour of the drinks people downed with ease, the colour of the streetlights below them. His eyes were sapphires buried behind a veil of melancholy, framed with the wrinkles that came with centuries upon centuries of things to find joy in.

Oh, the irony, Crowley thought sadly to himself. He forced himself to cast his eyes away, feeling Aziraphale starting to squirm under his stare, instead looking at the Marlboro Red which had materialised in his hand miraculously, or not, depending on how you looked at it. He lit it with a click of his fingers, taking a drag and offering it to Aziraphale. No words had to be said; they’d known each other for long enough, they could say anything with no more than a look.

He eyed it nervously but only for a second, vulnerability taking over and impulses kicking in, and it was in his hand and he was breathing it in before he could even register what he was doing. The smoke waltzed circles around them before leaping away in the early morning breeze. Sparks flew off the cigarette as Aziraphale passed it back, glowing crimson in the sunrise, dying embers of a phoenix blowing away in the lapis blue of the sky.

They sat in the strangely comforting silence for a few moments, the dawn bringing with it its own eery peace. It wasn’t until the cigarette had nearly burnt away completely did Aziraphale finally murmured something, “Will we be okay, Crowley? You and me? Will we be alright?”

Crowley blinked back at him in surprise for a second before mumbling, “I don’t think I understand.”

“I think you do,” he said, voice filled with the spirit of the clouds above them, sweet and gentle and oh-so-soft, “Will we be alright?”

Crowley took advantage of the now burnt out cigarette to think of a response, leaving it to fall out of his hand and onto the pavement below, watching the ashes scatter over the London streets as if he was mourning them, “Yeah. I think we’ll be okay. Do you?”

“I hope so,” he said, voice no louder than a whisper but speaking volumes all the same. A single tear escaped, a drip of molten gold running down his face.

There was a lump in Crowley’s own throat just at the sight of his angel, and at the overwhelming meaning of those three simple words. He couldn’t stop himself from reaching out and brushing the tear away and my, hadn’t they gotten rather close. Aziraphale melted like butter under his touch and Crowley’s heart could burst just looking at him. Suddenly he was pressed up to the demon’s chest, arms hesitantly snaking around him, leaving Crowley speechless in shock for no more than a second. He quickly wrapped his arms around Aziraphale, resting his chin on the top of his head as the angel buried his face in his chest. They fit like two pieces of a puzzle that had remained unsolved for far too long, both of them internally sighing in relief and shouting for joy because they knew that this was where they needed to be. Neither let go, for neither wanted to, and they held each other as the dawn sun watched over them, casting its protective glow over a moment that deserved to be shielded from prying eyes.

And in the years to come, they would both act like that fateful night in nineteen twenty three had never happened, tucking the memory away in a far-flung corner of their minds and putting the whole thing down to alcohol’s wicked influence. But, no matter how much denial they would put themselves through in the next century or so, they both remembered in the depths of their hearts the words that had been said and the words that had been buried deep between the lines.

[miss-edith-cushing]

The post that is about hip dips, but not really

A few weeks ago I stumbled upon Rachel Maksy’s video called ‘Let's Talk About "Hip Dips" (& other insecurities)’. I saw it in my recommendations on youtube, but I clicked on it before I’ve even read the title - seeing two small drawings on the miniature, one called ‘No Dip’ and the other ‘Dip’, was all that I needed to watch it immediately. I never heard of hip dips, never knew it was a problem common enough that it had its own name - all I knew was that the drawing called ‘Dip’ was showing something I saw every day in the mirror, but what I never saw anywhere else. I knew Rachel’s channel, I saw a bunch of her vintage clothing videos, so I was very surprised to see her in sports bra and leggings, with no or barely any make up. She talked about hip dips and what causes them (no, it’s not badly fitted underwear, lack of workout or family curse - it’s your bones, your literal skeleton, so there’s not much you can do about it), about her insecurities (stretchmarks, flat booty, colour of her eyes, hip dips, tummy rolls...), about a lot of other stuff. I don’t remember much from it, but seeing her in those very revealing clothes, showing exactly what parts of her body she doesn’t like, made an impact on me. Something about her figure made me think about myself - the fact that she is both slim and soft, looks ‘feminine’, but is not very thick, has no butt, rather slim hips, those darn hip dips, she’s pale and red-haired... And seeing her made me feel better about my body.

I don’t have a lot to complain about when it comes to my looks, I won the genetic lottery, but there are still parts of my body I don’t like. Or, I should rather say, I learned to not like. I used to think I was mediocre, 5/10, alright, but nothing more. When I was a child, I wanted to be a blonde, but I got over it quite quickly; like many girls, I talked a lot about how fat I was (from age 13 to 16 I used to wear size 38 EU, then lost some weight due to stress), I hated my face covered in acne and always wore stupid bangs that made my poor skin on forehead even worse. But the thing is, I never truly believed it. I never fully and completely thought my bangs were awful or that I was fat. I never hated myself for it. My acne, well, that’s another story. And no one ever said anything bad about those things. Not my family, not my peers, no one. Those were insecurities I created myself, maybe except for acne - my mother used to talk with me about it, but wasn’t mean, just tried to be helpful. We know a lot about the pressure media and society puts on young people, especially women, about their looks, but it’s not what I wanted to talk about today.

When I was 16, someone told me one of the boys from my class called my profile doglike. Oh, I thought, I never realized that, and tried to understand what he meant. My nose looks kinda like Michael Sheen’s, but it’s a little smaller, so I figured it’s about it looking kinda like dog’s head. I never particularly liked my nose, but I still tried to just shrug that comment off. 15 years later, I still remember it. When I was 18, my then best friend told me a few times with snide laughter that I don’t have any butt, just very long back. Oh, I thought, I never realized that, because I never really paid attention to it. When I was 19, a man I was in love with told me my bum looks like it belonged to young Greek boy. Oh, I thought, he is right, that’s very accurate description, but I didn’t knew if he was mean about it or not (now I know he was). When I was 28, I met a girl a few years younger than me, with the same case of flat ass like me, who talks quite often about new excercises she tried, going to the gym, everything she does to make her bum more round. She teases me a little about it and I tease her back, but never to hurt each other. Still, after our conversation about two weeks ago when I talked with her and our other friend on zoom and they discussed yet another excercises and diets, I’ve spent next evening being miserable and thinking about how no one will ever love me, because I have no booty (and I mean, that would be the only reason, how ridiculous is that).

I thought about all of that a lot in recent days. About how lucky I was that the first thing I watched about hip dips was Rachel’s video that named the problem I had and at the very beginning explained it was a matter of my bones - not a bunch of advices about what to wear to hide them or what kind of workout will be helpful to make my hips rounder. How I had no idea that there’s ‘something wrong’ with my body until other people pointed it out and were mean about it. How much discussing these characteristics as something that obviously should be get ridded of, when combined with poor mental state, can throw me into a pit of misery. How on one hand it’s great that thick women are starting being seen as attractive after years and years of simply calling them fat (yes, of course, not all of them, but that’s another topic), but on the other hand I feel more and more repulsive every time I see pictures of influencers or celebrities, so often with their features more or less photoshopped to look juicier. I know I’m babbling a lot here, but I just need to do it, because... I’m so tired of having a body. Of having it so peculiar that today’s fashion rarely have anything for it to offer. Of sewing my own clothes, especially blouses, because nothing really fits my figure how it should. Of not being able to wear some clothes I like, because I would know I look very bad in them and that would make me uncomfortable. Yes, there are some things that don’t make me look 10/10, but I still wear them because I love them so much and I love how I feel in them. Of being aware that other people might find some parts of me unattractive. I’m tired of feeling miserable about myself and I want to find some way to stop it.

One of the things that striked me in Rachel’s video was her confession, quite logical, that wearing vintage clothes, especially wide skirts and dresses, hid her hips and booty and therefore helped her with presenting herself in a way that made her feel attractive. I thought ‘If this video is about insecurities being ridiculous, then why are we talking about hiding those unattractive parts?’ I used to do that too, but for some reason that wasn’t enough for me anymore. I don’t want to hide anymore, I just don’t want to think about it, wear whatever I want - and goddamit, I love skinny high waisted jeans, I don’t want to go back to wearing wide skirts on the days when I feel insecure. So what to do about it, how to not give a damn?

And then, as quite often in the last 1,5 years, Good Omens helped. Every day since June 2019 I see Crowley on my dash, wearing insanely tight clothes, sauntering like he hasn’t full control over his limbs, being so damn skinny, having absolutely no bum whatsoever, looking almost ridiculous, but still being described by fans as, yes, ridiculous, but so loveable. Trying to be cool in a way he thinks is cool, not adjusting completely to current norms. If Crowley was a real woman with the same type of figure as David Tennant, she sure as hell wouldn’t be wearing wide skirts with a petticoat, or padded underwear, or A line dresses. Crowley doesn’t hide who he is, what he finds cool, what is imperfect about him (no, we’re not discussing his sunglasses right now, that’s a topic for another conversation). He’s honest about who he is and what he wants.

And hell, if I need to learn to be like that by buying and wearing black waxed high waisted superskinny jeans, so be it.

I just got the email, the package with my new clothes is just on its way.

[shipaholic]

Omens Universe, Chapter 11 Part 1

Oof. Busy day at work today. Resume! The boys have something to talk about...

Discussion this chapter of magical injuries, and we get our first big swear.

Link to next part at the end.

(From the beginning)

(last part)

(chrono)

---

Chapter 11

Aziraphale’s upturned face was full of hope. He opened his mouth to speak.

Crowley held up a finger. Aziraphale’s mouth snapped shut. Crowley had no idea what his own face must look like, but the sight of it caused the light in Aziraphale’s eyes to snuff right out. The angel swallowed and stared at him.

Crowley tried to collect himself while experiencing twenty-two emotions in the span of ten seconds.

In a cracked voice, he said, “What. The Hell. Are you doing here.”

Aziraphale’s hands wrung together. “I’m so sorry to drop in unannounced,” he said.

He sounded sincere. As if a lack of manners was the issue. Crowley made an undignified noise.

“It must have given you quite a shock. If there was some way to contact you beforehand -”

“I didn’t need another of your notes.”

There was a horrible pause.

“Qu-quite.” Aziraphale looked pale. “Um. Perhaps I should explain?”

An explanation. Crowley flashed back to the day he’d returned to the bookshop, shame-faced and heart-bruised, and found it dark and empty, summoning circle cold for hours, and that one sheet of paper on the bureau addressed to him. His stomach dropped away.

“I came back, because… because I had to see you. The thing is…”

Aziraphale’s lip wobbled. Then it burst out of him like a dam exploding.

“I couldn’t do it, Crowley! I couldn’t sit up there and smile while they all counted down to Armageddon like it was New Years’ bloody Eve. I want no part in any of it. They were going to give me a regiment and - Crowley, I can’t do it. Killing for them, seeing you killed. They’re looking forward to getting to melt the Earth down to a slag heap. I can’t even comprehend it. I’ve seen the world they’re so keen to duplicate down here, and it’s awful, Crowley. Seventy-eight years of Singalong Sound of Music, you have no idea. I can’t take an eternity of that. I thought I had no choice, I thought I had to stick it out, but it got to today and it was all too much and I just had to come and find you. I’ve been an idiot. We should have done this from the start, when Zadkiel wanted to. He was right all along, and I was wrong. We have to escape. This world is going to end, no matter what, but it doesn’t have to be the end for us.”

Nothing could have prepared Crowley for Aziraphale bursting up to him and suggesting they go on the lam.

He managed a croaky, “You what?”

Aziraphale took a step towards him. His eyes held a feverish glow.

“We can do it. I’ve thought it all through, and it’s possible. If we act now. Flee into space, live as a fusion. Heaven and Hell won’t be able to track us. Besides, they’re going to be busy with everything down here. We can have our pick of where to settle down. Er, where’s nice… Alpha Centauri, say? I’m sure I’ve heard you talking about it.”

Crowley said, “Nnng.” It was all he had left.

Aziraphale came closer. He took Crowley’s hand. Crowley stared down at it as if it wasn’t attached to him.

“Will you please come with me?” Aziraphale said.

Crowley forgot what breathing felt like.

Aziraphale noticed something. He glanced down at their joined hands.

“Crowley, why are you wearing one glove?”

Crowley remembered what breathing was. He sucked in a lungful of air. Aziraphale’s face dropped at his expression.

Crowley made a strained hissing sound. Tears leaked out of his eyes and streaked down his face, under his sunglasses. Shit. Shit.

He scrubbed his face. Aziraphale made a soft noise and reached for him.

“Get back. Don’t you dare.”

Aziraphale turned white and backed away.

Crowley shook, face hidden in his hand. Everything was upside down. He didn’t know how to even voice everything he’d felt over the past seventy-eight years. What it was like to cram all the love he had into a box and bury it and go back to work, and keep going back to work, every single day.

“How fucking dare you pull this. I never thought I’d see you again. You abandoned me. You got scared, and you fled and you left me alone. Ran right back to that supercilious lot without a word. I’m sorry you haven’t been enjoying their company these last few years, that must have been really hard for you. I’ve been down here with Hastur and Ligur and half of Hell. I’ll tell you something, I’d rather see them right now than you.”

“Oh, goodness. Crowley.” Aziraphale’s eyes filled with tears. “I thought I was saving your life.”

“Saving my -?” Crowley barked a laugh. More tears came. “What kind of -”

He had to pull his sunglasses off and wipe his face. What was the point in dignity when Aziraphale looked at him like that?

“What happened to your arm, Crowley?”

It hurt. Crowley didn’t know why, but his arm was in more pain than it had ever been since it first happened. He clutched it, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Can I see? Please?”

Why not. The glove felt as though it were compressing the wound, making it swell with pain. Crowley fumbled with it, forgetting he could just miracle it away. Maybe he didn’t want the dramatic reveal of baring it all at once. He peeled the glove down, ignoring the way Aziraphale’s eyes widened.

It looked appalling, he knew. His arm was withered from the elbow down, drained of colour and white as a corpse. Cracks in his skin ran all the way along his forearm; unnatural gaps, as though his arm was pieced together from shards of pottery. Gold shone through them, a strange effect that was not quite liquid and not quite light. It was the colour of angels.

Crowley didn’t understand why the pain had spiked. The injury was old. His jacket covered most of it, luckily. Aziraphale’s face was bad enough as it was.

“My poor Crowley.” Aziraphale reached for his other hand. Crowley let him. He let himself feel the warmth of Aziraphale’s thumb stroking the back of his hand.

“Turns out fusing had some extra perks,” he said, attempting levity.

“What do you mean?”

He might as well tell him. He cleared his throat.

“I was in SoHo. It was… I dunno, nineteen-sixty something. I planned a heist. Got a whole crew together. I knew it was dangerous, but I wanted insurance. Even with you gone, I was afraid Hell might poke around and find the last thousand years’ lunch receipts or something. Figure out I’d got a bit too chummy with an angel. So I hired a team, and we did the job. It was in a church. It went wrong.”

“What were you stealing?”

“Holy water.”

Aziraphale’s thumb stopped moving. His breath trembled out of him. Then he resumed stroking Crowley’s hand.

“Oh, Crowley. If I’d been there. I’m so sorry.”

Crowley had to look away. “Didn’t kill me though,” he said. “I think all the fusing must have made me immune. Slightly. It just… burned.” He winced. It was still burning. His arm and heart hurt in equal measures. “I went home and licked my wounds - figuratively, I don’t want a withered tongue - and I’ve been trying to hide it from the rest of my side ever since. Don’t have a very non-treasonous explanation for it.”

“That must have been so hard. All those years.”

“Well.” Crowley shrugged one shoulder. “What was one more secret?”

He felt exhausted. Whoever said confession was good for the soul hadn’t talked to demons.

“You’re probably immune to hellfire, too, a bit,” he said. “Don’t go testing it, obviously.”

Aziraphale shook his head. Crowley fiddled with his sleeve. He hoped he could cover up soon. Looking at the gold seeping through the cracks in his skin for too long made his eyes go funny.

“I wish I could take all this back,” Aziraphale said.

The pain was subsiding a little. Rather than constant agony, it came and went in waves. Crowley still didn’t know why it had spiked. Looking at Aziraphale made it worse, a fact that hurt almost as much as the physical pain.

“Why did you do it?” he asked, dreading the answer.

Aziraphale’s movements stilled. He sighed.

“I thought I needed to. It was the only way to keep us safe. We couldn’t trust ourselves around each other. Someone had to separate us, and I thought it should be me. I thought I was being noble. It was cruel. I’m sorry.”

Crowley was right. Hearing that didn’t make him feel any better. He didn’t feel worse, either. He’d settled on slightly numb. He wished he could say the same for his arm. It throbbed like poison.

The pain must have shown, because Aziraphale looked concerned. “Is it still bad?”

“Fnn.” Crowley squeezed his eyes shut.

“What’s causing it? It’s not…” Aziraphale sounded suddenly alarmed. “Is it reacting to me? Because I’m an angel? If the wound was inflicted by Heavenly means - oh dear -”

Crowley gritted his teeth. He forced himself to look at Aziraphale. The angel’s wretched expression stung his heart. Some mean, hurt part of him wanted to make Aziraphale feel worse.

“It’s not because you’re an angel, Aziraphale. It’s because I’m angry. At you. I haven’t forgiven you. Seeing you just. Hurts.”

Aziraphale flinched. Crowley felt a wave of vindication. Then he just felt sick.

For a while, no-one spoke.

Aziraphale muttered, “Psychosomatic.”

“Bless you,” Crowley said irritably, ignoring the burst of foul taste in his mouth.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. Rolled his eyes -! Crowley was so outraged he temporarily forgot all the other things he was outraged about.

“It’s not just a physical injury. It’s emotional. You associate it with me… abandoning you. Well, I’ll tell you what, you old serpent. I will never abandon you, never. If you’ll let me, I will stay by your side, from now until the end of everything. Which I’m hoping won’t be today. I love you.”

Aziraphale moved closer. There was a determined, blazing look in his eye.

Crowley tried to splutter about demon and feelings and don’t pull faces at me, you bastard, but lost every word in his head the moment Aziraphale pressed closer and kissed him.

They never. Quite got around to doing that before.

A turbulent ocean fell suddenly calm.

Crowley’s arms had fallen to his sides (useless lumps, if they were house-plants, he’d put the fear of him in them). He realised, through the haze that had settled around him, that the pain in the right arm had soothed to a dull sting.

Aziraphale’s hands were on his face, holding him like something precious. Crowley whined. Then he blushed so hotly his head was in danger of melting. He rallied his mutinous arms and wound them around Aziraphale’s plump shoulders.

Time swum, deliciously.

Aziraphale shifted. He broke the kiss, but still leaned his cheek to Crowley’s. Crowley felt as if he lacked any say over his feet or tongue, but did his best to stay upright and form sentences.

“You - ah. Hn.” Going well. “You said you had a plan?”

The unangelic gleam in Aziraphale’s eye was mesmerising this close up. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

Crowley wetted his lips and got distracted utterly by recent memory. “Alpha Centauri… ‘s pretty nice this time of year…”

Aziraphale’s face lit up. Crowley took in the love and joy beaming from it and tried to keep a lid on his emotions for both their sakes. He failed.

“Crowley… are you saying you’ll come with me?”

Crowley didn’t trust himself with words. He nodded.

“Yeah,” he managed. “Why not? I like space.”

His happiness was such that he didn’t even kick himself over that line. He suspected he was grinning like an idiot. Might as well commit to the madness fully. He bent down and kissed Aziraphale first this time.

An unknowable amount of time passed.

From the doorway, someone coughed.

Crowley and Aziraphale froze. Their lips unstuck, with a noise that rather burst the bubble of romantic frenzy from moments ago.

Crowley’s eyes flicked past Aziraphale’s shoulder.

An unimpressed eleven-year-old Antichrist was watching them.

There were probably a few ways this could be a bigger fiasco. Probably. Crowley took a half-step back and tried to straighten his clothes out.

“You’re not dead,” Adam said, flatly.

Aziraphale turned and tried to smile. “Erm -”

“And you -”

Adam looked Crowley up and down. Crowley felt that he was being seen right through to his very demonic core. He resisted a panicked urge to fling himself out of the window.

“You’re normally a snake,” Adam declared.

Crowley cringed.

“And imaginary,” Adam added, accusatory.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” Crowley said, pointlessly, because he wasn’t entirely sure what it did look like.

Adam gave them both a shrewd look. “It looks like you’re my imaginary friend and you’re a magician I murdered, and you’re planning on running away together into space.”

It was hard to dispute any of that. Crowley opened his mouth to try.

“Can I come?” Adam said.

“What? No.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered.

“Are you aliens?”

Crowley glared at Adam, trying to calculate a response. “Why…?”

“Space.” Adam gave him a look, as if it were self-evident. “Plus, you can shape-shift.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, insistently.

Crowley turned to him, hoping he had a brilliant suggestion.

“Is that the Antichrist?” Aziraphale stage-whispered.

Crowley rolled his eyes so hard they sprained. “Yes, that is the Antichrist,” he hissed back.

Adam scowled. “You sound like my mum.”

“Look, er.” Aziraphale tried another smile. “I’m terribly sorry about earlier, but this really isn’t… anything. We were just joking around, you know, and…”

“I know everything’s messed up,” said Adam.

There was a pause.

“What do you mean?” Crowley asked.

Adam shrugged. “Everything. I know… I know stuff isn’t normal. The stuff that goes on in this house isn’t… how things are supposed to be. I’ve had enough of it. I want to go with you. I’d rather live in space.”

Aziraphale shared an uncomfortable look with Crowley. Crowley decided this had gone on long enough.

“Go to your room,” he said, and snapped his fingers.

Adam stayed where he was. He folded his arms, implacable. He was a five-foot barricade, as impassable as a steel door.

“That won’t work, he’s immune to occult persuasion,” Aziraphale murmured to him.

“Oh, now you’re the expert?”

Adam took a step towards them. They leaned back.

“I want to see space.”

Crowley wanted to see space, too, and he could feel it slip from his grasp the more time they wasted arguing with an eleven-year-old.

“Fine, you can come,” he snapped.

A grin split Adam’s face in two. “Really?”

Aziraphale’s head snapped around. “Really?”

“We’ve got between here and Alpha Centauri to ditch him,” Crowley muttered to him.

“I am not kidnapping a child, Crowley!”

“How are you kidnapping him? He’s kidnapping us! Besides,” Crowley lowered his voice further. “Armageddon can’t happen without him. If the Antichrist isn’t on Earth…”

Aziraphale caught on. “Maybe it never happens.”

Crowley still had it. Temptation accomplished.

Aziraphale bustled up to Adam. “Welcome aboard, young man.” He shook Adam’s hand.

“Thanks,” Adam said. He’d forgotten about the whole manslaughter debacle already, by the look of things.

“Now, stay close.”

Aziraphale peered along the corridor. He beckoned Adam and Crowley to follow him. Crowley brought up the rear, wondering how all this had happened to him.

On the way out, they ran into the American cultural attaché. He waved vaguely to Adam as he passed.

“Merry Christmas, son,” he said, sounding a bit uncertain.

“Bye, dad,” Adam said, distractedly.

They left him behind and went out the front door, all three acting as though they were in very different spy films.

As they snuck across the lawn, with maximum drama and minimum stealth, Crowley remembered something.

“Hey,” he said to Adam. “Did a giant dog ever show up?”

Adam looked at him as if he was talking nonsense. “No. I haven’t wanted a dog in years.”

“Cool, cool. Just wondering.”

~*~

In the shrubbery, the enormous and poorly concealed Hellhound put its tail between its legs.

It didn’t understand. It was made for one purpose. If its master didn’t want it, why was it here?

It crept from the shrubbery, far less conspicuous than the three beings it was following, and stalked across the lawn towards the street. It would stay in its master’s shadow, out of sight, until he decided he wanted a dog after all.

---

Musical interlude x2! This chapter has a soundtrack. For Aziraphale’s perspective of the last seventy eight years, go here!

Then, the boys duet about their feelings here!

---

(Link to next part)

[astringofmadhousefloozies]

On Illness and Recovery, or: Sickfic, Baby!

You know the drill! Please let me know if you liked it, and check my Twisted Wonderland fanfiction tag if you want other shit I’ve done.

Contains coarse language and emotional whiplash.

~*~*~*~

Some things stay true no matter where you are; the truest, right now? Schools are disgusting fucking petri dishes, as your miserable cold will tell you. Your cough had only been getting worse as the days went on, with it came exhaustion and a chill that wouldn't leave your bones. You should probably be holed up in your dorm instead of going to class, but that had it's own issues that you were struggling to solve.

"Are you done yet? I want to eat." Grimm's nose, and little else, poked out from a pile of blankets on your bed.

"Nowhere close. Shh." You taped the last bit of plastic over the balcony entryway, and swapped the roll of tape for a heavy duty stapler. "Hold that right there."

The skull-faced ghost held a packing blanket over the plastic as you stapled it in place. By the time you were done, you couldn't see much, which at least meant you could no longer see your own breath. Maybe now, you would be able to feel your own fingers.

Ah, they joys of your own rotten, ancient place - you wake up with frost on your bedsheets and your washbasin shattered from the ice within it. There were other rooms in the place, but most had holes in the ceiling or were too big to heat effectively. So now, you were going to live in one room, that you'd yet to figure out how to run electricity to, and only leave for class or the bathroom. Even if you were ill, could anyone blame you for still going to class when your own home had a nasty quirk of being even colder than outside?

Anywho, it was time to do some homework. By the light of an oil lamp. In five layers of clothing. Curled up so close to a tiny fire you might as well be inside of it. While your not-a-cat complained the whole time.

Yaaaaaaay.

~*~*~*~

"You really should be resting."

You scoffed. "You just feel bad because you're the one who got me sick."

"You can't prove that, everyone's had a cold the past few weeks."

"No one else has been exploring my tonsils, dude."

Idia clapped a hand on your mouth, which you did not lick solely because you were wearing a cloth mask. "Quiet! That's secret intel."

"What? No it's not, everyone knows."

"I don't want to advertise. Then I'm a raid boss and you're the rare loot drop."

You elbowed him in his boney ribs. "No one's going to kick your ass out of jealousy. Just because I'm the hottest bitch in this place doesn't mean I've got universal appeal."

"You're still the only girl and people are weird about it." He placed the back of his hand on your forehead and winced. "You're too warm."

"How can you tell? You've got gloves on."

"That's how bad it is. I'll make some tea."

"I'm not drinking anything out of the damned lab equipment."

He frowned. "I've never had anything bad happen, it's cleaned correctly."

"You're smarter than that. One of these days you're going to grow a tail due to residue in the glassware, and I'm going to haul you around in front of god and everyone by it, going 'I told you so' the entire time."

He blanched, knowing that that was not an idle threat, and someone laughed. "I think I should make that happen, just so we can see that."

"Jade, no. No magic mushrooms for my man, or any other concoctionary bullshit either."

Idia looked ready to die, so to take attention off of him you leaned over and poked Silver awake before he fell face first in the potion he was working on. Logically, you know his narcolepsy was debilitating. Right now, you wish you could have borrowed it last night. You don't remember walking up during the night, but you must have, because why else would you be so tired?

He started up, mumbled "thank you" and went back to stirring as if he hadn't been about to drown in dubious magichemicals. God, you wished that was you right now.

"Idia, deal. You help me get through this class, I'll grab some hot food and go home."

He made a show of hemming and hawing before saying, "Grimm needs to let me hold him when I drop you off, and I will."

Ordinarily, you would have just said "Ask him yourself and don't be weird about it," and Grimm would have simply told him no until sufficiently bribed. But Grimm was still in bed at home, saying you kept him up all night, so instead you bumped Idia with your hip and said "What, you can't think to ask for better pussy to fondle?"

Of course, you just had to say something crass at the moment where everyone went quiet. Even Crewel raised his head and both eyebrows at you. The only reason you didn't get a riding crop to the face and a week in horny detention (where, you assumed, they punished you for being a bad girl indeed) was Idia, rapidly going through every stage of confusion and grief, with a few currently unknown to man. You'd intended to tease him, but that sheer amount of confused, horny misery on his face was just too much, and you laughed so hard you bent over.

And coughed. In a short time, there was no laughter left, only miserable coughing from the depths of your chest that left you on the floor with your eyes watering. Someone thumped your back a few times, and when you yanked your mask off to catch a proper, if shallow breath, your mask was full of a red-streaked, pus coloured slime.

A fur coat was draped over your shoulders as everyone made various noises of disgust. "Class dismissed. Let's get you to the nurses."

~*~*~*~

"How in hell are you still mobile."

"Pettiness and a desire to not freeze to death."

Crewel narrowed his eyes at you. "Both lungs."

"That is what double pneumonia means, Professor."

You could see his whip fingers itching. "Yes, well. You can't come to class like that. And... Is it really that bad in Ramshackle?"

Idia raised a hand. "It was really cold the last time I was there."

"Ugh. I told Crowley we should have razed the place for an expansion on my dog run." He looked at you with a curious mix of genuine fondness and even more genuine disgust. "I'm not putting you up until your place gets fixed, you'll leak all over my furniture. Anyone here going to babysit?"

"I've done perfectly fine in my own dorm, I don't need to become the pet of another dorm."

"Those little fairies said that if you don't stay on bedrest and stay warm, you will die. I am not filling out that paperwork." He looked to you classmates. "Speak up or I'm docking a letter grade."

Silver raised a hand. "I think we could do it but I don't think D- Lilia would let me. Malleus would end up trying to play nurse and skip class."

"Oh god, no, we don't tell him I'm sick until I'm safely ensconced somewhere, he would lose his damn mind and I'd try to strangle him after a week of it."

"There are no spare rooms in Octanivelle. However, I could try some experimental medicines I've been-"

"Jade, no."

Idia was quiet, before speaking up. "I... I don't know if Ignihyde has a spare room, or would be good for healing."

He'd not left your side since your collapse, and gone so full of writhing, barely concealed anxiety he'd broke through the other side and simply shut off. You didn't get it, it wasn't actually anything serious. The nurses had pumped you full of medicine, you'd be up and about a week or two at the most, instead of the month's worth of hospital rooms and bad food it would have been.

Crewel sighed. "Time to start checking the files to see where you can be squeezed."

There was a cough, from the fifth student so quiet despite his size. Everyone had honestly forgotten he was there.

When he spoke up, it was to you, and not anyone else. "There's an unoccupied room down the hall from me. I think the weather in the Savannahclaw dorms will be good for your health. You shouldn't have to stay where you won't be wanted, or get sicker. Would that work?"

You looked at him, assessing. You and him hadn't talked overmuch, and he didn't seem to mind. But as severe as he looked? You could see the sincerity in his offer.

"That should work. Jack, right?"

His ears flicked, and his tail twitched. "Yes."

"Thank you, Jack. You're very kind."

~*~*~*~

Easy to see why the room was empty. You suspected it might have been a storage room, or that there had been a monastic order in the dorm at one point. A single bed just fit the far wall, with a chair, a desk, a bureau, and little else. But the far wall had a large window, and the room felt... nice. And a hell of a lot warmer than than your room in Ramshackle.

"It'll make an excellent sickroom." You set your schoolbag and an entire case of tissues on the desk. "Thank you again, Jack. You sure it won't be any trouble?"

"I've already cleared it with our dorm leader, he said he doesn't care as long as you don't rub phlegm on his things." Jack was a solid block of frown and muscle in the corner. "The window does open, you should keep it that way for circulation. There's a bathroom down the hall, there's showers in there. If you need anything or anyone tries to bother you, please let me know."

"Will do." You were already unpacking the few things in your bag, trying to get them arranged before another coughing fit took you.

"I can help get your things, if you need?" For a dude who was very do-that-shit-yourself, he was being very helpful.

"Idia's grabbing Grimm and anything else I'll need. He'll know what I want."

"I see." Silence, and more interesting ear flicks. "So."

"So?"

"You and him are..." He made a guesture with interlaced fingers.

"Yeah. Jealous?"

He snorted. "No. Just curious. He's a bit..." Hand wiggle.

"I'm a bit too. It works. Would have been nice if he'd gotten the hint before I had a ghost turn me inside out in front of him and everyone else."

"You know that's why you're so sick, right?"

You made a noise that was hard to decipher, that he used as cue to continue. "You never smelled quite right after that happened. Even after the healing. You're always a little..." He moved his hands, trying to grasp the right simile. "Like when a flower's starting to drop petals. Overripe."

How in the hell were you supposed to take that. What do you even say to that? Does everyone know you smell? Does - 

"Oh god, you all know when I'm on the rag."

A single, curt nod, and you put your head in your hands and groaned.

~*~*~*~

A knock on the door

"Who is it?"

"Your worst enemy."

"Get your ass in here, Vil."

Vil had on... good lord. Mask, gloves, face shield. An absurdly fashionable CDC agent. "You look like shit."

"Thanks, Vil. Means so much coming from you."

He stayed by the door, ready to flee if a spare germ came floating towards him. "Heard you're out of commission. Thank the seven, I'll get some peace in my life."

You flipped him the bird, but smiled as you did. "Don't say that. I'll made a sheet ladder and mix sputum in your cold cream."

"If you do that I will personally burn your clothes and replace them with something decent that you will hate."

"Try. Come to gloat?"

"Just a bit." He set a large cup with a straw at the very edge of the desk, straining at arm's length as he did. "This should unfuck your throat somewhat."

"Such language!" You waited until he retreated to the door before you took the smoothie. It was... very, very purple, and smelled minty. "Trying to poison me, finally?"

He rolled his eyes. "When I decide to poison you, it's not going to be through something that obvious. You will never see it coming, and then I'll sell your corpse to Floyd and everyone will just think he finally decided to go full crazy and Riddle is next."

You snorted. "Honestly? I think he'd shit his pants if I actually returned the affection. One time I saw Riddle give him a genuine smile and he had to go sit down because he started shaking so bad." That might have been because the smile was caused by Floyd cracking his head on a doorway and falling flat on his ass, but the point still stood.

When he stopped laughing, he turned to leave. "Take at least an extra week to get better, for my sanity. And don't give the creature any, it won't agree with him."

"Shh, I just got him down for his nap-"

Grimm made a horrible snort from your feet and say up. "Food?"

You made a look-what-you-did guesture at Vil, but he left instead of helping you deal with your beloved yowling idiot.

~*~*~*~

You woke up coughing in the dark. It took entirely too long for you to figure out where the hell you were, and why, and you took the offered tissue with great-

"JaySUS FUCKING CHRIST" You jumped back so much it was only Malleus's grip on your arm that kept you from going through the open window.

"People are sleeping, please do not yell."

"Don't yell my ass, how long have you been there?"

He shrugged. "Since before sunset. Ortho was here first."

You leaned around Mal, to see Ortho sitting on the desk, scritching the belly of a drowsing Grimm. "Hello, Yuu. Your fever has gone down half of a degree since I took over."

The audacity of these idiots, you swear. "Both of you go home and go to bed."

"No. You need watching." Mal had not blinked once since you'd woken up, and how about that? His eyes glowed in the dark, or he had very strong eyeshine; either way, there was no iris around the blown out pupil. "You are very ill and need taken care of. I can do that, I took care of Silver when he was ill."

"Mal."

"Yes?"

"Do we need another boundaries talk?"

He frowned. "But you are ill."

"Mal, I will call Lilia and tell him what you are doing right now. I will personally write your grandmother and tell her you're neglecting your studies. I will get Leona down here and he will call you a simp until you go outside and fight him on compulsion."

"Those all sound terrible!"

"Ortho, don't kiss up because you're next. Why are you here and not home charging?"

"Idia wouldn't go home to sleep until I said I would let him know if you got worse."

You opened your mouth, and shut it again. Why's he so worried? You had to physically shove him out the door to go to his next class, looking like his heart would break, and he'd still skipped board games to fidget miserably in the chair Mal now sat in, looking ready to burst into tears every time you coughed.

Ortho seemed to read your mind. "He gets worried when people get sick. I got sick once."

Ah. That explained a hell of a lot that you were too polite to ask.

"... Okay, you can stay."

Mal perked up.

"You go home. I'll never go back to sleep if you keep staring all night, and you do need to sleep some."

Mal's face fell.

"You can come back tomorrow, after class."

He perked back up. "Goodnight, Yuu. I will see you tomorrow!" A brief kiss against your sweating temple, and he was out the same window he most likely came in.

"Hey, Ortho?"

"Yes?"

"If you can dim your lights a little, you can come lie down with me."

~*~*~*~

You were rudely poked awake by a giant asshole.

"Why are you in my nap room." Leona hovered over you with obvious displeasure.

You blinked and sorted yourself. Ortho was crammed between you and the window, hopefully dreaming of electric sheep, and Grimm was still dead asleep, the little bastard. "Jack put me up here because my dorm's a block of ice and I can't stay there on doctor's orders." Crewel might have a doctorate, it's not a lie.

"Why didn't he tell me?"

"I did." Jack was behind him, his own link in a chain of hovering displeasure. "You said it was fine as long as she didn't make a mess. I brought yogurt."

"Thank you-" More miserable coughing, with now everyone either rubbing your back or passing you tissues. Except Leona, who simply held back and watched. By the time you were done, he just nodded.

"I'm not moving you, but..."

"What."

"I'm calling in a favour next time Cheka gets pawned off on me. He likes you."

You'd argue that, but you liked the kid. "Aight. Everyone get out, there's too many fucking people in here and I'm discovering new and interesting depths of claustrophobia."

Leona didn't need to be told twice.

"I'll be back after class with your homework. Maybe at lunch with something. Not before then. Stay put."

"Oooo, oo. I'm going with you, big guy." Grimm scampered over. "I'll get bored here all day. You can just nap."

You rolled your eyes "I can just nap. Jack, if he sticks with you, he's going to want to eat everything you do."

"I'll manage."

"Would you like me to stay?" Ortho was finally up, or maybe you hadn't noticed him exiting screensaver mode.

"I'd like you to tell your brother that I'm not going anywhere. Use those exact words."

He nodded, a faint whirr as he did.

"I'll see you guys later, okay? I need more sleep."

~*~*~*~

Someone gently shook you awake, and said someone was leaning in the window.

"Hey, Kalim." Why'd you have to be the center of attention when sick, and therefore couldn't kiss anyone to thank them for said attention.

"Hi! I asked Jamil to make extra lunch for you!" He set a covered dish on your knees.

"Thank you. Was he okay with that?"

"He was when I said it was for you. Everyone's heard that you're laid up!"

"News travels fast. Am I about to get even more popular?"

"You're always popular because you're great. Feel better! Jamil said he'll have extras tomorrow too. See you!" And off he went.

You needed to tell Jamil thank you, but he would probably just tell you to just stop talking about abolishing the monarchy instead. (Not because he didn't support the idea, but because he didn't want to be punished for not keeping the idea from Kalim.) What did he make, anyway?

"Oh, curry. Sweet."

~*~*~*~

The days progressed roughly the same. Drowsing most of the morning, lunch, more drowsing in between laptop stuff, maybe actual sleep. Coughing up far less gunk as the days went on. And entertaining an absurd fucking amount of people. Everyone seemed determined to check on you, even people who you'd never seen before in your life; Ruggie made something like 10k madol charging people to try and see you through the window before you cursed him out. Your Heartslabyul boys dropped in every couple of days to relate shit that they hadn't simply texted you (along with a pile of pastries from Trey and handwritten instructions on recovery from Riddle, the latter far less appreciated than the former). Floyd dropped in once to mostly complain about how you weren't around to eat the mushrooms he picked out of his food, tried to convince you to let him carry you over to the Monstro Lounge himself, and when you refused, kissed the tips of your fingers and left pouting. Jack, true to his word, dropped in at least twice a day to deliver food and homework, and once spent forty-five minutes glowering at anyone approaching the bathrooms while you took a shower that ached on your oversensitive skin.

Some people were far more regular. Every day like clockwork, Malleus perched in your window and was the world's friendliest, most affectionate vulture. Twenty minutes after that, Idia would come in, sit in the chair, and exude such concentrated grief that you were at a loss for what to do beyond asking if he wanted to talk about it, to which he would shake his head and simply resume sitting there, tapping away at his screens until the next panicked flurry of activity every time you made a unhealthy noise.

"You are allowed to go home. I'm not going anywhere, and I'm much better than I was."

He just shook his head.

"I will come get you if something happens," Mal offered.

More head shaking, and a "no" from his tablet, before adding, "Never again."

"I'll call Ortho and make him tag you out."

"I said no. And Ortho is with Lilia."

Lilia, small, beloved pest, has what you like to think of as a compulsive need to parent. He was god knows how old, had raised at least three of your classmates that you know of, and seemed to consider you his newest fledgling. After hearing about what happened, he'd taken it into his own hands to fix Ramshackle to... well, not OSHA compliance, but you wouldn't be cold.

"Does he know how much I appreciate it? Appreciate all of you, really?"

"Of course he does. He loves talking about you. He wears that shirt you made all the time."

"Which one? I've made him seven so far."

"When do I get one?"

"When they make T shirts that'll fit over your horns." Something drooped in the corner of your eye, and you looked over to see Idia shaking himself upright. "Hey, babe. When was the last time you slept?"

He took an embarrassingly long time to lie through his teeth and say "Last night" through his tablet.

"Yeah, no. Get over here." You took a moment to drag Mal's hand down before he could just do a sleeping spell, or something equally well meaning but deeply inappropriate.

"No."

"Please?"

You held your arms out until he couldn't resist, and soon you'd arranged his head on your chest.

"You hear anything more sloshing around in there?"

He shook his head.

"I am on the mend. I... don't really know what happened before. And I sure as hell don't know what you did to get him back. But I'm not going anywhere. So rest." 

He gave a faint nod.

"I will wake you, if need be?"

To both yours and Mal's surprise, Idia answered him with a pat on his leg.

"Thank you."

Idia was already asleep.

~*~*~*~

"Mal?"

"Yes?"

"Do you know what 'cyanosis' is?" You’d been stroking Idia's head for hours. Or minutes. Time flies, and you could not tell the difference.

"Not immediately, no."

"It's caused by a few different things. Hypoxia, hypothermia, that sort of thing. The blood in you doesn't have enough oxygen. So little that, instead of red, parts of your body turn blue or grey due to the lack of oxygen."

"I see." He looked intently, much as you did, at Idia's greyish nails and blue lips. "That doesn't seem survivable."

"Not if it's severe, no." The flames from Idia's head curled around your fingers, grasping at you even when he's not aware of it. "It's not something you see on someone as... lively as him. It's something I think about a lot. Whether it's to do with his magic, or that curse he won't elaborate on."

"I've heard rumours."

"Oh?"

"The Shroud family curse. Nothing concrete, for an origin. Madness, misfortune, and illness have plagued the family throughout history. Add in a trend of cousin marriage beyond the norm for upper-class families due to people not wanting to subject their loved ones to a cursed bloodline, and the tree is more of an notorious, ingrown shrub."

"That just sounds like shitty genetics and what happens to every family as the years go on, not a curse."

Mal shrugged. "is there a difference? Even in the sleeping curse my grandmother bestowed so easily, much of the power came for the fear of it. A girl grew up without her family because of the fear of it."

"True." You leaned down and kissed the top of Idia's head, feeling an unconscious smile as you did. "There must be a little hereditary something. He gets so anxious about this beautiful hair! He hates people looking at him, and he doesn't even realize it's because he's the most beautiful thing in any room he walks in."

"Thing?" Mal raised an amused eyebrow.

"Even the finest art in a museum doesn't have the benefit of being actually alive."

"Your capacity for love and beauty is enviable. Hunt would be jealous." He reached out and brushed a stray lock away from Idia's face, and you could feel another smile against your chest.

~*~*~*~

"Aight, so we've patched up holes in the walls, insulated the windows - Idia here," Lilia clapped Idia on the small of his back, causing him to make a distressed squeak - "smart boy, found some solar panels and we've got electricity up in your room, the kitchen and the bathroom by your room, not just the front room anymore! The rest we got the ghosts to help seal off to hold the heat in. I got you a space heater for your room, so you don't have to do a fire the whole time, and as long as you don't open the windows back up before spring, you won't freeze."

"Thanks, guys. One question."

"Yeah?"

"What did you do to my room."

Lilia smiled. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're a walking prank and can't keep out of there, what did you do."

"Nothing this time! I promise!" He held his hands up. "At least you can stay home for the next few days, Crewel says you gotta be back Monday or he's going to start making funeral prep."

"I'm literally better, but if he does that I get to help. Always wanted to plan my funeral, I have very specific ideas about what flowers to use and preferred corpse disposal."

"Maybe you should go upstairs and not talk about funerals and their associated things."

"Sure thing, dear."

After settling in your room, most everyone cleared out, even Idia. The only person still there was Jack, looking this way and that with a stern look.

"Hey, Jack?"

He grunted in assent.

"So like, why'd you put me up and help take care of me? We've hardly talked before then."

He sighed. "You've been very nice to me."

"You sure? I'd remember you."

"Uh."

"Jack?"

~*~*~*~

It was a beautiful day, if chilly in the wind. The sun was warm, the trees turning, and you just came across one of your best friends.

"Hi buddy! Are you lost today?"

The very large dog shook it's head and pressed into your knees.

"Okay, you wanna walk with me? Come on."

You'd found this enormous white Malamute wandering campus the first time a few months ago, and after checking in with a few other students who kept laughing when you asked if he was their dog, simply decided to enjoy your new friend and run and play. He was very smart, and initially standoffish, but could not resist a friendly face and good ear scritches. Today, you and Buddy here simply ran around like a couple of idiots after a lost soccer ball until it was time to go eat.

"I'll see you later, buddy. Bye!" You held out a hand, and after a firm shake, kissed the point where his snout met the rest of his face. "Stay safe, I love you."

Buddy made a low grumble and rubbed his paws over his face, and you went off to supper.

~*~*~*~

"You couldn't have told me?"

"How do you explain that? 'Hey, I run around as a wolf sometimes and you mistook me for a lost dog so you lovebombed me and I was at a loss and by the second time it was too awkward to say anything'?"

"I've been playing with you for months! I let you run with Crewel's dalmatians!"

"I run with them as a person, too, that's nothing special."

You pinched your nose. "Everyone must think I'm an idiot."

"I'll deal with them. I'm sorry, Yuu."

"I know. You are my good boy, after all."

His tail started wagging in spite of itself, and you laughed.

[agerefandom]

Evenings of Eternity (Chapter Two)

Fandom: Good Omens

Words: 2,500

Summary: Crowley has been many things throughout the millennia, but he’s never been a child. He finds himself curious about the idea of childhood, and Aziraphale offers to help him explore that curiosity. (regressor!crowley, cg!aziraphale) 

Content Warnings: None I can think of! New, voluntary, and uncertain regression: Crowley and Aziraphale are still figuring out how everything works.

Notes: This is the final chapter for Good Omens so far, but I do plan to write more! Let me know if you have any specific requests or ideas for this fandom, and I’ll be happy to add them in ^-^

(Don’t forget to read chapter one if you missed it!)

In the end, they settled on a date and wrote it on the calendar, just like their weekly game nights. Crowley protested having it on the calendar in the kitchen, but Aziraphale found him staring at it one morning, drinking his coffee and smiling slightly.

The date grew nearer and Aziraphale made his quiet preparations, occasionally asking Crowley’s opinion on this or that. He was picking up some of Crowley’s nerves, hoping that everything would go well and he wouldn’t do anything wrong. From his research, age regression could be a very vulnerable experience, and Aziraphale didn’t want to make Crowley feel that he’d made a mistake trusting Aziraphale with it.

They agreed that for the first try, Aziraphale would make the plan. He would create a space where Crowley could be surrounded by the external factors of being a child, even if he couldn’t create a mental space for it yet. Discovering from scratch what childhood felt like wasn’t going to be easy, and both of them were aware of it. They agreed that there was no pressure on either of them, that both of them could step back at any time, and that it was perfectly alright if it didn’t work out.

Knowing all of that didn’t make it any easier to fall asleep the evening before, and Aziraphale found himself lying awake for an hour that felt like a century. Eventually, he managed to drift off to Crowley’s familiar rasping breaths beside him.

--

The late morning light shone into the cottage, the leaves of the plants casting shadows across the shelves and the floors. Aziraphale walked down the hallway, taking a deep breath as he paused in front of the bedroom door.

He was ready for this, for whatever the day would bring. If it was awkward and it didn’t work at all, that was fine. They had already planned a movie to watch in the evening as adults. If it did work and he was responsible for a five-year-old today, that was fine too. If it was anywhere in-between, he was prepared to adapt and ready to learn. Everything was fine, he just had to open the door, wake Crowley up, and start their day together.

He brushed his hands over his apron and then rested his palm on the doorknob, twisting it open and pushing his way into the dark room with a decisive motion.

“Crowley? Crowley, love, it’s time to wake up.”

“Hrrrn?” Crowley rolled over in bed, already twisted up in the sheets. He wasn’t a blanket hog when he shared the bed, but as soon as Aziraphale left he always made himself into a little burrito. It was adorable.

“Come on, sleepyhead.” Aziraphale sat down on the edge of the bed and ran a hand through Crowley’s hair, scratching gently at his head. “Breakfast is already on the table.”

“Oh nooo,” Crowley muttered, turning his head into the pillow so that his voice was muffled. “It’s today.”

“It is today!” Aziraphale said, continuing to pet Crowley’s head. “I made chocolate chip pancakes.”

“Sounds good.” Crowley’s voice was reluctant, and his face was firmly in the pillow.

“I know they’re your favourite, so I made them just for you,” Aziraphale told him. “Only the best for my favourite little one.”

Crowley finally rolled over, but only so that he could put his hands over his face and make an embarrassed whining sound. Aziraphale almost raised his eyebrows: it wasn’t a reaction he’d seen from Crowley before, and he hoped it meant he was on the right track.

“Alright, I’m opening the curtains, so keep your eyes closed!” Aziraphale said, rising from the bed and shaking out his skirt. He was wearing his favourite baking outfit, a yellow tartan dress with a floral apron tied around his waist. It made him feel like he was on the cover of a magazine, and he loved the colours.

He opened the curtains with a flourish, and sunlight came streaming into the room. Crowley had slept in late to give Aziraphale time to prepare, and the day was already nearing noon.

“Do you want to choose your outfit today?” Aziraphale asked, as if it was a question that he asked Crowley every morning.

“Yes,” Crowley said, and finally sat upright. He was so loveable in the mornings, his hair a mess and his pupils narrow slits against the light. “I want to choose.”

“Alright, do you want the blue shirt or the red shirt?”

“Red shirt.”

Aziraphale obediently pulled out one of the shirts they had bought together, a plain red t-shirt that wasn’t too far out of Crowley’s comfort zone, but was miles away from his previous outfits. “And shorts or pants, sweetheart?”

“Pants.”

Aziraphale had expected that, and he pulled out a pair of black jeans. Again, not too unusual, but still looser than anything else that Crowley owned. He scooped out a pair of underwear and a new pair of striped socks, putting them all in a pile at the bottom of the bed.

“Do you want me to stay?” Aziraphale asked, as Crowley reached towards the clothes.

“Stay,” Crowley nodded.

“Do you want me to help?”

Crowley shook his head, so Aziraphale waited and watched Crowley get dressed, tossing his silk pyjamas carelessly on the floor. He stood patiently by the door until Crowley had all of his clothes on, even his socks.

“That’s not where your pyjamas go, little one,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley blinked at him with genuine surprise before glancing back at his crumbled pyjamas. “Could you put them away for me?”

Crowley frowned, but he obediently picked up the pyjamas, folded them, and walked over to put them in the right drawer.

“Good job!” Aziraphale praised, holding out his hand. “We can make the bed later, I think it’s time for breakfast.” Crowley already looked slightly overwhelmed, so Aziraphale wiggled the fingers of his outstretched hand. Crowley immediately walked over to hold his hand, and Aziraphale guided him out through the living room and into the dining room.

“There are the pancakes!” Aziraphale said, pointing to a very large stack on the table. “Are you excited?”

Crowley nodded, although Aziraphale could tell that he was still more anxious than anything. Aziraphale pulled out his chair and let him get settled, before sliding two pancakes onto a plate and starting to cut them up. Trying to decide what kind of a child Crowley wanted to try being had been hard: being a baby, a toddler, a seven-year-old, were all very different from each other and equally foreign to the two immortals. They had settled on an older toddler for the first try, so Aziraphale carefully cut the pancakes into bite-sized pieces and added the maple syrup before setting them in front of Crowley with a plastic fork.

Crowley scowled at the plastic fork, but used it to stab a piece of pancake. Aziraphale beamed, proud of how hard Crowley was trying to push past his own discomfort and how little he was trying to hide from Aziraphale at this moment. It was going more smoothly than he had expected, and as Crowley put the first bite of pancake in his mouth, his eyes lit up and he started to eat the rest at a much faster rate.

Hiding his fondness, Aziraphale turned to the counter and began stirring together some chocolate milk, pouring it into a sippy cup and giving it one last shake before putting it in front of Crowley.

Another double-take at the brightly coloured cup, but Crowley picked it up soon enough and started sucking at it, clearly enjoying the chocolate milk. Aziraphale had more of a sweet tooth between the two of them, but he’d never seen Crowley turn his nose up at something that was chocolate.

“Is it good, sweetheart?” Aziraphale prompted, sitting down to his own plate.

“Uh-huh!” Crowley ducked his head after his energetic confirmation, seeming embarrassed. Aziraphale beamed at him.

“I’m glad.” Aziraphale tucked into his own breakfast, watching Crowley struggle with the blunt plastic fork. He had chocolate smeared across one cheek and on the back of his hand already. I’ll have to wipe that up, Aziraphale noted absent-mindedly, and was struck by a wave of newness, mixed with an odd nostalgia for something he’d never had.  

Sure enough, at the end of breakfast, Crowley’s face and hands were smudged with chocolate, and Aziraphale wiped him off with a wet cloth, dropping a kiss on his forehead when he drew away. Crowley squirmed under the attention, but even that was unusual. Crowley usually tapped on the nearest surface when he was uncomfortable, but now he was just wiggling back and forth slightly, his hands wrapping around each other. Aziraphale gave him a reassuring smile and rinsed off the cloth.

“Alright, love, do you want to go outside or stay in to watch some cartoons?” Aziraphale asked as he cleared the table.

Crowley thought about that for a few seconds.

“Outside,” he decided.

“Outside it is.” Aziraphale left the chocolatey plates by the sink for later and returned to Crowley, who was pushing his chair back from the table. “Up you go!” he said, scooping Crowley into his arms and propping him on his hip. Crowley, although tall, had always been quite light. It was easy for Aziraphale to carry him with one arm wrapped under him and another one around his back.

Crowley settled against him easily, curling his hands into the fabric of Aziraphale’s dress.

“Maybe it was silly to wipe all that chocolate off,” Aziraphale murmured to himself as he carried Crowley down the hallway. “You’re just going to get all dirty outside.”

“No I won’t,” Crowley said defiantly. His voice sounded no different from normal, but somehow Aziraphale could tell that he was finding an inner child instinct much faster than Aziraphale had expected.

“Alright, I believe you,” Aziraphale told him, and pressed another kiss to Crowley’s cheek before setting him down on the front-hall bench. “Do you want to wear your new shoes?”

“Yeah!” This got a more excited response than anything else had before, Crowley swinging his legs forwards energetically. “Lights!”

Aziraphale knelt down in front of him, his skirt spreading out on the tile floor as he reached over to pull out the sneakers. Undoing the Velcro, he guided Crowley’s feet into them one by one and then did them up. Crowley resumed swinging his feet when Aziraphale stood up, testing how tight they were. He grinned at Aziraphale freely, kicking his heels into the bench he was sitting on and laughing when the shoes lit up with bright red lights.

“Very hip,” Aziraphale assured him. “You’ll be the talk of the town.”

“Uh-huh!” Crowley popped up to his feet, a sudden surge of motion. Aziraphale stopped him before he could run for the door, offering him a pair of plastic-rimmed sunglasses with little car stickers where they hooked behind the ears.

“Here you are, it’s very sunny out there.” Crowley reluctantly slipped them on. “But still don’t look directly at the sun,” Aziraphale added. “It’s very dangerous.”

“I know that,” Crowley grumbled.

“Good. I like your eyes the way they are,” Aziraphale said, and put on his own running shoes before opening the door.

Crowley was out like a shot, running down the garden path and into the sunshine before Aziraphale could step outside.

“Don’t run too far!” Aziraphale called after him, and Crowley’s carefree laughter came back to him. Crowley was spinning in the sun, just outside the garden fence, his arms out-flung to either side and his face tilted upwards.

Aziraphale relaxed when he saw that Crowley wasn’t going anywhere near the cliffs, and turned back to close the door. He wandered down the path, checking on the flowers and the tomatoes as he made his way towards the still-spinning Crowley.

“You’re going to fall over if you keep that up,” Aziraphale admonished. They could consciously stop dizziness, of course, just like any other function of the bodies they inhabited, but he doubted that Crowley was in a space to do so at the moment. At least the grass looked nice and soft under his feet.

Crowley obediently stopped spinning, and then tried to take a step forward towards Aziraphale and fell over sideways with a comedic shout of surprise. His shoulder hit the ground hard, and he rolled to a stop on his back, staring up at the sky.

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale called, suppressing the urge to run forwards and make sure Crowley wasn’t hurt. They were made of tougher stuff than that, and there was no need to hover.

“I… yeah.” Crowley pushed himself up to a sitting position, and looked over to Aziraphale. “I’m fine.”

Aziraphale couldn’t put his finger on what had changed, but he was well aware that the tumble had jolted Crowley out of the relaxed headspace he’d found. He was back to the Crowley that Aziraphale was familiar with.

“Do you want to go back inside?” Aziraphale asked, still fighting the urge to run forwards and scoop Crowley into his arms.

“Yeah.” Crowley pushed his sunglasses up so that he could rub his eyes. “I think I’m done for today, if that’s alright.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale finally approached, sitting cross-legged on the grass next to Crowley. “You can be done whenever you want.”

“It was short,” Crowley sighed. “But it was nice.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale could feel himself brighten at the off-hand comment.

“I think I’d like to do it again, either with you or by myself.” Crowley rolled the hem of his t-shirt between two fingers. “It was nice.”

“I would be happy to do it again with you,” Aziraphale said. “I had quite a bit of fun.”

“Did you?” Crowley was watching him from the corner of his eye, unwilling to meet his gaze head-on.

“Absolutely.” Aziraphale nodded enthusiastically. “You know how much I love playing the housewife every once in a while, cleaning the cottage by hand. This was even better than that, I’ve never felt so… human.” There was no other word for the feeling, like all the centuries could fade away into a single lifetime, like there was nothing above and nothing below but only the here and now. As though there were no obligation to how they had been made, and only the life they created together.

“An angel who wants to be a housewife,” Crowley chuckled, lying back on the grass and letting the childish sunglasses slide back over his eyes. “Sounds like the plot of a terrible romance novel.”

“Hallmark card, romance novel… at least I’m not someone’s idea of a tragic gothic hero,” Aziraphale said, poking Crowley in the side and relishing his laughter.

“You get one novel written about you and they never forget it,” Crowley griped. “Stop tickling me and lie down, angel. The sunlight is warm and you’re blocking it.”

“Oh, if I’m disrupting your basking,” Aziraphale said graciously and laid down next to Crowley, shifting closer to him and letting Crowley wrap an arm around him. The two of them laid under the noonday sun, breathing in the seaside air and closing their eyes to better savour the warmth. Everything that wasn’t them and their cottage seemed very far away, and Aziraphale felt properly at peace.

[meshkol]

3, 6, 15 for the unusual asks darling ( ´͈ ॢꇴ `͈ॢ)･*♡

 hello there! thank you for the ask(s) darling, and much love to you <3 also, apologies for the long-arse response to literally all of your questions haha

3. rant. just do it

WEAR. A. FUCKING. MASK. AND. LEARN. HOW. TO. PROPERLY. WASH. YOUR. HANDS. AND. STAY. IN. YOUR. FUCKING. HOMES. i am losing my mind over here. i am seeing people, including young people, die every fucking day. i am tired of seeing people, including young people, die every day. do you know what that’s doing to the medical community? by the time the second wave comes, half of our g-ddamn medical professionals are going to be gone, either on strike because of appalling working conditions due to the lack of federal government response, because we’ve been infected/died of COVID-19, or because we’ve put a fucking bullet in our brain. we are losing our minds with stress and grief and this is not sustainable, nor is it humane. wear your mask (WITH NO VALVE -- THAT IS DANGEROUS TO THE PEOPLE AROUND YOU!!!), learn how to properly wash your hands, and stay in your fucking homes, else you will die in a hospital room with no nurses or nurses to clean up your piss and shit and vomit, or shove a ventilator down your throat when your lungs fill with fluid and fail, or pump you full of drugs, or perform surgeries, or administer life-saving treatment as your organs fail and your brain dies. fucking fuck.

6. how many pairs of shoes do you have?

oh g-d LMFAO. i have my work shoes, i.e. my uniform boots, lab shoes, and hospital floor shoes, the latter two which have to be rotated regularly or replaced entirely. and then i’m a vain, pretentious, stereotypical frenchman (who semi-regularly goes high femme when i’m feeling genderfluid or a Dom wants to see me in feminine clothing) with a serious case of ocd, so i have to buy shoes to match each outfit for Reasons™ and i have a lot of clothes, which generally get thrown out en masse with seasonal changes because i don’t like keeping clothes longer than six months, so a lot of fuckin’ shoes...and that is vaguely hilarious as well because i work pretty much constantly (especially right now) so i don’t spend a lot of time out of scrubs, bio suits, or uniform. and then i have shoes for scenes as well, so there are a lot of high heels and thigh- and knee-high boots and slippers and a lot of other things that Doms like to see me in, in all sorts of colours and styles and blahblahblah.

look. i have a lot of shoes. i have a lot of shoes. i’m not going to embarrass myself and give you a number. feel free to throw spears.

15. what’s a question do you constantly get asked?

on tumblr and twitter, it’s almost always people asking for me to film/send pictures of me getting fucked. i almost never get other asks/questions except that here on tumblr, and my DMs on twitter are only this question. sigh. what can i say, i’m a cis male, openly into pricks, and vocal about being a submissive in the scene, and considering the fetishisation of gay men on this site and my open-door policy towards kink and sex, people tend to take my open-door policy about all things bdsm and/or gay sex as blanket permission to ask for nudes/porn. it’s pretty fucking gross. you all should stop asking me for nudes/porn because i’m not giving it to you, and start asking me other things. literally anything else. my DMs and inbox gets about fifty of requests for porn/nudes literally every single day. maybe...give me a break and break up the monotony a little, if you please.

overall online, specifically on discord, i constantly get asked about bdsm and/or gay sex, since i am gay, male, and have almost twenty years of experience in the bdsm community. i love these questions, in glaring contrast to the constant demands for porn/nudes -- i love talking about sex and bdsm, especially if it’s an educational experience for everyone (even me!), and while i’m not going to give anyone personal photos/videos/audio of me (except @crowleys--angel, but i’m fandom-married to that bitch and moki asked very nicely), i am always game to talking about both my experience and how authors can write gay sex more accurately/realistically. though, admittedly, recently most people ask me about COVID-19, as i’m an epidemiologist by civilian trade that’s worked ebola in africa as well as the current global pandemic. mostly it’s things akin to vaccine timelines, waves, and what people can do to protect themselves, especially if they’re planning on protesting. always game to answer any questions about that too -- i’ve seen hundreds upon hundreds upon hundreds of people dying, including my own co-workers, and there is a lot of misinformation out there.

irl?? that’s varied, and outside of the current pandemic, most of what i do i can’t talk about. sorry

ask me an unusual thing

[the-bentley]

Fall of a Serpent (G)

Read on AO3

Although they don’t remember it, Aziraphale and Crowley met before their fateful encounter in the Garden of Eden.

The little golden-white mouse with blue eyes scampered along the tree, not paying any attention to anything other than keeping his tiny feet balanced on its twisting branch, eventually running headlong into the snout of a green tree snake coiled there.  The surprised snake reared with a hiss.

“Hey!  Watch it!”  

The mouse backed off in a hurry, sitting up on his haunches to wave his front paws in apology.  The mouse backed off in a hurry. “Sorry.  I was too busy exploring.  I wasn’t really paying attention to where I was going.”

“So I noticed,” the snake replied, yawning.  “Who are you?”

“Aziraphale.  What’s your name?”

“Everyone just calls me Crawly.  Of all the animal forms the Almighty could have given me, she made mine a snake.  I don’t care.  I don’t really like my given name,” the serpent-shaped angel replied. He stared down at a toad and a chameleon having a discussion by the trunk of the tree and said rather loudly. “But at least She didn’t make me a stupid frog.”

The amphibian in question glared up at him.  “Ha ha, how funny.  I’m a toad, you idiot.  But joke all you want, Crawly.  At least I have opposable thumbs.”

The chameleon laughed.

“We all do in our natural forms.  Now who’s the idiot?” Crawly called back.  To Aziraphale he said, “You’ll have to excuse those two.  Apparently there weren’t enough brains to go around by the time She made them.  So what brings you to the Garden?  I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

All the angels were encouraged to visit the Garden in animal form.  The Almighty planned to one day fill it with real animals and something called “humans,” and She wanted her angels to be able to help her keep an eye on her new creations while incognito so not to frighten them with their true forms. Aziraphale didn’t quite understand why their angelic forms would scare these new humans, but he didn’t question God. That was not his place.

“Just exploring like we were supposed to.  Usually I’m in the Archives helping out by creating new scrolls.  It’s my job to help write down our history.”

The toad and the chameleon had moved on.  Crawly uncoiled himself, hanging headfirst off the branch.  Aziraphale watched him, whiskers wiggling.  “I was out making stars until there were enough of those, then we all got put on other duties.  I create plants for here now.  But I need to go bask.  Stupid cold-blooded form.  Want to come?”

“Some time in the sun does sound lovely,” said the mouse.  He delicately scampered down the tree trunk to the soft grass below.

Crawly just let go of the branch and crashed to the ground in a pile of coils. “The lazy way,” he said with as much of a grin as a snake could give.  “Don’t tell anyone how ungraceful I really am, ok?”

“I won’t.”

They headed towards a rock, coming across a grey and lilac peacock preening his feathers along the way. The peacock glared at them as they passed. Aziraphale ignored him, scampering ahead, but Crawly paused, glaring back.

“Don’t you have anything better to do with your time, Gabe?” he hissed.  “Ruin any more of my plants and I’ll bite you.  Again.”

The peacock pointedly snubbed him.  Gabriel, as one of the Archangels, thought himself above just another plant-creating Virtue.  He started up a conversation with his friend Sandalphon, who was currently a chimp and had just strolled over from observing those working on the waterfall.

Sandalphon wasn’t about to take the barb at his friend lying down, though.  He grabbed a nearby clump of flowers and ripped it out of the ground with a sneer. “I’m destroying your creations, Crawly.  What are you going to do about it?”

“Actually Aniel created those.  She’s not going to be happy with you,” Crawly laughed, showing off fangs that made Sandalphon think twice about approaching him.  “Why don’t you go pick fleas off of someone before the Almighty gets angry at you for messing up Her Garden?”

Aziraphale was waiting for him over by the rock, which was far enough away from the others they weren’t going to be bothered.  Gabriel wasn’t one to pick fights he couldn’t win and Sandalphon wouldn’t mess with the snake, either. They had discovered very quickly they weren’t immune to Crawly’s venom in either animal or angel form.  Raphael would just lecture him again for not remembering his rank and turning the other cheek when he sought him out for healing.

“Why do you taunt them?” asked the mouse when the snake finally curled himself up on the rock with a contented sigh.

“Gabriel actively destroyed my creations when he was able to get away with it and Sandalphon bullies everyone he comes in contact with,” Crawly replied. “They don’t mess with me much anymore now that I’ve tagged them a couple of times.  God made me venomous.  Nobody wants to go running to Raphael saying how they were bitten yet again.”

“We’re angels.  You’d think we could all act like it.”

“It doesn’t seem to work that way.  They find the different one and pick on them.  Unfortunately, that’s me a lot of the time,” the snake said bitterly. “Twenty million angels and I’m the only one with red hair.  What was God thinking?”

“She must have Her reasons,” Aziraphale groomed himself, smoothing down the hair on his back, scrubbing those little mouse ears.  “But maybe that’s also why she made you venomous.”

“If you get hot, just sit in the shade of my coils,” offered Crawly.  “I won’t bite you.  You’re one of the few who’s actually been friendly to me.”

“Oh.  Thank you.”  Aziraphale saw no point in being mean to anyone.  He took his role as a being of love very seriously.

They sat for a long time in companionable silence, breaking it occasionally with small talk until night fell and it was time to transform back to angel form to return to Heaven. Uncoiling, Crawly reared up, changing into a tall thin angel wearing an emerald green robe that complimented his long curly deep red hair.  His eyes were a golden amber colour set in a long face with well-defined cheekbones and an aquiline nose.

He curiously watched the mouse transform into a slightly plump angel with a round face, button nose and beautiful blue eyes the exact colour of the sky on the sunniest of days. All of it was surrounded by a cloud of curly white-blond hair kept short in an attempt to tame it.  His robes were of a sky blue that exactly matched those eyes.

Crawly felt his heart stir.  “Shall we?”

Unfurling white wings, they lifted off, heading for Heaven.  Crawly, showing off, did a few tricks as they flew, laughing at the freedom flight provided him. Aziraphale flew carefully and with little grace, but watched his companion with shining eyes.  Unfortunately the flight was short and they soon passed into the ethereal plane, landing at the edge of Heaven.  

“Well,” said Crawly, a bit embarrassed upon realizing how much of a show-off he was being.  “I should get back to the test gardens.  I got some ideas I want to try out.  Why should trees grow all the fruit?  Why not bushes?  It’ll be easier to reach.”

“That sounds like a grand idea,” replied Aziraphale with a shy smile.  “I’ve got some cataloguing to do myself.  Maybe I’ll see you later.”

“Bye.  I hope I do catch you around sometime.”  He really meant it.  Those sky blue eyes and that blond hair were really quite fetching and he had never seen hair so light.  There were some dark sandy blonds out there, but no angel he had encountered until Aziraphale had hair that bordered on white.  

He took to coiling up in the same tree every time he was in the Garden in snake form hoping he’d see the mouse angel again because suddenly the thought of having an actual friend rather than just acquaintances was very appealing.  He got along well with his fellow star makers and later the plant crew, but they weren’t friends.

If Time had existed, a week would have passed before his patience paid off.

“Hello again,” he said to the blue-eyed mouse who had scampered up the tree’s trunk to the branch he had met Crawly on, pleasantly surprised to see him there.

A hawk flew over, turning quickly on its tail to land in the tree with them.  Stern almost colourless eyes stared down both of them, Aziraphale looking away quickly to nervously groom.  Crawly, having the advantage with his snake form, easily stared down the hawk. Hawks eventually had to blink.

“What do you want, Michael?” he asked.

“I have my eye on you. Rumour has it you’re asking too many questions. There’s unrest in Heaven and I hope you know what side you’re on.”  She launched herself into the air again.

“Unrest?  I hadn’t heard,” said the sheltered Aziraphale.

“Yeah.  Lucifer’s thinking of starting a revolution.  Says he doesn’t like following God’s rules anymore,” Crawly shrugged the best a beast without shoulders could.  “I just wanted to know what he was up to.  I wonder about the Great Plan sometimes.  I just . . . have questions why everything has to be all planned out. What’s the point if you know how the story’s going to end?”

“Don’t say such things! You could get into so much trouble!” chided Aziraphale. “It is not our place to question Her Plans.”

“Let’s talk about things other than the Plan.  How did you not know what’s going on around here?”

“Umm, I don’t get out much. I like the Archives.  I read a lot about what’s happened in other parts of Heaven and the bits of the Plan God has let be known,” Aziraphale replied, his whiskers twitching excitedly.  “I’m a Principality. It’s going to be my job to pass on knowledge to the humans.  All of us Principalities are holed up studying all we can so we don’t fail them.”

“Why?  There’s more to life than reading.”  Crawly cocked his head to one side. “Don’t you learn things getting out there and doing stuff?”

“Well, somewhat, but . . .”

“Then let’s do some stuff.”  The snake uncoiled and started to slither off down the tree trunk.

He taught Aziraphale what he knew about the Garden.  He showed him interesting plants, pointed out clouds in the shapes of the flora and fauna that had been created, instructed him to close his eyes and really feel the breeze and what his sensitive mouse nose could pick up about it.  

“Live, Aziraphale. Gather knowledge this way, too,” Crawly said.  He had slithered up to a creek.  “Here. Feel it.”

Aziraphale dipped a paw it. “It’s cold.  And my paw feels different now.”   He pulled it out, noticing it was wet.  “Interesting.  So that’s what wet is?  I knew the word but not the application.  Nothing in Heaven is wet.”

Crawly nodded. “Welcome to the world.  This is so much more to learn about down here.  And yet they get angry when I want to know more.” His tongue lazily flicked out.

Aziraphale’s ear twitched as he became uncomfortable.  “Well, maybe there are some things we aren’t meant to know.”

Crawly dropped the subject. Instead they found a wonderfully sunny spot for him to bask in while Aziraphale rested in the shade of his coils. Content, they spoke of the humans to come and the newly created world just waiting for them, wondering what these new beings would be like.  Crawly expressed his hopes and desires for them and Earth.

“I think I want to be stationed down here,” he said.  “It’s more exciting than Heaven.”

“Mmm,” replied Aziraphale, not wanting to commit to any desire for himself, even though he found Earth interesting.  He was an angel.  His job was to do as he was told.

He allowed Crawly to talk about his budding love for Earth, happy to listen without voicing his own opinion.  He really didn’t have much of one.  He had duties to attend to and that was that.  It didn’t matter what he, or any of them, thought about Earth, Heaven or humans. They would be assigned tasks and expected to carry them out without question.  That is how the Plan would run smoothly.

Later, they returned as night fell on the Garden.  Standing there alone at the edge of Heaven in angelic form, Aziraphale found himself liking Crawly even more.  The feeling was not one he could put his finger on but something about Crawly’s smile made his soul feeling even happier.

The snake angel must have felt the same thing.  He grinned sheepishly at Aziraphale as he played with a lock of his hair.  Suddenly he was placing his lips on Aziraphale’s cheek before he blushed a red to rival those spiral curls of his. He fled before the Principality could react or even say anything.

“Crawly?” he blurted out to the thin air.

 ~*~*~

 Near by, God watched them both sadly.  The time was rapidly approaching when the two who were bonding would be separated.  But all this had to happen.  They were to be Her champions.  The ones who set everything in motion.  The domino effect they started together would give the future Antichrist the free will and upbringing needed to make his own choices about Earth’s fate instead of following a script.  It was cruel, but it was the only way the world had a chance to be saved.  

 ~*~*~

 It came to pass that Michael and her army cast Lucifer and his off into the Pit. Those who were on the fence about sides found themselves rounded up and imprisoned.  They awaited their trials where it would be decided if they were loyal to Heaven or enough of a threat they needed to be cast out as well.

Crawly sat in a cell, awaiting his fate for continuing to ask questions.  He looked down at his own shackled hands, wishing now he had kept his curiosity to himself.

Aziraphale found himself escorted to an interrogation room where Michael asked him questions.  He sat as still as possible on his chair while she paced around the table in front of him.  Slamming her hand down on the top of it, she startled him.

“Did you know what Crawly was up to?” she asked quietly.

“No.  I just knew he asked a few questions.  I told him that was not a wise idea and he never mentioned another thing to me about it.”  Aziraphale trembled as he answered.  Was he going to be tried?  Was he going to Fall?  And what about Crawly?  How much trouble was he in?  Would he ever see him again?

“To be honest, I believe you.  You’re just a scribe.  None of you are capable of really doing anything rebellious.  Scrollworms, the lot of you,” replied Michael. “Go back to your Archives, Principality Aziraphale. You’re confined there until all this is over.”

So there Aziraphale stayed until Heaven was secure again.  He kept himself busy reading and transcribing news brought in by other angels for history’s sake.  But Crawly’s fate remained a mystery to him.  He resigned himself to his duties trying not to think about his friend. What happened to him would remain a mystery for Aziraphale had learned not to ask questions.

Little did he know that Crawly was put on trial, found guilty of being a skeptic and considered too dangerous to keep in Heaven.  He was taken to the edge of Heaven at sword and spear point where he was told by his armed guards to keep walking because he was no longer a citizen of Heaven. Swallowing his fear, he sauntered nonchalantly off the edge as if leaving was no big deal.  He managed to hold in his screams of pain as he flamed downward like meteor towards the Pit until he was out of earshot.

 ~*~*~

 Tears in Her eyes, God performed one last act of mercy for them.  Reaching out, she touched both of them, making them forget about each other but leaving their bond in place – dormant, disremembered, waiting for them to reunite.  It would be an invisible foundation on which their rekindled friendship would grow as they once again got to know each other even though they would never recognize they once were friends in Heaven.  Finally, She blessed them both.  They had a long road ahead.  Every little bit helped.

She then went to Gabriel. “Aziraphale is to guard the Garden of Eden.”

“I will assign him there, Lord,” replied Gabriel, thinking the Principality was an odd choice.  But he knew better than to ask Her why. Questions only got you into trouble; the Plan did not suffer skeptics.  The only problem with that line of thinking was it came from angels themselves, not the Almighty, and such blind devotion to the Great Plan would almost destroy Her Creations.

 ~*~*~

 It would start again in the Garden where a mouse once met a snake, beginning a journey that ultimately would end in the two of them finally getting their long-deserved reward – the freedom to love each other and stay together on the Earth they adored almost as much as each other.  

Aziraphale currently stood on the eastern wall of Eden watching sorrowfully as Adam and Eve headed off into the unknown with his flaming sword.  Clouds gathered on the horizon and it looked like rain was coming. Still he stood and watched.  It was the least he could do after he failed in his mission to guard the Tree.

He should have been frightened when the Serpent slithered up to him, transforming into a demon, but he wasn’t at all.  And oddly enough, from the demon’s point of view, he felt comfortable addressing this angel, his enemy.  So they talked, building on a bond that was begun in more idyllic times; one that would carry them through many trials, triumphs and would slowly blossom over thousands of years from a friendship to an outright love that defied the odds. Little did they know how that bond had started or that what began with a mouse colliding into a snake would last for eternity.

[coloursflyaway]

Fall On Me

Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale

Rating: T

Word Count: 4.200

Tags: Fluff, mutual pining, love confessions, getting together, first kiss

Link to AO3

Occasionally, Crowley still thinks of Alpha Centauri. Although, no, it’s hardly enough to be classified a thought, more the hint of one, the notional equivalent of picking up just a little bit of another radio station while listening to music. Not because there isn’t enough to think about, not even because he doesn’t want to, but because he absolutely forbids himself to do anything more. He’d forbid himself from thinking about it entirely, but unfortunately his brain is not like his house plants and cannot be frightened into submission. Crowley knows this because he has tried. Several times.

So, he still occasionally thinks of Alpha Centauri. They’re not the clearest thoughts he has ever had, because all of those had come from a healthy mix of not sleeping and three hundred quid’s worth of cocaine pumping through his bloodstream, they’re more of the fuzzy and shapeless kind that leaves you a bit disoriented afterwards. Their topics include, but are not limited to:

the vast nothingness of space

the lack of gravity

Aziraphale

the problem of deciding on which of the twin stars to settle on

the possibility of solar flares feeling ticklish

Aziraphale

the new and exciting possibilities of inhabiting a new solar system

Aziraphale

Some of them, like wondering if he would be able to taste the magnetic activity of his new home, are relatively comforting thoughts, while others are quite the opposite. Anything, that is, that has to do with a certain angel. And of course, it is those thoughts which take up the vast majority of the time he spends thinking about Alpha Centauri; it’s all light blonde hair and soft wrinkles that make gentle eyes look gentler, cream-coloured suits and smiles so bright that Crowley thinks he might remember Heaven for a moment. What makes it more difficult is that it is so easy, impossibly easy, one might say, to go from there to, well. Alpha Centauri. And how it could have been if they had let the Earth implode, run away together and made a new life there. Maybe without books, without wine and without his Bentley, but with each other and with an eternity to spend.

The thought, even if is just fleeting, a minor ripple in the dark, menacing sea that is Crowley’s mind, is enough to make something bloom in his chest that is decidedly undemonic, something warm and soft and bright, something that is as old as it is new, and as beautiful as it is torturous. He knows what it is, has known it for at least four thousand years, which is the precise reason why the Feeling has remained nameless, even if it is stubbornly clinging to the door in Crowley’s mind through which he is continuously trying to push it.

It’s the Feeling which is making Crowley think of Alpha Centauri now too, because he can feel the first tendrils of it spreading in his chest, just waiting for a crack in his vigilance to strangle him. He won’t let it, he decides, while he watches Aziraphale pop another biscuit into his mouth, humming like it’s the best thing he has ever tasted when Crowley knows for a fact that he got them for ninety-nine pence at Tesco half an hour ago. But there is something endearing about it, the way Aziraphale’s eyes flutter shut for a moment, the corners of his lips turn up ever so slightly, how he throws another biscuit at a duck, hitting it square in the face, and how he looks at it with slight regret, because he won’t get to eat it. The biscuit, that is.

“So?”, Crowley prompts, before he can think of something stupid, like wonder if Aziraphale’s eyes would look differently in another sun’s light. “Hm?” Aziraphale looks over to him, his face such a perfect picture of innocence that Crowley can’t be anything but suspicious. “The thing. The thing that you wanted to talk about. That you didn’t want to discuss on the phone.” It could be literally anything, from a new cat that the angel had spotted hanging around the book shop to another bout of the Apocalypse, the this-time-actual end of the world, time, and everything Crowley has ever held dear, so he had decided very early on that he would not worry about it. Only that deciding something and actually doing it seems to be mutually exclusive. “Oh. Right. Yes.”

Aziraphale straightens almost imperceptibly, going weirdly still, and the danger scale in Crowley’s mind is suddenly tipped violently towards BAD.   “It is hardly anything, really”, Aziraphale says softly, looking stubbornly down at his biscuits, and the scale tips further. “A trifle, really. Just something that we, well, not discussed, but something that was mentioned.” Crowley waits for a few seconds if the angel intends to say anything else, but when nothing comes, he prompts, “Yes?” Not really because he wants to know that badly, but because he doesn’t want to give the building anxiety any more room in his mind than it has annexed already.

“Yes. Well. If you perchance remember, I think it was in the seventies, or maybe the late sixties, now that I think of it, I had brought you the holy water, and you…” Again, Aziraphale doesn’t finish the sentence, instead his voice goes softer, softer, until it’s gone; Crowley remembers the evening more than clearly, the heist and the hope and the heartbreak. “What I am trying to say, back then we talked about having ourselves a little picknick at some point. And since the world doesn’t appear to be ending anytime soon I figured, why not do that now? As long as we still have time.”

Crowley, just a few weeks ago, has stopped time himself, and yet Aziraphale seems to be able to do the same thing, because the Earth most definitely stops, everyone around them stops, and Crowley’s relatively useless heart? Oh, it stops the hardest of all.

Because he knows what that moment meant to him, that one second in which he thought that maybe they were on the same page after all, because he knows what he wants this to mean, because… because he knows it can’t be that. He takes a deep breath, and squashes what could be hope blossoming in his chest like he has done with a dozen ants on the way here.

“…yeah”, he answers Aziraphale what would have been several seconds too late, had time not stopped in between to give his heart the chance to break.  Another deep breath, since it almost feels like he needs twice as much air to speak even a single word right now. “Sure. Anywhere special you want to go to?” “No.” Finally Aziraphale looks up, smiling so brightly it hurts Crawley’s eyes even with his sunglasses on; as much as he hates it, he can feel his heart mending in his chest. “Wherever you want to go, dear boy.”

 They agree on meeting on Tuesday, because Tuesday seems like the right day to choose, and as always Crowley picks Aziraphale up at his book store. He looks… different. Crowley cannot pinpoint why, or how, because Aziraphale is wearing the same too proper clothes, his hair tousled, a picknick basket in one of his hands, but there is something just off about him, like something has changed without Crowley noticing. The thought is vaguely disconcerting.

Crowley doesn’t bother getting out, just waits until Aziraphale gets into the car; like always the world seems a little bit brighter as soon as he’s near. “Mornin’, angel”, he greets, and Aziraphale gives him a smile that also isn’t quite right, but too close to it for Crowley to say anything. “Does this really still count as morning?”, Aziraphale asks instead of answers, “It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it? I suppose it could count as a very late morning, if you insist, even if I would definitely say it’s closer to midday.” “I don’t insist on anything.”

It’s impossible to keep the amusement from his voice, and Aziraphale must notice it, because he flashes Crowley another smile; this time it feels real. “In that case, good midday to you to. Have you decided where we’ll go by now?” “Absolutely not.” He flashes Aziraphale a toothy grin and starts the car to go wherever it wants to take them. “Just as well.” The angel looks away from Crowley, out of the window to watch London’s streets pass them by, every molecule of his earthly body radiating contentment, and there is something about this too, Crowley thinks as he almost runs over a very small woman and her even smaller dog. It’s almost like something clicked in place, some part of Aziraphale’s brain that used to tick, or click or move in another rather infuriating way, and which now has found the one place it fits in and made it its home.

“Maybe somewhere green would be nice”, Aziraphale says slowly, every word crisp and clear in the warm air, “Proper green, I mean. Not the way a park is, more like the countryside. Green and… peaceful. Yes. I think that would do nicely. What do you say?”

What Crowley wants to say is something close to the lines of this: I have absolutely no preference when it comes to this, because I haven’t cared less about anything in the last century than I care about picknicks, but I would willingly walk through the Pearly Gates of Heaven with you if it meant we spent more time with each other.

What Crowley says, however, is this: “Sounds good enough to me.” Which doesn’t quite hold the same emotional gravity.

“Splendid”, Aziraphale answers nonetheless, absolutely oblivious and lets one of his hands drop down from the wicker basket he is balancing on his lap, despite Crowley, like always, driving at a speed that would make some tornados dreadfully jealous. The hand lands in the most inopportune places it could, at least from Crowley’s perspective, which is between them, palm turned towards the sky and fingers stretched out just enough that the tips brush against Crowley’s thighs every so often. It’s the perfect position for someone to take it, hold it tightly, maybe even wave their fingers together to feel the thrum of blood beneath Aziraphale’s skin.

Even taking in account the one time his entire car was on fire, it’s still the worst drive of Crowley’s life.

 They arrive… well, they arrive somewhere. Not that the where part matters much to Crowley, he just stops the car when Aziraphale next to him mutters something like, “Don’t you think that this looks nice?” In Crowley’s opinion it really doesn’t. It’s essentially a field, very green and kind of soggy, complete with a few stubborn bushes that have yet to get the memo about agriculture and an unenthusiastic crow picking at an invisible object that might, or might not, be food. It’s as boring as the English countryside can get, but Aziraphale smiles at the crow like it’s the most magical of God’s creations and transforms the entire scene into something worthwhile.

So they get out of the car, Aziraphale still holding tightly onto his basket, Crowley’s thigh burning with the residual angelic touch; when the angel has found a slightly less soggy spot, they spread the chequered blanket on the ground and when they sit, Aziraphale is just a little too close. He must not notice how their knees touch, but Crowley does.

Deft fingers pull plate after box after platter from the basket, fresh strawberries and little sandwiches, scones and clotted cream and a tiny jar of jam, slices of cold meat and three different kinds of bread rolls, and as a triumphant finale an entire chocolate covered cake. Crowley can’t do anything but watch, both surprised at the amount of food and surprised that he’s even surprised. “Angel, how long do you intend to stay here? A fortnight?”, he asks, the surprise firmly refusing to leave his voice just yet. Aziraphale’s ears turn slightly pink.

“I, er, I couldn’t decide. You see, you never told me what you wanted to eat, so I just. Brought everything.” His voice is smaller than usual, but his eyes are still bright when he looks up at Crowley through his lashes, who promptly forgets how to be snarky for the first time since his creation. “That’s – “, he starts, then chokes on the words he couldn’t think of anyway, because Aziraphale gently lays his hand on Crowley’s knee. It’s the smallest of touches, and yet Crowley can feel the warmth he hasn’t possessed for centuries burn through the fabric of his jeans, heating up his skin. “Nice”, he finishes lamely, at least several moments too late, hoping that his glasses are dark enough to conceal the fact that his eyes are glued on Aziraphale’s perfectly manicured fingers on his knee, stretching out to touch his thigh.

“That’s because I am an angel, dear, it’s what we’re meant to do”, Aziraphale says easily, no change in his tone of voice. His other hand is picking up one of the tiny sandwiches like he isn’t aware that he has just launched Crowley’s mind into space, more accurately 4,37 light years away to Alpha Centauri, where it is plucking the fantasy of the life they could possibly have had right from the gaseous surface and transporting it here. To this field, this moment, this eternity. It’s impossible, and yet this time, Crowley doesn’t manage to squash the hope completely before it can bloom in his chest.

It’ll hurt like a bitch when Aziraphale eventually breaks his heart again.

Fingers tightening around his thigh bring Crowley back to Earth entirely, to Aziraphale smiling at him with eyes that should not be allowed to look so kind. “You should try one of the scones”, he tells Crowley brightly, “I picked them up at this charming little store in Edinburgh in the morning, they’re absolutely scrumptious.”

The scone is halfway to his mouth when Crowley really, truly realises what Aziraphale has said, isn’t just taking an order. It makes him pause, hand raised and mouth hanging open before forming the first string of passably sensible words since they sat down. “You went to Edinburgh for scones?”

This time, it’s not just Aziraphale’s ears that turn pink, it’s the tip of his nose and the apples of his cheeks too, leaving Crowley with the very demonic urge to just eat him whole. “I might have”, Aziraphale admits, sounding bashful. “But I was there anyway to pick up the jam, so it really wasn’t much of a bother.” “…the jam.” A moment passes with Crowley just trying to understand what is being said, but then again, this is the angel he had to break out of prison because of crepes. The thought passes, quicker than expected, because another pushes and pulls until it can take its place. “Where are the strawberries from?”

The blush dusted across Aziraphale’s face grows deeper in shade, and Crowley cannot be absolutely certain of the answer, because it is mumbled into the rest of the sandwich the angel is stuffing into his mouth. “Trondheim.” “The cake?” “This lovely café in Vienna, really charming, you’d love the décor-“ “What about the sandwiches?” “Oh.” For the first time, no colour changes on Aziraphale’s face, instead he looks vaguely pleased, which only makes Crowley more suspicious. “Those I made myself. I even cut off the crusts, see?”

Aziraphale holds up one of the little crust-less triangles for Crowley to see, a grave mistake. “That salmon is not from Sainsbury’s though, is it?” “It could be”, Aziraphale answers, telling Crowley that it absolutely isn’t. “There is absolutely no reason to think it isn’t from a local supermarket and instead from… from a small shop in Cordova, Alaska.” His voice grows more strained with every word he’s saying, and Crowley can’t help but chuckle.

“Really, angel”, he says without any malice, but a lot of amusement. “I always knew you were crazy about food, but –“ He doesn’t get to finish, because Aziraphale interrupts him, words flying from his mouth in a way that reminds Crowley of the eruption of Mount Vesuvius. “I’m not. Crazy about food I mean. I mean, I am, but that’s not – it isn’t what this is all about, it’s not – “Aziraphale pauses, and something changes in his posture, or maybe the slant of his mouth, or maybe the intensity of his gaze. Whatever it is, it steadies the angel’s voice when he finally finishes his sentence. “None of this was for me.”

It doesn’t make much sense. “Who’s it for, then?”, Crowley asks, stealing the sandwich from between the angel’s fingers and stuffing the whole thing into his mouth. Over the past millennia, Crowley thought he had seen every possible facial expression on Aziraphale, but he’s proven wrong right here, in the English country side, because never before in all of creation has a creature looked upon another with such utter incredulity painted across his face. “Crowley”, Aziraphale says, sounding as stunned as he looks, almost desperate. Crowley chokes on his sandwich.

“What?”, he gasps out once he can speak again, having miracled the sandwich from his tracheae to Alpha Centauri, the first place he could think of. His voice is hoarse nonetheless, but it doesn’t matter, since he can hardly form more than one word. “What?” “I thought it was obvious!” Aziraphale is flailing, hands flapping through the warm summer air. “It’s what we discussed! A picknick, or a dinner at the Ritz, and since you didn’t do anything when we were at the Ritz, I thought – “ “I didn’t do anything?” Crowley interrupts him, sounding at least as scandalised as he feels. “I did everything! All the time! I asked you to run away with me to Alpha Centauri!” “Well. Yes.” Aziraphale huffs slightly, crossing his arms in front of his body. “I guess we both can agree that wasn’t your best idea.”

They can, but Crowley cannot admit that right now, especially not when his heart is finally starting to realise what exactly they are bickering about. It’s not a sudden thing, realising, it’s more like making a good cup of tea in the morning, letting the tea bag steep just the perfect amount of time, adding milk or sugar or in Crowley’s case, nothing at all. Realising takes time, time which he, after 6000 years, more than deserves. At first, it doesn’t feel like much at all, maybe like a small fit of cardiac arrest, but the sensation grows stronger, his heart seemingly sucking in blood without pumping it back into his system, growing wider, fuller, heavier. Warmer, too. It seizes up, like it wishes it could explode, and Crowley thinks, for the first time without panic clinging to the words, Oh shit, he knows.

He must know, maybe not quite the extent, or the amount of time, or the sheer mind-numbing pain of it, but Aziraphale knows, and not only that, he doesn’t mind. In fact, it seems that – and Crowley’s heart suddenly releases the blood it has been hoarding all at once, filling every vein, every vessel with warm, tingling knowledge – Aziraphale might reciprocate. An impossible thought, and yet there is a hand on Crowley’s knee still, there are the angel’s eyes on him, unwaveringly kind, unfailingly loving.

His heart beats another time, and the warmth is almost unbearable, the intensity, the brilliance of the feeling enough to make Crowley forget how to breathe for a solid minute, if not longer. After such a long time, he can’t quite recall what it was like to gaze at God, but he thinks it must have felt something close to this.

Crowley is almost done with realising, the tea close to finish steeping, but there is still something missing, there is still the need to hear Aziraphale say it out-loud and make it real. “You mean…?”, he croaks out, because he has quite forgotten how to speak, but it’s enough for the angel to understand. “I suppose you could say that I finally caught up to your speed.”

Up until now, Crowley would have said he knew every single of Aziraphale’s smiles by heart, but this moment proves him wrong; the corners of the angel’s mouth pull up in a way he has never seen before, a curve of lips that makes Crowley’s heart shine brighter than all stars of Alpha Centauri combined. It’s a small smile, a kind one, but most importantly one that tells its audience that the person wearing it harbours not a single trace of doubt in their mind. And it’s directed at him.

A small part of Crowley still wants to ask Are you sure? but he doesn’t, because he knows. He knows with an intensity that makes it feel like he has never known anything in his life before, like all dogmatic principles of Heaven and Hell could only pale in comparison to the certainty of Aziraphale’s hand squeezing his knee, his eyes filled with an amount of love that should have to be enough for the entire Earth, not just one single entity on it.

“Alright”, Crowley says instead, mostly because he isn’t quite sure what to say, can’t think about it with Aziraphale looking at him like that. In all his life, Crowley never really understood the concept of physical beauty, at least not until now. Because now he can’t even think of tearing his eyes from the angel’s face, committing every groove, every slope and curve of it to memory once more, can’t imagine anything he’d rather look at for the rest of eternity. Aziraphale is beautiful, maybe not for human standards, maybe not even angelic ones, but he’s the most beautiful thing in all of existence in Crowley’s eyes.

Something starts to grow next, maybe inside, the Feeling inside his chest, something that feels more longing, maybe a little bit hotter still, a yearning, a hunger, something that is inextricably connected to this human body he is inhabiting. It isn’t lust, but at the same time not terribly far removed from it, a craving which informs Crowley in no uncertain terms that it will not go anywhere unless it is satisfied.

A moment passes until Crowley realises what it is his mortal body wants; when he does, he’s, well. Surprised. He’s seen humans do it before, but never has been terribly impressed with the concept. All in all, it seems relatively pointless, wet and possibly unsanitary, and yet his gaze flickers down to Aziraphale’s lips, which look plush and soft and impossibly inviting. Like they would feel perfect pressed against any patch of Crowley’s skin, most of all against his own mouth.

Maybe it’s because he never expected to be in this position that Crowley never considered how it would be to kiss Aziraphale, but the second the thought appears in his mind it overtakes it completely, leaves Crowley breathless with want. He looks down on Aziraphale’s hand on his leg, then slowly, ever so slowly, covers it with his own. Aziraphale’s skin is warm, soft, doesn’t feel angelic but human, and suddenly, it’s the simplest thing in the world to lean in.

Their lips meet in the middle, since apparently Crowley wasn’t the only one thinking about it, and it’s with the first touch that his eyes flutter shut, almost an involuntary response. It’s a soft kiss, a chaste one, a perfect kiss to be the first of a million.

Beneath Crowley’s hand Aziraphale turns his own around, weaves their fingers together and holds onto Crowley’s hand like it’s the only thing that is keeping him from sinking. And Crowley, lips parting easily to deepen the kiss, eager to take every little ounce of love Aziraphale is willing to give, seconds the sentiment.

They break apart at some point, and it’s only because their surroundings haven’t changed significantly that Crowley knows that they haven’t spent a century kissing. Still, it feels like it could have been that long, because everything has changed. Not the world, but then again, the world was never that significant; the sun isn’t brighter, but he is, and looking at Aziraphale, the angel is, too.

“So”, Crowley says after another moment-slash-eternity, “This is happening now, right? I mean, for a longer amount of time. I mean, for-“ He stops, cannot say it, cannot even think it. Even if it seems like a lifetime away since he thought it impossible altogether, it still hasn’t been long enough to truly wrap his head around the concept. Aziraphale seems to know, for once takes the plunge so Crowley won’t have to. His eyes are glittering with the sunshine of an early autumn day and his own celestial light as he takes their intertwined hands and raises them up to his lips, presses a kiss to each of Crowley’s knuckles, just as sweet as their first one was. And his voice is almost as soft when he, lips still grazing Crowley’s skin, says, "Yes, dear, I think forever would be quite the right word for it."