#and that is because aziraphale used to make his name widely known and got so fed up with being prayed to all the time that he rescinded it

[sunderwight]

the "crowley is lucifer" theory is interesting but I like to think in canon it's actually a reverse issue

crowley is the demon agent on earth. when humans have met "the devil", nine times out of ten they've actually met crowley. nobody alive has really met lucifer/satan, he's too busy running hell (and if the S1 finale is any indication, it would be a very... noticeable thing for him to pop up for any reason)

but satan is still really different from how he used to be, so humans don't have much idea of what lucifer actually was like, of course not. and yet he's the subject of all the poets, the tragic villain of the story, and there are all these accounts of this red-haired fallen angel who made stars and light and was the serpent who tempted eve and he's charming and underhanded and tricky, and so what's starts happening is people think crowley is lucifer and imagine lucifer as being like crowley, because lucifer is the main character of the story of the fall

so yeah actually crowley is lucifer, but only because humanity based its ideas about lucifer off of crowley

[foolishlovers]

TRANS HUMAN AUs: Below you can find a list of Good Omens human AUs featuring trans characters.

[Requested by anon. You can request more fic recs here.] it’s okay, maybe not forever but we got today by astheworldcomestoanend (G, 1k) Aziraphale’s parents are fighting again, so he goes over to Crowley’s house to spend the night with him. Crowley is more than happy to bring his angel in and make sure he’s okay.

Win Condition by ineffablefool (G, 1k) Human AU. Aziraphale and Crowley's junior high school sets up a really weird school-wide Valentine's Day game that they're both kind of side-eying for different reasons. Talking about it over lunch gives them both the chance to confess something, though!

Belonging by LittleQueerdo (T, 2k) Crowley is woken by a librarian on a mission.

style, flair, and a head of red hair – she’s the nanny?! by lineslines (G, 5k) She takes a step into the light, a vision of red and black, of scant fabric and edges, seizes him in her gaze, which he realizes is almost as fiery as her hair, and drags it up and down his form, once, before she grins. “Oh angel, let me guess, you probably think tartan is stylish?” “Tartan is stylish,” Aziraphale automatically protests, before his brain slowly catches up with his mouth. And his eyes. “Oh, how impolite of me! Please do come in. You must be drenched.” (Crowley just lost her job selling cosmetics to bored rich housewives. Aziraphale is a bored rich bastard in want of a nanny for the neighbor kid he has to babysit. It's a right place, right time situation. Right people, too.)

The Art of Human Nature by IneffableDoll (T, 6k) Crowley is a painter who has only ever had an eye for nature. That is, until a client named Aziraphale commissions her for a painting to boost her self-confidence, and Crowley discovers that her client is as beautiful as the Earth itself. Then she goes and catches feelings, because she’s a disaster. The Colour of Hope and Sin by TawnyOwl95 (E, 7k) Crowley has never felt so pretty. Tonight he can do anything. Having Aziraphale Eastgate, the best defender that St. Beryl's School football team had ever seen, cross Crowley's path again is a chance to test that theory. And maybe they can both work out some latent teenage angst at the same time? A Stable Relationship by MirjamOmens (E, 9k) Crowley used to be one of the best eventing riders of the UK. After one unfortunate fall that crushed his leg, he ends his career and starts coaching other promising athletes. Aziraphale is a riding instructor, handling the school ponies and teaching the beginners. For the past six months they have found themselves in a sort of arrangement. It’s just friendship… and sex, whenever their schedules happen to align. It's nothing more than that, right?

Every Part of Me by foolishlovers (T, 10k) Heartthrob rockstar Antonia Harmonia, better known as Anthony J. Crowley offstage, has safeguarded his singing career from his best friend and long-term crush, Aziraphale, for nearly two decades. But when Aziraphale stumbles upon Crowley’s secret at one of his concerts, Crowley is suddenly confronted with unexpected consequences. Could the best of both worlds be within his reach? A Hannah Montana AU. I'm Beginning to See the Light by ineffabildaddy (E, 15k) There was Crowley - the paragon of cool, the overlord of apathy, breezing easily through each and every one of their exchanges and giving no fucks while doing so; then there was the anachronistic, cloying Aziraphale, trying and failing not to live life like a Thomas Hardy protagonist, and giving many fucks indeed. Or: Aziraphale has quite the pash on his colleague Crowley, who seems resolutely disinterested in him. As their annual Christmas party progresses, it appears that Crowley may not be as disinterested as Aziraphale first thought.

Fifteen Years of Heartache by mondlichtmaus (T, 20k) Crowley was roused from his nap by the sound of somebody opening the door. He didn't move. Maybe they would go away. "Excuse me?" someone called. They weren't going away. Crowley rose, lifting his head to squint at the intruder. A broad figure, silhouetted by the light of the hallway. He couldn't make out his face, eyes still bleary from sleep. Just a halo of light framing his head. "What?" Crowley grumbled. There was a moment of silence, then the intruder spoke again. "Anthony?" They're teachers. They're in love. They're oblivious.

Just Up the Stairs by foolishlovers, ineffabildaddy, omens_for_ophelia (E, 39k) On Valentine's Day, amidst the chaos of handling work and university deadlines as a mature student, Crowley seeks solace with his neighbour Aziraphale. As they share a meal, their long-standing friendship begins to unravel, revealing hidden feelings they've harboured for six months. It's a night that could change everything. Black and White Sunshine by Azira_Amane (E, 58k) "The cotton capital. The Second Summer of Love, the Haçienda. Irwell, Medlock, Irk and Mersey. Elizabeth Gaskell wrote her novels in a lovely little house. Oh. There’s so much to know…" Aziraphale East is, by his own account, a bit of an odd duck - and he's okay with that. He's always been happy in his own skin, in having been a confirmed bachelor his whole life. Everything changes on a work trip from London to Manchester, where he meets the vivacious and stunningly attractive Anthony Crowley. Like the splitting of the atom, Aziraphale is divided - and begins to wonder if it's not too late for love after all. Age, as they say, is but a number.

Tales of Turning Pages by foolishlovers (E, 73k) Every Tuesday, aspiring romance novelist Anthony J. Crowley pays a visit to his local library and the charming angel working there. Every Tuesday, Aziraphale Fell finds himself more and more intrigued by the curious stranger who turns his orderly life as a small-town librarian upside down.

[you can find more fic rec masterposts here]

[topaziraphale]

Love to imagine that there were a few close calls with Gabriel where aziraphale had to pretend to smite crowley, which involved a lot of aziraphale pinning him down and a lot of sword bearing. Crowley very quickly finds out he has one hell of a kink ;)

    “Of course I’m letting you win,” Crowley answers, banishing the dirt and wrinkles from both his and Aziraphale’s clothes with a snap of his fingers. Then, on a whim, he clears off any lingering sweat beading on his skin. He can’t do anything about the flush on his face and neck, or the way his legs are still wobbling. “Can’t have you losing in front of your own lot, can we? They might try and help you out, y’know. Might be worse for me in the long run, ‘s only selfish.”

    Aziraphale’s frown deepens at the implication. “Oh. I assume this means I’ll have to let you overtake me when your people show up, then?”

    “Er, you won’t. Have to. Do that, I mean.” Crowley stammers. Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. “They won’t crawl all the way up here to talk to me,” he elaborates, “they’ve got the radio and telly for that.”

    “Oh,” Aziraphale says again, fumbling with the lowest button on his waistcoat for a moment. “Yes, quite right.” He smiles nervously. “Erm...” Crowley pretends he doesn’t notice the blush subtly rising on Aziraphale’s cheeks and the tips of his ears. “Well, knowing that, I must say that is very—”

    “—no—” Crowley groans in annoyance, knowing exactly where that sentence is going, throwing his head back and grimacing.

    “—kind of you to do, to let me win even though it’s all a ruse,” Aziraphale continues, his smile changing from nervous to irritatingly fond and knowing. “Rather considerate.”

    “Fantastic,” Crowley grumbles, his face burning brighter for a different reason now. “Really made my day with that one, you did.”

     In the short silence that follows, Crowley sniffs and looks down at his shoes, pretending to inspect them for any clumps of dirt. He realizes, belatedly, that neither of them cared to fix the messy state of the greenery and soil beneath them. It clashes with the rest of the neat, freshly mown blades of grass in this conveniently empty section of the park — a stark reminder of what just happened. The sight of it makes Crowley shiver. Suddenly his resolve to stay cool and collected vanishes into thin air. He hastily looks back up to find Aziraphale fiddling with the chain of his pocket watch, and he gulps.

    “Er,” he starts awkwardly, nearly freezing when Aziraphale makes eye contact with him. “Right, anyway, I just remembered I have something to do. It’s important. I’ll pick you up later, shall I?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. He spins on his heel, turning his back on Aziraphale and shoving his hands in his pockets, making his smoothest attempt at nonchalance as he starts walking away. “I’ll meet you in the front of the bookshop.”

    “What? Wait,” Aziraphale calls. “You’re leaving already?”

    Crowley stops in his tracks, shock still, his breath hitching in his chest. He couldn’t have been found out. He wasn’t that loud, was he? Aziraphale doesn’t know, can’t know. If he knew…

    “Won’t be long,” says Crowley, gritting his teeth, hoping he doesn’t have to outright lie, hoping Aziraphale doesn’t push. “An hour, at most. We won’t miss our reservation.”

   “I… er, very well,” Aziraphale eventually says, sounding confused and a little hurt. “But, before you go, I need to ask you about… just now.”

    There’s a brief moment of silence, and Crowley holds his breath, chills cold as ice sliding from the back of his neck down along the knobs of his spine as fear builds in his lower gut. When Aziraphale speaks up again, his voice is slightly deeper than normal.

     “I hurt you this time, didn’t I?”    

      Crowley blesses under his breath. It takes all he has in him not to react outwardly, to lose his carefully constructed neutrality right then and there. Instantly, his mind plays back the stunt Aziraphale pulled only minutes ago.

    It’s practically routine for them at this point, really; it’s a way for them to get out of a damning situation in a pinch. If someone from work unexpectedly shows up, they pretend to be mortal enemies, doing what mortal enemies are obliged to do should they ever cross paths: fighting to the death. (Discorporation, in these cases — and even then, they only need to make the viewer think that a discorporation has taken place, should it ever go that far.) It’ll be seen as two adversaries busy with work, and whoever it was that checked in will usually leave within a minute or two to let them get back to it.

    They were taking a leisurely walk and having a (slightly heated, in the angel’s case) conversation about some of the menu changes at the Criterion, when Aziraphale suddenly kicked Crowley’s feet out from under him, pinning him face-down into the ground with his knee pressed onto his back. He had yanked his hair, forcing his head up, and swiftly brought the edge of a sword — having manifested the weapon from thin air — onto Crowley’s exposed neck. Crowley was hard in his trousers before he even realized what was happening, before he could even guess that Gabriel or any other one of those wankers was probably nearby, watching, and that Aziraphale was faking the attack like he had done many times before to keep them both safe.

    But for a moment, Crowley didn’t know that.

     As Crowley had grabbed fistfuls of dirt and grass and writhed under the perfect weight of Aziraphale’s body, he had thought it was real, and that Aziraphale really was going to smite him this time, and that he was truly at his mercy, finally getting everything he wanted. It was too much, the ringing in his head from falling to the ground, the pain in his spine, the white-hot burn in his scalp. Crowley couldn’t move and the sword was cold and sharp on the delicate skin of his neck and Aziraphale put his lips to his ear to whisper something and it sounded harsh and commanding and he whimpered—

    “Crowley?”

    Crowley blinks back to himself, his eyes wide behind dark lenses. He hears Aziraphale’s footsteps approaching him, the soft crunching of the grass beneath two Oxfords deafening amongst the low rumble of blood rushing through his ears.

     “No,” he blurts out, his voice thin. “I’m fine, it’s fine.”

    The footsteps stop. His entire body is trembling now, every inch of skin charged as if with electricity, surely to go off at the slightest touch. He clears his throat, vaguely wondering how much of a disaster it would be if he had to look Aziraphale in the face during all of this.

    “I’m fine,” he repeats in a more natural tone. “Don’t make a fuss over it, you didn’t hurt me.” You did. “Same as always, nothing different about it this time.” Hurt me again. And again and again, until my throat is raw from screaming, until my face is wet with tears. Make me beg for it.

    “It most certainly was not the same, you had no idea I was even going to attack you,” Aziraphale comments, sounding just this side of stern. Crowley’s stomach curls with something too close to pleasure from the tone of voice. Aziraphale sighs. “Are you quite sure I did not hurt you by accident?” he asks gently, because it’s just like him to have concern for Crowley’s well-being, even at the worst possible times. He takes one step closer, the space separating their bodies no bigger than an arm’s-length. Crowley can feel his stare burning right through his soul, can almost feel the heat radiating from his body. “I only ask because, ah, when you cried out, just then, you seemed…”

    Alarms blare in Crowley’s racing mind.

     Cried out, cried out.

    Aziraphale did hear him.

    And now he’s asking about it.

    Crowley goes from half-hard to fully erect so quickly that it makes him dizzy, his dick throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Aziraphale only has to take a couple steps toward him and circle around to his front, and then he’ll have full view of the state Crowley is in. Then Crowley would have to explain himself, and he would be mortified, he’d be so humiliated, and the fear of it only makes his cock harder. There’s just not enough self-preservation in his current, lust-crazed state of mind to not want anything more than that.

     “— truly distressed,” Aziraphale continues, pronouncing the words with the same caution one would use when walking on a tightrope. Crowley hears the faintest of wavers in his voice only because he’s known the bastard for too long. “I was afraid I used too much force this time.”

     You could have used more. Used all of it. Put me in my place. Burned me with your light until I’m nothing, until I’m dust at your feet. Please, angel…

     Crowley holds his breath again, the muscles in his neck tightening and his jaw aching with the effort it takes to kill the moan forcing its way up into his throat. His legs feel like jelly. The temptation to fall on his knees and admit it is palpable. He might as well come clean. Even if nothing happens now, Aziraphale will bring it up again later. That’s just how he is. Better to get it over with…

    “No,” he croaks. He’s blushing so hard that the skin on his face and scalp itches furiously. “I wasn’t, I didn’t…”

    “You’re sure?”

    “Yes.”

    “Truly?”

    “For Heaven’s sake, Aziraphale, I told you I’m alright,” Crowley snaps. More than alright. Crowley knows he’s going to revel in the ache for days, but he also knows, acutely, that he’s only jeopardizing himself more the longer he stays in this blasted park. He’s sure he wouldn’t be able to survive another round of questions; he can already feel his admittedly weak resolve slipping in the face of those warm, seaglass eyes, beckoning him to spill his guts and spew the awful, contemptible fantasies of being taken right there in the dirt, like he deserves, with a sword trained on his back and the angel’s name in his mouth. The only thing keeping him from doing it is his knowing how said angel would react — with an upturned nose and a look of disgust only reserved for the lowest of scum. He can’t do that to him, can’t be that to him.

“Oh, right then, that’s good,” Aziraphale’s voice suddenly pulls him out of his reverie, sounding disappointed, “that’s a relief.”

Crowley then hears the telltale rustle of clothes as Aziraphale fidgets, probably adjusting his waistcoat, before he calls out, “Well then, don’t let me keep you, dear fellow. Do mind how you go.”

    “Same to you,” he says back, feeling moderately guilty.

     He snaps his fingers, bringing himself to his flat. He lands on his back on his luxurious bed. The cool satin sheets do nothing to calm his rapid pulse or the lick of shame that follows as he claws at his belt, the zip’s teeth not daring to catch as he shoves his trousers down and takes himself in hand. The guilt instantly melts away, but the shame stays, however it only proves to spur him on even more.

    Aziraphale will forgive him by the time they meet back up for dinner.

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

((I originally meant to use a couple lines of dialogue as an answer to this ask but then it turned into a small little fic, thingy, yeah. Huge thanks to @divinehedonism for beta reading this for me!!))

[ellenripleysbelieveitornot]

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called as he wandered from room to room of their cottage. “Crowley, where are you?” He sighed and put his hands on his hips. 

“Crowley!” he called again, louder this time. There was still no response. “We’re going to be late!” Not that they had to be anywhere at any specific time, but there was a new book being released today and Crowley had promised to drive him into town and pick it up, and really, he should have known better than to stand between Aziraphale and his books.

It was especially frustrating because he could feel the demon’s presence, he just couldn’t find neither hide nor hair of him, no matter how hard he looked.

His search was interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. He hoped it had grabbed Crowley’s attention. “Darling, can you get the door?” He got no response save for the doorbell chiming a second time.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “No, no, no. No need to stop whatever you’re doing, I’ll answer it, shall I?” Sarcasm was surely not very becoming of an angel, but he was getting cross.

He pulled open the door with a bit more force than was necessary, startling the poor postman on the other side. 

“Er...” The young man held a small package in one hand and a clipboard in the other.  “I have a delivery for a Mr. Anthony... er... Jan-thon-y... Crowley?”

“Yes, that would be my husband,” Aziraphale said flatly. “He’s gone.”

The postman, seeming to take Aziraphale’s ‘gone’ as being the ‘no-longer-of-this-Earth’ variety, frowned. “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. Do... Do you still want the package?”

Aziraphale held out a hand. “Yes, I suppose I’d best take it,” he said with a tone of resignation.

The postman tucked the box under his arm and held out the clipboard, indicating to a small form with a pen. “Great, I’ll just need you to sign he- OH, SWEET MOTHER OF GOD!” The pen, clipboard, and package all fell from his grip as he stared wide-eyed at the ceiling.

Aziraphale followed his gaze and let out a huff of exasperation. “Oh, for heaven’s- Crowley! Get down from there!” 

Crowley, sound asleep, didn’t move.

“Honestly, of all the-” Aziraphale grumbled to himself as he bent down to retrieve the fallen items. He set the package down on the small table near the doorway and quickly scribbled his name on the clipboard. 

“Static cling,” he said with a tight-lipped smile as he shoved the clipboard and pen back into the terrified postman’s hands. “I keep telling him to use the dryer sheets, but does he ever listen?” 

“I- Uh- Bu- Wha-” The postman stammered dumbly. “Wait, that’s your husband? I thought you said he was dead!”

“He’s dead to me. Ta, now!” Aziraphale said as swiftly shut the door in the postman’s face.

Aziraphale crossed his arms and glared up at the demon still napping on the ceiling in their entryway. “Crowley!”

Crowley didn’t stir.

Aziraphale picked up the package and slammed it loudly back down onto the table. The loud noise was finally enough to wake Crowley, who blinked his eyes open with a startled yelp. 

“Oh, good morning, Angel,” he said, giving Aziraphale a sleepy smile.

It wasn’t fair of him to look so cute while Aziraphale was trying to stay mad. His traitorous lips twitched upwards in a barely-there-smile but Aziraphale quickly schooled his expression. “Crowley, come down.”

Crowley yawned and stretched languidly.

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “Don’t make me get the broom,” he warned.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Crowley grumbled as he got to his feet. Their heads were at the same height now, with Crowley standing on the ceiling and Aziraphale standing on the floor, and Crowley smiled. “Mmm, Spider-man kiss,” he murmured, gently cupping Aziraphale’s cheek and giving him a quick peck on the lips.

“I don’t know what that means,” Aziraphale said tiredly as Crowley crossed the ceiling to the wall and then made his way to the floor to stand next to Aziraphale, who was steadily losing the fight to stay mad as Crowley gave him another quick kiss.

“Oh!” Crowley spied the package on the table. “It came!” He picked it up and began picking at the tape to pull it off. “I wasn’t sure if Waterstones did release-day delivery, but that’s nothing a little demonic miracle can’t fix.” He finally got the tape off and opened the package to reveal the very book that Aziraphale was antsy about going into town and retrieving.

“You- I-” Aziraphale stammered. “What?”

“Online exclusive,” Crowley said, handing the book over with a smile. “Same as the regular one, ‘cept it-”

“It has a ribbon bookmark!” Aziraphale exclaimed delightedly, all anger forgotten. “Oh, Crowley, you shouldn’t have!”

Crowley grinned proudly. “Anything for my angel. Should we head to town, now and get the signed copy you pre-ordered?”

“Oh, yes, and maybe we can get lunch, as well?” Aziraphale asked.

“Sounds good.” Crowley opened the door and paid no mind to the postman (who still stood frozen in shock,) as he made his way to the Bentley.

Aziraphale happily trotted after him, locking the door with a snap of his fingers as he stepped around the young man as though he were simply a new lawn fixture. “Oh, and dear, next time you decide to take a nap, please use the bed.”

[sometimeseffable]

a sudden proposal

Aziraphale finds he likes talking about Crowley rather a lot.

“How long have you two known each other?”

“Oh, ages. Practically since the beginning.”

The women coo. “High school sweethearts, how romantic!”

“Er, actually, the getting together bit was fairly recent. Our, uh, families weren’t too keen on it, so. Well. It was mostly me who put it off, I think Anthony would have been ready to elope a few thousand years ago.”

If there’s anything odd about the statement, the group doesn’t show it. They simply laugh it off as a humorous exaggeration, which Aziraphale is grateful for. Sometimes he forgets how time works for humans.

“Families can be hard,” says Candace sympathetically.

“Indeed. Took a while to get over thinking Gabriel would show up at my door just to tell me off - “ Aziraphale freezes, realizing the slip up far too late. Susan just clucks her tongue.

“Older brother?” 

Relieved, Aziraphale nods. “A fairly overbearing one at that.”

“I know all about that,” Deidre interrupts. Adam’s mother had been, with a little demonic intervention, graciously welcoming of Adam’s ‘godfathers’ dropping in on the boy’s twelfth birthday party. Even if it was completely unannounced. “When Arthur proposed, my sister was not happy with me. Kept wanting me to get back with my ex, you remember John from secondary school? Well, I told her, I said…”

Aziraphale lets the idle chatter wash over him, pleased to be part of a human social gathering for the first time since Portland Place gentleman’s club closed. He glances over to where Crowley is busy entertaining the Them, and can’t help but smile.

 The demon is engaging in a non-lethal watergun fight with the kids and Newt. The teams had started off as strictly Adults vs Kids, and has since devolved into Newt running around yelping as Crowley tag-teams with the Them in a desperate bid to get him soaked to the bone. They seem to have devised an exceedingly efficient battle strategy.

 Aziraphale can just catch the edge of fangs in his demon’s manic grin. His entirely too-human heart flutters at the sight of Crowley letting go of his ridiculously aloof facade and having fun for once. Such a rare sight after centuries of looking over his shoulder, unappreciated by his colleagues and at constant risk of Hell’s displeasure.

“Anthony certainly knows how to handle kids,” someone remarks, bringing Aziraphale back to the present. “Do you ever want some of your own?”

He flushes under the August sun. “Oh - well, um, we’ve never - never really discussed it.” 

The answer was a hard no, but the angel felt rather uncomfortable discussing the delicate horror of watching onesselve outlive their human children. Thankfully, Candace comes to his aid.

“Understandable. Anne and I didn’t even consider having kids until they passed the marriage act. I remember the day they passed it. Hopeless romantics, we were, we got married the very next day. It was all very exciting.”

There’s a moment of wistful joy as Candace gives him a knowing look, eyes quickly flicking down to the winged ring on Aziraphale’s pinky. He blushes harder.

“Oh,” he demurs, “No, we’re not - “

“Everything alright over here?” Crowley materializes at Aziraphale’s shoulder, somehow bone dry despite that he’d been manning a SuperSoaker 9000 for the better part of an hour. A plate slides smoothly into the angel’s lap. “Cake, angel?”

The women all twitter at the pet name. Suddenly, the idea of correcting Candace’s assumptions seems terribly wrong as Crowley settles into the lawn chair next to him, arm slung loose over Aziraphale’s shoulders. His demon is wildly animated in his storytelling, wooing the ladies further. Aziraphale listens to him with a flutter of pride and quietly eats his cake, contemplative. 

The drive back to London is spent in comfortable silence. What had begun as Tchaikovesky’s 14th symphony has morphed slowly into the heart-aching refrains of Love of My Life. Crowley hums along softly, fingers laced through Aziraphale’s on the angel’s knee as he steers one-handed. 

Aziraphale watches him. Warm light from the setting August sun catches his hair so that it shines like fire, painting delicate gold over high cheekbones. Those infernal glasses cover his eyes, yet he imagines they would be soft with contentment. In fact, with all the tension loosened from his shoulders, radiating love like a furnace as he is, Aziraphale is quite sure this is the most relaxed and - dare he say it - happy Crowley has ever been in his presence. Possibly, and he would be remiss not to consider it, his happiest since the Fall. 

All of a sudden, the millennia he’s spent denying they were even friends feels like an anchor crushing his chest, collapsing his ribcage until he can barely breathe.

They break the silence at nearly the same time.

“So, I was thinking when we got back, we could get - “

“We should get married.”

Since they’re doing just ten over the speed limit, the Bentley’s screeching halt holds less promise of imminent discorporation than usual. Neither being moves; Aziraphale’s heart beats a rapid tattoo in his chest as Crowley stares at the road ahead of them, mouth ajar.

“...Thai,” the demon croaks, “I was gonna suggest Thai. Hang on, back up, you want us to what?” 

Aziraphale wishes the seat would open and swallow him whole in a fit of cliche. “I - I said perhaps we should get married,” he says, voice sounding terribly small even to his own ears, “I just - well, I was talking to Candace, you know, Deidre’s friend, and - and she made an excellent point regarding - “

“Okay.”

“Sorry?”

“Okay,” Crowley repeats. The black glasses leave his face unreadable, “We’ll get married.”

It does not sound like the most enthused of proposal acceptances. 

Aziraphale feels the swell of assured confidence deflate a touch. “Oh. Right then. Tickety...boo.”

Crowley nods and turns back to the road. The Bentley makes it another ten meters before it stops again.

“I can’t go in a church.”

“Loads of people get married other ways, dear.” Aziraphale wonders if that were a true concern, or a deflection that could be used as a big red TERMINATE button.

“Right.”

Another two meters before they stop.

Aziraphale throws up his hands, exasperated. “Oh for Hell’s sake, if you don’t want to marry then we won’t!”

“No!” Crowley yelps, strangled. He twists his ridiculously lanky body to face the angel, and were he capable of it, there would probably be sweat on his brow, “It’s not that, it’s just. Like married married. Like you want to spend the rest of eternity trapped in a legally binding contract to me in the eyes of the Almighty, and you think we won’t tear each other up because sssomeone’s leaving the telly on or dishesss in the sssink, and it’sss not too fassst - “

Aziraphale kisses him.

The rest of Crowley’s diatribe is muffled into a short mmph. Instinctively, his hands come up to frame Aziraphale’s face, protective as always. Aziraphale pushes the glasses back up into his hair. Wide gold eyes blink at him, terrified and hopeful and oh-so smitten.

Aziraphale presses another reverent kiss to his palm. “Too fast?”

“Never.” Crowley lets out a shaky breath. “Whatever you want, angel, s’long as you’re sure.”

“Of course I’m sure.” Aziraphale kisses him full on the mouth again, slow and sweet. Then he pulls away with a frown. “Don’t we miracle the dishes clean?”

“It’s an expression,” Crowley mumbles before swooping in for a thorough snog. Aziraphale’s hand tangles in his fiance’s hair - oh, but isn’t that a thought? A very, very lovely thought. Someone snaps their fingers; they fall, giggling, into the back seat, trading fervent, giddy kisses. 

London can wait. They’ve got all the time they need.

---

Part two of the ineffable godfathers miniseries

[pengychan]

[Good Omens] Winging It - Isaiah 40:31

Summary: Shockingly, attempting to destroy an angel without consulting God first comes with consequences. There is more than one way to fall, and a thousand more ways to inconvenience an angel and a demon who just wanted to be left in peace. Characters: Gabriel, Crowley, Aziraphale, Beelzebub, Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon Rating: T  

Prologue and all chapters are tagged as ‘winging it’ on my blog.

A/N: well, shit hits the fan and the end is near.

***

As the boy who was most assuredly Not The Antichrist - but who had nonetheless been their charge for about the first eleven years of his life - walked towards the front door of the bookshop in Soho, entirely unaware of being stalked by a man with a pocket knife, Aziraphale stood in the bedroom of a lovely cottage in the South Downs, not far from the Devil’s Dyke.

He knew it was rather rude, being roughly seventy-five miles away from the place where you happen to have an appointment in about five minutes’ time, but surely it was not too much of an issue, given that they would be right back in the bookshop by crossing the threshold of a rather miraculous door they had installed between the two places. And besides, Crowley had really wanted to show him something. 

That something being a luxurious, huge and hugely gaudy canopy bed with gold-plated columns and red velvet drapes that wouldn’t have looked too out of place in Versailles, before revolutionaries took most of its contents to an uncertain fate. As a piece of furniture still occasionally turned up in flea markets, Aziraphale wouldn’t put it beyond the realm of possibilities.

Said bed now occupied the greater part of the bedroom that Crowley had insisted they ought to have in the cottage, against Aziraphale’s suggestion to turn it into another room for his books. 

“We already have the loft for those, and the bookshop on the other side of the door,” he’d pointed out. “We need a bedroom.”

Aziraphale, who had actually last slept sometime in the nineteenth century and solely out of boredom while watching an especially poor performance of Troilus and Cressida - in itself far from Shakespeare’s best work, and the lead actor’s lisp had done it no favors - had been slightly taken aback. “But, my dear, we don’t need sleep,” he’d said, getting a snort out of Crowley. 

“We don’t need to eat either. So what?”

Aziraphale had to concede he had a point, although he didn’t quite see the allure of laying in a semi-comatose state for several hours while hallucinating the same way he saw the allure of a slice of red velvet cake, and agreed that the cottage would indeed have a bedroom. It was only fair considering the space he had for his books, so that was a compromise he did not regret. 

Telling Crowley he was welcome to choose whatever bed he liked himself, however, was something Aziraphale did regret. He knew that Crowley’s taste when it came to furniture ranged from dreadfully minimalistic to unbearably garish, but this - the golden columns, the red heavy velvet - was… a little too much. 

“Well, what do you think?” Crowley was asking, looking as proud of himself as he had after moving that golden monstrosity he called a throne right next to Aziraphale’s old trusty armchair in the loft, entirely ignoring the way Aziraphale’s right eyebrow had twitched. 

This time, it was the left eyebrow to twitch. 

“Well, it is-- rather…” Aziraphale raked his brain for a polite way to put it. “Eye-catching.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Crowley grinned, even prouder. Aziraphale suspected his euphemism had been a little too subtle. “I remembered what you said when I came to save your butt in France.”

“... That I wanted crêpes?”

“That you had standards. French royalty standards.”

“Well, it was not quite royalty level, more along the lines of a noble--”

“This beauty comes straight from Versailles.”

Ah, of course. Of course it did. 

“Or, well, not so straight. It went around across Europe quite a bit. But here it is, as you see.”

“Yes. I… I do see.” Aziraphale managed a smile. No harm done, he thought - he didn’t have a habit to sleep as Crowley did, so he would hardly ever need to be in that room at all. He would just entirely forget about that bed. Out of sight, out of mind. 

“The mattress is new, clearly. You’ll like it. Real plush.”

Aziraphale blinked. “That sounds nice, but I am not in the habit of sleeping.”

“You should try. Nothing better than some time spent in a semi-comatose state while vividly hallucinating.”

A chuckle. “You’re not making it sound very alluring.”

“Ah, I should up my temptation game. I’m out of practice. When was the last time I tempted you into anything?”

“This morning, actually, you--”

The chiming of the grandfather clock downstairs - a very tasteful eighteenth century clock Aziraphale had long debated whether to move in the cottage or keep in the bookshop - cut him off, and reminded him of… well, of the time. 

“I believe Warlock should arrive any moment now - we should head back,” he said, and they did. It looked like the boy might get there before Gabriel popped in to return the book, and if that turned out to be the case… well, Aziraphale really hoped he had enough sense to put the book in a bag or something like it. If not, they may need to have a few words.

There were things an eleven-year-old boy really didn’t need to see.

***

“Ugh, c’mon, they knew I was coming…” Warlock Dowling huffed, taking a couple of steps away from the door of the bookshop which had stayed closed, no matter how hard he knocked. He glanced at the sign in the window; it made just as little sense as it did the first time he read it. 

I open the shop on most weekdays about 9:30 or perhaps 10am. While occasionally I open the shop as early as 8, I have been known not to open until 1, except on Tuesday. I tend to close about 3:30pm, or earlier if something needs tending to. However, I might occasionally keep the shop open until 8 or 9 at night, you never know when you might need some light reading. On days that I am not in, the shop will remain closed. On weekends, I will open the shop during normal hours unless I am elsewhere. Bank holidays will be treated in the usual fashion, with early closing on Wednesdays, or sometimes Fridays. (For Sundays see Tuesdays). A.Z. Fell, Bookseller

Warlock briefly wondered who A. Z. Fell was, really - the founder? A co-owner? It definitely was not Brother Francis’ name, but he had claimed to be the owner, which was a leap from working as a gardener but not a claim Warlock had any reason to doubt. Brother Francis did not lie, after all. He hated lies and got really cross with him whenever he caught him lying, usually after Nanny-- after Crowley suggested he did.

“Pair of weirdos. Always been,” Warlock muttered, but it wasn’t really a complaint; they were a fun pair of weirdos to grow up around, or else he wouldn’t have tracked them down in London. After checking through the window to see if anyone was in, and seeing, no one, Warlock reached in his pocket for his phone and began looking for Crowley’s number. 

Focused as he was on the screen, he failed to notice the man approaching with a hand in his pocket, eyes fixed on him and pupils blown so wide his eyes looked entirely black. On the opposite side of the road Hastur, Duke of Hell, retreated from the mortal’s mind with a smirk and prepared to enjoy the scene with eyes just as black.

***

“... So no, I really doubt the London Dungeon holds prisoners anymore, but it would be an interesting thing to--”

“Silence,” Beelzebub spoke suddenly, stopping abruptly in their tracks and causing Gabriel to almost bump into them and drop the book, something for which Aziraphale would probably be very, very cross with him. He frowned. 

“It’s not my fault that they have stopped using the dungeons, if that’s such an issue I suppose we could change plans and--”

“Something’s wrong.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t you sense-- ah. No, you can’t anymore,” Beelzebub muttered, and looked around with a scowl. “A demon is at work. It was my order that no one was to approach the traitors.”

Gabriel blinked. “Maybe it’s Crowley--”

“It’s not,” Beelzebub all but snarled, staring at someone some distance away. Further down the pavement stood a man that looked… wrong, for the lack of a better word; something not human who made a passingly decent job at masquerading as human, but not quite good enough. Gabriel may not be able to sense demonic or angelic presences anymore, but he could see as much.

“Hastur,” Beelzebub scoffed. 

Ah, Gabriel was vaguely familiar with the name - Hastur, Duke of Hell. Not someone he’d be pleased to meet anywhere in general, but seeing him there was especially worrying. He recalled Michael mentioning that out of all demons, he held a particular grudge against Crowley. Was that grudge really so great that he would ignore a direct order from Beelzebub to find Crowley in Soho and… and do what, exactly? “What is he doing here?”

“I’m about to find out. Wait here,” Beelzebub muttered, and walked - no, marched - directly towards the demon. “Hastur, Duke of Hell. What in Heaven are you doing here?”

Their voice caused the demon to recoil and turn his attention away from… whatever they had been staring at on the other side of the road. He was already deathly pale, but he seemed to grow just a tad paler as his gaze rested on a decidedly annoyed Prince of Hell planting themselves before him, arms crossed and clearly looking for a very good explanation why he would defy a direct order not to be anywhere near the traitorous demon that holy water could not destroy.

As he stammered some sort of reply, Gabriel let his gaze wander across the street. A man was walking towards the bookshop coming from the opposite direction, and he was… wait. Wait, he looked familiar - Gabriel had seen him before, a few months earlier, near the church where Daniel’s funeral service had just been held. He’d given him his coat because it was raining and talked briefly with him, and he had found it funny because his name was… his name…

“Noah!” Gabriel called out with a smile, walking towards him. “How are you doing? How’s your--” 

The next word - dog? - died on his lips when he got to look, to really look, at Noah’s eyes. They looked no more human than those of the Duke of Hell currently getting a tongue-lashing only a few steps away, and they were fixed dead ahead of him as he kept walking, giving no sign of having heard or seen him. Walking towards the bookshop… and towards a boy fumbling with his phone right in front of it, back turned to them all.  Something was off. Something was wrong. 

A demon is at work, Beelzebub had said. Gabriel opened his mouth to cry out, to demand that Hastur, Duke of Hell, released that mortal from whatever hold he had on him - but before he could force out a single word, Noah’s hand came out of his pocket and something gleamed in the sunlight. 

There was no time to cry out. No time for words, no time to think, no time to demand action from anyone other than himself. Gabriel knew there was one thing he ought to do now, one thing only. Ever since finding himself without plan or purpose, choices had not always come easy to him - the terror of choosing wrong often paralyzing him. But this one came with no effort: it was no choice at all. As a dark shadow fell on a boy he didn’t even know, Gabriel dropped the book he had come to return, and ran. 

“NOAH! STOP!”

Noah did not turn, but the boy did. He lifted his gaze from his phone to glance over at Gabriel, clearly confused - then his confusion turned into alarm when Gabriel suddenly grabbed his arm and yanked him away. 

“Hey! The hell?” the boy yelled, just as the knife descended on the spot he’d been standing only an instant before, narrowly missing the back of his neck. He tried to pull away from Gabriel’s grip, turning to call out for someone to get that madman off him  - and froze when he finally saw the man standing behind him, eyes all black and lips pulled back in a snarl, swinging something at him.

Somewhere in his brain, he registered it was a knife. He tried once again to scream - mom, he thought, but if he’d managed to force out his voice he probably would have said something more along the lines of ‘shit’. Gabriel, from his part, didn’t try to speak again; he could tell Noah was beyond hearing him. 

So he yanked the boy back once again, and threw himself between him and Noah. The result was, all things considered, extremely predictable.

Four and a half inches of steel buried themselves into Gabriel’s gut with a wet sound that went almost entirely unheard. There was a sense of heat, the pressure of a handle against his flesh and, at first, no pain. Gabriel found himself staring straight into pitch-black eyes for a moment before the pupils shrank to a normal size again, revealing the human eyes, light blue and filled with confusion. Somewhere behind Gabriel, the boy screamed and turned to bang on the door of Aziraphale’s bookshop. 

People around them stopped walking to turn, not quite having caught up what was going on but slowly getting there. On the other side of the road, a panicked Duke of Hell disappeared in a cloud of smoke as soon as the Lord of the Flies turned to see what the commotion was about. 

Gabriel tried to speak, to call out for Beelzebub - don’t hurt him, he didn’t know what he was doing - but a gurgling sound was all that left him, and something dripped down his chin. 

“What…?” Noah muttered, blinking at him, and looked down. “Oh-- oh God, oh Jesus Christ, oh shit-- !” he cried out, voice high and panicked, and staggered back with the knife still in hand, dislodging from Gabriel’s flesh with another wet sound.

Blood came rushing forth, coldness set in, and so did pain. Gabriel’s knees folded, and he hit the ground just as the bloodied knife did. Noah stepped back again, shaking like a newborn calf. 

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry-- someone call an ambulance, I’m sorry, oh God…!”

Don’t bother calling out for God. They don’t answer. Not for me.

“Gabriel!” Beelzebub’s voice filled his ears, drowning out all the rest. There was a hand on the back of his head, lifting it, and he opened his eyes again to see them looking down at him, wide-eyed and scared in a way he had never seen them.

And Gabriel was scared, too, filled to the brim with the most primal, human terror - the most ancient sort of despair known to man. He suddenly knew why even Yeshua had faltered that night in the Garden of Gethsemane, pleading to escape the fate before him and avoid what he knew was unavoidable.

I don’t want to die.

He tried to speak, choking on his own blood. Somewhere behind him, a heavy door was thrown open and Aziraphale’s voice reached him as though from miles away. 

“Warlock! My boy, what is-- oh. Oh dear, what…?”

“What the Heaven is going on?” Crowley’s voice was a couple octaves higher than usual, and suddenly there was silence, time itself stilled; the crowd all around them, Noah, even a bird flying past right above them remained fixed in time like so many statues. The boy was talking frantically to Crowley and Aziraphale, but Gabriel was unable to pay his words any mind. His gaze remained fixed on Beelzebub, and on Beelzebub only. 

“Heal me,” he choked out. He felt cold all over, even with the wound itself throbbing in heat and pain the way the wounds on his back had, the day his wings were torn off. “Please.”

“Hastur will pay for this, he-- I-- of course, you idiot, be still--” their hand hovered above the blood-soaked shirt, and suddenly they hesitated. Their gaze found Gabriel’s, and held it. “... Sacrifice,” the Prince of Hell murmured.

“What…?”

“You sacrificed your life for another. That’s it. It’s your ticket back home, Gabriel.”

Home. Back in Heaven, where he belonged. Not quite in his old position - a mortal soul - but still, home. Except that… except that if he returned there as a mere mortal soul...

“No,” Gabriel wheezed. “No. I can’t. I-- would never-- be able to leave it-- again.”

“You never wished to leave it in the first pla--”

“Never see you-- again--” Gabriel coughed, and let out a weak groan at the excruciating pain. He could taste blood in his mouth, feel it down his throat, pooling down on the pavement around him; he felt his strength draining away with it. The back of Beelzebub’s free hand wiped some of it off his chin; the other still cupped the back of his head.

“... You will die either way in the end. You do not wish to reside in Hell and I will not force you.” Their plan of leaving behind Hell for good seemed to be far from their mind now. “This may be--” the Prince of Hell paused, and let out a shaky breath. “This may be your best chance, Gabriel.”

“No. Not now. Not yet,” Gabriel managed a smile. His vision was growing blurry. “I will take… all the time I can get. With you.” However little it may be. Such short life spans, but I will make it worth it. I must. I only get one shot. “So don’t-- let me die-- yet.”

For a moment Beelzebub only stared, their hand hovering above his wound. They swallowed, and opened their mouth to say something - only that someone else spoke first. Aziraphale.

“Oh, oh dear, what a dreadful mess-- Gabriel? It’s all right, hold on, I will heal you--”

“Keep away from him!” Beelzebub buzzed furiously, shooting a glare at Aziraphale, at Crowley, at the boy who was currently glued to Crowley’s side, staring with wide eyes at the scene before him and at the crowd frozen in time. The angel reared back, but did not give up. 

“I mean to help him. Heal him.”

“I can heal him myself!” the Prince of Hell snapped, and pressed their hand on the bleeding wound. Pain shot up Gabriel’s body and he ground his teeth, waiting for relief, for healing, for the end of suffering… but none of it came. 

Beelzebub pulled away a now bloodied hand, taken aback, struggling to comprehend what they were seeing. “It’s… it isn’t working. It won’t heal.”

Gabriel closed his eyes, despair sinking in his chest.

No. It cannot be. Not now, God, please. Don’t do this to me. Don’t let me die now that I have learned to live. Don’t take them from me again.

“... May I try, Lord Beelzebub?” Aziraphale spoke again, ever respectful, but the hesitation in his voice made it plain that he didn’t think they could succeed where Beelzebub had failed. Gabriel squeezed his eyes shut, and felt something trickling down his temples. 

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why--

GABRIEL.

That voice, in the back of his mind and yet everywhere. Gabriel hadn’t heard it in such a long, long time, but hadn't forgotten it. His chest shuddered in a gasp, and he tried to speak again, to respond to the call - whether to cry, to beg, to curse he didn’t know. Before he could force out a single sound, another voice rose. Very familiar and decidedly concerned.

“Uuh, angel? Any idea what that is?”

“What-- oh. That might be our cue to move out of the way. Move away-- you too, Warlock, move back, my boy…”

What…?

Gabriel opened his eyes and looked up at the sky. Precisely above him, the blue of it was gone; clouds of blinding white had gathered in a circle, and within that circle was only light. The air around him seemed to crackle, and he knew what that meant. Gabriel tried to speak, to warn Beelzebub, but he could only cough up another mouthful of blood. On his tongue, he could now taste something else.

Ozone. 

From a distance, once again came Aziraphale’s voice. “Lord Beelzebub, you ought to let go and--”

“No.” Beelzebub’s grip on Gabriel tightened, vicious and desperate at the same time. The air crackled, the clouds swirled, and Gabriel’s vision began to fade. His hand weakly gripped their jacket, but he was unable to do anything else. Beelzebub’s face was but a blur, but ah, their grip was unyielding. His eyes slipped shut, his head rolled against their chest. 

“I refuse to let go. God cannot tell me what to do and neither can you.”

Don’t take them from me again. Please, please, please--

“Brother Francis, what the hell--”

“We’ll explain later, my boy - step back now, cover your eyes - don’t look, Crowley, make sure he doesn’t look--”

The crack of thunder covered his next words, filling the world, drowning out all noise. Gabriel felt the grip around him tightening, heard Beelzebub choke out something that sounded a lot like ‘you idiot’, and he opened his eyes. 

And then there was only light.

***

In the instant before lighting struck, three things happened in quick succession.

First, Crowley pulled Warlock’s face to his chest to make sure he wouldn’t be blinded as many mortals had been before Heaven learned to somewhat tone it down; second, Crowley turned his back to the scene to avoid looking himself, and shield the boy while he was at it. 

And third, Aziraphale’s wings unfolded to shield them both.

There was no heat, which was rather typical of Heavenly things: light without warmth, utterly unlike the darkness and heat - humid heat rather than raging flames, but all the more uncomfortable - that Aziraphale had experienced in his first, and hopefully only, visit to Hell.

Shielded by Aziraphale’s wings, Crowley kept his eyes tightly shut behind his glasses and Warlock’s face pressed against his shirt for several more moments after the last echo of the deafening thunder faded. 

“Is it safe to turn, angel?” he asked, while Warlock kept muttering against his shirt a litany of words that mostly sounded like ‘what’, ‘the’ and ‘fuck’, in the order. 

This time Aziraphale didn’t bother to make a mental note of talking with the boy about his language. Aside from being relieved the boy had not been stabbed, turned into salt, incinerated, blinded or deprived of his sanity, Aziraphale suspected they would have different, more pressing matters to discuss very shortly. “I’ll check. Don’t look yet,” he replied, and finally looked back.

The crowd of mortals was still around them, frozen in time, unscathed and unaware. The clouds were gone, quick as they had come - but there was a sphere of light before him, crackling with electricity where Beelzebub and Gabriel had been until moments earlier. In that light, there was… something. At first Aziraphale couldn’t make it out, but as he stepped closer and the light began to dull, he could see something all right. 

And that something was a pair of folded wings. 

At first, Aziraphale thought he must be looking at the wings of a demon and wondered how Beelzebub could survive the full might of the Lord; then, as the light pulsed and faded little by little, he realized that was not it. The wings were not the pure white of angels, but neither were they midnight black. Deep brown with a golden sheen, mottled with darker brown, black, specks of white. The wings of an eagle.  

And they did not belong to Beelzebub.

One last crackle of pure energy, and the pulsing light dissolved. Aziraphale worked his jaw a moment, mouth dry, before he finally called out.

“... Gabriel?”

The wings shifted, and slowly parted. Gabriel was kneeling on the pavement, eyes blinking open as though he struggled to comprehend what was happening. In his arms, held tightly against his chest, was the Prince of Hell; their eyes were screwed shut as though they were waiting to be smited still, but they were in one piece - shielded from the full might of God by the Archangel Gabriel himself, who seemed to be just now beginning to process precisely what had transpired. 

“What…?” he muttered, and the sound of his voice caused Beelzebub’s eyes to snap open. They pulled back from his chest, on their knees themselves, and looked up at Gabriel - and at the wings spread behind him. They opened their mouth to say something, closed it, opened it again. 

“You have wings again,” they finally said. “But they don’t look like--”

Gabriel didn’t so much turn to look at them. “You are all right,” he muttered, and cupped their cheek with a long breath, smiling widely. “Thank-- whoever there is to thank, you’re--”

Beelzebub’s hand grasped the collar of Gabriel’s shirt before he could say another word, and yanked his head down in a sudden kiss. It was definitely not something Aziraphale had expected to happen and neither had Gabriel, by the looks of it, but he seemed… far from displeased. Actually he leaned into it rather enthusiastically, arms slipping around the Lord of the Flies’ waist. 

Aziraphale stepped back, feeling just a touch awkward.

“Angel, is it safe to look or no--” Crowley finally spoke up, and turned without waiting for an answer. A rather unwise move, that. His gaze fell on the scene before him, and he let out a groan. “Uuuugh! No it’s not safe, not it’s not, for Satan’s sake it’s seared in my brain now, why didn’t you warn...”

He turned again and took a few steps away, rubbing his eyes beneath the glasses. Warlock, on the other hand, remained exactly where he was - eyes shifting slowly between Gabriel’s brand new wings and Aziraphale’s own, still in full display.

“... Brother Francis, I don’t mean to be rude or anything,” he finally said. “But what, pray tell, the fuck.”

“Well…” Aziraphale hesitated a moment, knowing he couldn’t count on Crowley stepping in for an explanation for at least another ten minutes, busy as he was trying to jab his eyes out of their sockets. In the end, he said nothing and turned to survey the scene.

Time stood still and so did every single living being in sight, including the man who had wielded the knife, a horrified expression frozen on his face. Gabriel and Beelzebub didn’t seem to plan on letting their mouths part ways anytime soon, still on the very spot where Gabriel had nearly bled out to death minutes earlier. A few steps away, in the middle of the road, was Aziraphale’s antique pornography book. 

With a sigh, Aziraphale went to pick it up and tucked it under his arm, making sure to hide the cover from Warlock’s sight. 

“I believe,” he finally spoke, “that we all could use a nice cup of tea right about now.”

***

"But those who hope in the Lord shall renew their strength. They shall soar on wings like eagles; they shall run and not grow weary, they shall walk and not be faint." -- Isaiah 40:31

***

[Back]

[Next]

[lady-divine-writes]

Jealousy

Aziraphale is used to people stopping by his shop to flirt with his (sleeping) husband, so he doesn’t let it bother him. But when the shoe is on the other foot, Crowley doesn’t take it as well. (2213 words)

A peculiar thing happens in Aziraphale's shop on August 13th at precisely two in the afternoon.

A man comes in looking for a book.

That’s not the peculiar part.

People attempt to buy books at Aziraphale’s shop all the time. They’re mostly unsuccessful, but the opportunity is theoretically there.

The peculiar part comes when this man - a statuesque, ruggedly-handsome man in a finely tailored, tan suit, aubergine shirt, and silk tie; a man who looked like he would be equally as comfortable touring the Savannah on holiday as he would be making corporate decisions in a board room – flirts with Aziraphale.

Aziraphale can be oblivious to those things, but the only people who seem to have eyes for him anyway are older women, mainly widows and divorcees, not searching for an exciting good-looker for their next relationship, but a reliable, stable, respectful man that they can talk to about books and music; who will take them to fancy restaurants on Friday nights and play Canasta with them on the weekends. A nice, non-threatening man who likes to garden and do crossword puzzles and cuddle, who won’t make too many demands on them physically. And even then, by the time Aziraphale figures them out, the women in question have already gotten bored and gone, leaving Aziraphale secretly grateful that he didn’t have to part with another one of his precious first editions.

Flirting happens to Crowley all the time. That Aziraphale notices. Women and men alike wander in off the streets to gawk at him. He’s a demon. He appeals to the baser instincts of mortals and that draws them to him. But he also happens to be stunning (in Aziraphale’s opinion, at least).

Aziraphale sees himself as having the appeal of an old couch – quaint and comfortable, familiar, convenient when you need a place to rest your bum but not the sort of thing you’d get excited over if the doorbell rang and you saw it sitting on your front stoop.

But the man who comes in, with his Rolex watch and his hundred dollar haircut, doesn’t so much as even make eye contact with Crowley.

He only has eyes for Aziraphale.

“Hello,” he says in a voice so smooth it slips through his lips and into Aziraphale’s ears without him needing to breathe too hard. “My name’s Ryan. I called earlier about purchasing a first edition of The Velveteen Rabbit? You said you had a copy?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says with a startled gulp, but he doesn’t know why. He’s not sure why the tone of this man’s voice makes him swallow like that. Or why the way he looks at him makes the apples of his cheeks and the tips of his ears go pink. “Yes. Yes, I do. Excuse me for not fetching it prior to your arrival. I wasn’t sure you were serious about picking it up.”

“Yes, I am. It’s very important to me. I’ve been looking for one everywhere.”

“Then you’re in luck!” Aziraphale rises off his stool with a hop. “Because I do indeed have one.” He strolls through the rows of shelves, hunting down the copy Adam had so conveniently magicked up for him after the Apoca-no-go. He hums while he walks, suddenly in a chipper mood as he scans the spines in the children’s section.

As happens quite a bit when Aziraphale’s in the stacks, he gets the feeling that he’s not alone. And he’s not. There’s a general presence that seems to haunt his shop, one that he hasn’t sorted out yet. And, of course, there’s his husband, napping on a chair off to one corner that gets neither too much shade nor sun. Aziraphale peeks over his shoulder, curious if his husband may have woken up and decided to slither behind him, but it’s not him.

It’s Ryan.

And Aziraphale smiles bashfully to himself.

“You know, many people would simply download a book like this,” Aziraphale says when he finds what he’s searching for. “I’ve heard you can find it online for free.”

“True, but reading a book online doesn’t compare to holding it in your hands. And a first edition has probably been held by many people, read to many children, and just generally loved to pieces. Kind of like the velveteen rabbit. Wouldn’t you agree?”

From behind the stacks, Aziraphale sees Crowley peek out, glaring over the rims of his Valentino shades. The angel’s eyes brighten at the sight of him. He’s about to summon him over, but he blinks, and his husband disappears in the quarter-second it takes for his eyes to open again.

“Yes, I would definitely agree.”

“Of course, it may not necessarily be that way with every book. You have to make a connection with it.” Ryan takes the book from Aziraphale, two of his fingers brushing the back of Aziraphale’s hand when he does. “They’re kind of like people that way. After a while, you develop a relationship with it. It becomes important to you. And you never want to part with it.”

“Oh, that’s … that’s beautiful,” Aziraphale says. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard it described that way before, but it’s true. I feel that way about all my favorite books. I do hope your little one feels the same way about this one.”

“Oh, I’m not married.” Ryan flashes his vacant ring finger along with a brilliant smile. “Don’t have any children. I’m sorry to say that this book is simply a gift from me to my inner child. It’s the key to something I’ve been missing, something that I’m hoping to get back.”

“That’s charming. I hope whatever it is that you’ve lost, you find it again.”

“I do as well.”

They talk as Aziraphale rings him up – about books, about music, about the trinkets Aziraphale keeps around the shop and the history behind each one. They briefly talk about Ryan’s job as CFO of a brand new startup that’s skyrocketed within the past year, but they mostly talk about Aziraphale’s shop and his passion for the written word. No other customers come in, or if they do, Aziraphale doesn’t notice. He pulls Ryan up a chair and offers him a cup of tea, hoping Crowley will eventually join them, but he doesn’t go looking for him. Crowley seems to relish his eight hour naps in Aziraphale’s shop.

Far be it for Aziraphale to interrupt him.

As the day drips on, Aziraphale starts to notice the change in the quality of the light as shadows lengthen across the floor. He glances over at the clock on the wall to see if his suspicions are correct, and he gasps.

“Oh, my dear! It’s five o’clock! I didn’t notice the time! Oh, I do hope you aren’t late for anything!”

“Not at all. It was my day off. And I can’t imagine a lovelier way to have spent it than sitting here, talking to you.”

“That’s very kind of you to say.”

“I’m just curious,” Ryan says, gathering up his book in the brown paper bag Aziraphale supplies him, “what are your hours? I didn’t see them posted on the door. It would be nice to know, just in case my inner child convinces me to buy another book from my past.”

“This store is mainly a pet project of mine, so my hours are a little, shall we say, erratic ...”

“That’s adorable,” Ryan says.

“B-but …” Aziraphale stutters at the interruption “… I should be here tomorrow. Offhand I can’t think of any reason why I won’t be.”

“Excellent!” Ryan smiles, distinctly pleased as he squirrels his purchase behind him. “Then I’ll be back tomorrow. 2:30. Nice snake, by the way,” he says, pointing to a spot behind Aziraphale’s head. “Is it real?”

“Quite.” Aziraphale peeks over his shoulder, relieved to see that Crowley hadn’t slipped out of the bookshop and driven off without his noticing, but worried since he only transforms into a snake when he’s agitated.

And from the way he flicks his tongue, eyes wide, shifting uneasily in place, Aziraphale can tell he’s highly agitated.

That makes him dangerous.

“Constrictor?”

“Uh, no …” Aziraphale walks Ryan to the door, eager to close up shop and get things with his husband ironed out. “Red-bellied black snake.”

The smile on Ryan’s face drops straight to his knees. “Aren’t those venomous?”

“Only if they bite you. Thank you so much for stopping by. See you tomorrow. Mind how you go.” Aziraphale practically tosses the poor man out onto the sidewalk but he has no way of explaining to him that it’s for his own good. Aziraphale barely has the locks thrown when he feels the snake rise up behind him, transforming into the human form of his demon husband.

“Ssso, isss thisss going to be a thing now?”

Aziraphale sighs. He loves his husband. He truly does. But he can be so temperamental sometimes, even for a demon. “Why whatever do you mean?”

“Men dropping by your ssshop and making eyesss at you? Eating up all your time?”

“One man.” Aziraphale chuckles. “And my dear, people stop by every day simply to throw themselves at you. Do I bat an eye?”

“But I don’t care about them. None of them make my voice go all quivery like that man made yours.”

“I do admit that maybe I got a little carried away,” Aziraphale confesses, putting a hand to his flushed cheek. “See, I’m not use to getting that sort of attention. It was nice for the moment, but I don’t think it’s something I could handle every day.”

“Yeah? And why’s that?”

“Because I’m afraid I’m not very good around people. I prefer the company of my books and my music … and my ill-tempered husband.”

“But that’s the kind of bloke you fancy, right?” Crowley presses. “Someone who talks to you about books and music, and dresses in expensive clothes …”

“You dress in the most expensive clothes I’ve ever seen!” Aziraphale points out with an incredulous laugh.

“You know what I mean!” Crowley says, gesturing with a frustrated hand. “His clothes have … ffffwwwpppp … colors in them!”

“I see. Yes, I guess that does make a difference.”

“I knew it.”

“Ugh! Listen to me, you stupid old snake!” Aziraphale loops his arms around Crowley’s neck, forcing his eyes on him. “The bloke I fancy, as you so eloquently put it, is the one who’s known me my entire existence. Who drinks with me and goes out to lunch with me. Who fights beside me and stays with me, even when I call him ridiculous. Who comes back even when he threatens to run away.” Crowley’s eyes drop to his feet, unable to look at his angel while he’s being reminded of his less-than-stellar attempt to persuade Aziraphale to abandon Earth and join him out in the stars … which ended with his saying he’d go off on his own and never think about him again. “I don’t care if we don’t talk about books. It’s enough that you sit beside me while I read and hold my hand. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. Why in the world would you think I’d want someone else when I have the best possible person for me already?”

“’dunno.” Crowley shrugs. “All we do is hang out here lately. I think, maybe, I was afraid you might be getting bored with me. That tying yourself down to a domesssticated demon might not be what you signed up for.”

“Bored with you?” Aziraphale snorts. “After 6000 years, you think I’d get bored with you now? You seem to forget that during the decades we weren’t together, my time was spent here. You were the one jet-setting around the world. By rights, I think you should be getting bored with me. With my life.”

“Oh, no,” Crowley says, sliding closer. “You, my darling, could never get boring.”

Aziraphale raises a skeptical brow. “You forget, I’m much better at detecting sarcasm now than I was 6000 years ago.”

“That wasn’t sarcasm.” Crowley snakes his arms around his husband’s waist. “I can’t think of any place I’d rather be than here, wasting my days with you.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that. But maybe it is time we take a vacation.”

“Yesss,” Crowley hisses happily. “Go to all the old haunts, relive the glory days.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Otherwise known as last month.”

“You pick first. We’ll go anywhere you want to go. We can pack up my Bentley and leave tonight.”

“Well, tomorrow night.”

Crowley grimaces. “Why tomorrow night?”

“Ryan said he’d be back at 2:30 tomorrow and ...”

Crowley grabs Aziraphale’s collar and (carefully) pushes him up against the nearest wall. He presses him there with his body, tries his hardest to be intimidating, but it doesn’t dim Aziraphale’s grin a single degree.

It never does.

“Not … funny … angel.”

“No?” Aziraphale’s gaze drifts to his husband’s lips the way it always seems to when Crowley has him in this position.

“No,” Crowley says, accepting the invitation of those baby blues and kissing his angel softly. “Not one little bit.”

“You can tell me all about it when we hit the road,” Aziraphale says. “And we’d better make it quick. We’re burning daylight.”

 ***Notes: Let me guys know if you want to see a part 2 where Crowley actually meets our dear Mr. Ryan XD

[grigori77]

2019 In TV - My Top 10 Shows

This past year may have sucked balls in a lot of ways, but we certainly never got short-changed when it came to our TV.  There was an absolute WEALTH of truly cracking TV around, both on regular networks and on the various on-demand platforms, and so here is my pick of the best, my absolute favourites of 2019.

10.  WATCHMEN

Lost co-creator Damon Lindelof brings us a blinding sequel to comic book legend Alan Moore’s legendary graphic novel with a delightfully trippy, ruthlessly efficient rug-puller that seems pretty tailor-made for HBO.  Old faces return in interesting ways, while there are some cracking new “masks” on offer, particularly Regina King’s Sister Night and the always-brilliant Tim Blake Nelson as morally complex antihero Looking Glass (in some ways very much the show’s own answer to Rorschach).  It never goes where you expect it to go, and refuses to give easy answers to the questions it raises, effortlessly paving the way for more next year ...

9.  THE BOYS

Amazon offers up its own edgy, thoroughly adult superhero property with this darkly funny antiheroic gem based on the cult Garth Ennis comic, expertly adapted by Supernatural creator Eric Kripke.  Karl Urban dominates as Billy Butcher, the foul-mouthed, morally bankrupt “leader” of a makeshift crew of mercenaries, hitmen and psycho killers devoted to “taking care of” superheroes when they inevitably go bad.  Season 1 ultimately serves as an origin story, showing how the team come together, laying quality groundwork for the incoming sophomore tour that promises to open the already fascinating world out significantly.

8.  PREACHER (SEASON 4)

More Garth Ennis, namely this blinder of a closing season for AMC’s consistently impressive adaptation of his best known series for Vertigo comics.  Surprisingly epic, deliciously subversive and constantly, darkly hilarious, this thoroughly non-PC series from showrunners Sam Catlin, Evan Goldberg and Seth Rogen (yes! I Know!) certainly went out on a high note, providing its loyal followers with perfectly-pitched bow-outs and sometimes heartbreaking goodbyes for all its players, especially its dynamite leads, Dominic Cooper, Ruth Negga and, in particular, Joe Gilgun as unapologetic bad boy vampire Cassidy.  A worthy end to one of my all-time favourite TV shows.

7.  THE WITCHER

While it’s clearly taken its look from the wildly successful video games, Netflix’s second most ambitious long-form offering of the year takes its lead from the fantasy book series by Polish author Andrzej Sapkowski that started it all.  With its somewhat episodic set-up and decidedly twisted narrative timelines, it take a few chapters to get the hang of it, but there’s plenty to draw you in, from the exotic world-building to the frenetic action and compelling collection of richly crafted characters.  Henry Cavill is the titular hero, lovably grouchy mutant monster-hunter Geralt of Rivia, but the real scene-stealer is co-star Anya Chalotra as roguishly self-serving mage Yennefer of Vengenberg.

6.  CARNIVAL ROW

One of the year’s two big sleeper hit TV surprises for me was this inventively offbeat allegorical Amazon fantasy series from The 4400 creator René Echevarria and screenwriter Travis Beacham. Orlando Bloom and Cara Delevigne are the star-crossed lovers at the heart of this intriguingly dark and dirty murder mystery thriller set in Victorian London-esque city-state the Burgue, in which humans struggle to co-exist alongside a struggling disenfranchised underclass of fae (fairies, fawns, centaurs and the like).  The racial turmoil undertones are writ large throughout, but this is far more well-written and lavishly appointed than you might expect on first glance, and almost ridiculously addictive viewing.

5.  LOVE, DEATH + ROBOTS

My other big TV surprise was this wonderfully bizarre sci-fi anthology series of animated shorts from Netflix, mostly adapted from an eclectic selection of short stories from a wide range of top-notch literary talent including Peter F. Hamilton, John Scalzi, Marko Kloos and Alastair Reynolds (a particular favourite of mine).  As you’d expect from the brainchild of Deadpool director Tim Miller and producer David Fincher, this is edgy, leftfield stuff, frequently ultra-violent and decidedly adult, and the wildly varied nature of the material on offer makes for a decidedly uneven tone, but there are some absolute gems on offer here, my favourite being Suits, an enjoyably simple tale of salt-of-the-earth farmers on an alien world utilising clunky mech suits to protect their settlement from rampaging giant xeno-bugs.

4.  THE DARK CRYSTAL: AGE OF RESISTANCE

The show with the biggest cinematic wow factor in 2019 had to be this long-awaited prequel series to Jim Henson’s classic fantasy movie masterpiece, created for Netflix by, of all people, Louis Leterrier (yes, the director of The Transporter, Now You See Me and Clash of the Titans, if you can believe it). The technology may have evolved in leaps and bounds, but there’s a wonderfully old school vibe in the delightfully physical puppet effects used to bring the fantastical world of Thra and its denizens to life, so that it truly does feel like it’s based in the same world as the film.  This was EASILY the most visually arresting show of 2019, packed with exquisite character, creature and set design that perfectly complements the awesome work done by Henson and Brian Froud on the original, while the writers have created a darkly rich narrative tapestry that makes Thra seem a more dangerous place than ever.

3.  THE UMBRELLA ACADEMY

I was a HUGE fan of My Chemical Romance frontman Gerard Way’s magnificently oddball alternative superhero comic, so when I learned that Netflix were adapting it I was a little wary because I knew how spectacularly hard it would be for ANY showrunners to get right.  Thankfully Steve Blackman (Fargo season 2) and Jeremy Slater (The Exorcist TV series) were the right choice, because this perfectly captured the outsider nature of the characters and their endearingly dysfunctional family dynamic. Ellen Page, Tom Hopper (Black Sails, Merlin), David Castañeda and Emmy Raver-Lampman are all excellent as the more “functional” Hargreeves siblings, but the show is roundly stolen by Misfits star Robert Sheehan and Nicky, Ricky, Dicky & Dawn’s Aidan Gallagher as nihilistic clairvoyant Klaus and the old-man-in-a-child’s-body sociopath known only as Number Five. Consistently surprising and brilliantly bonkers, this was definitely the year’s most wonderfully WEIRD show.

2.  STRANGER THINGS (SEASON 3)

Writer-director duo the Duffer Brothers’ ultra-nostalgic 80s-set coming-of-age sci-fi horror series remains the undisputed jewel in Netflix’s long-form crown with this consistently top-drawer third season expertly maintaining the blockbuster-level standards we’ve come to expect.  This year the cross-dimensional shenanigans have largely been jettisoned, replaced by a gleefully nasty through-line of icky body horror that would make major influences like David Cronenberg and Stuart Gordon proud, as perennial teenage bad boy Billy Hargrove (the fantastically menacing Dacre Montgomery) becomes the leader of an army of psychic slaves under the control of the Upside Down’s monstrous Mind Flayer.  The kids are all brilliant as always, Winona Ryder and David Harbour really get to build on their strong-yet-spiky chemistry, and the show is almost effortlessly stolen by Joe Keery as one-time golden boy Steve Harrington and series-newcomer Maya Hawke as his nerdy new foil Robin Buckley, who were very nearly the cutest couple on TV in 2019.  Another gold standard season for a true gold standard show.

1.  GOOD OMENS

Sadly, legendary author Terry Pratchett died before he could see the adaptation of one of his most beloved novels (and one of my all-time literary favourites too) see the light of day, but at least his co-author Neil Gaiman was around to bring it to fruition with the aid of seasoned TV director David Mckinnon (Jekyll, Doctor Who, Sherlock), and the end result sure did him proud, perfectly capturing the deeply satirical voice and winningly anarchic, gleefully offbeat and gently subversive humour of the original novel.  David Tennant and Michael Sheen could both have been born to play Crowley and Aziraphale, the angel and demon nominally charged with watching over the young Antichrist in preparation for his role in the End Times, even though they would both much rather the world just went on quite happily the way it is, thanks very much. This is about as perfect an adaptation as you can get, the six hour-long episodes giving the surprisingly complex story time to breathe and grow organically, and the result is the most fun I spent in front of my TV this year.

[ineffably-effable]

good omens fic recommendations

If you’re looking for coherent reviews you’ll be disappointed, but if you want a list of quality recommendations - with excerpts & some vague ramblings as to what the reader should be in the mood for - enjoy!

29 recommendations underneath the cut.

(17k) Something We Were Withholding Made Us Weak by triedunture 

Crowley and Aziraphale learn to move in tandem.

Mood: beautiful slow burn, misunderstandings, heartache that would be solved if someone taught these besotted idiots to communicate.

Paradox: Crowley has never risen from his seat and gone to stand behind someone at a counter, never put his arms around their middle and pulled them tight against him. Has never apologized with a touch, with a closeness, with the thin line of his body. So why does it occur to him that he might do that now? Might press up against Aziraphale from behind and rest his forehead on Aziraphale’s nape and ask silently to be forgiven. As if it’s the most natural thing in the world when he knows, intimately knows that it’s not.

(51k) how deep the sand by Handful_of_Silence

After the Apocalypse, and with characteristic slowness, both Crowley and Aziraphale think there might be something they need to sit down and talk about.

And then Aziraphale disappears.

Mood: tragic twist of fate, separation, hurt/comfort, guilt & devotion.

He thinks about the picnic they’d have had. He’d have pulled the top down from the Bentley and let the wind tussle his hair, the weather of a glorious August now gone warming his skin. They would have chatted, sitting carefully on a tartan blanket, and they’d have made their own plans.

They might have even found the right time to talk properly. Honestly. About everything that’s been, about the possibilities that could be now that everything’s different.

About maybe not going back to London. Going back to their Jobs.

About leaving it all behind, together.

The words Crowley didn’t say are clogging up his throat.

(14k) Made Flesh by rfsmiley / @redfacesmiley

AU in which Crowley is two entities, and Aziraphale isn’t sure how he feels about either of them.

Mood: oblivious idiots, daemon!fic-if-you-squint, pining & tamed desire.

Eleven years pass, attended by another marked change; the creature cannot bear to be out of the same room as Aziraphale. The angel, isolated and frayed as he is by the fear of the coming war, has no problems with this development – he needs the company – although sometimes he looks into the yellow eyes and feels the spear of a nameless sorrow. If it comes to it, Heaven will win, of course; the certainty, however, is bitter. He tries not to think about what will happen to Crowley, or to this small being that runs at his heels as he moves, gripped by a contagious agitation.

(8k) Ad Astra by drawlight / @drawlight

Some things can only be said in the dark.

Mood: beautiful prose, longing, ruthless inner-voices & insecurities.

Aziraphale swallows. His eyes hold Crowley’s. Crowley stands very still, wretched. Terrified. Watching Aziraphale’s very wide eyes, the open of the mouth. There is a softness in Aziraphale’s look, in the swallow of his throat. It could be? (It might not be.) He wants to scream it; he wants to say nothing at all. Let me stay in this bit of maybe. Maybe is not no, maybe means perhaps, someday. Maybe means you might feel the same. (You might not.)

(13.3k) Alegría by drawlight / @drawlight

After the End That Wasn’t, Heaven and Hell are leaving them alone. Entirely alone. (This is a story with nothing of miracles.)

Mood: beautiful prose, longing, ruthless inner-voices & insecurities + domesticity

(Yes, I know the mood is almost the same as above, but honestly this is @drawlight, what were you expecting? Read it if you want a Crowley that will absolutely wreck you & leave you heart-broken.)

Aziraphale is a touch-strong man. He touches everything (Crowley knows, he always watches). Aziraphale loves and he likes to love through his skin. His fingers on a particularly fine leather binding, dipping into the embossed author, the tooled name of the title. His hands breaking apart a loaf of Italian sourdough, fingers coming away with residual flour. Dipping his hands into sacks of grain, rubbing a fine weave of silk through. He touches Crowley too, in his usual and gentle way. The touch on the arm to still Crowley’s whiplash self, to make a point during an argument. Aziraphale who thinks nothing of oh, my dear, you’ve got an eyelash just there, let me get it for you. Crowley has a good memory. He catalogs them all, cross-examines them. Six-thousand years of maybes and what-ifs and what was thats ? But Aziraphale is just as easy with his touches on glass bottles while pulling out his favorite vintages. He touches his favorite fountain pen far more often than he reaches for Crowley. No, in context, it means nothing. It’s just Aziraphale as usual. Don’t look too closely, it doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t.

(13k) small infinities and all that by JustStandingHere / @billypotts

Crowley and Aziraphale are turned human. This is the aftermath.

Mood: slow burn, domesticity, best friends falling in love & all the beautiful awkwardness that entails.

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

(12k) the deft, sweet gesture of your hand by deadgreeks / @mortuarybees

Crowley arrives injured at Aziraphale’s door. He takes care of him, reads him an awful lot of Mary Oliver, and knits elaborate metaphors for his insecurities (literally).

Mood: beautiful writing, mixed signals, feeling unworthy of the millenia-long object of your affections, unable to create gifts that are good enough for the people you love and being in love with a complete idiot.

Aziraphale has tended to the sick and injured during periods of plague and war many times throughout his long life, and he tries to adopt the same kind-but-impersonal detachment as he carefully washes Crowley. It is slightly harder, Crowley being the sole object of six thousand years of repressed desire, but he’s also Aziraphale’s closest friend, and a person besides, so he does him the courtesy of not ogling his bare legs or torso as he goes.

(9.3k) Slow by write_away / @theirdarkreturning

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

Mood: Miscommunication, with a hefty side order of pining and the urge to yell at your screen in the vain hopes of getting through to these two idiots.

For Crowley - that was the demon’s name, and it’s best to memorize it quickly, before he changes it yet again - knew that the angel would love him if he just asked, and Aziraphale - the angel, though there’s no rush with him, there never really is - knew that the demon would take him in with open arms if he just asked. It’s just that neither of them were good at asking things of one another.

(14.7) Lead me to the banquet hall by obstinatrix, wishwellingtons

Crowley loves taking Aziraphale out to eat almost as much as Aziraphale loves eating, but it’s always a bit of a one-sided affair. Aziraphale has never understood why. Crowley planned on keeping it that way, but best laid plans…

Mood: wonderful footnotes, pining, creating a shrine to the object of your longing and then submitting to the mortifying ordeal of them finding it.

The thing about Aziraphale is quite simply this: Crowley can never have enough of him. God, Satan, everyone knows he’s tried. Crowley has spent centuries glutting himself on the sight of him only to be empty again days later, wondering whether it’s too soon to show his face in the bookshop. Aziraphale drifts from brasserie to bar in his quest to indulge in the best of human culinary expertise; Crowley follows after, because he knows Aziraphale will be there. It isn’t enough, but it’s something, and the only thing Crowley can ever expect.

(14.2k) all i need, darling, is a life in your shape       by deadgreeks / @mortuarybees

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

Mood: domesticity with pining, chosen family, acts of love, boyfriend sweaters & idiots in love.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes indulgently, passing out the rest of the gifts and sneaking little glances at Crowley as he struggled with the box. He’d worked so hard on it, searched all the best yarn shops in London for the perfect skeins. He even had to sit on hold for hours with the manufacturer of the yarn he chose because he needed another skein from the same dye-lot, knowing that Crowley would want only the best, and he’d notice even a minor inconsistency in the coloring.

(27k) Long Is The Way, And Hard by Kate_Lear

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

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

Mood: slow burn, denial, temptation, jealousy, lust to love, character growth.

Aziraphale hasn’t shared his bed with anyone. He can’t have done, because if he has then Crowley is going to hunt down that mortal – in this world or the next – and enact something creatively and comprehensively bloody upon them. Possibly involving methods from the Spanish Inquisition, that have scabbed over in Crowley’s memory and that he shies away from picking at.

(25.7k) your weekend lover by witching

Mood: miscommunication, mutual pining, ineffable idiots who are on the same page but reading a different damn book

It was purely physical, they had agreed on that from the beginning. Aziraphale couldn’t quite remember why he had agreed to that, but he suspected it had something to do with not ruining their friendship, or some such nonsense. At any rate, that was the deal. The new Arrangement. Purely physical.

(16k) I’ve Got You To Help Me Forgive by Kate Andrews (k8andrewz)

Pt1: Crowley deals, more or less, with the Fall. Also, Crowley has feelings. The angel doesn’t help with that. Also, sunny rocks are very nice.

Pt2: In which tea is made, a story is shared, and a leap of faith is taken.

Mood: Lust, first times, innocence, ineffable sex, memory wipes, Aziraphale showing initiative and being a bit of a bastard, overwhelmed Crowley, Gabriel is a total dick. Fair warning this isn’t PWP, it has loads of plot and feelings too and fantastic characterizations.

The air in Crowley’s lungs took leave of him all at once. Memories he hadn’t given a good look at in ages resurfaced. Memories he’d quite ably buried, thank you very much and he sat up abruptly, leaning forward and propping his elbows on his knees. He set his sunglasses on the table, then pressed his face into his palms and gave it a good scrub. After a sidelong glance at Aziraphale who sat there patiently watching him, he asked, “What am I supposed to do with a question like that, hmm?”

(13.9k) The Lightness of You by Rend_Herring

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

Mood: When you want to mix up your pining & angst with a bit of humour, sex and a praise kink.

The jasmine vine actually tries brushing up against Aziraphale’s cheek and he blushes, says, “Oh, you,” all indulgent and sweet-like.  It leaves a fragrant white blossom behind his ear.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says sincerely, and Crowley glares openly at the traitors. “That’s very kind of you.” His smile really is a beacon of otherworldly radiance. An orchid blooms on the spot, the epiphyte whore.

(7.2k) summer and his pleasures by witching

absence makes the heart grow fonder, and crowley and aziraphale’s hearts were plenty fond to begin with. a story told through phone calls while they are separated for work-related reasons.

Mood: drunk dialing and dirty talk, idiots in love

Something clicked in Aziraphale’s mind, and he held back a curse word threatening on his tongue. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, he found himself just in that sweet spot of intoxication where he was cognizant enough to recognize that he was doing something he absolutely shouldn’t do, but not quite enough to stop himself. “I would, you know,” he said, full of newfound confidence. “I’d – if you were here, I’d make it… very much worth your while.”

(3.6k) Birds of a Feather by idiopathicsmile

Aziraphale nests. Crowley relearns some crucial facts about angelic courtship rituals.

Mood: Jealousy, lashing out, withdrawal, oblivious idiots slowly learning how to use their words.

Is Crowley jealous of a musty old flat above a used book store? In the millennia he’s spent slowly twisting his own heart around Aziraphale’s little finger, it’s not the weirdest thing he’s been jealous of, to be honest.

(11k) A Touch Like Sunlight    by goodomensblog / @goodomensblog / @just-quintessentially-me

When Aziraphale is threatened by angels who seek justice for Aziraphale’s crimes against Heaven, Crowley comes up with a plan to keep him safe from harm.

Mood: PTSD from witnessing the attempted murder of your husband, it’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you, self-sacrificing idiots & badass idiots protecting eachother.

“Right! Brunch!” Aziraphale says, bouncing up on his toes - as if they hadn’t just been discussing the murder of archangels. “Do you think they have crepes?”

(13.6k) These Things Were Here by MajorEnglishEsquire

Crowley, following times of overwhelming distress, resorted to the snake form as a means of finding comfort and solitude.

Mood: displays of affection, love shown through care-taking, using your ineffable boyfriend as a security blanket.

Nothing like it happened again for years. The pattern, however, was too recognizable to be mistaken when it did reoccur.

When commended for some catastrophe of which he was no part, Crowley became a completely disconsolate mess, but he still actually handled those occasions better than when he was, in fact, party to such disaster.

If he was blamed, but not actually at fault, Aziraphale may find him on the verge of discorporation due to alcohol poisoning, but at least he would say what was wrong. It was worse when he had an assignment he couldn’t breathe a word of. It was worse when he would smile bitterly and leave silently, haunted beyond expression.

(4.6k) let sleeping snakes lie by kythen / @kythen

The world doesn’t end. Crowley falls asleep. And Aziraphale stays by his side, waiting for him to wake up again.

Mood: acts of love, comfort, warmth, home

To some extent, he understands Crowley’s need for sleep. It had been an exhausting decade for the both of them, what with the end of the world business, and it had culminated spontaneously in them cutting off their ties with both Heaven and Hell rather dramatically, which were the only ties that either of them have ever had since the Beginning. Just as Crowley had sauntered from the ranks of Heaven to Hell, he had finally found his way out of Hell and into something that finally felt like freedom.

(6.4k) All The Dreams We Had by ImpishTubist / @impishtubist

This time will be different, Aziraphale thinks. This time, Crowley will remember.

Mood: amnesia, groundhog day - but centered on a single relationship - and with more angst

It takes a year for Crowley to fall for him again, a year until the air raid and the church and the books; a year before Aziraphale finds himself pressed up against a brick wall and exchanging desperate, burning kisses.

Crowley’s forgotten again by morning.

(70k) The Place You Need To Reach by Zetared / @zetablarian 

When Crowley is forcibly recalled to home office, Aziraphale conspires with a denounced saint and strikes a deal with the agents of Hell to get him back.

Mood: sacrifice, loss of self, trauma, love, tenderness and fantasy-novel-esque world & character building

“I have a journey to complete,” Aziraphale reminds the Adversary, primly. “May I begin?”

“In good time, Aziraphael. In good time. Tell me, do you recall the rules correctly?”

Aziraphale grits his teeth at the purposeful use of his forgotten name, but he doesn’t mention it. “Yes, of course. Using no miracles or ethereal influence of any kind, I must walk through the circles of Hell and complete an unknown task in each to earn passage to the next. I must not look behind me, where Crowley will walk. I may speak to Crowley, but he cannot speak back. I will not hear him or see him or feel even a hint of his presence. I will move forward, and, God willing, he will follow me.”

(1.9k) Kissing, Accidentally. by skybound2 / @skybound2

The one where Crowley gives in and kisses Aziraphale while he has him pinned against a wall.

Mood: hilarious footnotes, brilliant Crowley internal monologues and ineffable kissing against a wall.

No. No what actually happens is that when Crowley slams Aziraphale up against a wall in the middle of a hallway at a former-Satanic-hospital-turned-paintball-complex to express to him how very not nice he is, his hindbrain, forebrain and all other portions of his brain, decide that while denial has been a lovely place to reside for the previous six millennia, they are rather due a relocation at this point. And “Oh! Would you look at that! Here’s the oh-so-very soft mouth of an oh-so-very-beautiful angel right in front of us! And all we have to do to get there is to just…lean forward an inch. Less than an inch, in fact! How fantastic!”

(9.3k) Build Our Kingdom by Mackem 

Mood: : ineffable dates, promises kept

“Ready for lunch?” Crowley drops to his knees to start unbuckling the straps on the basket as though this is something they do all the time; as though he hasn’t just effortlessly catapulted Aziraphale back in time almost fifty years.

“You remembered,” Aziraphale breathes as wonder courses through him. He mentioned something once during an awkward moment, half a century ago, and now here kneels a demon atop a picnic blanket.

“Hmm?” Crowley barely shoots him a sidelong glance as he concentrates on opening the basket.

Aziraphale’s eyes do not move from him. “You remembered,” he repeats, no less stunned. “Crowley, you really didn’t have to.”

Crowley’s hands still. Eventually, his eyes still on the basket, he murmurs, “Well, we did The Ritz, didn’t we?”

(9k) On The Matter Of Touch by Somedrunkpirate

For two ineffable husbands, they don’t really touch each other much. Here is a story on why that might be.

Mood: touch-starved idiots in love, heart-breaking internal monologues, misunderstandings, miscommunication, protective idiots.

Crowley had decided long ago that curiosity should have been a sin, because it has been the one thing consistently tempting him in his existence. He’s done everything he can think of and more, just so see what it was all about. But this, with Aziraphale, feels more than just an experience he can add to his endless tally

(8.2k) dum memor ipse mei by NeverNooitNiet

There is something, Aziraphale thinks, that is inherently selfish— unangelic, even— about grief. But then of course, the same could be said about love.

Mood: identity angst, calling Aziraphale out on his bullshit

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous ,” Crowley snaps. “Of course I don’t— angel, do you have any idea just how much more straightforward my life would be if only I were able to hate you?”

(5.6k) bent to the very earth by Ark / @et-in-arkadia

Use me, please, Crowley had said, so Aziraphale takes him at his word.

Mood: tenderness & kisses & sex against a wall

Aziraphale kisses him back because that is what makes sense, kissing Crowley, why, the thought crosses his mind often enough—he just never had the sort of momentum that seems to fire up Crowley now. Crowley whose hands are shaking before they ball up as fists on Aziraphale’s lapels, Crowley who keeps kissing him and kissing him like otherwise he’ll drown.

(40k) Lit in the Darkness by ToEdenandBackAgain / @toedenandbackagain​

Mood: Aziraphale and Crowley sleeping together through the ages. Mutual pining.

Aziraphale, despite being nowhere hear as gangly as Crowley, is somehow still all arms and legs when he sleeps. Crowley takes an elbow to the face three times before he wedges the angel between the wall and his body with an angry growl, making sure to trap the flailing limbs tight beneath his own.

Works In progress

this gorgeous ineffable wives snippet by @mia-ugly

Mood: beautiful writing, emotional vulnerability, submitting to the mortifying ordeal of being known,

“Whatever happens tomorrow -“ And something will happen, they won’t walk away from this. They’d never be allowed. “Darling, you should know -”

the bucket list

  by darcylindbergh / @forineffablereasons  / @watsonshoneybee​

If you’re going to go native, you might as well go all the way.

Mood: saying the absolutely wrong thing at the wrong time, reaching your breaking point, miscommunication and heart break.

“You know, we are the way we are,” Aziraphale said slowly, pressing it a little, brushing his wing up against Crowley’s, “but we can also change, Crowley. We have done, over the years. We’ve changed quite a lot, since we first met.”

[ineffablegame]

hey for the prompt thing: a/c 43 taking care when the other one's sick?

I hope this doesn’t feel like I phoned it in!  :o

Also available on my Ao3.

In Crawly’s defense, he hadn’t meant to get mixed up in Legion’s nonsense.

He hadn’t even wanted to be in Gerasa.  He’d been shooting for Pella, intent on meeting Aziraphale for evening drinks at a tavern of some repute, but he’d bungled the miracle and sent himself too far east.  He’s been in Gerasa not five minutes before Legion streaks past, clad in the body of an emaciated human and nothing else.  Stupid with shock, Crawly is helpless against Legion’s pull; it sucks him in, as powerful as gravity, and he is trapped inside the pinwheeling pandemonium of the human’s mind before he can so much as blink.  

Legion is a well-known party animal in the bowels of Hell.  Sometimes, they make for a roaring good time.  Whenever the ruling class of Hell looks away long enough for the lesser demons to drum up a party, Legion is always the first on the dance floor, badly-boogying their little heart out.  

This would all have been tolerable – fun, even – if that were the end of it.  But Legion is the sort of obnoxious partier that inspires frat boys ‘round the world to get spectacularly shitfaced, ratchet up the decibels of their bellowing with each successive drink, and plague every woman in a fifty-yard radius with atrocious pick-up lines and beer-rank breath.

They are, in short, an unholy pain in the arse.  And Crawly’s just been forced to share some poor sod’s body with them.  

“Crawly!” they exclaim.  Their voice is a cataclysm of shrieks and squeals and wrenching moans, impossible for the human larynx to replicate.  Crawly winces as pain lances through the man’s throat.  “How you doin’, buddy?”

“Uh, fine,” he replies automatically, because banal pleasantries are the only blessed thing that make sense in the careening carousal of flashing light flickering image dank dark gibbering sobs please let me go let me go let me GO—  “Er.  Just great.”  

“We haven’t seen you since… shit, can’t remember the last time!”

Yes, Crawly thinks, I’d been rather making an effort with that.

“Where are we?” he asks, because the sooner he gets past the basics, the sooner he’ll be able to disentangle himself and escape.  “Who are we?”

“Hell’s teeth, I dunno!” Legion bellows.  

“So why are we—”

“I was bored!  Buddy, am I glad you came along!  We’re gonna have so much fun with this stupid human!”

Crawly, inwardly grimacing, resigns himself to be an unwilling guest in the revelry.  Legion is an idiot with the attention span of a goldfish; the moment they lose interest and cast the wasted husk of this human body aside, he’ll be free.  He only has to wait.  

Three days later, Legion hasn’t lost interest.  And then Jesus of Nazareth wanders into Gerasa.  

“Hello, there,” says Jesus.

Legion may be a fool, but they know the Son of God when they see him. They pull back the man’s lips in a feral snarl.  “Dude, fuck off.  There’s, like, a ton of us.”

Jesus of Nazareth smiles benignly, head cocked, eyebrows arched.  Crawly, crammed inside a body that feels like it’s withering away by the minute, shivers with a soul-deep terror.  

“There certainly are a lot of you,” says Jesus.  “It’s not right, one person being so many.”  

As he speaks, each word uttered with total composure, Crawly becomes aware of the squeals and snorts of pigs nearby.  He clambers up to the human’s eyes, elbowing fragments of Legion aside for a look.  Over the Son of Man’s shoulder, a boy and his father are guiding their herd of swine toward the scene.  

“I think,” Jesus says, quiet menace creeping into his tone, “that you should go back to being separate.  Now.”

The change is dizzying in its suddenness.  Before Crawly can make sense of what has happened, he is looking up at Mary’s baby boy from an entirely different angle, snorting and snuffling and stamping his trotters in the dirt.  He’s been dropped into a bloody pig like a recalcitrant plant that’s outgrown its pot.  

The squeals around him reach a frantic pitch and Crawly turns, startled.  The other pigs are throwing back their heads with rending screams, eyes rolling, spittle flying from their mouths.  A fragment of Legion has been placed inside each one, and the separation is driving them mad with terror.  They barrel past the boy and his father, heedless of their staffs, and stampede down the rutted dirt road.  It is a narrow road, turning sharply to hug a cliff face overlooking a deep, cold lake.

Jesus blinks.

A thunderous rumbling sound judders over Legion’s screams and the road buckles, crumbles.  Crawly watches, relief warring with terror, as each pig topples after the other like chain link following chain link to vanish, shrieking and cursing, over the side of the cliff.  The sound of frantic splashing ensues, cut short with preternatural swiftness.  Silence descends.  

Jesus turns to Crawly, who shrinks into himself inasmuch as a two-hundred and fifty-pound hog can shrink.  But the Christ’s smile is no longer menacing; in fact, it’s practically pleasant, warming Crawly from the tip of his snout to the end of his curly tail.  His every demonic instinct warns him against that warmth – that his will is being leaned on, manipulated – but it’s difficult to focus when he feels suddenly so content.

“Hello, Crowley,” says Jesus.

“That’s not my name,” Crawly replies.  It’s all squealing and snorting, but the Word of Life understands him anyway.  

“My mistake,” Jesus says, in the unbothered, smiling way of someone quite certain they aren’t mistaken.  “Crawly, is it?”

“Maybe,” Crawly mumbles.

“Sorry about that.  The snout, I mean.  Legion had quite the hold on you.”

“Um… it’s fine…?”

“I’ll sort you out right now.”  Her Only Begotten Son rubs his palms together in a way that, some millennia later, will come to mind when Aziraphale embarks on his one-sided love affair with magic tricks.  “Send you off to your friend.”

“My wh—”

Crawly’s vision whites out before he can complete the question.  A moment later, blinking dazedly past the haloes branded on the backs of his eyelids, Crawly finds himself seated at a table, back in his own body.  Aziraphale, siting opposite of him with a jug raised to his lips, stares in wide-eyed amazement.  He lowers the jug.

“Crawly!” he says.  “Why, we were supposed to meet three days ago!  I was worried sick!”

“I’m—”  Crawly pauses, sniffling, and sneezes.  He pointedly ignores the offended expression on Aziraphale’s face as he shields the jug from a drizzle of snot.  Recovering with an accusatory look around the tavern, he continues, “Glad you were able to overcome your crippling worry and c—”  Another sneeze, and this time Aziraphale lifts the jug out of harm’s way.  Crawly soldiers on.  “Carry on without me.”

Aziraphale has the grace to look guilty.  “This is the seasonal menu.  It won’t last much longer.”

“Of course.  How silly of me.”  Crawly points at the jug.  “Give me that.”

“It’s mine,” Aziraphale sniffs.

“Angel.”  Crawly leans across the table, elbows propped on the gnarled wood.  “I’ve been stuck in a human’s body for the last three days with the most annoying demon this side of Creation.  After that, I was trapped inside a sodding pig.  Give.  Me.  That.  Drink.”

His speech would be more persuasive without a dribble of snot hanging off the end of his nose, but Crawly glares at the angel nonetheless, determined not to be cowed.  After a moment of staring, perplexed, Aziraphale passes him the jug.  

“You’re leaking,” the angel says petulantly.

“S’fine.”  Crawly takes a determined swig.  “It’ll pass in a minute, don’t you worry.”

-

It doesn’t pass.  In fact, over the next few days, the sneezing gets worse.  With it comes a ridiculous amount of snot, rivers of the stuff, and chills and fevers and stomach upsets that put him entirely off drinking altogether.  By the seventh day, he is bedridden, wheezing and certain he’s about to be discorporated with Someone’s inventive new take on the plague.  

“Oh, stop being so melodramatic,” Aziraphale says, miracling a square of linen to mop the sweat from his brow.  “You’ll be ship-shape in no time.”

“It was the pigs,” Crawly rambles, staring at Aziraphale with glassy eyes.  “I’ve… I’ve got a pig illness.  A pig flu.  A swine flu.”

Aziraphale, cold-hearted nurse that he is, merely scoffs.  “What rubbish.  ‘Swine flu.’”  He chuckles.  “I’m sure I’ve never heard such nonsense.”

“Bet it’ll be all the funnier when it kills me,” Crawly moans.  “Then you can laugh.”

“Hush.” Aziraphale lays a gentle hand on his brow.  There is no miracle at work – only the cool, steady pressure of his touch.  Somehow, that is enough.  Crawly closes his eyes with a sigh.  

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

What Might Have Been - 14

(CW: hunger, exhaustion, threats of violence, language, abduction, an ending you won’t like. Outsider POV, but Aziraphale is there.) 

(I am...really sorry...*flees the room*)

The latest part of my @goodomenscelebration fic! (Around 5k for this one)

Read the previous parts on AO3!

Food

Lyla had been walking for days. For years, really, ever since her parents had gone out for supplies and never returned, leaving her and Benny to fend for themselves.

They’d thought Dover would be safe. Had been, for almost half a year, before the blight reached the fields, before the fish all died, before the castle had been destroyed by a blast of power during one of the endless battles that raged in the sky.

She didn’t know which side had fired the blast. Didn’t even matter. Their home was gone.

Benny walked beside her, holding her hand. He was exhausted. Beyond that. His little legs couldn’t keep up with the crowd, but Lyla wasn’t strong enough to carry him for long. Every now and then, he tugged at her arm. “’M hungry,” he would whine. “’M tired.”

“I know Benny. Just a little more.”

“How much more?”

“A bit?” Lyla had been to London once, back before Benny was even born. It had taken less than two hours, but it had felt like an eternity.

She hadn’t known what eternity was back then.

“Is there anything to eat?”

Lyla dug in the pockets of her father’s jacket, hanging loose off her thin arms. She’d taken everything she could find from the ruins of the castle, but it had been a long walk through the blight. “I’ve got…um…two walnuts.” She tried to crack one in her hand without letting go of Benny, without falling behind, without dropping the last food they might see for days –

Suddenly her hand was empty.

“Benny!” She spun, to find a man in a pale suit carrying him. “Give him back!”

“My dear, I think you need both hands, and he’s quite tired –”

“Shut up! Give him back now!” She struck out, kicking him in the shin. His eyes went wide with surprise, and she prepared for another kick, maybe a bit higher this time.

“Alright. Here, he’s fine,” he quickly put Benny down and Lyla scooped him up. He wasn’t that heavy after all. Benny had hardly grown at all since the war started.

“Who are you? Where did you come from?”

“What do you mean? I’ve been traveling with you for quite some time.”

“No you haven’t.” There wasn’t a spot of dirt anywhere on his pristine suit. He weighed as much as half the traveling party put together, his hands were manicured. “You’re not from any of the surviving cells. Are you from some – some hidden estate? Which side did you make a deal with?” Lyla clutched Benny until he gave a moan of pain. “Sorry,” she muttered.

“I – honestly, it’s nothing of the kind. I have been traveling with you for a long, long time, remember?”

Lyla frowned. She supposed she did, but… “Dressed like that?”

“Well, I have standards.” He straightened the ridiculous tartan tie around his neck and smiled. “Now, if I can’t carry him, perhaps I can take care of those for you?” He held out his hand. She placed both the walnuts in his outstretched palm. The man clenched his fist for a moment, then opened it again to show both neatly cracked and ready to be eaten.

“Thank you,” Lyla murmured, picking up the nuts and handing them to Benny. He devoured them in seconds.

“My dear, you really should have kept one for yourself!”

“Don’t need it,” she said, even as her stomach growled. “We’ll be in London soon, right?”

“I…perhaps.” His eyes lingered on the dried-up river to their left, empty except for a thread of grey slurry oozing along the center. “I walked this way once, a long time ago.”

“We should catch up,” she muttered. Something about the man made her uncomfortable. They had fallen a little behind the rest of the group, and she wasn’t sure if anyone would turn back if she screamed.

“I don’t think you’re likely to get lost. Just keep to the road and…”

Up ahead, the embankment to the right had collapsed, spilling black earth across the road. It wasn’t thick, but it was wide. Everyone had stopped.

Lyla set Benny down beside one of the abandoned, rusted cars that littered the motorway. “We’ll have to go back.” There had to be a north-bound road that wasn’t blocked. Maybe at Worthing, there was supposed to be a major road there. Maybe. They’d lost the map two days ago, but north was north.

“Go back? It’s just a bit of dirt. Come, even I’m not that precious.”

Lyla backed away from him, eyes wide. “Just a bit of dirt? Are you insane?” She’d stepped on a patch once, back when it first spread to southern England, and had been stuck in bed for a week recovering.

“I just mean,” he waved a hand vaguely.

But more of the crowd had heard him. All eyes were on him now, and the muttering. Who is this man? Where did he come from? Is he a spy?

He held up his hands, looking a little nervous. “I just meant, er, there’s certainly a bit of a path around it. Look!”

They all turned back, and sure enough, there was a narrow strip on the left side of the road, completely bare of earth. They could pass through there, single file.

The man went last, and when Lyla turned back, he was rising from a crouch, dusting off his hands with a frown. “Just stumbled a bit, my dear, don’t worry about me.” He walked beside her again, smiling as if they were friends. “I don’t believe I caught your name?”

“Lyla,” she said, reluctantly. “Lyla Wilson. This is my brother, Benny.” He was walking beside her again, holding her left hand, as far as she could keep him from the strange man.

“Nice to meet you. My name is, er, Kasbeel.”

“Kasbeel? What sort of name is that?”

“Oh a very common one. In. Um. Chaldea.”

“Never heard of it.” Lyla frowned, the conversation shifting oddly around in her mind. “Oh, hang on, did you say Chelsea?”

“Yes, that certainly seems likely.” He cleared his throat. “Yes. Kasbeel. From Chelsea.”

Something didn’t add up, but Lyla supposed it wasn’t important. They were heading north, and they’d be in London soon. That was all that mattered.

“Why London?” Kasbeel suddenly asked. “Surely there’s someplace closer you can all go?”

“Closer? The entire south coast is flooded.” She slowed down a little, as Benny’s legs started getting tired again. “And…they say London is safe. Only place they can’t go. You just have to find a way in.”

“They?”

“Who else? Angels and demons. Good riddance to both.”

Kasbeel slowed to a stop. Lyla almost kept walking without him, but his cheerful face had fallen, and he just looked lost. The same expression Benny wore when they’d left Dover, and Canterbury before that, and the day their parents had left…

“Well, why are you going, then?" She demanded "Since you don’t know anything about anything.”

“I – I was supposed to meet someone.” He looked out east, back over the basted, black hills of the South Downs. “Out there. Only…it’s all gone now. I thought he would go to London next. But if he can’t get in…I don’t even know where to look.”

“I mean…they say there’s ways. For humans.” She wasn’t sure if it was true. A wall of energy was supposed to surround the city, incinerating anyone who tried to cross it. But everyone knew someone who knew someone who had gotten out – or in.

Lyla glanced up to find the group already rounding the next corner. It wasn’t safe to fall behind, but somehow, she didn’t feel in danger from this strange man. “I’m sure your friend will be able to find a way in. Us, too. Alright?”

He smiled. “Yes. I just…I very much missed home for a moment.”

“Yeah, you and everyone else. Now come on.” She picked up Benny and started walking again.

“’M tired,” he said, which was almost all he ever said anymore.

Kasbeel’s hand drifted over and stroked his hair. “How about a little nap? I can carry him if you want. It’s no trouble.”

“Well. Alright. But only because we’re walking the same way. No funny business.”

Benny was sound asleep before he even reached Kasbeel’s arms, head resting lightly on his shoulder.

--

The line of rusted cars stretched across the motorway.

On the other side, the Marked ones, carrying clubs, and broken bottles, and knives.

“Just let us through,” someone called, as the wanderers milled around anxiously.

“Get lost, garbage,” snarled a woman, slamming her hands against a car, the Mark on her face twisted by her rage. “You’re not getting our food. Fuck off!”

“We don’t want your food!” one voice called, just as another shouted, “Please! We’re starving!” And another: “We’ve got kids here, just feed the kids!” And another: “The angels took Brighton, how much longer do you think you have.” And another: “Just let us through!”

“I don’t understand,” Kasbeel murmured, gently rocking Benny, who still slept in his arms. “Why won’t they just let you pass? And what are those brands on their faces?”

“Now I know you’re shitting me,” Lyla grumbled. “Are you going to tell me you never heard of the Mark of the Beast?” The gang on the other side of the cars all wore it somewhere: on their foreheads, their cheeks, their necks. Someplace it couldn’t easily be hidden – a complex sigil of straight and curved lines, contained in a circle.

“Ah,” Kasbeel sighed. “Yes, well…I’ve never actually seen it before…”

Lyla had seen it on the occasional traveler, trying to break into whatever place of safety they’d secured for themselves, hammering at the doors and screaming as she and Benny hid amongst people they hoped they could trust. Never on such a large group, all gathered together.

One of them leapt onto the bonnet of a car, throwing a bottle over their heads. Lyla ducked – she wasn’t the only one – but it shattered loudly somewhere in the distance. The voices all stumbled to a halt.

“You all know the rules,” the figure on the car snarled, pointing with a bar of metal, dented and stained. “Anyone can pass through here – so long as they take the Mark. Otherwise, you go around.” The figure glared across the crowd, taking in the wanderers, their wide, desperate eyes. “Angels don’t bother us. Never have, never will. Only reason they’d come here is for you lot, and we’re not going to take that risk. No Mark, no passage.”

Another murmur ran through the crowd. Kasbeel was asking a question, but Lyla couldn’t listen. She was so hungry. Couldn't think. There was no way around except miles and miles of back tracking, searching for another road north. Her eyes burned. She was so tired.

A wailing siren – mournful and distant – broke through the air, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at all.

“Well,” called the Marked one standing on the car. “Looks like it’s time to decide.”

The ground trembled underfoot, rattling the cars where they sat. The Marked ones laughed, weaving through the barricade, shoving their way through the crowd, forcing the wanderers into a tighter and tighter knot. “They’re gonna want a good look at you lot,” one of them crowed. “Stay right here.” Several people started crying.

Suddenly, Lyla found Benny back in her arms, stirring slightly. Kasbeel stepped in front of her, watching the sides of the road. “Stay close to me, my dear. Whatever happens.”

She could have laughed. He looked at least fifty, soft as…well, as nothing was, not anymore, not in this ravaged world. But he still held his arm out protectively.

Well. He was the least malnourished person here. That might count for something. Maybe the demons would eat him first.

The erupted out of the ground, just like in the stories, the foul earth crumbling and flowing away as they rose effortlessly, already grinning.

Four of them, identical to each other – dark skin, hair in points, long eyelashes, ragged jackets. They surveyed the crowd of wanderers with an expression Lyla could only call hungry.

And Kasbeel…relaxed, a tension she hadn’t noticed going out of his shoulders. He tugged the brim of his fedora lower over his eyes, turning away from the demons.

Wait.

“Where did you get that hat?” Lyla demanded.

“I always had it,” he claimed, then held out a straw hat with a wide brim. “Here’s yours. Stay quiet, don’t look them in the eye, if you can help it, and they shouldn’t notice you.”

“What? I’ve never heard of demons having a weakness like that.” She tugged the hat as low as she could, and noticed for the first time dirt and mud smudged across Kasbeel’s suit. When had that happened?

“Don’t be absurd. It’s not them, I’m shielding you.”

“You what?” Perhaps he was insane after all.

“Sssh! I need to concentrate.”

“Well, look at this,” said one of the demons, smiling and rubbing his hands. He looked…pretty, in a way, if she hadn’t known what he was. “We’ve got some new recruits. Well done, Bob.”

“It’s Rae, actually, my lord,” said the leader of the Marked ones.

“I don’t care.” The demon waved a hand, and suddenly there were several enormous crates of food. Even from where she was standing, Lyla could see tins of beans and soup, vegetables with a little green in them, and by the stars – actual meat. Her stomach growled as she watched the Marked ones gather up their bounty and run back behind the barricade of cars, leaving the wanderers to the demons. She wasn’t the only one, either. All around them, people moaned, shuffling closer.

“Alright, wait your turns,” the lead demon said, as four identical faces circled the crowd.

Even though it probably didn’t mean anything, Lyla tugged her hat down again. “Why do they all look the same?” she wondered.

“Legion,” Kasbeel whispered back. “Foot soldiers of Hell. Though I believe they prefer to be called Eric.”

Yes, definitely insane. Benny shifted on her shoulder, starting to wake up. Lyla rubbed his back and hushed him.

“Well,” one of the Erics began. “I’m sure you’ve all heard the sales pitch by now. Join us, rule the world when we win. Palaces and kingdoms and wealth beyond your dreams. The offer hasn’t changed, though,” he chuckled, “at the rate we’re going, it’s going to be billions of very small kingdoms. Still, better to rule than to serve, right?” He grinned, as if waiting for a laugh.

“You always say that,” someone called. “You haven’t won yet.” There was a little murmuring, but not much. Politics. No one really cared about politics anymore.

“Well, haven’t lost either,” another Eric picked up the thread. “And let’s face it, it’s a better deal than the other side’s going to give you.”

“We don’t want to join anyone,” another voice said, high and scared. “We want to be left alone!”

Benny’s eyes fluttered open. “Lyla? ‘M hungry.”

“Shhhh, not yet.” She held him closer, like a bundle of twigs wrapped in cloth.

“Alright, I can see you’re not forward thinkers,” one of the Erics said, spreading his arms. “Pity that, but we can’t all be management material. How’s this deal? Join us now, and you’ll eat tonight. Fed and protected, from now on.” There was another murmur at that. “You’ve heard the rumors, well, it’s true. Once you get your Mark, the angels can’t touch you. And even our most enthusiastic brethren won’t harm you. Just what you want. Left alone.”

“Preposterous,” Kasbeel muttered, but he wasn’t the only one. And not all the voices were as skeptical as his. A few of them rose above the crowd, directing towards the Erics.

“Do we have to fight?”

“How often does the food come?”

“Can we change our minds?”

“What about a place to stay? Can you give us that?”

The Erics responded to each, enthusiastically, pointing, waving for people to come join them. Lyla wasn’t listening to them.

“’M hungry,” Benny said, his eyes glazed, barely cracking open. “My head hurts. ‘M cold…”

She pressed her lips to his forehead. He was burning up.

“Benny? Can you hear me? We can eat soon, I promise, you just have to hold on.”

He mumbled something, but she couldn’t even hear the words.

She pressed her forehead against his and whispered, and Benny nodded back.

Lyla stepped forward.

“What are you doing?” Kasbeel grabbed her arm. “Don’t be a fool – they’re asking for your soul.”

“So?” she snapped, jerking free, not even trying to keep her voice down. “Why should I care? What’s my soul ever done for me? I don’t need a soul, I need food. Benny needs food.”

“I can help you!”

“Really? How?” She pulled off the hat and threw it at his feet. “You’ve been walking with us for hours and all you do is talk nonsense and – and act like you’ve no idea what’s going on when you obviously do.” He winced, taking half a step back. “Fine, you know what? I don’t care. You do what you need to do to survive. Make people pity you, pretend to be an idiot. But don’t you judge me.”

“Listen, Lyla,” he reached for her hand, and she jerked it away, pulling Benny tighter into her arms. “I know, things are hard. It might seem like – like avoiding suffering is the most important thing –”

“Don’t start with me!” Lyla was all but screaming now, backing away. “Pain now, reward later? Is that your story? Just like those self-righteous angels. Those – those bastards destroy our homes, our families, our lives and they want us to thank them! And smile and get out of the way and ask them to do it again! No fucking thank you!” She glared at his clothes, his ample waistline, his soft hands with perfectly shaped nails, not so much as a chip. “I don’t know where you’re from. I don’t care, but out here in reality? We know we’re not going to make it to the end of the war. So all I can do is make sure my brother doesn’t suffer now. And for that, I’ll do anything.”

She marched away, and never looked back.

“Oi, you,” she shouted at one of the Erics, still trying to convince someone in the front row. Her stomach trembled with more than hunger and exhaustion. He turned to face her, and there was a gleam in his pretty eyes that made her want to scream like a child. “We’ll do it. We’re ready. You can take my brother, too, right?”

“Absolutely,” the demon smiled with too many teeth. “And what are your names?”

“Lyla,” she said, forcing down her fear. “Lyla Wilson. And this is Benny.”

“Well, Lyla, are you ready to swear your soul to the forces of Satan, forsaking the Light of God and the protection of the angels, forevermore?”

“Sure. Yeah. Long as there’s food.”

“And how about you, Benny?” The demon leaned forward, trying to meet his eyes. “Are you ready, too?”

Benny ran his tongue over his cracked lips. Lyla hadn’t even noticed how bad they’d gotten. It was just normal now. “Does it hurt?”

“Only a little,” the demon said, smiling again. “Just a moment of pain, and then you’ll be safe.”

“It’s alright, Benny,” Lyla said soothingly. “I’ll go first.” Benny swallowed, and nodded.

“You have to say it out loud,” the demon told him.

“I – I’ll do it. Whatever Lyla does.”

“Good enough.” The demon reached out a hand and rested it on Lyla’s cheek, pressing the heel of it into her cheekbone. She felt lightheaded – weak – very warm. Her legs wobbled, nearly giving out, and something sharp stabbed into her, reached deep, pulled –

And it was done. No flash of light or dark. No soul rending scream. Just like that, she was damned.

She traced a finger across her cheekbone, up to the hinge of her jaw. She could feel the Mark, slightly raised skin. Traced the pattern, identical to all the other Marked ones. It didn’t even itch.

There was a sound behind her, a gentle breath. She turned to see Kasbeel, at the front of the crowd, blue eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat. He was shaking his head.

Well. Who the hell did he think he was, judging her?

The demon smiled at Benny. “Your turn.”

Lyla nodded. “It barely hurts at all, and I’ll be right here, alright?”

But the last word was drowned out by a bright, rich note blaring across the blasted plains. Not the wailing siren from before. This was clear, bright.

Trumpets.

“Lyla!” Kasbeel’s voice suddenly sounded choked. When she looked back, he was staggering back in the crowd, crouching down as if in pain.

“Is that –” one of the demons started, looking straight at him.

“There’s more!” another shouted, pointing in the sky. The clouds split open, and for the first time in years, Lyla saw the sun, saw blue sky, and from that rent came the bright wings of angels – three, five, seven, a dozen of them at least, floating down like feathers.

“Get out of here!” The demons scattered, swallowed up by the Earth the moment their feet touched it.

And not just them. The wanderers broke apart, racing back up the motorway, some running onto the cursed soil to fall, shouting in pain. A few leapt over the barricade of cars, taking their chances against the clubs of the Marked ones.

Lyla held Benny tight, not sure where to run, what to do.

“The children,” a familiar voice called. “All of them. And that woman over there, and those three. None of the others.”

Angels flowed across the sky, landing among the crowd. The people they touched fell limp immediately, to be picked up carefully, like dolls.

A rustle of feathers behind Lyla. She turned, slowly, as if in a dream, and looked up into the kind, warm smile of Kasbeel.

“Hello, my dear,” he said, sheathing his flaming sword.

He plucked her brother out of her unresisting arms.

“Lyla?” Benny mumbled.

“Shhh, don’t worry.” He rested a hand on Benny’s forehead. “How about a little nap?”

He collapsed in the angel’s arms, looking so peaceful, so frail.

“I know who you are,” she mumbled. “The stories. The…the Guardian of Humanity.”

“Yes. My reputation does proceed me.”

“Please,” Lyla begged, “I – I have to take care of him. Don’t…”

“Not anymore. Don’t worry, he’ll be safe with me, as all innocents are. But you…” he brushed a finger across the Mark on her jaw. “Well. Too late for some.”

Enormous white wings unfurled behind him, and another clear trumpet note shattered the air. As one, the angels rose into the sky and vanished through the hole, taking their light, the sky, and Lyla’s brother with them.

And Lyla collapsed onto the empty street.

--

Aziraphale sat up, shaking his head to clear the last echoes of the trumpet. He’d been helpless to do anything, except stop himself.

Stop himself from joining them.

There was only one thing that could override his mind like that. And the face of the angel that had spoken to Lyla, that had taken Benny…

He climbed to his feet, shuffled over to her, where she still sat, staring into nothing. She looked even younger than he’d thought. Not even sixteen. A child herself.

“Lyla,” he called, reaching for her shoulder. “Lyla, my dear –”

With a scream, she surged to her feet, tackling him, pounding weak fists against his chest. “You bastard! You fucking bastard! I saw his face! It was you! You!”

“It – I know this is – I swear, it wasn’t –”

“I know! Same face, just like the demons.” She hit him on both shoulders, throwing her whole weight behind it. He still barely felt a thing. “But that means you’re one of them! The whole fucking time you were one of them! I walked with you! I trusted you!”

“I’m not!” He held up his hands, but didn’t fight back. When he spoke, it was in as gentle a voice as he could manage. “I swear to you. I used to be, but I’m not. Not anymore.”

“Really? You don’t have a big pair of fluffy white wings? You can’t just – just make food appear? We were starving!”

“I wouldn’t have let you starve, but you were still walking. I had to let you –”

“Don’t say it! Don’t say I had to figure it out for myself. You could have fed us! You could have gotten us past these assholes –” she pointed at the barricade, but the Marked ones were all gone. All except for her. “You could have stopped me.”

“It was your choice.”

Lyla screamed, and screamed, and screamed, fingers tangled in her hair, swinging her head, only breaking to gasp for more breath. He waited, until finally her voice broke, and she sobbed.

Aziraphale pulled her into his arms and held her as she cried.

“Why?” she managed between gasping sobs. “Why did you even come here?”

“I’m sorry. I truly am. I wanted to understand what you were going through. I needed to observe. I never planned to let things get so out of hand. I just – I wanted to know.”

“Well, now you know.” She pulled away, wiping her eyes. “You going to go back? Tell your clones all about it? Have a great big laugh at the stupid humans?”

“I told you. I left them, a long time ago. I am not on their side.”

“Could you,” she gulped, looking away. “Could you have stopped them? Stopped…him?”

He shuddered, remembering the way the trumpet had reverberated through his mind. “That sound. That is…it’s how Heaven delivers orders. It’s very powerful, but it can be resisted.”

It shouldn’t have been so hard. Angels had to accept the orders, had to allow them into their minds, surrender the control to heaven. Aziraphale had done no such thing.

He hadn’t. The other him – the other Aziraphale – had consented so wholeheartedly to what was going on, it had overpowered him. Feedback in his mind, Heaven intruding where he had hoped never to find it again. Would it happen again? Would he be able to resist it? He’d very nearly flown off with them in the end.

“Lyla,” he said, gently putting a hand on her shoulder. “I wish I could have stopped it. But I will find out where they took your brother, I will get him back. I swear.”

“And hand him over to a damned soul?”

“You love him,” he told her firmly. “That’s all that matters.”

He looked at the brand on her jaw, the twisted curving sigil of the Fallen. To his eyes it was unique. Each Marked human had their own, just as each demon did. Hers was on the opposite side as Crowley’s, and just a little further down.

Had he kissed it, that morning, when he tried to wake Crowley up? He usually did, but his demon had been stubborn, right side of his face still buried in the pillows.

He found himself blinking away tears. Crowley is here. Somewhere. You just have to find him. Find Crowley. Find Benny. Help the humans. Avoid the angels…

“It’s too late, isn’t it?” He could see the shock settling into Lyla’s eyes. The defeat. “He’s gone.”

“Oh, no, my dear.” He reached up a hand and brushed her Mark. “It’s never too late.”

--

Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate, Principality of Earth, Guardian of Humanity, led his troops over the wall of New Eden.

Inside, the fields and forests sprawled, pristine, perfect. A little more cultivated than the original Eden, of course, the land had forgotten how to provide painlessly, but it was learning. Just as the humans would learn to accept it, to give up their ties to the outside world, to be as they were meant to be.

His mind was troubled today. In the midst of the rescue, separating the Elect from the chaff, he had felt something. Some interference with his orders, something that had made him almost forget the mission, placing itself between him and the wisdom of Heaven. He’d almost wanted to stay and investigate, but he knew the importance of his work.

No one else could do what Aziraphale did.

He placed his new ward carefully on the grass, running a hand across his stomach. He could heal most of the ill effects of hunger, the rest would come with good, healthy meals. He glanced around for something to offer; every edible plant in the world grew here, row on row, always in fruit, always ready to harvest.

The boy’s eyes fluttered open. “Kasbeel?” he asked.

“No, child,” he said, beaming. “My name is Aziraphale.”

With a strangled cry, the boy’s eyes flew open. He scrambled away. It was a common reaction.

“Don’t worry, my dear fellow,” he said. “You are safe here in New Eden. Everything you could want.” He squeezed the walnuts in his hand until the shells cracked, and held the nuts out.

The boy swatted away the offering. “I want my sister.”

His jaw clenched, remembering her face, the Mark on her cheek. “She made her choice. It’s too late for her. But you, my boy –”

“No. No!” He sprang to his feet, seeming surprised at his own energy. “I won’t! I won’t stay here! You can’t keep me!”

“Come along, don’t be childish. No one has ever escaped –”

“Lyla!” He boy shouted, already running into the fields. “Lyla!”

His voice joined the chorus, the humans calling constantly for their wives, their husbands, their mothers, their friends. But they would learn. One day, they would learn.

This was where they belonged.

This was for the best.

[trashboatprince]

I figure that at some point at least one or two angels came down to check on Aziraphale about his business with watching over Warlock. I know that the angels didn’t seem all that interested in the plan, but it doesn’t hurt to see what is going on with the lessons, yeah?

Summery: Aziraphale is enjoying the unmonitored freedom he has at the Dowling estate, his relationship with his favorite demon is going strong, until he gets an unexpected visit from one of his superiors.

How do you tell the Archangel Michael that you’re working in the same area as your so-called adversary?

I headcanon the angels having their signature weapons hidden on their person through marks and tattoos, so they don’t have to carry them around. If Aziraphale still had his sword, he’d have it on his body somewhere as a golden tattoo. I bring this up cause it’s mentioned in this.

This is also posted on ao3 under the title Of Heavenly Tree Trimmings and Hellish Nursery Rhymes

On with the fic!

--

Brother Francis gave his carnations a hard stare, just as Ashtoreth taught him, a warning that one must not displease an angel, for they are known to rain Heaven’s wrath down upon those who do! He then smiled and gave them a good misting from the hose.

It’s been a rather lovely week, he’s noted. The summer heat wasn’t terrible, Warlock was doing well with being rather good this week and rebelling against Nanny’s change in naptime hours, which Francis wasn’t going to touch, as it was funny. Just part of his attempts at thwarting a wily, in his mind.

He hummed to himself as he moved to go and tend to the rose bushes, only to tense up when he smelled something in the air.

A smell that was fresh, clean, with a hint of ozone, and metal.

“Oh no.” He dropped the hose and turned sharply, looking towards the house.

He could see Thaddeus on the patio, stepping towards the yard with a figure that the angel knew all too well. Dressed in a clean pantsuit, with laced sleeves and hair styled in a specific way, was the Archangel Michael.

She smiled as she listened to Thaddeus speak, nodding and chatting with him in return. Aziraphale panicked, why was she here!? He hadn’t expected to see one of his superiors show up, and if he had, it was always Gabriel! Once in a while it was Uriel, but she usually just dropped a report in front of him and walked away, but Michael never came to Earth where Aziraphale was!

At least, she hasn’t done that in a long, long time. This had to be serious, but why was she talking to Francis’ boss?

Did… did she come here to send Aziraphale to Heaven for something?

Or did she know about Crowley?

Aziraphale panicked, he couldn’t go to Crowley! He was already spotted; he couldn’t warn the demonic nanny! And Michael was smart, she would know Crowley was somewhere nearby. After all, she was the angel who took down Lucifer! She had her spear on her at all times, hidden on her arm as a tattoo, painted gold. Just a flick of her wrist and it would be embedded in Crowley without so much as a flinch.

He tensed up, watching them approach, but he smiled despite himself as the American. “Good afternoon to ya, Master Dowling.” He bowed his head. “And a good afternoon to yer companion here.”

He could see Michael looking at him with a neutral expression on her face, but her eyes betrayed her. She was disgusted with his appearance, but she understood that he had to blend in.

“And a good afternoon to you as well, Brother Francis.” Thaddeus returned the greeting. “I was just showing Mr. Archer here around the estate. He stopped by to discuss things with me and asked about the garden.”

“Ah, no need to introduce me, Mr. Dowling.” Michael smiled, his voice just slightly deeper. “I already know your gardener. I recognized his work from outside of the meeting room, he used to work for me.”

“Oh?” This caught both Thaddeus’ and Aziraphale’s attention. “Ah! Didn’t expect that, haha! Small world, am I right?”

There was a sharp ringing sound and he pulled out his phone. “Oh, gotta take this. I’ll leave you two to catch up! Do come back inside so we can finish the deal when you’re done.” He smiled at Michael before answering. “Mr. President!” He greeted before stepping away.

Once he was out of earshot, Michael turned to smile coldly at Aziraphale, making him feel small. “Aziraphale, you look… filthy.”

“Comes with the job, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale replied, his mouth dry. “But it allows me to keep an eye on the boy, he’s rather adventurous, always wanting to be outside.”

“Hm.” The Archangel stepped around him, looking around the garden. “Interesting. Any news to report?”

“Well, he’s doing well with his lessons! He prevented the death of a spider this morning, and he told off his nanny-!” He froze up, which cause her attention.

“That sounds rather evil.” Michael frowned.

Aziraphale swallowed, laughing nervously. “W-well, the nanny, she’s a troublesome lady..! Thinks things have to be done in such a way to get her approval…!”

Michael just looked at him, glancing at the house. “What does this nanny look like?”

“Like… a nanny you’d see from a while back, she claims to be old fashion, though I can’t say much myself.” He tugged as his smock.

“I wonder…” The other angel mumbled. “Do you smell it, Aziraphale? In the house?”

Aziraphale frowned. “Smell what? I don’t go in the house often, I’m usually out here, got a little cottage I live in too.”

“So, you don’t smell the evil?”

He tensed up, eyes widen, before he laughed a bit. “Oh, yes..! I’ve smelled it, but I just suspect it to be the child! You know how new powers can be, can’t quite be controlled!”

“I’ve heard that none of us should be able to detect his smell, do you think that there is someone evil in the house? Trying to do what we’re doing? I wouldn’t be surprised if the forces of Hell had come to a similar conclusion of influencing the upbringing as you did.”

There was a tone of suspicion on Michael’s voice and Aziraphale was glad he couldn’t breathe for real cause he’d suspect that he’d be having trouble doing so. Did she know? Did she suspect that Crowley was there?

He glanced towards the house, eyes wide when the backdoor opened and outstepped the demon in question, pushing a stroller with a giddy, two-year old Warlock strapped in. She didn’t seem to suspect that Michael was there, but if she did, then she was doing her best to not show it. Usually Crowley would tense up and try to bolt when other angels were about, but that would be suspicious.

He wished that Crowley had stayed inside, but it was the time of the day to take Warlock outside to play, and Ashtoreth kept to a tight schedule.

“Well, well,” Michael spoke up, “this must be the nanny you were speaking of. Aziraphale, maybe you need a lesson on evil again, because I can just sense it, there’s something dark about her…”

“That would be the aesthetic she radiates, lots of humans are into it, I do believe it is called ‘goth’.” Aziraphale spoke, trying to keep Michael from questioning things, and- oh dear, the Archangel was making her way over to Nanny.

Aziraphale hissed and followed quickly, seeing Michael step in front of Ashtoreth, who paused in pushing the stroller. She glanced up; eyes perfectly hidden behind her shades. “Excuse me, can I help you?” She asked softly, her voice accented as always for her persona.

“I just wanted to introduce myself.” Michael smiled, speaking sweetly, Aziraphale bit his lip as he watched the two. “I’m Michael Archer, I’m just visiting, speaking with the gardener. We know one another.”

A slight shift of her head had Ashtoreth looking at the gardener, before she looked back at Michael. “I see, I suppose you are a former client he worked for. I am Nanny Ashtoreth.”

“Ashtoreth?” Michael asked, looking at the redhead with a suspicious stare. “Isn’t that name a little… demonic? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Not at all.” Ashtoreth replied, her grip on the handles of the stroller was tight. “It is a family name, old, yes, and associated with a demon, but I have embraced it as something to be proud of, at least by which the goddess Ashtoreth is associated with. You yourself share a name with an angel, and our mutual friend here shares a name with a saint.”

That didn’t stop Michael from looking at the other, her nose twitching. Aziraphale unconsciously repeated the action, sniffing the air. He smelled Michael, along with a strong scent of flowers, of a musk that clearly meant perfume was used. It was Nanny’s usual smell, just a bit stronger. He could just barely smell the more demonic scent hidden beneath it.

“Do you often wear sunglasses?” Michael suddenly asked, stepping closer.

“Often enough, I have a bit of trouble in bright lights.” Ashtoreth replied.

“May I see them? Sorry, they look rather nice, I’d like to see if they’d be worth a purchase.” She smiled at the demon, who kept a neutral face in a way that Aziraphale had never seen Crowley do in the six thousand years they’ve known each other.

Quietly, Ashtoreth reached up and removed the shades, Aziraphale nearly jumping to action when he could sense the holy energy coming from Michael’s arm. Without saying a word, Ashtoreth turned her head up, opening her eyes to show perfectly normal brown eyes. There was no indication that they were snake-like in anyway.

Michael was handed the shades and quickly looked them over, the holy energy quickly gone. “I’ll think about it,” She spoke before handing them back, Nanny was quick to put them on, “well, I must get back to that meeting with your boss. Lovely meeting you, Miss Ashtoreth.”

She turned her attention to Aziraphale. “I shall see you in due time, Francis.” She patted his shoulder before making her way to the house. The two watched her until she vanished inside and Ashtoreth walked quickly into the large garden, to get out of sight, Aziraphale following.

Once they knew they were completely out of sight, away from prying angel eyes, Crowley snapped her attention to Aziraphale, looking quite shaken. “That was Michael.”

“I know.”

“Archangel fucking Michael!”

“I know, my dear…”

“Why was she here!? Does she know!?”

Aziraphale quickly shook his head, putting his hands on her shoulders. “No, no, she has no idea you’re Crowley. From what it seems, she must see you as just some nanny who likes witchy stuff, like the rest of the staff seems to think. Dear, you’re shaking like a leaf!”

A chair was suddenly behind the nanny as she was gently sat down onto it. Aziraphale moved behind her, removing her hand to put his suddenly-clean hands on her head, carefully rubbing at her hair. He knows his demon well, knowing that the panic and stress would give her a migraine, especially after having to use a miracle to make her eyes appear so human-like. It was something Crowley loathed to do, as it blinded her in the process, she couldn’t see with her pupils like that, she wasn’t the kind of snake with wide ones.

She seemed to relax carefully at his touch, but her hands were clenched on her lap. “She was going for her weapon.”

“I would have stopped her.” Aziraphale replied as he placed a kiss to her head. “But you stopped her with your fake eyes. I also noticed you covered your smell.”

“I sensed her before I ever saw her inside, I had to work fast, practically bathed myself in perfume.” Crowley hissed out, trying to force herself to relax. Her eyes turning to Warlock who was giggling as a butterfly flew around his head. “I’m suspecting you’ll be going up to Heaven tomorrow.”

Aziraphale sighed loudly. “No doubt about it, best to give all of them an actual update. I’ll explain that you’re just some human woman with an interest in looking like you worship Satan, but don’t really do so.”

There was a quiet hum from Crowley as she nodded. “Best of luck, angel.”

“Thank you, and best of luck to you as well, I’m sure you’ll need to report to Hell tomorrow, just in case.”

“Uuuuuhhhhhhgggggg…” Crowley flopped back, looking up at Aziraphale with a pout, which earned her a chuckle from the angel. “Wanna get shitfaced tonight in your cabin?”

“Oh, you have no idea how badly I was hoping you’d suggest that, my dear nanny.”

END

--

Michael is suspicious, but not sure. Give her a few more years and she’ll learn the truth.

[itsyaboiwritersblock]

Beauty and the Beast

Pairing(s): Crowley x Female Human Reader

Rating: G

Warnings: Language, Slow Burn Fluff

Words: 2,541

Genre: Fluff, so much fluff, Angst

Part two of: “Won’t Say I’m in Love”

@antmnwasp @pantaxbal

I do not own the GIFs, characters, or song

The song is “Beauty and the Beast” from the movie “Beauty and the Beast”

The sound of an amused chuckle broke the silence that seemed to blanket the small bookshop, though one of the occupants didn’t seem amused in the slightest, while the other couldn’t wipe the smirk off of his face. The demon had just start talking about the experience he had the night before at {Y/N}’s house, and the angel obviously wasn’t going to hide how he felt, even though smug didn’t really fit him at all. Crowley cursed himself, an unusual flush of embarrassment dusted his cheeks as he glared at a book, debating on chucking it at the angel while he thought back to how this had happened.

“How is our {Y/N} doing? I’ve been meaning to meet up with her as she’s been asking to borrow a book from my personal collection and I still need to give it to her. And now I simply must thank her for those delightful cookies she baked!”

“I can give her the book tonight if you would like, she suggested we have a movie night, so I. . . I invited her over to my flat.”

Crowley muttered the last part of that sentence, eyes, currently not hidden behind his usual sunglasses, stared at the floor. It was clear that he didn’t want to admit that fact because he could already guess Aziraphale’s reaction, and he didn’t want to meet it head on. At all.

On the angel’s face was the smuggest grin he could muster, which was actually impressive, well, Crowley thought it was impressive considering the angel’s too pure history. 

“You two are getting awfully close. One might think that you fancy her, perhaps, more than a friend?’

“I’m a demon! Demons don’t do more than friends! I don't know what you’re talking about, besides she’s a human. . . Like a human could be worthy of loving a demon!”

“Oh please, Crowley! You have a lot of strengths but hiding what you want isn't one of them. Demons really don't do subtle, do they? Personally, I think your little crush on her is quite adorable.”

Aziraphale grinned, raising his mug of hot chocolate to his lips as he listened to Crowley sputter and struggle for the right words.

“I’m not. . . ! Demons are. . . ! Adorable? Really, Angel?”

“This is really unlike you Crowley, getting all flustered over a human? How scandalous! What will He- er. . . Your side think?”

The angel seemed concerned for just a second before he went back to his smug expression, proud that he, an angel, he could crack a demon such as Crowley.

“First of all, I’m not flustered. I’m fine, I don't know what you’re talking about. Second, Hell doesn't care about me anymore, so I doubt they'll really try to track me down if I did something like fall in love with a human. If. Anyway, Angel, I really must be going. {Y/N} would have a fit if I’m late to a get together at my flat.”

Aziraphale watched as Crowley abruptly stood from his seat across from the angel and marched right of the bookshop. Unknown to the angel though, Crowley was lying through his teeth when he said that Hell wouldn't come after him for loving a human. He was sure Hastur or Beelzebub were already aware of what he really felt for his Dove. That was one of the main reasons why he didn’t want to admit he caught feelings for the human, he didn’t want to put her in any sort of danger. Another thing was that he knew what happened when two people had mutual feelings for each other. They got together and spent the rest of their lives with each other. The thing was, she would be spending the rest of her life with him. He would be forced to watch her grow old, sick, and deteriorate, and part of him pleaded to avoid her so he can spare himself of that pain.

As Crowley was moping around in his thoughts, he had realized that he had arrived his flat, as he wasn't really paying attention to his driving, rather paying attention to his intrusive thoughts. And as much as he didn’t want to admit it, they were beginning to win. Did deserve to go through the pain that was loving a demon? She was such a blessing to him that he didn't want to imagine her going through any sort of pain, especially inflicted by him. 

That was his worst nightmare, well, it would be if demons had nightmares, let alone had dreams at all.

With a worried glance, he glanced up at his clock that seemed to betray him when it read that it was only half an hour until four. Half an hour until {Y/N} would be arriving. He didn't know why he was panicking, if he couldn't get everything ready, he could just miracle it into place last minute. It wasn't like he hadn't done it before, even though a certain angel warned him that it wasn't a good practice, using miracles for small everyday things that could be done by hand.

Time seemed to fly because in no time, he heard a very faint knocking at his flat door. Once he heard that noise, he took a deep breath, hoping to all that was holy, well, unholy, that this would go without any bumps. That he wouldn't screw it up, because he’d hate to lose {Y/N}, even if being around her brings back the pain of not being able to have her. He’d rather have her with someone else and safe than with him and in danger.

“Crowley! Thank you for inviting me over, again, I was really surprised when you agreed to watch a movie with me. Especially a princess movie!”

{Y/N} greeted with a bright smile, stepping into his flat when Crowley moved out of the doorway, watching her surprised expression. The real thing clearly didn't match what she was envisioning a couple minutes prior.

“It’s no big deal, besides, all I already told you that I was a sucker for sweet things.”

He replied effortlessly with a wink, and he couldn't really catch himself before he replied. Of course, going along with his cheeky nature when he replied was normal for him, so he knew that trying to block that might be a little difficult. Demons were known for having little self control, and this little interaction showed it.

“Oh, and are those sweet things just movies or. . .”

{Y/N} giggled in a flirty whisper, standing on her tiptoes to stare at Crowley behind his sunglasses the best he could. Immediately, the demon pulled back, not used to his Dove acting so forward. And instead of going along with his instincts, he pulled back and turned away from her.

“Yep. Mainly just movies I’m afraid.”

{Y/N} watched with a heartbroken yet confused expression as her friend walked over to his large couch and practically fell on it, glancing at her like nothing had just happened. Like he hadn't rejected her quicker than he rejected new cars.

“Oh, well, uhm. . . Let me just put the movie in and we can start right away! I brought one of my favorites!”

She plastered on a fake smile and popped the disk into the player before sitting down next to Crowley on the couch. Well, next to was an overstatement, Crowley was practically hugging the right arm and {Y/N} was debating on sitting on the left arm, both determined to put as much space as they could between each other.

The movie started as the two remained silent, the only noise being the live action version of the classic playing on the rather large television. It remained this way for awhile, but it was actually Crowley that broke the silence.

“This character, uh, Belle is it? She’s an absolute idiot! The town’s most eligible bachelor is throwing himself at her and she’s shrugging him off like she won’t be forced to marry someone like him anyway!”

Crowley groaned, but he seemed to be grinning as he complained about the first few minutes of the film.

“It’s supposed to be about her being independent! Don't ruin it with accuracies!”

{Y/N} giggled from her side of the couch, rolling her eyes at the antics of her friend as he just continued to spout off about how much of a catch Gaston really was. As much as she wanted to scoff and laugh at him, he had a point. Gaston’s actor was pretty good looking.

It was at that point that Crowley had scooted a little closer to the middle of the couch.

“So. . . Her mother is dead, her father is the town crazy, and she’s the only woman in the village that can read?”

“Yes! I don't understand why that's so hard to see!”

Crowley couldn't help but give a soft laugh at {Y/N}’s small rant, now noticing that she herself was closer to the middle compared to where she was at the start of the movie.

“You never fail to make me smile, Dove.”

“You never fail to make me absolutely crazy, Crowley!”

She managed to get out between her fits of laughter, and although she couldn't see, Crowley’s eyes were brightening at the sound of it. Maybe this movie night was a good idea after all.

The rest of the movie passed the same way, Crowley making a comment about something he didn't like or didn't understand and immediately {Y/N} would defend the film, though not without having a chuckle or two. And as the movie continued to play and the two continued to watch, either they didn't notice or didn't comment on it, but by the halfway point, the two were sitting side by side, {Y/N}’s head resting gently on his shoulder.

“Oh my Go- gosh. . . Don't tell me they’re going to sing again! This is like, what, the hundredth song?”

“Hush your whining, Crowley this is the best part!”

{Y/N} lectured him from her spot beside him as she watched with wide eyes, already anticipating the most known song of the film. The two did share a name, so it was only that more memorable.

“Tale as old as time. True as it can be.”

The woman felt her breath hitch as she watched the two main characters slowly dance in each other’s arms, wishing she could, too, feel a warm embrace from someone she loved. Meanwhile, Crowley was fake gagging, but on the inside, he was panicking. Why in the hell did she have to pick such a sappy romance movie! It just made everything for him worse!

“Barely even friends. Then somebody bends unexpectedly.”

Of course that lyric had to apply to them. It just had to! Crowley cursed himself for agreeing to this, as he really didn't know what he was getting into when he said yes. But his nervous rambling was broken by an awkward chuckle from the woman with her head on his shoulder.

“Ah, too bad love in real life isn't that easy. . . Right, Crowley?”

“Nothing is ever easy in this dammed world, Dove. Especially love.”

{Y/N} couldn't help but smile at his answer, her eyes darting back to the screen, and she had assumed that Crowley had done the same. But instead, his focus was still on his Dove.

“All little scared, neither one prepared. Beauty and the Beast.”

He couldn't help but hate those lyrics too, as he felt like he just kept getting called out during this dammed song. Beauty and the Beast? It wasn't hard to make the connection there. {Y/N} was fiery but delicate, a beauty he couldn't ever obtain. While Crowley was a beast that was meant to remain hidden.

“Crowley. . .”

The soft call of his name caught his attention as he looked down and saw those wide {e/c} eyes he had fallen in love with, melting his cold exterior even further.

“Yes, Dove?”

“Finding you can change. Learning you were wrong.“

“Stop fighting yourself.”

Crowley stared at her for a moment, mouth agape, completely taken aback by what she had just said. What did she mean, though? She couldn't mean. . .

“Tale as old as time. Song as old as rhyme.”

“Dove I-”

“Stop fighting, Crowley.”

“Beauty and the Beast.”

Crowley blinked for a moment, still trying to wrap his head around what his human was saying. But his thoughts scattered as soon as he felt a much softer pair of lips press against his own. His eyes immediately blew wide, but his instincts and wants took over, his lanky arms wrapping around her waist to gently hoist her into his lap.

“Oh, Dove. . .”

He mumbled, disappointed in himself at the thought he could fight something so tempting. It was funny, him a demon, the king at tempting, trying to fight against the most tempting prize of all. Love. {Y/N} smiled softly against his lips, pushing herself upward, eyes fluttering close. Her hands ran into his perfect hair, the want she had to mess it up and play with it was finally fulfilled as she just rested her hands there. After a small moment, a hand strayed from his red hair and fell on his chin, while Crowley’s hands remained on her hips, tracing small circles with his thumbs.

Crowley was convinced this was what pure bliss was like. That nothing could ruin the moment.

And then he felt her take off his sunglasses.

Instantly, Crowley had shoved her away, trying to scramble and get them back, but the damage was already done when she opened her eyes in surprise and stared into the eye’s of a snake.

“Crowley. . . Crowley what the hell-”

“Get out.”

He forced himself to say, turning his gaze away from her as he couldn't deal with seeing the pain he had just caused her from that phrase alone.

“What?”

“I said. . . Get out!”

He snapped, standing up from the couch in an instant, but gaze still avoiding {Y/N} because just hearing her cry was tearing at his heart. He knew he couldn't stand seeing it. He knew he would break and ask her to stay, but he couldn't do that. Instead, he waited for that telltale sound of his flat door slamming shut before he stared at the spot his Dove sat in moments before.

“I’m such a monster. . . A selfish monster.”

He growled to himself, picking up the remote before chucking it across the room in a fit of anger, listening to the distant sound of it shattering and the batteries rolling everywhere.

“My my my, wasn't that dramatic. Always knew you had a flare for making a scene, Crowley.”

Crowley didn't get scared. Demons didn't get scared. But hearing that voice, that annoyingly buzzy voice, struck fear into the heart of even the most daring and brave demons. 

“Beelzebub. . .”

That was the only thing he said, turning around, yellow eyes wide and full of fear as he stared at his superior who was just a couple of feet in front of him.

“Crowley, I think you and I are due for a little chat.”

NOTE: Y’all I’m so sorry this took so long! I really hope it lived up to your expectations and I’ll see you next time! Thanks for reading!

[ineffable0husbands]

(Fic) A Simple Touch

tag list: @adoratato @iamdevilantlysatan @bri-cas @that-gender-bender @scum-of-the-earth @pieces-of-annedrew @scampycat4999 9 @elrilsf @my-emo-child @always-reading2  @larrklopp @l-garnxtt @halbarryislife @ninjacatinsanitycrazy @impossiblynervouscycle @audder17 @theratatethekingsclothes @boredafsposts @i-really-dig-the-purple @mycrappylife01 @lostwolf-fandomlover @hamiltrashphannerd @she-who-must-not-be-named @sundry-whovengerslocked @deceitfullyanxiousprince @booklover223 @twdlover03 @drunkinfandomstuff @catsarebestest @sonic-spade @reprehensibleghost @to-dance-among-stars-in-dreams @afternoon-sunlight @danifandxm m@oddpopsicle @rise-abxve @shipping--hell

Inspired by this post by @sundry-whovengerslocked​

Warnings: Touch starvation, self-doubt, negative self-talk, crying, and tooth-rotting fluff

Ship(s): Ineffable Husbands and, Possibly if you squint, past Gabriel/Aziraphale

The last person who had ever given Aziraphale a hug was Gabriel before he’d been consumed by a need for perfectionism and constant doubt regarding his worth in the eyes of heaven. When they were still good friends, or perhaps they could have even been more than friends, the two angels were very affectionate with one another. Even after all Gabriel had done, Aziraphale still looked back on those times with fondness. He did not remember what a hug felt like at this point, but he imagined it was pleasant if not a stifling sensation.

It wasn’t like Aziraphale hadn’t been touched at all since then, but it was never enough to really count to him. Every time someone touched him it seemed to almost burn him, spread rapidly through his entire body and make him so dizzy he would almost faint, so he tried to avoid being touched. It would take years for him to realize what was happening to him.  Aziraphale had heard the terms ‘skin hunger’ and ‘touch starvation’ thrown around here and there, but had never taken it too seriously. 

The burning...the burning didn’t always hurt. Sometimes, it felt good; really, really, good. Rather, the burning had felt good three times in Aziraphale’s experience. The first time was in the ruins of a recently bombed church. Aziraphale had frantically searched for his books, his precious books that he thought had all been destroyed, when Crowley sauntered over to the rubble and pulled the case full of books from Mr. Harmony’s hands. Aziraphale had already been astonished, but when Crowley handed him the books and their hands brushed, his heart practically burst from his chest. It burned, but it felt good. It felt good and warm and he wanted to drop the book and grab Crowley’s hand, keeping it there, until the burning ebbed away to a faint glow, but he didn’t. He just stood there, staring down at his still tingling hands and the books and marveled at the wonderful feeling.

The second time was in the Bentley nearly three decades later. He’d felt a calling like he was meant to be there that night, and when he’d discovered Crowley’s plans he was glad he had shown up. He got Holy Water and put it in a canteen, screwing the lid as tightly as possible and praying that Crowley would never have to use it. Just sitting in the car, being so close to Crowley after such a long time made Aziraphale’s skin crawl. And when he’d handed Crowley the thermos...dear Lord, he saw stars. It was just a small touch, a simple touch, but it had lit his soul on fire. He’d almost started shaking, but kept himself together until he managed to refuse Crowley’s pleas and got out of the car. 

When Crowley had slammed Aziraphale against the wall at the old convent, the poor angel had almost fainted. Having the demon’s body pressed against his, their noses brushing, Crowley’s hands tangled in the front of his jacket, it was like new heaven. Aziraphale had to resist the urge to lean into Crowley’s touch. He’d only been able to stare at him somewhat longingly, the touch deliciously overwhelming and enveloping him in a warmth he hadn’t felt since Gabriel. 

When he had held Adam’s hand during the Apocalypse, he had felt nothing, almost as if they canceled each other out. When Shadwell had backed him into the summoning circle Aziraphale had felt the burning without even being touched. When Gabriel had ‘playfully’ poked at his stomach, Aziraphale had nearly gotten sick at how intensely the burning ate away at him. He never felt that with Crowley. The burning could not even be described in such a way; it was more of a gentle heat that spread from his fingers to his ears straight down from his toes. It was remarkable to him what a simple touch could do. Oh, he’d considered telling Crowley about his lack of touch, especially after all the modern studies saying how touch was necessary for proper function and mental health. He knew the demon had no issues with physical contact if he knew it was wanted. But he couldn’t do it. That is, he couldn’t do it until the choice wasn’t really his anymore.

It was the night following the almost-apocalypse. Crowley had instructed the bus to go to London and they drove to his flat, just as he had promised Aziraphale he would. Their shoulders brushed every so often and Aziraphale’s heart fluttered with each touch. He’d realized he liked Crowley’s touch because he loved him; it seemed only natural. He loved Crowley, and not just in the all-encompassing way angels love God’s creations. He loved Crowley in the ‘I want to kiss you and wake up with you next to me each and every morning and then kiss you again’ kind of way. On the few occasions Crowley let his guard down, Aziraphale could sense that love pouring out from the demon as well. He just hadn’t known it was directed his way until later.

“We’re here, angel,” Crowley said softly, tilting his head towards the flat. Aziraphale blinked and snapped out of his train of thought. He nodded and smiled at the demon. 

“Ah, yes, I see that,” he said, quickly standing and allowing Crowley to walk in front of him and lead the way. Crowley smiled and Aziraphale nearly jumped out of his skin as the demon squeezed his hand affectionately as he passed by him. Trembling, the angel clutched the hand to his chest and followed Crowley into his flat. They went into Crowley’s bedroom, discarding their jackets and standing there in silence. Aziraphale sat in the chair in the corner of the room and Crowley sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the angel and considering him. The silence was suddenly broken as Crowley let loose a rather foul stream of language and shot to his feet. 

“I can’t fucking take it anymore,” Crowley, hissed, sounding angry but radiating waves of love so intense Aziraphale couldn’t breathe. He clung to the arms of the chair he was in as Crowley drew closer to him, his snake eyes filling until the whites were gone. Whatever he was about to do, he was terrified. Crowley swallowed the lump in his throat. “I can’t keep pretending that I don’t love you, angel, because I do. I love you with every fiber of my being and at first, I hated it, but I realized that I don’t need to hate it. I shouldn’t hate it, especially now,” Crowley said, his voice soft and his eyes filled with tenderness as they slowly went to their normal, more human appearance. Aziraphale tried to keep his breathing steady as the demon came closer, digging his nails into the chair as Crowley delicately raised a hand to cup his cheek. As soon as the fingers touched his cheek, Aziraphale let out a choked gasp and tensed up, eyes blown wide. He wasn’t used to being touched, let alone touched in such a meaningful and affectionate way. Crowley immediately drew his hand back as if he’d just touched a hot pan, worried that he’d hurt the angel.

“No!” Aziraphale cried out, springing up from the chair and grabbing Crowley’s wrist, trembling as tears welled up in his eyes. “Don’t...Don’t let go, please,” he begged, voice strained. Crowley’s eyes flickered over him in concern and he carefully cupped Aziraphale’s cheek again. The angel shuddered and leaned into the soft touch, eyes fluttering closed and his hand keeping a steely grip around Crowley’s wrist so he couldn’t back away again.

“Is this alright, angel? Is it alright that I’m touching you?” Crowley whispered, voice full of understanding because even though he hadn’t been an angel a long time ago, he understood. He understood feeling trapped in those too white walls and steeled looks and lack of all contact. Aziraphale nodded and grabbed desperately for Crowley’s jacket with his free hand, whimpering for more, and the demon happily complied. He didn’t kiss him, not yet, that would be too much; he wrapped Aziraphale in a warm embrace, pulling him to his body and letting him bury his face in his chest as he clung to Crowley’s wrist and the back of his jacket. Crowley closed his eyes and ran his fingers through the angel’s soft, blonde hair as his breathing went from sharp, labored pants to gentle breaths.

“Don’t let go, please,” Aziraphale whispered, voice muffled slightly in the demon’s chest. Crowley’s lip quivered and he fought back tears as he pressed a kiss to Aziraphale’s head. 

“Never, angel. I promise.”

[animeangelriku]

Come Morning Light

[also available on AO3!]

After three months of living together in their quaint South Downs cottage, Aziraphale still hasn’t gotten used to this: waking up next to Crowley, knowing it is not a dream but a reality, not the desperate longing of his lovesick heart but the sight that awaits him every day of the rest of their lives.

He always wakes up with the sun, just in time to watch as its first rays stream in through the curtains of their bedroom window and bathe Crowley in a warm, golden light almost as warm and golden as his beautiful eyes, casting a sort of... otherworldly glow over him.

(Not ethereal, because Crowley would take offense to that term, and most certainly not Heavenly, because there is no angel in Heaven who could even compare, who could even come close. Heaven wishes they had someone as brilliant, as magnificent, as brave and wonderful as Crowley. Well, they can’t have him. He’s Aziraphale’s to keep, thank you very much.)

This morning, Aziraphale opens his eyes to find his arms wrapped around Crowley and Crowley’s around him, his head buried in the crook of the demon’s neck, and their bare legs still entwined under the bedsheets. The first observation is not new, they fall asleep holding each other more often than not. The second one is equally unsurprising, given how much Aziraphale loves to rest his head on that spot, breathing in Crowley’s scent.

The third one, however, had never happened before last night, when Aziraphale laid Crowley down beneath him  and ran his fingers through every single inch of Crowley’s skin he could touch and felt every one of Crowley’s shivers and heard every one of his gasps and whimpers and sighs and pushed their bodies together until they were both crying out in pleasure and kissed him and kissed him and kissed him.

Aziraphale pulls his head away only enough to be able to look at Crowley, but he tightens his grip on him as if to reassure his own body that no, he’s not getting out of bed and leaving Crowley, he’s not going anywhere, don’t worry, he’s simply settling into a better position to admire him when—

The first rays of sunlight peek inside their bedroom through the window curtains.

Crowley’s gorgeous mane of hair turns the color of fire, but it’s the fire of a hearth, the fire that brings warmth and safety and comfort against the cold and the darkness, the light that guides you home in the middle of the night.

The bare skin of his shoulders and his arms glistens, making the few freckles he has stand out like starlight in the firmament that is Crowley’s body, and Aziraphale resists the urge to follow their path with his fingers, to trace patterns between them as though they’re constellations only he can see—constellations Crowley will only let him see—because he does not want to wake Crowley from his slumber.

But what truly takes Aziraphale’s breath away, what truly makes him forget that he doesn’t even need any breath, is the complete, absolute tranquility and peace in Crowley’s expression. A few stray curls cover his ear, yet Crowley remains untroubled, at ease with the world as it slowly starts to wake up, the rays of the sun covering him like a second skin. His brow is relaxed, openly vulnerable in a way Aziraphale has seldom seen before, and he feels his corporation brimming with joy at the trust Crowley has in him, unafraid of letting the angel see him like this.

He is Temptation Incarnate, he is Perfection Incarnate, he is the most miraculous being to exist in the universe, and Aziraphale loves him with every single atom and particle of his essence, with everything the Almighty gave him when she breathed life into him.

Aziraphale buries his head on Crowley’s shoulder, on the crook of his neck, and squeezes him more tightly, pressing himself as close to him as he physically can, clutching his back like a lifeline, feeling Crowley’s heart beating, thrumming against his chest, and he blinks back the overjoyed tears threatening to fall from his eyes. He never knew it was possible to love someone this much and this fiercely.

He hasn’t fought anyone in over six thousand years, always preferring to remain in the sidelines, go unnoticed, stay away from the center of attention, but he is still Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate of the Garden of Eden, (Ex-) Wielder of the Flaming Sword, and if anyone thinks they can take Crowley away from him, they’ve got another thing coming.

Hell (and Heaven) hath no fury like the true Righteous Wrath of a smiting angel.

Crowley stirs in his arms, and before he has even woken up, he is already coiling his arms around Aziraphale, his lips already pressed to his hair and kissing his scalp, and Aziraphale shudders. He breathes in Crowley’s scent and relishes the contented sigh he gets in response.

“Angel,” Crowley murmurs, drowsiness laced through his voice, and Aziraphale is smitten, infatuated, hopelessly besotted. He can’t help lifting his head to kiss Crowley’s mouth, he really can’t.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale mumbles against him. He adores Crowley’s name, the name he chose for himself, making it part of who he wanted to be rather than who others expected him to be. Crowley, Crowley, Crowley. Aziraphale should really say his name more often than he does. “Crowley, my Crowley.”

Crowley giggles into their kiss, still too sleepy to notice he did something as unbecoming as giggle.

“Angel,” he says again. And then he says, sounding like he does after they’ve finished a third bottle of wine, “Angel, my angel.”

Lord above, Aziraphale loves him so.

“Marry me,” he says before he thinks the words through, before he realizes he’s even thinking them at the moment.

Crowley pulls away from him to look him in the eyes, his golden, serpentine ones wide and fully awake now.

“What?” he asks in a small, quiet voice.

Aziraphale has thought about it, of course. It’s a silly concept to apply to beings of their nature, marriage, but oh, that hasn’t stopped him from imagining how it would feel like to call Crowley his husband, from mouthing the words to himself while Crowley is out working in their garden, from picturing them wearing matching rings to showcase their love to everyone around them.

Perhaps it’s too silly a concept. They are already everything to each other, they do not need a piece of paper or rings to know that.

Aziraphale has remained quiet for a longer time than is apparently acceptable, because Crowley cups his head in his hands and gazes into his eyes with a devotion so fierce it makes his heart pound ferociously in his chest.

“Aziraphale. What did you say?” he asks in the tone of someone who heard something he’s wanted to hear for a long time and is afraid he misheard or misunderstood.

Aziraphale smiles. Of course Crowley wouldn’t think it silly. They’ve already gone native, what’s another wonderfully human creation more?

“Crowley,” he begins, determined to get it right this time. “My darling, my dearest, my love, will you marry me?”

Crowley grinning—not smirking, actually grinning—is one of the most beautiful sights Aziraphale’s life has been blessed by. He radiates happiness like he radiates sin, a wave so strong that it overwhelms Aziraphale, and when Crowley leans back in to kiss him again, Aziraphale gasps into it, his lips curving into a grin to mirror Crowley’s.

“Yes,” Crowley says, “Aziraphale, yes,” and kisses him like they’re already at their wedding, their smiles so wide that their teeth clash, and Aziraphale’s hands pull Crowley flush against him, and Crowley’s hands pull Aziraphale’s head closer to kiss him more deeply, and his delighted laughter starts in his throat and ends in Aziraphale’s, and Aziraphale has never known bliss like this.

Later, Crowley will hold Aziraphale’s hand and slip on it a ring he’s had since the first time they crossed paths in Rome, a gold snake that curls around his finger and whose head rests just below his knuckle. Even later, Aziraphale will get Crowley a silver ring with a small, round emerald in the middle and an angel wing engraved on either side of it on the band, and he will get down on one knee in front of Crowley and slip the ring on his finger and allow Crowley to pull him to his feet to kiss him senseless.

For now, though, they hold each other close and keep kissing and smiling and laughing into each other’s mouths until they fall back asleep with the rising sun streaming its last early rays through their bedroom window.

[ladyoutlier]

Earth Angel

In which Crowley accidently miracles a love song for Aziraphale

Read on AO3 | Listen to the song for context

________________________________________________________________

Crowley didn’t spend much time across the pond. Didn’t matter much whether he wanted to or not. The fact was that he didn’t need to. Ever since the colonies broke off and forged their own path ahead (a path that was quite destructive to anything and anyone that wasn’t an ex-settler), they had done quite the good job of spreading evil into the world themselves.

For Hell’s sake, the Americans were doing Satan proud with their segregation laws. Dehumanizing people because of how much melanin was in their skin. Crowley thought it would be a real kick to let them all know that Adam and Eve had been black, but his lot probably wouldn’t be too happy with the miracle it would’ve taken to convince these stubborn Yanks that he was telling the truth. He didn’t much feel like outing himself as the demon that caused humanity to fall anyways.

Still, he wasn’t in much of a mood to be partaking in these backwards American habits, much like how he wasn’t all that interested in involving himself in the horror of the previous World War. Minus, of course, a small dip in with his angel friend. So he found himself in the most progressive diner in Los Angeles which wasn’t saying much with the segregated seating, bathrooms, and drinking fountains. 1954 America was a mess, and Crowley couldn’t wait to get out of it.

He wouldn’t even be having nearly as bad of a time if Aziraphale were here. But no, Crowley had lost the coin flip, and as their Arrangement stated, he was the one to go to America on both their behalves. It’s not that he hated the country. Rather it was a case of the wrong place at the wrong time. He actually appreciated the American spirit with their rowdiness and party-going nature. It’s just he wasn’t in the mood to enjoy it. 

The location hardly helped either. Los Angeles of all places: the closest Earth had to a Hell of its own and the one place that literally translates to “The Angels.” Wasn’t he already homesick enough? He had a right mind to think this was all some sick practical joke She was playing on him. As if She hadn’t tormented him enough these past 6000 years with Aziraphale.

He didn’t even really understand what he was supposed to be doing over here. Something about inspiring a witch hunt, but that nonsense had burned out centuries ago. He would’ve thought it was just another case of Hell being behind the times, but they threw in some major keywords that’d shown up on almost every newspaper he came across. Some dickhead named McCarthy and this looming “Red Scare.” As far as Crowley could tell, nothing about the States seemed all that red or all that scary, but humans always made a bigger fuss of things than he did.

“Can I get you anything, dear?” A waitress pulled him out of his self-pity session. “Coffee perhaps? Or well, I guess you folks are more fond of tea, aren’t you?”

“Coffee’s fine.” He gave her a wide smile that all but added on: Now, go away.

Truth be told, Crowley didn’t feel much like socializing with humans, well, ever, but specifically not today. What was the point of chatting any of them up when their short life spans meant they could croak before you’d get a chance to finish your thought? 

Really, he wanted to head back to his hotel room and sleep until this McCarthy guy did something evil enough for him to be able to go home. And that’s exactly what he would’ve done if it wasn’t for the simple fact that he had to handle Aziraphale’s miracle as well.

Do general goodness. That was it. That was all he had to go off of. When he had expressed his annoyance to Aziraphale, he had just shrugged and said that sometimes it was about finding where miracles were needed rather than where they’d be the most profitable.

Couldn’t he have given him any tips? For Satan’s sake, he was a demon after all. Picking out where good was needed wasn’t exactly his expertise. Sure, he hadn’t asked Aziraphale for advice, but a demon would think after 6 millennia he wouldn’t need to.

So he was stuck in this sorry excuse for a place to grab a bite, surrounded by these no-good Americans for Aziraphale. Er, well not for Aziraphale. For their Arrangement. Which he purely posed for self-gain and not at all because he wanted a reason to see the angel more. Not at all that.

He was making a bigger fuss out of all this than he should have, and he knew this. Finding someone in desperate need of a miracle wasn’t all that hard. He could probably walk in any direction for less than a minute and find some poor homeless bastard that would consider even a week’s worth of wages to be the greatest miracle they could receive. Everyone needed something after all.

The problem was that Crowley was quite good at lying to himself. Well, not good at it. He had been failing to lie to himself about his feelings towards Aziraphale since the beginning of time itself. So deep down, he knew his difficulty with providing a miracle had absolutely nothing to do with him being a demon or with the company he found himself around. It actually had everything to do with the fact that he wanted to impress his angel. THE angel. Impress the angel. Not his.

It was quite the internal conflict. His feelings of course, but also deciding on a miracle. What he wanted to do was snap his fingers and end this whole racism thing, but even if Hell didn’t figure out it was him that did it, Heaven would be pretty pissed at Aziraphale for abusing his powers. A bunch of bollocks, wasn’t it? That an angel could cause too much good. How stupid did that sound?

No, he had to find a way to do something that would make Aziraphale beam without completely redesigning this awful country. Something that would make Aziraphale look at him the same way he had back in 1941 after Crowley had saved his books. It was a once in a lifetime look -- well, a once in a 6000 years look -- that Crowley really wanted to see again.

Maybe he would just drown himself at a bar and start fresh tomorrow. It’s not like the atmosphere was doing him any good. The air was just not putting him in a good mood tonight.

Usually, that had never mattered. Aziraphale could make a war zone enjoyable. Not that Aziraphale was required for him to have a good time. But it did help. Or no, it didn’t. He got along perfectly fine on his own. Aziraphale was completely optional, and Crowley couldn’t care whether he was there or not! Yeah, couldn’t care less.

“Oi, hun!” he called to the waitress. “Why don’t you make that coffee something a bit stronger, yeah?”

The waitress gave him a nod and ducked into the kitchen. 

Crowley sat up in his booth. Enough of the internal sob story. There had to be someone here that needed a miracle, right? The next Charles Dickens, or more likely the next Mark Twain, that he could help along on their path towards success. Aziraphale had been really fond of him throwing Shakespeare a bone back in the day, so he just needed a modern day literary genius he could do the same thing with. Simple.

The diner was a lot more lively than when he came in. He must have been lost in thought for quite a while. Businessmen sat at the counter reading newspapers with cancer sticks smoking from their lips. Crowley did wonder when humans were going to figure out that cigarettes weren’t all that healthy. Influencing them into breaking bad habits would count as a miracle but that was hardly all that special.

A group of teens were tucked into the corner, drinking milkshakes. What could he do for them? Help them with their homework? Point them in the direction of a good college? Yeah, boring. Wasn’t going to work.

Four young men sat over in the segregated section having a rather intense conversation. The two guys closest to the door were leaned over the table. One of them tapped on it as he spoke. Crowley figured a bit of eavesdropping couldn’t hurt. Plus, it was in his nature with the whole demon thing.

“Okay, how about this? It’s you, you, you my dear. Always been you-ou-ou.”

The one across from him shook his head. “Too much like The Ames Brothers. We need our unique sound.”

The first man sat back down against the seat, and the guy next to him spoke up. “Duncan, it’s not like either of us know that much about love. We both had, what? One date for all the school dances we went to back at Fremond?”

“But love songs are what’s popping. What the people wanna here!” The man now known as Duncan replied.

Crowley rolled his eyes and turned to look out the window. Funny that humans thought they knew anything about love when he still hasn’t figured it out in the whole time humanity has existed. Maybe they did know more about it than him. They had a good 60 or 70 years to figure it out before they’d have to deal with never knowing. Maybe that made all the pins click into place quicker.

He, on the other hand, wasn’t on much of a time restraint. Sure, there was the whole End of the World thing Hell was so dead set on rolling into action, but if he had to guess, that wasn’t going to occur for another millennium or two. Not really the same as a human that barely gets used to the world around them before needing to figure out the whole love thing.

All he knew was that he was indeed capable of feeling love which was something he didn’t know he could say about the other demons. If he couldn’t feel love, then why the Hell did Aziraphale make him–

Nope. That thought ends there. Not entertaining that at all. He was not going to think about any of that. Not about their first meeting in Eden where Aziraphale had surprised him not only by giving away his flaming sword but by also telling him about it. Or about how Aziraphale was the only angel in all of Heaven that seemed just the tad bit concerned about drowning the human race. Or-or even about the little things like the bashful smile he’d oftentimes wear on his face. Or how his fun hobby of book collecting had turned into a full blown obsession. Or how he straight up refused to modernize because God damn it he had found something he liked and was going to stick with it. Of course, Aziraphale would never put it that way. Blasphemy and all. But the point still stands! And even just the way Aziraphale says his name. It was enough to make him forget he was a demon at times. And oh, oh in the name of Lucifer. He didn’t just do that, did he?

“Guys, if I haven’t just had a stroke of genius!” Now Duncan was the one leaned over the table. 

One of the four passed by Crowley on the way back to his group. “What’s buzzing, cousin?” he asked, taking a seat.

“Got the song and it’s a real good one,” Duncan replied.

“Let’s hear it then.”

Just a coincidence. Surely he didn’t.

“Earth angel, earth angel.”

Fuck.

“Will you be mine?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“My darling dear. Love you all the time.”

“Hold up, Duncan. Let me write this down. It’s gold. The Penguins are going international!”

Yes, he had done it then. He had just accidentally miracled a love song. And an all too personal love song at that. God’s really got it out for him, doesn’t She?

If Aziraphale was here he surely would’ve said that Crowley’s mistaken miracle was ineffable, and if Crowley wasn’t too busy trying to conceal his embarrassment, he would’ve sneered in response because of course that’s what Aziraphale would say. 

But the angel wasn’t here, and Crowley instead promptly left a wad of cash on his table and got up to leave. He’d most certainly overpaid, but who could be bothered to figure out American currency when the Americans couldn’t even be bothered to figure out equality? He’d count it as Aziraphale’s miracle anyway. The waitress could probably do with a bit of extra money.

As he left the diner, Duncan continued, “I’m just a fool. A fool in love with you.”

The door slammed behind him. Surely he had nothing to worry about. Yeah, he had accidentally given away 6000 years worth of secret emotions as inspiration to this band of musicians, but on the other hand, he had never even heard of The Penguins. They’d become a local phenomenon at best. Whatever this song was, it wasn’t going any further than Los Angeles. Definitely not past California. 

He’d keep Aziraphale out of the whole country until the turn of the millennium just to play it safe. He’d rig their coin flips for future American assignments if he had to. As much as he wasn’t fond of coming back any time soon, he hated the idea of Aziraphale finding out about this song all the more.

He’d just blacklist the whole western hemisphere. Didn’t exist to him. Really, he didn’t even have to be this extreme! The song was NOT going to be popular!

*

When “Earth Angel” came out that following October, it definitely didn’t stay local. By the following year, all of America was spitting out Crowley’s love song. The Penguins were happy with their first, and to be only, Top 40 hit, but Crowley sure wasn’t.

It was an absolute nightmare, and though the song was still mostly American-based, Crowley had no plans of facing Aziraphale until he was sure it was dead. He’d wait another century if he had to, and perhaps he would have if the angel hadn’t approached him first in 1967.

When Aziraphale left him with a thermos full of holy water in his Bentley with the words: “you go too fast for me” still crisp in the air, Crowley wondered if he had heard the song after all. Even if he had, he wasn’t planning on asking.

Flash forward 42 years. The Antichrist was born. The End of the World came and sputtered out before it could really begin. An angel and a demon got comfortable in each other’s skin and were now faced with the rest of their lives without any sort of guidance. And when faced with infinite choices, they chose to continue what they already had been doing. 6000 years makes any habit hard to break.

While Aziraphale had always loved the Earth, he found himself appreciating it all the more post Armeggedon’t. Although it had been two months since Adam had quite literally told Satan that he wasn’t his real dad, it might as well have been yesterday as far as the angel was concerned. Two months was hardly a lot of time when one has seen the rise and fall of civilizations.

In his reawakened joy of the world, Aziraphale found himself outside his bookshop more often. The blues of the sky were brighter. The giggling of children was all the more heartwarming. Even the crisp, cool air of autumn felt refreshing. The Great Plan had been weighing him down for some time without him realizing it, and now, that weight was finally gone.

And after his and Crowley’s stunt, he was more-or-less free to do as he wanted. No more waiting to hear word from Above. Yes, Heaven likely wouldn’t leave him alone forever as Hell wouldn’t with Crowley, but for the time being they were radio silent. The freedom strangely felt more heavenly than Heaven itself.

The park was exceptionally lovely with the birds singing up in the treetops and the few remaining bees buzzing from blossom to blossom. He watched one particular bumblebee lazily land on a hydrangea.

If Crowley was here, he would have made some off hand remark about how he couldn’t remember whether they were yellow with black stripes or black with yellow ones. Aziraphale would’ve told him that he was thinking of zebras, and Crowley would say but they don’t have a hint of yellow on them. Instead of further clarifying that what he meant was that zebras were the ones with confusion about their base color and not bees, he would say quite right, dear boy and they’d keep on walking. But Crowley wasn’t with him today.

They had spent a lot of time together since the End of the World that Wasn’t. Hardly a day went by where Aziraphale didn’t see the demon. Other than when raising Warlock, which hardly counted because they couldn’t be themselves, they had never spent so much time together. It wasn’t uncommon for years to go by in between their visits. Perhaps the past eleven years had made him used to it. Aziraphale found himself quite fond of the recent companionship.

He smiled a half somber sort of smile to himself as he left the bumblebee. Crowley would also say that this whole garden needed a good thrashing looking the way it does. And Aziraphale would remind him that it was fall after all and this is what happened to plants in the fall.

Crowley was to be seeing him this evening where they’d clink a few glasses in the back of his bookshop. Still, Aziraphale wished that they had decided to spend this afternoon together as well. He did enjoy Crowley’s commentary on things. In fact, he had been enjoying everything about Crowley. Maybe now with how things were, that was okay.

Now that he wasn’t under the pressure to behave like a proper angel, he could pay a bit more attention to those feelings that had been swirling much more violently within him for the past 78 years. He and Crowley were on their own side now. There was no longer any ifs, ands, or buts about it. They only had each other to depend upon for the rest of eternity. Maybe this should have been a scary thought to Aziraphale, and not too long ago, it probably would have been, but now, it was more of a comfort than anything else. The rest of existence with Crowley was hardly a bad thing.

When he really looked back on it, Crowley had been the only one there for him in all his time on Earth. Whether he needed rescuing to keep his miracle numbers to quota or someone’s company over lunch, Crowley had oftentimes been there. He couldn’t say that about his fellow angels. Whenever he had seen them, it was strictly business. Crowley had proven himself as a friend, and although Aziraphale had denied it in the past, they were friends. And perhaps there was more to it than that.

There had to be a reason he would find himself lost staring at Crowley’s face or found himself taking a quick glance to the demon to read his thoughts on the situation. A reason for why he chose to sit beside him at a table rather than across from him. Why he’d catch himself smiling at the sight of Crowley without meaning to. The demon meant an awful lot to him. That much was certain. But how much. Now, that was an actual scary thought to think.

“...angel. The one I adore. Love you forever and ever more.”

Well, that most certainly brought him back to his stroll in the park. What was, that is, who sang that? At such a—such an odd moment no less! He turned back to the source.

An eldery couple sat on a bench. A man holding a woman’s hands. He continued singing. “I’m just a fool. A fool in love with you.”

Aziraphale cautiously approached them and, seeing that they were at a break in the song, spoke up. “Excuse me. I’d hate to interrupt such an intimate moment, but please, what is that song?”

The woman turned to him. “Oh, this was the song we met to. I was on holiday in America. Went to a party and this lovely man asked me to dance.” She kissed the singer on the cheek.

“Why that’s very lovely.” Aziraphale fumbled with his hands. “But what’s the name of the song? When-when did it come out?”

The man answered him this time. “‘Earth Angel’ by The Penguins. Was early on in their career because they never wrote a song like that again. Although I may be a bit biased.” He glanced to the woman and back. “Couldn’t have come out earlier than 1954 though. That’s when we met.”

“1954. America. Earth angel…” Aziraphale replied, becoming rather lost in thought. “Yes, thank you.”

As he walked away, the older gentleman picked his serenade back up. “I fell for you and I knew… The vision of your love-loveliness. I hoped and I pray that someday… I’ll be the vision of your hap-happiness!”

Just a coincidence, obviously. That—that this song would be sung as he passed by. And that this song would just so happen to have come into existence when Crowley was over in America. Just a coincidence that Crowley had been rather scarce on the details on what he had done over there even though he was usually a bit more thorough regarding the miracles he did on Aziraphale’s behalf. And it was nothing more than odd that he had been the one to next engage Crowley who then wouldn’t engage him again until the Antichrist was born. Just a strange set of events that only seemed to be related but weren’t.

He really wanted to believe that, but he was an angel, and when it was this obvious, he could tell when God had placed pieces in a certain order. It was entirely what he was thinking, and if he didn’t admit that it made his heart jump just the tiniest bit, well that would be a lie. Feeling were so much easier to admit when reciprocated.

*

Crowley met up with Aziraphale just like they planned. They had gone into the backroom where Crowley had noticed a new edition of a vintage record player. Odd, but he didn’t mention anything about it. Within the hour, he had completely forgotten all about it as he and Aziraphale finished off a bottle of Bordeaux wine.

“Crowley, I heard the strangest song today,” The angel said, swirling his glass.

“Really?” Alarms began to go off in the demon’s head although he didn’t exactly know why.

“Well, it was quite nice actually, but I found myself perhaps reading into it a bit much.”

“Yeah, how so?”

“You were in the States in the 50s, weren’t you? You were there for both of us.”

Ah, so that’s what the alarms were for.  Crowley sat up, straightening his shirt. “I, uh, fail to see how that’s related.”

“This particular song is American and released a few months after your visit.”

“So?”

“I was wondering if you, perchance, had anything to do with its creation.”

Trapped. Completely and utterly trapped. Aziraphale had figured it out, and Crowley was not going to be able to talk his way out of this one. He needed some time. He hadn’t expected to ever actually have this conversation, and now, it was all moving too fast. Too fast, huh. Funny that.

“I uh hardly remember anything I did over there. America really was rubbish at the time. Just wanted to get our jobs done and leave.”

“It’s really sweet.”

“Say again?” He blinked rapidly. Fuck, where were his sunglasses when he needed them.

“The song. It’s really sweet.”

“Oh, then it must not have anything to do with me then.”

“I think that means it has everything to do with you.” Aziraphale smiled.

“Angel, how many times do I gotta tell you? Sweet, nice, good-hearted is absolutely as far from me as you get. I’m scary nightmare fuel. Black demon wings and snake eyes and—”

“Crowley, I love you too.”

That shut the demon up. In that short moment, Aziraphale’s heart fluttered, and he worried he’d gotten this whole thing wrong, and it really was a set of coincidences that led him here, but then Crowley spoke up.

“You really mean that? You’re not just throwing me some sympathy for making a fool out of myself?”

“Yes, I really mean that.”

Crowley stood up. A bit too quickly for the amount of alcohol in him, but he held his balance. “I’ve been wanting to hear you say that, angel, since the dawn of time.”

Aziraphale stood as well. “So, are you going to say it back then?”

The demon stumbled over to his angel and pulled him into his arms, breathing onto the back of his neck. “I love you so goddamn much.”

“Language, dear,” Aziraphale replied, wrapping his arms around Crowley as well.

“Oh, shut it.”

They stood like that for a while. Perhaps only a few minutes or perhaps hours. Perhaps long enough for the world outside to have become completely new. Just holding one another and making up for 6000 years of never embracing. It was a still silence, but not that of an awkward variety. The kind of silence that is more comfortable than anything else. A silence that let’s one know they are exactly where they need to be. One where they’re free to melt into each other and become one and let souls entwine in a never-ending dance that’s stronger than any marital bond. It felt like hardly a moment had passed when they finally pulled away.

“The song then?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yeah.” Crowley stared into his angel’s face as if it was his whole world which was hardly a jump from the truth. “It was one of mine.”

“Oh, well, would you like to dance to it?”

“Dance to it?”

“Isn’t that what songs are for?” The softest smile painted Aziraphale’s face. “For dancing to?”

“Suppose.” He couldn’t help but return the smile. “Do you even know how to dance to a song like that?”

“Modern dances aren’t that complicated. Nothing like they once were. Isn’t it little more than swaying back and forth?”

“Angel, only you would call a song from the 50s modern.”

“Relatively speaking, it is. So would you like to? Dance that is.”

“S’pose.”

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and a record appeared on the player. The disc spun, and the song began to flow. The two grabbed onto one another once more.

“Funny that Shakespeare thought he knew what star-crossed lovers were.” Crowley swayed as he laid his head on top of Aziraphale’s. “Romeo and Juliet? Pah. I’d say we’re a better example.”

“We have a happier ending too,” Aziraphale hummed from the demon’s chest.

“Always been a bigger fan of the funny ones.”

And they were silent once more, listening to a song that was little more than a happy accident. An accident Crowley most certainly no longer regretted. Eternity really wasn’t all that scary anymore. If every day was like this, he’d be just fine. He fell back into the lyrics his heart had written for his angel 65 years earlier:

“Earth angel, earth angel

Please be mine

My darling dear

Love you all the time

I'm just a fool

A fool in love with you-ou (you, you, you)”

________________________________________________________________

Special thanks to my test readers:

@avuck @justkeeptrekkin @fandomens @booklover223